Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924074477104 
 
CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 3 1924 074 477 104 
 
REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH PLAYS 
 
REPRESENTATIVE 
 ENGLISH PLAYS 
 
 FROM TJIE MIDDLE AGES TO THE 
 END OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 EDITED WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN S. P. TATLOCK 
 
 Stanford University 
 
 AND 
 
 ROBERT G. MARTIN 
 
 Northwestern University 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1922 
 
Copyright, 1916, by 
 The Century Co. 
 
D- M- 
 
 J. W. T. 
 
 Vide quattro stelle 
 
 Non viste mai fuor che alia prima gente 
 
PREFACE 
 
 • 
 
 In the present collection, for the first time, representative English plays from 
 the earliest period to our own generation are included in one volume. The drama 
 in our day shows a vitality, an originality and a literary excellence unknown 
 for two centuries; and partly in consequence of this, the drama of the past is 
 being studied and read in our schools and colleges, and among people at large, 
 to such an extraordinary extent as justifies such a convenience as this. In a 
 single volume of readable form it is obviously impossible to include all celebrated 
 or influential plays, or plays of all types. Some long periods with few plays 
 of high excellence, such as the nineteenth century, are difficult to represent ade- 
 quately at all in so small a collection. As to principles of choice, a collection 
 merely of the best plays would be deficient in balance and in meaning for the 
 student; one merely of typical plays would be deficient in attractiveness and in- 
 terest for the reader. Choice must be made on practical and not purely theoret- 
 ical grounds, by a series of checks and balances; now one consideration will 
 prevail, now another. Probably no two editors would independently agree, and 
 it is impossible to content every reader. In the present case the principal con- 
 siderations have been excellence, influence and historical importance, representa- 
 tive and typical character (for a body of drama or for an age), and the importance 
 of the type. Occasionally the mere celebrity of a play or its author has been 
 allowed to turn the scale. Lyly's Mother Bomhie was chosen, rather than one 
 of his other plays, as exemplifying the strong Latin influence which helped to 
 transform the medieval into the modem drama; Marlowe's Edward II as one of 
 his best plays and as exemplifying the plays on English history written by so 
 many besides Shakespeare; Dryden's Conquest of Granada rather than All for 
 Love as being more influential, original and characteristic; Bulwer's Lady of 
 Lyons as extremely popular in its day, and as characteristic of a long and barren 
 period which it would be unsatisfyiag to leave almost unrepresented. It is un- 
 necessary to explain the entire omission of Shakespeare ; in so small a collection 
 it was the only way to do him full justice and honor. 
 
 The editorial matter is meant to be, as Bacon said of his Essays, "certain 
 brief notes,- set down rather significantly than curiously." The introductions, 
 while giving the necessary facts, are devoted rather to criticism and interpreta- 
 tion of the plays in themselves and in reference to their time. The foot-notes 
 are meant simply to answer tersely questions which any attentive reader not 
 
PREFACE 
 
 familiar with a play or with the language of its time is likely to ask. The brief 
 bibliography mentions general works, important or convenient editions, some 
 historical and critical studies, and biographies. Here is recorded the source for 
 the text of the several plays, and also, for supplementary reading, other plays 
 of like character, and a few of types unrepresented in the collection. All pains 
 have been taken to make the texts both accurate and readable; in no case have 
 careless and popular modern editions been f611owed, yet in general textual 
 problems and apparatus have been disregarded. Even in the medieval texts no 
 changes have been made, except as consistently as possible to modernize the 
 spelling (even at the cost of slightly increasing the original roughness of verse 
 and rime) ; the reader may rest assured that he is getting, as the modem reader 
 very properly wishes, that which the author wrote and that only. Elsewhere 
 also the spelling, punctuation and capitalizing have been modernized, and some 
 latitude has been allowed as to stage-directions. It should be added that Mr. 
 Martin is mainly responsible for the editing of the medieval and Elizabethan 
 plays, except for the introductions to Jonson and Webster ; and Mr. Tatlock for 
 those and for the remainder of the volume. 
 
 The editors find pleasure in thanking those who have lightened and otherwise 
 assisted their work. They are particularly obliged to Professor W. A. Neilson, 
 who generously allowed them to make use of certain of his texts,^ the best 
 there are for numerous Elizabethan dramas ; and to Marjorie Penton Tatlock, for 
 constant assistance and advice. They heartily thank Professors J. M. Manly, 
 R. W. Bond, and G. R. Noyes, C. F. McClumpha Esqre., G. A. Aitken Esqre., 
 M. V. 0., and Professor Dr. P. Lindner for gracious permissions to use texts of 
 the miracle plays and Lyly, of Dryden, Otway, Steele, and Fielding. They 
 also thank various literary fellow-students who advised as to the choice of plays. 
 
 J. S. P. T. 
 
 R. G. M. 
 1 In The Chief EUsidbetham, Dramatists (Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1911). 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 I. THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 1. The Miracle PIiAY page 
 
 Noah's Flood 3 
 
 Abraham and Isaac 13 
 
 The Second Shepherds' Play 19 
 
 2. The Morality 
 
 Everyman 31 
 
 II. THE ELIZABETHAN PEKlOD 
 
 1. Mother Bombie John Lyly 45 
 
 2. The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable 
 
 Death of Edward the Second . . . Christopher Marlowe , . 74 
 
 3. The Shoemakers' Holiday, or The Gen- 
 
 tle Craft Thomas Delcker .... 119 
 
 4. A Woman Killed with Kindness . . Thomas Heywood . . . 155 
 6. Philastek, or Lo\'e Lies A-Bleeding . . Francis Beaumont and John 
 
 Fletcher 190 
 
 6. The Alchemist Ben Jonson . - . . . . 233 
 
 7. The Duchess of Malfi John Webster .... 292 
 
 8. The Wild-Goose Cha^e John Fletcher 340 
 
 9. The Changeling Thomas Middleton and Wil- 
 
 liam Rowley .... 383 
 
 III. THE RESTORATION 
 
 1. Almanzob and Almahide, or The Con- 
 
 quest OF Granada John Dryden 420 
 
 2. Venice Preserved, or A Plot Discovered Thomas Otway .... 458 
 
 3. The Way of the World William Congreve . . . 502 
 
 IV. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 1. Cato Joseph Addison .... 543 
 
 2. The Conscious Lotors Sir Richard Steele . . . 577 
 
 3. The Tragedy of Tragedies; or. The Life 
 
 AND Death of Tom Thumb the Great . Benry Fielding . . . .613 
 
 4. She Stoops to Conquer, or The Mis- 
 
 takes OF A Night Oliver Goldsmith . . . 638 
 
 5. The School for Scandal Richard Brinsley Sheridan . 671 
 
TABLE OF CuiNx i^iMo 
 
 V. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY page 
 
 1. The Cenci Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 . 715 
 
 2. The Lady op Lyons, or Love and Pride . Edward Bulwer-Lytton . • 754 
 
 3. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon Robert Browning . ■ -782 
 
 4. Lady Windermere's Fan Oscar Wilde 806 
 
 Bibliography ^35 
 
REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH PLAYS 
 
THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 vidual characteristics, all cover about the 
 same ground and influences of one cycle upon 
 another are evident. Of the authors prac- 
 tically nothing is known, but we infer that 
 they were churchmen. What we know of the 
 history of the miracles makes it seem im- 
 probable that any one man should have cre- 
 ated all the plays of a cycle. As they come 
 down to us they may rather represent the 
 bringing together and ampliftcation of the 
 work of many hands, and such a cycle as that 
 of York, with its forty-eight episodes, may 
 have been in process of development for dec- 
 ades before its text was reduced to the com- 
 parative orderliness of our manuscript ver- 
 sion. Occasionally, as in some plays of the 
 Towneley cycle, there are manifest excellences 
 in the handling of situation, the characteriza- 
 tion, and the quality of the verse, which 
 lead us to infer composition by a hand more 
 competent than that of the average clerical 
 playwright. 
 
 A modern reader is likely to underesti- 
 mate the dramatic effectiveness of the miracle 
 plays. Their writers had, of course, little or 
 no apprehension of the niceties of technique 
 — they were concerned chiefly with making 
 the teaching of the play so plain that the 
 most ignorant spectator must understand; 
 hence the wearisome repetitions, the expound- 
 ing of Christian doctrines in long didactic 
 passages which sadly interrupt the action, 
 the introduction of Doctor or Expositor to 
 drive the moral home. The literary value of 
 the miracles is not great. But they possess 
 the virtues of strength and sincerity and 
 human interest. With no finesse but with 
 indubitable power they present some of the 
 great episodes in the Bible story, in particu- 
 lar those of Christ's life and passion. By 
 frequent bits of homely realism they made 
 their audiences realize the humanness of the 
 Bible figures, and that was a useful service. 
 The occasional coarseness of language and 
 situation should not blind us to the simple 
 reverence of purpose and treatment. The im- 
 pressiveness of the Passion Play at Oberam- 
 mergau is sufficient evidence that the theory 
 of the miracle play is sound. 
 
 The three plays which follow fairly repre- 
 sent the miracle at its best. Though the long 
 didactic beginning of the Towneley Noah's 
 Flood is characteristic in its dullness, the 
 play brightens up at once when Noah re- 
 turns to the bosom of his family. From the 
 rank and file of miracle personages a few 
 stand out with special clearness, usually be- 
 cause the spirit of comedy has touched them 
 into life. Of these Noah's wife seems to have 
 been a particular favorite, for in the York 
 and Chester cycles she plays the shrew as she 
 does here, and in them also the taming of 
 the shrew is done in the same rough-and- 
 tumble fashion, One of the unintentionally 
 
 amusing things about the play is the "a'^'^te 
 with which the passage of time is recorded, 
 (e. g., on p. 11). The local allusion ot 
 Noah's wife ("Stafford blue," p. 8), and the 
 oaths by Peter (p. 10), Ma/iy (p- 8), and 
 "God's pain" (i.e., Christ's sufferings on the 
 cross, p. 8), illustrate the lack of historical 
 sense. 
 
 The Brome play is so called because the 
 manuscript was found in Brome Hall, 
 Suffolk. Abraham and Isaac is the most 
 truly pathetic of all the miracle plays. The~ 
 scene is pathetic rather than tragic because, 
 since Abraham is from the first determined 
 to obey the will of God, his natural revul- 
 sion against killing his son never reaches the 
 intensity of the struggle with fate, involved 
 in true tragedy. But this is as close an ap- 
 proach to tragedy as we find at this stage 
 of the drama. Despite the ineptitude and 
 slowness of the beginning, the playwright 
 really understands how to handle his ma- 
 terial in such a way as to produce on the 
 audience the effect he desires. A briefer 
 treatment would have been better — he holds 
 the situation till he gets the maximum 
 emotional response, but the tension of 
 suspense is undeniable. The characteriza- 
 tion is not quite individual; we feel about 
 Abraham and Isaac that they are rather 
 types of parenthood and childhood than an 
 individual father and an individual son. 
 The child's actual physical terror of the 
 bright sword and his Inessages to his mother 
 are notable as showing how the miracle 
 authors sometimes visualized and humanized 
 their material. 
 
 The Towneley Second Shepherds' Play 
 {Second because the Towneley cycle contains 
 two versions of the announcement to the 
 shepherds) is the flower of the miracle plays. 
 Here is an admirable acting play, with plot, 
 characterization, atmosphere. Tie exposi- 
 tion is clear and reasonably rapid, providing 
 a neat differentiation of the three shepherds 
 as they make their appearance one after an- 
 other. Mak and Gill are masterpieces in 
 miniature of comic characterization, done 
 with deftness and gusto. The action mounts 
 steadily to the climax; the understanding of 
 the value of suspense at the climactic point, 
 when the discomfited shepherds actually leave 
 the house, only to return in response to the 
 youngest shepherd's kindly thought of » gift 
 to the child is proof enough that the man who 
 made this play was a real dramatist. After 
 the punishment of Mak there is an artless 
 transition to the angels' song and the tradi- 
 tional bit of the gifts to the Christ child. Th» 
 blending of Yorkshire setting and figures with 
 the Bible story is naive and delightful. This 
 episode of Mak is true farce comedy, comedy 
 better than anything else England was to pro- 
 duce till the middle of the sixteenth century. 
 
MIRACLE PLAYS 
 
 NOAH'S FLOOD 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 
 
 God. 
 
 FiBST Son. 
 
 FlEST WUE. 
 
 Noah. 
 
 Second Son. 
 
 Second Wife 
 
 Noah's Wife. 
 
 Xhibd Son. 
 
 Thibd Wife. 
 
 Noah. Mightful God very, maker of all 
 that is, 
 Three persons without nay,^ one God in 
 
 endless bliss, 
 Thou made both night and day, beast, 
 
 fowl, and fish; 
 AU creatures that live may, wrought thou 
 at thy wish, 
 As thou well might; 
 The sun, the moon, verament,^ 
 Thou made, the firmament, 
 The stars also, full fervent. 
 To shine thou made full bright. 
 
 Angels thou made full even, all orders 
 that is. 
 
 To have the bliss in heaven : this did thou 
 more and less, 
 
 Pull marvelous to neven ; " yet was there 
 unkindness 
 
 More by folds seven than I can well ex- 
 press. 
 For why? 
 
 Of all angels in brightness 
 
 God gave Lucifer most lightness; 
 
 Yet proudly he flitted * his dais. 
 And set him even him by. 
 
 He thought himself as worthy as him that 
 
 him made 
 In brightness, in beauty; therefore he 
 
 him degraded, 
 Put him in a low degree soon after, in a 
 
 braid,^ 
 Him and all his meinie," where he may 
 
 be unglad 
 For ever. 
 Shall they never win away 
 Hence unto doomsday. 
 
 But bum in bale' for ay; 
 Shall they never dissever. 
 
 Soon after that gracious lord to his like- 
 ness made man. 
 
 That place to be restored even as he be- 
 gan, 
 
 Of the Trinity by accord, Adam, and 
 Eve, that woman. 
 
 To multiply without discord in paradise 
 put he them. 
 And sithen ^ to both 
 
 Gave in commandment 
 
 On the tree of life to lay no hand. 
 
 But yet the false fiend 
 Made him with man wroth, 
 
 Enticed man to gluttony, stirred him to 
 
 sin in pride. 
 But in paradise securely' might no sin 
 
 abide, 
 And therefore man full hastily was put 
 
 out in that tide. 
 In woe and wandreth ^^ for to be, pains ^^ 
 
 full unrid ^^ 
 To know, 
 First in earth, sithen in hell 
 With fiends for to dwell. 
 But ^^ he his mercy mell ^* 
 To those that will him trow.^" 
 
 Oil of mercy he us hight,^° as I have 
 
 heard rede,-"^' 
 To every living wight that would love 
 
 him and dread; 
 But now before his sight every living 
 
 lede," 
 Most part day and night, sin in word and 
 deed, 
 Full bold; 
 
 1 denial. 
 
 2 truly. 
 & name. 
 
 * forsook. 
 
 5 moment. 
 
 6 company. 
 
 7 torment, 
 
 s afterward. 
 
 9 certainly. 
 
 10 wretchedneBS. 
 
 11 MS. in paint. 
 
 12 cruel. 
 
 IS unless. 
 
 14 'nterpose. 
 
 15 believe, 
 le promised. 
 
 17 say. 
 
 18 people. 
 
6 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Some in pride, ire, and envy, 
 Some in covetyse ^^ and gluttony, 
 Some in sloth and lechery, 
 And otherwise many fold. 
 
 Therefore I dread lest God on us will 
 take vengeance, 
 
 Tor sin is now allowed without any re- 
 pentance ; 
 
 Six hundred years and odd have I, with- 
 out distance,^" 
 
 On earth, as any sod, lived with great 
 grievance 
 Alway ; 
 
 And now I wax old, 
 
 Sick, sorry, and cold. 
 
 As muck upon mould 
 I wither away. 
 
 But yet will I cry for mercy and call : 
 Noah thy servant am I, Lord over all ! 
 Therefore me and my fry,^^ shall with 
 
 me fall. 
 Save from villainy, and bring to thy hall 
 
 In heaven. 
 And keep me from sin 
 This world within; 
 Comely King of mankind, 
 
 I pray thee hear my -steven ! ^^ 
 
 God. Since I have made all-thing that is 
 living, 
 Duke, emperor, and king, with mine own 
 
 hand, 
 For to have their liking by sea and by 
 
 sand, 
 Every man to my bidding should be bow- 
 ing 
 Full fervent. 
 That made man such a creature, 
 Fairest of favor; 
 Man must love me paramour,^' 
 By reason, and repent. 
 
 Methought I showed man love when I 
 
 made him to be 
 All angels above, like to the Trinity; 
 And now in great reproof full low lies he 
 On earth, himself to stuff with sin that 
 
 displeases me 
 Most of all; 
 Vengeance will I take 
 On earth for sin's sake. 
 My grame ^* thus will I wake. 
 Both of ^' great and small. 
 
 19 covetouBnesB ; the 
 seven deadly sins 
 are here listed. 
 
 20 without dispute, 
 heyo^d doubt. 
 
 21 offspring ; under- 
 
 24 anger. 
 
 20 -world. 
 
 stand who before 
 
 25 against. 
 
 80 uproar 
 
 shall. 
 
 26 rue. 
 
 31 joy. 
 
 22 Toice. 
 
 27 unatoned. 
 
 82 cease. 
 
 23 as a lover. 
 
 28 destroy. 
 
 88 less. 
 
 I repent full sore that ever made I man; 
 
 By me he sets no store, and I am his sov- 
 ereign. 
 
 I will destroy therefore both beast, man, 
 and woman; 
 
 All shall perish, less and more ; that bar- 
 gain may they ban,^" 
 That ill has done. 
 
 On earth I see right nought 
 
 But sin that is unsought ; ^^ 
 
 Of those that well has wrought 
 Find I but a few. 
 
 Therefore shall I fordo ^s all this middle- 
 earth ="> 
 
 With floods that shall flow, and run with 
 hideous rerd ; '" 
 
 I have good cause thereto : for me no man 
 is afeared. 
 
 As I say shall I do: of vengeance draw 
 my sword. 
 And make end 
 
 Of all that bears life. 
 
 Save Noah and his wife. 
 
 For they would never strive 
 With me nor me offend. 
 
 [To] him to mickle win*^ hastily wiU I 
 
 To Noah my servant, ere I blin,*^ to warn 
 
 him of his woe. 
 On earth I see but sin running to and 
 
 fro. 
 Among both more and min,*' each one 
 
 other's foe 
 With all their intent ; 
 All shall I fordo 
 With floods that shall flow. 
 Work shall I them woe, 
 That will not repent. 
 
 Noah, my friend, I thee command, from 
 
 cares thee to keel,** 
 A ship that thou ordain^' of nail and 
 
 board full well. 
 Thou was alway well working, to me true 
 
 as steel. 
 To my bidding obedient; friendship shall 
 
 thou feel 
 To meed.'* 
 Of length thy ship be 
 Three hundred cubits, warn I thee, 
 Of height even thirty. 
 Of fifty also in breadth. 
 
 34 cool, assuage. 
 
 35 make, 
 
 36 reward, 
 
NOAH'S PLOOD 7 
 
 Anoint thy ship with pitch and tar with- 
 
 Noah. Ah, benedicite ! ** What art thou 
 
 out and also within, 
 
 that thus 
 
 The water out to spar : *'' this is a noble 
 
 Tells afore that shall be? Thou art full 
 
 gin; 38 
 
 marvelous ! 
 
 Look no man thee mar. Three chess '" 
 
 Tell me, for charity, thy name so gra- 
 
 chambers begin; 
 
 cious. 
 
 Thou must spend many a spar this work 
 
 God. My name is of dignity, and also full 
 
 ere thou win 
 
 glorious 
 
 To end fuUy. 
 
 To know. 
 
 Make in thy ship also 
 
 I am God most mighty, 
 
 Parlors one or two, 
 
 One God in Trinity, 
 
 And houses of office mo,*" 
 
 Made thee and each man to be; 
 
 For beasts that there must be. 
 
 To love me well thou ought. 
 
 One cubit in height a window shall thou 
 
 Noah. I thank thee. Lord so dear, that 
 
 make ; 
 
 would vouchsafe 
 
 On the side a door with sleight ^^ beneath 
 
 Thus low to appear to a simple knave ; 
 
 shall thou take; 
 
 Bless us. Lord, here, for charity I it 
 
 With thee- shall no man fight, nor do thee 
 
 crave ; 
 
 no kind wrake.*^ 
 
 The better may we steer the ship that we 
 
 When all is done thus right, thy wife, 
 
 shall have. 
 
 that is thy make,*^ 
 
 Certain. 
 
 Take in to thee; 
 
 God. Noah, to thee and to thy fry 
 
 Thy sons of good fame, 
 
 My blessing grant li 
 
 Shem, Japhet, and Ham, 
 
 Ye shall wax and multiply. 
 
 Take in also them. 
 
 And fill the earth again. 
 
 Their wives also three. 
 
 
 
 When aU these floods are past and fully 
 
 For all shall be fordone that live on land 
 
 gone away. 
 
 but ye. 
 
 Noah. Lord, homeward will I haste as fast 
 
 With floods that from above shall fall, 
 
 as that I may. 
 
 and that plenty; 
 
 My [wife] ^^ -vyiu i fraist *« what she 
 
 It shall begin full soon to rain inces- 
 
 will say. 
 
 santly, 
 
 And I am aghast that we get some fray 
 
 After days seven be done, and endure 
 
 Betwixt us both; 
 
 days forty. 
 
 For she is full teethy,*' 
 
 Without fail. 
 
 For little oft angry, 
 
 Take to thy ship also. 
 
 If anything wrong be, 
 
 Of each kind, beasts two. 
 
 Soon is she wroth. • 
 
 Male and female, but no mo, 
 
 
 Ere thou pull up thy sail. 
 
 Then he goes to his wife. 
 
 
 God speed, dear wife; how fare ye? 
 
 For they may thee avail when all this 
 
 Wife. Now, as ever might I thrive, the 
 
 thing is wrought; 
 
 worse I thee see! 
 
 Stuff thy ship with victual, for himger 
 
 Do tell me belive,** where has thou thus 
 
 that ye perish not. 
 
 long been? 
 
 Of beasts, fowl, and cattle, for them have 
 
 To death may we drive, or life for thee,*° 
 
 thou in thought; 
 
 For want. 
 
 For them is my counsel, that some succor 
 
 When we sweat or swink,^" 
 
 be sought 
 
 Thou does what thou think. 
 
 In haste; 
 
 Yet of meat and of drink 
 
 They must have com and hay. 
 
 Have we very scant. 
 
 And other meat alway. 
 
 
 Do now as I thee say, 
 
 Noah. Wife, we are hard stead with tid- 
 
 In the name of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 ings new. 
 
 37 shut. 
 
 38 device. 
 
 39 tiers of. 
 
 40 more. 
 
 41 skill. 
 
 42 kind of wrong. 
 
 43 mate. 
 
 44 bless me I 
 
 45 missing in MS. 
 
 46 ask. 
 
 47 testy. 
 
 48 quickly. 
 
 49 for all you care, 
 
 50 work. 
 
THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Wife. But thou were worthy be clad in 
 
 But I will keep charity, for I have at 
 
 Stafford blue," 
 
 do." 
 
 For thou art alway adread, be it false or 
 
 Wife. Here shall no man tarry thee; I 
 
 true. 
 
 pray thee, go to ! 
 
 But God knows I am led, and that may I 
 
 Full well may we miss thee, as ever have 
 
 I ro.«2 
 To spin will I dress ** me. 
 
 rue, 
 FuU ill; 
 
 For I dare be thy borrow,''^ 
 
 Noah. We ! farewell, lo ! 
 
 From even unto morrow 
 
 But, wife. 
 
 Thou speaks ever of sorrow ; 
 
 Pray for me busily 
 
 God send thee once thy fill ! 
 
 Till eft M I come unto thee. 
 
 
 Wife. Even as thou prays for me. 
 
 We women may wary ^' all ill husbands ; 
 
 As ever might I thrive. 
 
 I have one, by Mary! that loosed me of 
 
 
 my bands ! 
 
 Noah. I tarry full long from my work, I 
 
 If he teen ^* I must tarry, howsoever it 
 
 trow; 
 
 stands, 
 
 Now my gear will I fang,"' and thither- 
 
 With semblance full sorry, wringing both 
 
 ward draw. 
 
 my hands 
 
 I may full ill go, the sooth for to know; 
 
 For dread. 
 
 But if ** God help among, I may sit 
 
 But yet other while, 
 
 down daw*^ 
 
 What with game and with guile, 
 
 To ken. 
 
 I shall smite and smile, 
 
 Now assay will I 
 
 And quit him his meed."*' 
 
 How I can of wrightry ; "' 
 
 Noah. We! hold thy tongue, ramskyt, or 
 
 I shall thee still ! 
 Wife. By my thrift, if thou smite, I shall 
 
 turn thee until! 
 Noah. We shall assay as tight. Have at 
 thee. Gill! 
 Upon the bone shall it bite. 
 Wife. Ah, so ! Marry, thou smites ill I 
 
 But I suppose 
 I shall not in thy debt 
 Flit of this flet ! ^^ 
 Take thee there a languet " 
 To tie up thy hose I 
 
 Noah. Ah! wilt thou so? Marry, that is 
 
 mine! 
 Wife. Thou shall °^ three for two, I swear 
 
 by God's pain! 
 Noah. And I shall quit thee then, in faith, 
 
 ere syne.°° 
 Wife. Out upon thee, ho ! 
 Noah. Thou can both bite and whine 
 
 With a rerd ! «» 
 For all if she strike 
 Yet fast will she screech; 
 In faith, I hold none [such] 
 In all middle-earth. 
 
 In nomine Patris, et Filii, 
 Et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. 
 
 To begin of this tree my bones will I 
 
 bend; 
 I trow from the Trinity succor will be 
 
 sent. 
 It fares full fair, methinks, this work to 
 
 my hand ; 
 Now blessed be he that this can amend. 
 
 Lo, here the length. 
 Three hundred cubits evenly; 
 Of breadth, lo, is it fifty; 
 The height is even thirty 
 Cubits full strength.'^ 
 
 Now my gown will I east, and work in 
 
 my coat; 
 Make will I the mast, ere I flit one foot. 
 Ah, my back, I trow, will burst! this is 
 
 a sorry note ! 
 It is wonder that I last, such an old 
 
 dote,'"> 
 All dold," 
 To begin such a work, 
 My bones are so stark. 
 No wonder if they wark," 
 For I am full old. 
 
 SI beaten black and 
 
 blue. 
 62 pledge, 
 53 curse. 
 64 grieve. 
 
 65 give him his de- 
 
 Berts. 
 60 flee from this 
 
 dwelling, 
 67 thong. 
 
 68 understand have. 68 prepare. 
 
 69 long. 64 again. 
 60 cf. n. SO. 65 talce. 
 »i work to do. 66 unless. 
 
 •2 rest. 67 a sluggard. 
 
 68 carpentry. 
 
 69 Qy. atreghtf 
 
 70 dotard. 
 
 71 stupid, stiff, 
 
 72 ache. 
 
NOAH'S FLOOD 
 
 The top and the sail both will I make, 
 
 Therefore with all our main thank we 
 
 The helm and the castle " also will I 
 
 that free 
 
 take; 
 
 Beeter of bale.s* 
 
 To drive each nail will I not forsake; 
 
 Hie us fast, go we thither. 
 
 This gear may never fail, that dare I un- 
 
 Wife. I wot never whither ; 
 
 dertake 
 
 I daze and I didder *^ 
 
 Anon. 
 
 For fear of that tale. 
 
 This is a noble gin : 
 
 
 These nails so they run 
 
 Noah. Be not af eared; have done. Truss 
 
 Through more and min. 
 
 sam our gear. 
 
 These boards each one; 
 
 That we be there ere noon without more 
 
 
 dere.*« 
 
 Window and door, even as he said. 
 
 1 Son. It shall be done full soon. Broth- 
 
 Three chess ^* chambers, they are well 
 
 ers, help to bear. 
 
 made. 
 
 2 Son. Full long shall I not hone ^^ to do 
 
 Pitch and tar full sure thereupon laid. 
 
 my dever,** 
 
 This will ever endure, therefore am I 
 
 Brother Shem. 
 
 paid; 
 
 5 Son. Without any yelp,8» 
 
 For why? 
 
 At my might shall I help. 
 
 It is better wrought 
 
 Wife. Yet for dread of a skelp,9o 
 
 Than I could have thought; 
 
 Help well thy dam. 
 
 Him that made all of nought 
 
 
 I thank only. 
 
 Noah. Now are we there as we should be; 
 
 
 Do get in our gear, our cattle and fee, 
 
 Now will I hie me and nothing be lither,'° 
 
 Into this vessel here, my children free. 
 
 My wife and my meinie to bring even 
 
 Wife. I was never barred ere, as ever 
 
 hither. 
 
 might I thee,»i 
 
 Tent '* hither tidily, wife, and consider ; 
 
 In such an hostry °^ as this. 
 
 Hence must us flee, all sam '''' together 
 
 In faith, I can not flnd 
 
 In haste. 
 
 Which is before, which is behind. 
 
 Wife. Why, sir, what ails you? 
 
 But shall we here be pinned. 
 
 Who is that assails you? 
 
 Noah, as have thou bliss ? 
 
 To flee it avails you 
 
 
 And^^ ye be aghast. 
 
 Noah. Dame, as it is skill,'* here must us 
 
 
 abide grace; 
 
 Noah. There is yam on the reel other> my 
 
 Therefore, wife, with good will come into 
 
 dame. 
 
 this place. 
 
 Wife. Tell me that each a deal,''' else get 
 
 Wife. Sir, for Jack nor for Jill will I 
 
 ye blame. 
 
 turn my face, 
 
 Noah. He that cares may keel, blessed be 
 
 Till I have on this hill spun a space 
 
 his name ! 
 
 On my rock.'* 
 
 He has {spoken] s" for our sele " to 
 
 Well were he might get me! 
 
 shield us from shame. 
 
 Now will I down set me ; 
 
 And said. 
 
 Yet rede '^ I no man let '° me. 
 
 All this world about 
 
 For dread of a knock. 
 
 With floods so stout. 
 
 
 That shall run in a rout, 
 
 Noah. Behold to the heaven the cataracts 
 
 Shall be overlaid. 
 
 all. 
 
 f*.J 1114 XX h^x^ V^ r ^^-M. ^m^^^^w 
 
 That are open full even, great and small, 
 
 He said all shall be slain but only we. 
 
 And the planets seven left has their stall ; 
 
 Our bairns that are bain,'^ and their 
 
 These thunders and levin*'' down gar'* 
 
 wives three; 
 
 fall, . 
 
 A- ship he bade me ordain to save us and 
 our fee ; ^^ 
 
 Full stout. 
 
 Both halls and bowers, 
 
 T3 poop. 
 
 74 cf. n. 39 above. 
 
 75 lazy. 
 
 76 take heed. 
 
 77 together. 
 
 78 if. 
 
 79 every hit. 
 
 80 suggested by 
 Manly. 
 
 81 happiness. 
 
 82 obedient. 
 
 83 property. 
 
 84 helper of misery. 
 86 tremble. 
 
 86 harm, hindrance. 
 
 87 delay. 
 
 88 duty (devoir). 
 
 89 boasting. 
 
 90 blow. 
 
 96 hinder. 
 
 91 thrive. 
 
 97 lightning 
 
 92 hostelry, inn. 
 
 98 make. 
 
 93 reason. 
 
 
 94 distaff. 
 
 
 95 advise 
 
 
10 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Castles and towers, 
 Full sharp are these showers 
 That runs about. 
 
 Therefore, wife, have done; come into 
 ship fast. 
 Wife. Yea, Noah, go clout thy shoon ; "» 
 the better will they last. 
 
 1 Wife. Good mother, come in soon, for 
 
 all is overcast. 
 Both the sun and the moon. 
 
 2 Wife. And many a wind blast ^ 
 
 Tull sharp; 
 These floods so they run ; 
 Therefore, mother, come in. 
 Wife. In faith, yet will I spin; 
 All in vain ye carp. 
 
 3 Wife. If ye like, ye may spin, mother, 
 
 in the ship. 
 Noah. Now is this twice; come in, dame, 
 
 on my friendship. 
 Wife. Whether I lose or win, in faith, thy 
 fellowship 
 Set I not at a pin. This spindle will I 
 slip 
 Upon this hill, 
 Ere I stir one foot. 
 Noah. Peter ! I trow we dote. 
 Without any more note, 
 Come in if ye will. 
 
 Wife. Yea, water nighs so near that I sit 
 not dry; 
 Into ship with a birr=' therefore wUl I 
 
 hie. 
 For dread that I drown here. 
 Noah. Dame, securely. 
 
 It is bought full dear, ye abode so long 
 by 
 Out of ship. 
 Wife. I will not for thy bidding 
 
 Go from door to midden.* 
 Noah. In faith, and for your long tarrying 
 Ye shall lick on the whip. 
 
 Wife. Spare me not, I pray thee, but even 
 as thou think. 
 These great words shall not flay* me. 
 Noah. Abide, dame, and drink, 
 
 For beaten shall thou be with this staff 
 
 till thou stink. 
 Are strokes good? Say me! 
 
 Wife. What say ye, Wat Wink J 
 
 Noah. . Speak ! 
 
 Cry me mercy, I say ! 
 Wife. Thereto say I nay. 
 Noah. But thou do, by this day. 
 Thy head shall I break. 
 
 Wife. Lord, I were at ease an4 heartily 
 full whole, 
 Might I once have a mess of widow's 
 
 cole"; 
 For thy soul, without lese,* should I deal 
 
 penny dole.'' 
 So would more, no frese,* that I see on 
 this sole' 
 Of wives that are here; 
 For the life that they lead, 
 Would their husbands were dead! 
 For, as ever eat I bread. 
 So would I our sire ^^ were. 
 
 Noah. Ye men that has wives, while they 
 are young. 
 If ye love your lives, chastise their 
 
 tongue. 
 Methinks my heart rives, both liver and 
 
 lung. 
 To see such strifes wedmen ^^ among. 
 
 But I, 
 As have I bliss. 
 Shall chastise this. 
 Wife. Yet may ye miss, 
 Nicol Needy! 
 
 Noah. I shall make thee still as stone, be- 
 ginner of blunder! 
 I shall beat thee, back and bone, and 
 break all in sunder. 
 Wife. Out, alas, I am gone! out upon 
 
 thee, man's wonder! 
 Noah. See how she can groan, and I lie 
 under ! 
 But, wife. 
 In this haste let us ho,^^ 
 For my back is near in two. 
 Wife. And I am beaten so blue 
 That I may not thrive. 
 
 1 Son. Ah, why fare ye thus, father and 
 
 mother both? 
 
 2 Son. Ye should not be so spitoiis,^' 
 
 standing in such a woth.** 
 
 3 Son. These " are so hideous, with many 
 
 a cold cothe.^* 
 
 99 patch thy shoes. 
 
 1 probably a verb ; 
 
 blows. 
 
 2 rush. 
 
 s dunghill; the 
 whole phrase 
 
 means "do any 
 slightest thing." 
 
 4 put to flight. 
 
 6 broth, fare ; MS. 
 coytj., Scotch kail. 
 
 « lying. 
 
 1 alms (in 
 of the dead). 
 
 8 doubt. 
 
 9 place ; Noah's wife 
 
 is here speaking 
 directly to the au- 
 
 memory dience. as does 
 Noah in the next 
 stanza. 
 
 10 i.e. Noah, 
 
 11 married people. 
 
 12 stop. 
 
 13 malicious. 
 1* peril. 
 
 16 Manly suggests 
 These Utrifes]. 
 10 disease. 
 
NOAH'S FLOOD 11 
 
 ^oah. We will do as ye bid us ; we will no 
 
 We should have a good feast were these 
 
 more be wroth, 
 
 floods flitted,2» 
 
 Dear bairns. 
 
 So spitous. 
 
 Now to the helm will I hent,^' 
 
 Noah. We have been here, all we, 
 
 And to my ship tent.^* 
 
 Three hundred days and fifty. 
 
 V^ife. I see in the firmament, 
 
 Wife. Yea, now wanes the seji; 
 
 Methinks, the seven stars. 
 
 Lord, well is us! 
 
 Voah. This is a great flood, wife, take 
 
 Noah. The third time will I prove what 
 
 heed. 
 
 deepness we bear. 
 
 Wife. So- methought, as I stood; we are 
 
 Wife. How long shall thou hove?^° 
 
 in great dread, 
 
 Lay^^ in thy line there. 
 
 These waves are so wood.^* 
 
 Noah. 1 may touch with my loof ^* the 
 
 \foah. Help, God, in this need ! 
 
 ground even here. 
 
 As thou art steersman good, and best, as 
 
 Wife. Then begins to grow to us merry 
 
 I rede, 
 
 cheer. 
 
 Of all, 
 
 But, husband, 
 
 Thou rule in this race,^" 
 
 What ground may this be? 
 
 As thou me behight ^^ has. 
 
 Noah. The hills of Armenia. 
 
 Wife. This is a parlous case; 
 
 Wife. Now blessed be he 
 
 Help, God, when we call! 
 
 That thus for us can ordain ! 
 
 iToafe. Wife, tent the steer-tree,^^ and I 
 
 Noah. I see the tops of hills high, many 
 
 shall assay 
 
 at a sight; 
 
 The deepness of the sea that we bear,** 
 
 Nothing to let** me, the weather is so 
 
 if I may. 
 
 bright. 
 
 Vife. That shaU I do full wisely. Now 
 
 Wife. These are of mercy tokens full 
 
 go thy way, 
 
 right. 
 
 For upon this flood have we floated many 
 
 Noah. Dame, thou counsel me what fowl 
 
 a day 
 
 best might 
 
 With pain. 
 
 And could, 
 
 ^oah. Now the water will I sound. 
 
 With flight of wing. 
 
 Ah ! it is far to the ground ; 
 
 Bring, without tarrying. 
 
 This travail, I expound, 
 
 Of mercy some tokening, 
 
 Had I to tine.2« 
 
 Either by north or south, , 
 
 Above all hills bedene *= the flood is risen 
 
 For this is the first day of the tenth 
 
 late 
 
 month. 
 
 Cubits fifteen ; but in a higher state 
 
 Wife. The raven, durst I lay,** will come 
 
 It may not be, I ween, for this well I wit, 
 
 again soon; 
 
 This forty days has rain been; it will 
 
 As fast as thou may, cast him forth; 
 
 thirefore abate 
 
 have done. 
 
 Full leal.=« 
 
 He may happen today come again, ere 
 
 This water in haste 
 
 noon. 
 
 Eft will I test; 
 
 With graith.*^ 
 
 Now am I aghast: 
 
 Noah. I will cast out also 
 
 It is waned a great deal. 
 
 Doves one or two. 
 
 
 Go your way, go. 
 
 Now are the weathers " ceased and cata- 
 
 God send you some wathe ! ** 
 
 racts knit,*' 
 
 
 Both the most and the least. 
 
 Now are these fowls flown into sere*' 
 
 Vife. Methinks, by my wit, 
 
 countries; 
 
 The sun shines in the east; lo, is not 
 
 Pray we fast each one, kneeling on our 
 
 yond it? 
 
 knee. 
 
 7 seize. 
 
 22 helm. 
 
 had in vain. 
 
 29 gone. 
 
 84 wager. 
 
 S cf n 76 above. 
 
 23 have. 
 
 25 completely. 
 
 30 tarry. 
 
 35 without delay 
 
 9 wild. 
 
 24 This work (i.e. 
 
 26 thoroughly. 
 
 31 cast. 
 
 36 hunting. 
 
 difficulty. 
 
 the sounding), I 
 
 27 tempests. 
 
 32 hand. 
 
 87 several. 
 
 L promised. 
 
 perceive, I have 
 
 28 restrained. 
 
 S3 hinder. 
 
 
12 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 To him that is alone worthiest of degree, 
 That he would send anon our fowls some 
 fee 
 To glad us. 
 Wife. They may not fail of land, 
 
 The water is so waning. 
 Noah. Thank we God all-wielding. 
 That lord that made us. 
 
 It is a wonder thing, methinks soothly, 
 They are so long tarrying, the fowls 
 
 that we 
 Cast out in the morning. 
 Wife. Sir, it may be 
 
 They tarry tiU they bring.^^ 
 Noah. The raven is a-hungry 
 
 Alway ; 
 He is without any reason ; 
 And '" he find any carrion, 
 As peradventure may [befall,] *" 
 He will not away. 
 
 The dove is more gentle, her trust I unto. 
 
 Like unto the turtle,*^ for she is ay true. 
 
 Wife. Hence but a little she comes. Lo, 
 
 lo! 
 
 She brings in her bill some novels *" new. 
 
 Behold! 
 It is of an olive tree 
 A branch, thinks me. 
 Noah. It is sooth ;. perdy. 
 Right so is it called. 
 
 Dove, bird full blest, fair might thee be- 
 fall! 
 /Thou art true for to trust, as stone in the 
 
 wall. 
 Full well I it wist thou would come to 
 thy hall. 
 Wife. A true token is 't we shall be saved 
 all; 
 For why? 
 The water, since she came 
 Of deepness plumb, 
 Is fallen a fathom 
 And more, hardily.*' 
 
 1 Son. These floods are gone, father, be- 
 
 hold! 
 
 2 Son. There is left right none, and [for] 
 
 that be ye bold. 
 
 3 Son. As still as a stone our ship is 
 
 stalled. 
 Noah. Upon land here anon that we were, 
 fain I would. 
 My children dear, 
 Shem, Japhet, and Ham, 
 With glee and with game. 
 Come, go we all sam; 
 We will no longer abide here. 
 
 Wife. Here have we been, Noah, long 
 enough. 
 With tray ** and with teen,*^ and dreed *» 
 mickle woe. 
 Noah. Behold, on this green neither cart 
 nor plough 
 Is left, as I ween, neither tree nor bough. 
 
 Nor other thing. 
 But all is away; 
 Many castles, I say, 
 Great towns of array. 
 Flitted has this flowing.*^ 
 
 Wife. These floods not afright all this 
 world so wide 
 Has moved with might, on sea and by 
 side. 
 Noah. To death are they dight,*' proudest 
 of pride. 
 Every wight that ever was spied 
 
 With sin; 
 All are they slain, 
 And put unto pain. 
 Wife. From thence again 
 May they never win. 
 
 Noah. Win? No, iwis,*^ but"" he that 
 might has 
 Would mind of "^ their miss, and admit 
 
 them to grace. 
 As he in bale is bliss, I pray him in this 
 
 space, 
 In heaven high with his to purvey us a 
 place, 
 That we 
 With his saints in sight, 
 And his angels bright, 
 May come to his light. 
 Amen, for charity. 
 
 38 i.e. Bome booty. 
 
 30 if. 
 
 40 MS. hefon. 
 
 41 tuTtle-dove. 
 
 42 tidings. 
 
 43 certainly. 
 
 44 affliction. 
 
 45 grief. 
 
 46 endured. 
 
 47 this flood has re- 
 moved. 
 
 48 delivered. 
 
 49 certainly. 
 
 60 unless. 
 
 61 remember. 
 
ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 
 
 13 
 
 ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHAEACTEES 
 
 Abraham. 
 
 An Angex. 
 
 Isaac. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 God. 
 
 
 [Enter Abraham and Isaac] 
 
 Ab. Father of Heaven, omnipotent, 
 With all my heart to thee I call; 
 Thou has± given me both land and rent, 
 And my livelihood thou hast me sent; 
 I thank thee highly evermore for all. 
 
 First of the earth thou madest Adam, 
 And Eve also to be his wife; 
 
 All other creatures of them two came ; 
 
 And now thou hast granted to me, Abra- 
 ham, 
 Here in this land to lead my life. 
 
 In mine age thou hast granted me this. 
 That this young eh&d with me shall 
 won; ^ 
 I love nothing so much, iwis,^ 
 Except thine own self, dear Father of 
 bliss, 
 As Isaac here, my own sweet son. 
 
 I have divers children mo, 
 
 The which I love not half so well ; 
 This fair sweet child he cheers me so. 
 In every place where that I go. 
 That no disease ^ here may I feel. 
 
 And therefore. Father of Heaven, I thee 
 pray 
 
 For his health and also for his grace; 
 Now, Lord, keep him both night and day. 
 That never disease nor no fray 
 
 Come to my child in no place. 
 
 Now come on, Isaac, my own sweet child. 
 Go we home and take our rest. 
 Isaac. Abraham, ^line own father so mild, 
 To follow you I am full prest,* 
 Both early and late. 
 Ab. Come on, sweet child, I love thee best 
 Of all the children that ever I begat. 
 
 [God speaks from above.] 
 
 Deus. Mine angel, fast hie thee thy way. 
 And unto middle-earth ^ anon thou go. 
 Abraham's heart now will I assay. 
 Whether that he be steadfast or no. 
 
 Say I commanded him for to take 
 Isaac, his young son, that he loves so 
 well. 
 
 And with his blood sacriflee he make, 
 If any of my friendship he will feel. 
 
 Show him the way unto the hill 
 
 Where that his sacrifice shall be. 
 I shall assay now his good will. 
 Whether he loveth better his child or 
 me. 
 All men shall take example by him 
 My commandments how they shall 
 keep. 
 
 Ab. Now, Father of Heaven, that formed 
 all things. 
 My prayers I make to thee again, 
 "For this day my tender offering 
 
 Here must I give to thee, certain. 
 Ah, Lord God, Almighty King, 
 
 What manner^ best will make thee 
 most fain? 
 If I had thereof very knowing, 
 It should be done with all my main 
 Full soon anon. 
 To do thy pleasure on a hill, 
 Verily, it is my will. 
 
 Dear Father, God in Trinity! 
 
 [Enter Angel.] 
 
 Angel. Abraham, Abraham, will thou rest ! 
 
 Our Lord commandeth thee for to take 
 
 Isaac, thy young son, that thou lovest 
 
 best, 
 
 And with his blood sacrifice that thou 
 
 make. 
 
 Into the land of Vision thou go, 
 And offer thy child unto thy Lord ; 
 
 1 dwell. 
 
 2 certainly. 
 
 8 dis-ease, trouble ; 
 80 hereafter. 
 
 4 ready. 
 
 e the world. 
 
 6 i.e. of offering. 
 
14 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 I shall thee lead and show also. 
 Unto God's hest/ Abraham, accord, 
 
 And follow me upon this green ! 
 Ah. Welcome to me be my Lord's sand,' 
 
 And his hest I will not withstand ; 
 
 Yet Isaac, my young son in land, 
 A full dear child to me hath been ! 
 
 I had liefer, if God had been pleased. 
 For to have forborne all the good that 
 I have. 
 Than [that] Isaac, my son, should have 
 been diseased. 
 So God in heaven my soul may save! 
 
 I loved never thing so much on earth, 
 
 And now I must the child go kill ! 
 Ah, Lord God, my conscience is strongly 
 
 stirred. 
 And yet, my dear Lord, I am sore 
 a feared 
 To gruteh ^ anything against your will. 
 
 I love my child as my life. 
 
 But yet I love my God much more; 
 For though my heart would make any 
 
 strife. 
 Yet will I not spare for child nor wife. 
 
 But do after my Lord's lore.^" 
 
 Though I love my son never so well, 
 Yet smite off his head soon I shall. 
 Ah, Father of Heaven, to thee I kneel, 
 A hard death my son shall feel, 
 For to honor thee. Lord, withal ! 
 
 Angel. Abraham, Abraham, this is well 
 said, 
 And all these commandments look that 
 thou keep; 
 But in thy heart be nothing dismayed. 
 Ab. Nay, nay, forsooth! I hold me well 
 pleased 
 To please my God to the best that I 
 have. 
 
 For though my heart be heavily set 
 To see the blood of my own dear son. 
 
 Yet for all this I will not let. 
 
 But Isaac, my son, I will go fet,*"^ 
 And come as fast as ever we can. 
 
 [Exit Angel.] 
 
 Now, Isaac, my own son dear, 
 
 Where art thou, child? Speak to me. 
 
 Is. My fair sweet father, I am here, _ 
 
 And make my prayers to the Trinity 
 
 Ab. Kise up, my child, and fast come 
 hither, 
 My gentle bairn that art so wise. 
 For we two, child, must go together. 
 And unto my Lord make sacrifice. 
 
 Is. I am full ready, my father, lo! 
 
 Given to your hands, I stand right 
 here. 
 And whatsoever ye bid me do, 
 It shall be done with glad cheer. 
 Full well and fine. 
 Ab. Ah, Isaac, my own son so dear, 
 
 God's blessing I give thee, and mine. 
 
 Hold this fagot upon thy back, 
 And here myself fire shall bring. 
 Is. Father, all this here will I pack, 
 I am full fain to do your bidding. 
 Ab. Ah, Lord of Heaven, my hands I 
 wring. 
 This child's words all to-wound '^ my 
 heart! 
 
 Now, Isaac, son, go we our way 
 Unto yon mount, with all our main. 
 Is. Go we, my dear father, as fast as I 
 may; 
 To follow you I am full fain, 
 Although I be slender. 
 Ab. Ah, Lord, my heart breaketh in twain, 
 This child's words, they be so 
 tender ! 
 
 Ah, Isaac son, anon lay it down. 
 No longer upon thy back it hold, 
 
 For I must make ready boon ^' 
 
 To honor my Lord God as I should. 
 
 7s. Lo, my dear father, where it is ! 
 To cheer you, alway I draw me near. 
 But, father, I marvel sore at this, 
 Why that ye make this heavy cheer; 
 
 And also, father, ever more dread I: 
 Where is your quick ^* beast that ye 
 should kill? 
 Both fire and wood we have ready. 
 But quick beast have we none on this 
 hill. 
 
 A quick beast, I wot well, must be dead. 
 Your sacrifice for to make. 
 
 7 command/ 
 
 8 sending, message. 
 
 » begrudge. 
 10 bidding. 
 
 11 fetch. 
 
 12 to has an inten- 
 
 sive force: 
 sorely. 
 
 wound 
 
 18 prayer. 
 14 live- 
 
ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 
 
 15 
 
 Ab. Dread thee nought, my child, I thee 
 rede ; ^^ 
 Our Lord will send me unto this stead ^° 
 Some manner of beast for to take. 
 Through his sweet sand. 
 Is. Tea, father, but my heart beginneth 
 to quake 
 To see that sharp sword in your 
 hand. 
 
 Why bear ye your sword drawn so? 
 Of your countenance I have much won- 
 der. 
 Ab. Ah, Father of Heaven, so I am woe! 
 This child here breaks my heart in 
 sunder. 
 
 Is. Tell me, my dear father, ere that ye 
 cease. 
 Bear ye your sword drawn for me ? 
 Ab. Ah, Isaac, sweet son, peace, peace! 
 For, iwis, thou break my heart in 
 three ! 
 
 Is. Now truly, somewhat, father, ye think, 
 That ye mourn thus more and more. 
 
 Ab. Ah, Lord of Heaven, thy grace let 
 sink. 
 For my heart was never half so sore ! 
 
 Is. I pray you, father, that ye will let me 
 that wit," 
 Whether shall I have any harm or no. 
 Ab. Iwis, sweet son, I may not tell thee 
 
 yet, 
 
 My heart is now so full of woe. 
 
 Is. Dear father, I pray you, hide it not 
 
 from me. 
 But some of your thought that ye tell 
 
 me. 
 Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, I must kill thee ! 
 Is. Kill me, father? Alas, what have I 
 
 done? 
 
 If I have trespassed against you aught. 
 With a yard ^' ye may make me full 
 mild, 
 
 And with your sharp sword kill me not. 
 For iwis, father, I am but a child. 
 
 Ab. I am full sorry, son, thy blood for to 
 
 spill. 
 But truly, my child, I may not choose. 
 7s. Now I would to God my mother were 
 
 here on this hill ! 
 
 16 counsel. 
 IS place. 
 
 17 know. 
 
 18 rod. 
 
 19 since. 
 
 20 unless. 
 
 She would kneel for me on both her 
 knees 
 
 To save my life. 
 And sithen ^° that my mother is not here, 
 I pray you, father, . change your cheer. 
 And kill me not with your knife. 
 
 Ab. Forsooth, son, but if ^° I thee kill, 
 I should grieve God right sore, I 
 dread ; 
 It is his commandment and also his will 
 That I should do this same deed. 
 
 He commanded me, son, for certain, ' 
 To make my sacrifice with thy blood. 
 Is. And is it God's will that I should be 
 
 slain? 
 Ab. Yea, truly, Isaac, my son so good. 
 And therefore my hands I wring! 
 
 Is. Now, father, against my Lord's will 
 I will never grutch, loud nor still. 
 He might have sent me a better destiny. 
 If it had been his will.^^ 
 
 Ab. Forsooth, son, but if I did this deed. 
 Grievously displeased our Lord will be. 
 
 Is. Nay, nay, father, God forbid 
 
 That ever ye should grieve him for me ! 
 
 Ye have other children, one or two. 
 The which ye should love well by 
 kind.22 
 I pray you, father, make ye no woe. 
 For be I once dead and from you gone, 
 I shall be soon out of your mind. 
 
 Therefore do our Lord's bidding. 
 And when I am dead, then pray for 
 me. 
 But, good father, tell ye my mother 
 
 nothing, 
 Say that I am in another country dwell- 
 ing. 
 Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, blessed may thou be ! 
 
 My heart beginneth strongly to rise 
 To see the blood of thy blessed body ! 
 Is. Father, since it may be no other wise, 
 Let it pass over, as well as I. 
 
 But, father, ere I go unto my death, 
 I pray you bless me with your hand. 
 Ab. Now, Isaac, with all my breath. 
 
 21 Witt is Manly's emen- 
 dation; MS. pleeer. 
 
 22 nature. 
 
16 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 My blessing I give thee upon this land, 
 And, God's also thereto, iwis. 
 
 Isaac, Isaac, son, up thou stand. 
 Thy fair sweet mouth that I may 
 kiss. 
 
 Is. Now farewell, my own father so fine, 
 And greet well my mother on earth. 
 But I pray you, father, to hide my 
 eyne,^^ 
 That I see not the stroke of your sharp 
 sword 
 That my flesh shall defile. 
 Ab. Son, thy words make me to weep full 
 sore — 
 Now, my dear son Isaac, speak no more. 
 Is. Ah, my own dear father, wherefore'? 
 We shall speak together here but a 
 while. 
 
 And sithen that I must needs be dead. 
 Yet, my dear father, to you I pray, 
 Smite but few strokes at my head. 
 And make an end as soon as ye may. 
 And tarry not too long. 
 Ab. Thy meek words, child, make me 
 afraid ; 
 So "welawey !" ^* may be my song. 
 
 Except alone God's will. 
 
 Ah, Isaac, my own sweet child, 
 Yet kiss me again upon this hill ! 
 
 In all this world is none so mild. 
 
 Is. Now truly, father, all this tarrying. 
 It doth my heart but harm ; 
 I pray you, father, make an ending. 
 Ab. Come up, sweet son, into, my arm. 
 
 I must bind thy hands two. 
 
 Although thou be never so mild. 
 Is. Ah, mercy, father! Why should ye do 
 
 so? 
 Ab. That thou should'st not let,2s my child. 
 
 Is. Nay, iwis, father, I will not let you; 
 Do on, for me, your will. 
 And on the purpose that ye have set you. 
 For God's love, keep it forth still. 
 
 I am full sorry this day to die. 
 But yet I keep ^° not my God to giieve. 
 
 Do on your list "'' for me hardily, 
 My fair sweet father, I give you leave. 
 
 But, father, I pray you evermore, 
 Tell ye my mother no deal; "^ 
 If she wist it, she would weep full sore. 
 For -iwis, father, she loveth me full 
 well; 
 God's blessing may she have! 
 
 Now farewell, my mother so sweet. 
 We two be like no more to meet. 
 Ab. Ah, Isaac, Isaac, son, thou makest me 
 to greet,^" 
 And with thy words thou distemperest 
 me. 
 
 Is. Iwis, sweet father, I am sorry to grieve 
 you; 
 I cry you mercy for that I have done. 
 And for aU trespass that ever I did move 
 you; 
 Now, dear father, forgive me that I 
 have done. 
 God of Heaven be with me ! 
 
 Ab. Ah, dear child, leave off thy moans. 
 In all thy life thou grieved me never 
 
 once; 
 Now blessed be thou, body and bones, 
 That ever thou were bred and bom ! 
 Thou hast been to me child full good. 
 But iwis, child, though I mourn never 
 
 so fast. 
 Yet must I needs here at the last 
 In this place shed all thy blood. 
 
 Therefore, my dear son, here shall thou 
 lie. 
 Unto my work I must me stead ; ^° 
 Iwis, I had as lief myself to die — 
 If God will be pleased with my deed — 
 And mine own body for to offer ! 
 Is. Ah, mercy, father! mourn ye no more. 
 Your weeping maketh my heart sore 
 As my own death that I shall suffer. 
 
 Your kerchief, father, about my eyes ye 
 wind. 
 Ab. So I shall, my sweetest child on earth. 
 Is. Now yet, good father, have this in 
 mind. 
 And smite me not often with your 
 sharp sword. 
 But hastily that it be sped. 
 
 Here Abraham laid a cloth on Isaac's face, 
 saying: 
 
 28 eyes. 
 
 24 an exclamation of grief. 
 
 i binder. 
 I wish. 
 
 27 pleasure. 
 
 28 nothing. 
 
 29 weep. 
 SO address. 
 
ABRAHAM AND ISAAC 
 
 17 
 
 Ah. Now farewell, my child, so full of 
 
 grace. 
 Is. Ah, father, father, turn downward my 
 
 face! 
 
 For of your sharp sword I am ever 
 adread. 
 
 Ab. To do this deed I am full sorry. 
 
 But, Lord, thine hest I will not with- 
 stand. 
 
 Is. Ah, Father of Heaven, to thee I cry; 
 Lord, receive me into thy hand ! 
 
 Ab. Lo, now is the time come certain 
 That my sword in his neck shall bite. 
 Ah, Lord, my heart riseth there-against, 
 I may not find it in my heart to smite ! 
 My heart will not now thereto ! 
 Yet fain I would work my Lord's will. 
 But this young innocent lieth so still, 
 I may not find it in my heart him to kill — 
 Father of Heaven, what shall I 
 do! 
 
 7s. Ah, mercy, father, why tarry ye so, 
 And let me lie thus long on this heath 1 
 Now I would to God the stroke were 
 
 done! 
 Father, I pray you heartily, short me of 
 my woe, 
 
 And let me not look thus after my 
 death. 
 
 Ab. Now, heart, why wouldst not thou 
 break in three? 
 Yet shall thou not make me to my God 
 unmild. 
 I will no longer let for thee. 
 For that my God aggrieved would be. , 
 Now hold the stroke, my own dear 
 child. 
 
 Here Abraham drew his stroke, and the 
 Angel took the sword in his hand sud- 
 denly. 
 
 Ang. I am an angel, thou mayest see 
 blithe, 
 That from heaven to thee is sent. 
 Our Lord thanketh thee a hundred 
 sithes '^ 
 For the keeping of his commandment. 
 
 He knoweth thy will and also thy heart, 
 That thou dreadest him above all thing. 
 
 And some of thy heaviness for to de- 
 part,^^ 
 A fair ram yonder I gan ^^ bring ; 
 
 He standeth tied, lo, among the briars. 
 
 Now, Abraham, amend thy mood, 
 For Isaac, thy young son, that here is, 
 
 This day shall not shed his blood. 
 
 Go, make thy sacrifice with yon ram. 
 Now farewell, blessed Abraham, 
 For unto heaven I go now home : 
 The way is full gain.^* 
 Take up thy son so free ! 
 
 [Exit Angel.] 
 
 Ab. Ah, Lord, I thank thee for thy great 
 grace. 
 Now am I eased '° in divers wise. 
 Arise up, Isaac, my dear son, arise, 
 Arise up, sweet child, and come to me! 
 
 Is. Ah, mercy, father, why smite ye not? 
 Ah, smite on, father, once with your 
 knife! 
 Ab. Peace, my sweet son, and take no 
 thought. 
 For our Lord of Heaven hath granted 
 thy life 
 By his angel now. 
 
 That thou shalt not die this day, son, 
 truly. 
 Is. Ah, father, full glad then were I, 
 Iwis, father, I say, iwis. 
 If this tale were true! 
 Ab. A hundred times, my son fair of hue. 
 For joy thy mouth now will I kiss. 
 
 Is. Ah, my dear father Abraham,- 
 
 Will not God be wroth that we do 
 thus? 
 Ab. No, no, hardily, my sweet son! for 
 yon same ram 
 He hath sent hither down to us.'' 
 
 Yon beast shall die here in thy stead, 
 
 In the worship of our Lord alone ; 
 Go fet him hither, my child, indeed. 
 Is. Father, I will go hent '' him by the 
 head. 
 And bring yon beast with me anon. 
 
 Ah, sheep, sheep, blessed may thou be. 
 That ever thou were sent down hither! 
 
 SI times. 
 32 remove. 
 
 33 did. 
 
 34 etraight. 
 
 35 Manly's emenda- 
 tion ; MS, yeyed. 
 
 36 Line arrangement ac- 
 cording to Manly, 
 
 87 seize. 
 
18 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Thou shall this day die for me, 
 In the worship of the Holy Trinity. 
 Now eome fast and go we together, 
 
 To my father of Heaven. 
 Though thou be never so gentle and good. 
 Yet had I liefer thou sheddest thy blood, 
 
 Iwis, sheep, than I! 
 
 Lo, father, I -have brought here, full 
 smart. 
 This gentle sheep, and him to you I 
 give, 
 But, Lord God, I thank thee with all my 
 heart. 
 For I am glad that I shall live. 
 And kiss once my dear mother. 
 Ab. Now be right merry, my sweet child. 
 For this quick beast that is so mild 
 
 Here I shall present before all other. 
 
 7s. And I will fast begin to blow. 
 
 This Are shall burn a full good speed, 
 But, father, will I stoop down low. 
 Ye will not kill me with your sword, I 
 trow? 
 46. No, hardily, sweet son, have no dread, 
 
 My mourning is past. 
 Is. Yea, but I would that sword were in a 
 gleed,** 
 
 For, iwis, father, it makes me full 
 ill aghast. 
 
 Here Abraham made his offering, kneeling 
 and saying thus: 
 
 * Ab. Now, Lord God of Heaven in Trinity, 
 Almighty God omnipotent, 
 My offering I make in the worship of 
 thee, 
 And with this quick beast I thee pre- 
 sent. 
 Lord, receive thou mine intent. 
 As [thou] art God and ground of our 
 grace. 
 
 Deus. Abraham, Abraham, well may thou 
 speed, 
 And Isaac, thy young son, thee by ! 
 Truly, Abraham, for this deed, 
 I shall multiply both your seed. 
 As thick as stars be in the sky. 
 Both more and less. 
 And as thick as gravel in the sea, 
 So thick multiplied your seed shall be: 
 This grant I you for your goodness. 
 
 Of you shall eome fruit great. 
 
 And ever be in bliss without end. 
 For ye dread me, as God alone. 
 And keep my commandments every one; 
 My blessing I give, wheresoever ye 
 wend! 
 
 Ab. Lo, Isaac, my son, how think ye 
 Of this work that we have wrought? 
 Full glad and blithe we may be, 
 Against the will of God that we 
 grutched not. 
 Upon this fair heath. 
 Is. Ah, father, I thank our Lord every 
 deal. 
 That my wit served me so well 
 
 For to dread God more than my 
 death. 
 
 Ab. Why, dearworthy son, were thou 
 adread? 
 Hardily, child, tell me thy lore. 
 Is. Yea, by my faith, father, now have I 
 rede,^° 
 I was never so afraid before. 
 As I have been on yon hUl. 
 But, by my faith, father, I swear 
 I will nevermore eome there. 
 But it be against my will ! 
 
 Ab. Yea, come on with ms; my own sweet 
 son. 
 And homeward fast now let us go. 
 Is. By my faith, father, thereto I grant; 
 I had never so good will to go home. 
 And to speak with my dear mother ! 
 Ab. Ah, Lord of Heaven, I thank thee! 
 For now may I lead home with me 
 Isaac, my young son so free. 
 The gentlest child above all other, 
 This may I well avow. 
 
 Now, go we forth, my blessed son. 
 Is. I grant, father, and let us go. 
 For, by my troth, were I at home, 
 I would never go out under that form.*" 
 I pray God give us grace evermo. 
 And all those that we be holden to. 
 
 [Exeunt. Enter Doctor.] 
 
 Doctor.*''- Lo, sovereigns and sirs, now 
 have we showed 
 This solemn story to great and small; 
 It is good learning to learned and lewd,*^ 
 
 38 five. 
 
 89 judgment. 
 
 40 in that manner, 
 for that purpose. 
 
 41 A Doctor, or Expositor, frequently accompanied the 42 ignorant, 
 miracle and morality plays to expound the moral teaching. 
 
THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 
 
 19 
 
 And the wisest of us all, 
 Without any berrying.*^ 
 For this story showeth you [here]. 
 How we should keep, to our power, 
 
 God's commandments without 
 grutehing. 
 
 Trow ye, sirs, and ** God sent an angel, 
 And commanded you your child to 
 slay, 
 By your troth, is there any of you 
 That either would grutch or strive 
 there-against ? 
 How think ye now, sirs, thereby? 
 
 I trow there be three or four or more. 
 And these women that weep so sorrow- 
 fully 
 When that their children die them 
 from, 
 
 As nature will and kind, 
 It is but foUy, I may well avow. 
 To grutch against God or to grieve you, 
 
 For ye shall never see him misehiefed, 
 well I know, 
 
 By land or water, have this in 
 mind. 
 
 And grutch not against our Lord God, 
 In wealth or woe, whether *' that he 
 you send, 
 Though ye be never so hard bestead. 
 
 For when he will, he may it amend. 
 His commandments truly if ye keep with 
 good heart. 
 As this story hath now showed you 
 before, 
 And faithfully serve him while ye be 
 quart,*' 
 That ye may please God both even and 
 
 morn. 
 Now Jesu, that wore the crown of 
 thorn, 
 Bring us all to heaven's bliss ! 
 
 THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHAEACTERS 
 
 First Shephebd. Gill, Mak's wife. 
 
 Second Shepherd. An Angel, 
 
 Thibd Shephebd. Mabt. 
 
 Mak. 
 
 Scene: Bethlehem, and the open country near it. 
 
 [Scene I 
 Enter First Shepherd.] 
 
 1 Shep. Lord! what, these weathers are 
 cold ! and I am ill happed ; ^ 
 I am near-hand^ dold,^ so long have I 
 
 napped ; 
 My legs they fold, my fingers are 
 
 chapped ; ' 
 
 It is not as I would, for I am all lapped 
 
 In sorrow. 
 In storms and tempest, 
 Now in the east, now in the west, 
 Woe is him has never rest. 
 Mid-day nor morrow! 
 
 43 threshing; "the 
 teaching of this 
 story comes out 
 without any 
 
 threshing" (L. 
 
 Toulmin Smith). 
 
 2 almost. 
 
 Hit. 
 
 3 numb. 
 
 45 whichever. 
 
 4 poor. 
 
 46 in health. 
 
 5 MS. hamyd, 
 
 1 clothed. 
 
 crippled. 
 
 But we seely* shepherds, that walk on 
 
 the moor, 
 In faith, we are near-hands out of the 
 
 door ; 
 No wonder, as it stands, if we be poor. 
 For the tilth of our lands lies fallow as 
 
 the floor, i 
 As ye ken. 
 We are so lamed,^ 
 For-taxed* and shamed,'' 
 We are made hand-tamed 
 
 With these gentlery men. 
 
 Thus they reave * us our rest, Our Lady 
 
 them wary I ° 
 These men that are lord-f ast,^" they cause 
 
 the plough tarry. 
 
 6 overtaxed. 9 curse. 
 
 7 MS, ramyd, op- lo bound to the serv- 
 pressed (?), ice of lords, 
 
 8 rob of. 
 
20 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 That " men say is for the best, we find 
 
 Why fares this world thus? Oft have 
 
 it contrary; 
 
 we not seen! 
 
 Thus are husbands ^^ opprest, in point to 
 
 Lord, these weathers are spitous,^" and 
 
 miscarry 
 
 the weathers full keen; 
 
 In Ufe. 
 
 And the frosts so hideous they water 
 
 Thus hold they us under, 
 
 mine een,^^ 
 
 Thus they bring us in blunder; 
 
 No lie. 
 
 It were great wonder. 
 
 Now in dry, now in w'et. 
 
 And 1^ ever should we thrive. 
 
 Now in snow, now in sleet. 
 
 
 When my shoon freeze to my feet 
 
 For may he get a painted sleeve, or a 
 
 It is not all easy. 
 
 brooch nowadays. 
 
 
 Woe is him that him grieves, or once 
 
 But as far as I ken, or yet as I go. 
 
 again-says ! ^* 
 
 We seely wed-men dree mickle woe ; ^' 
 
 Dare no man him reprieve,^° what mas- 
 
 We have sorrow then and then, it falls 
 
 tery he makes ; ^° 
 
 oft so. 
 
 And yet may no man believe one word 
 
 Seely Capel, our hen, both to and fro 
 
 that he says. 
 
 She cackles; 
 
 No letter. 
 
 But begin she to croak. 
 
 He can make purveyance,^^ 
 
 To groan or to cluck. 
 
 With boast and bragance,^' 
 
 Woe is him, our cock. 
 
 And all is through maintenance 
 
 For he is in the shackles. 
 
 Of men that are greater. 
 
 
 
 These men that are wed have not all their 
 
 There shall come a swain, as proud as a 
 
 will; 
 
 PO," 
 
 When they are full hard stead,^' they 
 
 He must borrow my wain, my plough 
 
 sigh fuU still; 
 
 also; 
 
 God wot they are led full hard and full 
 
 Then I am full fain to grant ere he go. 
 
 iU, 
 
 Thus live we in pain, anger, and woe. 
 
 In bower nor in bed they say nought 
 
 By night and day. 
 
 theretill,»» 
 
 He must have if he longed, 
 
 This tide. 
 
 If I should forego it; 
 
 My part have I found. 
 
 I were better be hanged 
 
 I know my lesson: 
 
 Than once say him nay. 
 
 Woe is him that is bound, 
 
 
 For he must abide. 
 
 It does me good, as I walk thus by mine 
 
 
 own,^'' 
 
 But now late in our lives — a marvel to 
 
 Of this world for to talk in manner of 
 
 me^ 
 
 moan.^^ 
 
 That I think my heart rives such wonders 
 
 To my sheep will I stalk and hearken 
 
 to see. 
 
 anon. 
 
 What that destiny drives, it should so 
 
 There abide on a balk,''^ or sit on a stone 
 
 be!— 
 
 Full soon. 
 
 Some men wiU have two wives, and some 
 
 For I trow, pardie,^' 
 
 men three. 
 
 True men if they be. 
 
 In store. 
 
 We get more company 
 
 Some are woe that have any; 
 
 Ere it be noon. 
 
 But so far can ^^ I, 
 
 
 Woe is him that has many. 
 
 [Enter Seqond Shepherd.] 
 
 For he feels sore. 
 
 2 Shep. Benste^* and Dominus! what 
 may this bemean ? '"' 
 
 But young men of wooing, for God that 
 you bought, 
 
 11 that which. 
 
 12 huebandmen. 
 
 13 if. 
 
 14 Bpeaks against 
 him 
 
 15 reprove. 
 
 10 however master- 
 
 fully he acts. 
 17 the right to buy 
 provisions for the 
 royal household 
 at a fixed price, 
 irrespective of the 
 market price. 
 
 18 bragging. 
 10 peacock. 
 
 20 by myself. 
 
 21 in a complaining 
 way. 
 
 22 ridge. 
 
 23 par Dieii. 
 
 from 
 bless 
 
 24 shortened 
 Benedicite I 
 me I 
 
 26 mean. 
 20 spiteful. 
 
 27 eyes. 
 
 28 we poor married 
 
 men endure much 
 
 woe. 
 29 bestead, 
 so thereto. 
 SI know. 
 
THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 
 
 21 
 
 Be well ware of wedding, and think in 
 
 your thought': 
 "Had I wist" is a thing it serves of 
 
 nought ; 
 Mickle still mourning has wedding home 
 
 brought, 
 And griefs, 
 With many a sharp shower, 
 For thou may catch in an hour 
 That shall [savor] full sour 
 As long as thou lives. 
 
 For, as ever read I epistle, I have one to 
 
 my fere*^ 
 As sharp as a thistle, as rough as a briar ; 
 She is browed like a bristle, with a sour 
 
 [looking]^' cheer; 
 Had she once wet her whistle she could 
 sing full clear 
 Her pater-noster. 
 She is as great as a whale, 
 She has a gallon of gall; 
 By him that died for us all, 
 
 I would I had run till I had lost 
 her! 
 
 1 Shep. God look over the row ! full deafly 
 
 ye stand. 
 
 2 Shep. Yea, the devil in thy maw, so 
 
 tarrying ! 
 
 Saw thou anywhere of Daw? 
 
 1 Shep. Yea, on a lea^* land 
 Heard I him blow; he comes here at 
 
 hand. 
 Not far; 
 Stand still. 
 
 2 Shep. Why? 
 
 1 Shep. For he comes, hope I. 
 
 2 Shep. He will make us both a lie, 
 
 But if ^'^ we beware. 
 
 [Enter Third Shepherd.] 
 
 3 Shep. Christ's cross me speed, and 
 
 Saint Nicholas! s 
 Thereof had I need, it is worse than it 
 
 was. 
 Whoso could, take heed, and let the 
 
 world pass: 
 It is ever in dread and brittle as glass. 
 
 And slithers.^* 
 This world fared never so. 
 With marvels mo and mo. 
 Now in weal, now in woe, 
 
 And all-thing writhes.^'' 
 
 Was never since Noah's flood such floods 
 
 seen. 
 Winds and rains so rude, and storms so 
 
 keen; 
 Some stammered, some stood in doubt, as 
 
 I ween; 
 Now God turn all to good! I say as I 
 
 mean. 
 
 For ponder: 
 These floods so they drown 
 Both in fields and in town. 
 And bear all down. 
 
 And that is a wonder. 
 
 We that walk in the nights, our cattle to 
 
 keep. 
 We see sudden sights, when other men 
 
 sleep. 
 Yet methink my heart, lights — I see 
 
 shrews *^ peep. 
 Ye are two tall wights:*" I will give my 
 
 sheep 
 A turn. 
 But full ill have I meant. 
 As I walk on this bent,*" 
 I may lightly repent, 
 
 My toes if I spum.*^ 
 
 Ah, sir, God you save, and master mine ! 
 
 A drink fain would I have, and some- 
 what to dine. 
 
 Shep. Christ's curse, my knave, thou art 
 a lither hind ! *2 
 
 rave! 
 
 list< 
 
 Shep. What, the boy 
 Abide unto syne ; ^ 
 
 We have made it.*" 
 Ill thrift on thy pate! 
 Through the .shrew came late. 
 Yet is he in state 
 
 To dine, if he had it. 
 
 Shep. Such servants as I, that sweats 
 and swinks,** 
 
 Eats our bread full dry, and that me f or- 
 thinks;*' 
 
 We are oft wet and weary when master- 
 men winks,** 
 
 Yet comes full lately both dinners and 
 drinks. 
 But naitly *" 
 
 Both our dame and our sire. 
 
 When we have run in the mire, 
 
 They can nip at our hire,°° 
 
 And pay us full lately. 
 
 82 mate. 
 
 36 is slippery, unre 
 
 8S MS. loten. 
 
 liable. 
 
 34 fallow. 
 
 37 is awry. 
 
 s& unless. 
 
 38 knaves. 
 
 39 stout fellows, 
 
 40 heath. 
 
 41 if I stumhle, 
 
 42 lazy servant. 
 
 43 pleases to. 
 
 44 wait till later. 
 
 45 i.e. our meal. 
 
 46 work. 
 
 47 repents. 
 
 48 s'eep. 
 
 4D thoroughly. 
 BO take a bit o£E our 
 wages. 
 
22 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 But hear my truth, master, for the fare 
 
 that ye make, 
 I shall do thereafter work as I take ; '^ 
 I shall do a little, sir, and among °^ ever 
 
 lake,^^ 
 For yet lay my supper never on my 
 
 stomach 
 In fields. 
 Whereto should I threap?^* 
 With my staff can I leap, 
 And men say "light cheap 
 Litherly f oryields." ^= 
 
 1 Shep. Thou were an ill lad to ride 
 
 a-wooing 
 With a man that had hut little of spend- 
 ing. 
 
 2 Shep. Peace, boy, I bade; no more 
 
 jangling. 
 Or I shall make thee full rad,^° by the 
 
 heaven's king. 
 
 With thy gauds ! " 
 Where are our sheep, boy, we scorn? 
 
 3 Shep. Sir, this same day at morn 
 I them left in the com, 
 
 When they rang Lauds ; ■*' 
 
 They have pasture good, they can not go 
 wrong. 
 
 1 Shep. That is right. By the rood, these 
 
 nights are long ! 
 Yet I would, ere we yode,°° one gave us a 
 song. 
 
 2 Shep. So I thought as I stood, to mirth 
 
 us among.*" 
 
 3 Shep. I grant. 
 
 1 Shep. Let me sing the tenory. 
 
 2 Shep. And I the treble so high. 
 
 3 Shep. Then the mean falls to me; 
 
 Let see how ye chant.*^ 
 
 Enter Mak, with a cloak thrown over Ms 
 smock. 
 
 Mak. Now, Lord, for thy names seven,"^ 
 that made both moon and stars. 
 Well more than I can neven,°° thy will. 
 
 Lord, of me thams ; ^* 
 I am all uneven,*" that moves oft my 
 
 hams ; ** 
 Now would God I were in heaven, for 
 there weep no bairns 
 So still ! 
 
 1 Shep. Who is that pipes so poor? 
 Mak. Would God ye wist how I ±area . 
 
 Lo, a man that walks on the moor. 
 And has not all his will! 
 
 2 Shep. Mak, where has thou gone? Tell 1 
 
 us tidings. [ 
 
 3 Shep. Is he come? Then each one take 
 
 heed to his thing. f 
 
 (Takes his cloak from him.) 
 Mak. What! I be a yeoman, I tell you, ! 
 of the king; i 
 
 The self and the same, sent *^ from a \ 
 great lording, j, J 
 
 And such. - i | 
 
 Fie on you ! Go hence ] 
 
 Out of my presence! 
 I must have reverence. 
 Why, who be I? 
 
 1 Shep. Why make ye it so quaint? 
 
 Mak, ye do wrong. 
 
 2 Shep. But, Mak, list ye saint?*' I 
 
 trow that ye long. 
 
 3 Shep. I trow the shrew can paint, the 
 
 devil might him hang! 
 Mak. I shall make complaint, and make 
 you aU to thwang.** 
 At a word. 
 And tell even how ye doth. 
 
 1 Shep. But, Mak, is that sooth? 
 Now take out that southern tooth,'" 
 
 And set in a turd ! 
 
 2 Shep. Mak, the devil in your eye! a 
 
 stroke would I lend you. 
 
 3 Shep. Mak, know ye not me? By God, 
 
 I could teen '^ you. 
 Mak. God look you all three ! methought I 
 had seen you. 
 Ye are a fair company. 
 
 1 Shep. Can ye now mean you?'^ 
 
 2 Shep. Shrew, jape I ^^ 
 Thus late as thou goes. 
 What will men suppose? 
 And thou has an ill noise '* 
 
 Of stealing of sheep. 
 
 Mak. And I am true as steel, all men wit ! 
 
 But a sickness I feel, that holds me full 
 hot, 
 
 My belly fares not well, it is out of es- 
 tate. 
 
 131 i.e. 1 *11 work as 
 
 I 'm paid. 
 02 now and then 
 63 play. 
 54 argue. 
 5i* a cheap bargain 
 
 yields poorly, 
 se afraid. 
 
 57 tricks, 
 
 !38 an early morning 
 
 service of the 
 
 church. 
 B9 went. 
 
 00 for mirth among 
 us. 
 
 01 (The song ia 
 
 wanting.) 
 62 The seven sacred 
 names of God in 
 rabbinical litera- 
 ture. 
 
 03 name. 
 
 04 lacks ; i.e. thy 
 will toward me 
 
 something 
 to be desired. 
 
 06 upset. 
 
 00 brains. 
 
 OT lit. messenger; 
 MS. tond. 
 
 08 play the saint. 
 
 60 be flogged 
 
 you talk like a 
 
 70 i.e. which matai' 
 south of Englil^l' 
 man. deceitfu}ll3^# 
 
 71 hurt, beat. " :* 
 
 72 remember. •''i 
 78 joke on. '. 'S 
 74 reputation. 
 
THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 
 
 23 
 
 ? Shep. Seldom lies the devil dead by the 
 
 gate.'"' 
 Mah. Therefore 
 
 Full sore am I and ill, 
 If I stand stone stiU; 
 I eat not a needle 
 
 This month and more. 
 
 1 Shep. How fares thy -wife? By my 
 
 hood, how fares she? 
 Mak. ' Lies weltering,^^ by the rood, by the 
 Are, lo! 
 And a house full of brewed '^ she drinks 
 
 well too; 
 111 speed other good that she wiU do 
 
 But so! 
 Eats as fast as she can. 
 And each year that comes to man, 
 She brings forth a lakin,^^ 
 And some years two. 
 
 But were I not more gracious, and richer 
 
 by far, 
 I were eaten out of house and of harbor ; 
 Yet is she a foul dowse,^' if ye come 
 
 near. 
 There is none that trows nor knows a 
 
 worse 
 
 Than ken I. 
 Now will ye see what I proffer? 
 To give all in my coffer 
 To-mom *" next to offer '^ 
 Her head-mass penny. 
 
 2 Shep. I wot so f orwaked *^ is none in 
 
 this ^hire : 
 1 would sleep if I took less to my hire. 
 5 Shep. I am cold and naked, and would 
 have a fire. 
 
 1 Shep. I am weary, for-raked,'^ and run 
 
 in the mire. 
 Wake thou ! 
 
 2 Shep. Nay, I will lie down-by. 
 For I must sleep, truly. 
 
 3 Shep. As good a man's son was I 
 
 As any of you. 
 
 But, Mak, come hither! between shall 
 thou lie down. 
 Mak. Then might I let ** you bedene ^^ of 
 that ye would round,'* 
 No dread. 
 From my top to my toe 
 
 Manus tuas commendo, 
 Puntio Pilatol, 
 
 Christ's cross me speed ! 
 
 Then he rises, while the shepherds are 
 
 asleep, and says: 
 Now were time for a man that lacks what 
 
 he would. 
 To stalk privily then unto a fold. 
 And nimbly to work then, and be not too 
 
 bold. 
 For he might aby '^ the bargain, if it 
 were told. 
 
 At the ending. 
 Now were time for to reel ; '* 
 But he needs good counsel 
 That fain would fare well. 
 
 And has but little spending. 
 
 But about you a circle as round as a 
 
 moon. 
 Till I have done that 
 
 be - noon. 
 That ye lie stone-still, till that 
 
 done. 
 And I shall say there-till of good words 
 
 a few 
 
 On height ;s» 
 Over your heads my hand I lift. 
 Out go your eyes, fordo your sight ! "^ 
 But yet I must make better shift, 
 And it be right. 
 
 Lord, what, they sleep hard ! that may ye 
 
 all hear. 
 Was I never a shepherd, but now will I 
 
 lere.»i 
 If the flock be scared, yet shall I nip 
 
 near. 
 How! Draw hitherward! now mends 
 our cheer 
 From sorrow. 
 A fat sheep, I dare say, 
 A good fleece, dare I lay. 
 Eft quite °^ when I may. 
 
 But this will I borrow. 
 
 [Exit, with sheep.] 
 
 I will, till that it 
 I have 
 
 [Scene 2, 
 Mak. 
 
 Mak at the door of his house.] 
 art thou in? Get us 
 
 Wife. 
 
 70 a proverb, imply- 
 ing suspicion of 
 Mak : it 's 'Dot 
 safe to trust ap-i 
 pearances, 
 
 78 lounging. 
 
 77 i.e. ale. 
 
 78 plaything, i.e. 
 baby. 
 
 79 dear, douce; 
 ironical. 
 
 :80 tomorrow ; MS. 
 inserts at before 
 next. 
 
 81 to pay for her 
 funeral service. 
 
 82 worn out with 
 watching. 
 
 83 worn out with 
 walking. 
 
 84 bincler, 
 
 How, Gill, 
 some light. 
 
 Who makes such din this time of 
 the night? 
 
 90 This is excellent 
 fooling; Mak pre- 
 tends to cast a 
 charm over the 
 Bleeping shep- 
 herds. 
 
 91 learn. 
 
 92 repay, j 
 
 85 altogether. 
 
 80 whisper ; twi 
 
 lines seem to b 
 missing here. 
 
 87 pay dearly for. 
 
 88 set about the 
 business. 
 
 89 aloud, 
 
24 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 I am set for to spin ; I hope not I might 
 Eise a penny to win. I shrew them on 
 height 
 
 So fares! 
 A housewife that has been 
 To be raced thus between ! 
 Here may no note ®' be seen 
 
 For such small chares."* 
 
 Mak. Good wife, open the heck ! »" Sees 
 
 thou not what I bring? 
 Wife. I may thole °* thee draw the sneck."^ 
 
 Ah, come in, my sweeting ! 
 ilf ofc. Yea, thou there not reck of my long 
 
 standing. 
 Wife. By the naked neck art thou like for 
 
 to hang! 
 Mak: Do way! 
 
 I am worthy my meat. 
 Tor in a strait can I get 
 More than they that swink and sweat 
 AH the long day. 
 
 Thus it fell to my lot. Gill, I had such 
 grace. 
 Wife. It were a foul blot to be hanged 
 
 for the case. 
 Mak. I have scaped, Gillot, oft as hard a 
 
 glace.°' 
 Wife. But so long goes the pot to the 
 water, men says. 
 At last 
 Comes it home broken. 
 Mak. Well know I the token, 
 But let it never be spoken. 
 
 But come and help fast. 
 
 I would he were slain, I list well eat : 
 This twelvemonth was I not so fain of 
 one sheep-meat. 
 Wife. Come they ere he be slain, and hear 
 
 the sheep bleat — 
 Mak. Then might I be ta'en: that were a 
 cold sweat ! 
 Go spar9» 
 The gate door. 
 Wife. Yes, Mak, 
 
 Tor and they come at thy back — 
 Mak. Then might I aby, for all the pack. 
 The devil of the worse ! ^ 
 
 Wife. A good bourd ^ have I spied, since 
 thou can none: 
 Here shall we him hide till they be gone. 
 In my cradle abide — ^let me alone — 
 
 in childbed andj 
 
 93 work. 
 
 97 latch. 
 
 a devil of a time 
 
 3 advise well. 
 
 94 jobs. 
 
 98 blow. 
 
 from the whole 
 
 4 delivered. 
 
 05 door. 
 
 99 shut. 
 
 pack (roughly). 
 
 B company. 
 
 u Mock Latin here 
 
 96 allow. 
 
 1 then might I have 
 
 2 trick. 
 
 And I shall lie beside 
 groan. 
 Mak. Thou rede ! ^ 
 And I shall say thou was lighted * 
 Of a knave child this night. 
 Wife. Now, well is me ! t)ay bright, 
 That ever I was bred ! 
 
 This is a good guise and a far cast ; ] ; 
 
 Yet a woman's advice helps at the -last! -^^ 
 
 I wot never who spies; again go thou^ 
 
 fast ! ^'i 
 
 Mak. But I come ere they rise, else blows |, 
 
 a cold blast! 
 
 I will go sleep. 
 
 [Scene 3. Mak returns to the Shepherds.] 
 
 Yet sleeps all this meinie," 
 And I shall go stalk privily, 
 As it had never been I 
 
 That carried their sheep. 
 
 1 Shep. Resurrex a mortruis!^ have hold 
 
 my hand ! 
 
 Judas carnas dominus! I may not well 
 stand. 
 
 My foot sleeps, by Jesus! and I water 
 fasting. ] 
 
 I thought that we laid us full near Eng- 
 land. 
 
 2 Shep. Ah, yea! 
 
 Lord, what, I have slept well ! 
 As fresh as an eel, 
 As light I me feel 
 
 As leaf on a tree. 
 
 3 Shep. Benste' be herein! So ray 
 
 [body] quakes. 
 My heart is out of skin, what-so it makes. 
 Who makes all this din? So my brows 
 
 black! 
 To the door wiU I win. Hark, fellows, 
 
 wake! 
 We were four: 
 See ye anywhere of Mak now? 
 
 1 Shep. We were up ere thou. 
 
 2 Shep. Man, I give God a vow. 
 
 Yet yede * he nowhere. 
 
 5 Shep. Methought he was lapt in a wolf- 
 skin. 
 
 1 Shep. So are many happed now: 
 namely, within. 
 
 and in following 
 
 line. 
 ' God's blessing. 
 8 went. 
 
THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 
 
 25 
 
 3 Shep. When we had long napped, me- 
 thought with a gin " 
 A fat sheep he trapped, but he made no 
 din. 
 a Shep. Be stUl! 
 
 Thy dream makes thee wood,^" 
 It is but phantom, by the rood. 
 
 1 Shep. Now God turn all to good, 
 
 If it be his wUl ! 
 
 2 Shep. Rise, Mak, for shame! thou lies 
 
 right long. 
 Mak. Now Christ's holy name be us 
 among ! 
 What is this? Tor Saint James, I may 
 
 not well go! 
 I trow I be the same. Ah, my neck has 
 lain wrong 
 Enough, 
 Mickle thank, since yester-even! 
 Now, by Saint Stephen, 
 I was flayed '^'^ with a sweven ! ^^ 
 My heart out of -slough ^^ 
 
 I thought Gill began to croak, and travail 
 
 full sad. 
 Well near at the first cock, of a young 
 
 lad 
 Tor to mend our flock. Then be I never 
 
 glad; 
 I have tow on my rock," more than ever 
 
 I had. 
 Ah, my head! 
 A house full of young tharms,^" 
 The devil knock out their harns ! ^° 
 Woe is him has many bairns. 
 And thereto little bread ! 
 
 I must go home, by your leave, to Gill, 
 
 as I thought. 
 I pray you look my sleeve, that I steal 
 
 nought : 
 I am loth you to grieve, or from you take 
 
 aught. 
 
 [Exit Mak.] 
 
 3 Shep. Go forth, ill might thou cheve ! " 
 
 Now would I we sought. 
 This mom. 
 That we Tiad all our store. 
 
 1 Shep. But I will go before. 
 Let us meet. 
 
 2 Shep. Where? 
 
 9 trick. 14diBtaff; more to 
 
 18 noise. 
 
 not clear; appar- 
 
 25 pity. 
 
 10 mad. provide for. 
 
 19 waning of the 
 
 ently something 
 
 26 shepherds. 
 
 11 frightened. IB bellies, i.e. chil- 
 
 moon — an un- 
 
 uncomplimentary. 
 
 27 suspect. 
 
 12 dream. dren. 
 
 lucky season. 
 
 21 noise. 
 
 28 promised. 
 
 13 jumped out of roy le brains. 
 
 20 The meaning of 
 
 22 work. 
 
 28 toward our 
 
 breast (1). 17 thrive. 
 
 these two lines is 
 
 23 excuse. 
 
 pose. 
 
 
 
 21 pUys. 
 
 so wrap up. 
 
 3 Shep. At the crooked thdm. 
 
 [Scene 4. Mak's house.] 
 
 Mak. (Knocking.) Undo this door! who 
 is here? How long shall I stand? 
 Wife. Who makes such a here ? '' — Now 
 
 walk in the waniand ! ^' 
 Mak. Ah, Gill, what cheer?— It is I, Mak, 
 
 your husband. 
 Wife. Then inay we see here the devil in 
 a band, 
 Sir Guile! 2" 
 Lo, he comes with a late,^^ 
 As he were holden in the throat. 
 I may not sit at my note ^^ 
 A hand-long while. 
 
 Mak. Will ye hear what fare she makes 
 to get her a gloze ? ^' 
 And does nought but lakes,^* and claws 
 her toes. ' 
 Wife. Why, who wanders, who wakes, 
 who comes, who goes ? 
 Who brews, who bakes? What makes 
 me thus hose? 
 And then 
 It is ruth 2= to behold. 
 Now in hot, now in cold; 
 Full woful is the household 
 That wants a woman. 
 
 But what end hast thou made with the 
 herds,28 Mak? 
 Mak. The last word that they said when I 
 turned my back. 
 They would look that they had their 
 
 sheep, all the pack. 
 I hope they will not be well paid when 
 they their sheep lack,. 
 Pardie ! 
 But howso the game goes. 
 To me they wiU suppose,^' 
 And make a foul noise, 
 
 And cry out upon me. 
 
 But thou must do as thou hight,** 
 Wife. I accord me thereto: 
 
 I shall swaddle him right in my cradle. 
 
 If it were a greater sleight, yet could I 
 help till.2» 
 
 I will lie down straight ; come hap '" me. 
 Mak. I will. 
 
 pur- 
 
26 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Wife. Behind ! 
 
 Come Coll and his marrow,^"^ 
 
 They will nip us full narrow. 
 Mak. But I may cry out "Harrow !" ^^ 
 The sheep if they find. 
 
 Wife. Hearken ay when they call: they 
 will come anon. 
 Come and make ready all, and sing by 
 
 thine own; 
 Sing "LuUay!" thou shall, for I must 
 
 groan. 
 And cry out by the wall on Mary and 
 John, 
 
 [Full] 83 sore. 
 Smg "LuUay" on fast 
 When thou hears at the last; 
 And but I play a false cast, 
 Trust me no more. 
 
 [Scene 5. The fields.] 
 
 3 Shep. Ah, Coll, good mom! Why 
 sleeps thou not? 
 
 1 Shep. Alas, that ever was I bom ! We 
 
 have a foul blot! 
 A fat wether have we lorn.** 
 3 Shep. Marry, Gods forbid! 
 
 2 Shep. Who should do us that scorn? 
 
 That were a foul spot. 
 1 Shep. Some shrew.*" 
 
 I have sought with my dogs, 
 All Horbury Shrogs,*' 
 And of fifteen hogs 
 
 Found I but one ewe. 
 
 5 Shep. Now trow me if ye will : by Saint 
 Thomas of Kent,*' 
 Either Mak or Gill was at that assent ! 
 
 1 Shep. Peace, man, be still ! I saw when 
 
 he went. 
 Thou slanders him ill; thou ought to re- 
 pent, 
 Good speed. 
 
 2 Shep. Now as ever might I thee,*' 
 If I should even here die, 
 
 I would say it were he 
 
 That did that same deed. 
 
 3 Shep. Go we thither, I rede, and run 
 
 on our feet. 
 Shall I never eat bread, the sooth till I 
 wit. 
 
 1 Shep. Nor drink in my head with him 
 
 till I meet. 
 2. Shep. I will rest in no stead ** till that 
 I him greet, 
 My brother. 
 One I will hight : *" 
 Till I see him in sight 
 Shall I never sleep one night 
 There *i I do another. 
 
 [Scene 6. The Shepherds come to Mak's 
 house.] 
 
 3 Shep. Will ye hear how they hack ! ^^ 
 our sire ** list croon. 
 
 1 Shep. Heard I never none crack so 
 
 clear out of tune. 
 Call on him. 
 
 2 Shep. Mak! undo your door soon. 
 Mak. Who is it that spake, as it were 
 
 noon, 
 On loft?" 
 Who is that, I say? 
 
 3 Shep. Good fellows, were it day! 
 Mak. As, far as ye may, 
 
 Good, speak soft. 
 
 Over a sick woman's head that is at 
 
 malease ; *° 
 I had liefer be dead or she had any 
 disease. 
 Wife. Go to another stead; I may not 
 well quease.** 
 Each foot that ye tread goes through 
 my nose. 
 So high! 
 1 Shep. Tell us, Mak, if ye may. 
 
 How fare ye, I say? 
 Mak. But are ye in this town to-day? 
 Now how fare ye? 
 
 Ye have run in the mire, and are wet yet ; 
 I shall make you a fire, if ye will sit. 
 A nurse would I hire ; think ye one yet.*'' 
 Well quit is my hire — ■** my dream, this 
 is it—*" 
 
 A season. 
 I have baims, if ye knew, 
 Well more than enow; 
 But we must drink as we brew, 
 
 And that is but reason. - 
 
 I would ye dined ere ye yode; methink 
 that ye sweat. 
 
 31 mate. 
 
 32 a call for help. 
 
 33 Ms. for. 
 S4 lost. 
 
 35 knave. 
 
 311 Horbury Thick- 
 ets; Horbury is a 
 village near 
 
 Wakefield. The 
 reference helps to 
 localize the 
 
 Towneley plays at 
 Wakefield. 
 37 Thomas & Becket, 
 buried in Canter- 
 bury Oathedr'itl, 
 
 in Kent, 
 38 thrive. 
 89 place. 
 
 40 one thing I prom- 
 ise. 
 
 41 where. 
 
 4e sing ; the shep- 
 herds hear Mak 
 
 and Gill singing 
 their pretended 
 lullaby. 
 
 43 i.e. Mak. 
 
 44 loudly. 
 
 46 in distress. 
 40 meaning un- 
 
 known (N. E. 
 
 D.) ; perhaps 
 
 wheeze, breathe! 
 47 i.e, tell me of one 
 
 if you can. 
 48 1 am well paid. 
 40 i.e., this is just 
 
 what I dreamed. 
 
THE SECOND SHEPHERDS' PLAY 
 
 27 
 
 2 Shep. Nay, neither mends our mood,'"' 
 
 drink nor meat. 
 Mak. Why, sir, ails you aught but goodl 
 
 3 Shep. Yea, our sheep that we get, 
 Are stolen as they yode; our loss is 
 
 great. 
 Mak. Sirs, drink! 
 Had I been there. 
 Some should have bought it full sore. 
 
 1 Shep. Marry, some men trows that ye 
 
 were. 
 And that us forthinks.'*^ 
 
 2 Shep. Mak, some men trows that it 
 
 should be ye. 
 
 3 Shep. Either ye or your spouse; so say 
 
 we. 
 Mak. Now if ye have suspicion to Gill or 
 to me, 
 Come aiid rip our house, and then may 
 ye see 
 
 Who had her. 
 If I any sheep f ot,"^ 
 Either cow or stot,"^ 
 And Gill, my wife," rose not 
 
 Here since she laid her. 
 
 As I am both true and leal, to God here 
 
 I pray. 
 That this be the first meal that I shall 
 eat this day. 
 1 Shep. Mak, as I have seel,°* advise thee, 
 I say; 
 He learned timely to steal, that could 
 not say nay. 
 Wife. I swelt ! ^^ 
 Out, thieves, from my won ! ^* 
 Ye come to rob us, for the nonce. 
 Mak. Hear ye not how she groans'? 
 Your hearts should melt. 
 
 Wife. Out, thieves, from my bairn ! Nigh 
 
 him not there! 
 Mak. Wist ye how she had fared, your 
 hearts would be sore. 
 Ye do wrong, I you warn, that thus 
 
 comes before 
 To a woman that has fared — ^but I say 
 no more! 
 Wife^ Ah, my middle ! 
 I pray to God so mild, 
 If ever I you beguiled. 
 That I eat this child 
 
 That lies in this cradle. 
 
 Mak. Peace, woman, for God's pain, and 
 cry not so: 
 Thou spills thy brain, and makes me full 
 woe. 
 
 2 Shep. I trow our sheep be slain. What 
 
 find ye two? 
 
 3 Shep. All work we in vain ; as well may 
 
 we go. 
 
 But, hatters," 
 I can find no flesh. 
 Hard nor nesh,^* 
 Salt nor fresh. 
 
 But two toom^^ platters: 
 
 Quick '" cattle but this, tame nor wild. 
 None, as have I bliss, as loud as he 
 
 smiled. 
 Wife. No, so God me bless, and give me 
 
 joy of my child ! 
 
 1 Shep. We have marked amiss; I hold 
 
 us beguiled. 
 
 2 Shep. Sir, done! 
 
 Sir, Our Lady him save ! 
 Is your child a knave? *^ 
 Mak. Any lord might him have. 
 This child to his son. 
 
 When he wakens he kips,^^ that joy is to 
 see. 
 
 3 Shep. In good time to his hips, and in 
 
 seel ! «' 
 But who were his gossips,"* so soon 
 ready? 
 Mak. So fair fall their lips! 
 
 1 Shep. Hark now, a lie! 
 Mak. So God them thank. 
 
 Parkin, and Gibbon Waller, I say. 
 And gentle John Home, in good fay,*° 
 He made all the garray,°* 
 
 With the great shank.'' 
 
 2 Shep. Mak, friends will we be, for we 
 
 are all one. 
 Mak. We ! "* now I hold for me, for 
 amends get I none. 
 Farewell all three ! all glad were ye gone. 
 [They leave the house.] 
 
 3 Shep. Pair words may there be, but 
 
 love is there none 
 This year. 
 
 1 Shep. Gave ye the child anything? 
 
 2 Shep. I trow, not one farthing. 
 
 3 Shep. Fast again will I fling, 
 
 Abide ye me there. 
 
 [He returns to the house.] 
 
 so helps OUT case. 
 61 makes us repent. 
 G2 fetched. 
 E3 steer. 
 
 54 bliss. 67 an exclamation. 6i boy. 
 
 56 faint. 68 soft. s^ snatches. 
 
 66 house (pi. in 69 empty. 03 good luck to him I 
 
 text). 60 living. 64 godparents. 
 
 65 faith. 
 
 66 commotion. 
 
 67 long legs. 
 
 68 an exclamation. 
 
28 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Mak, take it to no grief, if I come to thy 
 bairn. 
 Mak. Nay, thou does me great reprief,*" 
 
 and foul has thou fared. 
 3 Shep. The child will it not grieve, that 
 little day-star. 
 Mak, with your leave, let me give your 
 bairn 
 
 But sixpence. 
 Mak. Nay, do way : '•• he sleeps. 
 3 Shep. Methink he peeps. 
 Mak. When he wakens he weeps. 
 I pray you go hence. 
 
 [First and Second Shepherds return.] 
 3 Shep. Give me leave him to kiss, and 
 lift up the clout. 
 What the devil is this? He has a long 
 snout ! 
 1 Shep. He is marked amiss. We wait 
 
 ill about. 
 S Shep. Ill spun weft, I wis, ay comes 
 foul out. 
 Aye, so? 
 He is like to our sheep! 
 3 Shep. How, Gib, may I peep? 
 
 1 Shep. I trow, kind '^ will creep 
 
 Where it may not go.'^ 
 
 2 Shep. This was a quaint gaud,'* and a 
 
 far cast; 
 It was a high fraud. 
 
 3 Shep. Tea, sirs, was 't. 
 Let bum this bawd, and bind her fast. 
 A false scold hangs at the last ; 
 
 So shall thou. 
 Will ye see how they swaddle 
 His four feet in the middle? 
 Saw I never in a cradle 
 
 A horned lad ere now. 
 
 Mak. Peace, bid I! What, let be your 
 fare! 
 I am he that him gat, and yond woman 
 him bare. 
 
 1 Shep. What devil shall he hight,'* Mak? 
 
 Lo, God, Mak's heir ! 
 
 2 Shep. Let be all that. Now God give 
 
 him care, 
 I say. 
 Wife. A pretty child is he. 
 As sits on a woman's knee; 
 A dilly-down, pardie. 
 
 To gar '" a man laugh. 
 
 3 Shep. I know him by the ear-mark— 
 
 that is a good token. 
 Mak. I tell you, sirs, hark, his nose was 
 
 broken. 
 Sithen '" told me a clerk that he was f or- 
 
 spoken.'' 
 
 1 Shep. This is a false work — ^I would 
 
 fain be wroken : '* 
 Get a weapon ! 
 Wife. He was taken by an elf,'° 
 I saw it myself; 
 When the clock struck twelve. 
 Was he forshapen.*" 
 
 2 Shep. Ye two are well feoiled sara '' in 
 
 a stead. 
 1 Shep. Since they maintain their theft, 
 
 let do them to dead.*^ 
 Mak. If I trespass eft, gird '* ofiE my 
 head! 
 With you will I be left.^* 
 1 Shep. Sirs, do my rede : 
 
 For this trespass. 
 We wiU neither ban nor flyte *" 
 Fight nor chide, 
 But have done as tight. 
 
 And cast him in canvas. 
 [Ihey toss Makln a sheet.] 
 
 [Scene 7. The fields.] 
 
 1 Shep. Lord, what! I am sore, in point 
 
 for to burst ; 
 In faith, I may no more ; therefore will I 
 rest. 
 
 2 Shep. As a sheep of seven score he 
 
 weighed in my fist. 
 For to sleep anywhere, methink that I 
 list. 
 .3 Shep. Now I pray you, 
 Lie down on this green. 
 1 Shep. On these thieves yet I mean.'^ 
 
 3 Shep. Whereto should ye tene? '' 
 
 Do as I say you. 
 
 An Angel sings "Gloria in Excelsis"; then 
 let him say: 
 Rise, herdmen bend,'* for now is he bom 
 That shall take from the fiend that«» 
 
 Adam had lorn: 
 That warlock*" to shend,*^ this night is 
 he bom. 
 
 89 injury. 
 
 TO have done, qnit. 
 
 71 natui'e. 
 
 72 walk; this was a 
 common proverb, 
 here signilying 
 that nature will 
 
 show itself in its 
 true colors. 
 78 trick. 
 
 74 be named. 
 
 75 make. 
 
 78 afterwards. 
 77 bewitched. 
 
 78 revenged. 
 
 79 i.e. by the fairies, 
 and a changeling 
 substituted. 
 
 80 changed in shape. 
 
 81 agreed together. 
 
 82 have them put to 
 death. 
 
 83 strike. 
 
 84 1 shall be in 
 
 your power. 
 8s curse nor 
 
 wrangle. 
 
 86 consider. 
 
 87 grieve. 
 
 88 gracious. 
 
 89 that which. 
 
 90 fiend. 
 
 91 overthrow. 
 
THE SECOND SHEPHEBDS' PLAY 
 
 29 
 
 God is made your friend now at this 
 morn. 
 
 He behests "^ 
 To Bedlem "' go see, 
 There lies that free** 
 In a crib full poorly, 
 
 Betwixt two beasts.' 
 
 1 Shep. This was a quaint Steven "" that 
 
 ever yet I heard. 
 It is a marvel to neven,'* thus to be 
 seared. 
 
 2 Shep. Of Grod's son of heaven, he spake 
 
 upward. 
 All the wood in a levin,'' methought that 
 he gard°* 
 Appear. 
 
 3 Shep. He spake of a bairn 
 In Bedlem, I you warn. 
 
 1 Shep. That betokens yond star; 
 
 Let us seek him there. 
 
 2 Shep. Say, what was his song? Heard 
 
 ye not how he cracked it. 
 Three breves to a long? °° 
 
 3 Shep. Yea, marry, he hacked ^ it. 
 Was no crochet wrong, nor nothing that 
 
 lacked it. 
 
 1 Shep. For to sing us among, right as he 
 
 knacked ^ it, 
 I can. 
 
 2 Shep. Let see how ye croon. 
 Can ye bark at the moon? 
 
 3 Shep. Hold your tongues, have done! • 
 
 1 Shep. Hark after, then. 
 
 2 Shep. To Bedlem he bade that we 
 
 should gang; * 
 I am full feared that we tarry too long. 
 
 3 Shep. Be merry and not sad; of mirth 
 
 is our song. 
 Everlasting glad to meed may we fang* 
 Without noise. 
 
 1 Shep. Hie we thither forthy,^ 
 If we be wet and weary. 
 
 To that child and that lady : 
 We have it not to lose. 
 
 2 Shep. We find by the prophecy — ^let be 
 
 your din! — 
 Of David and Isaiah, and more than I 
 
 mind. 
 They prophesied by clergy, that in a 
 
 virgin 
 
 Should he light and lie, to slocken " our 
 sin 
 
 And slake it. 
 Our kind from woe; 
 For Isaiah said so, 
 Ecce virgo 
 
 Concipiet a child that is naked. 
 
 3 Shep. Full glad may we be and abide 
 that day. 
 That lovely to see that all mights may.' 
 Lord, well were me for once and for ay. 
 Might I kneel on my knee some word for 
 to say 
 
 To that child. 
 But the angel said 
 In a crib was he laid, 
 He was poorly arrayed, 
 
 Both meek * and mild. 
 
 1 Shep. Patriarchs that have been, and 
 
 prophets before. 
 They desired to have seen this child that 
 
 is bom. 
 They are gone full clean ; that have they 
 
 lorn. 
 We shall see him, I ween, ere it be mom. 
 
 To token.» 
 When I see him and feel. 
 Then wot I full well 
 It is true as steel 
 
 That prophets have spoken : 
 
 To so poor as we are that he would ap- 
 pear. 
 First find, and declare by his messenger. 
 
 2 Shep. Go we now, let us fare ; the place 
 
 is us near. 
 
 3 Shep. I am ready and yare,^" go we in 
 
 fere ''■^ 
 
 To that bright.i2 
 Lord, if thy will it be. 
 We are lewd,^^ all three; 
 Thou g^nt us somekind glee, 
 
 To comfort thy wight. 
 
 [SCEISTE 8. The stable in Bethlehem.] 
 
 1 Shep. Hail, comely and clean! hail, 
 
 young child ! 
 Hail, Maker, as I mean, of a maiden so 
 
 mild! 
 Thou hast waried,^* I ween, the warlock 
 
 so wild, 
 
 02 commands. 
 93 Bethlehem. 
 94 noble (child). 
 96 voice. 
 
 96 name 
 
 97 in a flash of 
 lightning. 
 
 98 made, 
 
 99 three short notes 
 to one long note. 
 
 1 sang, 
 
 2 trilled, 
 
 3 go, 
 
 4 everlasting glad- 
 
 ness may we take 
 as our reward, 
 
 B therefore, 
 
 e do away with. 
 
 7 to see that lovely 
 one that shall 
 have all power. 
 
 8 Ms. mener; Kitt- "child," 
 
 redge's emenda- is ignorant, 
 tion. 14 banned, 
 
 9 for evidence. 
 
 10 prepared, 
 
 11 together. 
 
 12 supply "one" or 
 
30 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 The false guiler of teen,^^ now goes he 
 beguiled. 
 
 Lo, he merries ! ^* 
 Lo, he laughs, my sweeting! 
 A welfare " meeting ! 
 I have holden my highting.'^* 
 
 Have a bob of cherries ! 
 
 2 Shep. Hail, sovereign savior, for thou 
 
 has us sought! 
 Hail, freely i» f ood ^o and flower, that 
 
 all-thing has wrought! 
 Hail, full of favor, that made all of 
 
 nought I 
 Hail ! I kneel and I cower. A bird have 
 
 I brought 
 To my bairn. 
 Hail, little tiny mop,^'^ 
 Of our creed thou art crop ! ^^ 
 I would drink in thy cup. 
 Little day-star! 
 
 3 Shep. Hail, darling dear, full of god- 
 
 head! 
 I pray thee be near, when that I have 
 
 need. 
 Hail! sweet is thy cheer! My heart 
 
 would bleed 
 To see thee sit here in so poor weed. 
 
 With no pennies. 
 Hail! put forth thy dall!^' 
 
 I bring thee but a ball; 
 Have and play thee with all, 
 And go to the tennis. 
 
 Mary. The Father of Heaven, God om- 
 nipotent, 
 That set all on seven,^* his son has he 
 
 sent. .! 
 
 My name could he neven,^' and alighted ;| 
 ere he went. ' 
 
 I conceived him full even, through might, 
 as he meant; 
 And now he is born. 
 He keep you from woe ! 
 I shall pray him so; 
 Tell forth as ye go, 
 
 And mind on this mom. 
 
 1 Shep. Farewell, lady, so fair to behold. 
 With thy child on thy knee. 
 
 2 Shep. But he lies full cold. 
 Lord, well is me ! now we go, thou be- 
 hold. 
 
 3 Shep. Forsooth, already it seems to be 
 
 told 
 FuU oft. 
 
 1 Shep. What grace we have found ! 
 
 2 Shep. Come forth, now are we won.^^ 
 
 3 Shep. To sing are we bound : 
 
 Let take on loft.^" 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 15 woe. 
 
 19 noble. 
 
 22 flower. 
 
 in seven days. 
 
 27 let it ring on 
 
 16 is merry. 
 
 20 child (that which 
 
 23 hand. 
 
 25 did he name. 
 
 high. 
 
 17 happy. 
 
 is fed). 
 
 24 completed the 
 
 26 snccessful in our 
 
 
 18 kept my promise. 
 
 21 moppet, darling. 
 
 work of creation 
 
 quest. 
 
 
THE MORALITY 
 
 EVERYMAN 
 
 The morality is, by the most recent and 
 most exact definition (W. R. Mackenzie in 
 The English Moralities) "a play allegorical 
 in structure, which has for its main object 
 the teaching of some lesson for the guidance 
 of life, and in which the principal characters 
 are personified abstractions or highly uni- 
 versalized types." It will be readily seen 
 that the morality differs from the miracle in 
 several important respects. Whereas in the 
 typical miracle, the writer found his ma- 
 terial arranged to his hand and took his plot, 
 his chief characters, and sometimes the basis 
 for his dialogue, from the Bible narrative, 
 the author of the morality, though he fre- 
 quently had recourse for plot to the moral 
 allegories of which the Middle Ages were so 
 fond, was compelled to rely more upon his 
 own invention. The purpose of the miracle 
 was to familiarize the audience with Bible 
 history and the doctrines of the church; the 
 morality was equally didactic but its teach- 
 ing was more abstract. The people of the 
 miracle were historical and real, in the sense 
 that they stepped straight out of the Bible 
 to the stage, where, to be sure, they were 
 sometimes joined by such thoroughly Ehg- 
 lish figures as those of the Second Shepherds' 
 Play; the personages of the morality were 
 virtues and vices acting in accordance with 
 their names, or types of humanity in general, 
 and thus by nature had somewhat less of 
 individuality and human appeal. In one re- 
 spect, however, the conception of character in 
 the morality is stronger than that in the 
 miracle. The morality is based on the idea 
 that character is not static, but subject to 
 change and development; the element of con- 
 flict between vice and virtue, wisdom and 
 folly, at the heart of the morality, is of the 
 very essence of drama. 
 
 Though the morality is a younger type 
 than the miracle, it must not be thought of 
 as an evolution from the older didactic 
 drama. It was in all probability of inde- 
 pendent origin, springing up apparently about 
 the beginning of the fifteenth century. The 
 oldest surviving example is The Castle of 
 Perseverance, dating from about 1400. Four 
 other moralities are assigned to the fifteenth 
 century; during the sixteenth the type at- 
 tained considerable popularity, and the 
 middle fifty years of that century may be 
 called the morality's heyday. 
 
 The morality plays may be classified in 
 several groups on the basis of allegorical 
 
 31 
 
 structure, as follows (the classification is 
 Mackenzie's) : 1, those which depict a conflict 
 between virtues and vices for supremacy, or 
 for the possession of man; 2, those which 
 illustrate a special text; 3, those which give 
 warning of the summons of death; 4, those 
 which take one side of a religious or political 
 controversy. Of the first and largest class. 
 The Castle of Perseverance is a good example : 
 the seven cardinal virtues defend the castle 
 and its lord Mankind against the attack of 
 the seven deadly sins. Not all the warfare 
 of the morality stage symbolized the struggle 
 everlasting of man's spiritual nature; John 
 Eedford's excellent Wit and Science, wherein 
 Science (Learning) and Idleness are at odds 
 over the young gallant Wit, is one of several 
 plays in which the strife is intellectual rather 
 than spiritual. Such plays, in their pur- 
 pose to popularize the new learning, show 
 the spirit of the Benascence; advocates and 
 opponents of the Reformation also discov- 
 ered that the stage could be made to serve 
 for propaganda, and there result such morali- 
 ties, in the fourth of our classes, as Lynd- 
 say's political Satire of the Three Estates 
 and Bishop Bale's violently anti-papal Kyng 
 Johan. ■ The second class, (which may be 
 typified by All for Money, illustrating the text 
 "The love of money is the root of all evil"), 
 is small and unimportant; the third is even 
 smaller, comprising but two plays, but of 
 these one is the finest of all the moralities, 
 Everyman. 
 
 To revert to our definition, it is evident 
 that Everyman is allegorical in structure, 
 and that it teaches a lesson for the guidance 
 of life. Apart from the general didacticism, 
 there are passages upholding specific doc- 
 trines and practices of the church — e.g., 
 Everyman's confession and penance (pp. 
 40-1),. the enumeration of the seven sacra- 
 ments, the praise of the priesthood immedi- 
 ately following. These passages, which con- 
 vey the specific ecclesiastical moral of the 
 efficacy of the sacraments, doubtless point 
 to clerical composition. Of the characters, 
 God is individual, with nothing of the typi- 
 cal or abstract about him, Everyman is a 
 highly universalized type. Friendship, Kin- 
 dred and Cousin are also types, while the 
 others are abstractions. Only Everyman 
 himself possesses much vitality, but the de- 
 velopment of his character is done with force 
 and skill. The way in which his first gay 
 nonchalance shades into a dawning oompre- 
 
32 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 hension of his danger as he comes to under- 
 stand the seriousness of Death's summons, 
 his increasing panic as one after another of 
 his false friends deserts him, until he breaks 
 out in an appeal of genuine terror — 
 
 Grood DeedB, 1 pray you, help me in this need, 
 Or else I am for ever damned indeed — 
 
 his relief when Knowledge promises to stand 
 by him, his pious assurance of well-being 
 after he has received the sacraments, and the 
 
 fresh access of fear when his bodily faculties 
 leave him fainting on the brink of the grave 
 — this true picture of human life is presented 
 with grim earnestness, yet with a sympathy 
 which grips the heart. The real power of 
 Everymom lies in its universal appeal — it 
 comes home to men's business and bosoms. 
 The modern revival of the play gave con- 
 vincing proof that the morality was not the 
 lifeless shell it has often been made out, and 
 rendered quite intelligible the hold it had 
 upon sixteenth -century audiences. 
 
 THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 
 
 God. 
 
 Goods. 
 
 Discretion. 
 
 Death. 
 
 GrOOD Deeds. 
 
 Five-Wits. 
 
 EVEEYMAN. 
 
 Knowledge. 
 
 Angel. 
 
 Feixowship. 
 
 Confession. 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 KiNDKED. 
 
 Beauty. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Cousm. 
 
 Strength. 
 
 
 Here iegiwnefh a treatise how the High 
 Father of Heaven sendeth Death to sum- 
 mon every creature to come and give ac- 
 count of their lives in this world and is 
 in manner of a moral play. 
 
 Messenger. I pray you all give your audi- 
 ence, 
 
 And hear this matter with reverence, 
 
 By figure ^ a moral play : 
 
 The Summoning of Everyman called it is. 
 
 That of our lives and ending shows 
 
 How transitory we be aU day. 
 
 This matter is wondrous precious, 
 
 But the intent of it is more gracious, 
 
 And sweet to bear away. 
 
 The story saith : — ^Man, in the beginning. 
 
 Look well, and take good heed to the 
 ending. 
 
 Be you never so gay; 
 
 Ye think sin in the beginning full sweet, 
 
 Which in the end eauseth the soul to 
 weep, 
 
 When the body lieth in clay. 
 
 Here shall you see how Fellowship and 
 Jollity, 
 
 Both Strength, Pleasure, and Beauty, 
 
 Will fade from thee as flower in May. 
 
 For ye shall hear, how our heaven king 
 
 1 in form. 
 
 Calleth Everyman to a general reckon- 
 ing: 
 Give audience, and hear what he doth say. 
 
 God speaketh. 
 
 God. I perceive here in my majesty. 
 
 How that aU creatures be to me unkind. 
 
 Living without dread in worldly pros- 
 perity; 
 
 Of ghostly ^ sight the people be so blind, 
 
 Drowned in sin, they know me not for 
 their God; 
 
 In worldly riches is all their mind. 
 
 They fear not my righteousness, the 
 sharp rod; 
 
 My law that I showed, when I for them 
 died. 
 
 They forget clean, and shedding of my 
 blood red; 
 
 I hanged between two, it cannot be de- 
 nied; 
 
 To get them life I. suffered to be dead; 
 
 I healed their feet, with thorns hurt was 
 my head; 
 
 I could do no more than I did truly. 
 
 And now I see the people do clean for- 
 sake me: 
 
 They use the seven deadly sins damn- 
 able, 
 
 2 spiritual. 
 
THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 
 
 33 
 
 As pride, eovetise, wrath, and lechery. 
 Now in the world be made commenda- 
 ble. 
 And thus they leave of angels the heav- 
 enly company; 
 Every man liveth so after his own pleas- 
 ure, 
 And yet of their life they be nothing 
 
 sure. 
 I see the more that I them forbear 
 The worse they be from year to year; 
 All that liveth appaireth ^ fast ; 
 Therefore I will in all the haste 
 Have a reckoning of every man's per- 
 son. 
 For and* I leave the people thus alone 
 In their life and wicked tempests, 
 Verily they will become much worse than 
 
 For now one would by envy another up 
 
 eat; 
 Charity they all do clean forget. 
 I hoped well that every man 
 In my glory should make his mansion, 
 And thereto I had them all elect; 
 But now I see, like traitors deject. 
 They thank me not for the pleasure that 
 
 I to them meant. 
 Nor yet for their being that I them have 
 
 lent. 
 I proffered the people great 'multitude of 
 
 mercy, 
 And few there be that ask it heartily; 
 They be so cumbered with worldly riches, 
 That needs on them I must do justice. 
 On every man living without fear. 
 Where art thou, Death, thou mighty mes- 
 senger? 
 Death. Almighty God, I am here at your 
 wiU, 
 Your commandment to fulfil. 
 God. Go thou to Everyman, 
 And show him in my name 
 A pilgrimage he must on him take. 
 Which he in no wise may escape ; 
 And that he bring with him a sure reck- 
 oning 
 Without delay or any tarrying. 
 Death. Lord, I will in the world go run 
 over all. 
 And cruelly out search both great and 
 
 small. 
 Every man will I beset that liveth beastly 
 Out of God's laws, and dre'adeth not 
 
 foUy. 
 He that loveth riches I will strike with 
 my dart. 
 
 His sight to blind, and from heaven to 
 depart,' 
 
 Except that alms be his good friend, 
 
 In hell for to dwell, world without end. 
 
 Lo, yonder I see Everyman walking; 
 
 Full little he thinketh on my coming; 
 
 His mind is on fleshly lusts and his treas- 
 ure, 
 
 And great pain it shall cause him to en- 
 dure 
 
 Before the Lord, Heaven King. 
 
 Enter Everyman. 
 
 Everyman, stand still! Whither art 
 
 thou going 
 Thus gaily? Hast thou thy Maker for- 
 got? 
 Everyman. Why askest thou? 
 
 Wouldest thou wit?« 
 Death. Yea, sir, I will show you; 
 In great haste I am sent to thee 
 From God, out of his majesty. 
 Every. What, sent to me? 
 Death. Yea, certainly. 
 
 Though thou have forgot him here. 
 He thinketh on thee in the heavenly 
 
 sphere, 
 As, ere we depart, thou shalt know. 
 EvUry. What desireth God of me? 
 Death. That shall I show thee: 
 A reckoning he will needs have, 
 Without any longer respite. 
 Every. To give a reckoning longer leisure 
 I crave; 
 This blind matter troubleth my wit. 
 Death. On thee thou must take a long 
 journey; 
 Therefore thy book of count with thee 
 
 thou bring, 
 For turn again thou can not by no way ; 
 And look thou be sure of thy reckoning, 
 For before God thou shalt answer, and 
 
 show 
 Thy many bad deeds and good but a few. 
 How thou hast spent thy life, and in what 
 
 wise. 
 Before the chief lord of paradise. 
 Have ado that we were in that way, 
 For, wit thou well, thou shalt make none 
 attorney.^ 
 Every. Full unready I am such reckoning 
 to give. 
 I know thee not; what messenger art 
 thou? 
 Death. I am Death, that no man dreadeth. 
 For every man I rest,* and no man spare ; 
 
 4 if. 
 
 s separate. 
 
 6 know. 
 
 7 advocate. 
 
 8 arrest. 
 
34 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES^ 
 
 For it is God's commandment 
 That all to me should be obedient. 
 Every. Death, thou comest when I had 
 
 thee least in mind! 
 In thy power it lieth me to save; 
 Yet of my good ' will I give thee, if thou 
 
 will be kind, 
 Yea, a thousand pound shalt thou have. 
 And defer this matter till another day. 
 Death. Everyman, it may not be by no 
 
 way. 
 I set not by gold, silver, nor riches. 
 Nor by pope, emperor, king, duke, nor 
 
 princes ; 
 For and I would receive gifts great, 
 All the world I might get. 
 But my custom is clean contrary. 
 I give thee no respite; come hence, and 
 
 not tarry. 
 Every. ■ Alas, shall I have no longer 
 
 respite? 
 I may say Death giveth no warning. 
 To think on thee, it maketh my heart 
 
 sick, 
 For all unready is my book of reckon- 
 ing, 
 But twelve year and I might have abid- 
 ing, 
 My counting book I would make so clear. 
 That my reckoning I should not need to 
 
 fear. 
 Wherefore, Death, I pray thee, for God's 
 
 mercy, 
 Spare me till I be provided of remedy. 
 Death. Thee availeth not to cry, weep, 
 
 and pray. 
 But haste thee lightly that thou were 
 
 gone that journey. 
 And prove thy friends if thou can. 
 For, wit thou well, the tide abideth no 
 
 man. 
 And in the world each living creature 
 For Adam's sin must die of nature. 
 Every. Death, if I should this pilgrimage 
 
 take. 
 And my reckoning surely make. 
 Show me, for saint ^^ charity, 
 Should I not come again shortly? 
 Death. No, Everyman; and thou be once 
 
 there, 
 Thou mayst never more come here, ■ 
 Trust me verily. 
 Every. gracious God, in the high seat 
 
 celestial. 
 Have mercy on me in this most need! 
 Shall I have no company from this vale 
 
 terrestrial 
 
 Of mine acquaintance that way me to, 
 
 lead? 
 Death. Yea; if any be so hardy. 
 
 That would go with thee and bear thee 
 
 company. 
 Hie thee that thou were gone to God's 
 
 magnificence. 
 Thy reckoning to give before his pres- 
 ence. 
 What, weenest thou thy life is given thee. 
 And thy worldly goods also ? 
 Every. I had wend ^^ so, verily. 
 Death. Nay, nay; it was but lent thee; 
 For as soon as thou art gone. 
 Another a while shall have it, and then 
 
 go therefrom, 
 Even as thou hast done. 
 Everyman, thou art mad! Thou hast 
 
 thy wits five. 
 And here on earth will not amend thy 
 
 life! 
 For suddenly I do come. 
 Every. wretched caitiff, whither shall I 
 
 flee. 
 That I might scape this endless sorrow? 
 Now, gentle Death, spare me till to-mor- 
 row, 
 That I may amend me 
 With good advisement. 
 Death. Nay, thereto I will not consent. 
 Nor no man will I respite ; 
 But to the heart suddenly 1 shall smite 
 Without any advisement. 
 And now out of thy sight I wUl me hie; 
 See thou make thee ready shortly. 
 For thou mayst say this is the day 
 That no' man living may scape away. 
 Every. Alas! I may well weep with sighs 
 
 deep; 
 Now have I no manner of company 
 To help me in my journey, and me to 
 
 keep; 
 And also my writing is full unready. 
 How shall I do now for to excuse me? 
 I would to God I had never been gotten ! 
 To my soul a full great profit it had been. 
 For now I fear pains huge and great. 
 The time passeth; Lord, help, that all 
 
 wrought ! 
 For though I mourn it availeth nought. 
 The day passeth, and is almost agone; 
 I wot not well what for to do. 
 To whom were I best my complaint to 
 
 make? 
 What and I to Fellowship thereof spake, 
 And showed him of this sudden chance? 
 For in him is all mine a£Sance ; ^^ 
 
 » property. 
 
 10 holy. 
 
 II thought. 
 
 12 confidence. 
 
THE MORAL PLAY OP EVERYMAN 
 
 S5 
 
 We have in the world so many a day 
 Been good friends in sport and play. 
 I see him yonder, certainly; 
 I trust that he will bear me company; 
 Therefore to him will I speak to ease 
 
 my sorrow. 
 Well met, good Fellowship, and good 
 morrow ! 
 Fellowship speaketh. Everyman, good 
 morrow! By this day, 
 Sir, why lookest thou so piteously? 
 If any thing be amiss, I pray thee me 
 
 say, 
 That I may help to remedy. 
 Every. Yea, good Fellowship, yea, 
 
 I am in great jeopardy. 
 Fellow. My true friend, show to me your 
 mind ; 
 I will not forsake thee^ to my life's end. 
 In the way of good company. 
 Every. That was well spoken, and lov- 
 ingly. 
 Fellow. Sir, I must needs know your 
 heaviness; 
 I have pity to see you in any distress. 
 If any have you wronged ye shall re- 
 venged be, 
 Though I on the ground be slain for 
 
 thee. 
 Though, that I know before that I should 
 die. 
 Every. Verily, Fellowship, gramercy.^' 
 Fellow. Tush ! by thy thanks I set not a 
 straw. 
 Show me your grief, and say no more. 
 Every. If I my heart should to you break. 
 And then you to turn your mind from 
 
 me, 
 And would not me comfort, when ye hear 
 
 me speak. 
 Then should I ten times sorrier be. 
 Fellow. Sir, I say as I will do indeed. 
 Every. Then be you a good friend at need. 
 
 I have found you true here before. 
 Fellow. And so ye shall evermore; 
 For, in faith, and thou go to hell, 
 I will not forsake thee by the way. 
 Every. Ye speak like a good friiend, I be- 
 lieve you well; 
 I shall deserve it, and I may. 
 Fellow. I speak of no deserving, by this 
 day. 
 For he that will say and nothing do 
 Is not worthy with gobd company to go. 
 Therefore show me the grief of your 
 mind, 
 
 As to your friend most loving and kind. 
 Every. I shall show you how it is: 
 Commanded I am to go a journey, 
 A long way, hard and dangerous", 
 And give a strait count without delay 
 Before the high judge Adonai.^* 
 Wherefore I pray you, bear me com- 
 pany, 
 As ye have promised, in this journey. 
 Fellow. That is matter indeed! Promise 
 is duty, 
 But and I should take such a voyage on 
 
 me, 
 I know it well, it should be to my pain; 
 Also it makes me afeard, certain. 
 But let us take counsel here as well as 
 
 we can. 
 For your words would fear^^ a strong 
 man. 
 Every. Why, ye said, if I had need. 
 Ye would me never forsake, quick ^^ nor 
 
 dead. 
 Though it were to hell, truly. 
 Fellow. So I said, certainly. 
 
 But such pleasures be set aside, the sooth 
 
 to say; 
 And also, if we took such a journey, 
 When should we come again? 
 Every. Nay, never again till the day of 
 
 doom. 
 Fellow. In faith, then will not I come 
 there ! 
 Who hath you these tidings brought? 
 Every. Indeed, Death was with me here. 
 Fellow. Now, by God that all hath bought. 
 If Death were the messenger. 
 For no man that is living to-day 
 I will not go that loath " journey — 
 Not for the father that begat me ! 
 Every. Ye promised other wise, pardie ! ^^ 
 Fellow. I wot well I say so, truly; 
 And yet if thou wilt eat, and drink, and 
 
 make good cheer. 
 Or haunt to women the lusty company, 
 I would not forsake you while the day 
 
 is clear, 
 Trust me verily! 
 Every. Yea, thereto ye would be ready; 
 To go to mirth, solace, and play, 
 Your mind wiU sooner apply. 
 Than to bear me company in my long 
 journey. 
 Fellow. Now, in good faith, I will not ^* 
 that way. 
 But and thou will murder, or any man 
 kill. 
 
 13 thanks, 
 U God, 
 
 15 frighten, 
 le living. 
 
 17 loathsome. 
 
 18 par Dieu. 
 
 19 have no desire. 
 
36 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 In that I ■will help thee with a good 
 will! 
 Every. Oh, that is a simple advice indeed ! 
 
 Gentle Fellow, help me in my necessity; 
 
 We have loved long, and now I need; 
 
 And now, gentle Fellowship, remember 
 me. 
 Fellow. Whether ye have loved me or no. 
 
 By Saint John, I will not with thee go ! 
 Every. Yet I pray thee, take the labor 
 and do so much for me 
 
 To bring me forward, for saint charity, 
 
 And comfort me till I come without the 
 town. 
 Fellow. Nay, and thou would give me a 
 new gown, 
 
 I will not a foot with thee go ; 
 
 But and thou had tarried, I would not 
 have left thee so. 
 
 And as now, God speed thee in thy jour- 
 ney! 
 
 For from thee I will depart as fast as I 
 may. 
 Every. Whither away, Fellowship? will 
 
 thou forsake me? 
 Fellow. Yea, by my fay ! ^o To God I be- 
 take ^^ thee. 
 Every. Farewell, good FfeUowship; for 
 thee my heart is sore. 
 
 Adieu for ever, I shall see thee no more. 
 Fellow. In faith, Everyman, farewell now 
 at the end; 
 
 For you I will remember that parting is 
 mourning. 
 Every. Alack! shall we thus depart in- 
 deed? 
 
 Ah, Lady, help! without any more com- 
 fort, 
 
 Lo, Fellowship forsaketh me in my most 
 need. 
 
 For help in this world whither shall I 
 resort ? 
 
 Fellowship herebefore with me would 
 merry make. 
 
 And now little sorrow for me doth he 
 take. 
 
 It is said, in prosperity men friends may 
 find. 
 
 Which in adversity be full unkind. 
 
 Now whither for succor shall I flee, 
 
 Sith^^ that Fellowship hath forsaken 
 me? 
 
 To my kinsmen I will truly. 
 
 Praying them to help me in my neces- 
 sity; 
 
 I believe that they will do so. 
 
 For kind "» will creep where it may not 
 
 go." 
 I will go say,^' for yonder I see them 
 
 go. 
 Where be ye now, my friends and kins- 
 men? 
 Kindred. Here be we now at your com-. 
 
 mandment. 
 Cousin, I pray you show us your intent 
 In any wise, and not spare. 
 Cousin. Yea, Everyman, and to us declare 
 If ye be disposed to go any whither. 
 For wit you well, [we] will live and die 
 
 together. 
 Kin. In wealth and woe we will with you 
 
 hold. 
 For over his kin a man may be bold. 
 Every. Gramerey, my friends and kins- 
 men kind; 
 Now shall I show you the grief of my 
 
 mind. 
 I was commanded by a messenger, 
 That is an high king's chief officer: 
 He bade me go a pilgrimage to my pain, 
 And I know well I -shall never come 
 
 again; 
 Also I must give a reckoning strait, 
 For I have a great enemy that hath me 
 
 in wait,^' 
 Which intendeth me for to hinder. 
 Kin. What account is that which ye must 
 
 render? 
 That would I know. 
 Every. Of all my works I must show 
 How I have lived and my days spent; 
 Also of ill deeds, that I have used 
 In my time, sith life was me lent ; 
 And of all virtues that I have refused. 
 Therefore I pray you go thither with me. 
 To help to make mine account, for saint 
 
 charity. 
 Cous. What, to go thither? Is that the 
 
 matter? 
 Nay, Everyman, I had liefer fast bread 
 
 and water 
 All this five year and more. 
 Every. Alas, that ever I was bom! 
 For now shall I never be merry 
 If that you forsake me. 
 Kin. Ah, sir, what, ye be a merry man! 
 Take good heart to you, and make no 
 
 moan. 
 But one thing I warn you, by Saint 
 
 Anne, 
 
 20 faith. 
 
 21 commend. 
 
 22 since. 
 
 23 kinship. 
 
 24 walk ; the line is 
 a pToveTbial ex- 
 pression of the 
 idea that blood-re- 
 
 lationship will 
 compel assistance, 
 even though the 
 latter be given 
 
 unwillingly. Cf, 
 Second Shep- 
 
 herdi' Play, i>. 
 28. 
 
 2B assay, try. 
 
 26 lies in wait fpr me. 
 
THE MUKAL, rixA-Y OF EVERYMAN 
 
 37, 
 
 As for me, ye shall go alone. 
 Every. My Cousin, will you not with me 
 
 go? 
 CoMS. No, by our Lady! I have the 
 cramp in my toe. 
 
 Trust not to me, for, so God me speed, 
 
 I will deceive you in your most need. 
 Kin. It avaUeth not us to tice.^'' 
 
 Ye shall have my maid with aU my heart ; 
 
 She loveth to go to feasts, there to be 
 nice,^* 
 
 And to dance, and abroad to start : 
 
 I will give her leave to help you in that 
 journey, 
 
 If that you and she may agree. 
 Every. Now show me the very effect of 
 your mind; 
 
 Will you go with me, or abide behind? 
 Kin. Abide behind? yea, that will I and 
 I may! 
 
 Therefore farewell till another day. 
 Every. How should I be merry or glad? 
 
 For fair 'promises men to me make. 
 
 But when I have most need, they me for- 
 sake. 
 
 I am deceived; that maketh me sad. 
 Cous. Cousin Everyman, farewell now, 
 
 For verily I will not go with you. 
 
 Also of mine own an unready reckoning 
 
 I have to account; therefore I make 
 tarrying. 
 
 Now, God keep thee, for now I go. 
 Every. Ah, Jesus, is all come hereto? 
 
 Lo, fair words make fools fain ; 
 
 They promise, and nothing will do cer- 
 tain. 
 
 My kinsmen promised me faithfully 
 
 For to abide with me steadfastly. 
 
 And now fast away do they flee : 
 
 Even so Fellowship promised me. 
 
 What friend were best me of to pro- 
 vide? 
 
 I lose my time here longer to abide. 
 
 Yet in my mind a thing there is — 
 
 All my life I have loved riches; 
 
 If that my Good now help me might. 
 
 He would make my heart full light. 
 
 I will speak to him in this distress. — 
 
 Where art thou, my Goods and Riches? 
 Goods. Who calleth me? Everyman? 
 what hast thou haste? 
 
 I lie here in comers, trussed and piled so 
 high. 
 
 And in chests I am locked so fast. 
 
 Also sacked in bags, thou mayst see with 
 thine eye. 
 
 I cannot stir; in packs low I lie. 
 
 What would ye have, lightly me say. 
 Every. Come hither. Good, in all the haste 
 thou may. 
 
 For of counsel I must desire thee. 
 Goods. Sir, and ye in the world have sor- 
 row or adversity, 
 
 That can I help you to remedy shortly. 
 Every. It is another disease that grieveth 
 me; 
 
 In this world it is not, I tell thee so. 
 
 I am sent for another way to go. 
 
 To give a strait count general 
 
 Before the highest Jupiter^' of all. 
 
 And all my life I have had joy and 
 pleasure in thee, 
 
 Therefore I pray thee go with me; 
 
 For, peradventure, thou mayst before 
 God Almighty 
 
 My reckoning help to clean and purify. 
 
 For it is said ever among. 
 
 That money maketh all right that is 
 wrong. 
 Goods. Nay, Everyman, I sing another 
 song, 
 
 I follow no man in such voyages; 
 
 For and I went with thee, 
 
 Thou shouldst fare much the worse for 
 me; 
 
 For because on me thou did set thy mind. 
 
 Thy reckoning I have made blotted and 
 blind. 
 
 That thine account thou can not make 
 truly; 
 
 And that hast thou for the love of me. 
 Every. That would grieve me full sore. 
 
 When I should come to that fearful an- 
 swer. 
 
 Up, let us go thither together! , 
 Goods. Nay, not so; I am too brittle, I 
 may not endure; 
 
 I will follow [no] man one foot, be ye 
 sure. 
 Every. Alas, I have thee loved, and had 
 great pleasure 
 
 All my life-days in good and treasure. 
 Goods. That is to thy damnation without 
 lesing,^" 
 
 For my love is contrary to the love ever- 
 lasting. 
 
 But if thou had me loved moderately 
 during,*^ 
 
 As '^ to the poor give part of me, 
 
 Then shouldst thou not in this dolor 
 be. 
 
 Nor in this great sorrow and care. 
 
 27 entice. 
 
 28 wanton. 
 
 9 A cuTious intruBion of the name 
 of the pagan deity. 
 
 80 lying. 
 
 31 for a while. 
 
 82 in such a way as. 
 
38 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Every. Lo, now was I deceived ere I was 
 
 ware, 
 And all I may wite^' my spending of 
 
 time. 
 Goods. What, weenest thou that I am 
 
 thine? 
 Every. I had wend so. 
 Goods. Nay, Everyman, I say no; 
 As for a while I was lent thee, 
 A season thou hast had me in prosper- 
 ity. 
 My condition is man's soul to kill; 
 If I save one, a thousand I do spill,** 
 Weenest thou that I will follow thee? 
 Nay, from this world not verily. 
 Every. I had wend otherwise. 
 Goods. Therefore to thy soul Good is a 
 
 thief; 
 For when thou art dead, this is my 
 
 guise '° — 
 Another to deceive in the same wise 
 As I have done thee, and all to his soul's 
 
 reprief.*' 
 Every. false Good, cursed thou be ! 
 Thou traitor to God, that hast deceived 
 
 me. 
 And caught me in thy snare. 
 Goods. Marry, thou brought thyself in 
 
 care, 
 Whereof I am glad, 
 I must needs laugh, I cannot be sad. 
 Every. Ah, Good, thou hast had long my 
 
 heartly love; 
 I gave thee that which should be the 
 
 Lord's above. 
 But wilt thou not go with me in deed? 
 I pray thee truth to say. 
 Goods. No, so God me speed, 
 
 Therefore farewell, and have good day. 
 Every. Oh, to whom shall I make my 
 
 moan 
 Tor to go with me in that heavy journey ? 
 First Fellowship said he would with me 
 
 go; 
 His words were very pleasant and gay. 
 But afterward he left me alone. 
 Then spake I to my kinsmen all in de- 
 spair. 
 And also they gave me words fair, 
 They lacked no fair speaking, 
 But all forsake me in the ending. 
 Then went I to my Goods, that I loved 
 
 best. 
 In hope to have comfort, but there had 
 
 I least; 
 For my Goods sharply did me tell 
 
 That he bringeth many into hell. 
 Then of myself I was ashamed, ■ 
 
 And so I am worthy to be blamed; 
 Thus may I well myself hate. 
 Of whom shall I now counsel take? 
 I think that I shall never speed 
 Till that I go to my Good-Deed. 
 But alas, she is so weak. 
 That she can neither go nor speak; 
 Yet will I venture on her now. — 
 My Good-Deeds, where be you? 
 Good-Deeds. Here I lie, cold in the 
 ground ; 
 Thy sins have me sore bound. 
 That I cannot stir. 
 Every. Good-Deeds, I stand in fear; 
 I must you pray of counsel. 
 For help now should come right well. 
 Good-D. Everyman, I have understanding 
 That ye be summoned account to make 
 Before Messias, of Jerusalem King; 
 And you do by me *^ that journey with 
 you will I take. 
 Every. Therefore I come to you, my moan 
 to make; 
 I pray you that ye will go with me. 
 Good-D. I would full fain, but I cannot 
 
 stand, verily. 
 Every. Why, is there anything on you 
 
 fallen? 
 Good-D. Yea, sir, I may thank you of 
 all; 88 
 If ye had perfectly cheered '° me. 
 Your book of count now full ready had 
 
 been. 
 Look, the books of your works and deeds 
 
 eke — 
 Ah, see how they lie under the feet, 
 To your soul's heaviness. 
 Every. Our Lord Jesus, help me! 
 For one letter here I can not see. 
 Good-D. There is a blind reckoning in 
 
 time of distress! 
 Every. Good-Deeds, I pray you, help me 
 in this need, 
 Or else I am for ever damned indeed. 
 Therefore help me to make reckoning 
 Before the redeemer of all thing. 
 That king is, and was, and ever shall. 
 Good-D. Everyman, I am sorry of your 
 fall. 
 And fain would I help you, and I were 
 able. 
 Every. Good-Deeds, your counsel I pray 
 
 you give me. 
 Good-D. That shall I do verily; 
 
 83 blame to. 
 
 84 destroy. 
 3S practice. 
 
 38 reproof, shame, 
 87 by my advice. 
 
 38 for everything. 
 
 39 cherished. 
 
THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 
 
 39 
 
 Though that on my feet I may- not g'o, 
 I have a sister, that shall with you also, 
 Called Knowledge, which shall with you 
 
 ahide, 
 To help you to make that dreadful reck- 
 oning. 
 Knowledge. Everyman, I will go with 
 thee, and be thy guide. 
 In thy most need to go by thy side. 
 Every. In good condition I am now in 
 every thing. 
 And am wholly content with this good 
 
 thing; 
 Thanked be God my Creator! 
 Good-D. And when he hath brought you 
 there, 
 Where thou shalt heal thee of thy smart, 
 Then go you with your reckoning and 
 
 your Good-Deeds together. 
 For to make you joyful at heart 
 Before the blessed Trinity. 
 Every. My Good-Deeds, gTamerey; 
 I am well content, certainly. 
 With your words sweet. 
 Know. Now go we together lovingly, 
 To Confession, that cleansing river. 
 Every. For joy I weep; I would we were 
 there. 
 But, I pray you, give me cognition *" 
 Where dwelleth that holy man. Confes- 
 sion. 
 Know. In the house of salvation: 
 We shall find him in that place, 
 That shall us comfort by God's grace. — 
 
 Enter Confession. 
 
 Lo, this is Confession. Kneel down and 
 ask mercy. 
 
 For he is in good conceit ^'^ with God 
 almighty. 
 Every. glorious fountain that all un- 
 eleanness doth clarify, 
 
 Wash me from the spots of vice unclean. 
 
 That on me no sin may be seen. 
 
 I come with Knowledge for my redemp- 
 tion, 
 
 Redempt with hearty and full contrition ; 
 
 For I am commanded a pilgrimage to 
 take, 
 
 And great accounts before God to»make. 
 
 Now, I pray you, Shrift,*^ mother of sal- 
 vation. 
 
 Help my good deeds for my piteous ex- 
 clamation. 
 Confession. I know your sorrow well, 
 Everyman ; 
 
 40 knowledge. 41 favor. 
 
 42 absolution. 
 
 Because with Knowledge ye come to me, 
 I will you comfort as well as I can, 
 And a precious jewel I will give thee, 
 Called penance, voider *' of adversity ; 
 Therewith shall your body chastised be, 
 With abstinence and perseverance in 
 
 God's service : 
 Here shall you receive that scourge of 
 
 me. 
 Which is penance strong, that ye must 
 
 endure. 
 To remember thy Savior was scourged 
 
 for thee 
 With sharp scourges, and suffered it pa- 
 tiently ; 
 So must thou, ere thou scape that pain- 
 ful pilgrimage. 
 Knowledge, keep him in this voyage, 
 And by that time Good-Deeds will be 
 
 with thee. 
 But in any wise, be sicker ** of mercy, 
 For your time draweth fast ; and ye will 
 
 . saved be. 
 Ask God mercy, and He will grant truly. 
 When with the scourge of penance man 
 
 doth him bind, 
 The oil of forgiveness then shall he find. 
 Every. Thanked be God for his gracious 
 work. 
 For now I will my penance begin ; 
 This hath rejoiced and lighted my heart, 
 Though the knots be painful and hard 
 within. 
 Know. Everyman, look your penance that 
 ye fulfil. 
 What pain that ever it to you be, 
 And Knowledge shall give you counsel 
 
 at will, 
 How your account ye shall make clearly. 
 Every. eternal God, heavenly figure, 
 way of righteousness, goodly vision, 
 Which descended down in a virgin pure 
 Because he would Everyman redeem, 
 Which Adam forfeited by his disobedi- 
 ence, 
 blessed Godhead, elect and high-divine. 
 Forgive my grievous offence; 
 Here I cry thee mercy in this presence. 
 ghostly treasure, ransomer and re- 
 deemer. 
 Of all the world hope and conductor. 
 Mirror of joy, founder of mercy, 
 Which illumineth heaven and earth 
 
 thereby. 
 Hear my clamorous complaint, though it 
 late be! 
 
 43 MS. voice voider; probably a 
 scribal error. 
 
 44 sure. 
 
40 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Receive my prayers; unworthy in this 
 
 heavy life 
 Though I be, a sinner most abominable, 
 Yet let my name be written in Moses' 
 
 table. 
 
 Mary, pray to the Maker of all thing, 
 Me for to help at my ending, 
 
 And save me from the power of my 
 
 enemy. 
 For Death assaileth me strongly; 
 And, Lady, that I may by means of thy 
 
 prayer 
 Of your Son's glory to be partner. 
 By the means of his passion I it crave, 
 
 1 beseech you, help my soul to save ! — 
 Kiiowledge, give me the scourge of 
 
 penance. 
 
 My flesh therewith shall give acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 I will now begin, if God give me grace. 
 Know. Everyman, God give you time and 
 space : 
 
 Thus I bequeath you in the hands of our 
 Savior, 
 
 Now may you make your reckoning sure. 
 Every. In the name of the Holy Trinity, 
 
 My body sore punished shall be : 
 (Scourges himself.) 
 
 Take this, body, for the sin of the flesh ; 
 
 Also thou delightest to go gay and fresh, 
 
 And in the way of damnation thou did 
 me bring; 
 
 Therefore suffer now strokes of punish- 
 ing. 
 
 Now of penance I will wade the water 
 clear. 
 
 To save me from purgatory, that sharp 
 fire. 
 Good-D. I thank God, now I can walk and 
 
 And am delivered of my sickness and 
 woe. 
 
 Therefore with Everyman I will go, and 
 not spare; 
 
 His good works I will help him to de- 
 clare. 
 Know. Now, Everyman, be merry and 
 glad; 
 
 Your Good-Deeds cometh now, ye may 
 not be sad; 
 
 Now is your Good-Deeds whole and 
 sound. 
 
 Going upright upon the ground. 
 Every. My heart is light, and shall be 
 evermore ; 
 
 Now will I smite faster than I did be- 
 fore. 
 
 Good-D. Everyman, pilgrim, my special 
 friend. 
 Blessed be thou without end; 
 For thee is prepared the eternal glory. 
 Ye have me made whole and sound. 
 Therefore I wiU bide by thee in every 
 stound.*° 
 Every. Welcome, my Good-Deeds! Now 
 I hear thy voice, 
 I weep for very sweetness of love. 
 Know. Be no more sad, but ever rejoice: 
 God seeth thy living in his throne 
 
 above. 
 Put on this garment to thy behoof,*" 
 Which is wet with your tears. 
 Or else before God you may it miss, 
 When ye to your journey's end eome 
 shall. 
 Every. Gentle Knowledge, what do ye it 
 
 call? 
 Know. It is a garment of sorrow. 
 From pain it will you borrow ; *' 
 Contrition it is. 
 That getteth for^veness; 
 It pleaseth God passing well. 
 Good-D. Everyman, will you wear it for 
 your heal? 
 (Everyman puts on rohe of contrition.) 
 Every. Now blessed be Jesu, Mary's Son, 
 For now have I on true contrition. 
 And let us go now without tarrying. 
 Good-Deeds, have we clear our reckon- 
 ing? 
 Good-D. Yea, indeed I have [it] here. 
 Every. Then I trust we need not fear. 
 Now, friends, let us not part in twain. 
 Know. Nay, Everyman, that will we not, 
 
 certain. 
 Good-D. Yet must thou lead with thee 
 
 Three persons of great might. 
 Every. Who should they be? 
 Good-D. Discretion and Strength they 
 hight,*» 
 And thy Beauty may not abide behind. 
 Know. Also ye must call to mind 
 
 Your Five-wits as for your counsellors. 
 Good-D. You must have them ready at all 
 
 hours. 
 Every. How shall I get them hither? 
 Know.^ You must call them all together, 
 
 And' they will hear you incontinent. 
 Every. My friends, come hither and be 
 present. 
 Discretion, Strength, my Five-wits, and 
 Beauty. -. 
 
 Beauty. Here at your will we be all ready. 
 What will ye that we should do? 
 
 io hour. 
 
 48 benefit. 
 
 47 redeem. 
 
 48 are called. 
 
THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 
 
 41 
 
 Good-D. That ye would with Everyman 
 go, 
 
 And help him in his pilgrimage. 
 
 Advise you, will ye with him or not in 
 that Voyage? 
 Strength. We will bring him all thither, 
 
 To his help and comfort, ye may believe 
 me. 
 Discretion. So will we go with him all to- 
 gether. 
 Every. Almighty God, loved might thou 
 be, 
 
 I give thee laud that I have hither 
 brought 
 
 Strength, Discretion, Beauty, and Five- 
 wits; lack I nought; 
 
 And my Good-Deeds, with Knowledge 
 clear, 
 
 All be in my company at my will here ; 
 
 I desire no more to my business. 
 Stren. And I, Strength, will by you stand 
 in distress. 
 
 Though thou would in battle flght on the 
 gTonnd. 
 Five-Wits. And though it were through 
 the world round. 
 
 We will not depart for sweet nor sour. 
 JSeau. No more will I unto death's hour, 
 
 Whatsoever thereof befall. 
 Discr. Everyman, advise you first of all, 
 
 Go with a good advisement and deliber- 
 ation. 
 
 We all give you virtuous monition 
 
 That all shall be well. 
 Every. My friends, hearken what I will 
 tell: 
 
 I pray God reward you in his heavenly 
 sphere. 
 
 Now hearken, all that be here, 
 
 For I will make my testament 
 
 Here before you all present. 
 
 In alms half my good I will give with 
 my hands twain 
 
 In the way of charity, with good intent. 
 
 And the other half still shall remain 
 
 In quethe ■" to be returned there it ought 
 to be. 
 
 This I do in despite of the fiend of hell. 
 
 To go quite out of his peril 
 
 Ever after and this day. 
 Know. Everyman, hearken what I say; 
 
 Go to Priesthood, I you advise, 
 
 And receive of him in any wise 
 
 The holy sacrament and ointment to- 
 gether, 
 
 Then shortly see ye turn again hither; 
 
 We will all abide you here. 
 
 Five-W. Yea, Everyman, hie you that ye 
 
 ready were. 
 There is no emperor, king, duke, nor 
 
 baron, 
 That of God hath commission. 
 As hath the least priest in the world 
 
 being ; "o 
 For of the blessed sacraments pure and 
 
 benign 
 He beareth the keys, and thereof hath 
 
 the cure 
 For man's redemption, it is ever sure. 
 Which God for our soul's medicine 
 Gave us out of his heart with great 
 
 pain. 
 Here in this transitory life, for thee and 
 
 me 
 The blessed sacraments seven there be : 
 Baptism, confirmation, with priesthood 
 
 - good, 
 And the sacrament of God's precious 
 
 flesh and blood, 
 Marriage, the holy extreme unction, and 
 
 penance ; 
 These seven be good to have in remem- 
 brance. 
 Gracious sacraments of high divinity. 
 Every. Fain would I receive that holy 
 
 body, 
 And meekly to my ghostly ^^ father I 
 
 will go. • 
 
 Exit Everyman. 
 Five-W. Everyman, that is the best that 
 
 ye can do. 
 God will you to salvation bring. 
 For priesthood exceedeth all other thing; 
 To us Holy Scripture they do teach, 
 And convert man from sin, heaven to 
 
 reach. 
 God hath to them more power given, 
 Than to any angel that is in heaveja : 
 With five words he may consecrate 
 God's body in flesh and blood to make, 
 And handleth his Maker between his 
 
 hands. 
 The priest bindeth and unbindeth all 
 
 bands. 
 Both in earth and in heaven. 
 Thou ministers all the sacraments seven. 
 Though we kiss thy feet thou were 
 
 worthy. 
 Thou art surgeon that cureth sin deadly : 
 No remedy we find under God 
 But all only priesthood. 
 Everyman, God gave priests that dignity, 
 And setteth them in his stead among us 
 
 to be; 
 
 9 bequest. 
 
 BO living. 
 
 Bl spiritual. 
 
42 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Thus be they above angels in degree. 
 Know. If priests be good, it is so surely. 
 But when Jesus hanged on the cross with 
 
 great smart, 
 There he gave, out of his blessed heart. 
 The same sacrament in great torment; 
 He sold them not to us, that Lord om- 
 nipotent. 
 Therefore Saint Peter the apostle doth 
 
 say 
 That Jesus' curse have all Ihey 
 Which God their Savior do buy or sell. 
 Or they for any money do take or tell.^^ 
 Sinful priests give the sinners example 
 
 bad, 
 Their children sit by other men's flres, I 
 
 have heard. 
 And some haunt women's company, 
 With unclean life, as lusts of lechery; 
 These be with sin made blind. 
 Five-W. I trust to God no such may we 
 
 find. 
 Therefore let us priesthood honor, 
 And follow their doctrine for our souls' 
 
 succor ; 
 We be their sheep, and they shepherds 
 
 be. 
 By whom we all be kept in surety. 
 Peace, for yonder I see Everyman come. 
 Which hath made true satisfaction. 
 
 Be-enter Everyman. 
 Good-D. Methink it is he indeed. 
 Every. Now Jesu be your alder speed."* 
 I have received the sacrament for my re- 
 demption. 
 And then mine extreme unction : 
 Blessed be all they that counselled me to 
 
 take it! 
 And now, friends, let us go without 
 
 longer respite; 
 I thank God that ye have tarried so long. 
 Now set each of you on this rod '^* your 
 
 hand. 
 And shortly follow me. 
 I go before, there I would be; God be 
 your guide. 
 Stren. Everyman, we will not from you 
 
 _ go, . , 
 
 Till ye have done this voyage long. 
 Discr. I, Discretion, will bide by you also. 
 Know. And though this pilgrimage be 
 never so strong,"' 
 I will never part you from. 
 Everyman, I will be as sure by thee 
 
 As ever I did by Judas Maccabee. 
 Every. Alas, I am so faint I may not 
 stand. 
 My limbs under me do fold. . 
 Friends, let us not turn again to this 
 
 land. 
 Not for all the world's gold, 
 For into this cave must I creep. 
 And turn to earth and there to sleep. 
 Beau. What, into this grave? alas! 
 Every. Yea, there shall ye consume more 
 
 and less. 
 Beau. And what, should I smother here? 
 Every. Yea, by my faith, and never more 
 appear. 
 In this world live no more we shall, 
 But in heaven before the highest Lord 
 of all. 
 Beau. I cross out all this! Adieu, by 
 Saint John! 
 I take my tap in my lap and am gone."' 
 Every. What, Beauty, whither will ye? 
 Beau. Peace! I am deaf, I look not be- 
 hind me, 
 Not and thou wouldest give me all the 
 gold in thy chest. 
 Every. Alas, whereto may I trust? 
 Beauty goeth fast away from me. 
 She promised with me to live and die. 
 Stren. Everyman, I will thee also forsake 
 and deny; 
 Thy game liketh "^ me not at all. 
 Every. Why, then ye will forsake me all! 
 
 Sweet Strength, tarry a little space. 
 Stren. Nay, sir, by the rood of grace, 
 I will hie me from thee fast. 
 Though thou weep to "^ thy heart to- 
 brast."° 
 Every. Ye would ever bide by me, ye said. 
 Stren. Yea, I have you far enough con- 
 veyed ; 
 Ye be old enough, I understand, 
 Your pilgrimage to take on hand. 
 I repent me that I hither came. 
 Every. Strength, you to displease I am to 
 blame ; 
 Will you break promise that is debt? 
 Stren. In faith, I care not; 
 
 Thou art but a fool to complain. 
 
 You spend your speech and waste your 
 
 brain ; 
 Go, thrust thee into the ground! 
 Every. 1 had wend surer I should you 
 have found. 
 He that trusteth in his Strength, 
 
 52 count. 
 
 08 the help of you 
 
 Bll. 
 
 154 rood, cross. 
 as hard. 
 
 BO proverbial ex- 
 pression for a 
 hasty departure ; 
 
 literally tap is a 
 bunch of tow for 
 spinning. 
 
 57 plsaseth. 
 
 68 till. 
 
 59 break in pieces. 
 
THE MORAL PLAY OF EVERYMAN 
 
 43 
 
 She him deceiveth at the length. 
 Both Strength and Beauty forsake me, 
 Yet they promised me fair and lovingly. 
 Biscr. Everyman, I will after Strengih be 
 gone, 
 As for mfi I will leave you alone. 
 "Every. Why, Discretion, will ye forsake 
 
 me? 
 Biscr. Yea, in faith, I will go from thee. 
 For when Strength goeth before 
 I follow after evermore. 
 Every. Yet, I pray thee, for the love of 
 the Trinity, 
 Look in my grave once piteously. 
 Biscr. Nay, so nigh will I not come. 
 
 Farewell, every one! 
 Every. Oh, all thing faileth, save God 
 alone, 
 Beauty, Strength, and Discretion ; 
 For when Death bloweth his blast, 
 They all run from me full fast. 
 Five-W. Everyman, my leave now of thee 
 I take; 
 I will follow the other, for here I thee 
 forsake. 
 Every. Alas! then may I wail and weep. 
 
 For I took you for my best friend. 
 Five-W. I will no longer thee keep ; 
 
 Now farewell, and there an end. 
 Every. Jesu, help ! all have forsaken 
 
 me! 
 Good-B. Nay, Everyman, I will bide with 
 thee, 
 I will not forsake thee indeed; 
 Thou shalt find me a good friend at need. 
 Every. Gramercy, Good-Deeds, now may I 
 true friends see; 
 They have forsaken me every one, 
 I loved them better than my Good-Deeds 
 
 alone. 
 Knowledge, will ye forsake me also ? 
 Know. Yea, Everyman, when ye to death 
 shall go; 
 But not yet for no manner of danger. 
 Every. Gramercy, Knowledge, with all my 
 
 heart. 
 Know. Nay, yet I will not from hence 
 depart. 
 Till I see where ye shall be come. 
 Every. Methink, alas, that I must be gone. 
 To make my reckoning and my debts pay. 
 For I see my time is nigh spent away. 
 Take example, all ye that this do hear or 
 
 see, 
 How they that I love best do forsake me, 
 Except my Good-Deeds that bideth truly. 
 
 Good-B. All earthly things is but vanity : 
 Beauty, Strength, and Discretion, do 
 
 man forsake. 
 Foolish friends and kinsmen that fair 
 
 spake. 
 All flee save Good-Deeds, and that am I. 
 Every. Have mercy on me, God most 
 
 mighty, 
 And stand by me, thou Mother and Maid, 
 
 holy Mary. 
 Good-B. Fear not, I will speak for thee. 
 Every. Here I cry God mercy. 
 Good-B. Short our end, and miriish our 
 
 pain; 
 Let us go and never come again. 
 Every. Into thy hands. Lord, my soul I 
 
 commend. 
 Receive it. Lord, that it be not lost I 
 As thou me boughtest, so me defend. 
 And save me from the fiend's boast. 
 That I may appear with that blessed 
 
 host 
 
 Tbat shall be saved at the day of doom. 
 
 In manus tuas — of mights most 
 
 For ever — commendo spiritum meum. 
 
 (Bies.) 
 
 Know. Now hath he suffered that we all 
 
 shall endure; 
 The Good-Deeds shall make all sure. 
 Now hath he made ending; 
 Methinketh that I hear angels sing 
 And make great joy and melody, 
 Where Everyman's soul received shall be. 
 Angel. Come, excellent elect spouse to 
 
 Jesu ; 
 Here above thou shalt go. 
 Because of thy singular virtue. 
 Now the soul is taken the body from 
 Thy reckoning is crystal-clear. 
 Now shalt thou into the heavenly sphere. 
 Unto the which all ye shall come 
 That live well before the day of doom. 
 Boctor.^° This moral men may have in 
 
 mind; 
 Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and 
 
 young, 
 And forsake Pride, for he deceiveth you 
 
 in the end. 
 And remember Beauty, Five-wits, 
 
 Strength, and Discretion, 
 They all at the last do Everyman for- 
 sake. 
 Save his Good-Deeds, there doth he take. 
 But beware, and they be small 
 Before God, he hath no help at all. 
 None excuse may be there for Everyman. 
 
 60 cf. note on Doctor at end of Abraham and Isaac. 
 
44 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Alas, how shall he do then? 
 
 High in heaven he shall be crowned; 
 
 For after death amends may no man 
 
 Unto which place God bring us all 
 
 make, 
 
 thither. 
 
 For then mercy and pity do him forsake. 
 
 That we may live body and soul together. 
 
 If his reckoning be not clear when he 
 
 Thereto help the Trinity! 
 
 doth come, 
 
 Amen, say ye, for saint charity. 
 
 God will say — Ite maledicti in ignem 
 
 
 cetermum. 
 
 FINIS 
 
 And he that hath his account whole and 
 
 Thus endeth this mokal plat op 
 
 sound. 
 
 EVEBTMAN. 
 
II. THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 JOHN LYLY 
 
 MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 John Lyly (c. 1554-1606), a Keutishman, 
 educated at Oxford (B.A. 1573; M.A. 1575), 
 made a great reputation with his didactic 
 romance Euphues : the Anatomy of Wit, 1579, 
 and its sequel Euphues and his England, 
 1580, which established in popular favor the 
 artificial prose style called Euphuism. About 
 1580 was acted his first play, Aleaoamder and 
 Campaspe, and he continued to write for the 
 stage for some fifteen years. He applied for 
 the Mastership of the Revels, but failed to 
 win the post. Between 1589 and 1601 he was 
 a member of four parliaments. His impor- 
 tance in English literature lies in his con- 
 tributions to the development of prose style 
 and of refined comedy. 
 
 By the time that John Lyly inaugurated, 
 with Alexander and Campaspe, the great 
 period of Elizabethan drama, the leaven of 
 the Renascence had been at work in England 
 for three quarters of a century. Although 
 the miracle play reached its full develop- 
 ment quite unaffected by the new learning, 
 the morality and the secular interlude (the 
 latter as practised by John Heywood 
 between 1520 and 1540), however vernacular 
 they may be in form and spirit, show that 
 the English drama was responding to influ- 
 ences from abroad. Both at court, where 
 humanism took hold early and where transla- 
 tions of Latin comedy were actually per- 
 formed before 1525, and in the schools and 
 colleges, where the plays of Plautus and Ter- 
 ence were studied, acted, and used for 
 models, the rediscovered classics inspired 
 court entertainers and pedagogues to adaptar 
 tion and imitation. To Nicholas Udall be- 
 longs the honor of writing, probably during 
 his term of mastership at Eton, 1534r-41, the 
 first regular English comedy, Ralph Roister 
 Doister. In this play Udall, adapting the 
 Miles Gloriosus of Plautus to English life, 
 brings to comedy a sense of form lacking in 
 iniracle, morality, and interlude. Even so 
 native a product as Gammer Gurton's Needle, 
 1552-3, a farce comedy of village life straight 
 from the soil, was written by a fellow of 
 Christ Church, Oxford, and exhibits in its 
 division into acts and scenes the tendency to 
 regularization. Tragedy, likewise, felt the 
 classic influence; Oorhoduc, 1562, is our first 
 regular tragedy, English in subject-matter. 
 
 but in manner patterned on the tragedies of 
 Seneca. The writers of the old didactic 
 drama had vigor and sincerity and strong 
 emotional appeal, but they had no master but 
 experience, no critical faculty, low artistic 
 standards. To give it a permanent value the 
 English drama needed conscious artists with 
 professional pride and technical training. 
 After some decades of experimental work like 
 that named above, such an artist appeared in 
 the person of Lyly. 
 
 Lyly's university education and his con- 
 nection with the court determined the style 
 of his work. All but one of his eight plays 
 employ classical material, and that one is 
 done in the manner of Latin comedy. They 
 are the work of a clever young college man, 
 fired with enthusiasm by his reading of 
 classical myth and Latin comedy, delighting 
 in his already established reputation as a 
 witty master of prose, and ambitious to gain 
 court favor. Edward Bloimt, who published 
 six of Lyly's plays in 1632, called them 
 " Court Comedies," and the term was well 
 chosen. They were well adapted to appeal 
 to Elizabeth, learned, pleasure-loving, avid of 
 fiattery, and to her brilliant group of cour- 
 tiers. Three of them deal in thinly veiled al- 
 lusion with matters of court gossip: Endim- 
 ion with the relations of Elizabeth with Mary, 
 Queen of Scots, and her son James; Sapho 
 and Phao with the Due d'Alengon's vain ef- 
 fort to win Elizabeth's hand in marriage; 
 Midas with Philip of Spain and his ambition 
 to win back England for Catholicism. Three 
 others are pastoral comedies, using mytholog- 
 ical story and figures, and adroitly flatter- 
 ing the Queen. Alexander and Campaspe,, 
 presenting a romantic, pseudo-historical epi- 
 sode in the life of Alexander the Great, is 
 seemingly without ulterior purpose, as is the 
 rustic farce-comedy. Mother Bombie. Allus- 
 ive, witty, reflecting in tone the politeness of 
 court manners, these plays were admirably 
 adapted for their time and audience, and 
 justify Lyly's reputation as our flrst dram- 
 atist to write plays of real artistic value. 
 
 The play which follows is unique- in Lyly's 
 work in that it presents English life and 
 English people unhampered by mythological 
 accessories. The scene is laid in Rochester, 
 in Lyly's own county of Kent. The occa- 
 sional local allusions and the introduction of 
 
 45 
 
46 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 homely figures like the village wise-woman, 
 the hackneyman, and the fiddlers, add a pleas- 
 ant touch of realism. In structure, however, 
 the play is obviously modeled upon the 
 Terentian comedy. No direct source has been 
 found; indeed, the balanced complication of 
 plot is more suggestive of invention than of 
 borrowing. But the material, love-plots of 
 children against their parents, aided by rog- 
 uish servants, and the solution, by revela- 
 tion of ^ long-concealed substitution of one 
 pair of children for another, are reminiscent 
 of Latin comedy. Then, too, in its approxi- 
 mation to the unities of time, place, and 
 action, the play shows Lyly's classical train- 
 ing; although the theory of the unities was 
 first formulated by the Italian critic Castel- 
 vetro in 1570, it is based on the usual prac- 
 tice of the Greek and Roman dramatists. 
 The time is limited to two days in all, a 
 reasonably close approach to the norm of 
 Latin comedy. Unity of place is strictly ob- 
 served, all the action occurring in an open 
 square, about which are located the dwell- 
 ings of the chief characters and the tavern. 
 The only episode which can be objected to as 
 in any way extraneous is the comic business 
 of the hackneyman's suit against Dromio, 
 surely no very serious interruption of the 
 main action. As an early example, then, of 
 classical method applied to English stuil, the 
 play is historically important. 
 
 Mother Bomhie is the most complicated in 
 structure of Lyly's plays. There are three 
 main lines of action — the love-affair of 
 Candius and Livia, opposed by their parents 
 and forwarded by the pages; the proposed 
 matches between Candius and Silena on the 
 one hand, and Accius and Livia on the other, 
 furthered by the parents, real or supposed, 
 thwarted by the pages, and nearly resulting 
 in the betrothal of Accius and Silena; the 
 love-story of Msestius and Serena, appar- 
 ently hopeless of fulfilment, but ending hap- 
 pily in the revelation that they are not 
 brother and sister, a discovery which legiti- 
 mizes their union and renders impossible that 
 of the foolish children. The tangling of 
 these threads is done with no small skill, but 
 the complication would be difficult for an 
 audience to follow were it not for the con- 
 stant comments on the situation of the mo- 
 ment that Lyly puts into the mouths of the 
 actors. Soliloquy and aside are used to their 
 full capacity. The plotting is mechanical 
 even to the paralleling of one scene by another 
 in a manner recalling the use of balance and 
 antithesis in one of Lyly's Buphuistio sen- 
 tences. The first five scenes will serve for 
 illustration. In scene one Memphio informs 
 his servant Dromio of his desire to match his 
 foolish son Accius to the daughter of his 
 neighbor Stellio, and bids Dromio set about 
 the matter. In scene two Stellio informs his 
 servant Riscio of his desire to match his 
 foolish daughter Silena to the son of his 
 
 neighbor Memphio, and entrusts the manage- 
 ment of the affair to Riscio. In scene three 
 Prisius and Sperantus agree that their chil- 
 dren must not marry, and the plan of Sper- 
 antus to marry his son Candius to Stellio's 
 daughter finds correspondence in the plan of 
 Prisius to marry his daughter Livia to Mem- 
 phio's son. The love-scene between Candius 
 and Livia is witnessed by the fathers, who 
 cap the lovers' speeches with antiphonal com- 
 ments, and each of whom, after disclosing 
 himself, dismisses his offspring with a long 
 reproof. In the first scene of act two 
 Dromio and Riscio echo each other's very 
 words as they reveal the parts they are to 
 play, while Halfpenny and LUcio are no 
 sooner desired than they appear, and the four 
 depart into the tavern to lay out their cam- 
 paign of cozenage. The scene following pre- 
 sents the four scheming fathers entering 
 severally in search of their respective serv- 
 ants, and, after soliloquies of one pattern, 
 disappearing into the tavern door which has 
 already welcomed the boys. Like the Eu- 
 phuistic sentence, nothing could be more pol- 
 ished in its way, or more artificial. 
 
 The double disguising in act four Lyly 
 brings off with fair success. The approval 
 of the betrothal of Candius and Livia by 
 their fathers, the latter under the impres- 
 sion that they are witnessing the plighting 
 of Accius and Silena, is truly comic and 
 well managed. The corresponding situation, 
 which brings the climax of the complication 
 in the unmasking of Accius and Silena by 
 their fathers is almost too intricate to be 
 quite effective; Lyly evades rather than 
 solves his difficulty by huddling his main 
 group off the stage before he has begun to 
 get out of the situation all the fun there 
 is in it. The d4nouement is brought about, 
 as usual with Lyly, in brusk and mechani- 
 cal fashion; here the confession of Vicinia 
 corresponds to the oracle which brings the 
 solution in the three allegorical plays, and 
 to the deus ex machina of the pastoral 
 comedies. 
 
 Lyly's curious method of group rather than 
 individual characterization is well exempli- 
 fied in Mother Bomhie. Here we have four 
 old men, four knavish pages, three young 
 couples, three fiddlers, three village types, two 
 old women. The groups are somewhat dis- 
 tinguished one from another, but inside the 
 group distinction is almost lacking. Mem- 
 phio and Stellio are rich, Prisius and Sper- 
 antus are poor; their occupations vary; but 
 beyond these trivial differences they all act 
 and speak alike. The same is true of the 
 pages, except that, as is customary in plays 
 written for boys to perform, the sharpest 
 wit is given to the smallest boy, in this 
 case Halfpenny. Such lack of individuality 
 makes us feel about Lyly's people that they 
 are puppets cleverly manipulated, not well 
 rounded human beings. Candius and Livia, 
 
JOHN LYLY 
 
 47 
 
 Msestius and Serena, are unsatisfactory lov- 
 ers, because the artificiality of their handling 
 and their speech forbids real passion. As 
 for Accius and Silena, idiocy seems to us 
 scarcely to furnish material for real coniedy, 
 but fools and madmen were regarded as legiti- 
 mate game in an age when people of fashion 
 found amusement in visiting the inmates of 
 Bedlam. Mother Bombie is interesting as a. 
 type of the wise-woman, who appears in later 
 Elizabethan plays, but, except in so far as 
 her oracular utterance urges Vicinia to con- 
 fession, she has no influence on the action. 
 
 Curious to a modern reader are the parade 
 of schoolboy learning in the Latin quotations 
 and the intolerable punning, more often sim- 
 ulating than attaining wit. Here again we 
 
 must remember that taste changes and make 
 allowance for the author, a product of 
 Renascence culture, and a conscious stylist, 
 delighting in the use of language for its own 
 sake, and writing for an audience which en- 
 joyed hearing him " torture one poor word 
 ten thousand ways." In general, the style 
 of the play is less Euphuistic than that of 
 its predecessors. Lyly tended more and more 
 in his play-writing to abandon the niceties 
 of Euphuism for a more natural style, and 
 Mother Bombie, written about 1590, belongs 
 to his later work. Moreover, Mother Bombie 
 seema not to have been performed at court, 
 as the earlier plays had been, and the delicate 
 sentence structure of Endimion was perhaps 
 not altogether suited for a popular audience. 
 
 MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 By JOHN LYLY 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHAEACTEES 
 
 Memphio, an avaricious old man. 
 
 Stellio, a wealthy h,usbandm,an. 
 
 Peisius, a fuller. 
 
 Spebantus, a farmer. 
 
 Candius, son to Sperantus. 
 
 M^sTius, son to Memphioj supposed son to 
 
 Vicinia. 
 Accius, supposed son to Memphio. 
 Dbomio, u, boy, servant to Memphio. 
 Eiscio, a hoy, servant to Stellio. 
 Halfpenny, a boy, servant to Spera/ntus. 
 Lucid, a boy, servant to Prisius. 
 Synis, "j 
 
 Nasutus, K three fiddlers. 
 Beduwenus, J 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene 1. 
 Enter Memphio and Dromio. 
 
 Mem. Boy, there are three things that 
 make my life miserable: a threadbare 
 purse, a curst ^ wife, and a fool to my 
 heir. 
 
 Dro. Why then, sir, there are three medi- 
 cines for these three maladies: a pike- 
 staff to take a purse on the highway, a 
 holly wand to brush choler from my mis- 
 tress' tongue, and a young weneh for my 
 young master; so that as your worship 
 being wise begot a fool, so he, being -a 
 fool, may tread out a wise man. 
 
 Mem. Aye; but, Dromio, these medicines 
 bite hot on ^ great mischiefs ; for so 
 
 1 sbrewisli. 
 
 Hackneyman. 
 
 Sergeant. 
 
 scbiveneb. 
 
 LiviA, daughter to Prisius. 
 
 Sebena, daughter to Stellio; supposed daugh- 
 ter to Vicinia. 
 
 Silena, supposed daughter to Stellio. 
 
 Vicinia, a nurse, mother to Accius and 
 Silena. 
 
 Mother Bombie, a fortune-teller. 
 
 EixiTLA, a girl, servant to Prisius. 
 
 Scene — Rochester : an open square or street. 
 
 might I have a rope about my neck, 
 horns upon my head, and in my house a 
 litter of fools. 
 
 Dro. Then, sir, you had best let some wise 
 man sit on your son, to hatch him a good 
 wit ; they say if ravens sit on hens' eggs, 
 the chickens will be black, and so forth. 
 
 Mem. Why, boy, my son is out of the 
 shell, and is grown a pretty cock. 
 
 Dro. Carve him, master, and make him a 
 capon, else all your breed will prove cox- 
 combs. 
 
 Mem. I marvel he is such an ass; he takes 
 it not of his father. 
 
 Dro. He may for any thing you know. 
 
 Mem. Why, villain, dost thou think me a 
 fool? 
 
 Dro. (3 no, sir; neither are you sure that 
 you are his father. 
 
 2 are closely akin to. 
 
48 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Mem. Rascal, dost thou imagine thy mis- 
 tress naught of her body? ^ 
 
 Bro. No, but fantastical of her mind; and 
 it may be when this boy was begotten she 
 thought of a fool, and so conceived a 
 fool, yourself being very wise, and she 
 surpassing honest. 
 
 Mem. It may be 5 for I have heard of an 
 Ethiopian, that thinking of a fair pic- 
 ture, brought forth a fair lady, and yet 
 no bastard. 
 
 Bro. You are well read, sir ; your son may 
 be a bastard, and yet legitimate; your- 
 self a cuckold, and yet my mistress vir- 
 tuous; all this in conceit. 
 
 Mem. Come, Dromio, it is my grief to 
 have such a son that must inherit my 
 lands. 
 
 Bro. He needs not, sir; I'll beg him for 
 a fool.* 
 
 Mem. Vile boy! thy young master? 
 
 Bro. Let me have in ° a device. 
 
 Mem. I'll have thy advice, and if it 
 f adge,^ thou shalt eat till thou sweat, play 
 till thou sleep, and sleep till thy bones 
 ache. 
 
 Bro. Aye, marry, now you tickle me, I am 
 both hungry, gamesome, and sleepy, and 
 all at once. I '11 break this head against 
 the wall, but I'll make it bleed good 
 matter. 
 
 Mem. Then this it is ; thou knowest I have 
 but one son, and he is a fool. 
 
 Bro. A monstrous fool! 
 
 Mem. A wife, and she an arrant scold. 
 
 Bro. Ah, master, I smell your device; it 
 will be excellent! 
 
 Mem. Thou canst not know it till I tell it. 
 
 Bro. I see it through your brains. Tour 
 hair is so thin, and your skull so trans- 
 parent, I may sooner see it than hear it. 
 
 Mem. Then, boy, hast thou a quick wit, 
 and I a slow tongue. But what is't? 
 
 Bro. Marry, either you would have your 
 wife's tongue in your son's head, that he 
 might be a prating fool ; or his brains in 
 her brain pan, that she might be a fool- 
 ish scold. 
 
 Mem. Thou dreamest, Dromio ; there is no 
 such matter. Thou knowest I have kept 
 him close, so that my neighbors think him 
 to be wise, and her to be temperate, be- 
 cause they never heard them speak. 
 
 Bro. Well? 
 
 Thou knowest that Stellio hath a 
 
 good farm and a fair daughter; yea, so 
 fair that she is mewed up,'' and only 
 looketh out at the windows, lest she 
 should by some roisting courtier be 
 stolen away. 
 
 Bro. So, sir. 
 
 Mem. Now if I could compass a match be- 
 tween my son and Stellio's daughter, by 
 conference of us parents, and without 
 theirs, I should be blessed, he cozened,* 
 and thou forever set at liberty. 
 
 Bro. A singular conceit. 
 
 Mem. Thus much for my son. Now for 
 my wife: I would have this kept from 
 her, else shall I not be able to keep my 
 house from smoke ; for let it come to one 
 of her ears, and then woe to both mine! 
 I would have her go to my house into the 
 country whilst we conclude this, and this 
 once done, I care not if her tongue never 
 have done. These if thou canst effect, 
 thou shalt make thy master happy. 
 
 Bro. Think it done; this noddle shall coin 
 such new device as you shall have your 
 son married by to-morrow. 
 
 Mem. But take heed that neither the 
 father nor the maid speak to my son, for 
 then his folly wiU mar all. 
 
 Bro. Lay all the care on me. Sublevdbo 
 te onere : I will rid you of a fool. 
 
 Mem. ■ Wilt thou rid me for a fool? 
 
 Bro. Tush ! quarrel not. 
 
 Mem. Then for the dowry, let it be at 
 least two hundred ducats, and after his 
 death the farm. 
 
 Bro. What else? 
 
 Mem. Then let us in, that I may furnish 
 thee with some better counsel, and my 
 son with better apparel. 
 
 Bro. Let me alone. — {Aside.) I lack 
 but a wag more to make of my counsel, 
 and then you shall see an exquisite cozen- 
 age, and the father more fool than the 
 son. — But hear you, sir; I forgot one 
 thing. 
 
 Mem. What's that? 
 
 Bro. Nay; Expellas furca licet, usque re- 
 curret.' 
 
 Mem. What 's the meaning? 
 
 Bro. Why, though your son's folly be 
 thrust up with a pair of horns on a fork, 
 yet being natural, it will have his^" 
 course. 
 
 Mem. I pray thee, no more, but about it. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 8 unchaste. the profit 
 
 4 beg to be appoint- managing 
 
 ed his guardian property). 
 
 (bo that I can get s suggest. 
 
 from 
 his 
 
 6 succeed. 
 
 7 confined ; hawks 
 
 were kept in a 
 mewi. 
 
 8 cheated. from its course, 
 
 9 Prom Horace {Ep. but it will always 
 
 I. X. 24): "You return," 
 
 may drive nature lo its. 
 
iviuiHER BOMBIE 
 
 49 
 
 Scene 2. 
 Enter Stellio and Riscio. 
 
 Stel. Riseio, my daughter is passing ami- 
 able, but very simple. 
 
 Bis. You mean a fool, sir. 
 
 Stel. Faith, I imply so much. 
 
 Bis. Then I apply it fit : the one she takes 
 of her father, the other of her mother; 
 now you may be sure she is your own. 
 
 Stel. I have penned her up in a chamber, 
 having only a window to look out, that 
 youths, seeing her fair cheeks, ipiay be 
 enamored before they hear her fond ^^ 
 speech. How likest thou this head? ^^ 
 
 Bis. There is very good workmanship in 
 it, but the matter is but base; if the 
 stuff had been as good as the mold, 
 your daughter had been as wise as she 
 is beautiful. 
 
 Stel. Dost thou think she took her fool- 
 ishness of me? 
 
 Bis. Aye, and so cunningly that she took 
 it not from you. 
 
 Stel. "Well, Quod natura dedit, tollere 
 nemo potest.^^ 
 
 Bis. A good evidence to prove the fee- 
 simple^* of your daughter's folly. 
 
 Stel. Why? 
 
 Bis. It came by nature, and if none can 
 take it away, it is perpetual. 
 
 Stel. Nay, Riscio, she is no natural fool, 
 but in this consisteth her simplicity, that 
 she thinketh herself subtle; in this her 
 rudeness, that she imagines she is 
 courtly; in this the overshooting of her- 
 self, that she overweeneth of herself. 
 
 Bis. Well, what follows? 
 
 Stel. Riscio, this is my plot. Memphio 
 hath a pretty stripling to his son, whom 
 with cockering^" he hath made wanton: 
 his girdle must be warmed, the air must 
 not breathe on him, he must lie abed till 
 noon, and yet in his bed break his fast; 
 that which I do to conceal the folly of 
 my daughter, that doth he in too much 
 cockering of his son. Now, Riscio, how 
 shall I compass a match between my 
 girl and his boy? 
 
 Bis. Why, with a pair of compasses; and 
 bring them both into the circle, I'll war- 
 rant they'll match themselves. 
 
 Stel. Tush! plot it for me that never 
 speaking tq one another, they be in love 
 one with another. I like not solemn 
 
 wooing, it is for courtiers; let country 
 folks believe others' reports as much as 
 their own opinions. 
 
 Bis. then, so it be a match you care not. 
 
 Stel. Not I, nor for a match neither, were 
 it not I thirst after my neighbor's farm. 
 
 Bis. (Aside.) A very good nature. — 
 Well, if by flat wit I bring this to pass, 
 what's my reward? 
 
 Stel. Whatsoever thou wilt ask. 
 
 Bis. I'll ask no more than by my wit I. 
 can get in the bargain. 
 
 Stel. Then about it. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Bis. If I come not about ^* you, never 
 trust me. I '11 seek out Dromio, the coun- 
 sellor of my conceit. Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 Enter Prisiiis and Sperantus. 
 
 Pris. It is unneighborly done to suffer 
 your son since he came from school to 
 spend his time in love; and unwisely 
 done to let him hover over my daughter, 
 who hath nothing to her dowry but her 
 needle, and must prove a sempster; nor 
 he anything to take to but a grammar, 
 and cannot at the best be but a school- 
 master. 
 
 Sper. Prisius, you bite and whine, wring 
 me on the withers, and yet wince your- 
 self; it is you that go about to match 
 your girl with my boy, she being more 
 fit for seams than for marriage, and he 
 for a rod than a wife. 
 
 Pris. Her birth requires a better bride- 
 groom than such a groom. 
 
 Sper. And his bringing up another-gate-'^^ 
 marriage than such a minion. 
 
 Pris. Marry, gup ! ^* I am sure he hath 
 no better bread than is made of wheat, 
 nor worn finer cloth than is made of wool, 
 nor learned better manners than are 
 taught in schools. 
 
 Sper. Nor your minx had no better grand- 
 father than a tailor, who (as I have 
 heard) was poor and proud; nor a bet- 
 ter father than yourself, unless your 
 wife borrowed a better, to make her 
 daughter a gentlewoman. 
 
 Pris. Twit not me with my ancestors, nor 
 my wife's honesty; if thou dost — 
 
 {Threatening him.) 
 
 11 foolish. 
 
 12 Possibly Stellio 
 shows Riscio a 
 
 Sortrait of his 13 "What nature has n title, 
 aughter. given, no one can is petting. 
 
 take away." is get the better of, 
 
 17 another Icind of. 
 
 18 go up, hold on I 
 
50 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Sper. Hold thy hands still, thou hadst 
 best; and yet it is impossible, now I 
 remember, for thou hast the palsy. 
 
 Pris. My hands shake so that wert thou 
 in place where,^' I would teach thee to 
 eog.^" 
 
 Sper. Nay, if thou shake thy hands, I 
 warrant thou canst not teach any to cog. 
 But, neighbor, let not two old fools fall 
 out for two young wantons. 
 
 Pris. Indeed, it becometh men of our ex- 
 perience to reason, not rail; to debate 
 the matter, not to combat it. 
 
 Sper. Well, then, this I'll tell thee 
 friendly. I have almost these two years 
 cast in my head how I might match my 
 princox ^^ with Stellio's daughter, whom 
 I have heard to be very fair, and know 
 shall be very rich : she is his heir ; he 
 dotes, he is stooping old, and shortly 
 must die. Yet by no means, either by 
 blessing or cursing, can I win my son to 
 be a wooer, which I know proceeds not 
 of bashfulness but stubbornness, for he 
 knows his good ; though I say it, he hath 
 wit at will; as for his pei-sonage, I care 
 not who sees him; I can tell you he is 
 able to make a lady's mouth water if she 
 wink not. 
 
 Pris. Stay, Sperantus, this is like my 
 case, for I have been tampering as long 
 to have a marriage committed between 
 my wench and Memphio's only son: 
 they say he is as goodly a youth as one 
 shall see in a summer's day, and as neat 
 a stripling as ever went on neat's 
 leather; his father will not let him be 
 forth of his sight, he is so tender over 
 him; he yet lies with his mother for^^ 
 catching cold. Now my pretty elf, as 
 proud as the day is long, she will none 
 of him ; she forsooth will choose her own 
 husband : made marriages prove mad 
 marriages; she will choose with her eye, 
 and like with her heart, before she con- 
 sent with her tongue; neither father nor 
 mother, kith nor kin, shall be her carver 
 in ^^ a husband, she will fall to where 
 she likes best; and thus the chick scarce 
 out of her shell cackles as though she had 
 been trodden with an hundred cocks, and 
 mother of a thousand eggs. 
 
 Sper. Well then, this is our best, seeing 
 we know each other's mind, to devise to 
 govern our own children; for my boy, 
 I '11 keep him to his books, and study 
 shall make him leave to love ; I '11 break 
 
 him of his will, or his bones with a 
 cudgel. 
 Pris. And I '11 no more dandle my daugh- 
 ter; she shall prick on a clout 2* till her 
 fingers ache, or I'll cause her leave to 
 make my heart ache. But in good time, 
 though with ill luck, behold if they be 
 not both together; let us stand close and 
 hear all, so shall we prevent all. 
 
 {They stand aside.) 
 
 Enter Candius and Livia. 
 
 Sper. (Aside.) This happens pat; take 
 heed you cough not, Prisius. 
 
 Pris. {Aside.) Tush! spit not you; and 
 I '11 warrant, I, my beard is as good as a 
 handkerchief. 
 
 Liv. Sweet Candius, if thy father should 
 see us alone, would he not fret? The old 
 man methinks should be fuU of fumes. 
 
 Can. Tush! let him fret one heart-string 
 against another, he shall never trouble 
 the least vein of my little finger. The 
 old churl thinks none wise unless he have 
 a beard hang dangling to his waist. 
 When my face is bedaubed with hair as 
 his, then perchance my conceit may stum- 
 ble on his staidness. 
 
 Pris. {Aside.) Aye? In what book read 
 you that lesson? 
 
 Sper. {Aside.) I know not in what book 
 he read it, but I am sure he was a knave 
 to learn it. 
 
 Can. I believe, fair Livia, if your sour 
 sire should see you with your sweetheart 
 he would not be very patient. 
 
 Liv. The care is taken. I'll ask him 
 blessing as a father, but never take coun- 
 sel for an husband ; there is as much odds 
 between my golden thoughts and his 
 leaden advice, as between his silver hairs 
 and my amber locks. I know he will 
 cough for anger that I yield not, but he 
 shall cough me a fool for his labor.''^ 
 
 Sper. {Aside to Pris.) Where picked 
 your daughter that work, out of broad- 
 stitch? 
 
 Pris. {Aside.) Out of a fiirt's sampler. 
 But let us stay the end; this is but the 
 beginning; you shall hear two children 
 well brought up ! 
 
 Can. Parents in these days are grown 
 peevish : they rock their children in their 
 cradles till they sleep, and 'cross them 
 about their bridals till their hearts ache. 
 Marriage among them is become a mar- 
 
 19 a more fitting 
 place. 
 
 20 lie ; COD is pun- 
 
 ningly used just 
 below in its first 
 sense of cheatine 
 
 at dice, for which 
 a steady hand 
 would be needed. 
 
 21 pert boy. 
 
 22 for fear of. 
 2S prQTider of. 
 
 24 sew cloth. 
 2B be only a fool for 
 his pains. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 51 
 
 ket. What will you give with your 
 daughter? What jointure will you make 
 for your son? And many a match is 
 broken off for a penny more or less, as 
 though they could not afford their chil- 
 dren at such a price, when none should 
 cheapen such ware but affection, and 
 none buy it but love. 
 
 Sper. {Aside.) Learnedly and scholar-like. 
 
 Liv. Indeed our parents take great care to 
 make us ask blessing and say grace when 
 we are little ones, and growing to years 
 of judgment, they deprive us of the great- 
 est blessing and the most gracious things 
 to our minds, the liberty of our minds; 
 they give us pap with a spoon before we 
 can speak, and when we speak for that 
 we love, pap with a hatchet ;^° because 
 their fancies being grown musty with 
 hoary age, therefore nothing can relish in 
 their thoughts that savors of sweet 
 youth; they study twenty years together 
 to make us grow as straight as a wand, 
 and in the end by bowing us, make us 
 crooked as a cammock.^' For mine own 
 part, sweet Candius, they shall pardon 
 me, for I will measure my love by mine 
 own judgment, not my father's purse or 
 peevishness. Nature hath made me his 
 child, not his slave; I hate Memphio and 
 his son deadly, if I wist he would place 
 his affection by his father's appointment. 
 
 Pris. {Aside.) Wittily but uncivilly! 
 
 Com. Be of that mind still, my fair Livia ; 
 let our fathers lay their purses together, 
 we our hearts : I will never woo where I 
 cannot love. Let Stellio enjoy his 
 daughter. But what have you wrought 
 here? 
 
 lAv. Flowers, fowls, beasts, fishes, trees, 
 plants, stones, and what not. Among 
 flowers, cowslips and lilies, for our 
 names Candius and Livia. Among 
 fowls, turtles 2* and sparrows, for our 
 truth and desires. Among beasts, the 
 fox and the ermine, for beauty and pol- 
 icy. And among fishes, the cockle and 
 the tortoise, because of Venus. Among 
 trees, the vine wreathing about the elm, 
 for our embracings. Among stones, As- 
 beston, which being hot, will never be 
 cold,^* for our constancies. Among 
 plants, thyme and heartsease, to note 
 
 that if we take time we shall ease our 
 hearts. 
 
 Pris. (Aside.) There 's a girl that knows 
 her liripoop.^" 
 
 Sper. {Aside.) Listen, and you shall 
 hear my son's learning. 
 
 Liv. What book is that? 
 
 Can. A fine pleasant poet, who entreateth 
 of the art of love, and of the remedy. 
 
 Liv. Is there art in love? 
 
 Can. A short art and a certain: three 
 rules in three lines. 
 
 Liv. I pray thee, repeat them. 
 
 Can. Principio quod amare velis reperire 
 labora, 
 Proximus huic labor est placidam exorare 
 
 puellam, 
 Tertius ut longo tempore duret amor.^^ 
 
 Liv. I am no Latinist, Candius; you must 
 construe it. 
 
 Can. So I will, and pace^^ it too; thou 
 shalt be acquainted with case, gender and 
 number. First, one must find out a mis- 
 tress whom before all others he voweth 
 to serve. Secondly, that he use all the 
 means that he may to obtain her. And 
 the last, with deserts, faith, and secrecy, 
 to study to keep her. 
 
 Liv. What 's the remedy? 
 
 Can. Death. 
 
 Liv. What of all the book is the con- 
 clusion ? 
 
 Can. This one verse: Non caret effectu 
 quod voluere duo. 
 
 Liv. What's that? 
 
 Can. Where two are agreed, it is impossi- 
 ble but they must speed. 
 
 Liv. Then cannot we miss; therefore give 
 me thy hand, Candius. 
 
 Pris. {Advancing.) Soft, Livia, take me 
 with you ; ^^ it is not good in law with- 
 out witness. 
 
 Sper. And as I remember, there must be 
 two witnesses. God give you joy, Can- 
 dius; I was worth the bidding to dinner, 
 though not worthy to be of the counsel. 
 
 Pris. I think this hot love hath provided 
 but cold cheer. 
 
 Sper. Tush ! in love is no lack. But blush 
 not, Candius, you need not be ashamed of 
 your cunning; you have made love a 
 book-case, and spent your time well at 
 school learning to love by art and hate 
 
 28 A proverbial ex- 
 pression for the 
 rough perform- 
 ance of necessary 
 service, such 
 
 children; Lyly so 28 turtledoves, tak- 
 entitled one of his en as types of con- 
 pamphlets, an at- stancy. as spar- 
 tack on a political rows were of las- 
 opponent, civiousness. 
 
 the feeding of 27 s crooked stick, 29 A bit of Lyly's 
 
 pseudo-science, 
 so^'Properly the de- 
 gree of knowledge 
 that would qualify 
 one to wear a liri- 
 poop (liTipipium) 
 
 or scarf as doc- 
 tor." (Bond). 
 
 31 Ovid, Are Amat. 
 i. 35-38. 
 
 32 parse. 
 
 33 let me understand 
 you. 
 
52 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 against nature. But I perceive the 
 worser child the better lover. 
 
 Pris. And my minion hath wrought well, 
 where every stitch in her sampler is a 
 pricking stiteh at my heart. You take 
 your pleasure on parents: they are peev- 
 ish, fools, churls, overgrown with igno- 
 rance, because overworn with age; little 
 shalt thou know the case of a father be- 
 fore thyself be a mother, when thou shalt 
 breed thy child with continual pains, and 
 bringing it forth with deadly pangs, 
 nurse it with thine own paps, and nour- 
 ish it up with motherly tenderness; and 
 then find them to curse thee with their 
 hearts, when they should ask blessing on 
 their knees, and the eoUop^* of thine 
 own bowels to be the torture of thine 
 own soul; with tears trickling down thy 
 cheeks, and drops of blood falling from 
 thy heart, thou wilt in uttering of thy 
 mind wish them rather unborn than un- 
 natural, and to have had their cradles 
 their graves rather than thy death their 
 bridals. But I will not dispute what 
 thou shouldst have done, but correct what 
 thou hast done; I perceive sewing is an 
 idle exercise, and that every day there 
 come more thoughts into thine head than 
 stitches into thy work; I'll see whether 
 you can spin a better mind than you have 
 stitched, and if I coop you not up, then 
 let me be the capon. 
 
 Sper. As for you, sir boy, instead of 
 poring on a book, you shall hold the 
 plough ; I '11 make repentance reap what 
 wantonness hath sown. But we are both 
 well served: the sons must be masters,*" 
 the fathers gaffers ; ** what we get to- 
 gether with a rake, they cast abroad with 
 a fork, and we must weary our legs to 
 purchase our children arms.*' Well, 
 seeing that booking is but idleness, I'll 
 see whether threshing be any occupation ; 
 thy mind shall stoop to my fortune or 
 mine shall break the laws of nature. 
 How like a micher " he stands, as though 
 he had truanted from honesty ! Get thee 
 in, and for the rest let me alone. In, 
 villain ! 
 
 Pris. And you, pretty minx, that must be 
 fed with love upon sops,*' I'll take an 
 order to cram you with sorrows. Get 
 you in, without look or reply. 
 
 Exeunt Candius and Livia, 
 
 Sper. Let us follow, and deal as rigor- 
 ously with yours as I will with mine, and 
 you shall see that hot love will soon wax 
 cold. I '11 tame the proud boy, and send 
 him as far from his love as he is from 
 his duty. 
 
 Pris. Let us about it, and also go on with 
 matching them to our minds; it was 
 happy that we prevented that by chance 
 which we could never yet suspect by cir- 
 cumstance. Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 Enter at opposite sides Dromio and 
 Biscio. 
 
 Dro. Now if I could meet with Riscio it 
 
 were a world of waggery. 
 Bis. Oh, that it were my chance, Obviam 
 
 dare Dromio, to stumble upon Dromio, 
 
 on whom I do nothing but dream. 
 Dro. His knavery and my wit should make 
 
 our masters, that are wise, fools; their 
 
 children, that are fools, beggars; and us 
 
 two, that are bond, free. 
 Bis. He to cozen and I to conjure would 
 
 make such alterations that our masters 
 
 should serve themselves; the idiots, their 
 
 children, serve us; and we to wake our 
 
 wits between them all. 
 Dro. Hem quam opportune: look if he 
 
 drop not full in my dish ! 
 Bis. Lupus in fabula! Dromio, embrace 
 
 me! hug me! kiss my hand! I must 
 
 make thee fortunate. 
 Dro. Riscio, honor me ! kneel down to me ! 
 
 kiss my feet ! I must make thee blessed. 
 Bis. My master, old Stellio, hath a fool to 
 
 his daughter. 
 Dro. Nay; my master, old Memphio, hath 
 
 a fool to his son. 
 Bis. I must convey *° a contract. 
 Dro. And I must convey a contract. 
 Bis. Between her and Memphio's son, 
 
 without speaking one to another. 
 Dro. Between him and Stellio's daughter, 
 
 without one speaking to the other. 
 Bis. Dost thou mock me, Dromio? 
 Dro. Thou dost me else. 
 Bis. Not I; for all this is true. 
 Dro. And all this. 
 Bis. Then are we both driven to our wits' 
 
 ends, for if either of them had been wise 
 
 34 piece. 
 85 gentlemen 
 commoners. 
 
 36 coats of arms, 
 token of gentility, 
 
 37 truant. 
 
 3 sops, sweet cakes 
 dipped in wine, 
 
 was a luxurious 
 dish. 
 89 arrange secretly. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 53 
 
 we might have tempered ; if no marriage, 
 yet a close *" marriage. 
 
 J3ro. Well, let us sharpen our accounts; 
 there 's no better grindstone for a young 
 man's head than to have it whet upon an 
 old man's purse. Oh, thou shalt see my 
 knavery shave like a razor! 
 
 Bis. Thou for the edge, and I the point, 
 will make the fool bestride our mistress' 
 backs, and then have at the bag with the 
 dudgeon haft,*^ that is, at the dudgeon 
 dagger, by which hangs his tantony** 
 pouch. 
 
 Bro. These old huddles have such strong 
 purses with locks, when they shut them 
 they go off like a snaphanee.** 
 
 Bis. The old fashion is best : a purse with 
 a ring round about it, as a circle to curse 
 a knave's hand from it. But, Dromio, 
 two they say may keep counsel if one be 
 away; but to convey knavery, two are 
 too few and four too many. 
 
 Bro. And in good time, look where Half- 
 penny, Sperantus' boy, eometh; though 
 bound up in decimo sexto ** for carriage, 
 yet a wit in folio for cozenage. 
 
 Enter Halfpenny. 
 
 Single Halfpenny, what news are 'now 
 
 current? 
 Half. Nothing but that such double coi- 
 
 strels*" as yon be are counterfeit. 
 Bis. Are you so dapper? We '11 send you 
 
 -for an halfpenny loaf. 
 Half. I shall go for silver though, when 
 
 you shall be nailed up for slips.*' 
 Bro. Thou art a slipstring,*^, I '11 warrant. 
 Half. I hope you shall never slip string, 
 
 but hang steady. 
 Bis. Dromio, look here; now is my hand 
 
 on my halfpenny. 
 Half. Thou liest ; thou hast not a farthing 
 
 to lay thy hands on : I am none of thine. 
 
 But let me be wagging; my head is full 
 
 of hammers,** and they have so malletted 
 
 my wit that I am almost a malcontent. 
 Bro. Why, what 's the matter? 
 Half. My master hath a fine scholar to his 
 
 son, Prisius a fair lass to his daughter. 
 Bro. Well! 
 
 Half. They two love one another deadly. 
 Bis. In good time ! 
 
 Half. The fathers have put them up,*° 
 utterly disliking the match, and have ap- 
 pointed the one shall have Memphio's 
 son, the other Stellio's daughter; this 
 works like wax, but how it will fadge in 
 the end, the hen that sits next the cock 
 cannot tell. 
 
 Bis. If thou have but any spice of knavery 
 we '11 make thee happy. 
 
 Half. Tush! doubt not of mine; I am as 
 full for my pitch ■"* as you are for yours ; 
 a wren's egg is as full of meat as a goose 
 egg, though there be not so much in it; 
 you shall find this head well stuffed, 
 though there went little stuff to it. 
 
 Bro. Laudo ingenium, I like thy sconce ; °^ 
 then hearken. Memply.0 made me of his 
 counsel about marriage of his son to 
 Stellio's daughter; Stellio made Eiscio 
 acquainted to plot a match with Mem- 
 phio's son. To be short, they be both 
 fools. 
 
 Half. But they are not fools that be 
 short; if I thought thou meantest so, 
 Senties qui vir sim, thou shouldst have a 
 crow to pull."^ 
 
 Bis. Be not angry. Halfpenny; for fel- 
 lowship we will be all fools, and for gain 
 all knaVes. But why dost thou laugh? 
 
 Half. At mine own conceit and quick cen- 
 sure. 
 
 Bis. What 's the matter? 
 
 Half. Suddenly methought you two were 
 asses, and that the least ass was the more 
 ass. 
 
 Bis. Thou art a fool; that cannot be. 
 
 Half. Yea, my young master taught me to 
 prove it by learning, and so I can out of 
 Ovid by a verse. 
 
 Bis. Prithee, how? 
 
 Half. You must first for fashion's sake 
 confess yourselves to be asses. 
 
 Bro. Well! 
 
 Half. Then stand you here, and you there. 
 
 Bis. Go to ! 
 
 Half. Then this is the verse as I point it : 
 Cum mala per longas invaluere moras.^^ 
 So you see the least ass is the more ass. 
 
 Bis. We'll bite thee for an ape if thou 
 bob us like asses. But to end all, if thou 
 wilt join with us we will make a match 
 between the two fools, for that must be 
 our task ; and thou shalt devise to couple 
 
 40 secret. 
 
 *i A purse was car- 
 ried hanging from 
 the girdle, and 
 sometimes a dag- 
 ger was thrust 
 through the 
 
 42 shflrt for St. An- 
 thony ; meaning 
 ohscure. 
 
 43 firelock musket. 
 
 44 Halfpenny was 
 evidently a very 
 small tpy. 
 
 45 knaves. 
 
 40 counterfeits. 
 
 47 one who deserves 
 to be hanged. 
 
 48 I 'm hammering 
 out a device. 
 
 49 confined them. 
 
 50 degree. 
 
 51 headpiece, 
 wit. 
 
 52 a bone to 
 with me. 
 
 53 Ovid Rem. Am. 
 92. The only ex- 
 
 pick 
 
 cuse for a poor 
 pun consists 
 
 in Halfpenny's 
 pointing, at his 
 fellows as he pro- 
 nounces Umg-at 
 and mar-ot. 
 
54 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Candius and Livia by overreaching their 
 fathers. 
 Balf. Let me alone, Non enim mea pigra 
 juventus : there 's matter in this noddle. 
 
 Enter Lucio. 
 
 But look where Prisius' boy comes, as fit 
 as a pudding for a dog's mouth. 
 
 Luc. Pop three knaves in a sheath, I '11 
 make it a right Tunbridge case and be 
 the bodkin. 
 
 Ris. Nay, the bodkin is here already; you 
 must be the knife. 
 
 Half. 1 am the bodkin; look well to your 
 ears, I must bore them. 
 
 Dro. Mew ^* thy tongue or we '11 cut it 
 out; this I speak representing the person 
 of a knife, as thou didst that in shadow 
 of a bodkin. 
 
 Luc. I must be gone. Taedet, it irketh; 
 Oportet, it behoveth. My wits work 
 like barm, alias yeast, alias sizing, alias 
 rising, alias God's good. 
 
 Half. The new wine is in thine head, yet 
 was he fain to take this metaphor from 
 ale; and now you talk of ale, let us all 
 to the wine. 
 
 Dro. Four makes a mess, and we have a 
 mess of masters that must b,e cozened; 
 let us lay our heads together, they are 
 married and cannot. 
 
 Half. Let us consult at the tavern, where, 
 after to the health of Memphio, drink 
 we to the life of Stellio; I carouse to 
 Prisius, and brinch '= you Mas.°* Sper- 
 antus; we shall cast up our accounts and 
 discharge our stomachs, like men that can 
 digest anything. 
 
 Luc. I see not yet what you go about. 
 
 Dro. Lucio, that can pierce, a mud wall of 
 twenty foot thick, would make us believe 
 he cannot see a candle through a paper 
 lanthorn ; his knavery is beyond Ela, and 
 yet he says he knows not Gam ut." 
 
 Luc. I am ready ; if any cozenage be ripe, 
 I '11 shake the tree. 
 
 Half. Nay, I hope to see thee so strong to 
 shake three trees °* at once. 
 
 Dro. "We burn time, for I must give a 
 reckoning of my day's work ; let us close 
 to the bush °° ad deliberandum. 
 
 Half. Indeed, Inter pocula philosophan- 
 dum: it is good to plea among pots. 
 
 Bis. Thine will be the worst; I fear we 
 shall leave a halfpenny in hand. 
 
 Half. Why sayest thoii that? Thou hast 
 left a print deeper in thy hand '° already 
 than a halfpenny can leave, unless it 
 should sing worse than an hot iron. 
 
 Luc. All friends, and so let us sing; 'tis 
 a pleasant thing to go into the tavern 
 clearing the throat. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Omnes. lo Bacchus! To thy table 
 Thou eall'st every drunken rabble j 
 We already are stiff drinkers, 
 Then seal us for thy jolly skinkers.oi 
 Dro. Wine, O Wine! 
 
 O juice divine! 
 How dost thou the nowl 82 refine ! 
 Bis. Plump thou mak'at men's ruby faces, 
 
 And from girls canst fetch embraces. 
 Half. By thee our noses swell 
 
 With sparkling carbuncle. 
 Luc. O the dear blood of grapes 
 Turns us to antic shapes, 
 Now to show tricks like apes; 
 Dro. Now lion-like to roar; 
 Ris. Now goatishly to whore; 
 Half. Now hoggishly i' th' mire; 
 Luc. Now flinging hats i' th' fire. 
 Omnes. lo Bacchus! At thy table 
 Make us of thy reeling rabble. 
 
 Exeunt into tavern. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 Enter Memphio. 
 
 Mem. I marvel I hear no news of Dromio ; 
 either he slacks the matter or betrays his 
 master. I dare not motion anything to 
 ■Stellio till I know what my boy hath 
 done ; I '11 hunt him out ; if the loiter- 
 sack °' be gone springing into a tavern 
 I '11 fetch him reeling out. 
 
 Exit into tavern. 
 
 Enter Stellio. 
 
 Stel. Without doubt Riscio hath gone be- 
 yond himself in casting beyond the 
 moon.°* I fear the boy be run mad with 
 studying, for I know he loved me so well 
 that for my favor he will venture to run 
 out of his wits ; and, it may be, to quicken 
 his invention, he is gone into this Ivy- 
 
 54 hold. 
 
 55 pledge. 
 
 56 master. 
 
 57 "Vt and la were 
 respectively the 
 lowest a'nd high- 
 est in the Hex- 
 achord, or scale 
 
 of six notes, whose 
 names were de- 
 rived from the 
 initial syllables 
 in the lines of a 
 Latin hymn to St. 
 John," (Bond,) 
 
 The implication 58 i. e. the gallows, 
 that Lucio, 50 An ivy hush was 
 the sign of a 
 tavern. 
 60 Felony was pun- 
 ished by brand- 
 ing in the band, 
 
 though a past 
 master of knav- 
 ery, does not ad- 
 mit Isnowing any- 
 thing of it, 
 
 61 drawers of wine; 
 hence topers. 
 
 02 head. 
 
 68 loiterer. 
 
 64 proverbial for an 
 impossible de- 
 sign. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 55 
 
 bush, a notable nest for a grape owl. 
 I '11 ferret him out, yet in the end use 
 him friendly; I cannot be merry till I 
 hear what 's done in the marriages. 
 
 Exit into tavern. 
 
 Enter Prisius. 
 
 Pris. I think Lueio be gone a-squirreling, 
 but I '11 squirrel him for it ; I sent him 
 on my errand, but I must go for an an- 
 swer myself. I have tied up the loving 
 worm my daughter, and will see whether 
 fancy can worm fancy out of her head. 
 This green nosegay "^ I fear my boy hath 
 smelt to, for if he get but a penny in his 
 purse he turns it suddenly into argentum 
 potabile; *'* I must search every place for 
 him, for I stand on thorns till I hear 
 what he hath done. 
 
 Exit into tavern. 
 
 Enter Sperantus. 
 
 Sper. Well, be as may be is no banning. 
 I think I have charmed my young mas- 
 ter : a hungry meal, a ragged coat, and a 
 dry cudgel have put him quite beside his 
 love and his logic too. Besides his pigs- 
 nie '^ is put up, and therefore now I '11 
 let him take the air and follow Stellio's 
 daughter with all his learning, if he mean 
 to be my heir. The boy hath wit sans 
 measure, more than needs ; cat's meat and 
 dog's meat enough for the vantage. 
 Well, without Halfpenny all my wit is 
 not worth a dodkin ; ** that mite is 
 miching^' in this grove, for as long as 
 his name is Halfpenny he will be ban- 
 queting for the other halfpenny. 
 
 Exit into tavern. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Enter Candius. 
 
 Can. He must needs go that the devil 
 drives! A father? A fiend! that seeks 
 to place affection by appointment, and to 
 force love by compulsion. I have sworn 
 to woo Silena, but it shall be so coldly 
 that she shall take as small delight in my 
 words as I do contentment in his com- 
 mandment. I'll teach him one school 
 trick in love. But behold! who is that 
 Cometh out of Stellio's house? It should 
 seem to be Silena by her attire. 
 
 Enter Silena. 
 
 65i. e. th(iivybijsh. teemed as a opr- «7pig's eye, a term floloiterinj;. 
 
 86 aurvm potabile, dial in the old al- of endearment 70 responsive. 
 
 gold liquefied in chemical pharma- 68 a small Dutch 71 accost, 
 
 oil, was much e»- copoeia. coin. 
 
 By her face I am sure it is she. fair 
 face ! lovely countenance ! How now, 
 Candius, if thou begin to slip at beauty 
 on a sudden, thou wilt surfeit with ca- 
 rousing it at the last. Remember that 
 Livia is faithful; aye, and let thine eyes 
 witness Silena is amiable. Here shall I 
 please my father and myself: I will 
 learn to be obedient, and come what will, 
 I '11 make a way ; if she seem coy I '11 
 practise all the art of love; if I find her 
 coming, '" all the pleasures of love. 
 
 Sil. My name is Silena; I care not who 
 know it, so I do not. My father keeps 
 me close, so he does; and now I have 
 stolen out, so I have, to go to old Mother 
 Bombie to know my fortune, so I will ; 
 for I have as fair a face as ever trod on 
 shoe sole, and as free a foot as ever 
 looked with two eyes. 
 
 Can. [Aside.) What? I think she is * 
 lunatic or foolish. Thou art a fool, Can- 
 dius : so fair a face cannot be the sdab- 
 bard of a foolish mind ; mad she may be, 
 for commonly in beauty so rare there 
 falls passion's extreme. Love and beauty 
 disdain a mean, not therefore because 
 beauty is no virtue, but because it is hap- 
 piness ; and we scholars know that virtue 
 is not to be praised, but honored. I will 
 put on my best grace. — {To Silena.) 
 Sweet wench, thy face is lovely, thy body 
 comely, and all that the eyes can see, en- 
 chanting. You see how, unacquainted, I 
 am bold to board '' you. 
 
 Sil. My father boards me already; there- 
 fore I care not if your name were Geof- 
 frey. 
 
 Can. She raves, or overreaches. — I am 
 one, sweet soul, that loves you, brought 
 hither by report of your beauty, and here 
 languisheth with your rareness. 
 
 Sil. I thank yon that yon would call. 
 
 Can. I will always call on such a saint 
 that hath power to release my sorrows; 
 yield, fair creature, to love. 
 
 Sil. I am none of that sect. 
 
 Can. The loving sect is an ancient sect, 
 and an honorable, and therefore love 
 should be in a person so perfect. 
 
 Sil. Much! '2 
 
 Can. I love thee much; give me one word 
 of comfort. 
 
 Sil. T faith, sir, no ! and so tell your mas- 
 ter. 
 
 72 an exclamation 
 of contempt, 
 
56 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Can. I have no master, but come to make 
 choice of a mistress. 
 
 Sil. Ah ha! are you there with your 
 bears? ^3 
 
 Can. {Aside.) Doubtless she is an idiot 
 of the newest cut. I'll once more try 
 her. — I have loved thee long, Silena. 
 
 Sil. In your tother hose. 
 
 Can. (Aside.) Too simple to be natural, 
 too senseless to be artificial. — You said 
 you went to know your fortune : I am a 
 scholar, and am cunning in palmistry. 
 
 Sil. The better for you, sir. Here's my 
 hand; what's o'clock? 
 
 Can. The line of life is good, Venus' 
 mount very perfect: you shall have a 
 scholar to your first husband. 
 
 Sil. You are well seen ''* in crane's dirt, 
 your father was a poulter. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Can. Why laugh you? 
 
 Sil. Because you should see my teeth. 
 
 Can. (Aside.) Alas, poor wench, I see 
 now also thy folly; a fair fool is like a 
 fresh weed, pleasing leaves and sour 
 juice. I will not yet leave her; she may 
 dissemble. — I cannot choose but love 
 thee. 
 
 Sil. I had thought to ask you. 
 
 Can. Nay then, farewell; either too proud 
 to accept, or too simple to understand. 
 
 Sil. You need not be so crusty, you are 
 not so hard baked. 
 
 Can. Now I perceive thy folly, who hath 
 raked together all the odd blind phrases 
 that help them that know not how to dis- 
 course; but when they cannot answer 
 wisely, either with gibing cover their 
 rudeness, or by some new-coined byword 
 bewray their peevishness. I am glad of 
 this ; now shall I have color to refuse the 
 match, and my father reason to accept of 
 Livia. I will home and repeat to my 
 father our wise encounter, and he shall 
 perceive there is nothing so fulsome as 
 a she fool. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Sil. Good God! I think gentlemen had 
 never less wit in a year. We maids are 
 mad wenches; we gird them and flout 
 them out of all scotch and notch,^° and 
 they cannot see it. I will know of the 
 old woman whether I be a maid or no, 
 and then if I be not I must needs be a 
 man. (Knocks at Mother Bomhie's 
 door.) God be here! 
 
 Enter Mother Bombie. 
 73 is that what you are after ? '* skilled. 
 
 Bom. Who's there? 
 
 Sil. One that would be a maid. 
 
 Bom. If thou be not, it is impossible thou 
 
 shouldst be, and a shame thou art not. 
 Sil. They say you are a witch. 
 Bom. They lie ; I am a cunning woman. 
 Sil. Then tell me something. 
 Bom. Hold up thy hand ; not so high. — 
 
 Thy father knows thee not ; 
 Thy mother bare thee not; 
 Falsely bred, truly begot; 
 Choice of two husbands, but never 
 
 tied in bands, 
 Because of love and natural bonds. 
 
 Sil. I thank you for nothing, because I 
 understand nothing: though you be as 
 old as you are, yet am I as young as I 
 am, and because that I am so fair, there- 
 fore are you so foul; and so farewell, 
 frost, my fortune naught me cost. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Bom. If thou be not, it is impossible thou 
 know thy hard fortune, but in the end 
 thou shalt, and that must bewray what 
 none can discover. In the mean season 
 I will profess cunning for all comers. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Enter Dromio, Biscio, Lucio, Halfpenny. 
 
 Dro. We were all taken tardy. 
 
 Bis. Our masters will be overtaken'* if 
 they tarry. 
 
 Half. Now must every one by wit make 
 an excuse, and every excuse must be 
 cozenage. 
 
 Luc. Let us remember our complot. 
 
 Dro. We will all plod on that; oh, the 
 wine hath turned my wit to vinegar. 
 
 Bis. You mean 't is sharp. 
 
 Half. Sharp? I'll warrant 'twill serve 
 for as good sauce to knavery as — 
 
 Luc. As what? 
 
 Half. As thy knavery meat for his wit. 
 
 Dro. We must all give a reckoning for 
 our day's travel. 
 
 Bis. Tush ! I am glad we scaped the reck- 
 oning for our liquor. If you be. exam- 
 ined how we met, swear by chance, for so 
 they met and therefore will believe it; if 
 how much we drunk, let them answer 
 themselves : they know best because they 
 paid it. I 
 
 76 beyond measure. 
 
 76 i. o, by drink. 
 
iviuiiiER BOMBIE 
 
 57 
 
 Half. We must not tarry: aheundMm est 
 mihi; I must go and cast this matter in a 
 corner. 
 
 Dro. I prae, sequarj a bowl, and I '11 come 
 after with a broom. Every one remem- 
 ber his cue. 
 
 Ris. Aye, and his k,^^ or else we shall 
 thrive ill. 
 
 Half. When shall we meet? 
 
 Ris. Tomorrow, fresh and fasting. 
 
 Dro. Fast eating our meat, for we have 
 drunk for tomorrow, and tomorrow we 
 must eat for today. 
 
 Half. Away, away; if our masters take 
 us here, the matter is marred. 
 
 Lue. Let us every one to his task. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Enter MempMo, Stellio, Prisius, 
 Sperantus. 
 
 Mem. How luckily we met on a sudden in 
 a tavern, that drunk not together almost 
 these thirty years. 
 
 Stel. A tavern is the rendezvous, the ex- 
 change, the staple '* for good f ellov^s ; I 
 have heard my great-grandfather tell how 
 his great-grandfather should say that it 
 was an old proverb when his great-grand- 
 father was a child that it was a good 
 wind that blew a man to the wine. 
 
 Pris. The old time was a good time ! Ale 
 was an ancient drink, and accounted of 
 our ancestors authentical; Gascon wine 
 was liquor for a lord, sack a medicine 
 for the sick, and I may tell you, he that 
 had a cup of red wine to his oysters was 
 hoisted in the Queen's subsidy book.^' 
 
 Sper. ' Aye, but now you see to what loose- 
 ness this age is grown : our boys carouse 
 sack like double beer, and say that which 
 doth an old man good can do a young 
 man no harm ; old men, say they, eat pap, 
 why should not children drink sack? 
 Their white heads have cozened time out 
 of mind our young years. 
 
 Mem. Well, the world is wanton since I 
 knew it first : our boys put as much now 
 in their bellies in an hour as would 
 clothe their whole bodies in a year; we 
 have paid for their tippling eight shil- 
 lings, and as I have heard, it was as much 
 as bought Rufus, sometime king of this 
 land, a pair of hose. 
 
 Pris. Is't possible? 
 
 Stel. Nay, 'tis true; they say ale is out 
 of request, 't is hogs' porridge, broth for 
 beggars, a caudle for constables, watch- 
 men's mouth glue; the better it is, the 
 more like bird lime it is, and never makes 
 one staid but in the stocks. 
 
 Mem. I '11 teach my wag-halter to know 
 grapes from barley. 
 
 Pris. And I mine to discern a spigot from 
 a faucet. 
 
 Sper. And I mine to judge the difference 
 between a black bowl and a silver goblet. 
 
 Stel. And mine shall learn the odds be- 
 tween a stand '" and a hogshead ; yet I 
 cannot choose but laugh to see how my 
 wag answered me when I struck him for 
 drinking sack. 
 
 Pris. Why, what said he ? 
 
 Stel. "Master, it is the sovereignest drink 
 in the world, and the safest for all times 
 and weathers; if it thunder, though all 
 • the ale and beer in the town turn, it will 
 be constant; if it lighten, and that any 
 fire come to it, it is the aptest wine to 
 bum, and the most wholesomest when 
 it is burnt.'^ So much for summer. If 
 it freeze, why, it is so hot in operation 
 that no ice can congeal it; if it rain, 
 why, then he that cannot abide the heat 
 of it, may put in water. So much for 
 winter." And so ran his way, but I'll 
 overtake him. 
 
 Sper. Who would think that my hop on 
 my thumb, Halfpenny, scarce so high as 
 a pint pot, would. reason the matter? 
 But he learned his lear ^^ of my son, his 
 young master, whom I have brought up 
 at Oxford, and I think must learn here 
 in Kent at Ashford. 
 
 Mem. Why, what said he ? 
 
 Sper. He boldly rapped it out, Sine 
 Cerere et Baccho friget Venus : ^^ without 
 wine and sugar his veins would wax cold. 
 
 Mem. They were all in a pleasant vein! 
 But I must be gone, and take account of 
 my boy's business; farewell, neighbors, 
 God knows when we shall meet again. — 
 (Aside.) Yet I have discovered^* noth- 
 ing: my wine hath been my wit's friend. 
 I long to hear what Dromio hath done. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Stel. I cannot stay, but this good fellow- 
 ship shall cost me the setting on at our 
 next meeting. — (Aside.) I am glad I 
 blabbed nothing of the marriage; now I 
 
 77 punningly on cue, 
 
 78 meeting place. 
 78 ' 'hoiBted into the 
 
 list of wealthy 
 persons who 
 
 might be called 
 
 on for a royal 
 loan." (Bond.) 
 80 cask. 
 
 81 heated. 
 
 82 learning. 
 
 B3 a Latin proverb. 
 
 84 revealed. 
 
58 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 
 
 hope to compass it. I know my boy hath 
 been bungling about it. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Pris. Let us all go, for I must to my 
 
 clothes that hang on the tenters.^'' 
 
 (Aside.) My boy shall hang with them, 
 
 if he answer me not his day's work. 
 
 Exit. 
 Sper. If all be gone, I '11 not stay. Half- 
 penny, I am sure, hath done me a penny- 
 worth of good, else I '11 spend his body in 
 buying a rod. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 Enter Mcestius and Serena. 
 
 s. Sweet sister, I know not how it 
 Cometh to pass, but I find in myself pas- 
 sions more than brotherly. 
 
 Ser. And I, dear brother, find my thoughts 
 entangled with affections beyond nature, 
 which so flame into my distempered head 
 that I can neither without danger smother 
 the fire, nor without modesty '° disclose 
 my fury. 
 
 M(ES. Our parents are poor, our love un- 
 natural; what then can happen to make 
 us happy? 
 
 Ser. Only to be content with our father's 
 mean estate, to combat against our own 
 intemperate desires, and yield to the suc- 
 cess of fortune, who, though she hath 
 framed us miserable, cannot make us 
 monstrous. 
 
 Mces. It is good counsel, fair sister, if the 
 necessity of love could be relieved by 
 counsel. Yet this is our comfort, that 
 these unnatural heats have stretched 
 themselves no further than thoughts. 
 Unhappy me, that they should stretch so ! 
 
 Ser. That which nature warranteth laws 
 forbid. Strange it seemeth in sense that 
 because thou art mine, therefore thou 
 must not be mine. 
 
 Mces. So it is, Serena; the nearer we are 
 in blood, the further we must be from 
 love, and the greater the kindred, the less 
 the kindness must be; so that between 
 brothers and sisters superstition hath 
 made affection cold, between strangers 
 custom hath bred love exquisite. 
 
 Ser. They say there is hard by an old 
 cunning Avoman who can tell fortunes, ex- 
 
 pound dreams, tell of things that be lost, 
 and divine of accidents to come; she is 
 called the good woman, who yet never 
 did hurt. 
 
 Mas. Nor any good, I think, Serena. Yet 
 to satisfy thy mind we will see what she 
 can say. 
 
 Ser. Good brother, let us. 
 
 Mces. Who is within? 
 
 Enter Mother Bombie. 
 
 Bom. The dame of the house. 
 
 Mces. She might have said the beldam, for 
 her face and years and attire. 
 
 Ser. Good mother, tell us, if by your cun- 
 ning you can, what shall become of my 
 brother and me. 
 
 Bom. Let me see your hands, and look on 
 me steadfastly with your eyes. 
 You shall be married tomorow hand in 
 
 hand. 
 By the laws of God, nature, and the land ; 
 Your parents shall be glad, and give you 
 
 their land. 
 You shall each of you displace a fool, 
 And both together must relieve a fool. 
 If this be not true, call me old fool. 
 
 Mess. This is my sister, marry we cannot ; 
 our parents are poor and have no land 
 to give us; each of us is a fool to come 
 for coimsel to such an old fool. 
 
 Ser. These doggerel rhymes and obscure 
 words coming out of the mouth of such a 
 weather-beaten witch are thought divina- 
 tions of some holy spirit, being but 
 dreams of decayed brains ; for mine own 
 part, I would thou mightest sit on that 
 stool till he and I marry by law. 
 
 Bom. I say Mother Bombie never speaks 
 but once, and yet never spake untruth 
 once. 
 
 Ser. Come, brother, let us to our poor 
 home ; this is our comfort, to bewray our 
 passions since we cannot enjoy our love. 
 
 M(ss. Content, sweet sister, and learn of 
 me hereafter that these old saws of such 
 old hags are but false fires to lead one 
 out of a plain path into a deep pit. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Enter Dromio and Riscio. 
 
 Dro. Ingenium quondam fuerat pretiosus 
 aiu.ro: the time was when wit would work 
 like wax and crock up '^ gold like honey. 
 
 80 frames for stretching cloth. 
 
 SO shnmefacedness. (Bond.) 
 
 87 collect. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 59 
 
 Bis. At nunc barbaries grandis habere 
 nihil : but now wit and honesty buy noth- 
 ing in the market. 
 
 Dro. What, Riscio, how sped'st thou after 
 thy potting? 
 
 Bis. Nay, my master rung all in the tav- 
 ern, and thrust all out in the house. But 
 how sped'st thou? 
 
 Dro. I? It were a day's work to dis- 
 course it. He spake nothing but sen- 
 tences,*' but they were vengible long ones, 
 for when one word was out he made pause 
 of a quarter long till he spake another. 
 
 Bis. Why, what did he in all that time? 
 
 Dro. Break interjections like wind, as 
 eho! ho! to! 
 
 Bis. And what thou? 
 
 Dro. Answer him in his own language, as 
 evax! vah! hui! 
 
 Bis. These were conjunctions rather than 
 interjections. But what of the plot? 
 
 Dro. As we concluded, I told him that I 
 understood that Silena was very wise and 
 could sing exceedingly; that my device 
 was, seeing Accius his son a proper youth 
 and could also sing sweetly, that he 
 should come in the nick when she was 
 singing, and answer her. 
 
 Bis. Excellent ! 
 
 Dro. Then he asked how it should be de- 
 vised that she might come abroad ; I told 
 him that was cast '° already by my 
 means: then the song being ended, and 
 they seeing one another, noting the ap- 
 parel, and marking the personages, he 
 should call in his son for fear he should 
 overreach his speech. 
 
 Bis. Very good! 
 
 Dro. Then that I hajd gotten a young gen- 
 tleman that resembled his son in years 
 and favor, that having Accius' apparel 
 should court Silena; whom she, finding 
 wise, would after that by small entreaty 
 be won without more words, and so the 
 marriage clapped up by this cozenage, 
 and his son never speak word for him- 
 self. 
 
 Bis. Thou boy! So have I done in every 
 point, for the song, the calling her in, 
 and the hoping that another shall woo 
 Accius, and his daughter wed him. I 
 told him this wooing should be tonight, 
 and they early married in the morning, 
 without any words saving to say after 
 the priest. 
 
 Dro. All this fadges well; now if Half- 
 penny and Lucio have played their parts 
 
 we shall have excellent sport — and here 
 they come. How wrought the wine, my 
 lads? 
 
 Enter Halfpenny and Lucio. 
 
 Half. How? Like wine, for my body 
 being the rundlet °'' and my mouth the 
 vent, it wrought- two days over, till I had 
 thought the hoops of my head would have 
 flown asunder. 
 
 Luc. The best was our masters were as 
 well whittled as we, for yet they lie by it. 
 
 Bis. The better for us! We did but a 
 little parboil our livers ; they have sod "^ 
 theirs in sack these forty years. 
 
 Half. That makes them spit white broth 
 as they do. But to the purpose: Can- 
 dius and Livia will send their attires, you 
 must send the apparel of Accius and Si- 
 lena ; they wonder wherefore, but commit 
 the matter to our quadrupartite wit. 
 
 Luc. If you keep promise to marry them 
 by your device, and their parents con- 
 sent, you shall have ten pounds apiece 
 for your pains. 
 
 Dro. If we do it not we are undone, for 
 we have broached a cozenage already, 
 and my master hath the tap in his hand 
 that it must needs run out. Let them be 
 ruled and bring hither their apparel, and 
 we will determine; the rest commit to 
 our intricate considerations. Depart. 
 Exeunt Halfpenny and Lucio. 
 
 'Enter Accius and Silena. 
 
 Dro. Here comes Accius tuning his pipes. 
 I perceive my master keeps" touch.'^ 
 
 Bis. And here comes Silena with her wit 
 of proof ; ^^ marry, it will scarce hold 
 out question shot. Let us in to instruct 
 our masters in the cue. 
 
 Dro. Come, let us be jogging. But wer 't 
 not a world to hear them woo one an- 
 other? 
 
 Bis. That shall be hereafter to make us 
 sport, but our masters shall never know 
 it. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Enter Accius and Silena singing. 
 
 8il. O Cupid, monarch over kings, 
 
 Wherefore hast thou feet and wings ? 
 It is to show how swift thou art, 
 When thou wound'st a tender heart; 
 
 83 maxims. 
 89 planned. 
 
 00 keg. 
 
 81 soaked. 
 
 92 keeps his promise. 
 
 S3 proof armor. 
 
60 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Thy wings being clipped, and feet 
 
 held still, 
 Thy bow could not so many kill. 
 Ac. It is all one in Venus' wanton school 
 
 Who highest sits, the wise man or 
 the fool; 
 
 Fools in love's college 
 Have far more knowledge 
 To read a woman over, 
 Than a neat prating lover. 
 
 Nay, 'tis contest 
 That fools please women best. 
 
 Enter Memphio and Stellio. 
 
 Mem. Aeeius, come in, and that quickly! 
 What ! Walking without leave ? 
 
 Stel. Silena, I pray you look homeward; 
 it is a cold air, and you want your 
 muffler. 
 
 Exeunt Accius and Silena. 
 
 Mem. {Aside.) This is pat! If the rest 
 proceed, Stellio is like to marry his 
 daughter to a fool; but a bargain is a 
 bargain. 
 
 Stel. (Aside.) This frames to my wish! 
 Memphio is like to marry a fool to his 
 son; Accius' tongue shall tie all Mem- 
 phio's land to Silena's dowry, let his 
 father's teeth undo them if he can. But 
 here I see Memphio; I must seem kind, 
 for in kindness lies cozenage. 
 
 Mem. (Aside.) Well, here is Stellio. 
 I '11 talk of other matters, and fly from 
 the mark I shoot at, lapwing-like flying 
 far from the place where I nestle. — 
 Stellio, what make you abroad ? I heard 
 you were sick since our last drinking. 
 
 Stel. You see reports are no truths; I 
 heard the like of you, and we are both 
 well. I perceive sober men tell most lies, 
 for in vino Veritas; if they had drunk 
 wine they would have told the truth. 
 
 Mem. Our boys will be sure then never to 
 lie, for they are ever swilling of wine. 
 But, Stellio, I must strain courtesy with 
 you ; I have business, I cannot stay. 
 
 Stel. In good time, Memphio, for I was 
 about to crave your patience to depart; 
 it stands me upon. — (Aside.) Per- 
 haps I may move his patience ere it be 
 long. 
 
 Mem. (Aside.) Good silly Stellio; we 
 must buckle shortly. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Enter Halfpenny, Lucio, Bixula, with 
 clothes belonging to Candius and Livia. 
 
 Luc. Come, Rixula, we have made thee 
 
 privy to the whole pack ; °* there lay 
 
 down the pack. 
 Bix. I believe unless it be better handled 
 
 we shall out of doors. 
 Half. I care not. Omnem solum forti 
 
 patria: I can live in Christendom as well 
 
 as in Kent. 
 Imc. And I '11 sing Patria uhicunque bene: 
 
 every house is my home where I may 
 
 staunch hunger. 
 Bix. Nay, if you set all on hazard, though 
 
 I be a poor wench I am as hardy as you 
 
 both. I cannot speak Latin, but in plain 
 
 English, if anything fall out cross, I '11 
 
 run away. 
 Half. He loves thee well that would run 
 
 after. 
 Bix. Why, Halfpenny, there's no goose 
 
 so gray in the lake that cannot find a 
 
 gander for her make.*° 
 Luc. I love a nut-brown lass : 't is good to 
 
 recreate. 
 Half. Thou meanest a brown nut is good 
 
 to crack. 
 Luc. Why, would it not do thee good to 
 
 crack such a nut? 
 Half. 1 fear she is worm-eaten within, she 
 
 is so moth-eaten without. 
 Bix. If you take your pleasure of me, I '11 
 
 in and tell your practices against your 
 
 masters. 
 Half. In faith, sour heart, he that takes 
 
 his pleasure on thee is very pleasurable. 
 Bix. You mean knavishly, and yet I hope 
 
 foul water will quench hot flre as soon as 
 
 fair. 
 Half. Well then, let fair words eool that 
 
 choler which foul speeches hath kindled ; 
 
 and because we are all in this case, and 
 
 hope all to have good fortune, sing a 
 
 roundelay, and we '11 help,— ^uch as thou 
 
 wast wont when thou beatedst hemp."® 
 Luc. It was crabs she stamped," and stole 
 
 one away to make her a face. 
 Bix. I agree, in hope that the hemp shall 
 
 come to your wearing ; a halfpenny halter 
 
 may hang you both, that is, Halfpenny 
 
 and you may hang in a halter. 
 Half. Well brought about. 
 Bix. 'T will when 't is about your neck. 
 Luc. Nay, now she 's in, she will never 
 
 out. 
 Bix. Nor when your heads are in, as it is 
 
 likely, they should not come out. But 
 
 hearken to my song. 
 
 They sing. 
 
 94 plot. 
 
 06 mate. 
 
 96 Beating hemp was the 
 those confined in houses 
 
 occupation of 
 of correction. 
 
 87 crab-apples she 
 pounded. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 61 
 
 Song. 
 
 Rise. Full hard did I sweat 
 
 When hemp I did beat, 
 
 Then thought I of notliing but hang- 
 ing; 
 
 The hemp being spun, 
 
 My beating was done; 
 
 Then I wished for a noise 98 
 
 Of crack-halter boys, 
 
 On those hempen strings to be 
 twanging. 
 
 Long looked I about, 
 
 The city throughout— 
 
 Boys. And found no such fiddling varlets. 
 
 Rix. Yes, at last coming hither, 
 I saw four together. 
 
 Boys. May thy hemp choke such singing 
 harlots. 
 
 Rix. To whit, to whoo, the owl does cry; 
 Phip, phip, the sparrows as they fly; 
 The goose does hiss, the duck cries quack, 
 A rope the parrot, that holds tack.^o 
 
 Boys. The parrot and the rope be thine. 
 
 Rix. The hanging yours, but the hemp 
 
 Enter Dromio and Biscio, with clothes be- 
 longing to Accius and Silena. 
 
 Brti. Yonder stand the wags; I am come 
 
 in good time. 
 Bis. All here before me! You make 
 
 haste! 
 Bix. I believe to hanging, for I think you 
 
 have all robbed your masters; here's 
 
 every man his baggage. 
 Salf. That is, we are all with thee, for 
 
 thou art a very baggage. 
 Bix. Hold thy peace, or of mine honesty 
 
 I '11 buy a halfpenny purse with thee. 
 Dro. Indeed, that 's big enough to put thy 
 
 honesty in. But come, shall we go about 
 
 the matter? 
 Luc. Now it is come to the pinch, my 
 
 heart pants. 
 Ralf. I for my part am resolute, in 
 
 utrumque paratus, ready to die or to run 
 
 away. 
 Lue. But hear me. I was troubled with a 
 
 vile dream, and therefore it is little time 
 
 spent to let Mother Bombie expound it; 
 
 she is cunning in all things. 
 Dro. Then will I know my fortune. 
 Bix. And I '11 ask for a silver spoon which 
 
 was lost last day, which I must pay for. 
 Bis. And I'll know what will become of 
 
 our devices. 
 Half. And I. 
 Dro. Then let us all go quickly; we must 
 
 not sleep in this business, our masters 
 are so watchful about it. 
 
 They knock at Mother Bombie's door. 
 Enter Mother Bombie. 
 
 Bom. Why do you rap so hard at the 
 door? 
 
 Dro. Because we would come in. 
 
 Bom. Nay, my house is no inn. 
 
 Half. Cross yourselves, how she looks ! 
 
 Dro. Mark her not; she'll turn us all to 
 apes. 
 
 Bom. What would you with me? 
 
 Bis. They say you are cunning, and are 
 called the good woman of Rochester. 
 
 Bom. If never to do harm be to do good, 
 I dare say I am not ill. But what 's the 
 matter? 
 
 Luc. I had an ill dream, and desire to 
 know the signification. 
 
 Bom. Dreams, my son, have their weight ; 
 though they be of a troubled mind, yet 
 are they signs of fortune. Say on. 
 
 Luc. In the dawning of the day, for about 
 that time by my starting out of sleep I 
 found it to be, methought I saw a stately 
 piece of beef, with a cape cloak of cab- 
 bage, embroidered with pepper; having 
 two honorable pages with hats of mustard 
 on their heads; himself in great pomp 
 sitting upon a cushion of white brewis ^ 
 lined' with brown bread. Methought be- 
 ing powdered,^ he was much troubled 
 with the salt rheum; and therefore there 
 stood by him two great flagons of sack 
 and beer, the one to dry up his rheum, 
 the other to quench his eholer. I, as one 
 envying his ambition, hungering and 
 thirsting after his honor, began to pull 
 his cushion from under him, hoping by 
 that means to give him a fall; and with 
 putting out my hand awaked, and found 
 nothing in all this dream about me but 
 the salt rheum. 
 
 Dro. A dream for a butcher. 
 
 Luc. Soft, let me end it. Then I slum- 
 bered again, and methought there came 
 in a leg of mutton. 
 
 Dro. What! All gross ^ meat? A rack* 
 had been dainty. 
 
 Luc. Thou fool, how could it come in, un- 
 less it had been a leg? Methought his 
 hose were cut and drawn out with pars- 
 ley. I thrust my hand into my pocket 
 for a knife, thinking to box ° him, and 
 so awaked. 
 
 Bom. Belike thou went supperless to bed. 
 
 98 band of musi- 
 cians. 
 
 99 is appropriate. 
 
 1 meat broth, with 
 bread soaked in it. 
 
 2 salted. 
 
 3 common. 
 
 * neck of mutton, 
 c hamstring. 
 
62 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Luc. So I do every night but Sundays. 
 Prisius hath a weak stomach, and there- 
 fore we must starve. 
 
 Bom. Well, take this for answer, though 
 the dream be fantastical: 
 They that in the morning sleep dream of 
 
 eating 
 Are in danger of sickness or of beating, 
 Or shall hear of a wedding fresh a-beat- 
 ing.* 
 
 Imc. This may be true. 
 
 Half. Nay then, let me come in with a 
 dream, short but sweet, that my mouth 
 waters ever since I waked. Methought 
 there sat upon a shelf three damask 
 prunes in velvet caps and pressed satin 
 gowns, like judges; and that there were 
 a whole handful of currants to be ar- 
 raigned of a riot, because they clung to- 
 gether in such clusters ; twelve raisins of 
 the sun ' were empaneled in a jury ; and 
 as a leaf of whole mace, which was 
 bailiff, was carrying the quest * to con- 
 sult, methought there came an angry cook 
 and gelded the jury of their stones, and 
 swept both judges, jurors, rebels, and 
 bailiff into a porridge pot. Whereat I, 
 being melancholy, fetched a deep sigh 
 that waked myself and my bedfellow. 
 
 Dro. This was devised, not dreamt; and 
 the more foolish, being no dream, for 
 that dreams excuse the fantastiealness. 
 
 Halfi- Then ask my bedfellow — ^you know 
 him — ^who dreamt that night that the king 
 of diamonds was sick. 
 
 Bom. But thy years and humor.s, pretty 
 child, are subject to such fancies, which 
 the more unsensible they seem, the more 
 fantastical they are ; therefore this dream 
 is easy. 
 
 To children this is given from the gods: 
 To dream of milk, fruit, babies, and 
 
 rods; 
 They betoken nothing but that wantons 
 must have rods. 
 
 Dro. Ten to one thy dream is true; thou 
 wilt be swinged. 
 
 Ri.T. Nay, Gammer, I pray you tell me 
 who stole my spoon out of the but- 
 tery. 
 
 Bom. Thy spoon is not stolen, but mislaid ; 
 Thou art an ill housewife, though a good 
 
 maid. 
 Look for thy spoon where thou hadst like 
 to be no maid. 
 
 Six. Body of me ! let me fetch the spoon ! 
 I remember the place ! 
 
 Luc. Soft, swift; the place, if it be there 
 
 now, will be there tomorrow. 
 Rix. Aye, but perchance the spoon will 
 
 not. 
 Half. Wert thou once put to it? 
 Rix. No, sir boy, it was put to me. 
 Luc. How was it missed? 
 Dro. I '11 warrant for want of a mist. 
 
 But what's my fortune, mother? 
 Bom. Thy father doth live because he doth 
 dye; 
 
 Thou hast spent all thy thrift with a 
 die, 
 
 And so like a beggar thou shalt die. 
 Ris. I would have liked well if all the 
 
 gerunds had been there, di, do, and dum; 
 
 but all in die, that 's too deadly. 
 Dro. My father indeed is a dyer, and I 
 
 have been a dicer; but to die a beggar, 
 
 give me leave not to believe, Mother Bom- 
 
 bie. And yet it may be : I have nothing 
 
 to live by but knavery, and if the world 
 
 grow honest, welcome beggary. But 
 
 what hast thou to say, Riseio? 
 Ris. Nothing till I see whether all this be 
 
 true that she hath said. 
 Half. Aye, Riseio would fain see thee 
 
 beg. 
 Ris. Nay, mother, tell us this: what is all 
 
 our fortunes 1 We are about a matter of 
 
 ledgermain — ^how will it fadge? 
 Bom. You shall all thrive like cozeners, 
 
 That is, to be cozened by cozeners; 
 
 All shall end well, and you be found 
 cozeners. 
 Dro. Gramercy, Mother Bombie; we are 
 
 all pleased, if you were for your pains. 
 
 {Offers her money.) 
 
 Bom. I take no money but good words. 
 
 Rail not if I tell true; if I do not, re- 
 venge. Farewell. 
 
 Exit. 
 Dro. Now have we nothing to do but to go 
 
 about this business. Accius' apparel let 
 
 Candius put on, and I will array Accius 
 
 with Candius' clothes. 
 Ris. Here is Silena's attire; Lueio, put it 
 
 upon Livia, and give me Livia's for Si- 
 
 lena. This done, let Candius and Livia 
 
 come forth, and let Dromio and me alone 
 
 for the rest. 
 Half. What shall become of Accius and 
 
 Silena? 
 Dro. Tush! their turn shall be next, all 
 
 must be done orderly. Let's to it, for 
 
 now it works. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 6 under way. 
 
 7 sun dried. 
 
 8 jury. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 63 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 Enter Candius and Livia in the clothes of 
 Accius and Silena. 
 
 Liv. This attire is very fit. But how if 
 this make me a fool and Silena wise? 
 You will then woo me and wed her. 
 
 Can. Thou knowest that Accius is also a 
 fool, and his raiment fits me, so that if 
 apparel be infectious, I am also like to 
 be a fool, and he wise. What would be 
 the conclusion, I marvel. 
 
 Enter Dromio and Rkcio. 
 
 Liv. Here comes our counsellors. 
 
 Dro. Well said; I perceive turtles fly in 
 couples. 
 
 Bis. Else how should they couple? 
 
 Liv. So do knaves go double, else how 
 should they be so cunning in doubling? 
 
 Can. Bona verba, Livia. 
 
 Dro. I understand Latin; that is, Livia is 
 a good word. 
 
 Can. No, I bid her use good words. 
 
 Sis. And what deeds? 
 
 Can. None but a deed of gift. 
 
 Bis. What gift? 
 
 Can. Her heart. 
 
 Dro. Give me leave to pose you, though 
 you be a graduate; for I tell you we in 
 Rochester spur so many hackneys that we 
 must needs spur scholars, for we take 
 them for hackneys. 
 
 Liv. Why so, sir boy? 
 
 Dro. Because I knew two hired for ten 
 groats apiece to say service on Sunday, 
 and that's no more than a post-horse 
 from hence to Canterbury. 
 
 Bis. He knows what he says, for he once 
 served the post-master. 
 
 Can. Indeed, I think he served some post 
 to his master. But come, Dromio, post " 
 me. 
 
 Dro. You say you would have her heart 
 for a deed. 
 
 Can. Well? 
 
 Dro. If you take her heart for cor, that 
 heart in her body, then know this : Molle 
 eius levibus, cor enim violabile telis; a 
 woman's heart is thrust through with a 
 feather. If you mean she should give a 
 heart named- cervus, then are you worse, 
 for eornua cervus habet; that is to have 
 one's heart grow out at his head, which 
 
 will make one ache at the heart in their 
 body. 
 
 Enter Prisius and Sperantus. 
 
 Liv. 1 beshrew your hearts, I hear one 
 coming; I know it is my father by his 
 coming. 
 Can. What must we do? 
 Dro. Why, as I told you, and let me alone 
 with the old men. Tall you to your 
 bridal. 
 
 Pris. Come, neighbor, I perceive the love 
 
 of our children waxeth key-eold. 
 Sper. I think it was never but lukewarm. 
 
 Pris. Bavins i" will have their flashes and 
 youth their fancies, the one as soon 
 quenched as the other burnt. But who 
 be these? 
 
 Can. Here do I plight my faith, taking 
 thee for the staff of my age, and of my 
 youth the solace. 
 
 Liv. And I vow to thee affection which 
 nothing can dissolve, neither the length 
 of time, nor malice of fortune, nor dis- 
 tance of place. 
 
 Can. But when shall we be married? 
 
 Liv. A good question, for that one delay 
 in wedding brings an hundred dangers in 
 the church : we will not be asked,^^ and a 
 license is too chargeable, and to tarry till 
 tomorrow too tedious. 
 
 Dro. There's a girl stands on pricks till 
 she be married. 
 
 Can. To avoid danger, charge, and tedi- 
 ousness, let us now conclude it in the 
 next church. 
 
 Liv. Agreed. 
 
 Pris. What be these that 'hasten so to 
 marry? 
 
 Dro. Marry, sir, Accius, son to Memphio, 
 and Silena, Stellio's daughter. 
 
 Sper. I am sorry, neighbor, for our pur- 
 poses are disappointed. 
 
 Pi'is. You see marriage is destiny; made 
 in heaven, though consummated on earth. 
 
 Bis. How like you them? Be they not a 
 pretty couple? 
 
 Pris. Yes; God give them joy, seeing in 
 spite of our hearts they must join. 
 
 Dro. I am sure you are not angry, seeing 
 things past cannot be recalled ; and being 
 witnesses to their contract, will be also 
 well-willers to the match. 
 
 Sper. For my part, I wish them well. 
 
 Pris. And I; and since there is no rem- 
 edy, I am glad of it. 
 
 9 pun on Dromio's pose above. 
 
 10 fagots. 
 
 11 the banns will not be asked. 
 
64 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Bis. But will you never hereafter take it 
 in dudgeon,^^ but use them as well as 
 though yourselves had made the mar- 
 riage? 
 
 Pris. Not I. 
 
 Sper. Nor I. 
 
 Dro. Sir, here's two old men are glad 
 that your loves, so long continued, is so 
 happily concluded. 
 
 Can. "We thank them; and if they will 
 come to Memphio's house, they shall take 
 part of a bad dinner. — {Aside.) This 
 cottons,^' and works like wax in a sow's 
 ear. 
 
 Exeunt Gandius and Livia. 
 
 Pris. Well, seeing our purposes are pre- 
 vented, we must lay other plots, for Livia 
 must not have Candius. 
 
 Sper. Fear not, for I have sworn that 
 Candius shall not have Livia. But let 
 us not fall out because our children fall 
 in. 
 
 Pris. Wilt thou go soon to Memphio's 
 house 1 
 
 Sper. Aye, and if you will, let us, that we 
 may see how the young couple bride it, 
 and so we may teach our own. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Enter Lucio and Halfpenny. 
 
 Luc. By this time I am sure the wags 
 have played their parts ; there rests noth- 
 ing now for us but to match Accius and 
 Silena. 
 
 Half. It was too good to be true, for we 
 should laugh heartily, and without laugh- 
 ing my spleen would split. But Tsthist! 
 here comes the man, — 
 
 Enter Accius in Candius' clothes. 
 
 and yonder the maid. Let us stand aside. 
 
 Enter Silena in Livia's clothes. 
 
 Ac. What means my father to thrust me 
 forth in another boy's coat. I '11 war- 
 rant 't is to as much purpose as a hem 
 in the forehead.^* 
 
 Half. There was an ancient proverb 
 knocked in the head. 
 
 Ac. I am almost come into my nonage, 
 
 and yet I never was so far as the prov- 
 erbs of this city. 
 Luc. There's a quip for the suburbs of 
 
 Rochester. 
 Half. Excellently applied. 
 Sil. Well, though this furniture ^° make 
 
 me a sullen dame, yet I hope in mine own 
 
 I am no saint. 
 Half. A brave fight is like to be between 
 
 a cock with a long comb and a hen with 
 
 a long leg. 
 Luc. Nay, her wits are shorter than her 
 
 legs. 
 Half. And his comb longer than his wit. 
 Ac. I have yonder uncovered a fair girl; 
 
 I '11 be so bold as spur ^^ her what might 
 
 a body call her name. 
 Sil. I cannot help you at this time ; I pray 
 
 you come again tomorrow. 
 Half. Aye, marry, sir! 
 Ac. You need not be so lusty, you are not 
 
 so honest. 
 Sil. 1 cry you mercy, I took you for a 
 
 joint stool.^' 
 Luc. Here 's courting for a conduit or a 
 
 bakehouse. 
 Sil. But what are you for a man? Me- 
 
 thinks you look as pleaseth God. 
 Ac. What, do you give me the boots ? ^* 
 Half. Whither will they? Here be right 
 
 cobbler's cuts! 
 Ac. I am taken with a fit of love; have 
 
 you any mind of marriage? 
 Sil. I had thought to have asked you. 
 Ac. Upon what acquaintance? 
 Sil. Who would have thought it? 
 Ac. Much in my gascoigns, more in my 
 
 round hose ; ^° all my father's are as 
 
 white as daisies, as an egg full of 
 
 meat. 
 Sil. And all my father's plate is made of 
 
 crimson velvet.' 
 Ac. That 's brave with bread ! 
 Half. These two had wise men to their 
 
 fathers. 
 Luc. Why? 
 Half. Because when their bodies were at 
 
 work about household stuff their minds 
 
 were busied about commonwealth matters. 
 Ac. This is pure lawn ; what call you this, 
 
 a pretty face to your hair? 
 Sil. Wisely! You have picked a raisin 
 
 out of a frail "> of figs. 
 Ac. Take it as you list; you are in your 
 
 own clothes. 
 
 12 be offended. 
 
 13 succeeds. 
 
 14 Accius and Si- 
 lena are made to 
 talk alinoBt pure 
 
 nonsense through 
 the scene. 
 16 clothing. 
 
 16 ask. 
 
 17 a proverbial ex- 
 
 pression of scorn. 
 
 18 mock me. 
 
 19 "Gaskins were 
 loose, wide 
 breeches ; the 
 
 round hose fitted 
 the leg closely. 
 The latter would 
 therefore indicate 
 a closer degree of 
 
 acquaintance o: 
 favor." (Bond.) 
 20 wicker basket. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 65 
 
 Sil. Saving a reverence,^'^ that 's a lie ! 
 
 My clothes are better — ^my father bor- 
 rowed these. 
 Ac. Long may he so do. I could tell that 
 
 these are not mine, if I would blab it 
 
 like a woman. 
 Sil. I had as lief you should tell them it 
 
 snowed. 
 Luc. Come, let us take them off, for we 
 
 have had the cream of them. 
 Half. I warrant if this be the pream, the 
 
 milk is very flat. Let us join issue with 
 
 them. 
 Luc. To have such issue of our bodies, is 
 
 worse than have an issue in the body. 
 
 (To Silena.) God save you, pretty 
 
 mouse. 
 Sil. You may command and go without. 
 Half. There 's a gleek ^^ for you ; let me 
 
 have my gird.^* — (To Silena.) On thy 
 
 conscience, tell me what 'tis o'clock? 
 Sil. I cry you mercy, I have killed your 
 
 cushion. 
 Half. I am paid,°* and struck dead in the 
 
 nest. I am sure this soft youth, who is 
 
 not half so wise as you are fair," nor you 
 
 altogether so fair as he is foolish, will 
 
 not be so captious. 
 Ac. Your eloquence passes my recognos- 
 
 cence. 
 
 Enter Memphio and Stellio, behind. 
 
 Luc. I never heard that before; but shall 
 we two make a match between you? 
 
 Sil. I '11 know first who was his father. 
 
 Ac. My father? What need you to care? 
 I hope he was none of yours ! 
 
 Half. A hard question, for it is odds but 
 one begat them both; he that cut out the 
 upper leather, cut out the inner, and so 
 with one awl stitched two soles together. 
 
 Stel. (Aside to Luc.) What is she? 
 
 Luc. 'Tis Prisius' daughter. 
 
 Stel. In good time; it fadges. 
 
 Mem. (Aside to Half.) What is he? 
 
 Half. Sperantus' son. 
 
 Mem. So? 'T will cotton. 
 
 Ac. Damsel, I pray you, how old are you? 
 
 Mem. (Aside.) My son would scarce 
 have asked such a foolish question. 
 
 Sil. I shall be eighteen next bear-baiting. 
 
 Stel. (Aside.) My daughter would have 
 made a wiser answer. 
 
 Half. (To Luc.) how fitly this comes 
 off! 
 
 Ac. My father is a scold ; what 's yours ? 
 Mem. My heart throbs, — I '11 look him in 
 
 the face ; and yonder I espy Stellio. 
 Stel. My mind misgives me, — but whist! 
 
 yonder is Memphio. 
 Ac. (To Mem.) In faith, I perceive an 
 
 old saw and a rusty: no fool to the old 
 
 fool. I pray you, wherefore was I 
 
 thrust out like a scarecrow in this simili- 
 tude? 
 Mem. My son ! And I ashamed ! Dro- 
 
 mio shall die! 
 Sil. Father, are you sneaking behind? I 
 
 pray you, what must I do next? 
 Stel. My daughter! Kiseio, thou hast 
 
 cozened me! 
 Luc. Now begins the game. 
 Mem. How came you hither? 
 Ac. Marry, by the way from your house 
 
 hither. 
 Mem. How chance in this attire? 
 Ac. How chance Dromio bid me? 
 Mem. Ah, thy son will be begged for a 
 
 concealed fool ! ^^ 
 Ac. Will I? r faith, sir, no. 
 Stel. Wherefore came you hither, Silena. 
 
 without leave? 
 Sil. Because I did, and I am here because 
 
 I am. 
 Stel. Poor wench, thy wit is improved ^^ 
 
 to the uttermost. 
 Half. Aye, 'tis an hard matter to have a 
 
 wit of the old rent, every one racks " 
 
 his commons so high. 
 Mem. (Aside.) Dromio told me that one 
 
 should meet Stellio's daughter and court 
 
 her in person of my son. 
 Stel. (Aside.) Riscio told me one should 
 
 meet Memphio's son, and plead in place 
 
 of my daughter. 
 Mem. (Aside.) But alas! I see that my 
 
 son hath met with Silena himself, and 
 
 bewrayed his folly. 
 Stel. (Aside.) But I see my daughter 
 
 hath prattled with Accius, and discov- 
 ered '^ her simplicity. 
 Luc. A brave cry to hear the two old 
 
 mules weep over the two young fools. 
 Mem. Accius, how likest thou' Silena? 
 Ac. I take her to be pregnant. 
 Sil. Truly, his talk is very personable. 
 Stel. Come in, girl; this gear must be 
 
 fetched about.^° 
 Mem. Come, Accius, let us go in. 
 Luc. (To Stel.) Nay, sir, there is no 
 
 harm done ; they have neither bought nor 
 
 21 begging your par- 
 don ; from the 
 Latin aalva rev- 
 
 ,-,erentia, and used 
 apologetically be- 
 
 fore strong or in- 
 decent language. 
 
 22 scoff. 
 
 33 taunt, 
 
 24 paid iu full, dis- 
 
 comfited. 
 
 25 cf. p. 48, n. 4. 
 
 20 a secondary 
 
 meaning, to raise 
 the rent of, is 
 
 punningly re- 
 ferred to in the 
 next speech. 
 27 charges exorbi- 
 tant rent fpr, 
 
 28 revealed. 
 
 29 this matter must 
 be handled in a 
 roundabout fash- 
 ion. 
 
THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 sold; they may be twins for their wits 
 and years. 
 
 Mem. (To Half.) But why diddest thou 
 tell me it was Sperantus' son? 
 
 Half. Because I thought thee a fool to 
 ask who thine own son was. 
 
 Luc. {To St el.) And so, sir, for your 
 daughter education hath done much ; oth- 
 erwise by nature they are soft-witted 
 enough. 
 
 Mem. Alas, their joints are not yet tied ; °° 
 they are not yet come to years and dis- 
 cretion. 
 
 Ac. Father, if my hands be tied shall I 
 grow wise? 
 
 Half. Aye, and Silena too, if you tie them 
 fast to your tongues. 
 
 Sil. You may take your pleasure of my 
 tongue, for it is no man's wife. 
 
 Mem. Come in, Accius. 
 
 Stel. Come in, Silena. I will talk with 
 Memphio's son, but as for Riscio — ! 
 
 Mem. As for Dromio — ! 
 Exeunt Memphio, Accius, Stellio, Silena. 
 
 Half. Ass for you all four! 
 
 Enter Dromio and Biseio. 
 
 Dro. How goes the world now ? We have 
 made all sure; Candius and Livia are 
 married, their fathers consenting, yet not 
 knowing. 
 
 Luc. We have flat marred all! Accius 
 and Silena courted one another; their 
 fathers took them napping, both are 
 ashamed, and you both shall be swinged. 
 
 Ris. Tush ! let us alone ; we will persuade 
 them that all falls out for the best, for 
 if underhand this match had been con- 
 eluded, they both had been cozened, and 
 now, seeing they find both to be fools, 
 they may be both better advised. But 
 why is Halfpenny so sad? 
 
 Enter Hackneyman and Sergeant. 
 
 Half. Because I am sure I shall never be 
 
 a penny. 
 Ris. Rather pray there be no fall of 
 
 money, for thou wilt then go for a q.^^ 
 Dro. But did not the two fools currently ^^ 
 
 court one another? 
 Luc. Very good words, fitly applied, 
 
 brought in the nick. 
 Serg. (Seizing Dro.) I arrest you. 
 Dro. Me, sir? Why then didst not bring 
 
 a stool with thee that I might sit down? 
 
 Hack. He arrests you at my suit for a 
 
 horse. 
 Ris. The more ass he ! If he had arrested 
 
 a mare instead of an horse it had been 
 
 but a slight oversight; but to arrest a 
 
 man that hath no likeness of a horse is 
 
 flat lunacy or alecy.^^ 
 Hack. Tush! I hired him a horse. 
 Dro. I swear then he was well ridden. 
 Hack. I think in two days he was never 
 
 baited. , 
 Half. Why, was it a bear thou rid'st on? 
 Hack. I mean he never gave him bait. 
 Luc. Why, he took him for no fish. 
 Hack. I mistake none of you when I take 
 
 you for fools! I say thou never gavest 
 
 my horse meat. 
 Dro. Yes, in four and forty hours I am 
 
 sure he had a bottle ^^ of hay as big as 
 
 his belly. 
 Serg. Nothing else? Thou shouldst have 
 
 given him provender. 
 Ris. Why, he never asked for any. 
 Hack. Why, dost thou think a horse can 
 
 speak ? 
 Dro. No, for I spurred ^° him till my 
 
 heels ached and he said never a word. 
 Hack. Well, thou shalt pay sweetly for 
 
 spoiling him ! It was as lusty a nag as 
 
 any in Rochester, and one that would 
 
 stand upon no ground. 
 Dro. Then is he as good as ever he was. 
 
 I '11 warrant he '11 do nothing but lie 
 
 down. 
 Hack. I lent him thee gently.** 
 Dro. And I restored him so gently that he 
 
 neither would cry wyhie,^'' nor wag the 
 
 tail. 
 Hack. But why didst thou bore him 
 
 through the ears? 
 Luc. It may be he was set on the pillory ^* 
 
 because he had not a true pace. 
 Half. No, it was for tiring.*" 
 Hack. He would never tire; it may be hfe 
 
 would be so weary he would go no further 
 
 or so. 
 Dro. Yes, he was a notable horse for serv- 
 ice; he would tire and retire. 
 Hack. Do you think I '11 be jested out of 
 
 my horse ? Sergeant, wreak thy office on 
 
 him. 
 Ris. Nay, stay, let him be bailed. 
 Hack. So he shall when I make him a 
 
 bargain. 
 Dro. It was a very good horse, I must 
 
 80 their bones are 
 not yet set. 
 
 31 the ahbreriation 
 for farthing. 
 
 32 readily. 
 
 38 a coinage of Half- 85 pun on spur — 88 The ears of those additional 
 
 penny's: drunk- ask. condemned to the ishment, 
 
 enness. 80 as to a gentle- pillory were fre- SO adorning. 
 
 84 bale. man ; or cheap. quently cropped 
 
 87 whinny. or bored as an 
 
 pun- 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 67 
 
 needs confess; and now hearken to his 
 qualities, and have patience to hear them, 
 since I must pay for him. H« would 
 stumble three hours in one mile : I had 
 thought I had rode upon addices *" be- 
 tween this and Canterbury. If one gave 
 him water, why, he would lie down and 
 bathe himself like a hawk. If one ran 
 him, he would simper and mump *^ as 
 though he had gone a-wooing to a malt- 
 mare *^ at Rochester ; he trotted before 
 and ambled behind, and was so obedient 
 that he would do duty every minute on 
 his knees, as though every stone had been 
 his father. 
 
 Hack. I am sure he had no diseases. 
 
 Dro. A little rheum or pose ; ** he lacked 
 nothing but an handkercher. 
 
 Serff. Come, what a tale of a horse have 
 we here ! I cannot stay ; thou must with 
 me to prison. 
 
 Bis. If thou be a good fellow, hackney- 
 man, take all our four bonds for the 
 payment ; thou knowest we are town -born 
 children, and will not shrink** the city 
 for a pelting *^ jade. 
 
 Half. I '11 enter into a statute merchant *" 
 to see it answered. But if thou wilt have 
 bonds thou shalt have a bushel full. 
 
 Hack. Alas, poor ant ! Thou bound in a 
 statute merchant? A brown thread will 
 bind thee fast enough. But if you will 
 be content all four jointly to enter into 
 a bond, I will withdraw the action. 
 
 Dro. Yes, I'll warrant they will. How 
 say you 1 
 
 Half. I yield. 
 
 Ris. And I. 
 
 Luc. And I. 
 
 Hack. Well, call the scrivener. 
 
 Serg. Here 's one hard by ; I '11 call him. 
 (Knocks at Scrivener's door.) 
 
 Bis. A scrivener's shop hangs to a ser- 
 geant's mace like a burr to a frieze coat. 
 
 Scriv. (Within.) What 's the matter'? 
 
 Hack. You must take a note of a bond. 
 
 Dro. Nay, a pint of courtesy pulls on a pot 
 of wine. In this tavern we '11 dispatch. 
 
 Hack. Agreed. 
 
 Exeunt all hut Biscio-. 
 
 Bis. Now if our wits be not in the wane, 
 our knavery shall be at the full. They 
 will ride them worse than Dromio rid his 
 horse, for if the wine master their wits, 
 you shall see them bleed their follies. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT- V. 
 Scene 1. 
 
 Enter Dromio, Biscio, Lucio, and 
 Halfpenny. 
 
 Dro. Every fox to his hole, the hounds 
 are at hand. 
 
 Bis. The sergeant's mace lies at pawn for 
 the reckoning, and he under the board to 
 east it up. 
 
 Luc. The scrivener cannot keep his pen 
 out of the pot; every goblet is an ink- 
 horn. 
 
 Half. The hackneyman he whisks with his 
 wand as if the tavern were his stable and 
 all the servants his horses: "Jost there 
 up, bay Richard !" — and white loaves are 
 horsebread in his eyes. 
 
 Dro. It is well I have my acquittance, and 
 he such a bond as shall do him no more 
 good than the bond of a fagot. Our 
 knaveries are now come to the push, and 
 we must cunningly dispatch all. We two 
 will go see how we may appease our mas- 
 ters, you two how you may conceal the 
 late marriage; if all fall out amiss, the 
 worst is beating, if to the best, the worst 
 is liberty. 
 
 Bis. Then let 's about it speedily, for so 
 many irons in the fire together require a 
 diligent plumber. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Enter Vicinia. 
 
 Vic. My heart throbs, my ears tingle, my 
 mind misgives me, since I hear such mut- 
 tering of marriages in Rochester. My 
 conscience, which these eighteen years 
 hath been frozen with concealed " guilti- 
 ness, begins now to thaw in open grief. 
 But I will not accuse myself till I see 
 more danger; the good old woman Mother 
 Bombie shall try her cunning upon me, 
 and if I perceive my case is desperate 
 by her, then will I rather prevent, al- 
 though with shame, than report too late 
 and be inexcusable. 
 
 Knocks. Enter Mother Bombie. 
 
 God speed, good mother. 
 Bom. Welcome, sister. 
 Vic. I am troubled in the night with 
 
 40 adzes. 
 
 41 grimace. 
 
 42 brewer's mare. 
 
 43 cold. 
 
 44 quit. 
 
 45 paltry. 
 
 6 a bond, acknowl- 
 edged before the 
 chief magistrate 
 of a trading town, 
 
 giving to the 
 obligee power of 
 seizure of the 
 land of the 
 
 obligor 
 forfeited, 
 D.) 
 47 Qq. coniealed. 
 
 if he 
 (N. E. 
 
68 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 dreams, and in the day with fears; mine 
 estate bare, which I cannot well bear, but 
 my practices devilish, which I cannot re- 
 call. If therefore in these same years 
 there be any deep skill, tell what my for- 
 tune shall be, and what my fault is. 
 
 Bom. In studying to be over-natural 
 Thou art like to be unnatural, 
 And all about a natural,*' 
 Thou shalt be eased of a charge, 
 If thou thy conscience discharge. 
 And this I commit to thy charge. 
 
 Vic. Thou hast touched me to the quick, 
 mother; I understand thy meaning, and 
 thou well knowest m.y practice. I will 
 follow thy counsel. But what will be the 
 end? 
 
 Bom. Thou shalt know before this day 
 end. Farewell. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Vic. Now I perceive I must either bewray 
 a mischief or suffer a continual incon- 
 venience. I must haste homewards, and 
 resolve to make all whole; better a little 
 shame than an infinite grief. The 
 strangeness will abate the fault, and the 
 bewraying wipe it clean away. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 Enter Synis, Nasutus, and Bedunenus. 
 
 Syn. Come, fellows, 'tis almost day; let 
 us have a fit of mirth at Sperantus' door, 
 and give a song to the bride. 
 
 Nas. I believe they are asleep; it were 
 pity to awake them. 
 
 Bed. 'Twere a shame they should sleep 
 the first night. 
 
 Syn. But who can tell at which house they 
 lie? At Prisius', it may be. We'll try 
 both. 
 
 Nas. Come, let's draw like men. 
 
 Syn. Now tune, tune, I say! That boy, 
 I think, will never profit in his fac- 
 ulty : ** he loses his rosin that his fiddle 
 goes "cush ! cush !" like as one should go 
 wet-shod; and his mouth so dry that he 
 hath not spittle for his pin ■>" as I have. 
 
 Bed. Marry, sir, you see I go wet-shod 
 and dry-mouthed, for yet could I never 
 get new shoes or good drink ; rather than 
 I'll lead this life, I'll throw my fiddle 
 into the leads for a hobbler." 
 
 Syn. Boy, no more words ! There 's a 
 time for all things. Though I say it 
 that should not, I have been a minstrel 
 these thirty years, and tickled more 
 strings than thou hast hairs, but yet was 
 never so misused. " 
 
 Wffls. Let us not brabble,^^ but play; to- 
 morrow is a new day. 
 
 Bed. I am sorry I speak in your east.^' 
 What shall we sing? 
 
 Syn. "The Love-Knot," for that's best 
 for a bridal. 
 
 {They sing.) ^ 
 Good morrow, fair bride, and send you 
 joy of your bridal. 
 
 {Sperantus looks out.) 
 
 Sper. What a mischief make the twan- 
 glers here? We have no trenchers to 
 scrape. It makes my teeth on edge to 
 hear such grating. Get you packing, or 
 I'll make you wear double stocks,"* and 
 yet you shall be never the warmer. 
 
 Syn. We come for good will, to bid the 
 bride and bridegroom God give them joy. 
 
 Sper. Here 's no wedding. 
 
 Syn. Yes, your son and Prisius' daughter 
 were married; though you seem strange, 
 yet they repent it not, I am sure. 
 
 Sper. My son, villain! I had rather he 
 were fairly hanged. 
 
 Nas. So he is, sir; you have your wish. 
 
 Enter Candius. 
 
 Can. Here, fiddlers, take this, and not a 
 word. Here is no wedding, it was at 
 Memphio's house. Yet gramercy; your 
 music, though it missed the house, hit 
 the mind ; we were a-preparing our wed- 
 ding gear. 
 
 Syn. I cry you mercy, sir; I thiu'k it was 
 Memphio's son that was married. 
 
 Exit Candius. 
 
 Sper. ho, the case is altered! Go 
 thither then, and be haltered for me. 
 
 Nas. What's the alms? 
 
 Syn. An angel. 
 
 Bed. I'll warrant there's some work to- 
 wards; ten shillings is money in master 
 Mayor's purse."" 
 
 Syn. Let us to Memphio's, and share 
 equally; when we have done all, thou 
 shalt have new shoes. 
 
 Bed. Aye, such as they cry at the 'sizes: 
 "a mark in issues I "" and mark in is- 
 
 48 idiot. 51 into the gutter 
 
 49 improve in his lor a mark to 
 profession. throw at. 
 
 BO to make the pegs B2 wrangle. 
 
 of his instru- 58 c<ut was an ac- 
 
 ment hold fast. tor's part in a 
 
 play ; hence, to 55 i.e. even to a rich probably, as Bond 
 
 speak in one's man. suggests, a bad 
 
 co»t is to inter- 5C thirteen shil- pun on issues — ■ 
 
 rupt. lings four pence his shoes. 
 
 04 pun on stocks (a mark) in 
 
 — stockings. fines; there is 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 69 
 
 sues!" — and yet I never saw so much 
 leather as would piece one's shoes. 
 
 Syn. No more ; there 's the money. 
 
 Bed. A good handsel,^^ and I think the 
 maidenhead of your liberality. 
 
 Nets. Come, here's the house; what shall 
 we sing? 
 
 Syn. You know Memphio is very rich and 
 wise, and therefore let us strike the gen- 
 tle stroke, and sing a catch. 
 
 Song. 
 
 All. The bride this night can catch no cold; 
 No cold; the bridegroom's young, not old; 
 Like ivy he her fast does hold, 
 Syn. And clips her, 
 
 Has. And lips her, 
 
 Bed. And flips her too. 
 
 All. Then let them alone: they know what 
 
 they do. 
 Syn. At laugh and lie down if they play, 
 ^as. What ass against the sport can bray? 
 Bed. Such tick-tack has held many a day, 
 Syn. And longer, 
 
 mas. And stronger; 
 
 Bed. It still holds, too. 
 
 All. Then let them alone; they know what 
 they do. 
 
 This night 
 In delight 
 Does thump away sorrow. 
 Of billing 
 Take your filling; 
 So good morrow, good morrow. 
 
 Nas. Good morrow, mistress bride, and 
 send you a huddle.^^ 
 
 Mem. {Above.) What crowding ^° knaves 
 have we there? Case up your fiddles, or 
 the constable shall cage you up! What 
 bride talk you of? 
 
 Syn. Here 's a wedding in Rochester, and 
 'twas told me first that Sperantus' son 
 had married Prisius' daughter. We 
 were there, and they sent us to your wor- 
 ship, saying your son was matched with 
 Stellio's daughter. 
 
 Mem. Hath Sperantus that churl nothing 
 to do but mock his neighbors'? I'll be 
 even with him ! And get you gone, or I 
 swear by the rood's body,"" I '11 lay you 
 by the heels ! 
 
 Nas. Sing a catch! Here's a fair catch 
 indeed! Sing till we catch cold on our 
 feet, and be called knave till our ears 
 glow on our heads! Your worship is 
 wise, sir! 
 
 Mem. Dromio, shake ofE a whole kennel 
 
 59 fiddling, 
 eothe body of Christ 
 
 of officers to punish these jarring rogues. 
 
 I '11 teach them to stretch their dried 
 
 sheeps' guts at my door, and to mock one 
 
 that stands to be mayor. 
 Bro. {Above.) I had thought they had 
 
 been sticking of pigs, I heard such a 
 
 squeaking. I go, sir. 
 Syn. Let us be packing. 
 Nas. Where is my scabbard? Every one 
 
 sheathe his science. 
 Bed. A bots on the shoemaker that made 
 
 this boot for my fiddle ; 't is too strait. 
 Syn. No more words; 'twill be thought 
 
 they were the four waits,"^ and let them 
 
 wring."^ As for the wags that set us on 
 
 work, we '11 talk with them. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 Enter Memphio and Dromio. 
 
 Dro. They be gone, sir. 
 
 Mem. If they had stayed, the stocks 
 should have stayed them. But, sirrah, 
 what shall we now do? 
 
 Dro. As I advised you, make a match, for 
 better one house be cumbered with two 
 fools than two. 
 
 Mem. 'T is true ; for it being bruited that 
 each of us have a fool, who will tender 
 marriage to any of them, that is wise? 
 Besides, fools are fortunate, fools are 
 fair, fools are honest. 
 
 Dro. Aye, sir, and more than that, fools 
 are not wise; a wise man is melancholy 
 for moonshine in the water, careful, 
 building castles in the air, and commonly 
 hath a fool to his heir. 
 
 Mem. But what sayest thou to thy dame's 
 .chafing? 
 
 Dro. Nothing, but all her dishes are 
 chafing dishes. 
 
 Mem. I would her tongue were in thy 
 belly! 
 
 Dro. I had as lief have a raw neat's 
 tongue in my stomach. 
 
 Mem. Why? 
 
 Dro. Marry, if the clapper hang within 
 an inch of my heart, that "' makes mine 
 ears bum a quarter of a mile off, do you 
 not think it would beat my heart black 
 and blue? 
 
 Mem. Well, patience is a virtue, but 
 pinching is worse than any vice! I will 
 break this matter to Stellio, and if he 
 be willing this day shall be, their wed- 
 ding. 
 
 Dro. Then this day shall be my liberty. 
 
 Mem. ,Aye, if Stellio's daughter had been 
 
 57 earnest money. 
 
 58 embrace. 
 
 on the cross. 
 61 singers. 
 
 62 take the onus of it. 
 
 63 i. e. clapper. 
 
70 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 wise, and by thy means cozened of a fool. 
 Bro. Then, sir, I '11 revolt, and dash out 
 
 the brains of your devices. 
 Mem. Eather thou shalt be free. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 Enter Sperantus, Halfpenny, Prisius, and 
 Lucio, 
 
 Sper. Boy, this smoke is a token of some 
 Are; I like not the look of it. Where- 
 fore should these minstrels dream of a 
 marriage ? 
 
 Half. Alas, sir, they rustle into every 
 place. Give credit to no such words. 
 
 Sper. I will to Prisius ; I cannot be quiet 
 — and in good time I meet him. Good 
 morrow, neighbor. 
 
 Pris. I cast the morrow in thy face, and 
 bid good night to all neighborhood. 
 
 Sper. This is your old trick, to pick one's 
 purse and then to pick quarrels. I tell 
 thee, I had rather thou shouldest rob my 
 chest than embezzle my son. 
 
 Pris. Thy son ! My daughter is seduced ! 
 For I hear say she is married, and our 
 boys can tell. {To Luc.) How sayest 
 thou? Tell the truth, or I '11 grind thee 
 to powder in my mill. Be they married ? 
 
 Luc. True it is they were both in a church. 
 
 Pris. That 's no fault ; the place is holy. 
 
 Half. And there was with them a priest. 
 
 Sper. Why, what place fitter for a priest 
 than a church? 
 
 Luc. And they took one another by the 
 hand. 
 
 Pris. Tush ! that 's but common courtesy. 
 
 Half. And the priest spake many kind 
 words. 
 
 Sper. That showed he was no dumb minis- 
 ter. But what said they? Diddest thou 
 hear any words between them? 
 
 Luc. Faith, there was a bargain during 
 life, and the clock cried, "God give them 
 
 joy 
 
 !" 
 
 Pris. Villain, they be married ! 
 
 Half. Nay, I think not so. 
 
 Sper. Yes, yes! "God give you joy!" is 
 
 a binder. I '11 quickly be resolved. Can- 
 
 dius, come forth. 
 
 Re-enter Candius. 
 
 Pris. And I'll be put out of doubt. 
 Livia, come forth. 
 
 Enter Livia. 
 
 Sper. The mieher hangs down his head ! 
 Pris. The baggage begins to blush! 
 
 04 wanton. 
 
 Half. Now begins the game! 
 
 Luc. I believe it will be no game for us. 
 
 Sper. Are you married, young master? 
 
 Can. I cannot deny it, it was done so 
 lately. 
 
 Sper. But thou slialt repent it was done 
 so soon. 
 
 Pris. Then 't is bootless to ask you, Livia. 
 
 Liv. Aye, and needless to be angry. 
 
 Pris. It shall pass anger; thou shalt find 
 it rage. 
 
 Liv. You gave your consent. 
 
 Pris. Impudent giglot,"* was it not 
 enough to abuse me, but also to belie me ? 
 
 Can. You, sir, agreed to this match. 
 
 Sper. Thou brazen-face boy, thinkest thou 
 by learning to persuade me to that which 
 thou speakest? Where did I consent, 
 when, what witness? 
 
 Can. In this place yesterday before Dro- 
 mio and Riscio. 
 
 Pris. I remember we heard a contract be- 
 tween Memphio's son and Stellio's daugh- 
 ter ; and that our good wills being asked, 
 which needed not. we gave them, which 
 booted not. 
 
 Can. 'T was but the apparel of Aecius 
 and Silena; we were the persons. 
 
 Pris. villainy not to be borne! (To 
 Luc.) Wast thou privy to this practice? 
 
 Luc. In a manner. 
 
 Pris. I '11 pay thee after a manner ! 
 
 Sper. And you, oatmeal groat! you were 
 acquainted with this plot ? 
 
 Half. Accessory, as it were. 
 
 Sper. Thou shalt be punished as princi- 
 pal. Here comes Memphio and Stellio; 
 they belike were privy, and all their 
 heads were laid together to grieve our 
 hearts. 
 
 Enter Memphio, Stellio, Dromio, and 
 Riscio. 
 
 Mem. Come, Stellio, the assurance may be 
 made tomorrow, and our children assured 
 today. 
 
 Stel. Let the conveyance run as we agreed. 
 
 Pris. You convey'*" cleanly indeed, if 
 cozenage be clean dealing, for in the ap- 
 parel of your children you have con- 
 veyed a match between ours which grieves 
 us not a little. 
 
 Mem. Nay, in the apparel of your chil- 
 dren you have discovered the folly of 
 ours, which shames us overmuch. 
 
 Stel. But 'tis no matter; though they be 
 fools they are no beggars. 
 
 05 steal. 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 71 
 
 Sper. And though ours be disobedient, 
 they be no fools. 
 
 Dro. So now they tune their pipes. 
 
 Bis. You shall hear sweet music between 
 a hoarse raven and a screech owl. 
 
 Mem. Neighbors, let us not vary ; our boys 
 have played their cheating parts. I sus- 
 pected no less at the tavern, where our 
 four knaves met together. 
 
 Ris. If it were knavery for four to meet 
 in a tavern, your worships wot well 
 there were other four. 
 
 Stel. This villain calls us knaves by craft. 
 
 Luc. Nay, truly, I dare swear he used no 
 craft, but means plainly. 
 
 Sper. This is worse! Come, Halfpenny, 
 tell the truth, and scape the rod. 
 
 Half. As good confess here, being 
 trussed,"* as at home with my hose about 
 my heels. 
 
 Dro. Nay, I '11 tell thee, for 't will never 
 become thee to utter it. 
 
 Mem. Well, out with it ! 
 
 Dro. Memphio had a fool to his son, 
 which Stellio knew not; Stellio a fool to 
 his daughter, unknown to Memphio; to 
 cozen each other, they dealt with their 
 boys for a match; we met with Lucio 
 and Halfpenny, who told the love be- 
 tween their masters' children — the youth 
 deeply in love, the fathers unwilling to 
 consent. 
 
 Ris. I'll take the tale by the end. Then 
 we four met, which argued we were no 
 mountains; and in ^ tavern we met, 
 which argued we were mortal; and every 
 one in his wine told his day's work, which 
 was a sign we forgot not our business; 
 and seeing all our masters troubled with 
 devices, we determined a little to trouble 
 the water before they drank: so that in 
 the attire of your children our masters' 
 wise children bewrayed their good na- 
 tures, and in the garments of our mas- 
 ters' children yours made a marriage. 
 This all stood upon us poor children and 
 your young children, to show that old 
 folks may be overtaken by children. 
 
 Pris. Here 's a children indeed ! I '11 
 never forget it. 
 
 Mem. I will! Aceius, come forth. 
 
 Stel. 1 forgive all, Silena, come forth. 
 
 Enter Aceius and Silena. 
 
 Sper. Neighbor, these things cannot be re- 
 called, therefore as good consent; seeing 
 in all our purposes also we missed the 
 
 mark, for they two will match their chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Pris. Well, of that more anon; not so 
 suddenly, lest our ungracious youths 
 think we dare do no other. But in truth, 
 their love stirs up nature in me. 
 
 Mem. Come, Aceius, thou must be mar- 
 ried to Silena. How art thou minded? 
 
 Ac. What, for ever and ever? 
 
 Mem. Aye, Aceius, what else? 
 
 Ac. I shall never be able to abide it, it 
 will be. so tedious. 
 
 Stel. Silena, thou must be betrothed to 
 Aceius, and love him for thy husband. 
 
 ;S'i7. I had as lief have one of clouts. 
 
 Stel. Why, Silena? 
 
 Sil. Why, look how he looks! 
 
 Ac. If you will not, another will. 
 
 Sil. I thank you for mine old cap. 
 
 Ac. And if you be so .lusty, lend me two 
 shillings. 
 
 Pris. {To Sper.) We are happy we 
 missed the foolish match. 
 
 Mem. Come, you shall presently be con- 
 tracted. 
 
 Dro. Contract their wits no more ; they be 
 shrunk close already. 
 
 Ac. Well, father, here's my hand; strike 
 the bargain. 
 
 Sil. Must he lie with me? 
 
 Stel. No, Silena, lie by thee. 
 
 Ac. I shall give her the humble-bee's kiss. 
 
 Enter Vicinia, McBstius, and Serena. 
 
 Vic. I forbid the banns. 
 
 Ris. What, dost thou think them rats, and 
 fearest they shall be poisoned? 
 
 Mem. You, Vicinia? Wherefore? 
 
 Vic. Hearken ! About eighteen years ago 
 I nursed thee a son, Memphio, and thee 
 a daughter, Stellio. 
 
 Stel. True. 
 
 Mem. True. 
 
 Vic. I had at that time two children of 
 mine own, and being poor, thought it 
 better to change them than kill them. I 
 imagmed if by device I could thrust my 
 children into your houses, they should be 
 well brought up in their youth and wisely 
 provided for in their age. Nature 
 wrought with me, and when they were 
 weaned I sent home mine instead of 
 yours, which hitherto you have kept ten- 
 derly as yours. Growing in years, I 
 found the children I kept at home to 
 love dearly, at first like brother and sis- 
 ter, which I rejoiced at; but at length 
 
 «8 i.e. before my breeches ore taken down and I 'm spanked. 
 
72 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 too forward in affection, which, although 
 inwardly I could not mislike, yet openly 
 I seemed to disallow. They increased in 
 their loving humors; I ceased not to 
 chastise them for their loose demeanors. 
 At last it came to my ears that my son 
 that was out with Memphio was a fool, 
 that my daughter with Stellio was also 
 unwise, and yet, being brother and sister, 
 there was a match in hammering betwixt 
 them. 
 
 Mem. What monstrous tale is this? 
 
 Stel. And I am sure incredible. 
 
 Sper. Let her end her discourse. 
 
 Ac. I '11 never believe it. 
 
 Mem. Hold thy peace! 
 
 Vie. My very bowels yearned within me 
 that I should be author of such vile in- 
 cest, an hindrance to lawful love. I 
 went to the good old woman, Mother 
 Bombie, to know the event of this prac- 
 tice; who told me this day I might pre- 
 vent the danger, and upon submission 
 escape the punishment. Hither am I 
 come to claim my children, though both 
 fools, and to deliver yours, both lov- 
 ing. 
 
 Mem. Is this possible ? How shall we be- 
 lieve it? 
 
 Stel. It cannot sink into my head. 
 
 Vic. This trial cannot fail. Your son, 
 Memphio, had a mole under his ear; I 
 framed one under my child's ear by art ; 
 you shall see it taken away with the juice 
 of mandrage."^ Behold now for your 
 son's! No herb can undo that nature 
 hath done. Your daughter, Stellio, hath 
 on her wrist a mole, which I counter- 
 feited on my daughter's arm, and that 
 shall you see taken away as the other. 
 Thus you see I do not dissemble, hoping 
 you will pardon me, as I have pitied 
 them. 
 
 Mem. This is my son ! fortunate Mem- 
 phio! 
 
 Stel. This is my daughter! More than 
 thrice happy Stellio! 
 
 Messt. How happy is Mastius, how 
 blessed Serena, that being neither chil- 
 dren to poor parents, nor brother and 
 sister by nature, may enjoy their love by 
 consent of parents and nature. 
 
 Ac. Soft! I'll not swap my father for 
 all this. 
 
 8il. What, do you think I'll be cozened 
 of my father? Methinks I should not. 
 Mother Bombie told me my father knew 
 me not, ray mother bore me not, falsely 
 bred, truly begot. A bots on Mother 
 Bombie ! 
 
 e7 mandragora. 
 
 Dro. Mother Bombie told us we should be 
 found cozeners, and in the end be cozened 
 by cozeners; well fare Mother Bom- 
 bie! 
 
 Bis. I heard Mother Bombie say that thou 
 shalt die a beggar; beware of Mother 
 Bombie ! 
 
 Fris. Why, have you all been with Mother 
 Bombie? 
 
 Luc. All, and as far as I can see, she fore- 
 told all. 
 
 Mem. Indeed she is cunning and wise, 
 never doing harm, but still practising 
 good. Seeing these things fall out thus, 
 are you content, Stellio, the match go 
 forward? 
 
 Stel. Aye, with double joy, having found 
 for a fool a wise maid, and finding be- 
 tween them both exceeding love. 
 
 Pris. Then to end all jars, our children's 
 matches shall stand with our good Hking. 
 Li via, enjoy Candius. 
 
 Sper. Candius, enjoy Livia. 
 
 Can. How shall we recompense fortune, 
 that to our loves hath added our parents' 
 good wills? 
 
 Mcest. How shall we requite fortune, that 
 to our loves hath added lawfulness, and 
 to our poor estate competent living? 
 
 Mem. Vicinia, thy fact*' is pardoned, 
 though the law would see it punished. 
 We be content to keep Silena in the 
 house with the new married couple. 
 
 Stel. And I do maintain Accius in our 
 house. • 
 
 Vic. Come, my children, though fortune 
 hath not provided you lands, yet you see 
 you are not destitute of friends. I shall 
 be eased of a charge both in purse and 
 conscience: in conscience, having re- 
 vealed my lewd practice; in purse, hav- 
 ing you. kept of alms. 
 
 Ac. Come, if you be my sister it 's the 
 better for you. 
 
 Sil. Come, brother, methinks it 's better 
 than it was; I should have been but a 
 bald bride. I '11 eat as much pie as if 
 I had been married. 
 
 Mem. Let's also forgive the knavery of 
 our boys, since all turns to our good 
 haps. 
 
 Stel. Agreed; all are pleased now the 
 boys are unpuriished. 
 
 Enter Hackneyman, Sergeant, and 
 Scrivener. 
 
 Hack. Nay, soft, take us with you, and 
 seek redress for our wrongs, or we '11 
 complain to the mayor. 
 
 Pris. What's the matter? 
 
MOTHER BOMBIE 
 
 73 
 
 Hack. I arrested Memphio's boy for an 
 horse. After much mocking, at the re- 
 quest of his fellow wags I was content 
 to take a bond jointly of them all; they 
 had me into a tavern; there they made 
 me, the scrivener, and the sergeant drunk, 
 pawned his mace for the wine, and sealed 
 me an obligation nothing to the purpose. 
 I pray you, read it. 
 
 Mem. What wags be these ! Why, by this 
 bond you can demand nothing, and 
 things done in drink may be repented in 
 soberness, but not remedied. 
 
 Dro. Sir, I have his acquittance; let him 
 sue his bond. 
 
 Hack. I '11 cry quittance with thee ! 
 
 Serg. And I, or it shall cost me the laying 
 on freely of my mace. 
 
 Scriv. And I '11 give thee such a dash with 
 a pen as shall cost thee many a pound, 
 with such a Noverint *" as Cheapside '"' 
 can show none such. 
 
 Half. Do your worst; our knaveries will 
 revenge it upon your children's children. 
 
 Mem. Thou boy! (To Hack.) We will 
 pay the hire of the horse, be not angry. 
 The boys have been in a merry cozening 
 vein, for they have served their masters 
 of the same sort ; but all must be forgot- 
 
 ten. Now all are content but the- poor 
 fiddlers ; they shall be sent for to the mar- 
 riage, and have double fees. 
 
 Dro. You need no more send for a fiddler 
 to a feast than a beggar to a fair. 
 
 Stel. This day we will feast at my house. 
 
 Mem. Tomorrow at mine. 
 
 Pris. The next day at mine. 
 
 Sper. Then at mine the last day, and even 
 so spend this week in good cheer. 
 
 Dro. Then we were best be going whUst 
 every one is pleased. And yet these cou- 
 ples are not fully pleased till the priest 
 have done his worst. 
 
 Bis. Come, Sergeant, we '11 toss it ^' this 
 week, and make thy mace arrest a boiled 
 capon. 
 
 Serg. No more words at the wedding; if 
 the mayor should know it, I were in dan- 
 ger of mine office. 
 
 Bis. Then take heed how, on such as we 
 are, you show a cast '^ of your office. 
 
 Half. If you mace us, we '11 pepper you. 
 
 Ac. Come, sister, the best is, we shall have 
 good cheer these four days. 
 
 Luc. And be fools for ever. 
 
 Sil. That 's none of our upseekings. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 69 the first word of gan : * 'Know all 
 the phrase with men by these 
 which deeds he- presents. 
 
 70 the ecclesiastical 
 court of appeal 
 for the province 
 
 of Canterbury 
 was held in Bow 
 Church, Cheap- 
 
 side. 
 
 71 toss cups, drink. 
 
 72 specimen. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 
 EDWARD II 
 
 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) was the 
 son of a shoemaker of Canterbury, and went 
 to the old King's School of that town. 
 Thence in 1579 he went up to Cambridge on 
 a scholarship which lie held all during his 
 residence at the university, where he took 
 a bachelor's degree in 1584, a master's in 
 
 1587. Between 1587, when Tamburlaine was 
 acted, and 1593 he produced at least- six 
 plays, as well as the unfinished narrative 
 poem, Hero and Leander. All that is cer- 
 tainly known of his death is that he was 
 killed by one Francis Archer; the rumors 
 of dissipation and atheism attaching to his 
 name are undeserving of credence. 
 
 The feeling of national unity which had 
 been growing in England under the Tudor 
 sovereigns, especially during the reign of the 
 great Maiden Queen, received a tremendous 
 impulse from the defeat of the Armada in 
 
 1588. The mistrust of Spain, shown in the 
 popular discontent with Mary Tudor's mar- 
 riage to Philip, accentuated by the resent- 
 ment of Spanish oppression of the Nether- 
 lands, and fanned into a white heat of hatred 
 by Philip's ambitious project of regaining 
 England for the Pope, probably did more to 
 make England a, united nation than any 
 other one cause. The fears of a Catholic up- 
 rising were dissipated by the staunch loyalty 
 of the English Catholics, and the jubilation 
 over a great crisis safely passed found one 
 means of expression in the glorious flood of 
 Elizabethan literature. To this national in- 
 spiration the drama, jugt finding itself in the 
 decade from 1580 to 1590, responded with 
 extraordinary vigor. The twenty years fol- 
 lowing the Armada saw the rise and full 
 development of a new and quite native form 
 of drama, taking its subject-matter from the 
 history, authentic or legendary, of Britain, 
 the chronicle-history play. It has been es- 
 timated that such plays during the period of 
 their popularity constituted more than a 
 fifth of the contemporary drama. Of the 
 thirty-seven plays in the Shakespeare canon 
 ten (counting parts of plays individually) 
 are of this type, while Cymbeline, Lear, and 
 Macbeth are drawn from the same sources. 
 It was natural that during a period of strong 
 national feeling Englishmen should take in- 
 terest in the history of their country. What 
 numerous historical works in prose and 
 verse did for readers, the chronicle plays did 
 for spectators, and their actual educative 
 
 74 
 
 function must not be overlooked. Forerun- 
 ners of the type may be found in such a 
 play as Bale's Kyng Johan ( 1538) and a few 
 Senecan tragedies like Gorhoduc (1562), but 
 it was not till 1586-7 in The Famous Vic- 
 tories of Henry V that we get our first ex- 
 ample. To raise the chronicle-history play 
 to the plane of artistic drama was the work 
 of two men, Marlowe and Shakespeare. 
 
 EdAJsard II is generally accepted as being 
 the latest of Marlowe's plays, written prob- 
 ably about 1592. Not so rich in poetry as 
 Tamburlaine or Dr. Faustus, nor so theatri- 
 cally effective as the melodramatic . Jew of 
 Malta, in technique it is Marlowe's best work. 
 The material is taken from the source that 
 supplied Shakespeare with his knowledge of 
 English history, Holinshed's Chronicles of 
 England, Scotland, and Ireland, with occa- 
 sional borrowings from the older chronicles 
 of Fabyan (e.g., the song on Bannoekburn, 
 II. ii) and Stow. The play is, however, so 
 much more than a mere transference to the 
 stage of Holinshed's narrative that a com- 
 parison of the play with the historical ac- 
 count reveals, as can nothing else, Marlowe's 
 methods as a playmaker. 
 
 The action covers a period, of twenty years, 
 from 1307, when Gaveston was recalled, to 
 the death of Edward in 1327. Marlowe's 
 treatment of the story shows a selection 
 and transposing of events in order to 
 bring out the one essential fact of the 
 King's utter incompetence and subjection to 
 unworthy favorites. Gaveston was executed 
 in 1312, and the troubles in Ireland (II. ii) 
 and in Scotland (II. ii) occurred after his 
 death, but Marlowe shifts both forward in 
 point of time in, order to connect them with 
 Gaveston's baleful influence. Warwick died 
 in his bed in 1315, seven years before the 
 battle of Boroughbridge, but Marlowe keeps 
 him alive to have him captured and ordered 
 to execution in retaliation for his killing of 
 Gaveston. At the time the play opens the 
 Earl of Kent was six years old, but Mar- 
 lowe, needing a counsellor and supporter of 
 the King, used Kent for the purpose. In 
 the play young Spencer immediately succeeds 
 Gaveston as the King's favorite; really the 
 younger Hugh le Despenser, who had been 
 an enemy of Gaveston, remained an opponent 
 of Edward's for some six years after Gaves- 
 ton's death. Historically the Mortimers be- 
 long with the Spencers, i.e., to the later part 
 of the reign, but in order to motivate the 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 
 75 
 
 aifair between the Queen and young Morti- 
 mex' Marlowe transfers them to the beginning 
 of the play and makes them leaders in the 
 barons' councils. 
 
 What does all this rearrangement mean? 
 It means that Marlowe was working with a 
 definite dramatic end in view, with all his 
 faculties alert to make the play a single, 
 logical portrayal of the King's fatal weak- 
 ness and its consequences to him and to the 
 realm. In the first place he had to show in 
 action the evil influence of Gaveston over 
 Edward. This he does by showing the King's 
 unkingly infatuation with an arrogant favor- 
 ite who holds his position only by flattering 
 the royal vanity, an infatuation so complete 
 that it leads to the insulting and final aliena- 
 tion of a faithful and loving Queen. Tha 
 practical effects of Gaveston's pandering to 
 the King's love of pleasure are seen in the 
 hostility of the great barons and the afl'ronts 
 to English honor in Scotland and Ireland. 
 With Gavcston out of the way (III. ii), 
 Marlowe is faced by the difficulty of avoiding 
 in the Spencer story a mere repetition of 
 that of Gaveston. He had already, by intro- 
 ducing young Spencer in II. i as a depend- 
 ent of Gaveston's, and thus preparing for 
 Spencer's promotion to Gaveston's shoes, pre- 
 vented his play from breaking in two on 
 Gaveston's disappearance. Now he solves his 
 fresh problem by shifting the interest from 
 the affairs of the kingdom to the more famil- 
 iar situation of the eternal triangle — hus-' 
 baud, offended wife, lover. From the first 
 Mortimer has been the main reliance of the 
 Queen in her effort to maintain her posi- 
 tion with the King; when the King himself 
 impugns her honor by flinging Mortimer's 
 name in her face we are fully prepared for 
 her soliloquy at the end of the scene (Ii. iv), 
 and the understanding between her and 
 Mortimer in IV. iv and v. The development 
 of their love affair, merely hinted at in 
 Holinshed, is rather left for the actors to 
 bring out than explained in the text, but 
 Marlowe makes the situation clear. Morti- 
 mer's relations with the Queen place him 
 definitely at the head of the revolting barons, 
 and he is thus ready to play his part as chief 
 actor in Edward's deposition and murder, 
 and as virtual ruleir of the realm until the 
 young King asserts himself at the end of the 
 play. 
 
 Detailed analysis of this sort is useful not 
 only for showing how Marlowe met the prob- 
 lem of making a play out of unpromising 
 material, but also how, in the process of 
 making the story truly dramatic, his method 
 tends to break away from the chronicle- 
 history form and approaches tragedy. In 
 early crude examples of the type — plays like 
 The Famous Victories of Henry V, Jack 
 Straw, Peele's Edward I, Henry VI — the 
 emphasis is frankly on circumstance, what 
 happened during the reign of a certain king. 
 
 Events are set down in chronological order, 
 and the writer is more concerned with the 
 effect of the immediate situation than with 
 the coherent development of a logical story. 
 Characters are presented in a purely super- 
 ficial way, and the unity of the play is se- 
 cured only by the presence in the chief 
 scenes of the same leading figures. The prog- 
 ress of the play is, therefore, clumsy and 
 jerky. Is the chief interest in Edward II in 
 event or in character ? Clearly what interests 
 Marlowe moat is the character of Edward 
 himself; by centering attention on the petu- 
 lant king, powerless to command even his 
 own desires, and by careful analysis of Ed- 
 ward's weakness, Marlowe shifts the em- 
 phasis from event to character, and in so 
 doing almost writes tragedy. The method 
 of securing dramatic unity by focusing at- 
 tention on a central character, Marlowe had 
 employed in his previous plays; but there is 
 this fundamental difference between Edward 
 II and its predecessors, that where in Tam- 
 burlaine, Faustus, and The Jew all the other 
 characters are completely subordinated to 
 the one commanding figure, are satellites 
 shining only by light reflected from their 
 sun, in Edward II Marlowe develops four 
 characters with distinct personalities of their 
 own — Edward, Gaveston, Mortimer, and the 
 Queen. Of these Isabella is the least satis- 
 factory, probably because, although her aban- 
 donment of the King for Mortimer is well 
 enough motivated, Marlowe does not give us 
 a chance to see the development of her pas- 
 sion. One genuine love-scene between her 
 and Mortimer would have helped us to a 
 sympathetic understanding of the Queen, and 
 done away with the apparent abruptness of 
 her change of heart. Marlowe's was an es- 
 sentially masculine intellect, and his inabil- 
 ity to portray women with success is as strik- 
 ing as Byron's. Gaveston, in his combina- 
 tion of arrogance and sycophancy, stands out 
 as a clear study of the royal favorite. Morti- 
 mer's most prominent trait is a headstrong 
 resolve to rule or be ruined, to be all or 
 nothing; his last words have the true Mar- 
 lowe ring of towering ambition and un- 
 daimted defiance in the face of defeat. 
 
 Upon Edward, Marlowe lavishes all his 
 power. Edward has the fatal flaw in char- 
 acter which brings tragedy upon its posses- 
 sor, a flaw which at the same time unites 
 him with Marlowe's other heroes in their 
 Amour de V Impossible, to use Symonds's 
 often-quoted phrase. The lust for power seen 
 in varying manifestations in Tamburlaine, 
 Faustus, and Barabas the Jew, in Edward is 
 replaced by an inordinate desire for affection, 
 to love and to be loved by the one object of 
 his affection. Since this is not a case of 
 one of those deathless passions between man 
 and woman which make the world seem well 
 lost for love, Marlowe has the difficult task 
 of gaining sympathy for an unsympathetic 
 
76 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PEKIOD 
 
 figure without palliating its weakness. That 
 he has done so must be the verdict of the 
 reader upon finishing the long and pathetic 
 presentation of Edward's humiliation and 
 death. As Schelliug puts it : " Contemptible 
 in his unkingliness up to the moment of the 
 turning of the tide against him, the royal 
 sorrows and the unregal inflictions put upon 
 him arouse our sympathies until, when the 
 pitiful catastrophe which overtakes him is 
 reached, contempt is transmuted into sym- 
 pathetic grief that any king could so fall." 
 
 More than any other of Marlowe's plays 
 Edward II exhibits a restraint, a conscious 
 attempt to place dramatic truth before poetic 
 imagination. As a result the verse is in- 
 ferior as poetry to that of the others. We 
 catch echoes of " Marlowe's mighty line " in 
 passages like Gaveston's soliloquies in the 
 first scene, in Edward's speeches in the depo- 
 sition scene where he gives up " the sweet 
 fruition of an earthly crown," in the scene 
 where he is murdered, in Mortimer's last 
 speech. It may be questioned, indeed, 
 whether the glorious sweep and daring of 
 
 Tambwrlaine and Dr. Faustus might not 
 have been out of place in this study of Eng- 
 lish history. And this may certainly be said, 
 that where in the preceding plays we feel 
 Marlowe's failure to make his finest lyrical 
 passages dramatically appropriate, Edward II 
 shows him on his way to accomplishment. 
 He had already settled one thing: that blank 
 verse was to be the medium of Elizabethan 
 drama. 
 
 It is a truism that on the serious side 
 Shakespeare felt no infiuence like Marlowe's, 
 Marlow^e was Shakespeare's master in chron- 
 icle-history: the two may have worked to- 
 gether on Henry VI, Richard III is the ap- 
 plication to chronicle-history of Marlowe's 
 centralizing method, and Richard II shows 
 at every turn the influence of Ed^ward II. 
 Had Marlowe been permitted to live and 
 work his way to true tragedy as did Shakes- 
 peare, Edward II might have proved the 
 transitional stage that Richard II was for 
 Shakespeare. But " cut was the branch that 
 might have grown full straight," and Mar- 
 lowe's Lear and Hamlet were never written. 
 
 THE TROUBLESOME REIGN AND LAMENTABLE 
 DEATH OF EDWARD THE SECOND 
 
 By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 
 NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS 
 
 King Edwaed the Second. 
 
 Pbince Edwaed, his Son, afterwards King 
 
 Edward the Third. 
 Earl of Kent, Brother to King Edward the 
 
 Second. 
 Gaveston. 
 
 Ahchbishop of Canterbubt. 
 Bishop of Coveniby. 
 Bishop of Winchester. 
 Warwick. 
 Lancaster. 
 Pembroke. 
 Arundel. 
 Leicester. 
 Berkelet. 
 
 Mobtimeb, the elder. 
 Mortimer, the younger, his Nephew. 
 Spencer, the elder. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SoENE 1. A street in London, 
 
 ^ Enter Gaveston, reading on a letter that 
 was brought him from the King. 
 
 Gaveston. "My father is deceas'd ! Come, 
 Gaveston, 
 
 Spencer, the younger, his Son. 
 
 Baldock. 
 
 Beaumont. 
 
 Teussel. 
 
 Gubney. 
 
 Matrevis. 
 
 Lightborn. 
 
 Sib John of Hainault. 
 
 Levune. 
 
 Rice ap Howell. 
 
 Abbot, Monks, Herald, Lords, Poor Men, 
 
 James, Mower, Champion, Messengers, 
 
 Soldiers, and Attendants. 
 Queen Isabella, Wife to King Edward the 
 
 Second. 
 Niece to King Edward the Second, Daughter 
 
 to the Duke of Gloucester. 
 Ladies. 
 
 And share the kingdom with thy dearest 
 friend." 
 
 Ah ! words that make me surfeit with de- 
 light! 
 
 What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston 
 
 Than live and be the favorite of a king ! 
 
 Sweet prince, I come; these, these thy. 
 amorous lines 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 77 
 
 Might have enforc'd me to have swum 
 
 from France, 
 And, like Leander, gasp'd upon the sand, 
 So thou would'st smile, and take me in 
 
 thine arms. 
 The sight of London to my exil'd eyes 
 Is as Elysium to a new-come soul; 
 Not that I love the city, or the men, 
 But that it harbors him I hold so dear — 
 The king, upon whose bosom let me die, 
 And with the world be still at enmity. 
 What need the arctic people love star- 
 light, 
 To whom the sun shines both by day and 
 
 night? 
 Farewell base stooping to the lordly 
 
 peers ! 
 My knee shall bow to none but to the 
 
 king. 
 As for the multitude, that are but sparks 
 Rak'd up in embers of their poverty; — 
 Tanti.^ I '11 fawn first on the wind 
 That glanceth at my lips, and flieth away. 
 
 Enter three Poor Men. 
 
 But how now, what are these? 
 Poor Men. Such as desire your worship's 
 
 service. 
 Gav. What canst thou do? 
 
 1 P. Man. I can ride. 
 
 Gav. But I have no horses. — What art 
 thou? 
 
 2 P. Man. A traveler. 
 
 Gav. Let me see : thou would'st do well 
 To wait at my trencher and tell me lies 
 
 at dinner time; 
 And as I like your discoursing, I '11 have 
 
 you.— 
 And what art thou? 
 
 3 P. Man. A soldier, that hath serv'd 
 
 against the Scot. 
 Gav. Why, there are hospitals for such as 
 you. 
 I have no war, and therefore, sir, begone. 
 3 P. Man. Farewell, and perish by a sol- 
 dier's hand. 
 That would'st reward them with an hos- 
 pital. 
 Gav. (Aside.) Aye, aye, these words of 
 his move me as much 
 As if a goose should play the porpentine, 
 And dart her plumes, thinking to pierce 
 
 my breast. 
 But yet it is no pain to speak men fair ; 
 I '11 flatter these, and make them live in 
 
 hope. — 
 You know that I came lately out of 
 
 France, 
 
 J "bo much for tbem." 
 
 And yet I have not view'd my lord the 
 
 king; 
 If I speed well, I'll entertain you all. 
 All. We thank your worship. 
 Gav. I have some business: leave me to 
 
 myself. 
 All. We will wait here about the court. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Gav. Do. — These are not men for me : 
 I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits. 
 Musicians, that with touching of a string 
 May draw the pliant king which way I 
 
 please. 
 Music and poetry is his delight; 
 Therefore I '11 have Italian masks by 
 
 night. 
 Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing 
 
 shows ; 
 And in the day, when he shall walk 
 
 abroad, 
 Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be 
 
 clad ; 
 My men, like satyrs grazing on the 
 
 lawns. 
 Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic 
 
 hay.2 
 Sometime a lovely boy in Dian's shape, 
 With hair that gilds the water as it 
 
 glides, 
 Crownets of pearl about his naked arms. 
 And in his sportful hands an olive tree. 
 To hide those parts which men delight 
 
 to see, 
 Shall bathe him in a spring; and there 
 
 . hard by. 
 One like Actseon peeping through the 
 
 grove 
 Shall by the angry goddess be trans- 
 
 form'd. 
 And running in the likeness of an hart 
 By yelping hounds pull'd down, and 
 
 seem to die; — 
 Such things as these best please his maj- 
 esty. 
 My lord. — Here comes the king, and the 
 
 nobles 
 From the parliament. I '11 stand aside. 
 
 Betires. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Lancaster, the Elder 
 Mortimer, Young Mortimer, Kent, War- 
 wick, and Attendants. 
 
 K. Edvj. Lancaster! 
 
 Lan. My lord. 
 
 Gav. (Aside.) That Earl of Lancaster 
 
 do I abhor. 
 K. Edw. Will you not grant me this? — 
 
 (Aside.) In spite of them 
 
 2 a rustic dance. 
 
78 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 I '11 have my will ; and these two Morti- 
 mers, 
 That cross me thus, shall know I am dis- 
 
 pleas'd. 
 E. Mor. If you love us, my lord, hate 
 
 Gaveston. 
 Gav. (Aside.) That villain Mortimer! 
 
 I '11 be his death. 
 Y. Mor. Mine uncle here, this earl, and I 
 
 myself 
 Were sworn to your father at his death. 
 That he should ne'er return into the 
 
 realm ; 
 And know, my lord, ere I will break my 
 
 oath. 
 This sword of mine, that should offend 
 
 your foes, 
 Shall sleep within the scabbard at thy 
 
 need. 
 And underneath thy banners march who 
 
 will, 
 For Mortimer will hang his armor up. 
 Gav. {Aside.) Mart Dieu! 
 K. Edw. Well, Mortimer, I'll make thee 
 
 rue these words. 
 Beseems it thee to contradict thy king? 
 Trown'st thou thereat, aspiring Lancas- 
 ter? 
 The sword shall plane the furrows of 
 
 thy brows, 
 And hew these knees that now are grown 
 
 so stiff. 
 I will have Gaveston; and you shall 
 
 know 
 What danger 't is to stand against jour 
 
 king. 
 Gav. [Aside.) Well done, Ned ! 
 Lan. My lord, why do you thus incense 
 
 your peers. 
 That naturally, would love and honor you 
 But for that base and obscure Gaveston? 
 Four earldoms have I, besides Lancas- 
 ter — 
 Derby, Salisbury, Lincoln, Leicester, — 
 These will I sell, to give my soldiers pay, 
 Ere Gaveston shall stay within the realm ; 
 Therefore, if he be come, expel him 
 
 straight. 
 Kent. Barons and earls, your pride hath 
 
 made me mute; 
 But now I'll speak, and to the proof, I 
 
 hope. 
 I do remember, in my father's days. 
 Lord Percy of the north, being highly 
 
 mov'd. 
 Braved Moubery ^ in presence of the 
 
 Idng;' 
 
 s Mowbray ; the spelling shows the old pronunciation. 
 4 Q. vnrU. 
 
 For which, had not his highness lov'd 
 
 him well. 
 He should have lost his head; but with 
 
 his look 
 The undaunted spirit of Percy was ap- 
 
 peas'd. 
 And Moubery and he were reeoncil'd: 
 Yet dare you brave the king unto his 
 
 face?— 
 Brother, revenge it, and let these their 
 
 heads 
 Preach upon poles, for trespass of their 
 
 tongues. 
 War. 0, our heads ! 
 K. Edw. Aye, yours; and therefore I 
 
 would wish you grant — 
 War. Bridle thy anger, gentle Morti- 
 mer. 
 Y. Mor. I cannot, nor I will not; I must 
 
 speak. — 
 Cousin, our hands I hope shall fence our 
 
 heads. 
 And strike off his that makes you 
 
 threaten us. 
 Come, uncle, let us leave the brain-sick 
 
 king. 
 And henceforth parley * with our naked 
 
 swords. 
 E. Mor. Wiltshire hath men enough to 
 
 save our heads. 
 War. All Warwickshire will love him for 
 
 my sake. 
 Lan. And northward Gaveston hath many 
 
 friends. — 
 Adieu, my lord; and either change your 
 
 mind. 
 Or look to see the throne, where you 
 
 should sit, 
 To float in blood; and at thy wanton 
 
 head, 
 The glozing ° head of thy base minion 
 
 thrown. 
 Exeunt all except King Edward, Kent, 
 
 Gaveston, and Attendants. 
 K. Edw. I cannot brook these haughty 
 
 menaces. 
 Am I a king, and must be overrul'd? — 
 Brother, display my ensigns in the field; 
 I '11 bandy * with the barons and the 
 
 earls, 
 And either die or live with Gaveston. 
 Gav. I can no longer keep me from my 
 
 lord. 
 
 {Comes forward.) 
 K. Edw. What, Gaveston ! welcome ! — 
 
 Kiss not my hand- 
 Embrace me, Gaveston, as I do thee. 
 
 > flattering:. 
 
 6 dispute. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 79 
 
 Why should'st thou kneel? Know'st 
 thou not who I am? 
 
 Thy friend, thyself, another Gaveston! 
 
 Not Hylas was more mourn'd of Hercu- 
 les, 
 
 Than thou hast been of me since thy 
 exile. 
 Gov. And since I went from hence, no 
 soul in hell 
 
 Hath felt more torment than poor Gaves- 
 ton. 
 K. Edw. I know it. — Brother, welcome 
 home my friend. 
 
 Now let the treacherous Mortimers con- 
 spire. 
 
 And that high-minded Earl of Lancaster : 
 
 I have my wish, in that I joy thy sight; 
 
 And sooner shall the sea o'erwhelm my 
 land, 
 
 Than bear the ship that shall transport 
 thee hence. 
 
 I here create thee Lord High Chamber- 
 lain,- 
 
 Chief Secretary to the state and me, 
 
 Earl of Cornwall, King and Lord of 
 Man. 
 Gav. My lord, these titles far exceed my 
 
 worth. 
 Kent. Brother, the least of these may well 
 suffice 
 
 For one of greater birth than Gaveston. 
 K. Edw. Cease, brother, for I cannot 
 brook these words. 
 
 Thy worth, sweet friend, is far above my 
 gifts. 
 
 Therefore, to equal it, receive my heart. 
 
 If for these dignities thou be envied, 
 
 I '11 give thee more ; for, but to honor 
 thee. 
 
 Is Edward pleas'd with kingly regiment.'' 
 
 Tear'st * thou thy person ? Thou shalt 
 have a guard. 
 
 Wantest thou gold ? Go to my treasury. 
 
 Would'st thou be lov'd and fear'd? Re- 
 ceive my seal; 
 
 Save or condemn, and in our name com- 
 mand 
 
 Whatso thy mind afifeets, or fancy likes. 
 Gav. It ^hall suffice me to enjoy your 
 love. 
 
 Which whiles I have, I think myself as 
 great 
 
 As Csesar riding in the Roman street. 
 
 With captive kings at his triumphant 
 ear. 
 
 Enter the Bishop of Coventry. 
 
 7 rule. 8 fearest for. 
 
 K. Edw. Whither goes my lord of Coven- 
 try so fast? 
 B. of Gov. To celebrate your father's 
 exequies. 
 But is that wicked Gaveston return'd? 
 K. Ed'Vo. Aye, priest, and lives to be re- 
 veng'd on thee, 
 V That wert the only cause of his exile. 
 Gav. 'T is true ; and but for reverence of 
 these robes, 
 Thou should'st not plod one foot beyond 
 this place. 
 B. of Gov. 1 did no more than I was 
 bound to do; 
 And, Gaveston, unless thou be reclaim'd, 
 As then I did incense the parliament, 
 So will I now, and thou shalt back to 
 France. 
 Gav. Saving your reverence, you must 
 
 pardon me. 
 K. Edw. Throw ofE his golden mitre, rend 
 his stole, 
 And in the channel ' christen him anew. 
 Kent. Ah, brother, lay not violent hands 
 on him! 
 For he 'II complain unto the see of Rome. 
 Gav. Let him complain unto the see of 
 hell! 
 I'll be reveng'd on him for my exile. 
 K. Edw. No, spare his life, but seize upon 
 his goods. 
 Be thou lord bishop and receive his 
 
 rents, 
 And make him serve thee as thy chap- 
 lain. 
 I give him thee — ^here, use him as thou 
 wilt. 
 Gav. He shall to prison, and there die in 
 
 bolts. 
 K. Edw. Aye, to the Tower, the Fleet,!" 
 
 or where thou wilt. 
 B. of Gov. For this offense, be thou ac- 
 curst of God ! 
 K. Edw. Who's there? Convey this 
 
 priest to the Tower. 
 B. of Gov. True, true. 
 K. Edw. But in the meantime, Gaveston, 
 away. 
 And take possession of his house and 
 
 goods. 
 Come, follow me, and thou shalt have my 
 
 guard 
 To see it done, and bring thee safe again. 
 Gav. What should a priest do with so fair 
 a house? 
 A prison may best beseem his holiness. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 9 gutter. 
 
 10 a prison in London. 
 
80 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Scene 2. Westminster. 
 
 Enter on one side both the Mortimers; on 
 the other, Warwick and Lancaster. 
 
 War. 'T is true ; the bishop is in the 
 Tower, 
 And goods and body given to Gaveston. 
 Lan. What ! will they tyrannize upon the 
 church? 
 Ah, wicked king ! accursed Gaveston ! 
 This ground, which is corrupted with 
 
 their steps. 
 Shall be their timeless '^^ sepulchre or 
 mine. 
 T. Mor. Well, let that peevish Frenchman 
 guard him sure; 
 Unless his breast be sword-proof he shall 
 die. 
 E. Mor. How now ! why droops the Earl 
 
 of Lancaster? 
 T. Mor. Wherefore is Guy of Warwick 
 
 discontent ? 
 Lan. That villain Gaveston is made an 
 
 earl. 
 E. Mor. An earl! 
 
 War. Aye, and besides iLord Chamberlain 
 of the realm, 
 And Secretary too, and Lord of Man. 
 E. Mor. We may not, nor we will not 
 
 suffer this. 
 Y. Mor. Why post we not from hence to 
 
 levy men? 
 Lan. "My Lord of Cornwall" now at 
 every word! 
 And happy is the man whom he vouch- 
 safes, 
 For vailing of ^^ his bonnet, one- good 
 
 look. 
 Thus, arm in arm, the king and he doth 
 
 march : 
 Nay, more, the guard upon his lordship 
 
 waits ; 
 And all the court begins to flatter him. 
 War. Thus leaning on the shoulder of the 
 king, 
 He nods and scorns and smiles at those 
 that pass. 
 E. Mor. Doth no man take exceptions at 
 
 the slave? 
 Lan. All stomach ^' him, but none dare 
 
 speak a word. 
 Y. Mor. Ah, that bewrays their baseness, 
 Lancaster ! 
 Were all the earls and barons of my 
 
 mind. 
 We 'd hale him from the bosom of the 
 king, 
 
 11 untimely. 12 doffing. 
 
 And at the court-gate hang the peasant 
 
 up, 
 Who, swoln with venom of ambitious 
 
 pride. 
 Will be the ruin of the realm and us. 
 
 Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and 
 an Attendant. 
 
 War. Here comes my lord of Canter- 
 bury's grace. 
 Lan. His countenance bewrays he is dis- 
 
 pleas'd. 
 A. of Cant. First were his sacred gar- 
 ments rent and torn, 
 Then laid they violent hands upon him; 
 
 next 
 Himself imprisoned, and his goods as- 
 
 seiz'd ; 
 This certify the Pope; — away, take 
 horse. 
 
 Exit Attend. 
 Lan. My lord, will you take arms against 
 
 the king? 
 A. of Cant. What need I? God himself 
 is up in arms, 
 When violence is offered to the church. 
 Y. Mor. Then will you join with us that 
 be his peers. 
 To banish or behead that Gaveston? 
 A. of Cant. What else, my lords? for it 
 concerns me near; 
 The bishopric of Coventry is his. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella. 
 
 Y. Mor. Madam, whither walks your maj- 
 esty so fast? 
 Q. Isab. Unto the forest, gentle Morti- 
 mer, 
 
 To live in grief and baleful discontent; 
 
 For now my lord the king regards me 
 not. 
 
 But dotes upon the love of Gaveston. 
 
 He claps his cheeks, and hangs about his 
 neck. 
 
 Smiles in his face, and whispers in his 
 ears; 
 
 And when I come he frowns, as who 
 should say, 
 
 "Go whither thou wilt, seeing I have 
 Gaveston." 
 E. Mor. Is it not strange that he is thus 
 
 bewitch'd? 
 Y. Mor. Madam, return unto the court 
 again. 
 
 That sly inveigling Frenchman we '11 
 exile, 
 
 Or lose our lives; and yet, ere that day 
 come, 
 
 IS are angered at. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 81 
 
 The king shall lose his crown; for we 
 
 have power, 
 And courage too, to be reveng'd at full. 
 Q. Isab. But yet lift not your swords 
 
 against the king. 
 Lan. No ; but we '11 lift Gaveston from 
 
 hence. 
 War. And war must be the means, or he '11 
 
 stay still. 
 Q. Isab. Then let- him stay; for rather 
 than my lord 
 Shall be oppress'd by civil mutinies, 
 I will endure a melancholy life, 
 And let him frolic with his minion. 
 A. of Cant. My lords, to ease all this, but 
 hear me speak: — 
 We and the rest, that are his counsel- 
 lors, 
 Will meet, and with a general consent 
 Confirm his banishment with our hands 
 and seals. 
 Lan. What we confirm the king will frus- 
 trate. 
 T. Mor. Then may we lawfully revolt 
 
 from him. 
 War. But say, my lord, where shall this 
 
 meeting be 1 
 A. of Cant. At the New Temple. 
 Y. Mor. Content. 
 
 A. of Cant. And, in the meantime, I'll 
 entreat you all 
 To cross to Lambeth, and there stay with 
 me. 
 Lan. Come then, let's away. 
 T. Mor. Madam, farewell! 
 Q. Isab. Farewell, sweet Mortimer, and, 
 for my sake. 
 Forbear to levy arms against the king. 
 T. Mor. Aye, if words will serve; if not, 
 I must. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. A street in London. 
 
 Enter Gaveston and Kent, 
 
 Gav. Edmund, the mighty Prince of Lan- 
 caster, 
 
 That hath more earldoms than an ass can 
 bear, 
 
 And both the Mortimers, two goodly men, 
 
 With Guy of Warwick, that redoubted 
 knight. 
 
 Are gone toward Lambeth — ^there let 
 them remain ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. The New Temple. 
 Enter Nobles. 
 
 Lan. Here is the form of Gaveston's 
 
 exile : 
 May it please your lordship to subscribe 
 
 your name. 
 A. of Cant. Give me the paper. 
 {He subscribes, as do the others after him.) 
 Lan. Quick, quick, my lord; I long to 
 
 write my name. 
 War. But I long more to see him banish'd 
 
 hence. 
 T. Mor. The name of Mortimer shall 
 
 fright the king. 
 Unless he be declin'd from that base 
 
 peasant. 
 
 ' Enter King Edward, Gaveston, and Kent. 
 
 K. Edw. What, are you mov'd that Gaves- 
 ton sits here? 
 It is our pleasure; we will have it so. 
 Lan. Your grace doth well to place him 
 by your side, 
 For nowhere else the new earl is so safe. 
 E. Mor. What man of noble birth can 
 brook this sight? 
 Quam male conveniunt!'^* • 
 See what a scornful look the peasant 
 casts ! 
 Pern. Can kingly lions fawn on creeping 
 
 ants? 
 War. Ignoble vassal, that like Phaeton 
 Aspir'st unto the guidance of the sun ! 
 T. Mor. Their downfall is at hand, their 
 forces down; 
 We will not thus be fac'd and over- 
 peer'd. 
 K. Edw. Lay hands on that traitor Mor- 
 timer ! 
 E. Mor. Lay hands on that traitor Gaves- 
 ton! 
 Kent. Is this the duty that you owe your 
 
 king? 
 War. We know our duties — let him know 
 
 his peers. 
 K. Edw. Whither will you bear him? 
 
 Stay, or ye shall die. 
 E. Mor. We are no traitors; therefore 
 
 threaten not. 
 Gav. No, threaten not, my lord, but pay 
 them home ! 
 
 Were I a king 
 
 T. Mor. Thou villain, wherefore talk'st 
 thou of a king,* 
 That hardly art a gentleman by birth? 
 
 14 how ill they agree I 
 
82 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 K. Edw. Were he a peasant, being my 
 minion, 
 I'll make the proudest of you stoop to 
 him. 
 Lan. My lord, you may not thus dis- 
 parage us. — 
 Away, I say, with hateful Gaveston ! 
 E. Mor. And with the Earl of Kent that 
 
 favors him. 
 (Attendants remove Kent and Gaveston.) 
 K. Edw. Nay, then, lay violent hands 
 upon your king. 
 Here, Mortimer, sit thou in Edward's 
 
 throne ; 
 Warwick and Lancaster, wear you my 
 
 crown. 
 Was ever king thus over-rul'd as I? 
 Lan. Learn then to rule us better, and the 
 
 realm. 
 r. Mor. W'hat we have done, our heart- 
 blood shall maintain. 
 War. Think you that we can brook this 
 
 upstart pride? 
 K. Edw. Anger and wrathful fury stops 
 
 my speech. 
 A. of Cant. Why are you mov'd? Be 
 patient, my lord. 
 And see what we your counsellors have 
 done. 
 Y. Mor. My lords, now let us all be reso- 
 lute, 
 And either have our wills, or lose our 
 lives. 
 K. Edw. Meet you for this, proud over- 
 daring peers? 
 Ere my sweet Gaveston shall part from 
 
 me, 
 This isle shall fleet ^° upon the ocean, 
 And wander to the unfrequented Inde. 
 A. of Cant. You know that I am legate 
 to the Pope. 
 On your allegiance to the see of Rome, 
 Subscribe, as we have done, to his exile. 
 Y. Mor. Curse him, if he refuse; and 
 then may we 
 Depose him and elect another king. 
 K. Edw. Aye, there it goes ! but yet I will 
 not yield. 
 Curse me, depose me, do the worst you 
 can. 
 Lan. Then linger not, my lord, but do it 
 
 straight. 
 A. of Cant. Remember how the bishop 
 was abus'd! 
 Either banish him that was the cause 
 
 thereof, 
 Or I will presently 'discharge these lords 
 Of duty and allegiance due to thee. 
 
 IE float. 
 
 K. Edw. (Aside.) It boots me not to 
 threat; I must speak fair. — 
 The legate of the Pope will be obeyd. 
 My lord, you shall be Chancellor of the 
 
 realm ; 
 Thou, Lancaster, High Admiral of our 
 
 fleet ; 
 Young Mortimer and his uncle shall be 
 
 earls ; 
 And you. Lord Warwidk, President of 
 
 the North; 
 And thou, of Wales. If this content you 
 
 not. 
 Make several kingdoms of this monarchy, 
 And share it equally amongst you all, 
 So I may have some nook or corner left, 
 To frolic with my dearest Gaveston. 
 A. of Cant. Nothing shall alter us, we 
 
 are resolv'd. 
 Lan. Come, come, subscribe. 
 Y. Mor. Why should you love him whom 
 
 the world hates so? 
 K. Edw. Because he loves me more than 
 all the world. 
 Ah, none but rude and savage-minded 
 
 men 
 Would seek the ruin of my Gaveston ; 
 You that be noble-bom should pity 
 him. 
 War. You that are princely-bom should 
 shake him off. 
 For shame subscribe, and let the lown^^ 
 depart. 
 E. Mor. Urge him, my lord. 
 A. of Cant. Are you content to banish him 
 
 the realm? 
 K. Edw. I see I -must, and therefore am 
 content. 
 Instead of ink, I'll write it with my 
 tears. 
 
 (Subscribes.) 
 Y. Mor. The king is love-sick for his 
 
 minion. 
 K. Edw. 'Tis done; and now, accursed 
 
 hand, fall off! 
 Lan. ' Give it me ; I '11 have it publish' d in 
 
 the streets. 
 Y. Mor. 1 '11 see him presently despateh'd 
 
 away. 
 A. of Cant. Now is my heart at ease. 
 War. And so is mine. 
 
 Pem. This will be good news to the com- 
 mon sort. 
 E. Mor. Be it or no, he shall not linger 
 here. 
 Exeunt all except King Edward. 
 K. Edw. How fast they run to banish him 
 I love ! 
 
 16 loon, base fellow. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 83 
 
 They would not stir, were it to do me 
 good. 
 
 Why should a king be subject to a priest 1 
 
 Proud Rome ! that hatehest such imperial 
 grooms, 
 
 For these thy superstitious laper-lights. 
 
 Wherewith thy antichristian churches 
 blaze, 
 
 I '11 fire thy crazed buildings, and en- 
 force 
 
 The papal towers to kiss the lowly 
 ground ! 
 
 With slaughtered priests make Tiber's 
 channel swell. 
 
 And banks rais'd higher with their se- 
 pulchres ! 
 
 As for the peers', that back the clergy 
 thus. 
 
 If I be king", not one of them shall live. 
 
 Be-enter Gaveston. 
 
 Gav. My lord, I hear it whispered every- 
 where. 
 That I am banish'd, and must fly the 
 
 land. 
 K. Edw. 'Tis true, sweet G-aveston — 0! 
 
 were it false! 
 The legate of the Pope will have it so, 
 And thou must hence, or I shall be de- 
 
 pos'd. 
 But I will reign to be leveng'd of them; 
 And therefore, sweet friend, take it pa- 
 tiently. 
 Live where thou wilt, I '11 send thee gold 
 
 enough ; 
 And long thou shalt not stay, or if thou 
 
 dost, 
 I '11 come to thee ; my love shall ne'er 
 
 decline. 
 Gav. Is all my hope turn'd to this hell of 
 
 grief? 
 K. Edw. Rend not my heart with thy too 
 
 piercing words: 
 Thou from this land, I from myself am 
 
 banish'd. 
 Gav. To go from hence grieves not poor 
 
 Gaveston ; 
 But to forsake you, in whose gracious 
 
 looks 
 The blessedness of Gaveston remains. 
 For nowhere else seeks he felicity. 
 K. Edw. And only this torments my 
 
 wretched soul 
 That, whether I will or no, thou must 
 
 depart. 
 Be governor of Ireland in ray stead, 
 And there abide till fortune call Ihee 
 
 home. 
 
 Here take my picture, and let me wear 
 
 thine ; 
 
 (They exchange pictures.) 
 
 0, might I keep thee here as I do this, 
 
 Happy were I ! but now most miserable ! 
 
 Gav. 'Tis something to be pitied of a 
 
 king. 
 K. Edw. Thou shalt not hence — I '11 hide 
 
 thee, Gaveston. 
 Gav. 1 shall be found, and then 't will 
 
 grieve me more. 
 K. Edw. Kind words and mutual talk 
 makes our grief greater; 
 Therefore, with dumb embraeement, let 
 
 us part. — 
 Stay, Gaveston, I cannot leave thee thus. 
 Gav. For every look, my lord drops down 
 a tear. 
 Seeing I must go, do not renew my sor- 
 row. 
 K. Edw. The time is little that thou hast 
 to stay. 
 And, therefore, give me leave to look my 
 
 fill. 
 But come, sweet friend, I '11 bear thee on 
 thy way. 
 Gav: The peers will frown. 
 K. Edw. I pass ^' not for their anger — 
 Come let 's go ; 
 
 that we might as well return as go ! 
 
 Enter Edmund and Queen Isabella. 
 
 Q. Isab. Whither goes my lord? 
 
 K. Edw. Fawn not on me, French strum- 
 pet! Get thee gone! 
 
 Q. Isab. On whom but on my husband 
 should I fawn? 
 
 Gav. On Mortimer! with whom, ungentle 
 queen — 
 
 1 say no more. Judge you the rest, my 
 
 lord. 
 Q. Isab. In saying this, thou wrong'st me, 
 Gaveston. 
 Is't not enough that thou corrupt'st my 
 
 lord, 
 And art a bawd to his affections. 
 But thou must call mine honor thus in 
 question ? 
 Gav. I mean not so ; your grace must par- 
 don me. 
 K, Edw. Thou art too familiar with that 
 Mortimer. 
 And by thy means is Gaveston exil'd; 
 But I would wish thee reconcile the lords, 
 Or thou shalt ne'er be reeoneil'd to me. 
 Q. Isab. Your highness knows it lies not 
 in my power. 
 
 17 care. 
 
84 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 K. Edw. Away then! touch me not. — 
 
 Come, Gaveston. 
 Q. Isab. Villain ! 't is thou that robb'st me 
 
 of my lord. 
 Gav. Madam, 't is you that rob me of my 
 
 lord. 
 K. Edw. Speak fiot unto -her; let her 
 
 droop and pine. 
 Q. Isab. Wherein, my lord, have I de- 
 
 serv'd these words? 
 Witness the tears that Isabella sheds, 
 Witness this heart, that, sighing for thee, 
 
 breaks, 
 How dear my lord is to poor Isabel. 
 K. Edw. And witness Heaven how dear 
 
 thou art to me ! 
 There weep; for till my Gaveston be 
 
 repeal'd, 
 Assure thyself thou com'st not in my 
 
 sight. 
 
 Exeunt Edward and Gaveston. 
 Q. Isab, miserable and distressed queen ! 
 Would, when I left sweet France and 
 
 was embark'd. 
 That charming Circe, walking on the 
 
 waves. 
 Had ehang'd my shape, or at the mar- 
 riage-day 
 The cup of Hymen had been full of 
 
 poison. 
 Or with those arms that twin'd about my 
 
 neck 
 I had been stifled, and not liv'd to see 
 The king my lord thus to abandon me! 
 Like frantic Juno will I fill the earth 
 With ghastly murmur of my sighs and 
 
 cries; 
 For never doted Jove on Ganymede 
 So much as he on cursed Gaveston. 
 But that will more exasperate his wrath; 
 I must entreat him, I must speak him 
 
 fair. 
 And be a means to call home Gaveston. 
 And yet he '11 ever dote on Gaveston ; 
 And so am I for ever miserable. 
 
 , Be-enter Nobles to the Queen. 
 
 Lan. Look where the sister of the King of 
 
 France 
 Sits wringing of her hands, and beats 
 
 her breast! 
 War. The king, I fear, hath ill-entreated 
 
 her. 
 Pern. Hard is the heart that injures such 
 
 a saint. 
 T. Mor. I know 'tis 'long of Gaveston 
 
 she weeps. 
 E. Mor. Why? He is gone. 
 
 r. Mor. Madam, how fares your grace? 
 
 Q. Isab. Ah, Mortimer! now breaks the 
 
 king's hate forth, 
 
 And he eonf esseth that he loves me not. 
 
 Y. Mor, Cry quittance, madam, then; and 
 
 love not him. 
 Q. Isab. No, rather will I die a thousand 
 deaths ! 
 And yet I love in vain ; — ^he '11 ne'er love 
 me. 
 Lan. Fear ye not, madam; now his min- 
 ion 's gone, 
 His wanton humor will be quickly left. 
 Q, Isab, never, Lancaster! I am en- 
 join'd 
 To sue upon you all for his repeal; 
 This wills my lord, and this must I per- 
 form, 
 Or else be banish'd from his highness' 
 presence. 
 Lan, For his repeal? Madam, he comes 
 not back, 
 Ifnless the sea east up his shipwrack'd 
 body. 
 War. And to behold so sweet a sight as 
 that, 
 There's none here but would run his 
 horse to death. 
 Y. Mbr, But, madam, would you have us 
 
 call him home? 
 Q. Isab, Aye, Mortimer, for till he be re- 
 stor'd. 
 The angry king hath banish'd me the 
 
 court ; 
 And, therefore, as thou lov'st and ten- 
 
 d'rest me, 
 Be thou my advocate unto these peers. 
 Y. Mor. What ! would you have me plead 
 
 for Gaveston? 
 E. Mor. Plead for him he that will, I am 
 
 resolv'd. 
 Lan. And so am I, my lord. Dissuade 
 
 the queen. 
 Q. Isab, Lancaster! let him dissuade 
 the king. 
 For 'tis against my will he should re- 
 turn. 
 War, Then speak not for him, let the 
 
 peasant go. 
 Q. Isab. 'T is for myself I speak, and not 
 
 for him. 
 Pern. No speaking will prevail, and there- 
 fore cease. 
 Y, Mor. Fair queen, forbear to angle for 
 the fish 
 Wliich, being caught, strikes him that 
 
 takes it dead ; 
 I mean that vile torpedo, Gaveston, 
 That now, I hope, floats on the Irish seas. 
 
EDWAEI 
 
 85 
 
 Q. Isab. Sweet Mortimer, sit down by me 
 a while, 
 And I will tell thee reasons of such 
 
 weight 
 As thou wilt soon subscribe to his re- 
 peal. 
 Y. Mor. It is impossible; but speak your 
 
 mind. 
 Q. Isab. Then thus, — but none shall hear 
 it but ourselves. 
 {Talks to Young Mortimer apart.) 
 Lan. My lords, albeit the queen win Mor- 
 timer, 
 WUl you be resolute, and hold with me? 
 E. Mor. Not I, against my nephew. 
 Pern. Fear not, the queen's words cannot 
 
 alter him. 
 War. No? Do but mark how earnestly 
 
 she pleads! 
 Lan. And see how coldly his looks make. 
 
 denial ! 
 War. She smiles; now for my life his 
 
 mind is chang'd. 
 Lan. I'll rather lose his friendship, I, 
 
 than grant. 
 Y, Mor. Well, of necessity it must be so. 
 My lords, that I abhor base Gaveston, 
 I hope your honors make no question. 
 And therefore, though I plead for his 
 
 repeal, 
 'T ig not for his sake, but for our avail ; 
 Nay, for the realm's behoof, and for the 
 king's. 
 Lan. Fie, Mortimer, dishonor not thy- 
 self! 
 Can this be true, 'twas good to banish 
 
 him? 
 And is this true, to call him home again 1 
 Such reasons make white black, and dark 
 night day. 
 T. Mor. My lord of Lancaster, mark the 
 
 respect.^* 
 Lan. In no respect can contraries be true. 
 Q. Isab. Yet, good my lord, hear what he 
 
 can allege. 
 War. All that he speaks is nothing; we 
 
 are resolv'd. 
 Y. Mor. Do you not wish that Gaveston 
 
 were dead? 
 Pem. I would he were! 
 Y. Mor. Why, then, my lord, give me but 
 
 leave to speak. 
 E. Mor. But, nephew, do not play the so- 
 
 phister. 
 Y. Mor. This which I urge is of a burning 
 zeal 
 To mend the king, and do our country 
 good. 
 
 Know you not Gaveston hath store of 
 gold. 
 
 Which may in Ireland purchase him such 
 friends 
 
 As he will front the mightiest of us all? 
 
 And whereas he shall live and be be- 
 lov'd, 
 
 'T is hard for us to )vork his overthrow. 
 War. Mark you but that, my lord of Lan- 
 caster. 
 Y. Mor. But were he here, detested as he 
 is, 
 
 How easily might some base slave be 
 suborn'd 
 
 To greet his lordship with a poniard. 
 
 And none so much as blame the mur- 
 derer. 
 
 But rather praise him for that brave 
 attempt. 
 
 And in the chronicle enrol his name 
 
 For purging of the realm of such a 
 plague ! 
 Pem. He saith true. 
 Lan. Aye, but how chance this was not 
 
 done before? 
 Y. Mor. Because, my lords, it was not 
 thought upon. 
 
 Nay, more, when he shall know it lies in 
 us 
 
 To banish him, and then to call him 
 home, 
 
 'Twill make him vail" the top-flag of 
 his pride. 
 
 And fear to offend the meanest noble- 
 man. 
 E. Mor. But how if he do not, nephew ? 
 Y. Mor. 'fhen may we with some color ^'' 
 rise in arms; 
 
 For howsoever we have borne it out, 
 
 'T is treason to be up against the king. 
 
 So we shall have the people of our side. 
 
 Which for his father's sake lean to the 
 king. 
 
 But cannot brook a night-grown mush- 
 room. 
 
 Such a one as my lord of Cornwall is, 
 
 Should bear us down of the nobility. 
 
 And when the commons and the nobles 
 join, 
 
 'T is not the king can buckler Gaveston ; 
 
 We '11 pull him from the strongest hold 
 he hath. 
 
 My lords, if to perform this I be slack, 
 
 Think me as base a groom as Gaveston. 
 Lan. On that condition, Lancaster will 
 
 grant. 
 War. And so will Pembroke and I. 
 E. Mor. And I. 
 
 18 consideration. 
 
 19 lower. 
 
 20 pretext. 
 
86 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Y. Mor. In this I count rae highly grati- 
 fied, 
 
 And Mortimer will rest at your eom- 
 mand. 
 Q. Isab. And when this favor Isabel for- 
 gets, 
 
 Then let her live abandon'd and for- 
 lorn. — 
 
 But see, in happy time, my lord the king, 
 
 Having brought the Earl of Cornwall on 
 his way. 
 
 Is new return'd. This news will glad 
 him much, 
 
 Yet not so much as me. I love him more 
 
 Than he can Gaveston; would he lov'd 
 me 
 
 But half so much, then were I treble- 
 blest. 
 
 Be-enter King Edward, mourning. 
 
 K. Edw. He 's gone, and for his absence 
 thus I mourn. 
 Did never sorrow go so near my heart 
 As doth the want of my sweet Gaveston; 
 And could my crown's revenue bring him 
 
 back, 
 I would freely give it to his enemies. 
 And think I gain'd, having bought so 
 dear a friend. 
 Q. Isab. Hark! how he harps upon his 
 
 minion. 
 K. Edw. My heart is as an anvil unto 
 sorrow. 
 Which beats upon it like the Cyclops' 
 
 hammers. 
 And with the noise turns up my giddy 
 
 brain. 
 And makes me frantic for my Gaveston. 
 Ah ! had some bloodless Fury rose from 
 
 hell, 
 And with my kingly scepter struck me 
 
 dead. 
 When I was forc'd to leave my Gaves- 
 ton! 
 Lan. Diablo! What passions call you 
 
 these? 
 Q. Isab. My gracious lord, I come to 
 
 bring you news. 
 K. Edw. That you have parley'd with 
 
 your Mortimer! 
 Q. Isab. That Gaveston, my lord, shall be 
 
 repeai'd. 
 K. Edw. Kepeal'd! The news is too 
 
 sweet to be true? 
 Q. Isab. But will you love me, if you find 
 
 it so? 
 K. Edw. If it be so, what will not Edward 
 do? 
 
 Q. Isab. For Gaveston, but not for Isa- 
 bel. 
 K. Edw. For thee, fair queen, if thou 
 lov'st Gaveston. 
 I '11 hang a golden tongue about thy 
 
 neck, 
 Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good 
 success. 
 Q. Isab. No other jewels hang about my 
 neck 
 Than these, my lord; nor let me have 
 
 more wealth 
 Than I may fetch from this rich 
 treasury. 
 
 how a kiss revives poor Isabel! 
 
 K. Edw. Once more receive my hand ; and 
 let this be 
 A second marriage 'twixt thyself and me. 
 Q. Isab. And may it prove more happy 
 than the first! 
 My gentle lord, bespeak these nobles fair. 
 That wait attendance for a 'gracious look. 
 And on their knees salute your majesty. 
 K. Edw. Courageous Lancaster, embrace 
 thy king! 
 And, as gross vapors perish by the sun, 
 Even so let hatred with thy sovereign's 
 
 smile. 
 Live thou with me as my companion. 
 Lan. This salutation overjoys my heart. 
 K. Edw. Warwick shall be my chiefest 
 counsellor : 
 These silver hairs will more adorn my 
 
 court 
 Than gaudy silks, or rich embroidery. 
 Chide me,, sweet Warwick, if I go astray. 
 War. Slay me, my lord, when 1 offend 
 
 your grace. 
 K. Edw. In solemn triumphs, and in pub- 
 lic shows, 
 Pembroke shall bear the sword before the 
 king. 
 Pern. And with this sword Pembroke will 
 
 fight for you. 
 K. Edw. But wherefore walks young 
 Mortimer aside? 
 Be thou commander of our royal fleet; 
 Or, if that lofty office like thee not, 
 
 1 make thee here Lord Marshal of the 
 
 realm. 
 Y. Mor. My lord, I'll marshal so your 
 enemies. 
 
 As England shall be quiet, and you safe. 
 K. Edw. And as for you. Lord Mortimer 
 of Chirke, 
 
 Whose great achievements in our foreign 
 war 
 
 Deserves no common place nor mean re- 
 ward. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 87 
 
 Be you the general of the levied troops, 
 That now are ready to assail the Scots. 
 E. Mor. In this your grace hath highly 
 honored me, 
 For with my nature war doth best agree. 
 Q. Isdb. Now is the King of England rich 
 and strong, 
 Having the love of his renowned peers. 
 K. Edw. Aye, Isabel, ne'er was my heart 
 so light. 
 Clerk of the crown, direct our warrant 
 
 forth 
 For Gaveston to Ireland : 
 
 Enter Beaumont with warrant. 
 
 Beaumont, fly 
 As fast as Iris or Jove's Mercury. 
 Beau. It shall be done, my gracious lord. 
 
 Exit. 
 K. Edw. Lord Mortimer, we leave you to 
 your charge. 
 Now let us in, and feast it royally. 
 Against our friend the Earl of Cornwall 
 
 comes, 
 We'll have a general tilt and tourna- 
 ment; 
 And then his marriage shall be solemn- 
 
 iz'd. 
 For wot you not that I have made him 
 
 sure ^'^ 
 Unto our cousin, the Earl of Gloucester's 
 heir? 
 Lan. Such news we hear, my lord. 
 K. Edw. That day, if not for him, yet for 
 my sake. 
 Who in the triumph will be challenger, 
 Spare for no cost; we will requite your 
 love. 
 War. In this, or .aught, yonr highness 
 
 shall command us. 
 K. Edw. Thanks, gentle Warwick: come, 
 let's in and revel. 
 Exeunt all except the Mortimers. 
 E. Mor. Nephew, I must to Scotland; 
 thou stayest here. 
 Leave now to oppose thyself against the 
 
 king. 
 Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm, 
 And seeing his mind so dotes on Ga- 
 veston, 
 Let him without eontrolment have his 
 
 will. 
 The mightiest kings have had their min- 
 ions: 
 Great Alexander loved Hephestion; 
 The conquering Hercules ^^ for Hylas 
 wept; 
 
 8X betrothed him. 22 Qq. Hector, 
 
 And for Patroclus stem Achilles droop'd : 
 And not kings only, but the wisest men: 
 The Roman TuUy lov'd Octavius; 
 Grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades. 
 Then let his grace, whose youth is flex- 
 ible. 
 And promiseth as much as we can wish. 
 Freely enjoy that vain, light-headed 
 
 earl; 
 For riper years will wean him from such 
 
 toys. 
 Y. Mor. Uncle, his wanton humor grieves 
 
 not me; 
 But this I scorn, that one so basely born 
 Should by his sovereign's favor grow so 
 
 pert. 
 And riot it with the treasure of the 
 
 realm. 
 While soldiers mutiny for want of pay. 
 He wears a lord's revenue on his back. 
 And Midas-like, he jets ^' it in the court. 
 With base 'outlandish cuUions ^* at his 
 
 heels, 
 Whose proud fantastic liveries make 
 
 such show 
 As if that Proteus, god of shapes, ap- 
 
 pear'd. 
 I have not seen a dapper Jack so brisk; 
 He wears a short Italian hooded cloak 
 Larded with pearl, and, in his Tuscan 
 
 cap, 
 A jewel of more value than the crown. 
 While others walk below, the king and 
 
 he 
 From out a window laugh at such as 
 
 we. 
 And flout our train, and jest at our at- 
 tire. 
 Uncle, 't is this that makes me impatient. 
 E. Mor. But, nephew, now you see the 
 
 king is chang'd. 
 J". Mor. Then so am I, and live to do him 
 
 service : 
 But whiles I have a sword, a hand, a 
 
 heart, 
 I will not yield to any such upstart. 
 You know my mind; come, uncle, let's 
 
 away. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene 1. Gloucester's house. 
 
 Enter Young Spencer and Baldock. 
 
 Bald. Spencer, seeing that our lord th' 
 Earl of Gloucester's dead. 
 
 83 swaggers. 
 
 a scoundrels. 
 
88 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Which of the nobles dost thou mean to 
 
 serve 1 
 Y. Spen. Not Mortimer, nor any of his 
 
 side, 
 Because the king and he are enemies. 
 Baldock, learn this of me, a factious 
 
 lord 
 ShaU hardly do himself good, much less 
 
 us; 
 But he that hath the favor of a king, 
 May with one word advance us while we 
 
 live. 
 The liberal Earl of Cornwall is the man 
 On whose good fortune Spencer's hope 
 
 depends. 
 Bald. What, mean you then to be his fol- 
 lower? 
 T. Spen. No, his companion ; for he loves 
 
 me well, 
 And would have once preferr'd ^° me to 
 
 the king. 
 Bald. But he is banish'd; -there's small 
 
 hope of him. 
 y. Spen. Aye, for a while; but, Baldock, 
 
 mark the end. 
 A friend of mine told me in secrecy 
 That he's repeal'd, and sent for back 
 
 again ; 
 And even now a post came from the 
 
 court 
 With letters to our lady from the king; 
 And as she read she smil'd, which makes 
 
 me think 
 It is about her lover Gaveston. 
 Bald. 'T is like enough ; for since he was 
 
 exil'd 
 She neither walks abroad, nor comes in 
 
 sight. 
 But I had thought the match had been 
 
 broke off. 
 And that his banishment had chang'd her 
 
 mind. 
 Y. Spen. Our lady's first love is not 
 
 wavering ; 
 My life for thine, she will have Gaveston. 
 Bald. Then hope I by her means to be 
 
 preferr'd. 
 Having read unto her since she was a 
 
 child. 
 Y. Spen. Then, Baldock, you must cast 
 
 the scholar off, 
 And learn to court it like a gentleman. 
 'T is not a black coat and a Uttle band, 
 A velvet-cap'd cloak, fae'd before with 
 
 serge. 
 And smelling to a nosegay all the day. 
 Or holding of a napkin in your hand, 
 Or sayinp a long grace at a table's end, 
 
 25 recommended. 
 
 Or making low legs^« to a nobleman. 
 
 Or looking downward with your eyelids 
 close, 
 
 And saying, "Truly, an 't may please 
 your honor," 
 
 Can get you any favor with great men; 
 
 You must be proud, bold, pleasant, reso- 
 lute, 
 
 And now and then stab, as occasion 
 serves. 
 Bald. Spencer, thou know'st I hate such 
 formal toys, 
 
 And use them but of mere hypocrisy. 
 
 Mine old lord whiles he liv'd was so pre- 
 cise. 
 
 That he would take exceptions at my 
 buttons, 
 
 And being like pin's heads, blame me for 
 the bigness; 
 
 Which made me curate-like in mine at- 
 tire. 
 
 Though inwardly licentious enough 
 
 And apt for any kind of villainy. 
 
 I am none of these common pedants, I, 
 
 That cannot speak without propterea 
 quod. 
 T. Spen. But one of those that saith 
 guando-quidem, 
 
 And hath a special gift to form a verb. 
 Bald. Leave ofE this jesting, here my lady 
 comes. 
 
 Enter King Edward's Niece. 
 
 Niece. The grief for his exile was not so 
 much 
 
 As is the joy of his returning home. 
 
 This letter came from my sweet Ga- 
 veston : — 
 
 What need'st thou, love, thus to excuse 
 thyself? 
 
 I know thou couldst not come and visit 
 me. 
 
 {Beads.) "1 will not long be from thee, 
 though I die." 
 
 This argues the entire love of my lord; 
 
 (Reads.) "When I forsake thee, death 
 seize on my heart:" 
 
 But stay thee here where Gaveston shall 
 sleep. 
 (Puts the letter into her bosom.) 
 
 Now to the letter of my lord the king. — 
 
 He wills me to repair unto the court, 
 
 And meet my Gaveston. Why do I stay. 
 
 Seeing that he talks thus of my mar- 
 riage-day 1 
 
 Who 's there ? Baldock ! 
 
 See that my coach be ready, I must 
 hence, 
 
 86 bows. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 89 
 
 Bald. It shall be done, madam. 
 Niece. And meet me at the park-pale 
 presently. 
 
 Exit Baldock, 
 Spencer, stay you and bear me company. 
 For I have joyful news to tell thee of. 
 My lord of Cornwall is a-coming over. 
 And will be at the court as soon as we. 
 Y. Spen. 1 knew the king would have him 
 
 home again. 
 Niece. If aU things sort ^' out as I hope 
 they will, 
 Thy service, Spencer, shall be thought 
 upon. 
 Y. Spen. I humbly thank your ladyship. 
 Niece. Come, lead the way; I long till I 
 am there. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Before Tynemouth Castle. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Queen Isabella, Kent, 
 Lancaster, Young Mortimer, Warwick, 
 Pembroke, and Attendants. 
 
 K. Edw. The wind is good, I wonder why 
 he stays; 
 I fear me he is wraek'd upon the sea. 
 Q. Isab. Look, Lancaster, how passionate 
 he is. 
 And still his mind runs on his minion ! 
 Lan. My lord, — 
 K. Edw. How now! what news? Is Ga- 
 
 veston arriv'd? 
 Y. Mor. Nothing but Gaveston! — What 
 means your grace? 
 You have matters of more weight to 
 
 think upon ; 
 The King of France sets foot in Nor- 
 mandy. 
 K. Edw. A trifle! we'll expel him when 
 we please. 
 But tell me, Mortimer, what 's thy device 
 Against the stately triumph we decreed? 
 Y. Mor. A homely one, my lord, not worth 
 
 the telling. 
 K. Edw. Pray thee let ipe know it. 
 Y. Mor. But, seeing you are so desirous, 
 thus it is: 
 A lofty cedar-tree, fair flourishing. 
 On whose top-branches kingly eagles 
 
 perch, 
 And by the bark a canker ^s creeps me 
 
 up, 
 And gets into the highest bough of all : 
 The motto, Aeque tandem.^" 
 
 27 fall. 28 "Justly at length." 
 
 28 canker-worm. 
 
 K. Edw. And what is yours, my lord of 
 
 Lancaster? 
 Lan. My lord, mine 's more obscure than 
 Mortimer's. 
 
 Pliny reports there is a flying flsh 
 
 Which all the other fishes deadly hate. 
 
 And therefore, being pursued, it takes 
 the air: 
 
 No sooner is it up, but there 's a fowl 
 
 That seizeth it ; this flsh, my lord, I bear : 
 
 The motto this : Undique mors est.^° 
 K. Edw. Proud Mortimer! ungentle Lan- 
 caster ! 
 
 Is this the love you bear your sovereign ? 
 
 Is this the fruit your reconcilement 
 bears? 
 
 Can you in words make show of amity. 
 
 And in your shields display your ran- 
 corous minds! 
 
 What call you this but private libelling 
 
 Against the Earl of Cornwall and my 
 brother? 
 Q. Isab. Sweet husband, be content; they 
 
 all love you. 
 K. Edw. They love me not that hate my 
 Gaveston. 
 
 I am that cedar, shake me not too much; 
 
 And you the eagles; soar ye ne'er so 
 high, 
 
 I have the jesses '^ that will pull you 
 down; 
 
 And Aeque tandem shall that canker 
 cry 
 
 Unto the proudest peer of Britainy. 
 
 Though thou compar'st him to a flying 
 flsh, 
 
 And threatenest death whether he rise or 
 fall, 
 
 'T is not the hugest monster of the sea. 
 
 Nor foulest harpy that shall swallow 
 him. 
 Y. Mor. If in his absence thus he favors 
 him, 
 
 What will he do whenas he shall be pres- 
 ent? 
 Lan. That shall we see; look where his 
 lordship comes. 
 
 Enter Gaveston. 
 
 K. Edw. My Gaveston! 
 Welcome to Tynemouth! Welcome to 
 
 thy friend ! 
 Thy absence made me droop and pine 
 
 away; 
 For, as the lovers of fair Danae, 
 When she was loek'd up in a brazen 
 
 tower, 
 
 31 straps round a hawk's legs, to which 
 the leash was fastened. 
 
 30 "On every side 
 is death." 
 
90 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Desir'd her more, and wax'd outrageous, 
 So did it fare with me; and now thy 
 
 sight 
 Is sweeter far than was thy parting 
 
 hence 
 
 Bitter and irksome to my sobbing heart. 
 
 Gav. Sweet lord and king, your speech 
 
 preventeth *^ mine ; 
 
 Yet have I words left to express my joy : 
 
 The shepherd nipt with biting winter's 
 
 rage 
 Frolics not more to see the painted 
 
 spring, 
 Than I do to behold your majesty. 
 K. Edw. Will none of you salute my Ga- 
 
 veston 1 
 Lan. Salute him? yes. Welcome, Lord 
 
 Chamberlain ! 
 7. Mor. Welcome is the good Earl of 
 
 Cornwall ! 
 War. Welcome, Lord Governor of the Isle 
 
 of Man! 
 Pern. Welcome, Master Secretary! 
 Kent. Brother, do you hear them? 
 K. Edw. Still will these earls and barons 
 
 use me thus? 
 Gav. My lord, I cannot brook these in- 
 juries. 
 Q. Isdb. (Aside.) Ay me, poor soul, 
 
 when these begin to jar. 
 K. Edw. Return it to their throats, I '11 
 
 be thy warrant. 
 Gav. Base, leaden earls, that glory in 
 your birth. 
 Go sit at home and eat your tenants' 
 
 beef; 
 And come not here to scoff at Gaveston, 
 Whose mounting thoughts did never 
 
 creep so low 
 
 As to bestow a look on such as you. 
 
 Lan. Yet I disdain not to do this for you. 
 
 (Draws his sword 'and offers to stab 
 
 Gaveston.) 
 
 K. Edw. Treason ! treason ! where 's the 
 
 traitor? 
 Pem. Here ! here ! 
 K. Edw. Convey hence Gaveston; they'll 
 
 murder him. 
 Gav. The life of thee shall salve this foul 
 
 disgrace. 
 Y. Mor. Villain! thy life, unless I miss 
 mine aim. 
 
 (Wounds Gaveston.) 
 Q. Isab. Ah ! furious Mortimer, what hast 
 
 thou done? 
 7. Mor. No more than I would answer, 
 were he slain. 
 
 Exit Gaveston with Attendants. 
 
 K. Edw. Yes, more than thou canst an- 
 swer, though he live. 
 Dear shall you both abye ^' this riotous 
 
 deed. 
 Out of my presence ! Come not near the 
 . court! 
 Y. Mor. I '11 not be barr'd the court for 
 
 Gaveston. 
 Lan. We '11 hale him by the ears unto the 
 
 block. 
 K. Edw. Look to your own heads; his is 
 
 sure enough. 
 War. Look to your own crown, if you 
 
 back him thus. 
 Kent. Warwick, these words do ill be- 
 seem thy years. 
 K. Edw. Nay, all of them conspire to 
 cross me thus; 
 But if I live, I'll tread upon their 
 
 heads 
 That think with high looks thus to tread 
 
 me down. 
 Come, Edmund, let's away and levy 
 
 men, 
 'T is war that must abate these barons' 
 pride. 
 Exeunt King Edward, Queen Isabella and 
 
 Kent. 
 War. Let 's to our castles, for the king is 
 
 mov'd. 
 Y. Mor. Mov'd may he be, and perish in 
 
 his wrath ! 
 Lan. Cousin, it is no dealing with him 
 now, 
 He means to make us stoop by force of 
 
 arms; 
 And therefore let us jointly here pro- 
 test " 
 To persecute that Gaveston' to the death. 
 Y. Mor. By heaven, the abject villain 
 
 shall not live! 
 War. I '11 have his blood, or die in seeking 
 
 it. 
 Pem. The like oath Pembroke takes. 
 Lan. And so doth Lancaster. 
 
 Now send our heralds to defy the king; 
 And make the people swear to put him 
 down. 
 
 Enter a Post. 
 
 Y. Mor. Letters! From whence? 
 Mess. From Scotland, my lord. 
 
 (Giving letters to Mortimer.) 
 Lan. Why, how now, cousin, how fares all 
 
 our friends? 
 Y. Mor. My uncle 's taken prisoner by the 
 
 Scots. 
 
 82 anticipates. 
 
 83 pay for. 
 
 84 TOW. 
 
EDWARD 11 
 
 91 
 
 Lan. "We '11 have him ransom'd, man ; be 
 
 of good cheer. 
 T. Mor. They rate his ransom at five 
 thousand pound. 
 Who should defray the money but the 
 
 king, 
 Seeing he is taken prisoner in his wars'? 
 I '11 to the king. 
 Lan, Do, cousin, and I '11 bear thee com- 
 pany. 
 War. Meantime, my lord of Pembroke 
 and myself 
 Will to Newcastle here, and gather 
 head.'° 
 T. Mor. About it then, and we will follow 
 
 you. 
 Lan. Be resolute and full of secrecy. 
 War. I warrant you. 
 
 Exit with Pembroke. 
 Y. Mor. Cousin, and if he will not ran- 
 som him, 
 I 'U thunder such a peal into his ears, 
 As never subject did unto his king. 
 Lan^ Content, I'll bear my part — Holla! 
 who's there? 
 
 Bnter Guard. 
 
 Y. Mor. Aye, marry, such a guard as this 
 
 doth well. 
 Lan. Lead on the way. 
 Guard. Whither will your lordships'? 
 T. Mor. Whither else but to the king. 
 Guard. His highness is dispos'd to be 
 
 alone. 
 Lan. Why, so he may, but we will speak 
 
 to him. 
 Guard. You may not in, my lord. 
 Y. Mor. May we not? 
 
 Enter King Edward and Kent. 
 
 K. Edw. How now ! 
 
 What noise is this? Who have we 
 
 there? Is't you? (Going.) 
 
 Y. Mor. Nay, stay, my lord, I come to 
 
 bring you news; 
 Mine uncle 's taken prisoner by the 
 
 Scots. 
 K. Edw. Then ransom him. 
 Lan. 'T was in your wars ; you should 
 
 ransom him. 
 Y. Mor. And you shall ransom him, or 
 
 else 
 
 Kent. What, Mortimer, you will not 
 
 threaten him! 
 K. Edw. Quiet yourself, you shall have 
 
 the broad seal,^* 
 
 35 forces. 
 
 36 the state seal, as 
 warrant for the 
 levying of taxes. 
 
 37. Qq. hath. 
 
 To gather for him thoroughout the realm. 
 Lan. Your minion Gaveston hath taught 
 
 you this. 
 Y. Mor. My lord, the family of the Morti- 
 mers 
 Are not so poor, but, .would they sell 
 
 their land, 
 'T would levy men enough to anger you. 
 We never beg, but use such prayers as 
 these. 
 K. Edw. Shall I still be haunted thus? 
 Y. Mor. Nay, now you are here alone, I '11 
 
 speak my mind. 
 Lan. And so will I, and then, my lord, 
 
 farewell. 
 Y. Mor. The idle triumphs, masques, las- 
 civious shows, 
 And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaves- 
 ton, 
 Have drawn thy treasury dry, and made 
 
 thee weak; 
 The murmuring commons, overstretched, 
 [break.]''' 
 Lan. Look for rebellion, look to be de- 
 pos'd. 
 Thy garrisons are beaten out of France, 
 And, lame and poor, lie groaning at the 
 
 gates ; 
 The wild O'Neill, with swarms of Irish 
 
 kerns,'^ 
 Lives uncontroll'd within the English 
 
 pale; 
 Unto the walls of York the Scots made 
 
 road. 
 And unresisted drave away rich spoils. 
 Y. Mor. The haughty Dane commands the 
 narrow seas,^° 
 While in the harbor ride thy ships un- 
 rigg'd. 
 Lan. Wliat foreign prince sends thee am- 
 bassadors ? 
 Y. Mor. Who loves thee, but a sort*" of 
 
 flatterers? 
 Lan. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Va- 
 lois. 
 Complains that thou hast left her all for- 
 lorn. 
 Y. Mor. Thy court is naked, being bereft 
 of those 
 That make a king seem glorious to the 
 
 world ; 
 I mean the peers, whom thou should'st 
 
 dearly love. 
 Libels are cast against thee in the street; 
 Ballads and rhymes made of thy over- 
 throw. 
 
 3S light armed, ir- 30 the English 
 regular foot sol- Channel, 
 
 diers. 40 crowd. 
 
92 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Lan. The northern borderers seeing their 
 houses burnt, 
 Their wives and children slain, run up 
 
 and down, 
 Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston. 
 Y. Mor. When'wert thou in the field with 
 banner spread, 
 But once? and then thy soldiers march'd 
 
 like players. 
 With garish robes, not armor; and thyself, 
 Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the 
 
 , rest. 
 Nodding and shaking of thy spangled 
 
 crest. 
 Where women's favors hung like labels 
 down. 
 Lan. And therefore came it, that the fleer- 
 ing ^^ Scots, 
 To England's high disgrace, have made 
 this jig; 
 Maids of England, sore may you 
 
 mourn, — 
 For your lemans 42 you have lost at 
 Bannocksbourn, — *3 
 
 With a heave and a ho! 
 What weeneth ** the King of Eng- 
 land, 
 So soon to have won Scotland? — 
 With a rombelow! 
 Y. Mor. Wigmore*" shall fly, to set my 
 
 uncle free. 
 Lan. And when 't is gone, our swords 
 shall purchase more. 
 If ye be mov'd, revenge it as you can ; 
 Look next to see us with our ensigns 
 spread. 
 
 Exit with Young Mortimer. 
 K. Edw. My -swelling heart, for very an- 
 ger breaks ! 
 How oft have I been baited by these 
 
 peers. 
 And dare not be reveng'd, for their 
 
 power is great ! 
 Yet, shall the crowing of these cocker- 
 els 
 Affright a lion? Edward, unfold thy 
 
 paws. 
 And let their lives' blood slake thy fury's 
 
 hunger. 
 If I be cruel and grow tyrannous, 
 Now let them thank themselves, and rue 
 too late. 
 Kent. My lord, I see your love to Gaves- 
 ton 
 Will be the ruin of the realm and you, 
 For now the wrathful nobles threaten 
 wars. 
 
 And therefore, brother, banish him for 
 ever. 
 K. Edw. Art thou an enemy to my Gaves- 
 ton? 
 Kent. Aye, and it grieves me that I fa- 
 vored him. 
 K. Edw. Traitor, begone! whine thou 
 
 with Mortimer. 
 Kent. So will I, rather than with Gaves- 
 ton. 
 K. Edw. Out of my sight, and trouble me 
 
 no more ! 
 Kent. No marvel though thou scorn thy 
 noble peers. 
 When I thy brother am rejected thus. 
 
 Exit. 
 K. Edw. Away! 
 
 Poor Gaveston, thou *® hast no friend but 
 
 me! 
 Do what they can, we'll live in Tyne- 
 
 mouth here. 
 And, so I walk with him about the walls, 
 What care I though the earls begirt us 
 
 round ? — 
 Here comes she that's cause of all these 
 jars. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, King Edward's 
 Niece, two Ladies, Gaveston, Baldock 
 and Young Spencer. 
 
 Q. Isab. My lord, 'tis thought. the earls 
 
 are up in arms. 
 K. Edw. Aye, and 't is likewise thought 
 
 you favor 'em. 
 Q. Isab. Thus do you still suspect me 
 
 without cause? 
 Niece. Sweet uncle, speak more kindly to 
 
 the queen. 
 Gav. My lord, dissemble with her, speak 
 
 her fair. 
 K. Edw. Pardon me, sweet, I forgot my- 
 self. 
 Q. Isab. Your pardon is quickly got of 
 
 Isabel. 
 K. Edw. The younger Mortimer is grown 
 
 so brave, 
 That to my face he threatens civil wars. 
 Gav. Why do you not commit him to the 
 
 Tower? 
 K. Edw. I dare not, for the people love 
 
 him well. 
 Gav. Why, then we '11 have him privily 
 
 made away. 
 K. Edw. Would Lancaster and he had 
 
 both carous'd 
 A bowl of poison to each other's health! 
 
 41 jeering. 
 
 42 lovers. 
 
 48 Bannock'bTiTn was 
 not fought until 
 1314, some years 
 
 after the events 
 of this scene ; 
 Marlowe took the 
 
 song from Fab- 45 Young Morti- 
 yan's Chronicle. mer's estate. 
 
 44 thinketh. 46 Qq. that. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 93 
 
 But let them go, and tell me what are 
 these. 
 Niece. Two of my father's servants whilst 
 he liv'd, — 
 May 't please your grace to entertain 
 them now. 
 K. Edw. Tell me, where wast thou born'? 
 
 What is thine arms? 
 Bald. My name is Baldock, and my gentry 
 I fetcht from Oxford, not from heraldry. 
 K. Edw. The fitter art thou, Baldock, for 
 my turn. 
 Wait on me, and I '11 see thou shalt not 
 want. 
 Bald. I humbly thank your majesty. 
 K. Edw. Knowest thou him, Gaveston? 
 Gav. Aye, my lord; 
 
 His name is Spencer, he is well allied; 
 For my sake, let him wait upon • your 
 
 grace; 
 Scarce shall you find a man of more 
 desert. 
 K. Edw. Then, Spencer, wait upon me; 
 for his sake 
 I'll grace thee with a higher style ere 
 long. 
 Y. Spen. No greater titles happen unto 
 me, 
 Than to be favored of your majesty! 
 K. Edw. Cousin, this day shall be your 
 marriage-feast. 
 And, Gaveston, think that I love thee 
 
 well 
 To wed thee to our niece, the only heir 
 Unto the Earl of Gloucester late de- 
 eeas'd. 
 Gav. I know, my lord, many will stom- 
 ach *' me. 
 But I respect neither their love nor 
 hate. 
 K. Edw. The headstrong barons shall not 
 limit me; 
 He that I list to favor shall be great. 
 Come, let's away; and when the mar- 
 riage ends, 
 Have at the rebels, and their 'complices ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. Near Tynemouth Castle. 
 
 Enter Kent, Lancaster, Young Mortimer, 
 Warwick, and Pembroke. 
 
 Kent. My lords, of love to this our native 
 land 
 I come to join with you and leave the 
 king; 
 
 And in your quarrel and the realm's be- 
 hoof 
 Will be the first that shall adventure life. 
 Lan. I fear me, you are sent of policy. 
 To undermine us with a show of love. 
 War. He is your brother; therefore have 
 we cause 
 To cast*" the worst, and doubt of your 
 revolt. 
 Kent. Mine honor shall be hostage of my 
 truth; 
 If that will not suffice, farewell, my 
 lords. 
 T. Mor. Stay, Edmund; never was Plan- 
 tagenet 
 False to his word, and therefore trust 
 we thee. 
 Pern. But what 's the reason you should 
 
 leave him now? 
 Kent. I have inform'd the Earl of Lan- 
 caster. 
 Lan, And it sufficeth. Now, my lords, 
 know this. 
 That Gaveston is secretly arriv'd, 
 And here in Tynemouth frolics with the 
 
 king. 
 Let us with these our followers scale the 
 
 walls, 
 And suddenly surprise them unawares. 
 Y. Mor. I '11 give the onset. 
 War. And I 'U follow thee, 
 
 r. Mor. This tattered ensign of my an- 
 cestors. 
 Which swept the desert shore of that 
 
 dead sea 
 Whereof we got the name of Mortimer,*? 
 Will I advance upon these castle-walls. 
 Drums, strike alarum! raise them from 
 
 their sport. 
 And ring aloud the knell of Gaveston ! 
 Lan. None be so hardy as to touch the 
 king; 
 But neither spare you Gaveston nor his 
 friends. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. Tynemouth Castle. 
 Enter King Edward and Young Spencer. 
 
 K. Edw. tell me, Spencer, where is 
 
 Gaveston ? 
 Spen. I fear me he is slain, my gracious 
 
 lord. 
 K. Edw. No, here he comes ; now let them 
 
 spoil and kill. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, King Edward's 
 Niece, Gaveston, and Nobles. 
 
 47 regard with resentment. 48 suspect. 40 a false etymology, tracing the name Mortimer to Uortuum Uare. 
 
94 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Fly, fly, my lords, the earls have got the 
 
 hold; 
 Take shipping and away to Scarborough ; 
 Spencer and I will post away by land. 
 Gav. stay, my lord, they will not injure 
 
 you. 
 K. Edw. I will not trust them; Gaveston, 
 
 away! 
 Gav. Farewell, my lord. 
 K. Edw. Lady, farewell. 
 Niece. Farewell, sweet uncle, till we meet 
 
 again. 
 K. Edw. Farewell, sweet Gaveston; and 
 
 farewell, niece. 
 Q. Isdb. No farewell to poor Isabel thy 
 
 queen? 
 K. Edw. Yes, yes, for Mortimer, your 
 lover's sake. 
 
 Exeunt all but Queen Isabella. 
 Q. Isabi Heavens can witness I love none 
 but you ! 
 From my embraeements thus he breaks 
 
 away. 
 that mine arms could close this isle 
 
 about, 
 That I might puU him to me where I 
 
 would ! 
 Or that these tears that drizzle from mine 
 
 eyes 
 Had power to mollify his stony heart, 
 That when I had him we might never 
 part. 
 
 Enter Lancaster, Warwick, Young Morti- 
 mer, and others. Alarums. 
 
 Lan. I wonder how he scap'd ! 
 T. Mor. Who's this? The queen! 
 
 Q. Isab. Aye, Mortimer, the miserable 
 queen. 
 Whose pining heart her inward sighs 
 
 have blasted. 
 And body with continual mourning 
 
 wasted. 
 These hands are tir'd with haling of my 
 
 lord 
 From Gaveston, from wicked Gaveston, 
 And all in vain; for, when I speak him 
 
 fair. 
 He turns away, and smiles upon his 
 minion. 
 Y. Mor. Cease to lament, and tell us 
 
 where 's the king? 
 Q. Isab. What would you with the king? 
 
 Is't him you seek? 
 Lan. No, madam, but that cursed Gaves- 
 ton. 
 Far be it from the thought of Lancaster 
 
 GO delay. 
 
 To offer violence to his sovereign. 
 We would but rid the realm of Gaveston : 
 Tell us where he remains, and he shall die. 
 Q. Isab. He 's gone by water unto Scar- 
 borough ; 
 Pursue him quickly, and he cannot scape ; 
 The king hath left him, and his train is 
 small. 
 War. Forslow °° no time, sweet Lancas- 
 ter; let's march. 
 Y. Mor. How comes it that the king and 
 
 he is parted? 
 Q. Isab. That thus your army, going sev- 
 eral ways. 
 Might be of lesser force; and with the 
 
 power 
 That he intendeth presently to raise. 
 Be easily suppress'd; therefore be gone. 
 Y. Mor. Here in the river rides a Flemish 
 hoy;=^ 
 Let 's all aboard, and follow him amain. 
 Lan. The wind that bears him hence will 
 fill our sails. 
 Come, come aboard, 'tis but an hour's 
 sailing. 
 Y. Mor. Madam, stay you within this cas- 
 tle here. 
 Q. Isab. No, Mortimer, I'll to my lord 
 
 the king. 
 Y. Mor. Nay, rather sail with us to Scar- 
 borough. 
 Q. Isab. Tou know the king is so sus- 
 picious. 
 As if he hear I have but talk'd with you. 
 Mine honor will be call'd in question ; 
 And therefore, gentle Mortimer, be gone. 
 Y. Mor. Madam, I cannot stay to answer 
 
 But think of Mortimer as he deserves. 
 Exeunt all except Queen Isabella. 
 Q. Isab. So well hast thou deserv'd, sweet 
 Mortimer, 
 As Isabel could live with thee for ever! 
 In vain I look for love at Edward's hand. 
 Whose eyes are fix'd on none but Gaves- 
 ton; 
 Yet once more I'll importune him with 
 
 prayers. 
 If he be strange and not regard ray 
 
 words, 
 My son and I will over into France, 
 And to the king my brother there com- 
 plain, 
 How Gaveston hath robb'd me of his love : 
 But yet I hope my sorrows will have end. 
 And Gaveston this blessed day be slain. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ci a small sloop. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 95 
 
 Scene 5. The open country. 
 
 Enter Gaveston, pursued. 
 
 Gav. Yet, lusty lords, I have escap'd your 
 hands. 
 
 Your threats, your 'larums, and your hot 
 pursuits ; 
 
 And though divorced from King Ed- 
 ward's eyes, 
 
 Yet ILveth Pierce of Gaveston unsur- 
 pris'd,=2 
 
 Breathing, in hope (malgrado ^^ all your 
 
 beards. 
 That muster rebels thus against your 
 
 king), 
 To see his royal sovereign once again. 
 
 Enter Warwick, Lancaster, Pembroke, 
 Young Mortimer, Soldiers, James, and 
 other Attendants of Pembroke. 
 
 War. Upon him, soldiers, take away his 
 
 weapons. 
 T. Mor. Thou proud disturber of thy 
 
 country's peace. 
 Corrupter of thy king, cause of these 
 
 broils, 
 Base flatterer, yield ! and were it not for 
 
 shame. 
 Shame and dishonor to a soldier's name, 
 Upon my weapon's point here shouldst 
 
 thou fall. 
 And welter in thy gore. 
 Lan. Monster of men! 
 
 That, like the Greekish strumpet,^* 
 
 train'd °' to arms 
 And bloody wars so many valiant 
 
 knights ; 
 Look for no other fortune, wretch, than 
 
 death ! 
 King Edward is not here to buckler thee. 
 War. Lancaster, why talk'st thou to the 
 
 slave ? 
 Go, soldiers, take him hence, for, by my 
 
 sword. 
 His head shall off. Gaveston, short 
 
 warning 
 Shall serve thy turn; it is our country's 
 
 cause 
 That here severely we will execute 
 Upon thy person. Hang him at a bough. 
 Gav. My lord ! — 
 
 War. Soldiers, have him away; — 
 
 But for thou wert the favorite of a king, 
 Thou shalt have so much honor at our 
 
 hands — 
 Gav. I thank you all, my lords: then I 
 
 perceive 
 
 62 nncaptured. B3 "in spit? o£." 'S4 Helen 
 
 That heading is one, and hanging is the 
 
 other, 
 And death is all. 
 
 Enter Earl of Arundel. 
 
 Lan. How now, my lord of Arundel? 
 Arun. My lords, King Edward greets you 
 
 all by me. 
 War. Arundel, say your message. 
 Arun. His- majesty, 
 
 Hearing that you had taken Gaveston, 
 Entreateth you by me, yet but he may 
 See him before he dies ; for why, he says. 
 And sends you word, he knows that die 
 
 he shall; 
 And if you gratify his grace so far. 
 He will be mindful of the courtesy. 
 War. How now! 
 Gav. Renowned Edward, how thy name 
 
 Revives poor Gaveston ! 
 War. No, it needeth not; 
 
 Arundel, we will gratify the king 
 In other matters; he must pardon us in 
 
 this. 
 Soldiers, away with him ! 
 Gav. Why, my lord of Warwick, 
 
 Will not these delays beget my hopes? 
 I know it, lords, it is this life you aim at. 
 Yet grant King Edward this. 
 T. Mor. Shalt thou appoint 
 
 What we shall grant? Soldiers, away 
 
 with him! 
 Thus we '11 gratify the king : 
 We '11 send his head by thee ; let him 
 
 bestow 
 His tears on that, for that is all he gets 
 Of Gaveston, or else his senseless trunk. 
 Lan. Not so, my lords, lest he bestow 
 more cost 
 In burying him than he hath ever earn'd. 
 Arun. My lords, it is his majesty's re- 
 quest. 
 And in the honor of a king he swears 
 He will but talk with him, and send him 
 back. 
 War. When, can you tell? Arundel, no; 
 we wot 
 He that the care of realm remits, 
 And drives his nobles to these exigents ^^ 
 Eor Gaveston, will, if he sees him once, 
 Violate any promise to possess him. 
 Arun. Then if you will not trust his grace 
 in keep. 
 My lords, I will be pledge for his return, 
 r. Mor. "Tis honorable in thee to offer 
 this; 
 But for we know thou art a noble gentle- 
 
 man. 
 
 of Troy. 
 
 S5 lured. 
 
 G6 extremities. 
 
THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 We will not wrong thee so, to make away 
 A true man for a thief. 
 Gav. How mean'st thou, Mortimer? That 
 
 is over-base. 
 Y. Mor. Away, base groom, robber of 
 king's renown ! 
 Question with thy companions and thy 
 mates. 
 Pem. My Lord Mortimer, and you, my 
 lords, each one. 
 To gratify the king's request therein. 
 Touching the sending of this Gaveston, 
 Because his majesty so earneSly 
 Desires to see the man before his death, 
 I will upon mine honor undertake 
 To carry him, and bring him back 
 
 again ; 
 Provided this, that you, my lord of Arun- 
 del, 
 Will join with me. 
 War. Pembroke, what wilt thou dol 
 
 Cause yet more bloodshed 1 Is it not 
 
 enough 
 That we have taken him, but must we 
 
 now 
 Leave him on "had I wist," and let him 
 go? 
 Pem. My lords, I will not over-woo your 
 honors. 
 But if you dare trust Pembroke with the 
 
 prisoner, 
 Upon mine oath, I will return him back. 
 Arun. My lord of Lancaster, what say 
 
 you in this? 
 Lan. Why, I say, let him go on Pem- 
 broke's word. 
 Pem. And you. Lord Mortimer? 
 Y. Mor. How say you, my lord of War- 
 wick? 
 War. Nay, do your pleasures, I know 
 
 how 't will prove. 
 Pem. • Then give him me. 
 Gav. Sweet sovereign, yet I come 
 
 To see thee ere I die. 
 War. (Aside.) Yet not perhaps, 
 
 If Warwick's wit and policy prevail. 
 Y. Mor. My lord of Pembroke, we deliver 
 him you ; 
 Return him on your honor. Sound, 
 away! 
 Exeunt all except Pembroke, Arundel, 
 Gaveston, James, and other Attendants 
 of Pembroke. 
 Pem. My lord [Arundel,] you shall go 
 with me. 
 My house is not far hence; out of the 
 
 • way 
 A little, but our men shall go along. 
 
 B7 end. 68 if. 
 
 We that have pretty wenches to our 
 
 wives, 
 Sir, must not come so near and baulk 
 their lips. 
 Arun. 'T is very kindly spoke, my lord of 
 Pembroke ; 
 Your honor hath an adamant of power 
 To draw a prince. 
 Pem. So, my lord. Come hither, James : 
 I do commit this Gaveston to thee. 
 Be thou this ni^t his keeper; in the 
 
 morning 
 We will discharge thee of thy charge. 
 Be gone. 
 Gam. Unhappy Gaveston, whither goest 
 
 thou now? 
 Exit with James and the other Attend- 
 ants. 
 Horse-boy. My lord, we'll quickly be at 
 Cobham. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. The open country near Warwick. 
 
 Enter Gaveston mourning, James, and 
 other Attendants of Pembroke. 
 
 Gav. treacherous Warwick, thus to 
 
 wrong thy friend! 
 James. I see it is your Ufe these arms 
 
 pursue. 
 Gav. Weaponless must I fall, and die in 
 bands? 
 must this day be period ^'^ of my life? 
 Center of all my bliss I An ^* ye be men. 
 Speed to the king. 
 
 Enter Warmck and his company. 
 
 War. My lord of Pembroke's men, 
 
 Strive you no longer — ^I will have that 
 
 Gaveston. 
 James. Your lordship doth dishonor to 
 
 yourself. 
 And wrong our lord, your honorable 
 
 friend. 
 War. No, James, it is my country's cause 
 
 I follow. 
 Go, take the villain; soldiers, come away. 
 We '11 make quick work. Commend me 
 
 to your master. 
 My friend, and tell him that I wateh'd 
 
 it well. 
 Come, let thy shadow °' parley with King 
 
 Edward. 
 
 69 ghost. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 97 
 
 Gov. Treacherous earl, shall I not see the 
 
 king? 
 War. The king of Heaven, perhaps no 
 other king. 
 Away! 
 Exeunt Warwick and his men with 
 Gaveston. 
 James. Conae, fellows, it booted not for us 
 to strive, 
 We wUl in haste go certify our lord. 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 Scene 2. Near Boroughbridge, in York- 
 shire. 
 
 Enter King Edward and Young Spencer, 
 Baldock, and Nobles of the King's side, 
 and Soldiers with drums and fifes. 
 
 K. Edw. I long to hear an answer from 
 the barons 
 
 Touching my friend, my dearest Gaves- 
 ton. 
 
 Ah ! Spencer, not the riches of my realm 
 
 Can ransom him! Ah, he is mark'd to 
 die! 
 
 I know the malice of the younger Morti- 
 mer, 
 
 Warwick I know is rough, and Lancaster 
 
 Inexorable, and I shall never see 
 
 My lovely Pierce, my Gaveston again! 
 
 The barons overbear me with their pride. 
 Y. Spen. Were I King Edward, Eng- 
 land's sovereign, 
 
 Son to the lovely Eleanor of Spain, 
 
 Great Edward Longshanks' issue, would 
 I bear 
 
 These braves, this rage, and suffer un- 
 controll'd 
 
 These barons thus to beard me in my 
 land. 
 
 In mine own realm? My lord, pardon 
 my speech: 
 
 Did you retain your father's magnanim- 
 ity, 
 
 Did you regard the honor of your name, 
 
 You would not suffer thus your majesty 
 
 Be eounterbuff'd of «" your nobility. 
 
 Strike off their heads, and let them 
 preach on poles! 
 
 No doubt, such lessons they will teach the 
 rest, 
 
 As by their preachments they will profit 
 much. 
 
 And learn obedience to their lawful king. 
 K. Edw. Yea, gentle Spencer, we have 
 been too mild, 
 
 CO affronted by. 8i use our steel. C2 lop 
 
 Too kind to them; but now have drawn 
 
 our sword. 
 And if they send me not my Gaveston, 
 We '11 steel it "^ on their crest, and poll "^ 
 their tops. 
 Bald. This haught "^ resolve becomes your 
 majesty. 
 Not to be tied to their affection, 
 As though your highness were a school- 
 boy still, 
 And must be aw'd and govern'd like a 
 child. 
 
 Enter the Elder Spencer, with his 
 truncheon and Soldiers. 
 
 E. Spen. Long live my sovereign, the 
 
 noble Edward, 
 In peace triumphant, fortunate in wars! 
 K. Edw. Welcome, old man, com'st thou 
 
 in Edward's aid? 
 Then tell thy prince of whence, and what 
 
 thou art. 
 E. Spen. Lo, with a band of bowmen and 
 
 of pikes, 
 Brown bills and targeteers, four hundred 
 
 strong. 
 Sworn to defend King Edward's royal 
 
 right, 
 I come in person to your majesty, 
 Spencer, the father of Hugh Spencer 
 
 there. 
 Bound to your highness everlastingly. 
 For favor done, in him, unto us all. 
 K. Edw. Thy father, Spencer? 
 Y. Spen. True, an it like your grace. 
 
 That pours, in lieu of all your goodness 
 
 shown. 
 His life, my lord, before your princely 
 
 feet. 
 K. Edw. Welcome ten thousand times, old 
 
 man, again. 
 Spencer, this love, this kindness to thy 
 
 king, .' . . 
 
 Argues thy noble mind and disposition. 
 Spencer, I here create thee Earl of Wilt- 
 shire, 
 And daily will enrich thee with our favor, 
 That, as the sunshine, shall reflect o'er 
 
 thee. 
 Beside, the more to manifest our love, 
 Because we hear Lord Bruce doth sell 
 
 his land. 
 And that the Mortimers are in hand °* 
 
 withal. 
 Thou shalt have crowns of us t' outbid 
 
 the barons: 
 
 off. 
 
 03 lofty. 
 
 04 negotiating. 
 
98 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 And, Spencer, spare them not, but lay 
 
 it on. 
 Soldiers, a largess, and thrice welcome 
 
 all! 
 Y. Spen. My lord, here comes the queen. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, her son Prince Ed- 
 ward, and Levune, a Frenchman. 
 
 K. Edw. Madam, what news? 
 Q. Isab. News of dishonor, lord, and dis- 
 content. 
 Our friend Levune, faithful and full of 
 
 trust, 
 Informeth us, by letters and by words, 
 That Lord Valois our brother. King of 
 
 France, 
 Because your highness hath been slack in 
 
 homage, 
 Hath seized Normandy into his hands. 
 These be the letters, this the messenger. 
 K. Edw. Welcome, Levune. Tush, Sib, if 
 
 this be all 
 Valois and I will soon be friends again. — 
 But to my Gaveston ; shall I never see, 
 Never behold thee now 1 — Madam, in this 
 
 matter. 
 We will employ you and your little son; 
 You shall go parley with the king of 
 
 France. — 
 Boy, see you bear you bravely to the 
 
 king. 
 And do your message with a majesty, 
 P. Edw. Commit not to my youth things 
 
 of more weight 
 Than fits a prince so young as I to bear. 
 And fear not, lord and father, Heaven's 
 
 great beams 
 On Atlas' shoulder shall not lie more 
 
 safe, 
 Than shall your charge committed to my 
 
 trust. 
 Q. Isab. Ah, boy, this towardness makes 
 
 thy mother fear 
 Thou art not mark'd to many days on 
 
 earth. 
 K. Edw. Madam, we will that you with 
 
 speed be shipp'd. 
 And this our son; Levune shall follow 
 
 you 
 With all the haste we can despatch him 
 
 hence. 
 Choose of our lords to bear you company, 
 And go in peace; leave us in wars at 
 
 home. 
 Q. Isah. Unnatural wars, where subjects 
 
 brave their king; 
 God end them once! My lord, I take 
 
 my leave. 
 
 To make my preparation for France. 
 
 Exit with Prince Edward. 
 Enter Arundel. 
 
 K. Edw. What, Lord Arundel, dost thou 
 
 come alone? 
 Arun. Yea, my good lord, for Gaveston is 
 
 dead. 
 K. Edw. Ah, traitors! have they put my 
 friend to death? 
 
 Tell me, Arundel, died he ere thou 
 cam'st. 
 
 Or didst thou see my friend to take his 
 death? 
 Arun. Neither, my lord; for as he was 
 surpris'd. 
 
 Begirt with weapons and with enemies 
 round, 
 
 I did your highness' message to them all ; 
 
 Demanding him of them, entreating 
 rather, 
 
 And said, upon the honor of my name. 
 
 That I would undertake to carry him 
 
 Unto your highness, and to bring him 
 back. 
 K. Edw. And tell me, would the rebels 
 
 deny me that? 
 Y. Spen. Proud recreants! 
 K. Edw. Yea, Spencer, traitors all. 
 
 Arun. I found them at the first inexor- 
 able; 
 
 The Earl of Warwick would not bide the 
 hearing, 
 
 Mortimer hardly; Pembroke and Lancas- 
 ter 
 
 Spake least : and when they flatly had 
 denied. 
 
 Refusing to receive me pledge for him. 
 
 The Earl of Pembroke mildly thus be- 
 spake ; 
 
 "My lords, because our sovereign sends 
 for him. 
 
 And promiseth he shall be safe retum'd, 
 
 I will this undertake, to have him hence, 
 
 And see him re-delivered to your hands." 
 K. Edw. Well, and how fortunes [it] that 
 
 he came not? 
 Y. Spen. Some treason or some villainy 
 
 was cause. 
 Arun. The Earl of Warwick seiz'd him on 
 his way; 
 
 For being delivered unto Pembroke's men, 
 
 Their lord rode home, thinking his pris- 
 oner safe; 
 
 But ere he came, Warwick in ambush lay, 
 
 And bare him to his death; and in a 
 trench 
 
 Strake off his head, and march'd wnto 
 the camp. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 09 
 
 Y. Spen. A bloody part, flatly against law 
 
 of arms! 
 K. Edw. shall I ^peak, or shall I sigh 
 
 and die! 
 y. Spen. My lord, refer your vengeance 
 to the sword 
 
 Upon these barons; hearten up your 
 men; 
 
 Let them not unreveng'd murder your 
 friends ! 
 
 Advance your standard, Edward, in the 
 field, 
 
 And march to fire them from their start- 
 ing holes. 
 K. Edw. (Kneeling.) By earth, the com- 
 mon mother of us all. 
 
 By Heaven, and all the moving orbs 
 thereof. 
 
 By this right hand, and by my father's 
 sword. 
 
 And all the honors 'longing to my crown, 
 
 I will have heads and lives for him, as 
 many 
 
 As I have manors, castles, towns, and 
 towers ! — 
 
 (Rises.) 
 
 Treacherous Warwick! traitorous Morti- 
 mer! 
 
 If I be England's king, in lakes of gore 
 
 Your headless trunks, your bodies will I 
 trail, 
 
 That you may drink your fill, and quaff 
 in blood, 
 
 And stain my royal standard with the 
 same, 
 
 That so my bloody colors may suggest 
 
 Eemembrance of revenge immortally 
 
 On your accursed traitorous progeny, 
 
 You villains, that have slain my Gaves- 
 ton! 
 
 And in this .place of honor and of trust, 
 
 Spencer, sweet Spencer, I adopt thee 
 here: 
 
 And merely of our love we do create thee 
 
 Earl of Gloucester, and Lord Chamber- 
 lain, 
 
 Despite of times, despite of enemies. 
 T. Spen. My lord, here 's a messenger 
 from the barons. 
 
 Desires access unto your majesty. 
 K. Edw. Admit him near. 
 
 Enter the Herald from the Barons with 
 his coat of arms. 
 
 Her. Long live King Edward, England's 
 
 lawful lord! 
 K. Edw. So wish not they, I wis, that 
 
 sent thee hither. 
 
 Thou eom'st from Mortimer and his 'com- 
 plices, 
 
 A ranker rout of rebels never was. 
 
 Well, say thy message. 
 Her. The barons up in arms, by me sa- 
 lute 
 
 Your highness with long life and happi- 
 ness; 
 
 And bid me say, as plainer to your grace. 
 
 That if without effusion of blood 
 
 You will this grief have ease and rem- 
 edy, 
 
 That from your princely person you re- 
 move 
 
 This Spencer, as a putrifying branch. 
 
 That deads the royal vine, whose golden 
 leaves 
 
 Empale your princely head, your dia- 
 dem. 
 
 Whose brightness such pernicious up- 
 . starts dim. 
 
 Say they; and lovingly advise your 
 grace. 
 
 To cherish virtue and nobility, 
 
 And have old servitors in high esteem, 
 
 And shake off smooth dissembling flat- 
 terers. 
 
 This granted, they, their honors, and 
 their lives. 
 
 Are to your highness vow'd and conse- 
 crate. 
 Y. Spen. Ah, traitors! will they still dis- 
 play their pride? 
 K. Edw. Away, tarry no answer, but be 
 gone! 
 
 Eebels, will they appoint their sover- 
 eign 
 
 His sports, his pleasures, and his com- 
 pany? 
 
 Yet, ere thou go, see how I do divorce 
 (Embraces Spencer.) 
 
 Spencer from me. — Now get thee to thy 
 lords, 
 
 And tell them I will come to chastise 
 them 
 
 For murdering Gaveston; hie thee, get 
 thee gone! 
 
 Edward with fire and sword follows at 
 thy heels. • 
 
 Exit Herald. 
 
 My lords, perceive you how these rebels 
 swell? 
 
 Soldiers, good hearts, defend your sov- 
 ereign's right. 
 
 For now, even now, we march to make 
 them stoop; 
 
 Away! 
 Exeunt. Alarums, excursions, a great 
 
 fight, and a retreat (sounded within.) 
 
100 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Scene 3. Battle-field at BorougJihridge, 
 in Yorkshire. 
 
 Enter King Edward, the Elder Spencer, 
 Young Spencer, and Noblemen of the 
 King's side. 
 
 K. Edw. Why do we sound retreat? 
 Upon them, lords! 
 This day I shall pour vengeance with my 
 
 sword 
 On those proud rebels that are up in 
 
 arms 
 And do confront and countermand their 
 king. 
 Y. Spen. I doubt it not, my lord, right 
 
 will prevail. 
 E. Spen. "T is not amiss, my liege, for 
 either part 
 To breathe awhile; our men, with sweat 
 
 and dust 
 All ehok'd well near, begin to faint for 
 
 heat ; 
 And this retire refresheth horse and man. 
 Y. Spen. Here come the rebels. 
 
 Enter the Barons, Young Mortimer, Lan- 
 caster, Warwick, Pembroke, and others. 
 
 Y. Mor. Look, Lancaster, yonder is Ed- 
 ward 
 Among his flatterers. 
 Lan. And there let him be 
 
 Till he pay dearly for their company. 
 War. And shaU, or Warwick's sword shall 
 
 smite in vain. 
 K. Edw. What, rebels, do you shrink and 
 
 sound retreat? 
 Y. Mor. No, Edward, no; thy flatterers 
 
 faint and fly. 
 Lan. Thou'd best betimes forsake them 
 and their trains,'^ 
 For they'll betray thee, traitors as they 
 are. 
 Y. Spen. Traitor on thy face, rebellious 
 
 Lancaster ! 
 Pern. Away, base upstart, brav'st thou 
 
 nobles thus? 
 E. Spen. A noble attempt and honorable 
 deed. 
 Is it not, trow ye, to assemble aid, 
 And levy arms against your lawful king! 
 K. Edw. For which ere long their heads 
 shall satisfy, 
 T' appease the wrath of their offended 
 king. 
 Y. Mor. Then, Edward, thou wilt fight it 
 to the last, 
 
 And rather bathe thy sword in subjects' 
 
 blood, 
 Than banish that pernicious company? 
 K. Edw. Aye, traitors all, rather than 
 thus be brav'd, 
 Make England's civil towns huge heaps 
 
 of stones. 
 And ploughs to go about our palace- 
 gates. 
 War. A desperate and unnatural resolu- 
 tion! 
 Alarum! to the fight! 
 St. George for England, and the barons' 
 right ! 
 K. Edw. Saint George for England, and 
 King Edward's right! 
 Alarums. Exeunt the two parties 
 severally. 
 
 Scene 4. The same. 
 
 Enter King Edward and his followers, 
 with the Barons and Kent, captives. 
 
 K. Edw. Now, lusty lords, now, not by 
 
 chance of war. 
 But justice of the quarrel and the cause, 
 Vail'd "" is your pride ; methinks you 
 
 hang the heads. 
 But we '11 advance ®' " them, traitors. 
 
 Now 't is time 
 To be aveng'd on you for all your braves, 
 And for the murder of my dearest friend, 
 To whom right well you knew our soul 
 
 was knit, 
 Good Pierce of Gaveston, my sweet fa- 
 vorite. 
 Ah, rebels, recreants, you made him 
 
 away! 
 Kent. Brother, in regard of thee, and of 
 
 thy land, 
 Did they remove that flatterer from thy 
 
 throne. 
 K. Edw. So, sir, you have spoke; away, 
 
 avoid our presence! 
 
 Exit Kent. 
 Accursed wretches, was 't in regard of us. 
 When we had sent our messenger to re- 
 quest 
 He might be spar'd to come to speak 
 
 with us. 
 And Pembroke undertook for his return. 
 That thou, prpud Warwick, watch'd the 
 
 prisoner. 
 Poor Pierce, and headed him 'gainst law 
 
 of arms? 
 For which thy head shall overlook the rest, 
 
 OS plots. 
 
 06 humbled. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 101 
 
 As much as thou in rage outwent'st the 
 rest. 
 War. Tyrant, I scorn thy threats and 
 menaces ; 
 It is but temporal that thou canst in- 
 flict. 
 Lan. The worst is death, and better die 
 to live 
 Than live in infamy under such a king. 
 K. Edw. Away with them, my lord of 
 Winchester ! 
 These lusty leaders, Warwick and Lan- 
 caster, 
 I charge you roundly — off with both their 
 
 heads ! 
 Away ! 
 War. Farewell, vain world ! 
 Lan. Sweet Mortimer, farewell. 
 
 T. Mor. England, unkind to thy nobility, 
 Groan for this grief, behold how thou 
 art maim'd! 
 K. Edw. Go take that haughty Mortimer 
 to the Tower, 
 There see him safe bestow'd ; and for the 
 
 rest. 
 Do speedy execution on them all. 
 Begone ! 
 T. Mor. What, Mortimer! can ragged 
 stony walls 
 Immure thy virtue that aspires to 
 
 Heaven ? 
 No, Edward, England's scourge, it may 
 
 not be; 
 Mortimer's hope surmounts his fortune 
 far. 
 (The captive Barons are led off.) 
 K. Edw. Sound drums and trumpets! 
 March with me, my friends, 
 Edward this day hath erown'd him king 
 anew. 
 Exeunt all except Young Spencer, 
 Levune, and Baldock. 
 Y. Spen. Levune, the trust that we repose 
 in thee, 
 Begets the quiet of King Edward's land. 
 Therefore begone in haste, and with ad- 
 vice 
 Bestow that treasure on the lords of 
 
 France, 
 That, therewith all enchanted, like the 
 
 guard 
 That suffered Jove to pass in showers of 
 
 gold 
 To Danae, all aid may be denied 
 To Isabel, the queen, that now in France 
 Makes friends, to cross the seas with her 
 
 young son, 
 And step into his father's regiment.^' 
 
 Levune. That 's it these barons and the 
 subtle queen 
 Long levell'd at. 
 Bal. Yea, but, Levune, thou seest 
 
 These barons lay their heads on blocks 
 
 together ; 
 What they intend, the hangman frus- 
 trates clean. 
 Levune. Have you no doubt, my lords, I '11 
 clap so close 
 Among the lords of France with Eng- 
 land's gold, 
 That Isabel shall make her plaints in 
 
 vain, 
 And France shall be obdurate with her 
 tears. 
 Y. Spen. Then make for France amain; 
 Levune, away! 
 Proclaim King Edward's wars and vic- 
 tories. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. Near the Tower of London. 
 Enter Kent. 
 
 Kent. Fair blows the wind for France; 
 
 blow gentle gale. 
 Till Edmund be arriv'd for England's 
 
 good! 
 Nature, yield to my country's cause in 
 
 this. 
 A brother? No, a butcher of thy 
 
 friends I 
 Proud Edward, dost thou banish me thy 
 
 presence 1 
 But I '11 to France, and cheer the 
 
 wronged queen, 
 And certify what Edward's looseness is. 
 Unnatural king! to slaughter noblemen 
 And cherish flatterers! Mortimer, I 
 
 stay 
 Thy sweet escape : stand gracious, gloomy 
 
 night, 
 To his device. 
 
 Enter Young Mortimer, disguised. 
 
 Y. Mor. Holla! who walketh there? 
 
 Is 't you, my lord ? 
 Kent. Mortimer, 't is I ; 
 
 But hath thy potion wrought so hap- 
 pUy? 
 Y. Mor. It hath, my lord; the warders 
 all asleep. 
 
 68 rule. 
 
102 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 I thank them, gave me leave to pass in 
 
 peace. 
 But hath your grace got shipping unto 
 France? 
 Kent. Tear it not. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Paris. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella and her son, Prince 
 Edward. ■ 
 
 Q. Isab. Ah, boy! our friends do fail us 
 all in Trance. 
 
 The lords are cruel, and the king un- 
 kind; ' 
 
 What shall we do? 
 P. Edw. Madam, return to England, 
 
 And please my father well, and then a flg 
 
 For all my uncle's friendship here in 
 France. 
 
 I warrant you, I'll win his highness 
 quickly; 
 
 'A loves me better than a thousand Spen- 
 cers. 
 Q. Isab. Ah, boy, thou art deceiv'd, at 
 least in this, 
 
 To think that we can yet be tun'd to- 
 gether; 
 
 No, no, we jar too far. Unkind Valois ! 
 
 Unhappy Isabel! when France rejects. 
 
 Whither, oh ! whither dost thou bend thy 
 steps? 
 
 Enter Sir John of Hainault. 
 
 Sir J. Madam, what cheer? 
 
 Q. Isab. Ah ! good Sir John of Hainault, 
 
 Never so cheerless, nor so far distrest. 
 Sir J. I hear, sweet lady, of the king's 
 
 unkindness ; 
 But droop not, madam ; noble minds con- 
 temn 
 Despair. Will your grace with me to 
 
 Hainault, 
 And there stay time's advantage with 
 
 your son? 
 How say you, my lord, will you go with 
 
 your friends. 
 And share of" all our fortunes equally? 
 P. Edw. So pleaseth the queen, my 
 
 mother, me it likes. 
 The King of England, nor the court of 
 
 France, 
 Shall have me from my gracious mother's 
 
 side. 
 Till I be strong enough to break a staff; 
 
 And then have at the proudest Spencer's 
 
 head. 
 Sir J. Well said, my lord. 
 Q. Isab. 0, my sweet heart, how do I 
 
 moan thy wrongs. 
 Yet triumph in the hope of thee, my joy! 
 Ah, sweet Sir John! even to the utmost 
 
 verge 
 Of Europe, or the shore of Tanais, 
 Will we with thee to Hainault — so we 
 
 will : — 
 The marquis is a noble gentleman; 
 His grace, I dare presume, will welcome 
 
 me. 
 But who are these? 
 
 Enter Kent and Young Mortimer. 
 
 Kent. Madam, long may you live. 
 
 Much happier than your friends in Eng- 
 land do! 
 Q. Isab. Lord Edmund and Lord Morti- 
 mer alive! 
 Welcome to France! The news was 
 
 here, my lord. 
 That you were dead, or very near your 
 
 death. 
 T. Mor. Lady, the last was truest of the 
 
 twain ; 
 But Mortimer, reserv'd for better hap. 
 Hath shaken off the thraldom of the 
 
 Tower, 
 And lives t' advance your standard, good 
 
 my lord. 
 P. Edw. How mean you ? An ''" the 
 
 king, my father, lives? 
 No, my Lord Mortimer, not I, I trow. 
 Q. Isab. Not, son! why not? I would it 
 
 were no worse. 
 But, gentle lords, friendless we are in 
 
 France. 
 Y. Mor. Monsieur le Grand, a noble 
 
 friend of yours. 
 Told us, at our arrival, all the news : 
 How hard the nobles, how unkind the 
 
 king 
 Hath show'd himself; but, madam, right 
 
 makes room 
 Where weapons want; and, though a 
 
 many friends 
 Are made away, as Warwick, Lancaster, 
 And others of our party and faction ; 
 Yet have we friends, assure your grace, 
 
 in England 
 Would cast up caps, and clap their hands 
 
 for joy. 
 To see us there, appointed for '^ our 
 
 foes. 
 
 69 Qg. shake off. 
 
 70 if. 
 
 71 equipped to meet. 
 
EDWARD 11 
 
 105 
 
 Kent. Would all were well, and Edward 
 well reelaim'd, 
 Eor Engand's honor, peace, and quiet- 
 ness. 
 T. Mor. But by the sword, my lord 't 
 must be deserv'd; 
 The king will ne'er forsake his flatterers. 
 Sir J. My lord of England, sith the un- 
 gentle king 
 Of Trance refnseth to give aid of arms 
 To this distressed queen his sister here. 
 Go you with her to Hainault. Doubt ye 
 
 not, 
 We will find comfort, money, men, and 
 
 friends 
 Ere long, to bid the English king a base.''^ 
 How say, young prince? What think 
 you of the match? 
 P. Edw. I think King Edward will out- 
 run us all. 
 Q. Isdb. Nay, son, not so; and you must 
 not discourage 
 Your friends, that are so forward in your 
 aid. 
 Kent. Sir John of Hainault, pardon us, I 
 pray; 
 These comforts that you give our woful 
 
 queen 
 Bind us in kindness all at your com- 
 mand. 
 Q. Isab. Yea, gentle brother; and the God 
 of heaven 
 Prosper your happy motion, good Sir 
 John. 
 T. Mor. This noble gentleman, forward in 
 arms. 
 Was bom, I see, to be our anchor-hold. 
 Sir John of Hainault, be it thy renown, 
 That England's queen and nobles in dis- 
 tress. 
 Have been by thee restor'd and com- 
 forted. 
 Sir J. Madam, along, and you my lords, 
 with me, 
 That England's peers may Hainault's 
 welcome see. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. The King's Palace, London. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Arundel, the Elder 
 and Younger Spencer, with others. 
 
 K. Edw. Thus after many threats of 
 wrathful war, 
 Triumpheth England's Edward with his 
 friends ; 
 
 And triumph, Edward, with his friends 
 
 uneontroll'd ! 
 My lord of Gloucester, do you hear the 
 
 news 1 
 Y. Spen. What news, my lord? 
 K. Edw. Why, man, they say there is 
 
 great execution 
 Done through the realm; my lord of 
 
 Arundel, 
 You have the note, have you not? 
 Arun. From the Lieutenant of the Tower, 
 
 my lord. 
 K. Edw. I pray let us see it. {Takes the 
 
 note.) What have we there? 
 Read it, Spencer. 
 
 {Young Spencer reads the names.) 
 Why, so; they bark'd apace a month 
 
 ago: 
 Now, on my life, they '11 neither bark nor 
 
 bite. 
 Now, sirs, the news from France? 
 
 Gloucester, I trow 
 The lords of France love England's gold 
 
 so well 
 As Isabella gets no aid from thence. 
 What now remains? Have you pro- 
 
 claim'd, my lord. 
 Reward for them can bring in Mortimer? 
 Y. Spen. My lord, we have; and if he be 
 
 in England, 
 'A will be had ere long, I doubt it not. 
 K. Edw. If, dost thou say? Spencer, as 
 
 true as death. 
 He is in England's ground; our port- 
 masters 
 Are not so careless of their king's com- 
 mand. 
 
 Enter a Post. 
 
 How now, what news with thee? From 
 whence come these? 
 Post. Letters, my lord, and tidings forth 
 of France; — 
 To you, my lord of Gloucester, from Le- 
 vune. 
 {Gives letters to Young Spencer.) 
 K. Edw. Read. 
 Y. Spen. {Beads.) 
 "My duty to your honor premised, &c., I 
 have, according to instructions in that be- 
 half, dealt with the King of France his 
 lords, and effected that the queen, all dis- 
 contented and discomforted, is gone: 
 whither, if you ask, with Sir John of 
 Hainault, brother to the marquis, into 
 Flanders. With them are gone Lord Ed- 
 mund, and the Lord Mortimer, having in 
 their company divers of your nation, and 
 
 72 challenge; a reference to the game of prisoner's base. 
 
104 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 otliers; and, as constant report goeth, 
 they intend to give King Edward battle 
 in England, sooner than he can look for 
 them. This is all the news of import. 
 Your honor's in all service, Levune." 
 K. Edw. Ah, villains! hath that Morti- 
 mer escap'd? 
 With him is Edmund gone associate? 
 And will Sir John of Hainault lead the 
 
 round 1 
 Welcome, a' God's name, madam, and 
 
 your son; 
 England shall welcome you and all your 
 
 rout. 
 Gallop apace, bright Phoebus, through 
 
 the sky. 
 And dusky night, in rusty iron car, 
 Between you both shorten the time, I 
 
 pray. 
 That I may see that most desired day 
 When we may meet these traitors in the 
 
 field. 
 Ah, nothing grieves me but my little boy 
 Is thus misled to countenance their ills. 
 Come, friends, to Bristow,''^ there to 
 
 make us strong; 
 And, winds, as equal be to bring them in, 
 As you injurious were to bear them 
 
 forth ! Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. Near Harwich. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, her son, Prince Ed- 
 ward, Kent, Young Mortimer, and Sir 
 John of Hainault. 
 
 Q. Isab. Now, lords, our loving friends 
 
 and countrymen, 
 Welcome to England all, with prosperous 
 
 winds ! 
 Our kindest friends in Belgia have we 
 
 left, 
 To cope with friends at home; a heavy 
 
 case 
 When force to force is knit, and sword 
 
 and glaive '* 
 In civil broils make kin and country- 
 men 
 Slaughter themselves in others, and their 
 
 sides 
 With their own weapons gor'd! But 
 
 what's the help? 
 Misgovem'd kings are cause of all this 
 
 wrack ; 
 And, Edward, thou art one among them 
 
 aU, 
 Whose looseness hath betray'd thy land 
 
 to spoil, 
 
 73 Bristol. 
 
 Who made the channels overflow with 
 blood. 
 
 Of thine own people patron shouldst 
 thou be. 
 
 But thou 
 
 T. Mor. Nay, madam, if you be a war- 
 rior, 
 
 You must not grow so passionate in 
 speeches. 
 
 Lords, 
 
 Sith that we are by sufferance of Heaven 
 
 Arriv'd and armed in this prince's 
 right, 
 
 Here for our countr^s cause swear we 
 to him 
 
 All homage, fealty, and forward- 
 ness; 
 
 And for the open wrongs and in- 
 juries 
 
 Edward hath done to us, his queen and 
 land, 
 
 We come in arms to wreak it with the 
 sword ; 
 
 That England's queen in peace may re- 
 possess 
 
 Her dignities and honors; and withal 
 
 We may remove these flatterers from the 
 king. 
 
 That havocs England's wealth and treas- 
 ury. 
 Sir J. Sound trumpets, my lord, and for- 
 ward let us march. 
 
 Edward will think we come to flatter 
 him. 
 Kent. I would he never had been flattered 
 more. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. Near Bristol. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Baldoek, and Young 
 Spencer, flying about the stage. 
 
 Y. Spen. Fly, fly, my lord! the queen is 
 over-strong; 
 
 Her friends do multiply, and yours do 
 fail. 
 
 Shape we our course to Ireland, there to 
 breathe. 
 K. Edw. What ! was I bom to fly and run 
 away. 
 
 And leave the Mortimers conquerors be- 
 hind? 
 
 Give me my horse, and let's reinforce 
 our troops : 
 
 And in this bed of honor die \yith fame. 
 
 74 spear. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 105 
 
 Bald. no, my lord, this princely resolu- 
 tion 
 Fits not the time ; away ! we are pursu'd. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 Enter Kent, with sword and target, j, 
 
 Kent. This way he fled, but I am come too 
 late. 
 
 Edward, alas! my heart relents for thee. 
 
 Proud traitor, Mortimer, why dost thou 
 chase 
 
 Thy lawful king, thy sovereign, with thy 
 sword 1 
 
 Vile wretch ! and why hast thou, of all 
 unkind,^' 
 
 Borne arms against thy brother and thy 
 king? 
 
 Rain showers of vengeance on my cursed 
 head, 
 
 Thou God, to whom in justice it belongs 
 
 To punish this unnatural revolt ! 
 
 Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life! 
 
 fly him, then ! But, Edmund, calm 
 this rage, 
 
 Dissemble, or thou diest ; for Mortimer 
 
 And Isabel do kiss, while they conspire; 
 
 And yet she bears a face of love for- 
 sooth. 
 
 Fie on that love that hatcheth death and 
 hate ! 
 
 Edmund, away! Bristow to Long- 
 shanks' blood 
 
 Is false. Be not found single for sus- 
 pect : '" 
 
 Proud Mortimer pries near into thy 
 walks. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, Prince Edward, 
 Young Mortimer, and Sir John of Hai- 
 nault. 
 
 Q. Isab. Successful battle gives the God 
 of kings 
 To them that fight in right and fear his 
 
 wrath. 
 Since then successfully we have pre- 
 vailed. 
 Thanked be Heaven's great architect, 
 
 and you. 
 Ere farther we proceed, my noble lords. 
 We here create our well-beloved son. 
 Of love and care unto his royal person. 
 Lord Warden of the realm, and sith the 
 
 fates 
 Have made his father so unfortunate, 
 Deal you, my lords, in this, my loving 
 
 lords, 
 As to your wisdoms fittest seems in all. 
 
 Tc most unnatural of all. 
 
 Kent. Madam, without offense, if I may 
 ask, 
 How will you deal with Edward in his 
 fall? 
 P. Edw. Tell me, good uncle, what Ed- 
 ward do you mean? 
 Kent. Nephew, your father; I dare not 
 
 call him king. 
 r. Mor. My lord of Kent, what needs 
 these questions? 
 'T is not in her controlment, nor in ours. 
 But as the realm and parliament shall 
 
 please ; 
 So shall your brother be disposed of. — 
 (Aside to the Queen.) I like not this re- 
 lenting mood in Edmund. 
 Madam, 't is good to look to him betimes. 
 Q. Isab. My lord, the Mayor of Bristow 
 
 knows our mind. 
 Y. Mor. Yea, madam, and they scape not 
 easily 
 That fled the field. 
 Q. Isab. Baldock is with the king, 
 
 A goodly chancellor, is he not, my lord? 
 Sir J. So are the Spencers, the father 
 
 and the son. 
 Kent. This Edward is the ruin of the 
 realm. 
 
 Enter Bice ap Howell and the Mayor of 
 Bristol, with the Elder Spencer prisoner, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 Rice. God save Queen Isabel, and her 
 princely son! 
 
 Madam, the mayor and citizens of Bris- 
 tow, 
 
 In sign of love and duty to this presence, 
 
 Present by me this traitor to the state, 
 
 Spencer, the father to that wanton Spen- 
 cer, 
 
 That, like the lawless Catiline of Rome, 
 
 Reveled in England's wealth and treas- 
 ury. 
 Q. Isab. We thank you all. 
 Y. Mor. Your loving care in this 
 
 Deserveth princely favors' and rewards. 
 
 But where 's the king and the other 
 Spencer fled? 
 Bice. Spencer the son, created Earl of 
 Gloucester, 
 
 Is with that smooth-tongu'd scholar 
 Baldock gone 
 
 Ancf shipt but late for Ireland with the 
 king. 
 Y. Mor. (Aside.) Some whirlwind fetch 
 them back or sink them all! — 
 
 They shall be started thence, I doubt it 
 not. 
 
 76 be not found walking alone lest you be suspected.' 
 
106 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 P. Edw. Shall I not see the king my 
 
 father yet? 
 Kent. (Aside.) Unhappy 's Edward, 
 
 chas'd from England's bounds. 
 Sir J. Madam, what resteth, why stand 
 
 you in a muse? 
 Q. Isab. I rue my lord's ill-fortune; but 
 alas! 
 Care of my country eall'd me to this 
 war. 
 T. Mor. Madam, have done with care and 
 sad complaint; 
 Your king hath wrong'd your country 
 
 and himself. 
 And we must seek to right it as we may. 
 Meanwhile, have hence this rebel to the 
 
 block. 
 Your lordship cannot privilege your 
 head. 
 E. Spen. Rebel is he that fights against 
 his prince; 
 So fought not they that fought in Ed- 
 ward's right. 
 T. Mor. Take him away, he prates. 
 Exeunt. Attendants with the Elder 
 Spencer. 
 
 You, Rice.ap Howell, 
 Shall do good service to her majesty. 
 Being of countenance in your country 
 
 here. 
 To follow these rebellious runagates. 
 We in meanwhile, madam, must take ad- 
 vice 
 How Baldock, Spencer, and their 'com- 
 plices 
 May in their fall be followed to their 
 end. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 6. The Albey of Neath. 
 
 Enter the Abbot, Monks, King Edward, 
 Young Spencer, and Baldock, the three 
 latter disguised. 
 
 Abbot. Have you no doubt, my lord ; have 
 you no fear; 
 As silent and as careful we will be. 
 To keep your royal person safe with us, 
 Free from suspect and fell invasion 
 Of such as have your majesty in ^hase. 
 Yourself, and those your chosen com- 
 pany. 
 As danger of this stormy time requires. 
 K. Edw. Father, thy face should harbor 
 no deceit. 
 0! hadst thou ever been a king, thy 
 heart, 
 
 Pierced deeply with sense of my distress, 
 
 Could not but take compassion of my 
 state. 
 
 Stately and proud, in riches and in train, 
 :_ Whilom I was, powerful, and full of 
 pomp : 
 
 But what is he whom rule and empery 
 
 Have not in life or death made miser- 
 able? 
 
 Come, Spencer; come, Baldock, come, sit 
 down by me; 
 
 Make trial now of that philosophy. 
 
 That in our famous nurseries of arts 
 
 Thou suck'dst from Plato and from Aris- 
 totle. 
 
 Father, this life contemplative is 
 Heaven. 
 
 that I might this life in quiet lead ! 
 
 But we, alas! are chas'd; and you, my 
 friends. 
 
 Your lives and my dishonor they pur- 
 sue. 
 
 Yet, gentle monks, for treasure, gold, 
 nor fee. 
 
 Do you betray us and our company. 
 Monks. Your grace may sit secure, if 
 none but we 
 
 Do wot of your abode. 
 Y. Spen. Not one alive; but shrewdly I 
 suspect 
 
 A gloomy fellow in a mead below. 
 
 'A gave a long look after us, my lord; 
 
 And all the land I know is up in 
 arms, 
 
 Arms that pursue our lives with deadly 
 hate. 
 Bald. We were embark'd for Ireland, 
 wretched we! 
 
 With awkward winds and [with] sore 
 tempests driven 
 
 To fall on shore, and here to pine in fear 
 
 Of Mortimer and his confederates. 
 K. Edw. Mortimer! who talks of Morti- 
 mer? 
 
 Who wounds me with the name of Mor- 
 timer, 
 
 That bloody man? Good father, on thy 
 lap 
 
 Lay I this head, laden with mickle care. 
 
 might I never open these eyes again! 
 
 Never again lift up this drooping head! 
 
 never "more lift up this dying heart ! 
 T. Spen. Look up, my lord. — Baldock, 
 this drowsiness 
 
 Betides no good; here even we are be- 
 tray'd. 
 
 Enter, with Welsh hooks. Rice ap Howell, 
 a Mower, and Leicester. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 107 
 
 Mow. Upon my life, these be the men ye 
 
 seek. 
 Bice. Fellow, enough. — My lord, I pray 
 be short, 
 A fair commission warrants what we do. 
 Leices. The queen's commission, urg'd by 
 Mortimer ; 
 What cannot gallant Mortimer with the 
 
 queen ? 
 Alas! see where he sits, and hopes un- 
 seen 
 T' escape their hands that seek to reave 
 
 his life. 
 Too true it is. Quern dies vidit veniens 
 
 superbum, 
 Hunc dies vidit fugiens jacentem.'''' 
 But, Leicester, leave to grow so passion- 
 ate. 
 Spencer and Baldock, by no other names, 
 I do arrest you of high treason here. 
 Stand not on titles, but obey th' arrest; 
 'T is in the name of Isabel the queen. 
 My lord, why droop you thus? 
 K. Edw. day, the last of all my bliss 
 on earth ! 
 Center of all misfortune ! my stars. 
 Why do you lour unkindly on a king? 
 Comes Leicester, then, in Isabella's name 
 To take my life, my company from me? 
 Here, man, rip up this panting breast of 
 
 mine. 
 And take my heart in rescue of my 
 friends ! 
 Bice. Away with them ! 
 T. Spen. It may become thee yet 
 
 To let us take our farewell of his 
 grace. 
 Abbot. (Aside.) My heart with pity 
 earns ^' to see this sight, 
 A king to bear these words and proud 
 commands. 
 K. Edw. Spencer, ah, sweet Spencer, 
 
 thus then must we part? 
 Y. Spen. We must, my lord, so will the 
 
 angry Heavens. 
 K. Edw. Nay, so will hell and cruel Mor- 
 timer; 
 The gentle Heavens have not to do in 
 this. 
 Bald. My lord, it is in vain to grieve or 
 storm. 
 Here humbly of your grace we take our 
 
 leaves ; 
 Our lots are east ; I fear me, so is thine. 
 K. Edw. In Heaven we may, in earth 
 ne'er shall we meet: 
 And, Leicester, say, what shall become of 
 us? 
 
 Leices. Your majesty must go to Killing- 
 worth.'" 
 K. Edw. Must ! it is somewhat hard, when 
 
 kings must go. 
 Leices. Here is a litter ready for your 
 grace, 
 
 That waits your pleasure, and the day 
 grows old. 
 Bice. As good be gone, as stay and be be- 
 nighted. 
 K. Edw. A litter hast thoj? Lay me in 
 a hearse. 
 
 And to the gates of hell convey me 
 hence ; 
 
 Let Pluto's bells ring out my fatal knell. 
 
 And hags howl for my death at Charon's 
 shore, 
 
 For friends hath Edward none but these 
 and these. 
 
 And these must die under a tyrant's 
 sword. 
 Bice. My. lord, be going; care not for 
 these, 
 
 For we shall see them shorter by the 
 heads. 
 K. Edw. Well, that shall be, shall be: 
 part we must! 
 
 Sweet Spencer, gentle Baldock, part we 
 must ! 
 
 Hence feigned weeds! unfeigned are my 
 woes; 
 
 {Throws off Ms disguise.) 
 
 Father, farewell ! Leicester, thou stay'st 
 for me. 
 
 And go I must. Life, farewell, with my 
 friends. 
 
 Exeunt Edward and Leicester. 
 Y. Spen. 0! is he gone? Is noble Ed- 
 ward gone? 
 
 Parted from hence, never to see us 
 more? 
 
 Rend, sphere of Heaven! and, fire, for- 
 sake thy orb! 
 
 Earth, melt to air ! gone is my sovereign, 
 
 Gone, gone, alas! never to make return. 
 Bald. Spencer, I see our souls are fleeted 
 hence ; 
 
 We are depriv'd the sunshine of our life : 
 
 Make for a new life, man ; throw up thy 
 eyes. 
 
 And heart, and hand to Heaven's im- 
 mortal throne; 
 
 Pay nature's debt with cheerful coun- 
 tenance ; 
 
 Reduce we all our lessons unto this : 
 
 To die, sweet Spencer, therefore live we 
 all; 
 
 Spencer, all live to die, and rise to fall. 
 
 77 "Wbom the dawa sees proud, evening sees prostrate." (Seneca, Xhyettes, 613.) 78 yearns, to Kenilworth, 
 
108 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Bice. Come, come, keep these preachments 
 till you come to the place appointed. 
 You, and such as you are, have made 
 wise work in England. Will your lord- 
 ships away? 
 Mow. Your lordship, I trust, will remem- 
 ber me? 
 Bice. Remember thee, fellow! what else? 
 Follow me to the town. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. A room in Kenilworth Castle. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Leicester, the Bishop 
 of Winchester for the crown, and Trussel. 
 
 Leices. Be patient, good my lord, cease to 
 
 lament,- 
 Imagine Killingworth Castle were your 
 
 court, 
 And that you lay for pleasure here a 
 
 space. 
 Not of compulsion or necessity. 
 K. Edw. Leicester, if gentle words might 
 
 comfort me. 
 Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sor- 
 rows ; 
 For kind and loving hast thou always 
 
 been. 
 The griefs of private men are soon al- 
 
 lay'd, 
 But not of kings. The forest deer, be- 
 ing struck. 
 Runs to an herb that closeth up the 
 
 wounds ; 
 But, when the imperial lion's flesh is 
 
 gor'd. 
 He rends and tears it with his wrathful 
 
 paw, 
 [And] highly scorning that the lowly 
 
 earth 
 Should drink his blood, mounts up into 
 
 the air. 
 And so it fares with me, whose dauntless 
 
 mind 
 The ambitious Mortimer would seek to 
 
 curb. 
 And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, 
 That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a 
 
 prison ; 
 For such outrageous passions cloy my 
 
 soul. 
 As with the wings of rancor and disdain 
 Full often am I soaring up to Heaven, 
 To plain *" me to the gods against them 
 
 both. 
 
 80 complain. 
 
 But when I call to mind I am a king, 
 ' Methinks I should revenge me of my 
 
 wrongs, 
 That Mortimer and Isabel have done. 
 But what are kings, when regiment '^ is 
 
 gone, 
 But perfect shadows in a sunshine day? 
 My nobles rule, I bear the name of 
 
 king; 
 I wear the crown, but am controll'd by 
 
 them, 
 By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen. 
 Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy; 
 Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of 
 
 care. 
 Where sorrow at my elbow still attends. 
 To company my heart with sad laments, 
 That bleeds within me for this strange 
 
 exchange. 
 But tell me, must I now resign my 
 
 crown, 
 To make usurping Mortimer a king? 
 B. of Win. Your grace mistakes; it is 
 
 for England's good. 
 And princely Edward's right we crave 
 
 the crown. 
 K. Edw. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Ed- 
 ward's head; 
 For he 's a lamb, encompassed by wolves. 
 Which in a moment will abridge his 
 
 life. 
 But if proud Mortimer do wear this 
 
 crown. 
 Heavens turn it to a blaze of quenchless 
 
 fire! 
 Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, 
 Engirt the temples of his hateful head; 
 So shall not England's vine be perished, 
 But Edward's name survives, though Ed- 
 ward dies. 
 Leices. My lord, why waste you thus the 
 
 time away? 
 They stay your answer; will you yield 
 
 your crown? 
 K. Edw. Ah, Leicester, weigh how hardly 
 
 I can brook 
 To lose my crown and kingdom without 
 
 cause ; 
 To give ambitious Mortimer my right. 
 That like a mountain overwhelms my 
 
 bliss. 
 In which extreme my mind here mur- 
 dered is. 
 But what the heavens appoint, I must 
 
 obey! 
 Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward 
 
 too; 
 
 (Talcing off the crown.) 
 
 81 sovereignty. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 109 
 
 Two kings in England cannot reign at 
 once. 
 
 But stay awhile, let me be king till night, 
 
 That I may gaze upon this glittering 
 crown ; 
 
 So shall my eyes receive their last con- 
 tent, 
 
 My head, the latest honor due to it, 
 
 And jointly both yield up their wished 
 right. 
 
 Continue ever, thou celestial sun; 
 
 Let never silent night possess this clime : 
 
 Stand still, you watches of the element; 
 
 All times and seasons, rest you at a stay, 
 
 That Edward may be still fair Eng- 
 land's king! 
 
 But day's bright beam doth vanish fast 
 away, 
 
 And needs I must resign my wished 
 crown. 
 
 Inhuman creatures ! nurs'd with tiger's 
 milk! 
 
 Why gape yon for your sovereign's over- 
 throw ! 
 
 My diadem I mean, and guiltless life. 
 
 See, monsters, see, I '11 wear my crown 
 again! 
 
 (He puts on the crown.) 
 
 What, fear you not the fury of your 
 king? 
 
 But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly ^^ 
 led; 
 
 They pass '^ not for thy frowns as late 
 they did, 
 
 But seek to make a new-elected king ; 
 
 Which fills my mind with strange de- 
 spairing thoughts, 
 
 Which thoughts are martyred with end- 
 less torments, 
 
 And in this torment comfort find I none. 
 
 But that I feel the crown upon my head ; 
 
 And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. 
 Trus. My lord, the parliament must have 
 present news, 
 
 And therefore say, will you resign or 
 no? 
 
 (rfee King rageth.) 
 K. Edw. I '11 not resign, but whilst I live 
 [be king.]«* 
 
 Traitors, be gone and join with Morti- 
 mer! 
 
 Elect, conspire, install, do what you 
 will : — 
 
 Their blood and yours shall seal these 
 treacheries ! 
 B. of Win. This answer we'll return, 
 and so farewell. 
 
 {Going with Trussel.) 
 
 82 foollBhly. 83 c 
 
 'Leices, Call them again, my lord, and 
 
 speak them fair; 
 ■ For if they go, the prince shall lose his 
 
 right. 
 K. Edw. Call thou them back, I have no 
 
 power to speak. 
 Leices. My lord, the king is willing to re- 
 sign. 
 B. of Win. If he be not, let him choose. 
 K. Edw. would I might, but heavens 
 and earth conspire 
 To make me miserable! Here receive 
 
 my crown; 
 Receive it? No, these innocent hands of 
 
 mine 
 Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. 
 He of you all that most desires my blood. 
 And will be call'd the murderer of a 
 
 king. 
 Take it. What, are you mov'd? Pity 
 
 you me? 
 Then send for imrelenting Mortimer, 
 And Isabel, whose eyes, being turn'd to 
 
 steel. 
 Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. 
 Yet stay, for rather than I'll look on 
 
 them. 
 Here, here! 
 
 {Gives the crown.) 
 Now, sweet God of Heaven, 
 Make me despise this transitory pomp. 
 And sit for ay enthronized in Heaven! 
 Come, death, and with thy fingers close 
 
 my eyes, 
 Or if I Uve, let me forget myself. 
 B. of Win. My lord- 
 s'. Edw. Call me not lord; away — out of 
 my sight! 
 Ah, pardon me : grief makes me lunatic ! 
 Let not that Mortimer protect my son ; 
 More safety is there in a tiger's jaws. 
 Than his embracements. Bear this to 
 
 the queen, 
 Wet with my tears, and dried again with 
 sighs; . 
 
 {Gives a handkerchief.) 
 If with the sight thereof she be not 
 
 mov'd, 
 Return it back and dip it in my blood. 
 Commend me to my son, and bid him 
 
 rule 
 Better than I. Yet how have I trans- 
 
 gress'd, 
 Unless it be with too much clemency? 
 Trus. And thus most humbly do we take 
 
 our leave. 
 K. Edw. Farewell; 
 
 ■e. S4 Qq, omit. 
 
110 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Exeunt the Bishop of Winchester and 
 Trussel. 
 I know the next news that they bring 
 Will be my death; and welcome shall it 
 
 be; 
 To wretched men, death is felicity. 
 
 Enter Berkeley,^^ who gives a paper to 
 Leicester. 
 
 Leices. Another post! what news brings 
 
 he? 
 K. Edw. Such news as I expect — come, 
 Berkeley, come, 
 And tell thy message to my naked breast. 
 Berk. My lord, think not a thought so vil- 
 lainous 
 Can harbor in a man of noble birth. 
 To do your highness service and devoir, 
 And save you from your foes, Berkeley 
 would die. 
 Leices. My lord, the council of the queen 
 commands 
 That I resign my charge. 
 K. Edw. And who must keep me now? 
 
 Must you, my lord? 
 Berk. Aye, my most gracious lord ; so 't is 
 
 decreed. 
 K. Edw. {Taking the paper.) By Morti- 
 mer, whose name is written here ! 
 "Well may I rend his name that rends my 
 heart! 
 
 {Tears it.) 
 Thi» poor revenge has something eas'd 
 
 my mind. 
 So may his limbs be torn, as is this 
 
 paper ! 
 Hear me, immortal Jove, and grant it 
 too! 
 Berk. Your grace must hence with me to 
 
 Berkeley straight. 
 K. Edw. Whither you will; all places are 
 alike. 
 And every earth is fit for burial. 
 Leices. Favor him, my lord, as much as 
 
 lieth in you. 
 Berk. Even so betide my soul as I use 
 
 him. 
 K. Edw. Mine enemy hath pitied my es- 
 tate. 
 And that's the cause that I am now 
 remov'd. 
 Berk. And thinks your grace that Berk- 
 eley will be cruel? 
 K. Edw. I know not ; but of this am I as- 
 sured, 
 That death ends all, and I can die but 
 
 once. 
 Leicester, farewell! 
 
 85 Qq. Bartley, showipg pronunciation. 
 
 Leices. Not yet, my lord; I '11 bear you on 
 your way. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. The Palace, London. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella and Young 
 Mortimer. 
 
 T. Mor. Fair Isabel, now have we our 
 
 desire; 
 The proud corrupters of the light-brain'd 
 
 king 
 Have done their homage to the lofty gal- 
 lows. 
 And he himself lies in captivity. 
 Be rul'd by me, and we will rule the 
 
 realm. 
 In any case take heed of childish fear. 
 For now we hold an old wolf by the 
 
 ears, 
 That, if he slip, will seize upon us both. 
 And gripe the sorer, being gript himself. 
 Think therefore, madam, that imports 
 
 us much 
 To erect ** your son with all the speed we 
 
 may. 
 And that I be protector over him; 
 For our behoof will bear the greater 
 
 sway 
 Whenas a king's name shall be under 
 
 writ. 
 Q. Isab. Sweet Mortimer, the life of Is- 
 abel, 
 Be thou persuaded that I love thee well. 
 And therefore, so the prince my son be 
 
 safe. 
 Whom I esteem as dear as these mine 
 
 eyes. 
 Conclude against his father what thou 
 
 wilt. 
 And I myself will willingly subscribe. 
 Y. Mor. First would I hear news that he 
 
 were depos'd, 
 And then let me alone to handle him. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 Letters! from whence? 
 Mess. From Killingworth, my lord. 
 
 Q. Isab. How fares my lord the king? 
 Mess. In health, madam, but full of pen- 
 
 siveness. 
 Q. Isab. Alas, poor soul, would I could 
 
 ease his grief! 
 
 Enter the Bishop of Winchester with the 
 crown. 
 Thanks, gentle Winchester. {To the 
 Messenger.) Sirrah, be gone. 
 
 Exit Messenger, 
 89 make king. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 111 
 
 B. of Win. The king hath willingly re- 
 
 sign'd his crown. 
 Q. Isah. happy news! send for the 
 
 prince, my son. 
 B. of Win. Further, or " this letter was 
 seal'd. Lord Berkeley came, 
 So that he now is gone from Killing- 
 worth ; 
 And we have heard that Edmund laid a 
 
 plot 
 To set his brother free; no more but so. 
 The lord of Berkeley is so pitiful 
 As Leicester that had charge of him be- 
 fore. 
 Q. Isah. Then let some other be his 
 
 guardian. 
 Y. Mor. Let me alone, here is the privy 
 seal. 
 
 Exit the Bishop of Winchester. 
 Who's there? — Call hither Gumey and 
 
 Matrevis. 
 To dash the heavy-headed Edmund's 
 
 drift, 
 Berkeley shall be discharg'd, the king 
 
 remov'd. 
 And none but we shall know where he 
 lieth. 
 Q. I sab. But, Mortimer, as long as he 
 survives, 
 What safety rests for us, or for my son? 
 T. Mor. Speak, shall he presently be de- 
 
 spateh'd and die? 
 Q. I sab. I would he were, so 'twere hot 
 by my means. 
 
 Enter Matrevis and Gumey. 
 
 T. Mor. Enough. — 
 Matrevis, write a letter presently 
 Unto the lord of Berkeley from ourself 
 That he resign the king to thee and Gur- 
 
 ney; 
 And when 'tis done, we will subscribe 
 our name. 
 Mat. It shall be done, my lord, 
 r. Mor. Gumey. 
 
 Gur. My lord. 
 
 Y. Mor. As thou intend'st to rise by Mor- 
 timer, 
 Who now makes Fortune's wheel turn as 
 
 he please. 
 Seek all the means thou canst to make 
 
 him droop. 
 And neither give him kind word nor 
 good look. 
 Gur. I warrant you, my lord. 
 Y. Mor. And this above the rest : because 
 we hear 
 
 87 ere. 
 
 Tha't Edmund casts ^^ to work his lib- 
 erty, _ 
 Remove him still from place to place by 
 
 night, 
 Till at the last he come to Killingworth, 
 And then from thence to Berkeley back 
 
 again ; 
 And by the way, to make him fret the 
 
 more, 
 Speak curstly to him, and in any ease 
 Let no man comfort him ; if he chance to 
 
 weep. 
 But amplify his grief with bitter words. 
 Mat. Fear not, my lord, we'll do as you 
 
 command. 
 Y. Mor. So now away; post thitherwards 
 
 amain. 
 Q. Isah. Whither goes this letter? To 
 my lord the king? 
 Commend me humbly to his majesty, 
 And tell him that I labor all in vain 
 To ease his grief, and work his lib- 
 erty; 
 And bear him this as witness of my love. 
 (Gives a ring.) 
 Mat. I wiU, madam. 
 
 Exit with Gumey. 
 Enter Prince Edward, and Kent talking 
 with him. 
 
 Y. Mor. Finely dissembled. Do so still, 
 
 sweet queen. 
 Here comes the young prince with the 
 
 Earl of Kent. 
 Q. Isab. Something he whispers in his 
 
 childish ears. 
 Y. Mor. If he have such access unto the 
 
 prince. 
 Our plots and stratagems will soon be 
 
 dash'd. 
 Q. Isah. Use Edmund friendly, as if all 
 
 were well. 
 Y. Mor. How fares my honorable lord of 
 
 Kent? 
 Kent. In health, sweet Mortimer. How 
 
 fares your grace? 
 Q. Isah. Well, if my lord your brother 
 
 were enlarg'd. 
 Kent, I hear of late he hath depos'd him- 
 self. 
 Q. Isah. The more my grief. 
 Y. Mor. And mine. 
 
 Kent. (Aside.) Ah, they do dissemble! 
 Q. Isab. Sweet son, come hither, I must 
 
 talk with thee. 
 Y. Mor. Thou being his uncle, and the 
 
 next of blood. 
 Do look to be protector o'er the prince. 
 
 88 plots. 
 
112 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Kent. Not I, my lord; who should protect 
 the son, 
 But she that- gave him life? I mean 
 the queen. 
 P. Edw. Mothei-, persuade me not to wear 
 the crown : 
 Let him be king — I am too young to 
 reign. 
 Q. Isdb. But be content, seeing 't is his 
 
 highness' pleasure. 
 P. Edw. Let me but see him first, and 
 
 then I will. 
 Kent. Aye, do, sweet nephew. 
 Q. Isah. Brother, you know it is impos- 
 sible. 
 P. Edw. Why, is he dead? 
 Q. Isdb. No, God forbid! 
 Kent. I would those words proceeded 
 
 from your heart. 
 Y. Mor. Inconstant Edmund, dost thou 
 favor him, 
 That wast the cause of his imprison- 
 ment? 
 Kent. The more cause have I now to make 
 
 amends. 
 Y. Mor. (Aside to Q. Isab.) I tell thee, 
 'tis not meet that one so false 
 Should come about the person of a 
 
 prince. — 
 My lord, he hath betray'd the king his 
 
 brother, 
 And therefore trust him not. 
 7'. Edw. But he repents, and sorrows for 
 
 it now. . 
 Q. Isab. Come, son, and go with this gen- 
 tle lord and. me. 
 P. Edw. With you I will, but not with 
 
 Mortimer. 
 Y. Mor. Why, youngling, 'sdain'st thou 
 so of Mortimer? 
 Then I will carry thee by force away. 
 P. Edw. Help, uncle Kent! Mortimer 
 
 will wrong me. 
 Q. Isab. Brother Edmund, strive not; we 
 are his friends ; 
 Isabel is nearer than the Earl of Kent. 
 Kent. Sister, Edward is my charge, re- 
 deem him. 
 Q. Isab. Edward is my son, and I will 
 
 keep him. 
 Kent. Mortimer shall know that he hath 
 wrong'd me! — 
 (Aside.) Hence will I haste to Killing- 
 worth Castle, 
 And rescue aged Edward from his foes. 
 To be reveng'd on Mortimer and thee. 
 Exeunt on one side Queen Isabella, Prince 
 Edward, and Young Mortimer; on the 
 other Kent. 
 
 ScBNK 3. Kenilworth Castle. 
 
 Enter Matrevis and Gurney, and Soldiers, 
 with King Edward. 
 
 Mat. My lord, be not pensive, we are your 
 
 friends ; 
 Men are ordain'd to live in misery. 
 Therefore come, — dalliance dangereth 
 
 our lives. 
 K. Edw. Friends, whither must unhappy 
 
 Edward go? 
 Will hateful Mortimer appoint no rest? 
 Must I be vexed like the nightly bird, ' 
 Whose sight is loathsome to all winged 
 
 fowls? 
 When will the fury of his mind assuage ? 
 When will his heart be satisfied with 
 
 blood? 
 If mine will serve, unbowel straight this 
 
 breast. 
 And give my heart to Isabel and him; 
 It is the chiefest mark they level at. 
 Gur. Not so, my liege, the queen hath 
 
 given this charge 
 To keep your grace in safety; 
 Your passions make your dolors to in- 
 crease. 
 K. Edw. This usage makes my misery to 
 
 increase. 
 But can my air of life continue long 
 When all my senses are annoy'd with 
 
 stench ? 
 Within a dungeon England's king is 
 
 kept. 
 Where I am starv'd for want of sus- 
 tenance. 
 My daily diet is heart-breaking sobs. 
 That almost rends the closet of my heart. 
 Thus lives old Edward not reliev'd by 
 
 any, 
 And so must die, though pitied by many. 
 0, water, gentle friends, to cool my 
 
 thirst. 
 And clear my body from foul excre- 
 ments ! 
 Mat. Here 's channel *' water, as our 
 
 charge is given. 
 Sit down, for we'll be barbers to your 
 
 grace. 
 K. Edw. Traitors, away ! What, will you 
 
 murder me. 
 Or choke your sovereign with puddle 
 
 water? 
 Gur. No; but wash your face, and shave 
 
 away your beard. 
 Lest you be known and so be rescued. 
 Mat. Why strive you thus? Your labor 
 
 is in vain. 
 
 89 gutter. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 113 
 
 K. Edw. The wren may strive against the 
 lion's strength, 
 But all in vain : so vainly do I strive 
 To seek for mercy at a tyrant's hand. 
 (They wash him with puddle water, and 
 shave his beard away.) 
 Immortal powers that knows the painful 
 
 cares 
 That wait upon my poor distressed soul, 
 level all your looks upon these daring 
 
 men, 
 That wrongs their liege and sovereign, 
 
 England's king! 
 Gaveston, 't is for thee that I am 
 
 •wrong'd, 
 For me, both thou and both the Spen- 
 cers died ! 
 And for your sakes a thousand wrongs 
 
 I'll take. 
 The Spencers' ghosts, wherever they re- 
 main. 
 Wish well to mine; then tush, for them 
 I'll die! 
 Mat. 'Twixt theirs and yours shall be no 
 enmity. 
 Come, come away; now put the torches 
 
 out; 
 We '11 enter in by darkness to Killing- 
 worth. 
 
 Enter Kent. 
 Chir. How now, who comes there? 
 Mat. Guard the king sure: it is the Earl 
 
 of Kent. 
 K. Edw. gentle brother, help to rescue 
 
 me! 
 Mat. Keep them asunder; thrust in the 
 
 king. 
 Kent. Soldiers, let me but talk to him one 
 
 word. 
 Gur. Lay hands upon the earl for this as- 
 sault. 
 Kent. Lay down your weapons, traitors! 
 
 Yield the king! 
 Mat. Edmund, yield thou thyself, or thou 
 
 shalt die. 
 Kent. Base villains, wherefore do you 
 
 'gripe me thus? 
 Gwr. Bind him and so convey him to the 
 
 court. 
 Kent. Wbere is the court but here? 
 Here is the king. 
 And I will visit him; why stay you me? 
 Mat. The court is where Lord Mortimer 
 remains ; 
 Thither shall your honor go ; and so fare- 
 well. 
 Exeunt Matrevis and Gurney, with King 
 Edward. 
 
 Kent. miserable is that commonweal. 
 Where lords keep courts, and kings are 
 lock'd in prison ! 
 Sol. Wherefore stay we? On, sirs, to the 
 
 court ! 
 Kent. Aye, lead me whither you will, even 
 to my death. 
 Seeing that my brother cannot be re- 
 leas'd. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. The Palace, London. 
 Enter Young Mortimer, alone. 
 
 Y. Mor. The king must die, or Mortimer 
 
 goes down; 
 The commons now begin to pity him. 
 Yet he that is the cause of Edward's 
 
 . death. 
 Is sure to pay for it when his son 's of 
 
 age; 
 And therefore will I do it cunningly. 
 This letter, written by a friend of ours. 
 Contains his death, yet bids them save 
 
 his life. 
 
 (Beads.) 
 "Edwardum occidere nolite timere — bo- 
 
 num est: 
 Fear not to kill the king, 'tis good he 
 
 die." 
 But read it thus, and that 's another 
 
 sense : 
 "Edwardum occidere nolite — -timere bo- 
 
 num est: 
 Kill not the king, 'tis good to fear the 
 
 worst." 
 Unpointed ^° as it is, thus shall it go, 
 That, being dead, if it • chance to be 
 
 found, 
 Matrevis and the rest may bear the 
 
 blame. 
 And we be quit that caus'd it to be done. 
 Within this room is lock'd the messenger 
 That shall convey it, and perform the 
 
 rest; 
 And by a secret token that he bears, 
 Shall he be murdered when the deed is 
 
 done. — 
 Lightborn, come forth ! 
 
 Enter Lightborn. 
 
 Art thou as resolute as thou wast? 
 
 Light. What else, my lord? And far 
 more resolute. 
 
 Y. Mor. And hast thou cast how to ac- 
 complish it? 
 
 90 unpunctuated. 
 
114 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Light. Aye, aye, and none shall know 
 
 which way he died. 
 Y. Mor. But at his looks, Lightborn, thou 
 
 wilt relent. 
 Light. Kelent! ha, ha! I use much to re- 
 lent. 
 Y. Mor. Well, do it bravely, and be se- 
 cret. 
 Light. You shall not need to give instruc- 
 tions ; 
 'Tis not the first time I have kill'd a 
 
 man. 
 I learn'd in Naples how to poison flow- 
 ers; 
 To strangle with a lawn "^ thrust through 
 
 the throat; 
 To pierce the windpipe with a needle's 
 
 point ; 
 Or whilst one is asleep, to take a quUl 
 And blow a little powder in his ears \ 
 Or open his mouth and pour quicksilver 
 
 down. 
 And yet I have a braver way than these, 
 y. Mor. What's that? 
 Light. Nay, you shall pardon me; none 
 
 shall know my tricks. 
 Y. Mor. I care not how it is, so it be not 
 spied. 
 Deliver this to Gurney and Matrevis. 
 
 {Gives letter.) 
 At every ten mile's end thou hast a horse. 
 Take this (Gives ^ money); away! and 
 never see me more. 
 Light. No? 
 Y. Mor. No; 
 Unless thou bring me news of Edward's 
 death. 
 Light. That will I quickly do. Farewell, 
 my lord. 
 
 Exit. 
 Y. Mor. The prince I rule, the queen do 
 I command, 
 And with a lowly congee"^ to the 
 
 ground, 
 The proudest lords salute me as I pass; 
 I seal, I cancel, I do what I will, 
 rear*!! am I more than lov'd; — let me be 
 
 fear'd. 
 And when I frown, mak:e all the court 
 
 look pale. 
 I view the prince with Aristarchus' eyes. 
 Whose looks were as a breeching °' to a 
 
 boy. 
 They thrust upon me the protectorship. 
 And sue to me for that that I desire. 
 While at the council-table, grave enough, 
 And not unlike a bashful puritan, 
 
 First I complain of imbecility. 
 Saying it is onus quam gravissimum^*' 
 Till being interrupted by my friends, 
 Suscepi that provinciam °° as they term 
 
 it; 
 And to conclude, I am Protector now. 
 Now is all sure : the queen and Mortimer 
 Shall rule the realm, the king, and none 
 
 rule us. 
 Mine enemies will I plague, my friends 
 
 advance ; 
 And what I list command who dare con- 
 trol? 
 Major sum quam cui possit fortuna 
 
 nocere.^" * 
 
 And that this be the coronation-day. 
 It pleaseth me, and Isabel the queen. 
 
 (Trumpets within.) 
 The trumpets sound, I must go take my 
 place. 
 
 Enter the young King, Queen Isabella, 
 the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cham- 
 pion and Nobles. 
 
 A. of Cant. Long live King Edward, by 
 
 the grace of God 
 
 King of England and Lord of Ireland! 
 
 Cham. " If any Christian, Heathen, Turk, 
 
 or Jew, 
 
 Dares but affirm that Edward 's not true 
 
 king, 
 And will avouch his sajdng with the 
 
 sword, 
 I am the champion that will combat him. 
 Y. Mor. None comes; sound trumpets! 
 
 (Trumpets sound.) 
 K. Edw. Third. Champion, here's to 
 thee. 
 
 (Gives a purse.) 
 Q. Isab. Lord Mortimer, now take him to 
 your charge. 
 
 Enter Soldiers, with Kent prisoner. 
 
 Y. Mor. What traitor have we there with 
 blades and bills? 
 
 Sol. Edmund, the Earl of Kent. • 
 
 K. Edw. Third. What hath he done? 
 
 Sol. 'A would have taken the king away 
 perforce. 
 As we were bringing him to Killing- 
 worth. 
 
 Y. Mor. Did you attempt this rescue, Ed- 
 mund ? Speak. 
 
 Kent. Mortimer, I did ; he is our king. 
 And thou eompell'st this prince to wear 
 the crown. 
 
 91 a small roll of fine linen. 
 »2 bow. 0* "the heaviest bur- 
 
 sa whipping. den possible." 
 
 85 "I have under- 
 taken that office." 
 
 8 "I am too great 
 for fortune to in- 
 
 jure." (Ovid, Met- 
 amorpkoees, vi, 
 195.) 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 115 
 
 Y. Mor. Strike off his head ! he shall have 
 
 martial law. 
 Kent. Strike off my head! Base traitor, 
 
 I defy thee! 
 K. Edw. Third. My lord, he is my uncle, 
 
 and shall live, 
 r. Mor. My lord, he is your enemy, and 
 
 shall die. 
 Kent. Stay, villains! 
 K. Edw. Third. Sweet mother, if I can- 
 not pardon him, 
 Entreat my Lord Protector for his life. 
 Q. Isab. Son, be content; I dare not 
 
 speak a word. 
 K. Edw. Third. Nor I, and yet methinks 
 I should command; 
 But, seeing I cannot, I '11 entreat for 
 
 him — 
 My lord, if you will let my uncle live, 
 I will requite it when I come to age. 
 Y. Mor. "T is for your highness' good, 
 and for the realm's. — 
 How often shall I bid you bear him 
 hence 1 
 Kent. Art thou king? Must I die at thy 
 
 command? 
 T. Mor. At our command — Once more, 
 
 away with him! 
 Kent. Let me but stay and speak; I will 
 not go. 
 Either my brother or his son is king. 
 And none of both them thirst for Ed- 
 mund's blood : 
 And therefore, soldiers, whither will yoji 
 hale me? 
 
 Soldiers hale Kent away, and carry him 
 to be beheaded. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. What safety may I look 
 
 for at his hands, 
 
 If that my uncle shall be murdered thus ? 
 
 Q. Isab. Fear not, sweet boy, I '11 guard 
 
 thee from thy foes ; 
 
 Had Edmund liv'd, he would have sought 
 
 thy death. 
 Come, son, we '11 ride a-hunting in the 
 park. 
 K. Edw. Third. And shall my uncle Ed- 
 mund ride with us? 
 Q. Isab. He is a traitor; think not on 
 him. Come. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. Berkeley Castle. 
 
 Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 
 
 Mat. Gurney, I wonder the king dies not, 
 Being in a vault up to the knees in water, 
 
 9T purposely, ss "let this man die," 
 
 To which the channels of the castle run. 
 From whence a damp continually ariseth. 
 That were enough to poison any man. 
 Much more a king brought up so ten- 
 derly. 
 
 Gur. And so do I, Matrevis: yesternight 
 I opened but the door to throw him meat, 
 And I was almost stifled with the savor. 
 
 Mat. He hath a body able to endure 
 More than we can inflict: and therefore 
 
 now 
 Let us assail his mind another while. 
 
 Gur. Send for him out thence, and I will 
 anger him. 
 
 Mat. But stay, who's this? 
 
 Enter Lightborn. 
 
 Light. My Lord Protector greets you. 
 
 (Gives letter.) 
 Gur. What's here? I know not how to 
 
 construe it. 
 Mat. Gurney, it was left unpointed for 
 the nonce; "^ 
 "Edwardum occidere nolite timere:" 
 That 's his meaning. 
 Light. Know ye this token? I must have 
 the king. 
 
 (Gives token.) 
 Mat. Aye, stay awhile, thou shalt have an- 
 swer straight. — 
 (Aside.) This villain's sent to make 
 away the king. 
 Gur. (Aside.) I thought as much. 
 Mat. (Aside.) And when the murder 's 
 done. 
 See how he must be handled for his 
 
 labor. 
 Pereat iste! °^ Let him have the king.^ — 
 What else? Here is the keys, this is the 
 
 lock;»» 
 Do as you are commanded by my lord. 
 Light. I know what I must do; get you 
 away; 
 Yet be not far off, I shall need your help. 
 See that in' the next room I have a fire; 
 And get me a spit, and let it be red-hot. 
 Mat. Very well. 
 
 Gur. Need you anything besides? 
 Light. What else ? A table and a feather- 
 bed. 
 Gur. That's all? 
 Light. Aye, aye ; so, when I call you bring 
 
 it in. 
 Mat. Fear not thou that. 
 Gur. Here 's a light, to go into the dun- 
 geon. 
 (Gives a light, and exit with Matrevis.) 
 Light. So now 
 
 &s Qq. lake. 
 
116 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Must I about this gear ; ' ne'er was there 
 
 any 
 So finely handled as this king shall be. 
 For here 's a place indeed, with all my 
 
 heart ! 
 K. Edw. Who's there? What light is 
 
 that? 
 Wherefore com'st thou'! 
 Light. To comfort you, and bring you 
 
 joyful news. 
 K. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Ed- 
 ward in thy looks. 
 Villain, I know thou com'st to murder 
 
 me. 
 Light. To murder you, my most gracious 
 
 lord! 
 Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
 The queen sent me to see how you were 
 
 used, 
 For she relents at this your misery: 
 And what eyes can refrain from shedding 
 
 tears, 
 To see a king in this most piteous state? 
 K. Edw. Weep'st thou already? List 
 
 awhile to me 
 And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's 
 
 is, 
 Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Cau- 
 casus, 
 Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. 
 This dungeon where they keep me is the 
 
 sink 
 Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 
 Light. villains! 
 K. Edw. And there in mire and puddle 
 
 have I stood 
 This ten days' space; and, lest that I 
 
 should sleep. 
 One plays continually upon a drum. 
 They give me bread and water, being a 
 
 king; 
 So that, for want of sleep and suste- 
 nance, 
 My mind's distempered, and my body's 
 
 numb'd. 
 And whether I have limbs or no I know 
 
 not. 
 0, would my blood dropp'd out from 
 
 every vein. 
 As doth this water from my tattered 
 
 robes ! 
 Tell Isabel, the queen, I^look'd not thus. 
 When for her sake I ran at tilt in 
 
 France, 
 And there unhors'd the Duke of Clere- 
 
 mont. 
 Light. speak no more, my lord! this 
 
 breaks my heart. 
 
 1 business. 
 
 Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. 
 K. Edw. These locks of thine can harbor 
 nought but death : 
 I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
 Yet stay awhile; forbear thy bloody 
 
 hand, 
 And let me see the stroke before it 
 
 comes. 
 That even then when I shall lose my life. 
 My mind may be more steadfast on my 
 God. 
 Light. What means your highness to mis- 
 trust me thus? 
 K. Edw. What mean'st thou to dissemble 
 
 with me thus? 
 Light. These hands were never stain'd 
 with innocent blood. 
 Nor shall they now be tainted with a 
 king's. 
 K. Edw. Forgive my thought for having 
 such a thought. 
 One jewel have I left; receive thou this. 
 
 {Giving jewel.) 
 Still fear I, and I know that what 's the 
 
 cause. 
 But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
 0, if thou harbor'st murder in thy heart, 
 Let this gift change thy mind, and save 
 
 thy soul! 
 Know that I am a king: at that name 
 I feel a hell of grief! Where is my 
 
 crown ? 
 Gone, gone! and do I remain alive? 
 IJ,ght. You're overwatched,^ my lord; lie 
 
 down and rest. 
 K. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, 
 I should sleep; 
 For not these ten days have these eye- 
 lids clos'd. 
 Now as I speak they fall, and yet with 
 
 fear 
 Open again. wherefore sitt'st thou 
 here? 
 Light. If you mistrust me, I '11 begone, 
 
 my lord. 
 K. Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to 
 murder me, 
 Thou wilt return again, and therefore 
 stay. 
 Light. He sleeps. 
 K. Edw, (WaUng.) let me not die 
 
 yet ! Stay, stay a while ! 
 Light. How now, my lord? 
 K. Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine 
 ears, 
 And tells me if I sleep I never wake ; 
 This fear is that which makes me trem- 
 ble thus. 
 
 i worn out with waking. 
 
EDWARD II 
 
 117 
 
 And therefore tell me, wherefore art 
 thou come? 
 Light. To rid thee of thy life. — Matrevis, 
 come ! 
 
 Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 
 
 K. Edw. I am too weak and feeble to re- 
 sist ; — 
 Assist me, sweet God, and receive my 
 soul! 
 Light. Run for the table. 
 K. Edw. spare me, or despatch me in a 
 trice. 
 
 (Matrevis brings in a table.) 
 Light. So, lay the table down, and stamp 
 on it, 
 But not too hard, lest that you bruise his 
 body. 
 
 (King Edward is murdered.) 
 Mat. I fear me that this cry will raise the 
 town. 
 And therefore, let us take horse and 
 away. 
 Light. Tell me, sirs, was it not bravely 
 
 done"? 
 Gur. Excellent well; take this for thy re- 
 ward. 
 (Gurney stabs Lightborn.) 
 ComCj let us cast the body in the moat, 
 And bear the king's to Mortimer our 
 
 lord : 
 Away! 
 
 Exeunt with the bodies. 
 
 Scene 6. The Palace, London. 
 
 Enter Young Mortimer and Matrevis. 
 
 Y. Mor. Is't done, Matrevis, and the 
 
 murderer dead? 
 Mat. Aye, my good lord ; I would it were 
 
 undone ! ■ 
 Y. Mor. Matrevis, if thou now growest 
 penitent 
 I'll be thy ghostly father;, therefore 
 
 choose. 
 Whether thou wilt be secret in this. 
 Or else die by the hand of Mortimer. 
 Mat. Gurney, my lord, is fled, and will, I 
 fear, 
 Betray us both; therefore let me fly. 
 Y. Mor. Ely to the savages! 
 Mat. I humbly thank your honor. , 
 
 Exit. 
 Y. Mor. As for myself, I stand as Jove's 
 huge tree. 
 And others are but shrubs compar'd to 
 
 All tremble at my name, and I fear none ; 
 Let 's see who dare impeach me for his 
 death ! 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella. 
 
 Q. Isab. Ah, Mortimer, the king my son 
 hath news 
 His father 's dead, and we have mur- 
 dered him ! 
 Y. Mor. What if he have? The king is 
 
 yet a child. 
 Q. Isab. Aye, but he tears his hair, and 
 wrings his hands, 
 And vows to be reveng'd upon us both. 
 Into the council-chamber he is gone. 
 To crave the aid and succor of his peers. 
 Ay me ! see here he comes, and they with 
 
 him. 
 Now, Mortimer, begins our tragedy. 
 
 Enter King Edward the Third, Lords and 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Lord. Fear not, my lord, know that you 
 
 are a king. 
 K. Edw. Third. Villain!— 
 Y. Mor. How now, my lord! 
 K. Edw. Third. Think not that I am 
 frighted with thy words! 
 My father's murdered through thy 
 
 treachery; 
 And thou shalt die, and on his mournful 
 
 hearse 
 Thy hateful and accursed head shall lie, 
 To witness to the world, that by thy 
 
 means 
 His kingly body was too soon interr'd. 
 Q. Isab. Weep not, sweet son! 
 K. Edw. Third. Forbid me not to weep, 
 he was my father; 
 And, had you lov'd him half so well as 
 
 I, 
 
 You could not bear his death thus pa- 
 tiently. 
 But you, I fear, eonspir'd with Morti- 
 mer. 
 1 Lord. Why speak you not unto my lord 
 
 the king? 
 Y. Mor. Because I think scorn to be ac- 
 cus'd. 
 Who is the man dares say I mlirdered 
 him? 
 K. Edw. Third. Traitor ! in me my loving 
 father speaks. 
 And plainly saith, 't was thou that mur- 
 d'redst him. 
 Y. Mor. But has your grace no other 
 proof than this? 
 
118 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 K. Edw Third. Yes, if this be the hand 
 of Mortimer. 
 
 {Showing letter.) 
 Y. Mor. (Aside.) False Gurney hath 
 
 betray'd me and himself. 
 Q. Isab. (Aside.) I fear'd as much; 
 
 murder cannot be hid. 
 T. Mor. It is my hand; what gather you 
 
 by this? 
 K. Edw. Third. That thither thou didst 
 
 send a murderer, 
 r. Mor. What murderer? Bring forth 
 
 the man I sent. 
 E!. Edw. Third. Ah, Mortimer, thou 
 knowest that he is slain ; 
 And so shalt thou be too. — Why stays he 
 
 here? 
 Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him forth ; 
 Hang him, I say, and set his quarters 
 
 up, 
 But bring his head back presently^ to 
 me. 
 Q. Isab. For my sake, sweet son, pity 
 
 Mortimer ! 
 T. Mor. Madam, entreat not; I will 
 rather die. 
 Than sue for life unto a paltry boy. 
 K. Edw. Third. Hence with the traitor! 
 
 with the murderer! 
 r. Mor. Base Fortune, now I see that in 
 thy wheel 
 There is a point, to which when men 
 
 aspire, 
 They tumble headlong down: that point 
 
 I touch'd, 
 And, seeing^ there was no place to mount 
 
 up higher. 
 Why should I grieve at my declining 
 
 fall?— 
 Farewell, fair queen; weep not for Mor- 
 timer, 
 That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, 
 Goes to discover countries yet unknown. 
 K. Edw. Third. What! suffer you the 
 traitor to delay? 
 (Young Mortimer is taken away.) 
 Q. Isab. As thou receivedst thy life from 
 me. 
 Spill not the blood of gentle Mortimer! 
 K. Edw. Third. This argues that you 
 spilt my father's blood, 
 Else would you not entreat for Mortimer. 
 Q. Isab. I spill his blood? No! 
 K. Edw. Third. Aye, madam, you; for so 
 
 the rumor runs. 
 Q. Isab. That rumor is untrue; for lov- 
 ing thee. 
 
 Is this report rais'd on poor Isabel. 
 K. Edw. Third. I do not think her so un- 
 natural. 
 2 Lord. My lord, I fear me it will prove 
 
 too true. 
 K. Edw. Third. Mother, you are sus- 
 pected for his death, 
 And therefore we commit you to the 
 
 Tower 
 Till further trial may be made thereof; 
 If you be guilty, though I be your son. 
 Think not to find me slack or pitiful. 
 Q. Isab. Nay, to my death, for too long 
 have I liv'd 
 Whenas my son thinks to abridge my 
 days. 
 K. Edw. Third. Away with her! her 
 words enforce these tears. 
 And I shall pity her if she speak again. 
 Q. Isab. Shall I not mourn for my be- 
 loved lord. 
 And with the rest accompany him to his 
 grave? 
 2 Lord. Thus, madam, 't is the king's will 
 
 you shall hence. 
 Q. Isab. He hath forgotten me; stay, I 
 
 am his mother. 
 2 Lord. That boots not; therefore, gentle 
 
 madam, go. 
 Q. Isab. Then come, sweet death, and rid 
 me of this grief. 
 
 Exit. 
 Re-enter 1 Lord, with the head of Young 
 Mortimer. 
 
 1 Lord. My lord, here is the head of Mor- 
 timer. 
 K. Edw. Third. Go fetch my father's 
 hearse, where it shall lie; 
 And bring my funeral robes. 
 
 Exeunt Attendants. 
 
 Accursed head. 
 
 Could I have rul'd thee then, as I do 
 
 now. 
 Thou had'st not hatched this monstrous 
 
 treachery ! — 
 Here comes the hearse; help me to 
 mourn, my lords. 
 
 Re-enter Attendants with the hearse and 
 funeral robes. 
 
 Sweet father, here unto thy murdered 
 
 ghost 
 I offer up this wicked traitor's head; 
 •And let these tears, distilling from mine 
 
 eyes. 
 Be witness of my grief and innoceney. 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 s immediately. 
 
THOMAS DEKKBR 
 
 THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 Thomas Dekker (c. 1570-1637 or later) 
 was a Loudoner, possibly of Dutch descent. 
 His name first appears early in 1598 in tlie 
 diary of Philip Henslowe, proprietor of the 
 Rose and Fortune tlxeaters. Dekker was one 
 of the most prolific of Henslowe's play-car- 
 penters, for he is mentioned as sole author 
 or collaborator in connection with forty-pne 
 jjlays in the five years 1598-1602. The diary 
 also throws a sad light on Dekker's hand-to- 
 mouth existence, by its records of loans made 
 by Henslowe, sometimes to rescue him from 
 the debtors' prison; there is reason to be- 
 lieve tliat he was once confined for debt for 
 three years together. From 1603 to 1613 he 
 turned out a series of prose pamphlets, chiefly 
 on London life, vividly informing and force- 
 ful in style. He drops out of sight early in 
 the thirties. 
 
 The Shoemakers' Holiday is the merriest 
 example of a sort of play very popular with 
 London playgoers of Elizabethan days, the 
 "bourgeois comedy of London, life, — citizens' 
 comedy, it has been called, to distinguish it 
 from the romantic comedy of Shakespeare, the 
 satirical humor-comedy of Ben Jonson, and 
 the tragicomedy of Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 Such plays were wi'itten for the most part by 
 dramatists not so fortunate as these men, 
 who had established positions as writers for 
 the high-class theaters such as the Globe and 
 the Blackfriars, and for a better class of audi- 
 tors than those which filled the more popular 
 houses like the Rose and the Fortune. Dek- 
 ker, Heywood, and, less representatively, 
 Middleton, are the best known members of a 
 large group of playwrights who thus catered 
 to the theatrical wants of the common peo- 
 ple, giving them in large measure pictures of 
 the life which they lived. 
 
 The Shoemakers' Holiday was finished by 
 July 15, 1599, when Henslowe enters a pay- 
 ment for it of three pounds — so munificently 
 were his fortunate authors rewarded! It was 
 no doubt written in the six weeks immediately 
 preceding, for on May 30, Dekker had received 
 payment for Agamemnon ; the world-wide dif- 
 ference in subject-matter between two con- 
 secutive plays is suggestive of the versatility 
 of the popular playwright, as the short in- 
 terim is of the forced draught under which 
 he worked. The play was performed by the 
 Admiral's Men at the Rose; its success we 
 may infer from the fact that on New Year's 
 Day of 1000 it was acted at court, a distinc- 
 tion which had been granted on December 27, 
 
 119 
 
 1599, to another of Dekker's plays, the 
 masque-like Old Fortunatus. Thus even the 
 playwrights of the people had their occasional 
 social triumphs. Dekker took his story from 
 a collection of three prose tales on shoe- 
 makers, The Gentle Craft (1598), by Thomas 
 Deloney, whose position in the narrative-fic- 
 tion of the day as a purveyor of romantically 
 rose-colored, pseudo-realistic tales for the eon- 
 sumption of middle-class readers somewhat 
 corresponds to that of Dekker in the drama. 
 From the second of these stories, that of the 
 two royal shoemakers Crispine and Crispl- 
 anus, Dekker obtained the bacltground of war, 
 tlie motive of the Lacy-Rose story, the shoe- 
 fitting episode, Rose's flight to the Lord 
 Mayor's, and the final royal sanction of their 
 marriage. From Deloney's account of Simon 
 Eyre, the madcap shoemaker of Tower Street, 
 come practically all the figures and details of 
 the Eyre story, as well as the suggestion for 
 the Ralph-Jane story, although Dekker re- 
 verses Deloney's situation of the lost wife re- 
 turning from France to prevent her husband 
 from marrying agam. Tliere are in the play 
 three threads of narrative — a romantic love- 
 story, a bourgeois love-story, and a picture of 
 London life and manners supplying the back- 
 ground. The binding of the three Dekker ac- 
 complishes skilfully enough according to 
 Elizabethan standards. The relations of Lacy 
 and Ralph, first as soldiers enlisted for the 
 French war, second as employees of Eyre, 
 unite the first two. Hammon, appearing first 
 as the suitor of Rose, later as the lover of 
 Jane, furnishes another bond. It is Lacy, as 
 Hans, who is responsible for Eyre's first com- 
 mercial success, which leads to Eyre's elec- 
 tion as sherifl". Tlie Lord Mayor's entertain- 
 ment of the new sheriff and his apprentices at 
 Old Ford brings Lacy and Rose together 
 again, and prepares for Rose's escape to 
 Eyre's protection at the end of act four. The 
 two love-threads are firmly knotted by Firk's 
 tricks for the weddings, and the complica- 
 tions of the last act are thorough and yet nat- 
 ural. In other words, the play holds together 
 well — it is Dekker's most coherent piece of 
 plotting. The weakest link in the chain, the 
 point where credulity is subjected to the 
 severest strain, is the opportune removal by 
 death of so many aldermen as stood between 
 Eyre and the Lord Mayoralty (IV. iv), but 
 it would be captious to inquire too closely 
 into the ways of Providence when it comes 
 to the aid of a hard-pressed dramatist. 
 The romantic plot has been criticised a3 
 
120 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 thin. True, of incident it contains not 
 much. Right here, however, is shown Dek- 
 ker's dramatic instinct. The really notable 
 part of the play, what every reader remem- 
 bers, is not the story of Lacy and Rose, pretty 
 though it be, but the scenes of London life. 
 Now by itself the story of Simon Eyre's rise 
 to fame and fortune is not dramatic at all, 
 consisting simply of a fortunate investment, 
 a consequent election as sheriff, a rapid pro- 
 motion to the Lord Mayoralty. The people 
 of this group are thoroughly well done. 
 Eyre, Margery, Firk, Hodge, have vitality 
 enough to carry three or four plats, but by 
 themselves they furnish only characterization. 
 The wittiest comedy of manners grows tedious 
 it its people do nothing but talk — as may 
 be learned from no less a person than Ben 
 Jonson. Dekker accordingly gets all the fun 
 he can out of the personalities and manner- 
 isms of his trades-people, and uses the peo- 
 ple of the love-stories for incident. As far 
 as character-drawing goes, on the other hand, 
 JJacy and Rose are not much more than 
 sketched in comparison with the robust model- 
 ing of the comic group. They are sufficiently 
 developed to make their actions seem natural 
 and that is all that we require. Then, for 
 the purpose of strengthening plot, of adding 
 complication, Dekker introduces the bour- 
 geois love-story, with its sentimental rather 
 than romantic tinge. Is not this propor- 
 tioned use of incident and charagter much the 
 same sort of work that Shakespeare does in 
 his best chronicle-histories, Benry IV, let us 
 say ! Taken by itself the story of the Percys' 
 rebellion in 1 Henry IV, although it contains 
 the essential contrast between Prince Hal and 
 Hotspur, is neither rich in incident nor par- 
 ticularly interesting. Shakespeare therefore 
 adds the comic group of Palstaff and his as- 
 sociates, with little story of their own, but 
 firmly characterized, helping to characterize 
 the prince, and supplying with their bustling 
 comedy an illusion of action to fill the gaps 
 in the main plot. The whole thing is a mat- 
 ter of proportion, and Dekker's play stands 
 the test of analysis pretty well. 
 
 It is for its rollicking presentation of Lon- 
 don life that we chiefiy value The Shoemakers' 
 Holiday. The picture it gives of the com- 
 fortable position of middle-class trades-peo- 
 ple, the pride in honest labor and the possi- 
 bilities of reward, the pleasant relations be- 
 tween master and men, the friendly inter- 
 course between court and city, between blue 
 blood and red — making due allowances for 
 the dramatist's privilege of selection — some- 
 how impresses us as being essentially true. 
 The hearty feeling of national well-being is 
 that of tide years after the Armada, for, 
 though the action is ostensibly set in the 
 time of Henry V, it is the life of his own 
 day that Dekker reflects. For his intimate 
 acquaintance with city customs and manners 
 Dekker needed no information from Deloney. 
 
 He was a Londoner born and bred, a citizen 
 of no mean city, and proud of his heritage. 
 The author of books like The Gull's Hornbook, 
 that inimitable series of directions to the 
 country youth how to conduct himself in 
 tavern, play house, the aisles of Paul's Cathe- 
 dral, The Bellman of London and Lwathorn 
 and Candlelight, with their exposures of ras- 
 cality of every sort, and The Wonderful Year, 
 with its memorable pictures of the plague of 
 1603, knew only too well the seamy side of 
 city life. But in our play he writes only for 
 the glory of the city and its craftsmen. He 
 is in his happiest mood and the warm human 
 sympathy evident in nearly all his work finds 
 expression in the gusto with which he portrays 
 the shoemaker and his group. 
 
 The genial humor of the play, its warm 
 friendliness, distinguishes it from the realistic 
 work of Jonson and Middleton. Eyre, in his 
 mannerisms, reminds us somewhat of Jonson's 
 humor comedy, but assuredly he is no humor 
 type. His manner of speech represents merely 
 the ebullient vitality of the man; it is not a 
 temperamental crotchet, a genuine warp of 
 character setting him apart from his fellows, 
 like Morose's aversion to noise in The Silent 
 Woman, or Kitely's jealousy in Every Man in 
 His Humor. He is, therefore, not one-sided, 
 as Jonson's people so frequently are, but is 
 well-rounded and true to human nature. Nor 
 has Dekker's work the satirical undertone of 
 Jonson's. Jonson, like the classic authors, 
 writes with the moral end of teaching virtue 
 by making folly ridiculous. Sometimes, in 
 deed, as in Volpone, the depiction of folly is 
 so searching that it becomes downright casti- 
 gation of vice, and the play almost loses the 
 feeling of comedy. Dekker, except in his alle- 
 gorical Old Foriunatus, is nothing of the re- 
 former or conscious moralist. Jonson, on the 
 whole, does not approve of his fellow-men; 
 Dekker loves them, and smiles at their foibles 
 with the large tolerance of the true humorist. 
 So sure is Jonson of his moral rectitude, so 
 confident of his superior taste, that his atti- 
 tude toward his audience is usually con- 
 temptuous; Dekker sets out with no other 
 purpose than to entertain, and is frankly 
 pleased in giving pleasure. With Middleton, 
 Dekker has more in common. Though Mid- 
 dleton deals with the same sort of material as 
 does Jonson, he comes to his work with no 
 moral preoccupation, but purely as the artist. 
 He sets life before us as he sees it, without 
 telling us what to think of it, and is for that 
 reason the greater realist of the two. More 
 of a realist, indeed, than Dekker, who is a 
 good deal of a romanticist in his confidence in 
 the fundamental goodness of human nature. 
 Almost always there is in Dekker a touch of 
 romance and of honest sentiment which the 
 comedies of Middleton, brilliant but hard, 
 lack. Less skilful than Middleton in plot- 
 construction, as a creator of character he is, 
 in comedy at least, Middleton 's superior. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 121 
 
 What we remember from Middleton is the 
 story, the ingenious intrigue, and the social 
 background; he created no characters so sym- 
 pathetic or of such enduring vitality as Eyre, 
 Friscobaldo in The Honest Whore, and the 
 heroine in Patient Grissil. Middleton and 
 Dekker part company most widely in this 
 
 matter of sympathy with the life about them, 
 and the sympathetic display of the author's 
 personality in his work; where Middleton 
 completely effaces himself, always in Dekker's 
 plays we feel the man himself, cheery, 
 friendly, lovable. 
 
 THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY, oe THE GENTLE 
 
 CRAFT 
 
 By THOMAS DEKKER 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHABACTEES 
 
 The King. 
 
 The Eael of Coenwall. 
 
 Sib Hugh Lacy, Earl of Lincoln. 
 
 Rowland Lacy, "i 
 
 alias Hans, V his Nephews. 
 Askew, J 
 
 SiE RooEB Oatelt, Lord Mayor of London. 
 
 Master Hammon, "] 
 
 Master Wabnee. 
 
 Master Scott, j 
 
 Simon Eyee, the Shoemaker. 
 
 EOGEE, T 
 
 called Hodge, 
 
 FiEK, 
 
 Ralph, 
 
 Citizens of London. 
 
 Eyee's Journeymen. 
 
 THE PROLOGUE 
 As it was pronounced before the Queen's 
 
 As wretches in a storm, expecting day, 
 With trembling hands and eyes cast up to 
 
 heaven, 
 Make prayers the anchor of their conquer'd 
 
 hopes, 
 So we, dear goddess, wonder of all eyes, 
 Your meanest vassals, through mistrust and 
 
 fear 
 To sink into the bottom of disgrace 
 By our imperfect pastimes, prostrate thus 
 On bended knees, our sails of hope do 
 
 strike. 
 Dreading the bitter storms of your dislike. 
 Since then, unhappy men, our hap is such 
 That to ourselves ourselves no help can 
 
 bring, 
 But needs must perish, if your saint-like 
 
 ears. 
 Locking the temple where all mercy sits, 
 Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues ; 
 Oh, grant, bright mirror of true chastity, 
 From those life-breathing stars, your sun- 
 like eyes, 
 
 LovELL, a Courtier, 
 
 DoDGEE, a Servant to the Eakl oe Lincoln. 
 
 A Dutch Skipper. 
 
 A Boy. 
 
 Rose, Daughter of Sie Rogeb. 
 
 Sybil, her Maid. 
 
 Mabgeey, Wife of Simon Eyee. 
 
 Jane, Wife of Ralph. 
 
 Courtiers Attendants, Officers, Soldiers, 
 Hunters, Shoemakers, Apprentices, Serv- 
 ants. 
 
 Scene. — London and Old Ford. 
 
 One gracious smile; for your celestial 
 
 breath 
 Must send us life, or sentence us to death. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene 1. A street in London. 
 
 Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of 
 Lincoln. 
 
 Line. My lord mayor, you have sundry 
 times 
 Feasted myself and many courtiers 
 
 more; 
 Seldom or never can we be so kind 
 To make requital of your courtesy. 
 But leaving this, I hear my cousin Lacy 
 Is much affected to '- your daughter Rose. 
 L. Mayor. True, my good lord, and she 
 loves him so well 
 That I niislike her boldness in the chase. 
 Line. Why, my lord mayor, think you it 
 then- a shame, 
 To join a Lacy with an Oateley's name? 
 L. Mayor. Too mean is my poor girl for 
 hi.s high birth; 
 Poor citizens must not with courtiers 
 wed, 
 
 1 inclined to. 
 
122 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Who will in sUks and gay apparel spend 
 More in one year than I am worth, by 
 
 far: 
 Therefore your honor need not doubt ^ 
 
 my girl. 
 lAnc. Take heed, my lord, advise you 
 
 what you do! 
 A verier unthrift lives not in the world. 
 Than is my cousin ; ' for I '11 tell you 
 
 what: 
 'T is now almost a year since he re- 
 quested 
 To travel countries for experience. 
 I furnisht him with coin, bills of ex- 
 change, 
 Letters of credit, men to wait on him. 
 Solicited my friends in Italy 
 Well to respect him. But, to see the 
 
 end, 
 Scant had he joumey'd through half 
 
 Germany, 
 But all his coin was spent, his men cast 
 
 off, 
 His bills embezzl'd,* and my jolly coz,^ 
 , Asham'd to show his bankrupt presence 
 
 here. 
 Became a shoemaker in Wittenberg, 
 A goodly science for a gentleman 
 Of such descent ! Now judge the rest by 
 
 this: 
 Suppose your daughter have a thousand 
 
 pound, 
 He did consume me more in one half 
 
 year: 
 And make him heir to all the wealth you 
 
 have 
 One twelvemonth's rioting will waste it 
 
 all. 
 Then seek, my lord, some honest citizen 
 To wed your daughter to. 
 L. Mayor. I thank your lordship. 
 
 {Aside.) Well, fox, I understand your 
 
 subtilty. — 
 As for your nephew, let your lordship's 
 
 eye 
 But watch his actions, and you need not 
 
 fear. 
 For I have seen my daughter far enough. 
 And yet your cousin Rowland might 
 
 do well, 
 Now he hath learn'd an occupation : 
 And yet I scorn to call him son-in-law. 
 Line. Aye, but I have a better trade for 
 
 him. 
 I thank his grace, he hath appointed 
 
 him 
 Chief colonel of all those companies 
 
 Must'red in London and the shires about. 
 To serve his highness in those wars of 
 
 France. 
 See where he comes! — 
 
 Enter Lovell, Lacy, and Askew. 
 
 Lovell, what news with you? 
 Lovell. My Lord of Lincoln, 't is his high- 
 ness' will, 
 That presently* your cousin ship for 
 
 France 
 With all his powers; he would not for a 
 
 million. 
 But they should land at Dieppe within 
 four days. 
 Lino. Go certify his grace, it shall be 
 done. 
 
 Exit Lovell. 
 Now, cousin Lacy, in what forwardness 
 Are all your .companies'? 
 Lacy. All well prepar'd. 
 
 The men of Hertfordshire lie at Mile- 
 end, 
 Suffolk and Essex train in Tothill-flelds, 
 The Londoners and those of Middle- 
 sex, 
 All gallantly prepar'd in Finsbury, 
 With frolic spirits long for their parting 
 hour. 
 L. Mayor. They have their imprest,'' 
 coats, and furniture ; * 
 And, if it please your cousin Lacy come 
 To the Guildhall, he shall receive his 
 
 pay; 
 And twenty pounds besides my brethren 
 Will freely give him, to approve our 
 
 loves 
 We bear unto my lord, your uncle here. 
 Lacy. I thank your honor. 
 Line. Thanks, my good lord mayor. 
 
 L. Mayor. At the Guildhall we will ex- 
 pect your coming. 
 
 Exit. 
 Line. To approve your loves to me? No, 
 subtilty. 
 Nephew, that twenty pound he doth be- 
 stow 
 For joy to rid you from his daughter 
 
 Rose. 
 But, cousins both, now here are none but 
 
 friends, 
 I would not have you east an amorous 
 
 eye 
 Upon so mean a project as the love 
 Of a gay, wanton, painted citizen. 
 I know, this churl even in the height of 
 
 2 suspect. 
 
 3 Oourin was used 
 
 of any relative 
 outside the imme- 
 
 diate family, 
 4 wasted. 
 
 ^' cousin. 
 6 at once. 
 
 7 advance-pay. 
 
 8 equipment. 
 
5S0i;AlAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 123 
 
 Doth hate the mixture of his blood with 
 
 thine. 
 I pray thee, do thou so! Remember, 
 
 eoz, 
 What honorable fortunes wait on thee. 
 Increase the king's love, which so 
 
 brightly shines, 
 And gilds thy hopes. I have no heir but 
 
 thee, — 
 And yet not thee, if with a wayward 
 
 spirit 
 Thou start from the true bias ° of my 
 
 love. 
 Lacy. My lord, I will for honor, not de- 
 sire 
 Of land or livings, or to be your heir. 
 So guide my actions in pursuit of France, 
 As shall add glory to the Lacies' name. 
 Line. Coz, for those words here 's thirty 
 
 portagues,^" 
 And, nephew Askew, there 's a few for 
 
 you. 
 Fair Honor, in her loftiest eminence, 
 Stays in France for you, till you fetch 
 
 her thence. 
 Then, nephews, clap swift wings on your 
 
 Begone, begone, make haste to the Guild- 
 hall; 
 
 There presently I'll meet you. Do not 
 stay : 
 
 Where honor beckons ^^ shame attends 
 delay. 
 
 Exit. 
 Askew. How gladly would your uncle 
 
 have you gone ! 
 Lacy. True, eoz, but I '11 o'erreach his 
 policies. 
 
 I have some serious business for three 
 days. 
 
 Which nothing but my presence can dis- 
 patch. 
 
 You, therefore, cousin, with the com- 
 panies, 
 
 Shall haste to Dover; there I'll meet 
 with you : 
 
 Or, if I stay past my prefixed time, 
 
 Away for France ; we '11 meet in Nor- 
 mandy. 
 
 The twenty pounds my lord mayor gives 
 to me 
 
 You shall receive, and these ten porta- 
 gues, 
 
 Part of mine uncle's thirty. Gentle coz. 
 
 Have care to our great charge; I know, 
 your wisdom 
 
 Hath tried itself in higher consequence. 
 
 Askew. Coz, all myself am yours: yet 
 have this care. 
 To lodge in London with all secrecy ; 
 Our uncle Lincoln hath, besides his own. 
 Many a jealous eye, that in your face 
 Stares only to watch means for your dis- 
 grace. 
 Lacy. Stay, cousin, who be these? 
 
 Enter Simon Eyre, Margery, his wife, 
 Hodge, Firk, Jane, and Ralph with a 
 piece [of leather]. 
 
 Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! 
 Away with this whimp'ring, this puling, 
 these blubb'ring tears, and these wet 
 eyes ! I '11 get thy husband diseharg'd, I 
 warrant thee, sweet Jane ; go to ! 
 
 Hodge. Master, here be the captains. 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Hodge; husht, ye knave, 
 husht ! 
 
 Firk. Here be the cavaliers and the col- 
 onels, master. 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! 
 Stand by with your pishery-pashery, 
 away ! I am a man of the best presence ; 
 I '11 speak to them, an ^^ they were Popes. 
 — Gentlemen, captains, colonels, coni- 
 manders ! Brave men, brave leaders, 
 may it please you to give me audience. 
 I am Simon Eyre, the mad shoemaker of 
 Tower Street; this wench with the mealy 
 mouth that will never tire, is my wife, I 
 can tell you ; here 's Hodge, my man and 
 my foreman ; Here 's Firk, my fine flrk- 
 ingis journeyman, and this is blubbered 
 Jane. All we come to be suitors for this 
 honest Ralph. Keep him at home, and 
 as I am a true shoemaker and a gentle- 
 man of the gentle craft, buy spurs your- 
 self, and I '11 find ye boots these seven 
 years. 
 
 Marg. Seven years, husband? 
 
 Eyre. Peace, midriff, peace! I know 
 what I do. Peace! 
 
 Firk. Truly, master cormorant,^* you 
 shall do God good service to let Ralph 
 and his wife stay together. She 's a 
 young new-married woman; if you take 
 her husband away from her a-night, you 
 undo her; she may beg in the daytime; 
 for he 's as good a workman at a prick 
 and an awl as any is in our trade. 
 
 Jane. let him stay, else I shall be un- 
 done ! 
 
 Firk. Aye, truly, she shall be laid at one 
 side like a pair of old shoes else, and be 
 occupied for no use. 
 
 inclination. 
 
 10 a gold coin of 
 Portugal, worth 
 
 about four pounds. 
 11 Qq. become. 
 
 12 if. 
 18 frisky. 
 
 li quibble on col- 
 onel. 
 
124 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Lacy. Truly, my friends, it lies not in my 
 power : 
 The Londoners are press'd,^^ paid, and 
 
 set forth 
 By the lord mayor; I cannot change a 
 man. 
 
 Hodge. Why, then you were as good be a 
 corporal as a colonel, if you cannot dis- 
 charge one good fellow; and I tell you 
 true, I think you do more than you can 
 answer, to press a man within a year and 
 a day of his marriage. 
 
 Eyre. Well said, melancholy Hodge; gra- 
 merey, my fine foreman. 
 
 Marg. Truly, gentlemen, it were ill done 
 for such as you, to stand so stiffly against 
 a poor young wife, considering her ease : 
 she is new-married, but let that pass. I 
 pray, deal not roughly with her : her hus- 
 band is a young man, and but newly 
 ent'red; but let that pass. 
 
 Eyre. Away with your pisheiy-pashery, 
 your pols and your edipols ! ^* Peace, 
 midriff; silence. Cicely Bumtrinket! 
 Let your head ^'' speak. 
 
 Firk. Yea, and the horns too, master. 
 
 Eyre. Too soon, my fine Firk, too soon ! 
 Peace, scoundrels! See you this man? 
 Captains, you will not release him'! 
 Well, let him go ; he 's a proper shot ; let 
 him vanish! Peace, Jane, dry up thy 
 tears, they '11 make his powder dankish.^' 
 Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy 
 was an hackney to hifn, Hercules and 
 Termagant ^^ scoundrels. Prince Ar- 
 thur's Eound-table — by the lord of Lud- 
 gate ! — ^ne'er fed such a tall,^" such a dap- 
 per swordsman; by the life of Pharaoh, 
 a brave, resolute swordman ! Peace, 
 Jane ! I say no more, mad knaves. 
 
 Firk. See, see, Hodge, how my master 
 raves in commendation of Ralph ! 
 
 E-odge. Ralph, th' art a gull^^ by this 
 hand, an thou goest not. 
 
 Askew. I am glad, good Master Eyre, it is 
 my hap 
 To meet so resolute a soldier. 
 Trust me, for your report and love to 
 
 him, 
 A common slight regard shall not respect 
 him. 
 
 Lacy. Is thy name Ralph K 
 
 Ralph. Yes, sir. 
 
 Lacy. Give me thine hand ; 
 
 Thou shalt not want, as I am a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Woman, be patient; God, no doubt, will 
 send 
 
 Thy husband safe again ; but he must go, 
 
 His country's quarrel says it shall be so. 
 Hodge. Th' art a gull, by my stirrup, if 
 
 thou dost not go. I will not have thee 
 
 strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels; 
 
 prick thine enemies, Ralph. 
 
 Enter Dodger. 
 
 Dodger. My lord, your uncle on the 
 Tower-hill 
 Stays with the lord-mayor and the alder- 
 men. 
 And doth request you, with all speed you 
 
 may. 
 To hasten thither. 
 Askew. Cousin, let 's go. 
 
 Lacy. Dodger, run you before, tell them 
 we come. — 
 
 Exit Dodger. 
 This Dodger is mine uncle's parasite. 
 The arrant'st varlet that e'er breath'd on 
 
 earth ; 
 He sets more discord in a noble house 
 By one day's broaching of his pickthank 
 
 tales," 
 Than can be salv'd. again in twenty years. 
 And he, I fear, shall go with us to 
 
 France, 
 To pry into our actions. 
 Askew. Therefore, eoz, 
 
 It shall behove you to be circumspect. 
 Lacy. Fear not, good cousin. — Ralph, hie 
 to your colors. 
 
 Exeunt Lacy and Askew. 
 Balph. I must, because there 's no rem- 
 edy; 
 But, gentle master and my loving dame, 
 As you have always been a friend to me, 
 So in mine absence think upon my wife. 
 Jane. Alas, my Ralph. 
 Marg. She cannot speak for weeping. 
 Eyre. Peace, you crack'd ^' groats, you 
 mustard tokens,^* disquiet not the brave 
 soldier. Go thy ways, Ralph! 
 Jane. Aye, aye, you bid him go; what 
 shall I do 
 When he is gone? 
 Firk. Why, be doing with me or my fel- 
 low Hodge; be not idle. 
 Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This 
 
 16 impreBBed into 
 service. 
 
 16 Classical oaths b7 
 Pollux ; applied 
 by Eyre to Mar- 
 gery's repetitions. 
 
 17 i.e. master. 
 
 18 damp. 
 
 19 supposed to be a 
 god of the Sara- 
 cens. 
 
 20 brave. 
 
 21 fool. 
 
 22 tales told to curry 
 favor. 
 
 23 spoiled. 
 
 24 Tokens given to 
 purchasers of 
 
 mustard, entitling 
 them to a small 
 repayment when 
 a certain number 
 had been accumu- 
 
 lated ; trans- 
 
 ferred, a term of 
 contempt. (N. E. 
 D.) 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS* HOLIDAY 
 
 125 
 
 fine hand, this white hand, these pretty 
 fingers must spin, must card, must work ; 
 work, you bombast cotton-candle-quean ; ^° 
 work for your living, with a pox to you. 
 — Hold thee, Ralph, here 's five six- 
 pences for thee; flght for the honor of 
 the gentle craft, for the gentlemen shoe- 
 makers, the courageous cordwainers, the 
 flower of St. Martin's, the mad knaves 
 of Bedlam, Fleet Street, Tower Street 
 and Whitechapel; crack me the crowns 
 of the French knaves; a pox on them, 
 crack them; fight, by the lord of Lud- 
 gate; fight, my fine boy! 
 Firk. Here, Ralph, here's three two- 
 ■ pences ; two carry into France, the third 
 shall wash our souls at parting, for sor- 
 row is dry. For my sake, firk the Basa 
 mon eues.^^ 
 Hodge. Ralph, I am heavj at parting; 
 but here 's a shilling for thee. God 
 send ^' thee to cram thy slops ^' with 
 French crowns, and thy enemies' bellies 
 with bullets. 
 Balph. I thank you, master, and I thank 
 
 you all. 
 Now, gentle wife, my loving^ lovely 
 
 Jane, 
 Rich men, at parting, give their wives 
 
 rich gifts. 
 Jewels and rings to grace their lily 
 
 hands. 
 Thou know'st our trade makes rings for 
 
 women's heels: 
 Here take this pair of shoes, cut out by 
 
 Hodge, 
 Stiteh'd by my fellow Firk, seam'd by 
 
 myself, 
 Made up and pink'd ^° with letters for 
 
 thy name. 
 Wear them, my dear Jane, for thy hus- 
 band's sake, 
 And every morning when thou puU'st 
 
 them on. 
 Remember me, and pray for my re- 
 turn. 
 Make much of them; for I have made 
 
 them so 
 That I can know them from a thousand 
 
 mo. 
 
 Drum sounds. Enter the Lord Mayor, the 
 Earl of Lincoln, Lacy, Askew, Dodger, 
 and Soldiers. They pass over the stages- 
 Ralph falls in amongst them; Firk and 
 the rest cry "Farewell," etc., and so ex- 
 eunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. A garden at Old Ford.^° 
 Enter Rose, alone, making a garland. 
 
 Rose. Here sit thou down upon this 
 flow'ry bank 
 
 And make a garland for thy Lacy's head. 
 
 These pinks, these roses, and these vio- 
 lets, 
 
 These blushing gilliflowers, these mari- 
 golds. 
 
 The fair embroidery of his coronet. 
 
 Carry not half such beauty in their 
 cheeks, 
 
 As the sweet count'nance of my Lacy 
 doth. 
 
 my most unkind father ! my stars. 
 Why lower'd you so at my nativity. 
 
 To make me love, yet live robb'd of my 
 
 love? 
 Here as a thief am I imprisoned 
 For my dear Lacy's sake within those 
 
 walls. 
 Which by my father's cost were builded 
 
 up 
 For better purposes. Here must I 
 
 languish 
 For him that doth as much lament, I 
 
 know, 
 Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe. 
 
 Enter Sybil. 
 
 Sybil. Good morrow, young mistress. I 
 am sure you make that garland for me, 
 against ^"^ I shall be Lady of the Harvest. 
 
 Rose. Sybil, what news at London? 
 
 Sybil. None but good; my lord mayor, 
 your father, and master Philpot, your 
 uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and 
 Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors' Com- 
 mons, do all, by my troth, send you most 
 hearty commendations. 
 
 Rose. Did Lacy send kind greetings to his 
 love? 
 
 Sybil. yes, out of cry ,^2 by my troth. I 
 scant knew him; here 'a wore a scarf; 
 and here a scarf, here a bunch of 
 feathers, and here precious stones and 
 jewels, and a pair of garters, — 0, mon- 
 strous! like one of our yellow silk cur- 
 tains at home here in Old Ford House 
 here, in Master Bellymount's chamber. 
 
 1 stood at our door in Cornhill, look'd 
 
 25 delicate, pamper- French. 
 ed creature. 27 grant. 
 
 26 uncomplimentary 28 loose breeches, 
 term for the 29 pricked. 
 
 30 The lord-mayor's 
 country house 
 was in Old Ford, 
 
 then a suburb, 
 now a part of 
 London. 
 
 81 in anticipation of 
 
 the time when. 
 32 beyond measure. 
 
126 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, 
 but he not to me, not a word; marry 
 go-up, thought I, with a wanion ! ^' He 
 pass'd by me as proud — Marry foh! are 
 you grown humorous,^* thought I; and 
 so shut the door, and in I came. 
 Rose. Sybil, how dost thou my Lacy 
 
 wrong ! 
 My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb. 
 No dove was ever half so mild as he. 
 Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stampt 
 crabs.^^ He lookt upon me as sour as 
 verjuice.** Go thy ways, thought I, thou 
 may'st be much in my gaskins,*' but 
 nothing in ray nether-stocks.** This is 
 your fault, mistress, to love him that 
 loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as 
 he 's done to ; but if I were as you, I 'd 
 cry, "Go by, Jeronimo, go by !" *° 
 I 'd set mine old debts against my new 
 
 driblets, 
 And the hare's foot against the goose 
 
 giblets,*" 
 For if ever I sigh, when sleep I should 
 
 take, 
 Pray God I may lose my maidenhead 
 
 when I wake. 
 Rose. Will my love leave me then, and go 
 
 to France? 
 Sybil. I know not that, but I am sure I 
 see him stalk before the soldiers. By my 
 troth, he is a proper " man ; but he is 
 proper that proper doth. Let him _ go 
 snick-up,*^ young mistress. 
 Rose. Get thee to London, and learn per- 
 fectly 
 Whether my Lacy go to France, or no. 
 Do this, and I will give thee for thy 
 
 pains 
 My cambric apron and my Romish 
 
 gloves, 
 My purple stockings and a stomacher. 
 Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my 
 
 sake? , 
 
 Sybil. Will I, quoth'a? At whose suit? 
 By my troth, yes, I '11 go. A cambric 
 apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, 
 and a stomacher! I'll sweat in purple, 
 mistress, for you ; I '11 take anything that 
 comes, a' God's name. rich! a cam- 
 bric apron ! Faith, then have at "up 
 tails all." ** I '11 go jiggy-joggy to Lon- 
 don, and be here in a trice, young mis- 
 tress. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Rose. Do so, good Sybil. Meantime 
 wretched I 
 Will sit and sigh for his lost company. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. A street in London. 
 
 Enter Lacy, like a Dutch Shoemaker. 
 
 Lacy. How many shapes have gods and 
 kings devis'd, 
 
 Thereby to compass their desired loves! 
 
 It is no shame for Rowland Lacy, then, 
 
 To clothe his cunning with the gentle 
 craft. 
 
 That, thus disguis'd, I may unknown pos- 
 sess 
 
 The only happy presence of my Rose. 
 
 For her have I forsook my charge in 
 France, 
 
 Incurr'd the king's displeasure, and 
 stirr'd up 
 
 Rough hatred in mine uncle Lincoln's 
 breast. 
 
 love, how powerful art thou, that canst 
 
 change 
 High birth to baseness, and a noble mind 
 To the mean semblance of a shoemaker! 
 But thus it must be ; for her cruel father, 
 Hating the single union of our souls. 
 Has secretly convey'd my Rose froni 
 
 London, 
 To bar me of her presence; but I trust, 
 Fortune and this disguise will further 
 
 me 
 Once more to view her beauty, gain her 
 
 sight. 
 Here in Tower Street with Eyre the shoe- 
 maker 
 Mean I a while to work; I know the 
 trade, 
 
 1 learnt it when I was in Wittenberg. 
 Then cheer thy hoping spirits, be not 
 
 dismay'd. 
 Thou canst not want: do Fortune what 
 
 she can, 
 The gentle craft is living for a man. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. Before Eyre's house. 
 
 Enter Eyre, making himself ready.** 
 
 Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, 
 
 33 with a vengeance. 
 
 34 capricious. 
 
 35 crushed crab ap- 
 ples. 
 
 36 juice of green 
 fruits. 
 
 whole phrase cf. 
 
 37 loose breeches. 
 
 38 stockings ; for the 
 Mother Bombie, 
 p. 65, u. 19. 
 
 A line from Kyd's 40 i.e. I 'd get a new 43 The name of a 
 
 Spanish Tragedy lover. popular rollicking 
 
 which passed into 41 handsome. tune, 
 
 common use. 42 go and be 44 dressing, 
 hanged I 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 127 
 
 these drabs, these scoundrels? They 
 wallow in the fat brewis *° of my bounty, 
 and lick up the crumbs of my table, yet 
 will not rige to see my walks cleansed. 
 Come out, you powder-beef ■*" queans! 
 What, Nan! what, Madge Mumble-crust! 
 Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly- 
 whores, and sweep me these kennels *^ 
 that the noisome stench offend not the 
 noses of my neighbors. "What, Firk, I 
 say! What, Hodge! Open my shop 
 windows! What, Tirk, I say! 
 
 Enter Firk. 
 
 Firk. master, is't you that speak ban- 
 dog*' and Bedlam** this morning? I 
 was in a dream, and mused what madman 
 was got into the street so early. Have 
 you drunk this morning that your throat 
 is so clear? 
 
 Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk; well said, Firk. 
 To work, my fine knave, to work ! Wash 
 thy face, and thou 't be more blest. 
 
 Firk. Let them wash my face that will eat 
 it. Good master, send for a souse- 
 wife,°° if you '11 have my face cleaner. 
 
 Enter Hodge. 
 
 Eyre. Away, sloven ! avaunt, scoundrel ! — 
 Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my 
 fine foreman. 
 
 Hodge. master, good-morrow; y'are an 
 early stirrer. Here 's a fair morning. — 
 Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept 
 this hour. Here's a brave day to- 
 wards." '^ 
 
 Eyre. Oh, haste to work, my fine foreman, 
 haste to work. 
 
 Firk. Master, I am dry as dust to hear 
 my fellow Roger talk of fair weather; let 
 us pray for good leather, and let clowns 
 and ploughboys and those that work in 
 the fields pray for brave days. We work 
 in a dry shop ; what care I if it rain ? 
 
 Enter Margery. 
 
 Eyre. How now. Dame Margery, can you 
 see to rise? Trip and go, call up the 
 drabs, your maids. 
 
 Marg. See to rise? I hope 'tis time 
 enough, 't is early enough for any woman 
 
 to be seen abroad. I marvel how many 
 wives in Tower Street are up so soon. 
 Gods me, 't is not noon, — here 's a yawl- 
 
 ing 
 
 I 52 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Margery, peace ! Where 's 
 Cicely Bumtrinket, your maid? She has 
 a privy fault, she farts in her sleep. 
 Call the quean up ; if my men want shoe- 
 thread, I '11 swinge her in a stirrup. 
 
 Firk. Yet that 's but a dry beating; here 's 
 still a sign of drought. 
 
 Enter Lacy, disguised, singing. 
 
 Lacy. Der was een bore van Gelderland, 
 Frolick sie byen; 
 He was als dronek he cold nyet stand; 
 
 Upsolce sie byen. 
 Tap eens de eanneken, 
 Drincke, schone mannekin.^^ 
 
 Firk. Master, for my life, yonder 's a 
 brother of the gentle craft; if he bear 
 not Saint Hugh's bones,^* I'll forfeit 
 my bones ; he 's some uplandish ^" work- 
 man : hire him, good master, that I may 
 learn some gibble-gabble ; 'twill make us 
 work the faster. 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Firk! A hard world! Let 
 him pass,' let him vanish ; we have jour- 
 neymen enow. Peace, my fine Firk ! 
 
 Marg. Nay, nay, y' are best follow your 
 man's counsel; you shall see what will 
 come on 't. We have not men enow, but 
 we must entertain every butter-box ; "" 
 but let that pass. 
 
 Hodge. Dame, 'fore God, if my master 
 follow your counsel, he'll consume little 
 beef. He shall be glad of men an he 
 can catch them. 
 
 Firk. Aye, that he shall. 
 
 Hodge. 'Fore God, a proper man, and I 
 warrant, a fine workman. Master, fare- 
 well; dame, adieu; if such a man as he 
 cannot find work, Hodge is not for you. 
 {Offers to go.) 
 
 Eyre. Stay, my fine Hodge. 
 
 Firk. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, 
 you must take a journey to seek a new 
 journeyman; if Roger remove, Firk fol- 
 lows. If Saint Hugh's bones shall not 
 be set a-work, I may prick mine awl in 
 the walls, and go play. Fare ye well, 
 master; good-bye, dame.' 
 
 Eyre. Tarry, my fine Hodge, my brisk 
 
 45 beef broth. ' 
 *o salted beef. 
 
 47 gutters. 
 
 48 watch dog. 
 
 49 madman ; is it 
 you that is growl- 
 in? like a mad- 
 man here? 
 
 00 a woman who 
 sold pickled pigs' 
 feet and ears. 
 
 r.i in prospect. 
 
 52 bawling. 
 
 03 Hans speaks a 
 pseudo- Dutch. 
 
 Ther( wot » ioor 
 
 from Oelder- 
 
 Icmd, 
 
 Jolly they te; 
 
 He WM so drunk 
 
 he could not 
 
 stand, 
 Drunken (?) they 
 
 be: 
 
 OKnh then the can- 
 
 nikin, 
 
 Drink, pretty mon- 
 
 nikin ! 
 
 (Neilson.) 
 54 St. Hugh was the oe Dutchman 
 patron saint of 
 shoemakers ; his 
 
 bones were said to 
 have been made 
 into shoemaker's 
 tools, 
 55 from the country. 
 
128 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN I^ERIOD 
 
 foreman! Stay, Mrk! Peace, pud- 
 ding-broth! By the lord of Ludgate, I 
 love my men as my life. Peace, you 
 gallimaufry ! ^' Hodge, if he want 
 work, I '11 hire him. One of you to him ; 
 stay, — ^he comes to us. 
 Lacy. Goeden dach, meester, ende, u, vro, 
 
 Firk. Nails,^° if I should speak after him 
 without drinking, I should choke. And 
 you, friend Oake, are you of the gentle 
 craft? 
 
 Lacy. Taw, yaw, ik bin den skomawker.^° 
 
 Firk. Den skomaker, quoth'a! And 
 hark you, skomaker, have you all your 
 
 ■ tools, a good rubbing-pin, a good stop- 
 per, a good dresser, your four sorts of 
 awls, and your two balls of wax, your 
 paring knife, your hand-and-thumb- 
 leathers, and good St. Hugh's bones to 
 smooth up your work? 
 
 Lacy. Taw, yaw; be niet vorveard. Ik 
 hob all de dingen voour mack skooes 
 groot and eleane.'^^ 
 
 Firk. Ha, ha ! Good master, hire him ; 
 he '11 make me laugh so that I shall work 
 more in mirth than I can in earnest. 
 
 Eyre. Hear ye, friend, have ye any skill 
 in the mystery ^^ of eordwainers 1 
 
 Loicy. Ik weet niet wat yow seg; ich ver- 
 staw you niet.^^ 
 
 Firk. Why, thus, man : {Imitating by ges- 
 ture a shoemaker at work.) Ich verste 
 u niet, quoth 'a. 
 
 Lacy. Taw, yaw, yaw; ick can dat wel 
 doen.'^'^ 
 
 Firk. Taw, yaw! He speaks yawing like 
 a jackdaw that gapes to be fed with 
 cheese-curds. Oh, he '11 give a villanous 
 pull at a can of double-beer; but Hodge 
 and I have the vantage, we must drink 
 first, because we are the eldest journey- 
 men. 
 
 Eyre. What is thy name? 
 
 Lacy. Hans — Hans Meulter. 
 
 Eyre. Give me thy hand; th' art welcome. 
 — Hodge, entertain him; Firk, bid him 
 welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid 
 your maids, your trullibubs,*^ make 
 ready my fine men's breakfasts. To him, 
 Hodge ! 
 
 Hodge. Hans, th' art welcome ; use thy- 
 self friendly, for we are good fellows ; if 
 
 not, thou shalt be fought with, wert thou 
 bigger than a giant. 
 Fir /c. Yea, and drunk with, wert thou 
 Gargantua."" My master k-eeps no cow- 
 ards, I tell thee. — Ho, boy, bring him an 
 heel-block, here 's a new journeyman. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Lacyi 0, ich wersto you; ich moet een 
 halve dossen cans betaelen; here, boy, 
 nempt dis skilling, tap eens freeliche.'^'' 
 
 Exit Boy. 
 
 Eyre. Quick, snipper-snapper, away! 
 rirk, scour thy throat; thou shalt wash 
 it with Castilian liquor. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Come, my last of the fives,'' give me a 
 can. Have to thee, Hans; here, Hodge; 
 here, Firk; drink, you mad Greeks, and 
 work like true Trojans, and pray for 
 Simon Eyre, the shoemaker. — Here, 
 Hans, and th' art. welcome. 
 
 Firk. Lo, dame, yon would have lost a 
 good fellow that will teach us to laugh. 
 This beer came hopping in well. 
 
 Marg. Simon, it is almost seven. 
 
 Eyre. Is't so. Dame Clapper-dudgeon?'"' 
 Is 't seven a clock, and my men 's break- 
 fast not ready ? Trip and go, you sous'd 
 conger,'" away! Come, you mad hyper- 
 boreans; follow me, 'Hodge; follow me, 
 Hans, come after, my fine Firk; to work 
 a while, and then to breakfast. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Firk. Soft! Taw, yaw, good Hans, 
 though my master have no more wit but 
 to call you afore me, I am not so foolish 
 to go behind you, I being the elder jour- 
 neyman. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. A field near Old Ford. 
 
 Halloaing within. Enter Warner and 
 Hammon, like Hunters. 
 
 Ham. Cousin, beat every brake, the 
 game's not far; 
 This way with winged feet he fled from 
 death, 
 
 ST a dish of hashed 
 meats. 
 
 08 Good-day, master, 
 and you, good- 
 wife, too. 
 
 59 Qod's nails; an 
 oath. 
 
 80 les, yea, I am a 
 
 Bhoemaker. 
 
 61 Ye», yea; he not 
 afraid. I have 
 everything to 
 
 make hoots hig 
 and little. 
 
 02 trade, 
 
 63 1 don't Jmow 
 
 what you say ; I 
 dont understand 
 you. 
 
 64 Tes, yes; I can 
 do that ■well. 
 
 65 slatterns. 
 
 66 A gluttonous 
 giant in Rabelais' 
 
 satire of that 
 name. 
 67 O, I understand 
 you ; I must pay 
 for haJf-a-dozen 
 cans ; 'here, boy, 
 take this shiUi/ng, 
 tap once freely. 
 
 68 my number five 
 last, a small size, 
 
 69 Margery's tongue 
 makes as much 
 noise as a beg- 
 gar's clap-dish. 
 
 70 conger-eel. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 129 
 
 Whilst the pursuing hounds, scenting his 
 
 steps, 
 Find out his highway to destruction. 
 Besides, the miller's boy told me even 
 
 now. 
 He saw him take soil,'^ and he halloaed 
 
 him, 
 Affirming him to have been so embost '^^ 
 That long he could not hold. 
 Warn. If it be so, 
 
 'T is best we trace these meadows by Old 
 
 Ford. 
 
 A noise of Hunters within. Enter a Boy. 
 
 Ham. How now, boy? Where's the 
 deer? Speak, saw'st thou him? 
 
 Boy. yea; I saw him leap through a 
 hedge, and then over a ditch, then at my 
 lord mayor's pale, over he skipt me, and 
 in he went me, and "holla" the hunters 
 cried, and "there, boy ; there, boy !" But 
 there he is, a' mine honesty. 
 
 Ham. Boy, Godamercy. Cousin, let 's 
 away; I hope we shall find better sport 
 to-day. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. Hie garden at Old Ford. 
 
 Sounds of hunting within. Enter Base 
 and Sybil. 
 
 Bose. Why, Sybil, wilt thou prove a for- 
 ester? 
 
 Sybil. Upon some, no. Forester? Go 
 by; no, faith, mistress. The deer came 
 running into the bam through the or- 
 chard and over the pale; I wot well, I 
 lookt as pale as a new cheese to see him. 
 But whip, says Goodman Pinclose, up 
 with his flail, and our Nick with a prong, 
 and down he fell, and they upon him, 
 and I upon them. By my troth, we had 
 such sport; and in the end we ended him; 
 his throat we cut, flay'd him, unhorn'd 
 him, and my lord mayor shall eat of him 
 anon, when he comes. 
 
 (Horns sound within.) 
 
 Bose. Hark, hark, the hunters come; 
 y' are best take heed. 
 They '11 have a saying to you for this 
 deed. 
 
 Enter Hammon, Warner, Huntsmen, and 
 Boy. 
 
 Ham. God save you, fair ladies. 
 
 II cover, 72 exhausted. 73 stupid, 
 
 Sybil. Ladies ! gross ! ^^ 
 Warn. Came not a buck this way? 
 Bose. No, but two does. 
 
 Ham. And which way went they ? Faith, 
 
 we '11 hunt at those. 
 Sybil. At those ? Upon some, no. When, 
 
 can you tell? 
 Warn. Upon some, aye. 
 Sybil. Good Lord! 
 
 Warn. Wounds!'* Then farewell! 
 
 Ham. Boy, which way went he? 
 Boy. This way, sir, he ran. 
 
 Ham. This way he ran indeed, fair Mis- 
 tress Rose; 
 Our game was lately in your orchard 
 
 seen. 
 Warn. Can you advise, which way he took 
 
 his flight? 
 Sybil. Follow your nose; his horns will 
 
 guide you right. 
 Warn. T' art a mad wench. 
 Sybil. 0, rich! 
 
 Bose, Trust me, not I. 
 
 It is not like that the wild forest-deer 
 Would come so near to places of resort; 
 You are deceiv'd, he fled some other way. 
 Warn. Which way, my sugar-candy, can 
 
 you show? 
 Sybil. Come up, good honeysops, upon 
 
 some, no. 
 Bose. Why do you stay, and not pursue 
 
 your game? 
 Sybil. I '11 hold my life, their hunting- 
 nags be lame. 
 Ham. A deer more dear is found within 
 
 this place. 
 Bose. But not the deer, sir, which you 
 
 had in chase. 
 Ham. I chas'd the deer, but this dear 
 
 chaseth me. 
 Bose. The strangest hunting that ever I 
 
 see. 
 But Where's your park? 
 
 (She offers to go away.) 
 Ham. 'T is here : stay ! 
 
 Bose. Impale me, and then I will not 
 
 stray. 
 Warn. They wrangle, wench ; we are more 
 
 kind than they. 
 Sybil. What kind of hart is that dear 
 
 heart you seek? 
 Warn. A hart, dear heart. 
 Sybil. Who ever saw the like? 
 
 Bose. To lose your heart, is 't possible 
 
 you can? 
 Ham. My heart is lost. 
 Bose. Alack, good gentleman! 
 
 7* God's wounds ; an oath, 
 
130 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Ham. This poor lost heart would I wish 
 
 you might find. 
 Rose. You, hy such luck, might prove 
 
 your hart a hind. 
 Mam. Why, Luck had horns, so have I 
 
 heard some say. 
 Rose. Now, God, an 't be his will, send 
 
 Luck into your way. 
 
 Enter the Lord Mayor and Servants. 
 
 L. Mayor. What, Master Hammon? 
 
 Welcome to Old Ford ! 
 Sybil. Gods pittikins,^** hands off, sir! 
 
 Here 's my lord. 
 L. Mayor. I iear you had ill-luck, and 
 
 lost your game. 
 Ham. 'T is true, my lord. 
 L. Mayor. I am sorry for the same. 
 
 What gentleman is this? 
 Ham. My brother-in-law. 
 
 L. Mayor. Y' are welcome both ; sith 
 Fortune offers you 
 Into my hands, you shall not part from 
 
 hence, 
 Until you have refresht your wearied 
 
 limbs. 
 Go, SybU, cover the board! You shall 
 
 be guest 
 To no good cheer, but even a hunter's 
 feast. 
 Ham. I thank your lordship. — Cousin, on 
 my life, 
 For our lost venison I shall find a wife. 
 Exeunt all but Mayor. 
 L. Mayor. In, gentlemen ; I '11 not be ab- 
 sent long. — 
 This Hammon is a proper gentleman, 
 A citizen by birth, fairly allied; 
 How fit an husband were he for my girl ! 
 Well, I will in, and do the best I can. 
 To match my daughter to this gentleman. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. A room in Eyre's house. 
 
 Enter Lacy as Hans, Skipper, Hodge, and 
 Firk. 
 
 Skip. Ick sal yow wat seggen, Hans; dis 
 skip dat comen from Candy, is all vol, 
 
 'by Got's sacrament, van sugar, civet, al- 
 monds, cambrick, end alle dingen, tow- 
 sand towsand ding. Nempt it, Hans, 
 nempt it vor u meester. Daer be de bils 
 van laden. Your meester Simon Eyre 
 sal hae good copen. Wat seggen yow, 
 Hansf" 
 
 Firk. Wat seggen de reggen de copen, 
 slopen — laugh, Hodge, laugh! 
 
 Hans. Mine liever broder Firk, bringt 
 Meester Eyre tot det signe un Swanne- 
 kin; daer sal yow flnde dis skipper end 
 me. Wat seggen yow, broder Firk? 
 Boot it, Hodge." Come, Skipper. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Firk. Bring him, quoth you? Here's no 
 knavery, to bring my master to buy a 
 ship worth the lading of two or three 
 hundred thousand pounds. Alas, that's 
 nothing; a trifle, a bauble, Hodge. 
 
 Hodge. The truth is, Firk, that the mer- 
 chant owner of the ship dares not show 
 his head, and therefore this skipper that 
 deals for him, for the love he bears to 
 Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargain 
 in the commodities. He shall have a 
 reasonable day of payment; he may sell 
 the wares by that time, and be an huge 
 gainer himself. 
 
 Firk. Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend 
 my master twenty porpentines as an 
 earnest penny? 
 
 Hodge. Portagues, thou wouldst say; here 
 they be, Firk; hark, they jingle in my 
 pocket like St. Mary Over/s bells.''' 
 
 Enter Eyre and Margery. 
 
 Firk. Mum, here comes my dame and my 
 master. She '11 scold, on my life, for 
 loitering this Monday; but all's one, let 
 them all say what fiiey can, Monday's 
 our holiday. 
 
 Marg. You sing. Sir Sauce, but I beshrew 
 your heart. 
 I fear, for this your singing we shall 
 smart. 
 
 Firk. Smart for me, dame; why, dame, 
 why? 
 
 Hodge. Master, I hope you'll not suffer 
 my dame to take down your journey- 
 men. 
 
 Firk. If she take me down, I'll take her 
 
 75 by Ood'B pitv. 
 
 70 / *ll tell you what, 
 Ha/ns ; thie Bhip 
 that is come from 
 Oandia, i> qwUe 
 full, by Qod's 
 sacrament, of 
 
 sugar, civet, al- 
 
 monds, cambric, 
 and all things; a 
 thousand thou- 
 sand things. 
 Take it, Hans, 
 take it for yow 
 master. There 
 are the bills of 
 
 lading. Your 
 
 master, Simon 
 Eyre, shall have 
 a good bargain. 
 What say you, 
 Hans? 
 77 My dear brother 
 Firk, bring Mas- 
 
 ter Eyre, to the 
 sign of the Swan ; 
 there shall you 
 find the skipper 
 and me. What 
 say you, brother 
 Firkt Do it, 
 Hodge. 
 
 78 The Church of St. 
 Mary Overy was 
 at the Borough 
 end of London 
 Bridge. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 131 
 
 up; yea, and take her clown too, a but- 
 ton-hole lower. 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Firk; not I, Hodge; by the 
 life of Pharaoh, by the lord of Ludgate, 
 by this beard, every hair whereof I value 
 at a king's ransom, she shall not meddle 
 with you. — ^Peace, you bombast-cotton- 
 candle-quean; away, queen of clubs; 
 quarrel not with me and my men, with 
 me and my fine Firk ; I '11 firk you, if 
 you do. 
 
 Marg. Yea, yea, man, you may use me as 
 you please; but let that pass. 
 
 Eyre. Let it pass, let it vanish away; 
 peace ! Am I not Simon Eyre 1 Are not 
 these my brave men, brave shoemakers, 
 all gentlemen of the gentle craft? 
 Prince am I none, yet am I nobly born, 
 as being the sole son of a shoemaker. 
 Away, rubbish ! vanish, melt ! melt, like 
 kitchen-stuff ! 
 
 Marg. Yea, yea, 't is well ; I must be call'd 
 rubbish, kitchen-stuff, for a sort '^ of 
 knaves. 
 
 Firk. Nay, dame, you shall not weep and 
 wail in woe for me. Master, I'll stay 
 no longer ; here 's an inventory of my 
 shop-tools. Adieu, master; Hodge, fare- 
 well. 
 
 Hpdge. Nay, stay, Firk; thou shalt not 
 go alone. 
 
 Marg. I pray, let them go; there be moe 
 maids than Mawkin, more men than 
 Hodge, and more fools than Firk. 
 
 Firk. Fools? Nails! if I tarry now, I 
 would my guts might be turn'd to shoe- 
 thread. 
 
 Hodge. And if I stay, I pray God I may 
 be turn'd to a Turk, and set in Fins- 
 bury*" for boys to shoot at. — Come, 
 Firk. 
 
 Eyre. Stay, my fine knaves, you arms of 
 my trade, you pillars of my profession. 
 What, shall a tittle-tattle's words make 
 you forsake Simon Eyre? — ^A vaunt, 
 kitchen-stuff! Rip, you brown-bread 
 Tannikin ; ^^ out of my sight ! Move me 
 not ! Have not I ta'en you from selling 
 tripes in Eastcheap, and set you in my 
 shop, and made you hail-fellow with 
 Simon Eyre, the shoemaker? And now 
 do you deal thus with my journeymen? 
 Look, you powder-beef-quean, on the 
 face of Hodge ; here 's a face for a lord. 
 
 Firk, And here's a face for any lady in 
 Christendom. 
 
 Eyre. Rip, you ohitterling,'^ avaunt! 
 Boy, bid the tapster of the Boar's Head 
 fill me a dozen cans of beer for my 
 journeymen. 
 
 Firk. A dozen cans? 0, brave! Hodge, 
 now I '11 stay. 
 
 Eyre. (In a low voice to the Boy.) An 
 the knave fills any more than two, he 
 pays for them. (Exit Boy. ) — A dozen 
 cans of beer for my journeymen. (Re- 
 enter Boy.) Here, you mad Mesopota- 
 mians, wash your livers with this liquor. 
 Where be the odd ten? — No more, 
 Madge, no more. — Well said.*' Drink 
 and to work! — What work dost thou, 
 Hodge? What work? 
 
 Hodge. I am a making a pair of shoes for 
 my lord mayor's daughter, Mistress Rose. 
 
 Firk. And I a pair of shoes for Sybil, 
 my lord's maid. I deal with her. 
 
 Eyre. Sybil? Fie, defile not thy fine 
 workmanly fingers with the feet of 
 kitchenstuff and basting-ladles. Ladies 
 of the court, fine ladies, my lads, com- 
 mit their feet to our apparelling; put 
 gross work to Hans. Yark** and seam, 
 yark and seam! 
 
 Firk. For yarking and seaming let me 
 alone, an I come to 't. 
 
 Hodge. Well, master, all this is from the 
 bias.'^ Do you remember the ship my 
 fellow Hans told you of? The skipper 
 and he are both drinking at the Swan. 
 Here be the portagues to give earnest. 
 If you go through with it, you cannot 
 choose but be a lord at least. 
 
 Firk. Nay, dame, if my master prove not 
 a lord, and you a lady, hang me. 
 
 Marg. Yea, like enough, if you may loiter 
 and tipple thus. 
 
 Firk. Tipple, dame? No, we have been 
 bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag : *° 
 can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of 
 silk Cyprus, laden with sugar-eandy? 
 
 Enter Boy with a velvet coat and an Al- 
 derman's gown. Eyre puts them on. 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Firk; silence. Tittle-tattle! 
 Hodge, I'll go through with it. Here's 
 a seal-ring, and I have sent for a guarded 
 gown *' and a damask cassock. See 
 
 79 pack. dressed to Mar- 
 
 80 JFinsbury was a gery. 
 practice ground S3 well done, 
 for archery. S4 jerk. 
 
 81 Dutchwoman. 85 beside the point, 
 
 82 sausage ; ad- 86 German : Schelm, 
 
 a scoundrel. Skan- 
 derbag, or Scan- 
 der Beg (i.e. 
 Lord Alexander ) , 
 a Turkish name 
 for John Kastri- 
 
 ota, the Albanian 
 hero, who freed 
 his country from 
 the yoke of the 
 Turks (1448- 
 
 1467). (Neilson.) 
 
 87 a robe ornament- 
 ed with guards or 
 facings. 
 
132 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 where it comes; look here, Maggy; help 
 me, Firk; apparel me, Hodge; silk and 
 satin, you mad Philistines, silk and 
 satin. 
 
 Firk. Ha, ha, my master will be as proud 
 as a dog in a doublet, all in beaten *' 
 damask and velvet. 
 
 Eyre. Softly, Firk, for rearing^" of the 
 nap, and wearing threadbare my gar- 
 ments. How dost thou like me, Firk? 
 How do I look, my fine Hodge'? 
 
 Hodge. Why, now you look like yourself, 
 master. I warrant you, there 's few in 
 the city but will give you the wall,"" and 
 come upon you with '^ the right wor- 
 shipful. 
 
 Firk. Nails, my master looks like a 
 threadbare cloak new turn'd and drest. 
 Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment 
 doth! Dame, dame, are you not enam- 
 ored? 
 
 Eyre. How say'st thou, Maggy, am I not 
 brisk? Am I not fine? 
 
 Marg. Fine? By my troth, sweetheart, 
 very fine! By my troth, I never likt 
 thee so well in my life, sweetheart; but 
 let that pass. I warrant, there be many 
 women in the city have not such hand- 
 some husbands, but only for their ap- 
 parel; but let that pass too. 
 
 Re-enter Hans and Skipper. 
 
 Hans. Godden day, mester. Dis be de 
 skipper dat heb de skip van marchan- 
 dice; de commodity ben good; nempt it, 
 master, nempt it.^^. 
 
 Eyre. Godamerey, Hans; welcome, skip- 
 per. Where lies this ship of merchan- 
 dise? 
 
 Skip. De skip ben in revere; dor be van 
 sugar, civet, almonds, camhrick, and a 
 towsand towsand tings, gotii sacrament; 
 nempt it, mester: ye sal heb good co- 
 pen.^^ 
 
 Firk. To him, master! sweet master! 
 sweet wares ! Prunes, almonds, sugar-, 
 candy, carrot-roots, turnips, brave 
 fatting meat ! Let not a man buy a nut- 
 meg but yourself. 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Firk! Come, skipper, I'll 
 go aboard with you. — Hans, have you 
 made him drink? 
 
 Skip. Yaw, yaw, ic heb veale gedrunck.^* 
 
 Eyre. Come, Hans, follow me. Skipper, 
 
 thou shalt have my countenance in the 
 city. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Firk. Yaw heb veale gedrunck, quoth 'a. 
 They may well be called butter-boxes, 
 when they drink fat veal and thick beer' 
 too. But come, dame, I hope you'll 
 chide us no more. 
 
 Marg. No, faith, Firk; no, perdy,'' 
 Hodge. I do feel honor creep upon me, 
 and which is more, a certain rising in my 
 flesh; but let that pass. 
 
 Firk. Rising in your flesh do you feel, say 
 you? Aye, you may be with child, but 
 why should not my master feel a rising 
 in his flesh, having a gown and a gold 
 ring on? But you are such a shrew, 
 you '11 soon pull him down. 
 
 Marg. Ha, ha! prithee, peace! Thou 
 mak'st my worship laugh; but let that 
 pass. Come, I '11 go in ; Hodge, prithee, 
 go before me; Firk, follow me. 
 
 Firk. Firk doth foUow: Hodge, pass out 
 in state. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. London: a room in Lincoln's 
 house. 
 
 Enter the Earl of Lincoln and Dodger. 
 
 Line. How now, good Dodger, what's the 
 
 news in France? 
 Dodger. My lord, upon the eighteenth 
 
 day of May 
 The French and English were prepar'd 
 
 to fight; 
 Each side with eager fury gave the sign 
 Of a most hot encounter. Five long 
 
 hours 
 Both armies fought together; at the 
 
 length 
 The lot of victory fell on our side. 
 Twelve thousand of the Frenchmen that 
 
 day died. 
 Four thousEind English, and no man of 
 
 name 
 But Captain Hyam and young Arding- 
 
 ton. 
 Two gallant gentlemen, I knew them 
 
 well. 
 Line. But Dodger, prithee, tell me, in this 
 
 fight 
 How did my cousin Lacy bear himself? 
 
 88 stamped. 
 
 89 ruffling. 
 
 80 yield precedence. 
 
 91 salute. 
 
 92 Oood day, mas- 
 ter. This w the 
 
 skipper that has master, take it. 
 
 the ship of mer- 98 The ship lies in 
 
 chandise; the the river; there 
 
 commodiiy is are sugar, civet, 
 
 good; take it, almonds, catribric. 
 
 and a thousand 
 thousand things. 
 By Qod's sacra- 
 ment, take it. 
 
 have a good bar- 
 gain. 
 94 Tes, yes, I have 
 drunk well. 
 
 master ; you shttU 95 Fr. Par Dieu, 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS* HOLIDAY 
 
 133 
 
 Dodger. My lord, your cousin Lacy was 
 
 not there. 
 Line. Not there? 
 
 Dodger. No, my good lord. 
 
 Line. Sure, thou mistakest. 
 
 I saw him shipp'd, and a thousand eyes 
 
 beside 
 Were witnesses of the farewells which he 
 
 gave. 
 When I, with weeping eyes, bid him 
 
 adieu. 
 Dodger, take heed. 
 Dodger. My lord, I am advis'd 
 
 That what I spake is true: to prove it 
 
 so. 
 His cousin Askew, that supplied his 
 
 place, 
 Sent me for him from France, that se- 
 cretly 
 He might convey himself thither. 
 Line. Is 't even so t 
 
 Dares he so carelessly venture his life 
 Upon the indignation of a king? 
 Has he despis'd my love, and spurn'd 
 
 those favors 
 Which I with prodigal hand pour'd on 
 
 his head? 
 He shall repent his rashness with his 
 
 soul; 
 Since of my love he makes no estimate, 
 I '11 make him wish he had not known my 
 
 hate. 
 Thou hast no other news? 
 Dodger. None else, my lord. 
 
 Line. None worse I know thou hast. — 
 
 Procure the king 
 To crown his giddy brows with ample 
 
 honors. 
 Send him chief colonel, and all my hope 
 Thus to be dash'd! But 'tis in vain to 
 
 grieve. 
 One evil cannot a worse relieve. 
 Upon my life, I have found out his 
 
 plot ; 
 That old dog. Love, that fawn'd upon 
 
 him so, 
 Love to that puling girl, his fair-cheek'd 
 
 Rose, 
 The lord mayor's daughter, hath dis- 
 tracted him, 
 And in the fire of that love's lunacy 
 Hath he burnt up himself, consum'd his 
 
 credit. 
 Lost the king's love, yea, and I fear, his 
 
 life. 
 Only to get a wanton to his wife. 
 Dodger, it is so. 
 Dodger. I fear so, my good lord. 
 
 Line. It is so — ^nay, sure it cannot be ! 
 
 I am at my wits' end. Dodger! 
 Dodger. Yea, my lord. 
 
 Line. Thou art acquainted with my neph- 
 ew's haunts. 
 Spend this gold for thy pains; go seek 
 
 him out. 
 Watch at my lord mayor's — there if he 
 
 live, 
 Dodger, thou shalt be sure to meet with 
 
 him. 
 Prithee, be diligent. — Lacy, thy name 
 Liv'd once in honor, now 't is dead in 
 
 shame. — 
 Be circumspect. 
 Dodger. I warrant you, my lord. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. London: a room in the Lord 
 Mayor's house. 
 
 Enter the Lord Mayor and Master Scott. 
 
 L. Mayor. Good Master Scott, I have 
 
 been bold with you. 
 To be a witness to a wedding-knot 
 Betwixt young Master Hammon and my 
 
 daughter. 
 0, stand aside; see where the lovers 
 
 come. 
 
 Enter Master Hammon and Rose. 
 
 Rose. Can it be possible you love me so? 
 No, no, within those eyeballs I espy 
 Apparent likelihoods of flattery. 
 Pray now, let go my hand. 
 Ham. Sweet Mistress Rose, 
 
 Misconstrue not my words, nor miscon- 
 ceive 
 Of my affection, whose devoted soul 
 Swears that I love thee dearer than my 
 heart. 
 Rose. As dear as your own heart? I 
 judge it right. 
 Men love their hearts best when they're 
 out of sight. 
 Ham. I love you, by this hand. 
 Rose. Yet hands off now ! 
 
 If flesh be frail, how weak and frail's 
 your vow! 
 Ham. Then by my life I swear. 
 Rose. Then do not brawl ; 
 
 One quarrel loseth wife and life and 
 
 all. 
 Is not your meaning thus ? 
 Ham. In faith, you jest. 
 
 Rose. Love loves to sport; therefore leave 
 love, y' are best. 
 
134 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 L. Mayor. What? square" they, Master 
 
 Scott? 
 
 Scott. Sir, never doubt, 
 
 Lovers are quickly in, and quickly out. 
 
 Ham. Sweet Rose, be not so strange in 
 
 fancying me. 
 
 Nay, never turn aside, shun not my 
 
 sight : 
 I am not grown so fond, to fond "'' my 
 
 love 
 On any that shall quit it with disdain; 
 If you will love me, so; — if not, fare- 
 well. 
 L. Mayor. Why, how now, lovers, are you 
 
 both agreed? 
 Ham. Yes, faith, my lord. 
 L. Mayor. 'T is well, give me your hand, 
 Give me yours, daughter. — How now, 
 
 both pull back! 
 What means this, girl? 
 Rose. I mean to live a maid. 
 
 "Ham. {Aside.) But not to die one; 
 
 pause, ere that be said. 
 L. Mayor. Will you still cross me, still be 
 
 obstinate? 
 Ham. Nay, chide her not, my lord, for 
 doing well; 
 If she can live an happy virgin's life, 
 'T is far more blessed than to be a wife. 
 Itose. Say, sir, I cannot : I have made a 
 vow. 
 Whoever be my husband, 't is not yon. 
 L. Mayor. Your tongue is quick; but 
 Master Hammon, know, 
 I bade you welcome to another end. 
 Ham. What, would you have me pule and 
 pine and pray. 
 With "lovely lady," "mistress of my 
 
 heart," 
 "Pardon your servant," and the rhymer 
 
 piay> 
 
 Railing on Cupid and his tyrant's-dart ; 
 Or shall I undertake some martial spoil, 
 Wearing your glove at tourney and at 
 
 tilt. 
 And tell how many gallants I unhors'd — 
 Sweet, will this pleasure you? 
 Ttose. Yea, when wilt begin? 
 
 What, love rhymes, man? Fie on that 
 
 deadly sin! 
 L. Mayor. If you wilt have her, I '11 
 
 make her agree. 
 Ham. Enforced love is worse than hate to 
 
 me. 
 {Aside.) There is a wench keeps shop 
 
 in the Old Change, 
 To her will I — it is not wealth I seek. 
 I have enough — and will prefer her love 
 
 Before the world. — My good lord mayor, 
 
 adieu. 
 Old love for me, I have no luck with 
 
 new. 
 
 Exit. 
 L. Mayor. Now, mammet,'* you have 
 
 well behav'd yourself, 
 But you shall curse your coyness if I 
 
 live. — 
 Who's within there? See you convey 
 
 your mistress 
 Straight to th' Old Ford ! I '11 keep you 
 
 straight enough, 
 Fore God, I would have sworn the puling 
 
 girl 
 AVould willingly accepted Hammon's 
 
 love; 
 But banish him, my thoughts! — Go, 
 
 minion, in ! 
 
 Exit Rose. 
 Now tell me. Master Scott, would you 
 
 have thought 
 That Master Simon Eyre, the shoemaker. 
 Had been of wealth to buy such mer- 
 chandise ? 
 Scott. 'T was well, my lord, your honor 
 
 and myself 
 Grew partners with him; for your bills 
 
 of lading 
 Show that Eyre's gains in one com- 
 modity 
 Rise at the least to full three thousand 
 
 pound, • 
 Besides like gain in other merchandise. 
 L. Mayor. Well, he shall spend some of 
 
 his thousands now. 
 For I have sent for him to the Guildhall. 
 
 Enter Eyre. 
 
 See, where he comes. — Good morrow. 
 
 Master Eyre. 
 Eyre. Poor Simon Eyre, my lord, your 
 
 shoemaker. 
 L. Mayor. Well, well, it likes®* yourself 
 
 to term you so. 
 
 Enter Dodger. 
 
 Now Master Dodger, what's the news 
 with you? 
 Dodger. I'd gladly speak in private to 
 
 your honor. 
 L. Mayor. You shall, you shall. — Master 
 Eyre and Master Scott, 
 I have some business with this gentle- 
 man; 
 I pray, let me entreat you to walk before 
 
 96 quarrel. 
 
 97 found ; » pun upon fond. 
 
 98 puppet. 
 
 99 pleaseB. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 135 
 
 To the Guildhall; I'll follow presently. 
 Master Eyre, I hope ere noon to call you 
 sheriff. 
 Eyre. I would not care, my lord, if you 
 might call me 
 King of Spain. — Come, Master Scott. 
 
 Exeunt Eyre and Scott. 
 L. Mayor. Now, Master Dodger, what 's 
 
 the news you bring? 
 Dodger. The Earl of Lincoln by me 
 greets your lordship. 
 And earnestly requests you, if you can. 
 Inform him where his nephew Lacy 
 keeps. 
 L. Mayor. Is not his nephew Lacy now in 
 
 France? 
 Dodger. No, I assure your Lordship, but 
 disguis'd 
 Lurks here in London. 
 L. Mayor. London? Is'tevenso? 
 
 It may be; but upon my faith and soul, 
 I know not where he lives, or whether 
 
 he lives: 
 So tell my Lord of Lincoln. Lurk in 
 
 London ? 
 Well, Master Dodger, you perhaps may 
 
 start him; 
 Be but the means to rid him into France, 
 I '11 give you a dozen angels ^ for your 
 
 pains: 
 So much I love his honor, hate his 
 
 nephew. 
 And, prithee, so inform thy lord from 
 me. 
 Dodger. I take my leave. 
 
 Exit Dodger. 
 
 L. Mayor. Farewell, good Master Dodger. 
 
 Lacy in London? I dare pawn my life, 
 
 My daughter knows thereof, and for that 
 
 cause 
 Deni'd young Master Hammon in his 
 
 love. 
 Well, I am glad I sent her to Old Ford. 
 Gods Lord, 't is late ! to Guildhall I must 
 
 hie; 
 I know my brethren stay '^ my company. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 4. London: a room in Eyre's 
 house. 
 
 Enter Firk, Margery, Lacy as Hans, and 
 Roger. 
 
 Marg. Thou goest too fast for me, Roger. 
 
 0, Firk! 
 Firk. Aye, forsooth. 
 
 Marg. I pray thee, run — do you hear? — 
 run to Guildhall, and learn if my hus- 
 band. Master Eyre, will take that wor- 
 shipful vocation of Master Sheriff upon 
 him. Hie thee, good Firk. 
 
 Firk. Take it? Well, I go; an he should 
 not take it, Firk swears to forswear him. 
 Yes, forsooth, I go to Guildhall. 
 
 Marg. Nay, when? Thou art too com- 
 pendious and tedious. 
 
 Firk. rare, your excellence is full of 
 eloquence ; how like a new cart-wheel my 
 dame speaks, and she looks like an old 
 musty ale-bottle ' going to scalding. 
 
 Marg. Nay, when? fhou wilt make me 
 melancholy. 
 
 Firk. God forbid your worship should 
 fall into that humor; — I run. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Marg. Let me see now, Roger and Hans. 
 
 Hodge. Aye, forsooth, dame — mistress, I 
 should say, but the old term so sticks to 
 the roof of my mouth, I can hardly lick 
 it off. 
 
 Marg. Even what thou wilt, good Roger; 
 dame is a fair name for any honest 
 Christian; but let that pass. How dost 
 thou, Hans? 
 
 Hans. Mee tanck you, vro.^ 
 
 Marg. Well,' Hans and Roger, you see, 
 God hath blest your master, and, perdy, 
 if ever he comes to be Master Sheriff of 
 London — as we are all mortal — ^you shall 
 see, I will have some odd thing or other 
 in a corner for your : I will not be your 
 back-friend ; ^ but let that pass. Hans, 
 pray thee, tie my shoe. 
 
 Hans. Taw, ic sal, vro." 
 
 Marg. Roger, thou know'st the length of 
 my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so 
 I thank God, it is handsome enough; 
 prithee, let me have a pair of shoes made, 
 cork, good Roger, wooden heel too. 
 
 Hodge. You shall.. 
 
 Marg. Art thou acquainted with never a 
 farthingale-maker, nor a French hood- 
 maker? I must enlarge my bum, ha, ha! 
 How shall I look, in a hood, I wonder ! 
 Perdy, oddly, I think. 
 
 Hodge. (Aside.) As a eat out of a pil- 
 lory. — Very well, I warrant you, mis- 
 tress. 
 
 Marg. Indeed, all flesh is grass; and, 
 Roger, canst thou tell where I may buy 
 a good hair? 
 
 Hodge. Yes, forsooth, at the poulterer's 
 in Gracious Street. 
 
 1 coins worth ten 
 shillings. 
 
 2 wait for. 
 
 3 leather bottle. 
 
 i I thank you, mis- 
 trees 1 
 
 6 false friend. 
 
 6 Yes, I shall, mistress. 
 
136 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Marg. Thou art an ungraeious wag: 
 perdy, I mean a false hair for my peri- 
 wig. 
 
 Hodge. Why, mistress, the next time I 
 cut my beard, _ you shall have the shav- 
 ings of it; but they are all true hairs. 
 
 Marg. It is very hot, I must get me a fan 
 or else a mask. 
 
 Hodge. (Aside.) So you had need, to 
 hide your wicked face. 
 
 Marg. Fie, upon it, how costly this 
 world's calling is; perdy, but that it is 
 one of the wonderful works of God, I 
 would not deal with it. — Is not Pirk 
 come yet? Hans, be not so sad, let it 
 pass and vanish, as my husband's wor- 
 ship says. 
 
 Hans. Ick bin vrolieke, lot see yaw soo.'' 
 
 Hodge. Mistress, will you drink * a pipe 
 of tobacco? 
 
 Marg. Oh, fle upon it, Roger, perdy! 
 These fllth;^ tobaeeo-pipes are the most 
 idle slavering baubles that ever I felt. 
 Out upon it! God bless us, men look 
 not like men that use them. 
 
 Enter Ralph, being lame. 
 
 Hodge. What, fellow Ralph? Mistress, 
 look here, Jane's husband! Why, how 
 now, lame? Hans, make much of him, 
 he 's a brother of our trade, a good work- 
 man, and a tall* soldier. 
 
 Hans. You be welcome, broder. 
 
 Marg. Perdy, I knew him not. How dost 
 thou, good Ralph? I am glad to see 
 thee well. 
 
 Balph. I would to God you saw me, dame, 
 as well 
 As when I went from London into 
 France. 
 
 Marg. Trust me, I am sorry, Ralph, to see 
 thee impotent. Lord, how the wars have 
 made him sunburnt! The left leg is not 
 well; 'twas a fair gift of God the in- 
 firmity took not hold a little higher, con- 
 sidering thou camest from France; but 
 let that pass. 
 
 Ralph. I am glad to see you well, and I 
 rejoice 
 To hear that God hath blest my master 
 
 so 
 Since my departure. 
 
 Marg. Yea, truly, Ralph, I thank my 
 Maker; but let that pass. 
 
 Hodge. And, sirrah Ralph, what news, 
 what news in France? 
 
 Balph. Tell me, good Roger, first, what 
 news in England? 
 How does my Jane? When didst thou 
 
 see my wife? 
 Where lives my poor heart? She'll be 
 
 poor indeed. 
 Now I want limbs to get whereon to 
 feed. 
 
 Hodge. Limbs? Hast thou not hands, 
 man? Thou shalt never see a shoemaker 
 want bread, though he have but three 
 fingers on a hand. 
 
 Ralph. Yet all this while I hear not of my 
 Jane. 
 
 Marg. Ralph, your wife, — ^perdy, we 
 know not what 's become of her. She 
 was here a while, and because she was 
 married, grew more stately than became 
 her; I eheek'd her, and so forth; away 
 she flung, never returned, nor said bye 
 nor bah ; and, Ralph, you know, "ka me, 
 
 ka thee." ^" And, so as I tell ye 
 
 Roger, is not Firk come yet? 
 
 Hodge. No, forsooth. 
 
 Marg. And so, indeed, we heard not of 
 her, but I hear she lives in London; but 
 let that pass. If she had wanted, she 
 might have opened her case to me or my 
 husband, or to any of my men; I am 
 sure, there 's not any of them, perdy, but 
 would have done her good to his power. 
 Hans, look if Firk be come. 
 
 Hans. Taw, ih sal, vro.^'^ 
 
 Exit Hans. 
 
 Marg. And so, as I said — ^but, Ralph, why 
 dost thou weep? Thou knowest that 
 naked we came out of our mother's 
 womb, and naked we must return; and, 
 therefore, thank God for all things. 
 
 Hodge. No, faith, Jane is a stranger here ; 
 but, Ralph, pull up a good heart, I know 
 thou hast one. Thy wife, man, is in 
 London; one told me, he saw her a while 
 ago very brave ^^ and neat; we'll ferret 
 her out, an London hold her. 
 
 Marg. Alas, poor soul, he's overcome 
 with sorrow; he does but as I do, weep 
 for the loss of any good thing. But, 
 Ralph, get thee in, call for some meat 
 and drink, thou shalt find me worshipful 
 towards thee. 
 
 Balph. I thank you, dame; since I want 
 limbs and lands, 
 I'll trust to God, my good friends, and 
 my hands. 
 
 Enter Hans and Firk running. 
 
 1 1 am merry 
 aee yov, so. 
 
 let 'a 
 
 8 smoke, 
 
 9 brave. 
 
 10 scratch me, and 
 1 'U scratch thee. 
 
 11 Tea, I ahatt, mi»- 
 treaa. 
 
 12 fine. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 137 
 
 Firk. Run, good Hans! Hodge, 
 mistress! Hodge, heave up thine ears; 
 mistress, smug up your looks; on with 
 your best apparel; my master is chosen, 
 my master is called, nay, condemn'd by 
 the cry of the country to be sheriff of the 
 city for this famous year now to come. 
 And, time now being, a great many men 
 in black gowns were askt for their voices 
 and their hands, and my master had all 
 their fists about his ears presently, and 
 they cried "Aye, aye, aye, aye" — and so 
 I came away — 
 
 Wherefore without all other grieve 
 I do salute you. Mistress Shrieve.^^ 
 
 Hans. Yaw, my mester is de groot man, 
 de shrieve. 
 
 Hodge. Did I not tell you, mistress? 
 Now I may boldly say: Good-morrow to 
 your worship. 
 
 Marg. Good-morrow, good Roger. I 
 thank you, my good people all. — Eirk, 
 hold up thy hand : here 's a three-penny 
 piece for thy tidings. 
 
 Firk. 'T is but three-half -pence, I think. 
 Yes, 't is three-pence, I smell the rose.^* 
 
 Hodge. But, mistress, be rul'd by me, and 
 do not speak so pulingly. 
 
 Firk. 'T is her worship speaks so, and not 
 she. No, faith, mistress, speak me in the 
 old key: "To it, Eirk"; "there, good 
 Firk"; "ply your business, Hodge"; 
 "Hodge, with a full mouth"; "I'll fill 
 your bellies with good cheer, till they 
 cry twang." 
 
 Enter Eyre wearing a gold chain. 
 
 Hans. See, myn liever broder, heer compt 
 my meester.'^^ 
 
 Marg. Welcome home, Master Shrieve; I 
 pray God continue you in health and 
 wealth. 
 
 Eyre. See here, my Maggy, a chain, a 
 gold chain for Simon Eyre. I shall 
 make thee a lady; here's a French hood 
 for thee; on with it, on with it! dress 
 thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of 
 mutton,!" to make thee look lovely. 
 Where be my fine men? Roger, I'll 
 make over my shop and tools to thee; 
 Firk, thou shalt be the foreman; Hans, 
 thou shalt have an hundred for twenty.^' 
 Be as mad knaves as your master Sim 
 Eyre hath been, and you shall live to be 
 sheriffs of London. — How dost thou like 
 me, Margery? Prince am I none, yet 
 
 am I princely bom. Firk, Hodge, and 
 Hans! 
 
 AU Three. Aye, forsooth, what says your 
 worship, Master Sheriff? 
 
 Eyre. Worship and honor, you Babylon- 
 ian knaves, for the gentle craft. But I 
 forgot myself, I am bidden by my lord 
 mayor to dinner to Old Ford ; he 's gone 
 before, I must after. Come, Madge, on 
 with your trinkets ! Now, my true Tro- 
 jans, my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, 
 my honest Hans, some device, some odd 
 crotchets, some morris, or such like, for 
 the honor of the gentlemen shoemakers. 
 Meet me at Old Ford, you know my 
 mind. Come, Madge, away. Shut up 
 the shops, knaves, and make holiday. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Firk. rare! brave! Come, Hodge; 
 follow me, Hans; 
 We'll be with them for a morris-danee. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 13 sheriff. 
 
 14 The three-penny 
 silver pieces of 
 
 Scene 5. A room at Old Ford. 
 
 Enter the Lord Mayor, Rose, Eyre, Mar- 
 gery in a French hood, Sybil, and other 
 Servants. 
 
 L. Mayor. Trust me, you are as welcome 
 to Old Ford 
 As I myself. 
 
 Marg. Truly, I thank your lordship. 
 
 L. Mayor. Would our bad cheer were 
 worth the thanks you give. 
 
 Eyre. Good cheer, my lord mayor, fine 
 cheer! A fine house, fine walls, all fine 
 and neat. 
 
 L. Mayor. Now, by my troth, I'll tell 
 thee. Master Eyi'e, 
 It does me good, and all my brethren. 
 That such a madcap fellow as thyself 
 Is ent'red into our society. 
 
 Marg. Aye, but, my lord, he must learn 
 now to put on gravity. 
 
 Eyre. Peace, Maggy, a flg for gravity! 
 When I go to Guildhall in my scarlet 
 gown, I '11 look as demurely as a saint, 
 and speak as gravely as a justice of 
 peace; but now I am here at Old Eord, 
 at my good lord mayor's house, let it go 
 by, vanish, Maggy, I'll be merry; away 
 with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gul- 
 leries. What, honey? Prince am I 
 none, yet am I princely born. What 
 says my lord mayor? 
 
 Queen Elizabeth 15 See, my dear lo a hood trimmed n i.e. for the twen- 
 had a rose on the brothers, here with fur or ty portagues 
 
 obverse side. comes my master. sheep's wool. lent by Hans. ' 
 
138 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 L. Mayor. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather 
 than a thousand pound, I had an heart 
 but half so light as yours. 
 
 Eyre. Why, what should I do, my lord? 
 A pound of care pays not a dram of 
 debt. Hum, let 's be merry, whiles we 
 are young; old age, sack and sugar will 
 steal upon us, ere we be aware. 
 
 The First Three Men's Song" 
 
 the month of May, the merry month of 
 May, 
 So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, 
 so green! 
 0, and then did I unto my true love say: 
 "Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's 
 queen ! 
 
 "Now the nightingale, the pretty nightin- 
 gale. 
 The sweetest singer in all the forest's choir, 
 Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true 
 love's tale; 
 Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a 
 briar. 
 
 "But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the 
 cuckoo ; 
 See where she sitteth : come away, my joy ; 
 Come away, I prithee: I do not like the 
 cuckoo 
 Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss 
 and toy." 
 
 O the month of . May, the merry month of 
 May, 
 So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, 
 so green! 
 And then did I unto my true love say: 
 "Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's 
 queen!" 
 
 L. Mayor. It 's well done. Mistress Eyre, 
 
 pray, give good counsel 
 To my daughter. 
 Marg. I hope, Mistress Rose will have the 
 
 grace to take nothing that 's bad. 
 L. Mayor. Pray God she do; for i' faith, 
 
 Mistress Esrre, 
 I would bestow upon that peevish girl 
 A thousand marks more than I mean to 
 
 give her 
 Upon condition she'd be rul'd by me. 
 The ape still erosseth me. There came 
 
 of late 
 A proper gentleman of fair revenues, 
 Whom gladly I would call son-in-law: 
 But my fine cockney would have none of 
 
 him. 
 
 18 A catch for three voices. The quartos do not 
 indicate the places for the songs. 
 
 You'll prove a coxcomb for it, ere you 
 
 die: 
 A courtier, or no man, must please your 
 eye. 
 
 Eyre. Be rul'd, sweet - Rose : th' art ripe 
 for a man. Marry not with a boy that 
 has no more hair on his face than thou 
 hast on thy cheeks. A courtier, wash, 
 go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery : 
 those silken fellows are but painted im- 
 ages, outsides, outsides. Rose; their in- 
 ner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, 
 .marry me with a gentleman grocer like 
 my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is 
 a sweet trade: plums, plums. Had I a 
 son or daughter should marry out of the 
 generation and blood of the shoemakers, 
 he should pack. What, the gentle trade 
 is a living for a man through Europe, 
 through the world. 
 {A noise within of a tabor and a pipe.) 
 
 L. Mayor. What noise is this? 
 
 Eyre. my lord mayor, a crew of good 
 fellows that for love to your honor are 
 come hither with a morris-dance. Come 
 in, my Mesopotamians, cheerily! 
 
 Enter Hodge, Hans, Ralph, FirJc, and 
 other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a 
 little dancing, the Lord Mayor speaks. 
 
 L. Mayor. Master Eyre, are all these 
 
 shoemakers ? 
 Eyre. All cordwainers, my good lord 
 
 mayor. 
 Rose. {Aside.) How like my Lacy looks 
 
 yond shoemaker! 
 Hans. (Aside.) that I durst but speak 
 
 unto my love! 
 L. Mayor. Sybil, go fetch some wine to 
 make these drink. You are all wel- 
 come. 
 All. We thank your lordship. 
 {Rose takes a cup of wine and goes to 
 
 Hans.) 
 Rose. For his sake whose fair shape thou 
 represent'st. 
 Good friend, I drink to thee. 
 Hans. Ic bedancke, good frister." 
 Marg. I see. Mistress Rose, you do not 
 want judgment; you have drunk to the 
 properest man I keep. 
 Firk. Here be some have done their parts 
 
 to be as proper as he. 
 L. Mayor. Well, urgent business calls me 
 back to London. 
 Good fellows, first go in and taste our 
 cheer; 
 
 10 / thank you, good maid I 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 139 
 
 And to make merry as you homeward 
 
 go, 
 Spend these two angels in beer at Strat- 
 ford-Bow. 
 Eyre. To these two, my mad lads, Sim 
 Eyre adds another; then cheerily, Firk; 
 tickle it, Hans, and all for the honor of 
 shoemakers. 
 
 All go dancing out. 
 L. Mayor. Come, Master Eyre, let 's have 
 your company. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 Rose. Sybil, what shall I do? 
 Sybil. Why, what's the matter? 
 Bose. That Hans the shoemaker is my 
 love Lacy,. 
 Disguis'd in that attire to find me out. 
 How should I find the means to speak 
 ■ffith him? 
 Sybil. What, mistress, never fear; I dare 
 venture my maidenhead to nothing, and 
 that 's great odds, that Hans the Dutch- 
 man, when we come to London, shall not 
 only see and speak with you, but in spite 
 of all your father's policies steal you 
 away and mariy you. Will not this 
 please you? 
 Bose. Do this, and ever be assured of my 
 
 love. 
 Sybil. Away, then, and follow your father 
 to London, lest your absence cause him 
 to suspect something: 
 To-morrow, if my counsel be obey'd, 
 I '11 bind you prentice to the gentle trade. 
 
 • Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. A street in London. 
 
 Jane in a Seamster's shop, working; en- 
 ter Master Hamtnon, muffled: he stands 
 aloof. 
 
 Ham. Yonder 's the shop, and there my 
 fair love sits. 
 
 She's fair and lovely, but she is not 
 mine. 
 
 0, would she were! Thrice have I 
 courted her. 
 
 Thrice hath my hand been moist'ned 
 with her hand, 
 
 Whilst my poor famisht eyes do feed on 
 that 
 
 Which made them famish. I am unfor- 
 tunate : 
 
 I still love one, yet nobody loves me. 
 
 I muse in other men what women see 
 That I so want! Fine Mistress Rose 
 
 was coy. 
 And this too curious ! "" Oh, no, she is 
 
 chaste, 
 And for she thinks me wanton, she de- 
 nies 
 To cheer my cold heart with her sunny 
 
 eyes. 
 How prettily she works! Oh pretty 
 
 hand! 
 Oh happy work! It doth me good to 
 
 stand 
 Unseen to see her. Thus I oft have 
 
 stood 
 In frosty evenings, a light burning by 
 
 her, 
 EnduriQg biting cold, only to eye her. 
 One only look hath seem'd as rich to me 
 As a king's crown; such is love's lunacy. 
 Muffled I '11 pass along, and by that try 
 Whether she know me. 
 Jane. Sir, what is't you buy? 
 
 What is 't you lack, sir, calico, or lawn, 
 Fine cambric shirts, or bands, what will 
 you buy? 
 Ham. (Aside.) That which thou wilt not 
 sell. Faith, yet I'll try:— 
 How do you sell this handkerchief? 
 Jane. , Good cheap. 
 
 Ham. And how these ruffs? 
 Jane. Cheap too. 
 
 Ham. And how this band? 
 
 Jane. Cheap too. 
 Ham. All cheap ; how sell you then this 
 
 hand? 
 Jane. My hands are not to be sold. 
 Ham. To be given then ! 
 
 Nay, faith, I come to buy. 
 Jane. But none knows when. 
 
 Ham. Good sweet, leave work a little 
 
 while; let's play. 
 Jane. I cannot live by keeping holiday. 
 Ham. I'll pay you for the time which 
 
 shall be lost. 
 Jane. With me you shall not be at so 
 
 much cost. 
 Ham. Look, how you wound this cloth, so 
 
 you wound me. 
 Jane. It may be so. 
 Ham. 'T is so. 
 
 Jane. What remedy? 
 
 Ham. Nay, faith, you are too coy. 
 Jane. Let go my hand. 
 
 Ham. I will do any task at your com- 
 mand, 
 I would let go this beauty, were I not 
 In mind to disobey you by a power 
 
 20 capricious. 
 
140 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 That controls kings : I love you ! 
 Jane. So, now part. 
 
 Ham. With hands I may, but never with 
 my heart. 
 In faith, I love you. 
 Jane. I believe you do. 
 
 Ham. Shall a true love in me breed hate 
 
 in you? 
 Jane. I hate you not. 
 Ham. Then you must love. 
 
 Jane. I do. 
 
 What are you better now? I love not 
 you. 
 Ham. All this, I hope, is but a woman's 
 fray, 
 That means, "Come to me," when she 
 
 cries, "Away!" 
 In earnest, mistress, I do not jest, 
 A true chaste love hath ent'red in my 
 
 breast. 
 I love you dearly, as I love my life, 
 I love you as a husband loves a wife ; 
 That, and no other love, my love requires. 
 Thy wealth, I know, is little; my desires 
 Thirst not for gold. Sweet, beauteous 
 
 Jane, what 's mine 
 Shall, if thou make myself thine, all be 
 
 thine. 
 Say, judge, what is thy sentence, life or 
 
 death? 
 Mercy or cruelty lies in thy breath. 
 Jane. Good sir, I do believe you love me 
 well; 
 For 't is a silly conquest, silly pride 
 For one like you — I mean a gentleman — 
 To boast that by his love-tricks he hath 
 
 brought 
 Such and such women to his amorous 
 
 lure; 
 I think you do not so, yet many do, 
 And make it even a very trade to woo. 
 I could be coy, as many women be, 
 Feed you with sunshine smiles and wan- 
 ton looks. 
 But I detest witchcraft; say that I 
 Do constantly believe you constant 
 
 have 
 
 Ham. Why dost thou not believe me? 
 Jane. I believe you; 
 
 But yet, good sir, because I will not 
 
 grieve you 
 With hopes to taste fruit which will 
 
 never fall, 
 In simple truth this is the sum of all: 
 My husband lives, at least, I hope he 
 
 lives. 
 Prest was he to these bitter wars in 
 
 France ; 
 Bitter they are to me by wanting him. I 
 
 I have but one heart, and that heart's 
 
 his due. 
 How can I then bestow the same on you? 
 Whilst he lives, his I live, be it ne'er so 
 
 poor, 
 And rather be his wife than a king's 
 whore. 
 Ham. Chaste and dear woman, I will not 
 abuse thee, 
 Although it cost my life, if thou refuse 
 
 me. 
 Thy husband, prest for France, what was 
 his name? 
 Jane. Ralph Damport. 
 Ham. Damport ? — Here 's a letter sent 
 
 From France to me, frpm a dear friend 
 
 of mine, 
 A gentleman of place ; here he doth write 
 Their names that have been slain in 
 every fight. 
 Jane. I hope death's scroll contains not 
 
 my love's name. 
 Ham. Cannot you read? 
 Jane. I can. 
 
 Ham. Peruse the same. 
 
 To my remembrance such a name I read 
 Amongst the rest. See here. 
 Jane. Ay me, he's dead! 
 
 He's dead! If this be true, my dear 
 heart's slain! 
 Ham. Have patience, dear love. 
 Jane. Hence, hence! 
 
 Ham. Nay, sweet Jane, 
 
 Make not poor sorrow proud with these 
 
 rich tears. 
 I mourn thy husband's death, because 
 thou mourn'st. 
 Jane. That bill is forg'd; 'tis sign'd by 
 
 forgery. 
 Ham. I'll bring thee letters sent besides 
 to many. 
 Carrying the like report : Jane, 't is too 
 
 true. 
 Come, weep not: mourning, though it 
 
 rise from love. 
 Helps not the mourned, yet hurts them 
 that mourn. 
 Jane. For God's sake, leave me. 
 Ham. Whither dost thou turn? 
 
 Forget the dead, love them that are alive ; 
 His love is faded, try how mine will 
 thrive. 
 Jane. 'T is now no time for me to think 
 
 on love. 
 Ham. 'T is now best time for you to think 
 on love, 
 Because your love lives not. 
 Jane. Though he be dead, 
 
 My love to him shall not be buried ; 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 141 
 
 For God's sake, leave me to myself alone. 
 Ham. 'T would kill my soul, to leave thee 
 drown'd in moan. 
 Answer me to my suit, and I am gone; 
 Say to me yea or no. 
 Jane. No. 
 
 Ham. Then farewell ! 
 
 One farewell will not serve, I come 
 
 again ; 
 Come, dry these wet cheeks; tell me, 
 
 faith, sweet Jane, 
 Yea' or no, once more. 
 Jane. Once more I say no; 
 
 Once more be gone, I pray ; else will I go. 
 Ham. Nay, then I will grow rude, by this 
 white hand, 
 Until you change that cold "no"; here 
 I 'U stand 
 
 Till by your hard heart 
 
 Jane. Nay, for God's loVe, peace! 
 
 My sorrows by your presence more in- 
 crease. 
 Not that you thus are present, but all 
 
 grief 
 Desires to be alone; therefore in brief 
 Thus much I say, and saying bid adieu: 
 If ever I wed man, it shall be you. 
 Ham. O blessed voice! Dear Jane, I'll 
 urge no more. 
 Thy breath hath made me rich. 
 Jane. Death makes me poor. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ScasNE 2. London : a street before Hodge's 
 '' shop. 
 
 Hodge, at his shop-board, Ralph, Firh, 
 Hans, and a Boy at work. 
 
 All. Hey, down a down, down derry. 
 
 Hodge. Well said, my hearts; ply your 
 work to-day, we loit'red yesterday; to it 
 pell-mell, that we may live to be lord 
 mayors, or aldermen at least. 
 
 Firk. Hey, down a down, derry. 
 
 Hodge. Well said, i' faith! How say'st 
 thou, Hans, doth not Firk tickle it? 
 
 Hans. Yaw, mester. 
 
 Firk. Not so neither, my organ-pipe 
 squeaks this morning for want of liquor- 
 ing. Hey, down a down, derry! 
 
 Hans. Forward, Firk, tow best un_ jolly 
 youngster. Hort, I, mester, ic bid yo, 
 cut me un pair vampres vor Mester Jef- 
 fre's boots.'''- 
 
 21 Forward, Firk, 
 thou art a joUy 
 youngster. Unrh, 
 
 ay, master, I pray Master 
 you cut me a pair hoots. 
 of vamps for 
 
 Hodge. Thou shalt, Hans. 
 
 Firk. Master ! 
 
 Hodge. How now, boy? 
 
 Firk. Pray, now you are in the cutting 
 vein, cut me out a pair of counterfeits,^^ 
 or else my work will not pass current; 
 hey, down a down! 
 
 Hodge. Tell me, sirs, are my cousin Mis- 
 tress Priscilla's shoes done? 
 
 Firk. Your cousin? No, master; one of 
 your aunts, hang her; let them alone. 
 
 Ralph. I am in hand with them ; she gave 
 charge that none but I should do them 
 for her. 
 
 Firk. Thou do for her? Then 'twill be 
 a lame doing, and that she loves not. 
 Ralph, thou might'st have sent her to me, 
 in faith, I would have yarked and firked 
 your Priscilla. Hey, down a down, 
 derry. This gear will not hold. 
 
 Hodge. How say'st thou, Firk, were we 
 not merry at Old Ford? 
 
 Firk. How, merry! Why, our buttocks 
 went jiggy-joggy like a quagmire. Well, 
 Sir Roger Oatmeal, if I thought all meal 
 of that nature, I would eat nothing but 
 bagpuddings. 
 
 Ralph. Of all good fortunes my fellow 
 Hans had the best. 
 
 Firk. 'Tis true, because Mistress Rose 
 drank to him. 
 
 Hodge. Well, well, work apace. They 
 say, seven of the aldermen be dead, or 
 very sick. 
 
 Firk. I care not, I '11 be none. 
 
 Ralph. No, nor I; but then my Master 
 Eyre will come quickly to be lord mayor. 
 
 Enter Sybil. 
 
 Firk. Whoop, yonder comes Sybil. 
 
 Hodge. Sybil, welcome, i' faith ; and how 
 dost thou, mad wench ? 
 
 Firk. Sib-whore, welcome to London. 
 
 Sybil. Godamercy, sweet Firk; good lord, 
 Hodge, what a delicious shop you have 
 got ! You tickle it, i' faith. 
 
 Ralph. Godamercy, Sybil, for our good 
 cheer at Old Ford. 
 
 Sybil. That you shall have, Ralph. 
 
 Firh. Nay, by the mass, we had tickling 
 cheer, Sybil; and how the plague dost 
 thou and Mistress Rose and my lord 
 mayor? I put the women in first. 
 
 Sybil. Well, Godamercy; but God's me, I 
 forget myself, where 's Hans the Flem- 
 ing? 
 
 Jeffrey's 
 
 22 vamps ; used 
 
 here for the sake 
 
 of the pun in pass 
 current. 
 
142 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Firk. Hark, butter-box, now you must 
 
 yelp out some spreken. 
 Hans. Vat begaie you? Vat vod you, 
 
 ■Frister?^^ 
 Sybil. Marry, you must come to my young 
 
 mistress, to pull on her shoes you made 
 
 last. 
 Hans. Vare ben your edle fro, vare ben 
 
 your mistris ? "* 
 Sybil. Marry, here at our London house 
 
 in Cornhill. 
 Firk. Will nobody serve her turn but 
 
 Hans? 
 Sybil. No, sir. Come, Hans, I stand 
 
 upon needles. 
 Hodge. Why then, Sybil, take heed of 
 
 pricking. 
 Sybil. For that let me alone. I have a 
 
 trick in my budget. Come, Hans. 
 Hans. Taw, yaw, ic sail meete yo gane?^ 
 Exeunt Hans and Sybil. 
 Hodge. Go, Hans, make haste again. 
 
 Come, who lacks work? 
 Firk. I, master, for I lack my breakfast; 
 
 't is munching-time, and past. 
 Hodge. Is 't so ? Why, then leave work, 
 
 Ralph. To breakfast! Boy, look to the 
 
 tools. Come, Ralph; come, Firk. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. The same. 
 
 Enter a Serving-man. 
 
 Serv. Let me see now, the sign of the Last 
 in Tower Street. Mass, yonder 's the 
 house. Wliat, haw ! Who 's within ? 
 
 Enter Ralph. 
 
 Ralph. Who calls there? What want 
 you, sir? 
 
 Serv. Marry, I would have a pair of shoes 
 made for a gentlewoman against to-mor- 
 row morning. What, can you do them? 
 
 Ralph, Yes, sir, you shall have them. 
 But what length 's her foot ? 
 
 Serv. Why, you must make them in all 
 parts like this shoe; but, at any hand, 
 fail not to do them, for the gentlewoman 
 is to be married very early in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Ralph. How? by this shoe must it be 
 made? By this? Are you sure, sir, by 
 this? 
 
 Serv. How, by this! Am I sure, by this ? 
 
 Art thou in thy wits? I tell thee, I must 
 have a pair of shoes, dost thou mark me? 
 A pair of shoes, two shoes, made by this 
 very shoe, this same shoe, against to- 
 morrow morning by four o'clock. Dost 
 understand me? Canst thou do't? 
 
 Ralph. Yes, sir, yes — I — I — I can do 't. 
 By this shoe, you say? I should know 
 this shoe.. Yes, sir, yes, by this shoe, I 
 can do 't. Four o'clock, weU. Whither 
 shall I bring them? 
 
 Serv. To the sign of the Golden Ball in 
 Watling Street; inquire for one Master 
 Hammon, a gentleman, my master. 
 
 Ralph. Yea, sir; by this shoe, you say? 
 
 Serv. I say, Master Hammon at the 
 Golden Ball ; he 's the bridegroom, and 
 those shoes are for his'bride. 
 
 Ralph. They shall be done by this shoe. 
 Well, well, Master Hammon at the 
 Golden Shoe — I would say, the Golden 
 Ball; very well, very well. But I pray 
 you, sir, where must Master Hammon 
 be married? 
 
 Serv. At Saint Faith's Church, under 
 Paul's. But what's that to thee? 
 Prithee, dispatch those shoes, and so 
 farewell. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Ralph. By this shoe, said he. How am I 
 
 amaz'd 
 
 At this strange accident ! Upon my life, 
 
 This was the very shoe I gave my wife. 
 
 When I was prest for France; since 
 
 when, alas! 
 I never could hear of her. It is the 
 
 same, 
 And Hammon's bride no other but my 
 Jane. 
 
 Enter Firk. 
 
 Firk. 'Snails,=o Ralph, thou hast lost thy 
 
 part of three pots, a countryman of mine 
 
 gave me to breakfast. 
 Ralph. I care not; I have found a better 
 
 thing. 
 Firk. A thing? Away! Is it a man's 
 
 thing, or a woman's thing? 
 Ralph. Firk, dost thou know this shoe? 
 Firk. No, by my troth; neither doth that 
 
 know me! I have no acquaintance with 
 
 it, 'tis a mere stranger to me. 
 Ralph. Why, then I do ; this shoe, I durst 
 be sworn, 
 
 Once covered the instep of my Jane. 
 
 This is her size, her breadth, thus trod 
 my love; 
 
 23 What do you 
 want, what would 
 
 you, girl f 
 24 Where it your 
 
 noble lady, where 
 it your mittrestt 
 
 25 Tet, yet, I thall 
 go with you. 
 
 26 God's naHs. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 143 
 
 These true-love knots I prickt. I hold 
 my life, 
 
 By this old shoe I shall find out my wife. 
 Firk. Ha, ha! Old shoe, that wert new! 
 
 How a murrain came this ague-fit of 
 
 foolishness upon thee? 
 Balph. Thus, Firk: even now here came 
 a serving-man; 
 
 By this shoe would he have a new pair 
 made 
 
 Against to-morrow morning for his mis- 
 tress, 
 
 That 's to be married to a gentleman. 
 
 And why may not this be my sweet Jane? 
 Firk. And why may'st not thou be my 
 
 sweet ass? Ha, ha! 
 Ralph. Well, laugh and spare not! But 
 the truth is this: 
 
 Against to-morrow morning I '11 provide 
 
 A lusty crew of honest shoemakers. 
 
 To watch the going of the bride to 
 church. 
 
 If she prove Jane, I '11 take her in de- 
 spite 
 
 From Hammon and the devil, were he by. 
 
 If it be not my Jane, what remedy? 
 
 Hereof I am sure, I shall live till I die. 
 
 Although I never with a woman lie. 
 
 Exit. 
 Firk. Thou lie with a woman to build 
 
 nothing but Cripplegates ! "Well, God 
 
 sends fools fortune, and it may be, he 
 
 may light upon his matrimony by such a 
 
 device ; for wedding and hanging goes by 
 
 destiny. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Sc3ENE 4. London: a room in the Lord 
 Mayor's house. 
 
 Enter Lacy as Hans and Rose, arm in 
 arm. 
 
 Hans. How happy am I by embracing 
 thee I 
 Oh, I did fear such cross mishaps did 
 
 reign 
 That I should never see my Rose again. 
 Rose. Sweet Lacy, since fair opportunity 
 Offers herself to further our escape. 
 Let not too over-fond esteem of me 
 Hinder that happy hour. Invent the 
 
 means, 
 And Rose will follow thee through all 
 the world. 
 Hans. Oh, how I surfeit with excess of 
 
 joy, 
 
 27 Indeed, mietrese, it shall fit well, or 28 Yes 
 't ia a good shoe, you shall not pay. that 
 
 Made happy by thy rich perfection! 
 But since thou pay'st sweet interest to 
 
 my hopes. 
 Redoubling love on love, let me once more 
 Like to a bold-fac'd debtor crave of thee 
 This night to steal abroad, and at Eyre's 
 
 house. 
 Who now by death of certain aldermen 
 Is mayor of London, and my master 
 
 once. 
 Meet thou thy Lacy, where in spite of 
 
 change. 
 Your father's anger, and mine uncle's 
 
 hate. 
 Our happy nuptials will we consummate. 
 
 Enter Sybil. 
 
 Sybil. Oh God, what will you do, mis- 
 tress? Shift for yourself, your father 
 is at hand ! He 's coming, he 's coming ! 
 Master Lacy, hide yourself in my mis- 
 tress! For God's sake, shift for your- 
 selves ! 
 Hans. Your father come! Sweet Rose, 
 what shall I do 9 
 Where shall I hide me? How shall I es- 
 cape? 
 Rose. A man, and want wit in extremity? 
 Come, come, be Hans still, play the shoe- 
 maker. 
 Pull on my shoe. 
 
 Enter the Lord Mayor. 
 
 Hans. Mass, and that's well rememb'red. 
 
 Sybil. Here comes your father. 
 
 Hans. Forware, metresse, 't is un good 
 skew, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit be- 
 tallen.^'' 
 
 Rose. Oh God, it pineheth me ; what will 
 you do? 
 
 Hans. (Aside.) Your father's presence 
 pineheth, not the shoe. 
 
 L. Mayor. Well done; fit my daughter 
 well, and she shall please thee well. 
 
 Hans. Yaw, yaw, iek weit dat well; for- 
 ware, 't is un good skoo, 't is gimait van 
 neitz hither: se ever, mine here.'^ 
 
 Enter a Prentice. 
 
 L. Mayor. I do believe it. — What's the 
 
 news with you? 
 Prentice. Please you, the Earl of Lincoln 
 
 at the gate 
 Is newly lighted, and would speak with 
 
 you. 
 
 yes, I know 't ia a cfood ah or, neat's leather; 
 well; indeed, 't is made of see here, sir I 
 
144 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 L. Mayor. The Earl of Lincoln come to 
 speak with me? 
 
 Well, well, I know his errand. Daugh- 
 ter Rose, 
 
 Send hence your shoemaker, dispatch, 
 have done ! 
 
 Syb, make things handsome ! Sir boy, 
 follow me. 
 
 Exit. 
 Hans. Mine uncle come! Oh, what may 
 this portend? 
 
 Sweet Rose, this of our love threatens an 
 end. 
 Rose. Be not dismay'd at this; whate'er 
 befall, 
 
 Rose is thine own. To witness I speak 
 truth. 
 
 Where thou appoint'st the place, I '11 
 meet with thee. 
 
 I will not fix a day to follow thee, 
 
 But presently ^^ steal hence. Do not re- 
 ply: 
 
 Love which gave strength to bear my 
 father's hate. 
 
 Shall now add wings to further our es- 
 cape. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. Another room in the same house. 
 
 Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of 
 Lincoln. 
 
 L. Mayor. Believe me, on my credit, I 
 speak truth : 
 
 Since first your nephew Lacy went to 
 Trance 
 
 I have not seen him. It seem'd strange 
 to me. 
 
 When Dodger told me that he stay'd be- 
 hind. 
 
 Neglecting the high charge the king im- 
 posed. 
 Lincoln. Trust me. Sir Roger Oateley, I 
 did think 
 
 Your counsel had given head to this at- 
 tempt. 
 
 Drawn to it by the love he bears your 
 child. 
 
 Here I did hope to find him in your 
 house ; 
 
 But now I see mine error, and confess. 
 
 My judgment wrong'd you by conceiving 
 so. 
 L. Mayor. Lodge in my house, say you? 
 Trust me, my lord, 
 
 I love your nephew Lacy too too dearly. 
 
 So much to wrong his honor; and he 
 
 hath done so, 
 That first gave him advice to stay from 
 
 France. 
 To witness I speak truth, I let you know 
 How careful I have been to keep my 
 
 daughter 
 Free from all conference or speech of 
 
 him; 
 
 Not that I scorn your nephew, but in love 
 
 I bear your honor, lest your noble blood 
 
 Should by my mean worth be dishonored. 
 
 Lincoln. (Aside.) How far the churl's 
 
 tongue wanders from his heart ! — 
 Well, well. Sir Roger Oateley, I believe 
 
 you, 
 With more than many thanks for the 
 
 kind love 
 So much you seem to bear me. But, my 
 
 lord. 
 Let me request your help to seek my 
 
 nephew. 
 Whom if I find, I '11 straight embark for 
 
 France. 
 So shall your Rose be free, my thoughts 
 
 at rest. 
 And much care die which now lies in my 
 
 breast. 
 
 Enter Syhil. 
 
 Sybil. Oh Lord! Help, for God's sake! 
 
 My mistress ; oh, my young mistress ! 
 L. Mayor. Where is thy mistress? 
 
 What 's become of her ? 
 Sybil. She 's gone, she 's fled ! 
 L. Mayor. Gone! Whither is she fled? 
 Sybil. I know not, forsooth ; she 's fled out 
 of doors with Hans the shoemaker; I saw 
 them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace! 
 L. Mayor. Which way? What, John! 
 
 Where be my men? Which way? 
 Sybil. I know not, an it please your wor- 
 ship. 
 L. Mayor. Fled with a shoemaker? Can 
 
 this be true? 
 Sybil. Oh Lord, sir, as true as God's in 
 
 Heaven. 
 Lincoln. Her love turn'd shoemaker? I 
 
 am glad of this. 
 L. Mayor. A Fleming butter-box, a shoe- 
 maker ! 
 Will she forget her birth, requite my 
 
 care 
 With such ingratitude? Seorn'd she 
 
 young Hammon 
 To love a honniken,^" a needy knave? 
 Well, let her fly, I '11 not fly after her, 
 
 80 Meaning not known. 
 
t^ s- „- -AKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 145 
 
 Let her starve, if she will : she 's none of 
 mine. 
 Lincoln. Be not so cruel, sir. 
 
 Enter Firk with shoes. 
 
 Sybil. I am glad she 's scapt. 
 
 L. Mayor. I '11 not account of her as of 
 my child. 
 Was there no better object for her eyes. 
 But a foul drunken lubber, swill-belly, 
 A shoemaker? That's brave! 
 
 Firlc. Yea, forsooth ; 't is a very brave 
 shoe, and as fit as a pudding. 
 
 L. Mayor. How now, what knave is this? 
 From whence eomest thou? 
 
 Firk. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoe- 
 maker, lusty Roger's chief lusty journey- 
 man, and I have come hither to take up 
 the pretty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, 
 and thus hoping your worship is in as 
 good health, as I was at the making 
 hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk. 
 
 L. Mayor. Stay, stay. Sir Knave ! 
 
 Lincoln. Come hither, shoemaker! 
 
 Firk. 'T is happy the knave is put before 
 the shoemaker, or else I would not have 
 vouchsafed to come back to you. I am 
 moved, for I stir. 
 
 L. Mayor. My lord, this villain calls us 
 knaves by craft. 
 
 Firk. Then 'tis by the gentle craft, and 
 to call one knave gently, is no harm. Sit 
 your worship merry! Syb, your young 
 mistress — I '11 so bob ^^ them, now my 
 Master Eyre is' lord mayor of London. 
 
 L. Mayor. Tell me, sirrah, whose man are 
 you? . . 
 
 Firk. I am glad to see your worship so 
 merry. I have no maw to this gear, no 
 stomach as yet to a red petticoat. 
 (Pointing to Sybil.) 
 
 Lincoln. He means not, sir, to woo you to 
 his maid, 
 But only doth demand whose man you 
 are. 
 
 Firk. I sing now to the tune of Rogero.^^ 
 Roger, my fellow, is now my master. 
 
 Lincoln. Sirrah, know'st thou one Hans, a 
 shoemaker? 
 
 Firk. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, 
 yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak 
 it in secret : Mistress Rose and he are by 
 this time — ^no, not so, but shortly are to 
 
 come over one another with "Can you 
 dance the shaking of the sheets?" It is 
 that liansr— (Aside.) I'll so gulP^ 
 these diggers ! ^* 
 
 L. Mayor. Knojv'st thou, then, where he 
 is? 
 
 Firk. Yes, forsooth; yea, marry! 
 
 Lincoln. Canst thou, in sadness^"* 
 
 Firk. No, forsooth, no, marry! 
 
 L. Mayor. Tell me, good honest fellow, 
 where he is, 
 And thou shalt see what I'll bestow on 
 thee. 
 
 Firk. Honest fellow? No, sir; not so, 
 sir; my profession is the gentle craft; I 
 care not for seeing, I love feeling ; let me 
 feel it here; aurium tenus, ten pieces of 
 gold; genuum tenus, ten pieces of silver; 
 and then Firk is your man — (Aside.) in 
 a new pair of stretchers.^" 
 
 L. Mayor. Here is an angel, part of thy 
 reward, 
 WLich I will give thee ; tell me where he 
 is. 
 
 Firk. No point.^^ Shall I betray my 
 brother? No! Shall I prove Judas to 
 Hans ? No ! Shall I cry treason to my 
 corporation? No, I shall be flrkt and 
 yerkt then. But give me your angel; 
 your angel shall tell you. 
 
 Lincoln. Do so, good fellow; 'tis no hurt 
 to thee. 
 
 Firk. Send simpering Syb away. 
 
 L. Mayor. Huswife, get you in. 
 
 Exit Sybil. 
 
 Firk. Pitchers have ears, and maids have 
 wide mouths ; but for Hans Prauns, upon 
 my word, to-morrow morning he and 
 young Mistress Rose go to this gear, they 
 shall be married together, by this rush, 
 or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter, to 
 tan leather withal. 
 
 L. Mayor. But art thou sure of this? 
 
 Firk. Am I sure that Paul's steeple is a 
 handful higher than London Stone,'^ or 
 that the Pissing-Conduit ^' leaks nothing 
 but pure Mother Bunch?*" Am I sure 
 I am lusty Firk? God's nails, do you 
 think I am so base to gull you? 
 
 Lincoln. Where are they married? Dost 
 thou know the church? 
 
 Firk. I never go to church, but I know 
 the name of it ; it is a swearing church — 
 stay a while, 't is — aye, by the mass, no. 
 
 31 flout. dance tunes, to 
 
 32 This, and the which also bal- 
 "Shaking of the lads were set. 
 Sheets" (below) 33 fool, 
 
 were popular 34 i.e. diggers for 
 
 information, 
 8R seriously, 
 30 lies. 
 87 not at all; Fr, 
 
 ne point. 
 
 38 A stone which 30 a small conduit 
 marked the cen- in Cornhill. 
 
 ter from which 40 Mother Bunch 
 the old Roman was a well- 
 roads radiated. known ale-wife. 
 
146 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOU 
 
 no, — 'tis — aye, by luy troth, no, nor 
 that; 'tis — aye, by my faith, that, that, 
 'tis, aye, by my Faith's Church under 
 Paul's Cross. There they shall be knit 
 like a pair of stockings in matrimony; 
 there they '11 be incony.^^ 
 Lincoln. Upon my life, my nephew Lacy 
 walks 
 In the disguise of this Dutch shoemaker. 
 Firk. Yes, forsooth. 
 Lincoln. Doth he not, honest fellow? 
 Firk. No, forsooth; I think Hans is no- 
 body but Hans, no spirit. 
 L. Mayor. My mind misgives me now, 
 
 'tis so, indeed. 
 Lincoln. My cousin speaks the language, 
 
 knows the trade. 
 L. Mayor. Let me request your company, 
 my lord; 
 Your honorable presence may, no doubt, 
 Refrain their headstrong rashness, when 
 
 myself 
 Going alone perchance may be o'erbome. 
 Shall I request this favor? 
 Lincoln. This, or what else. 
 
 Firk. Then you must rise betimes, for they 
 mean to fall to their hey-pass and re- 
 pass,*^ pindy-pandy, which hand will you 
 have, very early. 
 L. Mayor. My care shall every way equal 
 their haste. 
 This night accept your lodging in my 
 
 house, 
 The earlier shall we stir, and at Saint 
 
 Faith's 
 Prevent this giddy hare-brain'd nuptial. 
 This trafifie of hot love shall yield cold 
 
 gains : 
 They ban *^ our loves, and we '11 forbid 
 their banns. 
 
 Exit. 
 Lincoln. At Saint Faith's Church thou 
 
 say'st? 
 Firk. Yes, by their troth. 
 Lincoln. Be secret, on thy life. 
 
 Exit. 
 Firk. Yes, when I kiss your wife! Ha, 
 ha, here 's no craft in the gentle craft. 
 I came hither of purpose with shoes to 
 Sir Roger's worship, whilst Rose, his 
 daughter, be cony-cateht ** by Hans. 
 Soft now ; these two gulls will.be at Saint 
 Faith's Church to-morrow morning, to 
 take Master Bridegroom and Mistress 
 Bride napping, and they, in the mean 
 time, shall chop up the matter at the 
 
 Savoy.*'' But the best sport is. Sir 
 Roger Oateley will find my fellow lame 
 Ralph's wife going to marry a gentleman, 
 and then he '11 stop her instead of his 
 daughter. Oh brave! there will be fine 
 tickling sport. Soft now, what have I to 
 do? Oh, I know; now a mess of shoe- 
 makers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy 
 Lane, to cozen ''* my gentleman of lame 
 Ralph's wife, that 's true. 
 
 Alack, alack! 
 
 Girls, hold out tack!*^ 
 
 For now smocks for this jumbling 
 
 Shall go to wrack. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. A room in Eyre's house. 
 Enter Eyre, Margery, Hans, and Rose. 
 
 Eyre. This is the morning, then; stay, my 
 bully, my honest Hans, is it not? 
 
 Hans. This is the morning that must make 
 us two happy or miserable; therefore, if 
 you 
 
 Eyre. Away with these ifs and ans, Hans, 
 and these et caeteras! By mine honor, 
 Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall 
 wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not 
 I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre lord 
 mayor of London ? Fear nothing, Rose : 
 let them all say what they can; dainty, 
 come thou to me — laughest thou ? 
 
 Marg. Good my lord, stand her friend in 
 what thing you may. 
 
 Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think 
 you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch 
 journeyman? No, vah'! Fie, I scorn it, 
 it shall never be east in my teeth, that I 
 was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou 
 had'st never eover'd thy Saracen's head 
 with this French flap, nor loaden. thy 
 buin with this farthingale ('tis trash, 
 trumpery, vanity) ; Simon Eyre had 
 never walk'd in a red petticoat, nor wore 
 a chain of gold, but for my fine journey- 
 man's portagues. — And shall I leave 
 him? No! Princs am I none, yet bear 
 a princely mind. 
 
 Hans. My lord, 't is time for us to part 
 from hence. 
 
 Eyre. Lady Madgy, Lady Madgy, take 
 
 41 snug. 
 
 42 conjuring terms. 
 
 43 curse, 
 
 44 spirited away. 
 
 40 A chapel in Lon- 
 don, formerly 
 
 connected with 
 the Savoy palace. 
 
 4a cheat. 
 47 stoutly. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 147 
 
 two or three of my pie-crust-eaters, my 
 buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black 
 gowns at Simon Eyre's heels; take them, 
 good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my 
 brown queen of periwigs, with my deli- 
 cate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the 
 Savoy; see them linkt, countenance the 
 marriage; and when it is done, cling, 
 cling together, you Hamborow turtle- 
 doves. I '11 bear you out, come to Simon 
 Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou 
 shalt eat mine'd-pies and marchpane.*^ 
 Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my 
 Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans-, wed, 
 and to bed ; kiss, and away ! Go, vanish ! 
 
 Marg. Farewell, my lord. 
 
 Rose. Make haste, sweet love. 
 
 Marg. She 'd fain the deed were done. 
 
 Hans. Come, my sweet Rose; faster than 
 deer we '11 run. 
 
 Exeunt Hans, Rose, and Margery. 
 
 Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, I 
 say ! By the lord of Ludgate, it 's a mad 
 life to be a lord mayor; it's a stirring 
 life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful 
 life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good 
 face on it, in the honor of Saint Hugh. 
 Soft, the king this day comes to dine 
 with me, to see my new buildings; his 
 majesty is welcome, he shall have good 
 cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer. 
 This day, my fellow prentices of London 
 come to dine with me too, they shall have 
 fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I prom- 
 ised the mad Cappadocians, when we all 
 served at the Conduit together,*' that if 
 ever I came to be mayor of London, I 
 would feast them all, and I '11 do 't, I '11 
 do 't, by the life of Pharaoh ; by this 
 beard, Sim Eyre will be no flincher. Be- 
 sides, I have procur'd that upon every 
 Shrove Tuesday, at the sound of the pan- 
 cake bell, my fine dapper Assyrian lads 
 shall clap up their shop windows, and 
 away. This is the day, and this day 
 they shall do 't, they shall do 't. 
 Boys, that day are you free, let masters 
 
 care, 
 And prentices shall pray for Simon 
 Eyre. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. A street near St. Faith's Church. 
 
 Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and five or six 
 Shoemakers, all with cudgels or such 
 weapons. 
 
 18 A sweetmeat 
 
 49 Apprentices car- 
 
 their 
 
 masters' 
 
 ' made of sugar 
 
 ried water from 
 
 homes. 
 
 
 and almonds. 
 
 the conduits to 
 
 BO fitted. 
 
 
 
 
 Bi "Cluhs" 
 
 was the 
 
 Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. 
 My masters, as we are the brave bloods 
 of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to 
 Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors 
 to all good fellows, thou shalt have no 
 wrong: were Hammon a king of spades, 
 he should not delve in thy close without 
 thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art 
 thou sure 't is thy wife ? 
 
 Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This 
 morning, when I strokt on ^^ her shoes, 
 I lookt upon her, and she upon me, and 
 sighed, askt me if ever I knew one Ralph. 
 Yes, said L For his sake, said she- 
 tears standing in her eyes — and for thou 
 art somewhat like him, spend this piece 
 of gold. I took it; my lame leg and my 
 travel beyond sea made me unknown. 
 All is one for that : I know she 's mine. 
 
 Firk. Did she give thee this gold? 
 glorious glittering gold ! She 's thine 
 own, 'tis thy wife, and she loves thee; 
 for I '11 stand to 't, there 's no woman 
 will give gold to any man, but she thinks 
 better of him than she thinks of them she 
 gives silver to. And for Hammon, 
 neither Hammon nor hangman shall 
 wrong thee in London. Is not our old 
 master Eyre lord ma^or? Speak, my 
 hearts. 
 
 All. Yes, and Hammon shall know it to 
 his cost. 
 
 Enter Hammon, his man, Jane, and 
 others. 
 
 Hodge. Peace, my bullies; yonder they 
 come. 
 
 Ralph. Stand to't, my hearts. Firk, let 
 me speak first. 
 
 Hodge. No, Ralph, let me. — Hammon, 
 whither away so early? 
 
 Ham. Unmannerly, rude slave, what 's 
 that to thee? 
 
 Firk. To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, 
 and others. Good-morrow, Jane, how 
 dost thou? Good Lord, how the world 
 is changed with you ! God be thanked ! 
 
 Ham. Villains, hands off ! How dare you 
 touch my love? 
 
 All. Villains? Down with them! Cry 
 clubs for prentices ! °^ 
 
 Hodge. Hold, my hearts! Touch her, 
 Hammon? Yea, and more than that: 
 we '11 carry her away with us. My mas- 
 ters and gentlemen, never draw your 
 bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the 
 
 rallying cry of the 
 London appren- 
 tices. 
 
148 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 back, men every inch of them, all spirit. 
 All of Hammon's side. Well, and what of 
 
 all this? 
 Hodge. I '11 show you. — Jane, dost thou 
 know this man? 'T is Ralph, I can tell 
 thee; nay, 'tis he in faith, though he be 
 lam'd by the wars. Yet look not strange, 
 but run to him, fold him about the neck 
 and Hss him. 
 Jane. Lives then my husband? Oh, God, 
 let me go! 
 Let me embrace my Ralph. 
 Ham. What means my Jane? 
 
 Jane. Nay, what meant you, to tell me he 
 
 was slain ? 
 Ham. Pardon me, dear love, for being 
 misled. 
 {To Balph.) 'T was rumor'd here in 
 London thou wert dead. 
 Firk. Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack 
 home with him. 
 Now, Master Hammon, where 's your 
 mistress, your wife? 
 Serv. 'Swounds, master, fight for her! 
 
 Will you thus lose her? 
 All. Down with that creature! Clubs! 
 
 Down with him! 
 Hodge. Hold, hold! 
 
 Ham. Hold, fool! Sirs, he shall do no 
 wrong. 
 Will my Jane leave me thus, and break 
 her faith? 
 Firk. Tea, sir! She must, sir! She 
 
 shall, sir! What then? Mend it! 
 Hodge. Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my 
 counsel: set the wench in the midst, and 
 let her choose her man, and let her be his 
 woman. 
 Jane. Whom shall I choose? Whom 
 should my thoughts affect 
 But him whom Heaven hath made to be 
 
 my love? 
 Thou art my husband, and these humble 
 
 weeds 
 Make thee more beautiful than all his 
 
 wealth. 
 Therefore, I will but put off this attire. 
 Returning it into the owner's hand, 
 And after ever be thy constant wife. 
 Hodge. Not a rag, Jane! The law's on 
 our side: he that sows in another man's 
 ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee 
 home, Ralph ; follow him, Jane ; he shall 
 not have so much as a busk-point "^ from 
 thee. 
 Firk. Stand to that, Ralph; the appurte- 
 
 E2 A lace with a tag, 
 which fastened 
 the busk, or piece 
 
 of wood or whale- 
 hone uBed to stif- 
 
 fen a corset. 
 S3 It was a fashioo- 
 
 nances are thine own. Hammon, look 
 not at her ! 
 Serv. O, swounds, no ! 
 Firk. Blue coat, be quiet, we .'11 give you a 
 new livery else ; we '11 make Shrove Tues- 
 day Saint George's Day ^' for you. 
 Look not, Hammon, leer not! I'll firk 
 you ! For thy head now, one glance, one 
 sheep's eye, anything, at her ! Touch not 
 a rag, lest I and my brethren beat you to 
 clouts. 
 Serv. Come, Master Hammon, therg 's no 
 
 striving here. 
 Ham. Good fellows, hear me speak; and, 
 honest Ralph, 
 Wbom I have injured most by loving 
 
 Jane, 
 Mark what I offer thee : here in fair gold 
 Is twenty pound, I'U give it for thy 
 
 Jane; 
 If this content thee not, thou shalt have 
 more. 
 Hodge. Sell not thy wife, Ralph; make 
 
 her not a whore. 
 Ham. Say, wilt thou freely cease thy 
 claim in her, 
 And let her be my wife? 
 All. No, do not, Ralph. 
 
 Ralph. Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost 
 thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a 
 bawd to his own wife for commodity? 
 Take thy gold, choke with it! Were I 
 not lame, I would make thee eat thy 
 words. 
 Firk. A shoemaker sell his flesh and 
 
 blood? indignity! 
 Hodge. Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be 
 
 packing. 
 Ham. I will not touch one penny, but in 
 lieu 
 Of that great wrong I offered thy Jane, 
 To Jane and thee I give that twenty 
 
 pound. 
 Since I have f ail'd of her, during my life, 
 I vow, no woman else shall be my wife. 
 Farewell, good fellows of the gentle 
 
 trade : 
 Your morning mirth my mourning day 
 hath made. 
 
 Exit. 
 Firk. {To the Serving-man.) Touch the 
 gold, creature, if you dare ! Y' are best 
 be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. 
 Now let 's home, my hearts. 
 Hodge. Stay! Who comes here? Jane, 
 on again with thy mask ! 
 
 George's 
 
 able 
 wear 
 
 custom to 
 blue cpats 
 
 on St. 
 day. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 149 
 
 Enter the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord 
 Mayor, and Servants. 
 
 Lincoln. Tender's the lying varlet moekt 
 us so. 
 
 L. Mat/or. Come hither, sirrah ! 
 
 Firk. I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean 
 me, do you not 1 
 
 Lincoln. Where is my nephew married ? 
 
 Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, 
 I am glad of it. They have a fair day, 
 and the sign is in a good planet. Mars in 
 Venus. 
 
 L. Mayor. Villain, thou toldst me that my 
 daughter Rose 
 This morning should be married at Saint 
 
 Faith's; 
 We have watch'd there these three hours 
 
 at the least. 
 Yet see we no such thing. 
 
 Firk. Truly, I am sorry for 't ; a bride 's a 
 pretty thing. 
 
 Hodge. Come to the purpose. Yonder 's 
 the bride and bridegroom you look for, I 
 hope. Though you be lords, you are not 
 to bar by your authority men from 
 women, are you? 
 
 L. Mayor. See, see, my daughter 's maskt. 
 
 Lincoln. True, and my nephew. 
 
 To hide his gmlt, counterfeits him lame. 
 
 Firk. Yea, truly; God help the poor 
 couple, they are lame and blind. 
 
 L. Mayor. 1'U ease her blindness. 
 
 Lincoln. I '11 his lameness cure. 
 
 Firk. Lie down, sirs, and laugh ! My fel- 
 low Ralph is taken for Rowland Lacy, 
 and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. 
 This is all my knavery. 
 
 L. Mayor. What, have I found you, min- 
 ion? 
 
 Lincoln. base wretch! 
 
 Nay, hide thy face, the horror of thy 
 
 guilt 
 Can hardly be washt off. Where are thy 
 
 powers? 
 What battles have you made? yes, I 
 
 see, 
 Thou f ought'st with Shame, and Shame 
 
 hath conquer'd thee. 
 This lameness will not serve. 
 
 L. Mayor. Unmask yourself. 
 
 Lincoln. Lead home your daughter. 
 
 L. Mayor. Take your nephew hence. 
 
 Ralph. Hence! Swounds, what mean 
 you? Are you mad? I hope you can- 
 not enforce my wife from me. Where 's 
 Hammon? 
 
 L. Mayor. Your wife? 
 
 Lincoln. What, Hammon? 
 
 Ralph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the 
 
 proudest of you that lays hands on her 
 
 first, I 'II lay my crutch 'cross his pate. 
 Firk. To him, lame Ralph ! Here 's 
 
 brave sport ! 
 Ralph. Rose call you her? Why, her 
 
 name is Jane. Look here else; do you 
 
 know her now? 
 
 {Unmasking Jane.) 
 Lincoln. Is this your daughter? 
 L. Mayor. No, nor this your nephew. 
 
 My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abus'd 
 
 By this base, crafty varlet. 
 Firk. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, 
 
 no base; forsooth, I am but mean; no 
 
 crafty neither, but of the gentle craft. 
 L. Mayor. Where is my daughter Rose ? 
 
 Where is my child? 
 Lincoln. Where is my nephew Lacy mar- 
 ried? 
 Firk. Why, here is good lac'd mutton,^* as 
 
 I promist.you. 
 Lincoln. Villain, I '11 have thee punisht 
 
 for this wrong. 
 Fi/rk. Punish the journeyman villain, but 
 
 not the journeyman shoemaker. 
 
 Enter Dodger. 
 
 Dodger. My lord, I come to bring unwel- 
 come news. 
 Your nephew Lacy and your daughter 
 
 Rose 
 Early this morning wedded at the Savoy, 
 None being present but the lady may- 
 oress. 
 Besides, I learnt among the officers, 
 The lord mayor vows to stand in their de- 
 fense 
 'Gainst any that shall seek to cross the 
 match. 
 Lincoln. Dares Eyre the shoemaker up- 
 hold the deed? 
 Firk. Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a 
 woman's quarrel, I warrant you, as deep 
 as another, and deeper too. 
 Dodger. Besides, his grace to-day dines 
 with the mayor; 
 Who on his knees humbly intends to fall 
 And beg a pardon for your nephew's 
 fault. 
 Lincoln. But I '11 prevent him ! 'Come, 
 Sir Roger Oateley; 
 The king will do us justice in this cause. 
 Howe'er their hands have made them man 
 
 and wife, 
 I will disjoin the match, or lose my life. , 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 SI a slang term fox a woman. 
 
150 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Firk. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Fare- 
 well, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they had 
 stayd, I would have so lam'd them with 
 flouts! heart, my codpieee-point is 
 ready to fly in pieces every time I think 
 upon Mistress Rose. But let that pass, 
 as my lady mayoress says. 
 
 Hodge. This matter is answer'd. Come, 
 Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my 
 fine shoemakers, let 's to our master's the 
 new lord mayor, and there swagger this 
 Shrove Tuesday. I '11 promise you wine 
 enough, for Madge keeps the cellar. 
 
 All. O rare ! Madge is a good wench. 
 
 Firk. And I '11 proinise you meat enough, 
 for simp'ring Susan keeps the larder. 
 I 'II lead you to victuals, my brave sol- 
 diers; follow your captain. brave! 
 Hark, hark! 
 
 {Bell rings.) 
 
 All. The pancake-belP^ rings, the pan- 
 cake-bell! Trilill, my hearts! 
 
 Firk. brave! sweet bell! deli- 
 cate pancakes! Open the doors, my 
 hearts, and shut up the windows ! keep in 
 the house, let out the pancakes! 
 rare, my hearts ! Let 's march together 
 for the honor of Saint Hugh to the great 
 new hall ^^ in Gracious Street corner, 
 which our master, the new lord mayor, 
 hath built. 
 
 Balph. the crew of good fellows that 
 will dine at my lord mayor's cost to-day ! 
 
 Hodge. By the Lord, my lord mayor is a 
 most brave man. How shall prentices be 
 bound to pray for him and the honor of 
 the gentlemen shoemakers ! Let 's feed 
 and be fat with my lord's bounty. 
 
 Firk. musical bell, still! Hodge, 
 my brethren ! There 's cheer for the 
 heavens : venison-pasties walk up and 
 down piping hot, like sergeants ; beef and 
 brewis ^'' comes marching in dry-vats,^' 
 fritters and pancakes comes trowling in 
 in wheel-barrows ; hens and oranges hop- 
 ping in porters'-baskets, eollops ^° and 
 eggs in scuttles, and. tarts and custards 
 comes quavering in in malt-shovels. 
 
 Enter more Prentices. 
 
 All. Whoop, look here, look here ! 
 Hodge. How now, mad lads, whither away 
 
 so fast? 
 1 Prentice. Whither? Why, to the great 
 
 new hall, know you not why? The lord 
 
 mayor hath bidden all the prentices in 
 London to breakfast this morning. 
 
 All. brave shoemakers, brave lord 
 of incomprehensible good-fellowship ! 
 Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell 
 rings. 
 
 {Cast up caps.) 
 
 Firk. Nay, more, my hearts! Every 
 Shrove Tuesday is our year of jubilee; 
 and when the pancake-bell rings, we are 
 as free as my lord mayor; we may shut 
 up our shops, and make holiday; I'll 
 have it call'd Saint Hugh's Holiday. 
 
 All. Agreed, agreed ! Saint Hugh's Holi- 
 day. 
 
 Hodge. And this shall continue for ever. 
 
 All. brave! Come, come, my hearts! 
 Away, away ! 
 
 Firk. eternal credit to us of the gentle 
 craft ! March fair, my hearts ! rare ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. A street in London. 
 
 Enter the King and Ms Train over the 
 stage. 
 
 King. Is our lord mayor of London such 
 
 a gallant ? 
 Nobleman. One of the merriest madcaps 
 in your laud. 
 Your grace will think, when you behold 
 
 the man. 
 He 's rather a wild ruflttan than a mayor. 
 Yet thus much I '11 ensure your majesty. 
 In all his actions that concern his state 
 He is as serious, provident, and wise. 
 As full of gravity amongst the grave, 
 As any mayor hath been these many 
 years. 
 King. I am with child "o till I behold this 
 hufEeap.*^ 
 But all my doubt is, when we come in 
 
 presence, 
 His madness will be dasht clean out of 
 countenance. 
 Nobleman. It may be so, my liege. 
 King. Which to prevent, 
 
 Let some one give him notice, 'tis our 
 
 pleasure 
 That he put on his wonted merriment. 
 Set forward! 
 All. On afore ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 55 Pancakes were a 
 feature of tlie 
 Shrove Tuesday 
 
 menu ; hence the 
 hell which rang 
 for Shrove Tues- 
 
 day services was 
 called the pan- 
 cake bell. 
 
 58 Leadenhall. 
 
 57 beef broth. 
 
 58 barrels. 
 
 56 bacon. 
 
 60 in suspense. 
 
 61 swaggerer. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 151 
 
 Scene 4. A great hall. 
 
 Enter Eyre, Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and other 
 Shoemakers, all with napkins on their 
 shoulders. 
 
 Eyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gen- 
 tlemen shoemakers; soft, where be these 
 cannibals, these varlets, my officers? 
 Let them all walk and wait upon my 
 brethren; for my meaning is, that none 
 but shoemakers, none but the livery of 
 my company shall in their satin hoods 
 wait upon the trencher of my sovereign. 
 
 Firk. my lord, it will be rare! 
 
 Eyre. No more, Tirk; come, lively! Let 
 your fellow-prentices want no cheer; let 
 wine be plentiful as' beer, and beer as 
 water. Hang these penny-pinching fa- 
 thers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb- 
 skins. Rip, knaves, avaunt! Look to 
 my guests ! 
 
 Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits' end 
 for room; those hundred tables will not 
 feast the fourth part of them. 
 
 ^yre. Then cover me those hundred tables 
 again, and again, till all my jolly pren- 
 tices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, 
 Ralph! Frisk about, my nimble Firk! 
 Carouse me fathom-healths to the honor 
 of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, 
 Hodge ? Do they tickle it, Firk 1 
 
 Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have 
 taken their liquor standing so long that 
 they can stand no longer; but for meat, 
 they would eat it an they had it. 
 
 Eyre. Want they meat? Where's this 
 swag-belly, this greasy kitchen-stuff 
 cook? Call the varlet to me! Want 
 meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, 
 my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, 
 beggar all Basteheap, serve me whole 
 oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine 
 upon the tables like pigs for want of 
 good fellows to eat them. Want meat? 
 Vanish, Firk! Avaunt, Hodge! 
 
 Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man 
 Firk; he means, their bellies want meat, 
 not the boards; for they have drunk so 
 much, they can eat nothing. 
 
 The Second Three Men's Song 
 
 Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, 
 Saint Hugh be our good speed: 
 
 111 is the weather that bringeth no gain, 
 Nor helps good hearts in need. 
 
 Trowl 02 the bowl, the jolly nut-brown 
 • bowl, 
 
 And here, kind mate, to thee: 
 Let 's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, 
 
 And down it merrily. 
 
 Down a down hey down a down, 
 {Close with the tenor hoy.) 
 
 Hey derry derry, down a down! 
 Ho, well done; to me let come! 
 
 Eing compass,63 gentle joy. 
 
 Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, 
 
 And here, kind mate, to thee: etc. 
 (Repeat as often as there be men to drinkj 
 
 and at last when all have drunk, this 
 
 verse : ) 
 Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain. 
 
 Saint Hugh be our good speed : 
 111 is the weather that bringeth no gain, 
 Nor helps good hearts in need. 
 
 Enter Hans, Rose, and Margery. 
 
 Marg. Where is my lord? 
 
 Eyre. How now. Lady Madgy? 
 
 Marg. The king's most excellent majesty 
 is new come ; he sends me for thy honor ; 
 one of his most worshipful peers bade me 
 tell thou must be merry, and so forth; 
 but let that pass. 
 
 Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, 
 my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren; 
 look to my guests, the prentices. Yet 
 stay a little! How now, Hans? How 
 looks my little Rose? 
 
 Hans. Let me request you to remember 
 me. 
 I know, your honor easily may obtain 
 Free pardon of the king for me sfhd 
 
 Rose, 
 And reconcile me to my uncle's grace. 
 
 Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my hon- 
 est journeyman ; look cheerily ! I '11 fall 
 upon both my knees, till they be as hard 
 as horn, but I '11 get thy pardon. 
 
 Marg. Good my lord, have a care what 
 you speak to his grace. 
 
 Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot ! °* 
 hence, you hopper-arse! you barley-pud- 
 ding, full of maggots! you broiled car- 
 bonado ! "^ avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephis- 
 tophiles I Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak 
 of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother 
 Miniver **-cap ; vanish, go, trip and go; 
 meddle with your partlets "^ and your 
 pishery-pashery, your flews °' and your 
 whirligigs; go, rub,"' out of mine alley! 
 Sim Eyre knows how to speak to a Pope, 
 
 62 pass. 
 
 63 sound the whole 
 range of notes. 
 
 64 "A dish, mitde 
 
 of milk, eggs, 65 a steak cut cross- 
 
 and sugar, baked ways. 
 
 in a pot," (Web- 66 *ur. 
 
 «ter.) BTriiff? tQV the neck, 
 
 08 flaps ; as resem- 69 obstruction, a 
 bling the hanging term in bowling; 
 chaps of iv h9und. hence the point of 
 "alley." 
 
152 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 to Sultau Soliman, to Tamburlaine, an 
 he were here, and shall I melt, shall I 
 droop before my sovereign? No, come, 
 my Lady Madgy ! Follow me, Hans ! 
 About your business, my frolic free- 
 booters! Firk, frisk about, and about, 
 and about, for the honor of mad Simon 
 Eyre, lord mayor of London. 
 Firk. Hey, for the honor of the shoe- 
 makers ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. An open yard before the hall. 
 
 A lung flourish, or two. Enter the King, 
 Nobles, Eyre, Margery, Lacy, Base. 
 Lacy and Rose kneel. 
 
 King. Well, Lacy, though the fact was 
 
 very foul 
 
 Of your revolting from our kingly love 
 
 And your own duty, yet we pardon you. 
 
 Rise both, and. Mistress Lacy, thank my 
 
 lord mayor 
 For your young bridegroom here. 
 
 Eyre. So, my dear liege, Sim Eyre and 
 my brethren, the gentlemen shoemakers, 
 shall set your sweet majesty's image 
 cheek by jowl by Saint Hugh for this 
 honor you have done poor Simon Eyre. 
 I beseech your grace, pardon my rude 
 behavior; I am a handicraftsman, yet 
 my heart is without craft; I would be 
 sorry at my soul, that my boldness should 
 offend my king. 
 
 King. Nay, I pray thee, good lord mayor, 
 be even as merry 
 As if thou wert among thy shoemakers; 
 It does me good to see thee in this humor. 
 
 Eyre. Say'st thou me so, my sweet Diocle- 
 sian? Then, hump! Prince am I none, 
 yet am I princely bom. By the lord of 
 Ludgate, my liege, I '11 be as merry as a 
 pie.™ 
 
 King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how 
 old thou art. 
 
 Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling, a 
 younker ; you see not a white hair on my 
 head, not a gray in this beard. Every 
 hair, I assure thy majesty, that sticks in 
 this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King 
 of Babylon's ransom; Tamar Cham's 
 beard was a rubbing brush to 't : yet I '11 
 shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls ^^ with 
 it, to please my bully king. 
 
 King. But all this while I do not know 
 your age. 
 
 70 magpie. 
 
 Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year 
 old, yet I can cry hump! with a sound 
 heart for the honor of Saint Hugh. 
 Mark this old wench, my king: I dane'd 
 the shaking of the sheets with her six and 
 thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get 
 two or three young lord mayors, ere I 
 die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. 
 Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. 
 My sweet Majesty, let care vanish, east it 
 upon thy nobles, it will make thee, look 
 always young like Apollo, and cry hump ! 
 Prince am I none, yet am I princely 
 born. 
 
 King. Ha, ha! 
 
 Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his 
 like? 
 
 Nobleman. Not I, "my lord. 
 
 Enter the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord 
 Mayor. 
 
 King. Lincoln, what news with you? 
 
 Lincoln. My gracious lord, have care unto 
 yourself, 
 For there are traitors here. 
 All. Traitors? Where? Who? 
 
 Eyre. Traitors in . my house ? God for- 
 bid! Where be my officers? I '11 spend 
 my soul, ere my king feel harm. 
 King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln? 
 Lincoln. Here he stands. 
 
 King. Cornwall, lay hold on Lacy! — Lin- 
 coln, speak. 
 What canst thou lay unto thy nephew's 
 charge? 
 Lincoln. This, my dear liege : your Grace, 
 to do me honor, 
 Heapt on the head of this degenerate boy 
 Desertless favors; you made choice of 
 
 him 
 To be commander over powers in France. 
 
 But he 
 
 King. Good Lincoln, prithee, pause a 
 while ! 
 Even in thine eyes I read what thou 
 
 wouldst speak. 
 I know how Lacy did neglect our love. 
 Ran himself deeply, in the highest de- 
 gree, 
 
 Into vile treason 
 
 Lincoln. Is he not a traitor? 
 
 King. Lincoln, he was; now have we par- 
 d'ned him. 
 'T was not a base want of true valor's 
 
 fire, 
 That held him out of France, but love's 
 desire. 
 
 11 The tennis-balls of the time were stuffed with bait.' 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS' HOLIDAY 
 
 153 
 
 Lincoln. I will not bear his shame upon 
 
 my back. 
 King. Nor shalt thou, Lincoln; I forgive 
 
 you both. 
 Lincoln. Then, good my liege, forbid the 
 boy to wed 
 One whose mean birth will much disgrace 
 his bed. 
 King. Are they not married'? 
 Lincoln. No, my liege. 
 
 Both. We are. 
 
 King. Shall I divorce them then? be 
 it far 
 That any hand on earth should dare untie 
 The sacred knot, knit by God's majesty; 
 I would not for my crown disjoin their 
 
 hands 
 That are conjoin'd in holy nuptial bands. 
 How say'st thou, Lacy, wouldst thou lose 
 thy Rose? 
 Lacy. Not for all India's wealth, my sov- 
 ereign. 
 King. But Rose, I am sure, her Lacy 
 
 would forego? 
 Rose. If Rose were askt that question, 
 
 she 'd say no. 
 King. You hear them, Lincoln? 
 Lincoln. Yea, my liege, I do. 
 
 King. Yet canst thou find i' th' heart to 
 part these two? 
 Who seeks, besides you, to divorce these 
 lovers? 
 L. Mayor. I do, my gracious lord, I am 
 
 her father. 
 King. Sir Roger Oateley, our last mayor, 
 
 I think? 
 Nobleman. The same, my liege. 
 King. Would you offend Love's laws? 
 
 Well, you shall have your wills, you sue 
 
 to me. 
 To prohibit the match. Soft, let me 
 
 see — 
 You both are maixied. Lacy, art thou 
 not? 
 Lacy. I am, dread sovereign. 
 King. Then, upon thy life, 
 
 I charge thee, not to call this woman wife. 
 L. Mayor. I thank your grace. 
 Ease. O my most gracious lord! 
 
 (Kneels.) 
 King. Nay, Rose, never woo me; I tell 
 you true. 
 Although as yet I am a bachelor. 
 Yet I believe I shall not marry you. 
 Rose. Can you divide the body from the 
 soul. 
 Yet make the body live? 
 King. ' Yea, so profound? 
 
 I cannot. Rose, but you I must divide. 
 
 This fair maid, bridegroom, cannot be 
 
 your bride. 
 Are you pleas'd, Lincoln? Oateley, are 
 
 you pleas'd? 
 Both. Yes, my lord. 
 
 King. Then must my heart be eas'd ; 
 
 For, credit me, my conscience lives in 
 
 pain, 
 Till these whom I divorc'd, be join'd 
 
 again. 
 Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me 
 
 thine ! 
 Be what you would be ! Kiss now ! So, 
 
 that 's fine. 
 At night, lovers, to bed ! — Now, let me 
 
 see, 
 'Which of you all mislikes this harmony. 
 L. Mayor. Will you then take from me 
 
 my child perforce? 
 King. Why tell me, Oateley: shines not 
 
 Lacy's name 
 As bright in the world's eye as the gay 
 
 beams 
 Of any citizen? 
 Lincoln. Yea, but, my gracious lord, 
 
 I do mislike the match far more than he; 
 Her blood is too too base. 
 King. Lincoln, no more. 
 
 Dost thou not know that love respects no 
 
 blood. 
 Cares not for difference of birth or state? 
 The maid is young, well born, fair, vir- 
 tuous, 
 A worthy bride for any gentleman. 
 Besides, your nephew for her sake did 
 
 stoop 
 To bear necessity, and, as I hear. 
 Forgetting honors and all courtly pleas- 
 ures. 
 To gain her love, became a shoemaker. 
 As for the honor which he lost in France, 
 Thus I redeem it : Lacy, kneel thee 
 
 down ! — 
 Arise, Sir Rowland Lacy ! Tell me now. 
 Tell me in earnest, Oateley, canst thou 
 
 chide. 
 Seeing thy Rose a lady and a bride? 
 L. Mayor. I am content with what your 
 
 grace hath done. 
 Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there 's no 
 
 remedy. 
 King. Come on, then, all shake hands: 
 
 I '11 have you friends ; 
 Where there is much love, all discord 
 
 ends. 
 What says my mad lord mayor to all this 
 
 love? 
 Eyre. my liege, this honor you have 
 done to my fine journeyman here, Row- 
 
154 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 land Lacy, and all these favors which 
 you have shown to me this day in my 
 poor house, will make Simon Eyre live 
 longer by one dozen of warm summers 
 more than he should. 
 King. Nay, my mad lord mayor, that shall 
 be thy name; 
 If any grace of mine can length thy life, 
 One honor more I'll do thee: that new 
 
 building. 
 Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected. 
 Shall take a name from us ; we '11 have it 
 
 call'd 
 The Leadenhall,' because in digging it 
 You found the lead that covereth the 
 same. 
 Eyre. 1 thank your majesty. 
 Marg. God bless your grace ! 
 
 King. Lincoln, a word with you ! 
 
 Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and more 
 Shoemakers. 
 
 Eyre. How now, my mad knaves 1 Peace, 
 speak softly, yonder is the king. 
 
 King. With the old troop which there we 
 keep in pay. 
 We will incorporate a new supply. 
 Before one summer more pass o'er my 
 
 head, 
 France shall repent, England was in- 
 jured. 
 What are all these? 
 
 Lacy. All shoemakers, my liege, 
 
 Sometime my fellows ; in their companies 
 I liv'd as merry as an emperor. 
 
 King. My mad lord mayor, are all these 
 shoemakers 1 
 
 Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gen- 
 tlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, 
 courageous cordwainers ; they all kneel to 
 the shrine of holy Saint Hugh. 
 
 All the Shoemakers. . God save your maj- 
 esty! 
 
 King. Mad Simon, would they anything 
 with us? 
 
 Eyre. Mum, mad knaves! Not a word! 
 I '11 do 't, I warrant you. They are all 
 beggars, my liege ; all for themselves, and 
 I for them all on both my knees do en- 
 treat, that for the honor of poor Simon 
 Eyre and the good of his brethren, these 
 mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe 
 some privilege to my new Leadenhall, 
 that it may be lawful for us to buy and 
 sell leather there two days a week. 
 
 72 merrf-makizig. 
 
 King. Mad Sim, I grant your suit, you 
 
 shall have patent 
 To hold two market-days in Leadenhall, 
 Mondays and Fridays, those shall be the 
 
 times. 
 Will this content you? 
 All. Jesus bless your grace ! 
 
 Eyre. In the name of these my poor breth- 
 ren shoemakers, I most humbly thank 
 your grace. But before I rise, seeing 
 you are in the giving vein and we in the 
 begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more. 
 King. What is it, my lord mayor? 
 Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor ban- 
 quet that stands sweetly waiting for your 
 sweet presence. 
 King. I shall undo thee, Eyre, only with 
 
 feasts ; 
 Already have I been too troublesome; 
 Say, have I not? 
 Eyre. my dear king, Sim Eyre was 
 taken unawares upon a day of shroving,''^ 
 which I promist long ago to the prentices 
 of London. 
 For, an 't please your highness, in time 
 
 past, 
 I bare the water-tankard,^^ and my coat 
 Sits not a whit the worse upon my back ; 
 And then, upon a morning, some mad 
 
 boys. 
 It was Shrove Tuesday, even as 't is now, 
 gave me my breakfast, and I swore then 
 by the stopple of my tankard, if ever I 
 came to be lord mayor of London, I 
 would feast all the prentices. This day, 
 my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an 
 hundred tables five times covered; they 
 are gone home and vanisht ; 
 Yet add more honor to the gentle trade. 
 Taste of Eyre's banquet, Simon 's happy 
 
 made. 
 King. Eyre, I will taste of thy banquet, 
 
 and will say, 
 I have not met more pleasure on a 
 
 day. 
 Friends of the gentle craft, thanks to 
 
 you all, 
 Thanks, my kind lady mayoress, for our 
 
 cheer. — 
 Come, lords, a while let's revel it at 
 
 home! 
 When all our sports and banquetings are 
 
 done. 
 Wars must right wrongs which French- 
 men have begun. 
 
 Exeutit. 
 
 7>ct. p. X50, a. 49. 
 
THOMAS HEYWOOD 
 
 A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 Thomas Heywood (e. 1575-1642) was of a 
 Lincolnshire family, and may have been a 
 member of the college of Peterhouse, Cam- 
 bridge. We get our first definite information 
 about him from Henslowe's Diary in 1596. 
 He seems to have begun writing for the stage 
 about 1594, and continued active until within 
 a few years of his death, thus almost span- 
 ning the greatest years of the Elizabethan 
 drama. His productivity was amazing: he 
 himself tells us that he had a hand or " a 
 main finger " in two hundred and twenty 
 plays, of which only nineteen (four in two 
 parts) survive. Meanwhile he was acting, 
 perhaps till 1620 or so. He did also a con- 
 siderable amount of miscellaneous writing in 
 prose and loose, easy-running verse. 
 
 As The Shoemakers' Holiday represents 
 domestic, or bourgeois, drama on the side of 
 comedy, so A' Woman Killed with Kindness 
 is an example, and the best example, of do- 
 mestic, or bourgeois, tragedy. The two plays 
 spring from the same environment, and were 
 written for identical audiences, by men who 
 had a good deal in common. Both Dekker 
 and Heywood were of the middle class them- 
 selves, and reflect in their work the temper 
 and moral soimdness of the solid citizenry of 
 London. Like the earlier play, A Woman 
 Killed iiAth Kindness was written for Hens- 
 lowe, and brought the same price of three 
 pounds; as an interesting illustration of the 
 comparative value of plays and costumes in 
 the manager's eyes, we may note that on 
 March 7, 1603, the day after he paid for the 
 play, he spent ten shillings on a black satin 
 dress for Mrs. Frankford. 
 
 No other piece of dramatic criticism has 
 had the influence of Aristotle's attempt in his 
 Poetics to formulate, from the practice of 
 the Athenian dramatists, the laws of tragedy 
 and comedy. One of Aristotle's conclusions 
 was that tragedy was concerned with the fate 
 of persons of high rank, or at least illustrious 
 above their fellows. This limitation was ac- 
 cepted by Renascence scholars, and in gen- 
 eral governed the practice of Elizabethan, 
 Restoration, and eighteenth-century writers 
 of tragedy. It is, for instance, true of 
 Shakespeare's tragedy, for even in Romeo and 
 Juliet, though the personages may not be 
 called illustrious in a strict sense, yet we 
 think of the Capulets and Montagues as of 
 the aristocracy of Verona, and the star- 
 crossed lovers themselves are by their passion 
 and unhappy fate sensibly, if not actually, 
 
 155 
 
 raised above ordinary citizens. Tliere were, 
 however, in the Elizabethan period men who 
 realized that tragic feeling was not neces- 
 sarily confined to the palace; that circum- 
 stance might lift to tragic dignity the lives 
 of obscure people. One of the most power- 
 ful of pre-Shakesperean plays, so grim and 
 stark in its realism, so impressive in the por- 
 trayal of the murderess its heroine, that con- 
 jecture as to its authorship has even been 
 busy with Shakespeare's name, is Arden of 
 Feversham, written before 1690. This drama- 
 tization of Holinshed's account of a murder 
 of a husband by a wife and her paramour, 
 is the first extant example, though we hear 
 of. such plays earlier, of a group of murder 
 plays, domestic tragedies, frequently taken 
 from real life. For a number of years about 
 the turn of the century, under the influence 
 of a general swing toward realism manifest 
 also in comedy, where Ben Jonson led a re- 
 volt against romantic comedy and chronicle- 
 history, plays of this sort were especially 
 popular. Henslowe's Diary gives us the 
 names of several no longer extant, and sur- 
 viving plays such as A Warning for Fair 
 Women (1599), Two Lamentable Tragedies 
 (1599), and The Yorkshire Tragedy (1605), 
 are home-bred tragedies dealing in rather 
 artless fashion with family strife and blood- 
 shed. Another kind of domestic drama, also 
 popular in the same period, was that which 
 showed the trials of a virtuous wife at the 
 hands of a prodigal and unfaithful husband; 
 such plays, though full of pathos, usually 
 stopped short of tragedy, and ended in the 
 reform of the erring husband and his recon- 
 ciliation with his' patient wife. The Shoe- 
 makers' Holiday, in the episode of Jane, has 
 a hint of the motive, and, in Patient Grissil, 
 Dekker deals with the subject more at large. 
 How a Man May Choose a Good Wife from a 
 Bad (1602), The London Prodigal (1605), 
 and Marston's The Dutch Courtesan (1605) 
 are representative of the type. 
 
 A Woman Killed with Kindness, belong- 
 ing specifically to the first of the above-men- 
 tioned groups, is thus related to a consider- 
 able body of plays of its own day. Heywood 
 may fairly be called the most important of 
 writers of domestic drama, not alone because 
 of the number of examples he has given us, 
 but from his sincere and affecting handling 
 of his material. Once he treats the wronged-, 
 wife motive, in his comedy The Wise Woman 
 of Hogsdon (printed 1638). Usually, how- 
 ever, he deals seriously with domestic in- 
 
156 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 felicity, and always from the point of view 
 of a husband whose wife has transgressed. 
 The story of Jane Shore in the two-part 
 chronicle play Edward IV (1598), although 
 involving two kings, is in effect a domestic 
 tragedy ; " the whole treatment of that deli- 
 cate subject, the relation of a true and honor- 
 able man to the wife who has wronged him, 
 but whom he continues to love in a spirit 
 chastened by his wrongs, is handled with the 
 same delicacy, the same wide tolerance and 
 sympathy, and yet with the ethical soundness, 
 which Heywood displays with so much effect 
 in A Woman Killed with Kindness " ( Schel- 
 ling, Elizabethan Drama, I. 283). Heywood 
 returned to the theme in The English Travel- 
 ler (1633), a very fine play, and in The Late 
 Lancashire Witches (1634,) where the wife, 
 having fallen from grace by indulging in 
 witchcraft, is handed over to justice by her 
 husband. What chiefly distinguishes Hey- 
 wood's domestic tragedies in which an adult- 
 erous wife figures from those by other men 
 is the wife's treatment at the hands of her 
 husband. The Elizabethan code of morals 
 justified summary and bloody vengeance. 
 Such a punishment, indeed, Mrs. Frankford 
 expects : 
 
 ". . , Mark not my face, 
 Nor hack me with your sword ; but let me go 
 Perfect and undeformed to my tomb. 
 I am not worthy that I should prevail 
 In the least suit; no, not to speak to you, 
 Nor look on ^ou, nor to be in your presence; 
 Yet, as an abject, this one suit 1 crave ; 
 This granted, I am ready for my grave." 
 
 Heywood's delicacy of feeling and perception 
 of true honor in such circumstances win our 
 admiration, as he shows the husband remem- 
 bering that vengeance is God's and leaving 
 the wife to the torture of her guilty con- 
 science. So, in The English Traveller, young 
 Geraldine, discovering the adultery of Mrs. 
 Wincot, with whom he has exchanged vows of 
 fidelity, forbears punishment more severe than 
 a passionate upbraiding of her crime, and al- 
 lows her to die of a broken heart. It is no 
 easy matter for a dramatist to handle a situ- 
 ation of this sort in such a way as to pre- 
 serve our sympathy and respect for the in- 
 jured husband. It would have been far 
 easier, as well as more theatrically effective, 
 for Heywood to have had Frankford take 
 refuge behind " the unwritten law," and sat- 
 isfy the natural expectation of his audience 
 with a scene of bloody retribution. Heywood 
 makes his solution possible and sympathetic 
 by a thorough characterization of Frankford 
 as a Christian gentleman, and by a masterly 
 depiction of the man's emotion at the crisis. 
 He prays for patience before he disturbs the 
 guilty pair, his first natural impulse toward 
 immediate revenge displays itself when he 
 pursues WendoU with drawn swotd, and he 
 has to struggle in private with his anger be- 
 fore he can pronounce the lenient sentence on 
 his wife. We see in action his better nature 
 contending with his worse, and the struggle 
 
 humanizes as the victory ennobles him. Hey- 
 wood commands our admiration, moreover, 
 by the fine restraint with which he handles 
 the story. Neither in the climactic scenes 
 nor in the equally difficult scenes of Mrs. 
 Frankford's repentance and death in act five, 
 does he allow intrusion of sentimentality. 
 Frankford indulges in no false heroics, Mrs. 
 Frankford in no mawkish agonizings. No 
 better illustration could be found of the dif- 
 ference between true sentiment and false 
 sentimentality; the sentimental dramatists of 
 the eighteenth century could have studied this 
 play with profit. The only speeches which do 
 not ring true are those of WendoU in V. iii, 
 but from him we should not expect honest 
 penitence. 
 
 It must be admitted that the play, consider- 
 ing it as a whole, is not a model structurally. 
 It is typical of one method of Elizabethan 
 construction, which violates unity of action 
 by a combination of two plots essentially un- 
 connected. Heywood was a frequent offender 
 in this respect: The English Traveller and 
 The Captives are flagrant examples. In this 
 case the sub-plot does not, as sometimes, of- 
 fer so violent a contrast in feeling with the 
 main plot that the dignity of the play is 
 practically destroyed. Here the sub-plot, 
 dealing as it does with a question of per- 
 sonal and family honor, in a way supports 
 the more serious ethical problem of the 
 main plot. There is also this to be said for 
 the sub-plot, that by the rapidity of its de- 
 velopment it helps to conceal the bareness of 
 the main plot, whose exposition is very leis- 
 urely. But the actual binding of the plots 
 is of the flimsiest: the two groups of people 
 are brought together in the opening scene, 
 WendoU and Cranwell are transferred from 
 one group to the other, the people of the 
 sub-plot are present at Mrs. Frankford's 
 death, but of interaction between the groups 
 there is none. As for the main plot itself, 
 barring the slowness of the exposition, it is 
 well done, with one important exception. The 
 climactic upbuilding to the scene of the dis- 
 covery is strong; devices like Frankford's 
 unwillingness to believe Nicholas's story, the 
 card game, and' the feigned letter are ef- 
 fectively used. The climax is stirring, the 
 pathos of the situation enhanced by the skil- 
 ful introduction of the children, and the last 
 act avoids anticlimax; the business of the 
 lute is particularly effective. The use of sus- 
 pense is notable, in Frankford's hesitation be- 
 fore entering the house and at the door of 
 the chamber, and in the pause before Mrs. 
 Frankford's fate is made known. The one 
 great flaw in the play is the ease with which 
 Mrs. Frankford falls. This is altogether a 
 matter of characterization. >;othing in the 
 exposition of the woman's character pre- 
 pares us for the abruptness of her yielding, 
 nor is WendoU presented as so attractive as 
 to make it credible. Heywood was a master 
 in portraying a gentleman — he was no hand 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 157 
 
 at a villain. WendoU is throughout Stiff, 
 stagy, impossible. 
 
 Bourgeois tragedy seems to have lost popu- 
 lar favor not long after 1605. Save for two 
 or three plays of Heywood's, and fine single 
 examples in Middleton's and Rowley's The 
 Fair Quarrel (printed 1617) and The Witch 
 of Edmonton (1621), assigned to Dekker, 
 Rowley and Ford, domestic drama of a seri- 
 ous sort was practically abandoned during the 
 rest of the Elizabethan period. The senti- 
 mental drama of the eighteenth century re- 
 vived interest in domestic problems from a 
 moral point of view, but it was not until Lillo 
 
 wrote George Barnwell in 1731 that bourgeois 
 tragedy appeared again upon the London 
 By that time the sentimentalizing and 
 
 moralizing tendency had become so strong 
 that Barnwell is as strenuously didactic as 
 a Morality. Not until we come to the modern 
 realistic drama do we find any achievement 
 in domestic tragedy so appealing as A Woman 
 Killed with Kindness. The simplicity of 
 method, the sanity, the sound ethics, the 
 freedom from preaching, of this, the flower of 
 Elizabethan domestic tragedies, are enough to 
 insure for Heywood an honorable place in the 
 history of the drama. 
 
 A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 By THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 NAMES OP THE CHARACTERS 
 
 Sib Fbancis Acton, Brother to Mistress 
 
 Frankford. 
 Sib Charles Mountpobd. 
 Masteb John Frankfoed. 
 Masteb Ma13T, friend to Sir Francis. 
 Master Wendoll, friend to Frankford. 
 Master Ceanwell. 
 Master Shafton, false friend to Sir 
 
 Charles. 
 Old Mohntfoed, Uncle to Sir Charles. 
 Masteb Sandy. 
 Masteb Rodee. 
 Master Tidy, Cousin to Sir Charles. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 I COME but like a harbinger, being sent 
 To tell you what these preparations mean. 
 Look for no glorious state; our Muse is 
 
 bent 
 Upon a barren subject, a bare scene. 
 We could afford this twig a timber-tree, 
 Whose strength might boldly on your 
 
 favors build ; 
 Our russet, tissue; drone, a honey-bee; 
 Our barren plot, a large and spacious field ; 
 Our coarse fare, banquets; our thin water, 
 
 wine; 
 Our brook, a sea; our bat's eyes, eagle's 
 
 sight; 
 Our poet's dull and earthy Muse, divine; 
 Our ravens, doves; our crow's black 
 
 feathers, white. 
 But gentle thoughts, when they may give 
 
 the foil,i 
 Save them that yield, and spare where 
 
 they may spoil. 
 
 1 defeat. 
 
 Household Servants to 
 Frankford. 
 
 Nicholas, 
 
 Jenkin, 
 
 Roger Brickbat, 
 
 Jack Slime, 
 
 Spigot, Butler, 
 
 Sheriff. 
 
 Keeper of Prison. 
 
 Sheriff's Officers, Sergeant, Huntsmen, Fal- 
 coners, Coachmen, Carters, Servants, Mu- 
 sicians. 
 
 Mistress Anne Fbankfoed. 
 
 Susan, Sister to Sir Charles Mountford. 
 
 Cicely, Maid to Mistress Frankford. 
 
 Women Servants in Frankford's household. 
 Scene. — Yorkshire. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene 1. Boom in Frankford's house. 
 
 Enter Master Frankford, Mistress Frank- 
 ford, Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles 
 Mountford, Master Malby, Master Wen- 
 doll, and Master Cranwell. 
 
 Sir F. Some music, there! None lead 
 
 the bride a dance? 
 Sir C. Yes, would she dance The Shaking 
 of the Sheets; " 
 But that 's the dance her husband means 
 to lead her. 
 Wen. That's not the dance that every 
 man must dance, 
 According to the ballad. 
 Sir F. Music, ho! 
 
 By your leave, sister, — by your husband's 
 
 leave, 
 I should have said, — the hand that but 
 this day 
 
 2 A well-known ballad and dance tune. 
 
158 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Was given you in the church I '11 bor- 
 row.^- Sound ! 
 This marriage music hoists me from the 
 
 ground. 
 Frank. Aye, you may caper ; you are light 
 
 and free! 
 Marriage hath yok'd my heels; pray, 
 
 then, pardon me. 
 
 Sir F. I'll have you dance too, brother! 
 
 Sir C. Master Frankf ord. 
 
 You are a happy man, sir, and much joy 
 
 Succeed your marriage mirth: you have 
 
 a ■wife 
 So qualified, and with such ornaments 
 Both of the mind and body. First, her 
 
 birth 
 Is noble, and her education such 
 As might become the daughter of a 
 
 prince ; 
 Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and 
 
 her own hand 
 Can teach all strings to speak in their 
 
 best grace, 
 From the shrill'st treble to the hoarsest 
 
 base. 
 To end her many praises in one word. 
 She's Beauty and Perfection's eldest 
 
 daughter, 
 Only found by yours, though many a 
 
 heart hath sought her. 
 Frank. But that I know your virtues and 
 
 chaste thoughts, 
 I should be jealous of your praise. Sir 
 
 Charles. 
 Cran. He speaks no more than you ap- 
 prove. 
 Mai. Nor flatters he that gives to her her 
 
 due. 
 Mrs. F. I would your praise could find a 
 
 fitter theme 
 Than my imperfect beauties to speak 
 
 on ! 
 Such as they be, if they my husband 
 
 please. 
 They suffice me now I am married. 
 His sweet content is like a flattering 
 
 glass, 
 To make my face seem fairer to mine 
 
 eye; 
 But the least wrinkle from his stormy 
 
 brow 
 Will blast the roses in my cheeks that 
 
 grow. 
 Sir F. A perfect wife already, meek and 
 
 patient ! 
 How strangely the word husband fits 
 
 your mouth, 
 
 3 attained the honor. * in anticipation of the time 
 
 Not married three hours since! Sister, 
 't is good ; 
 
 You that begin betimes thus must needs 
 prove 
 
 Pliant and duteous in your husband's 
 love. — 
 
 Gramercies, brother! Wrought her to't 
 already, — 
 
 "Sweet husband," and a curtsey, the first 
 day? 
 
 Mark this, mark this, you that are bach- 
 elors. 
 
 And never took the grace ^ of honest 
 man; 
 
 Mark this, against * you marry, this one 
 phrase : 
 
 In a good time that man both wins and 
 woos 
 
 That takes his wife down^ in her wed- 
 ding shoes. 
 Frank. Your sister takes not after you, 
 Sir Francis, 
 
 All his wild blood your father spent on 
 you; 
 
 He got her in his age, when he grew 
 civil. 
 
 All his mad tricks were to his land en- 
 tail'd, 
 
 And you are heir to all; your sister, she 
 
 Hath to her dower her mother's mod- 
 esty. 
 Sir C. Lord, sir, in what a happy state 
 live you! 
 
 This morning, which to many seems a 
 burden. 
 
 Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 This lady is no clog, as many are; 
 
 She doth become you like a well-made 
 suit. 
 
 In which the tailor hath us'd all his art ; 
 
 Not like a thick coat of unseason'd frieze, 
 
 Forc'd on your back in summer. She's 
 no chain 
 
 To tie your neck, and curb you to the 
 yoke; 
 
 But she 's a chain of gold to adorn your 
 neck. 
 
 You both adorn each other, and your 
 hands, 
 
 M^thinks, are matches. There 's equality 
 
 In this fair combination ; you are both 
 
 Scholars, both young, both being de- 
 scended nobly. 
 
 There 's music in this sympathy ; it car- 
 ries 
 
 Consort " and expectation of much joy, 
 
 when. 5 reduces her to suhmission. 6 harmony. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 159 
 
 Which God bestow on you from this first 
 day 
 
 Until your dissolution, — that's for ay! 
 Sir F. We keep you here too long, good 
 brother Frankford. 
 
 Into the hall; away! Go cheer your 
 guests. 
 
 What! Bride and bridegroom both 
 withdrawn at once? 
 
 If you be miss'd, the guests will doubt 
 their welcome. 
 
 And charge you with unkindness. 
 Frank. To prevent it, 
 
 I '11 leave you here, to see the dance 
 within. 
 Mrs. F. And so will I. 
 
 Exeunt Master and Mistress Frankford. 
 Sir F. To part you it were sin. — 
 
 Now, gallants, while the town musi- 
 cians 
 
 Finger their frets within, and the mad 
 lads 
 
 And country lasses, every mother's child, 
 
 With nosegays and bride-laces ' in their 
 hats, 
 
 Dance all their country measures, rounds, 
 and jigs. 
 
 What shall we do? Hark! They 're all 
 on the hoigh ; * 
 
 They toil like mill-horses, and turn as 
 round, — 
 
 Marry, not on the toe! Aye, and they 
 caper. 
 
 Not without cutting; you shall see, to- 
 morrow. 
 
 The hall-floor peckt and dinted like a 
 mill-stone. 
 
 Made with their high shoes. Though 
 their skill be small. 
 
 Yet they tread heavy where their hob- 
 nails fall. 
 Sir C. Well, leave them to their sports ! — 
 Sir Francis Acton, 
 
 I'll make a match with you! Meet me 
 to-morrow * 
 
 At Chevy Chase ; I '11 fly my hawk with 
 yours. 
 Sir F. For what? For what? 
 Sir C. Wliy, for a hundred pound. 
 
 Sir F. Pawn me some gold of that! 
 Sir C. Here are ten angels ; ' 
 
 I '11 make them good a hundred pound to- 
 morrow 
 
 Upon my hawk's wing. 
 Sir F. 'T is a match ; 't is done. 
 
 Another hundred pounds upon your 
 dogs;— 
 
 Dare ye. Sir Charles? 
 Sir C. I dare ; were I sure to lose, 
 
 I durst do more than that; here is my 
 
 hand. 
 The first course for a hundred pound ! 
 Sir F. A match. 
 
 Wen. Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton's 
 hawk; 
 As much upon his dogs ! 
 Cran. I'm for Sir Charles Mountford: I 
 have seen 
 His hawk and dog both tried. What! 
 
 Clap you hands,'^" 
 Or is 't no bargain ? ' 
 
 Wen. Yes, and stake them down. 
 
 Were they five hundred, they were all 
 my own. 
 Sir F. Be stirring early with the lark to- 
 morrow ; 
 I '11 rise into my saddle ere the sun 
 Rise from his bed. 
 Sir C. If there you miss me, say 
 
 I am no gentleman ! I '11 hold my day. 
 Sir F. It holds on all sides. — Come, to- 
 night let 's dance ; 
 Early to-morrow let 's prepare to ride : 
 We 'd need be three hours up before the 
 bride. Exeunt. 
 
 ScENK 2. Yard of the same. 
 
 Enter Nicholas and Jenkin, Jack Slime, 
 Roger Brickbat, with Country Wenches, 
 and two or three Musicians. 
 
 Jen. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, 
 to trace withal ; Jack Slime, traverse you 
 with Cicely Milkpail; I will take Jane 
 Trubkin, and Roger Brickbat shall have 
 Isabel Motley. And now that they are 
 busy in the parlor, come, strike up ; we '11 
 have a crash '^^ here in the yard. 
 
 Nich. My humor is not compendious: 
 dancing I possess not, though I can foot 
 it; yet, since I am fallen into the hands 
 of Cicely Milkpail, I consent. 
 
 Slime. Truly, Nick, though we were never 
 brought up like serving courtiers, yet we 
 have been brought up with serving crea- 
 tures, — aye, and God's creatures, too ; for 
 we have been brought up to serve sheep, 
 oxen, horses, hogs, and such like; and, 
 though we be but country fellows, it may 
 be in the way of dancing we can do the 
 horse-trick as well as the serving-men. 
 
 Brick. Aye, and the cross-point too. 
 
 Jen. Slime ! Brickbat ! Do not you 
 know that comparisons • are odious? 
 
 7 Ktreamers. 
 
 8 excited, 
 
 8 gold coins worth 
 t«a ihilUngs. 
 
 10 shake hands on it, 
 
 11 revel. 
 
160 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Now we are odious ourselves, too; there- 
 fore there are no comparisons to be made 
 betwixt us. 
 
 Nich. I am sudden, and not superfluous; 
 I am quarrelsome, and not seditious; I 
 am peaceable, and not contentious; I am 
 brief, and not compendious. 
 
 Slime. Foot it quickly! If the music 
 overcome not my melancholy, I shall 
 quarrel; and if they suddenly do not 
 strike up, I shall presently strike thee 
 down. 
 
 Jen. No quarreling, for God's sake! 
 Truly, if you do, I shall set a knave be- 
 tween ye. 
 
 Slime. I come to dance, not to quarrel. 
 Come, what shall it be? Bogero? 
 
 Jen. Rogerof No; we will dance The 
 Beginning of the World. 
 
 Cicely. I love no dance so well as John 
 come kiss me now. 
 
 Nich. I that ha've ere now deserv'd a 
 cushion, call for the Cushion-dance. 
 
 Brick. For my part, I like nothing so well 
 as Tom Tyler. 
 
 Jen. No; we'll have The Hunting of the 
 Fox. 
 
 Slime. The Hay, The Hay! There's 
 nothing like The Hay.^^ 
 
 Nich. I have said, I do say, and I will 
 say again 
 
 Jen. Every man agree to have it as Nick 
 says! 
 
 All. Content. 
 
 Nich. It hath been, it now is, and it shall 
 be 
 
 Cicely. What, Master Nicholas? What? 
 
 Nich. Put on your Smock a' Monday. 
 
 Jen. So the dance will come cleanly , off ! 
 Come, for God's sake, agree of some- 
 thing : if you like not that, put it to the 
 musicians; or let me speak for all, and 
 we '11 have Sellenger's Bound. 
 
 All. That, that, that ! 
 
 Nich. No, I am resolv'd thus it shall be; 
 first take hands, then take ye to your 
 heels. 
 
 Jen. Why, would you have us run away? 
 
 Nieh. No; but I would have you shake 
 your heels. — Music, strike up ! 
 
 They dance; Nick dancing, speaks stately 
 and scurvily, the rest after the country 
 fashion. 
 
 Jen. Hey ! Lively, my lasses ! Here 's a 
 turn for thee ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. Chevy Chase. 
 
 Wind horns. Enter Sir Charles Mount- 
 ford, Sir Francis Acton, Malby, Cran- 
 well, Wendoll, Falconers, and Huntsmen. 
 
 Sir C. So; well cast off! Aloft, aloft! 
 Well flown ! 
 Oh, now she takes her at the souse,^^ and 
 
 strikes her 
 Down to the earth, like a swift thunder- 
 clap. 
 Wen. She hath struck ten angels out of 
 
 my way. 
 Sir F. A hundred pound from me. 
 Sir C. What, falconer! 
 Falc. At hand, sir! 
 
 Sir C. Now she hath seiz'd the fowl and 
 'gins to plume ''-* her, 
 Rebeck ^^ her not ; rather stand still and 
 
 check her! 
 So, seize her gets,'^* her jesses, and her 
 
 beUs! 
 Away! 
 Sir F. My hawk kill'd, too. 
 Sir C. Aye, but 't was at the querre,^^ 
 
 Not at the mount like mine. 
 Sir F. Judgment, my masters! 
 
 Cran. Yours miss'd her at the ferre.'-* 
 Wen. Aye, but our merlin first had plum'd 
 the fowl. 
 And twice renew'd ^* her from the river 
 
 too. 
 Her bells, Sir Francis, had not both one 
 
 weight. 
 Nor was one semi-tune above the other. 
 Methinks, these Milan bells do sound too 
 
 full. 
 And spoil the mounting of your hawk. 
 Sir C. 'Tis lost. 
 
 Sir F. I grant it not. Mine likewise 
 sefz'd a fowl 
 Within her talons, and you saw her paws 
 Full of the feathers; both her petty 
 
 singles ^° 
 And her long singles gripp'd her more 
 
 than other; 
 The terrials ^'^ of her legs were stain'd 
 
 with blood. 
 Not of the fowl only; she did discom- 
 fit 
 
 12 All these were 
 well-known dance 
 tunes. 
 
 IB while the victim 
 was rising from 
 
 the ground, hawk's legs, to ii> renewed the at- 
 
 14 pluck. which the leash tack upon, 
 
 IB recall, was attached. -'O tlie outer claws 
 
 lUsame as jesaee ; 17 swoop. of a hawk's feet; 
 
 straps on a 1 8 unexplained. 
 
 the long singles 
 were the middle 
 claws, 
 21 unexplained. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 161 
 
 Some of her feathers; but she brake 
 
 away. 
 Come, come; your hawk is but a rifler.''^ 
 Sir C. How! 
 
 Sir F. Aye, and your dogs are trindle- 
 
 tails ^^ and curs. 
 Sir C. You stir my blood. 
 You keep not one good hound in all your 
 
 kennel, 
 Nor one good hawk upon your perch. 
 Sir F. How, knight ! 
 
 Sir C. So, knight. You will not swag- 
 ger, sir? 
 Sir F. Why, say I did? 
 Sir C. Why, sir, 
 
 I say you would gain as much by swag- 
 
 g'ring 
 As you have got by wagers on your dogs. 
 You will come short in all things. 
 Sir F. Not in this ! 
 
 Now I'll strike home. 
 
 {Strikes Sir diaries.) 
 Sir C. Thou shalt to thy long home. 
 
 Or I will want my will. 
 Sir F. All they that love Sir Francis, 
 
 follow me ! 
 Sir C. AH that affect Sir Charles, draw 
 
 on my part! 
 Cran. On this side heaves my hand. 
 Wen. Here goes my heart. 
 
 They divide themselves. Sir Charles 
 Mowntford, Cranwell, Falconer, and 
 Huntsman, fight against Sir Francis Ac- 
 ton, Wendoll, his Falconer and Hunts- 
 man; and Sir Charles hath the better, 
 and beats them away, killing both of Sir 
 Francis's men. Exeunt all but Sir 
 Charles Mountford. 
 Sir C. My God, what have I done! 
 What have I done! 
 My rage hath plung'd into a sea of blood. 
 In which my soul lies drown'd. Poor 
 
 innocents, 
 For whom we are to answer ! Well, 't is 
 
 done. 
 And I remain the victor. A great con- 
 quest, 
 When I would give this right hand, nay, 
 
 this head. 
 To breathe in them new life whom I 
 
 have slain! — 
 Forgive me, God! 'Twas in the heat 
 
 of blood. 
 And anger quite removes me from my- 
 self. 
 It was not I, but rage, did this vile mur- 
 der; 
 Yet T, and not my rage, must answer it. 
 
 22 bungler. 23 curly-tailed, low-bred. 
 
 Sir Francis Acton, he is fled the field; 
 With him all those that did partake his 
 
 quarrel ; 
 And I am left alone with sorrow dumb, 
 And in my height of conquest overcome. 
 
 Enter Susan. 
 
 Susan. God! My brother wounded 
 'mong the dead ! 
 Unhappy jest, that in such earnest ends ! 
 The rumor of this fear stretcht to my 
 
 ears. 
 And I am come to know if you be 
 wounded. 
 Sir C. Oh, sister, sister! Wounded at 
 
 the heart. 
 Susan. My God forbid! 
 Sir C. In doing that thing which he for- 
 bade, 
 I am wounded, sister. 
 Susan. I hope, not at the heart. 
 
 Sir C. Yes, at the heart. 
 Susan. God! A surgeon, there. 
 
 Sir C. Call me a surgeon, sister, for my 
 soul! 
 The sin of murder, it hath pierc'd my 
 
 heart 
 And made a wide wound there; but for 
 
 these scratchds,- 
 They are nothing, nothing. 
 Susan. Charles, what have you done ? 
 
 Sir Francis hath great friends, and will 
 
 pursue you 
 Unto the utmost danger ^* of the law. 
 Sir C. My conscience is become mine 
 enemy. 
 And will pursue me more than Acton 
 can. 
 Susan. Oh, fly, sweet brother! 
 Sir C. Shall I fly from thee? 
 
 Why, Sue, art weary of my company ? 
 Susan. Fly from your foe! 
 Sir C. You, sister, are my friend, 
 
 And flying you, I shall pursue my end. 
 Susan. Your company is as my eyeball 
 dear; 
 Being far from you, no comfort can be 
 
 near. 
 Yet fly to save your life ! What would I 
 
 care 
 To spend my future age in black de- 
 spair. 
 So you were safe? And yet to live one 
 
 week 
 Without my brother Charles, through 
 
 every cheek 
 My streaming tears would downwards 
 run so ratilc,^'^ 
 
 24 power. 
 
 25 copiously. 
 
162 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Till they could set on either side a bank, 
 And in the midst a channel; so my face 
 For two salt-water brooks shall still find 
 
 place. 
 Sir C. Thou shalt not weep so much; for 
 
 I will stay, 
 In spite of danger's teeth. I '11 live with 
 
 thee, 
 Or I '11 not live at all. I will not sell 
 My country and my father's patrimony, 
 Nor thy sweet sight, for a vain hope of 
 
 life. 
 
 Enter Sheriff, with Officers. 
 
 Sher. Sir Charles, I am made the unwil- 
 ling instrument 
 Of your attach ^^ and apprehension. 
 I 'm sorry that the blood of innocent men 
 Should be of you exacted. It was told 
 
 me 
 That you were guarded with a troop of 
 
 friends, 
 And therefore I come thus arm'd. 
 Sir C. Oh, Master Sheriff! 
 
 I came into the field with many friends. 
 But see, they all have left me; only one 
 Clings to my sad misfortune, my dear 
 
 sister. 
 I know you for an honest gentleman; 
 I yield my weapons, and submit to you. 
 Convey me where you please ! 
 Sher. To prison, then. 
 
 To answer for the lives of these dead 
 men. 
 Susan. O God! God! 
 Sir C. Sweet sister, every strain 
 
 Of sorrow from your heart augments my 
 
 pain ; 
 Your grief abounds, and hits against my 
 breast. 
 Sher. Sir, will you go? 
 Sir C. Even where it likes you best. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. Franhford's study. 
 
 Enter Master Frankford. 
 
 Frank. How happy am I amongst other 
 men. 
 That in my mean estate embrace con- 
 tent! 
 I am a gentleman, and by my birth 
 Companion with a king; a king's no 
 
 more. 
 I am possess'd of many fair revenues. 
 Sufficient to maintain a gentleman; 
 
 Touching my mind, I am studied in all 
 
 arts. 
 The riches of my thoughts; and of my 
 
 time 
 Have been a good proficient ; ^^ but, the 
 
 chief 
 Of all the sweet felicities on earth, 
 I have a fair, a chaste, and loving 
 
 wife, — 
 Perfection all, all truth, all ornament. 
 If man on earth may truly happy be. 
 Of these at once possest, sure, I am he. 
 Enter Nicholas. 
 Nich, Sir, there's a gentleman attends 
 without 
 To speak with you. 
 Frank, On horseback? 
 
 Nich. Yes, on horseback. 
 
 Frank. Entreat him to alight, I will at- 
 tend him. 
 Know'st thou him, Nick? 
 Nich. Know him? Yes; his name 's Wen- 
 doll, 
 It seems, he comes in haste: his horse is 
 
 booted 
 Up to the flank in mire, himself all 
 
 spotted 
 And stain'd with plashing. Sure, he rid 
 
 in fear. 
 Or for a wager. Horse and man both 
 
 sweat ; 
 I ne'er saw two in such a smoking heat. 
 Frank. Entreat him in: about it in- 
 stantly ! 
 
 Exit Nicholas. 
 This Wendoll I have noted, and his car- 
 riage 
 Hath pleas'd me much; by observation 
 I have noted many good deserts in him. 
 He 's affable, and seen ^^ in many things; 
 Discourses well; a good companion; 
 And though of small means, yet a gen- 
 tleman 
 Of a good house, though somewhat prest 
 
 by want. 
 I have preferred him to a second place 
 In my opinion and my best regard. 
 Enter Wendoll, Mistress Frankford, and 
 Nicholas. 
 Mrs. F. Oh, Master Frankford! Master 
 Wendoll here 
 Brings you the strangest news that e'er 
 you heard. 
 Frank. What news, sweet wife? What 
 
 news, good Master Wendoll? 
 Wen. You knew the match made 'twixt 
 Sir Francis Acton 
 
 S6 arrest. 
 
 27 have made good use ot. 
 
 88 accomplished. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 163 
 
 And Sir Charles Mountf ord "? 
 Frank. True; with their hounds and 
 
 hawfa. 
 Wen. The matches were both play'd. 
 Frank. Ha? And which won? 
 
 Wen. Sir Francis, your wife's brother, 
 
 had the worst. 
 And lost the wager. 
 Frank. Why, the worse his chance; 
 
 Perhaps the fortune of some other day 
 Will change his luck. 
 Mrs. F. Oh, but you hear not all. 
 
 Sir Francis lost, and yet was loth to 
 
 yield. 
 At length the two knights grew to differ- 
 ence. 
 From words to blows, and so to banding 
 
 sides ; 
 Where valorous Sir Charles slew, in his 
 
 spleen, 
 Two of your brother's men, — ^his fal- 
 coner. 
 And his good huntsman, whom he lov'd 
 
 so well. 
 More men were wounded, no more slain 
 
 outright. 
 Frank. Now, trust me, I am sorry for the 
 
 knight. 
 But is my brother safe ? 
 Wen. All whole and sound, 
 
 His body not being blemish'd with one 
 
 wound. 
 But poor Sir Charles is to the prison led. 
 To answer at th' assize for them that's 
 
 dead. 
 Frank. I thank your pains, sir. Had the 
 
 news been better. 
 Tour will was to have brought it. Master 
 
 Wendoll. 
 Sir Charles will find hard friends; his 
 
 case is heinous 
 And will be most severely censur'd on.^" 
 I'm sorry for him. Sir, a word with 
 
 you! 
 I know you, sir, to be a gentleman 
 In all things ; your possibilities ^^ but 
 
 mean: 
 Please you to use my table and my 
 
 purse ; 
 They 're yours. 
 Wen. O Lord, sir! I shall ne'er de- 
 
 serve it. 
 Frank. sir, disparage not your worth 
 
 too much : 
 You are full of quality °^ and fair desert. 
 Choose of my men which shall attend on 
 
 you, 
 And he is yours. I will allow you, sir, 
 
 ?9 judged. so resources. si natural 
 
 Your man, your gelding, and your table, 
 all 
 
 At my own charge ; be my companion ! 
 Wen. Master Frankford, I have oft been 
 bound to you 
 
 By many favors ; this exceeds them all. 
 
 That I shall never merit your least 
 favor ; 
 
 But when your last remembrance I for- 
 get, 
 
 Heaven at my soul exact that weighty 
 debt! 
 Frank. There needs no protestation ; for I 
 know you 
 
 Virtuous, and therefore grateful. — 
 Prithee, Nan, 
 
 Use him with all thy loving'st courtesy! 
 Mrs. F. As far as modesty may well ex- 
 tend, 
 
 It is my duty to receive your friend. 
 Frank. To dmner! Come, sir, from this 
 present day, 
 
 Welcome to me for ever! Come, away! 
 
 Exeunt Frankford, Mistress Frankford, 
 and Wendoll. 
 Nich, I do not like this fellow by no 
 means : 
 
 I never see him but my heart still 
 yearns.^^ 
 
 Zounds! I could fight with him, yet 
 know not why; 
 
 The devil and he are all one in mine eye. 
 
 Enter Jenkin. 
 
 Jen. Nick! What gentleman is that 
 comes to lie at our house? My master 
 allows him one to wait on him, and I be- 
 lieve it will fall to thy lot. 
 Nich. I love my master; by these hilts, I 
 do; 
 But rather than I '11 ever come to serve 
 
 him, 
 I '11 turn away my master. 
 
 Enter Cicelyl 
 Cic. Nich'las! where are you, Nich'las? 
 You must come in, Nich'las, and help the 
 young gentleman off with his boots. 
 Nich. If I pluck off his boots, I '11 eat the 
 spurs, 
 And they shall stick fast in my throat 
 like burrs. 
 Cic. Then, Jenkin, come you ! 
 Jen. Nay, 't is no boot ^^ for me to deny 
 it. My master hath given me a coat 
 here, but he takes pains himself to brush 
 it once or twice a day with a holly wand. 
 Cic. Come, come, make haste, that you 
 
 gifts. 
 
 32 grieves. 
 
 33 use. 
 
164 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PEBIOD 
 
 may wash your hands again, and helj) to 
 serve in dinner! 
 Jen. You may see, my masters, though it 
 be afternoon with you, 't is yet but early 
 days with us, for we have not din'd yet. 
 Stay but a little ; I '11 but go in and help 
 to bear up the first course, and come to 
 you again presently. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Tlie Jail. 
 
 Enter Malby and Cranwell. 
 
 Mai. This is the sessions-day; pray can 
 you tell me 
 
 How young Sir Charles hath sped? Is 
 he acquit, 
 
 Or must he try the laws' strict penalty? 
 Cran. He 's clear'd of ' all, spite of his 
 enemies. 
 
 Whose earnest labor was to take his life. 
 
 But in this suit of paidon he hath spent 
 
 All the revenues that his father left him; 
 
 And he is now turn'd a plain country- 
 man, 
 
 Reform'd in all things. See, sir, here he 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles and his Keeper. 
 
 Keep. Discbarge your fees, and you are 
 
 then at freedom. 
 Sir C. Here, Master Keeper, take the 
 poor remainder 
 Of all the wealth I have! My heavy 
 
 foes 
 Have made my purse light ; but, alas ! to 
 
 me 
 'T is wealth enough that you have set me 
 free. 
 Mai. God give you joy of your delivery! 
 I am glad to see you abroad. Sir Charles. 
 Sir C. The poorest knight in England, 
 Master Malby. 
 My life has cost me all my patrimony 
 My father left his son. Well, God for- 
 give them 
 That are the authors of my penury! 
 
 Enter Shafton. 
 
 Shaft. Sir Charles! A hand, a hand! 
 At liberty? 
 Now, by the faith I owe, I am glad to 
 
 see it. 
 What want you? Wherein may I pleas- 
 ure you? 
 Sir C. Oh me! Oh, most unhappy gen- 
 tleman ! 
 
 84 to prevent failure. 
 
 I am not worthy to have friends stirr'd 
 up, 
 
 Whose hands may help me in this plunge 
 of want. 
 
 I would I were in Heaven, to inherit 
 there 
 
 Th' immortal birthright which my Savior 
 keeps, 
 
 And by no unthrift can be bought and 
 sold ; 
 
 For here on earth what pleasures should 
 we trust ! 
 Shaft. To rid you from these contempla- 
 tions, 
 
 Three hundred pounds you shall receive 
 of me; 
 
 Nay, five for f ail.^* Come, sir, the sight 
 of gold 
 
 Is the most sweet receipt for melancholy, 
 
 And will revive your spirits. You shall 
 hold law 
 
 With your proud adversaries. Tush ! let 
 Frank Acton 
 
 Wage, with his knighthood, like expense 
 with me. 
 
 And he will sink, he will. — ^Nay, good Sir 
 Charles, 
 
 Applaud your fortune and your fair es- 
 cape 
 
 From all these perils. 
 Sir C. Oh, sir! they have undone me. 
 
 Two thousand and five hundred pound a 
 year 
 
 My father at his death possest me of; 
 
 All which the envious Acton made me 
 spend ; 
 
 And, notwithstanding all this large ex- 
 pense, 
 
 I had much ado to gain my liberty ; 
 
 And I have only now a house of pleas- 
 ure, 
 
 With some five hundred pounds reserv'd, 
 
 Both to maintain me and my loving sis- 
 ter. 
 Shaft. (Aside.) That must I have, it lies 
 convenient for me. 
 
 If I can fasten but one finger on him, 
 
 With my full hand I '11 gripe him to the 
 heart. 
 
 'T is not for love I proffer'd him this 
 coin, 
 
 But for my gain and pleasure. — Come, 
 Sir Charles, 
 
 I know you have need of money ; take my 
 offer. 
 Sir C. Sir, I accept it, and remain in- 
 debted 
 
 Even to the best of my unable ^''' power. 
 
 85 feeble. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 165 
 
 Come, gentlemen, and see it tend'red 
 down! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. Frankford's house. 
 
 Enter Wendoll, melancholy. 
 
 Wen, I am a villain, if I apprehend *" 
 But such a thought! Then, to attempt 
 
 the deed. 
 Slave, thou art damn'd without redemp- 
 tion. — 
 I '11 drive away this passion with a song. 
 A song! Ha, ha! A song! As if, 
 
 fond " man. 
 Thy eyes could swim in laughter, when 
 
 thy soul 
 Lies drench'd and drowned in red tears 
 
 of blood! 
 I'll pray, and see if God within my 
 
 heart 
 Plant better thoughts. Why, prayers 
 
 are meditations. 
 And when I meditate (oh, God forgive 
 
 me!) 
 It is on her divine perfections. 
 I will forget her; I will arm myself 
 Not t' entertain a thought of love to 
 
 her; 
 And, when I come by chance into her 
 
 presence, 
 I'll hale these balls until my eye-strings 
 
 crack. 
 From being puU'd and drawn to look 
 
 that way. 
 
 Enter, over the Stage, Frankford, his 
 Wife, and Nicholas, and exeunt. 
 
 God, God ! With what a violence 
 
 1 'm hurried to mine own destruction ! 
 There goest thou, the most perfectest 
 
 man 
 That ever England bred a gentleman. 
 And shall I wrong his bed? — Thou God 
 
 of thunder! 
 Stay, in Thy thoughts of vengeance and 
 
 of wrath, 
 Thy great, almighty, and all-judging 
 
 hand 
 From speedy execution on a villain, — 
 A villain and a traitor to his friend. 
 
 Enter Jenkin, 
 
 Jen. Did your worship call? 
 
 36 conceive. 
 
 37 foolish. 
 
 Wen. He doth maintain me; he allows me 
 largely 
 Money to spend. 
 Jen. By my faith, so do not you me: I 
 
 cannot get a cross ^^ of you. 
 Wen. My gelding, and my man. 
 Jen. That's Sorrel and I. 
 Wen. This kindness grows of no alli- 
 ance ^' 'twixt us. 
 Jen. Nor is my service of any great ac- 
 quaintance. 
 Wen. I never bound him to me by desert. 
 Of a mere stranger, a poor gentleman, 
 A man by whom in no kind he could 
 
 gain, 
 He hath plac'd me in the height of all 
 
 his thoughts, 
 Made me companion with the best and 
 
 chiefest 
 In Yorkshire. He cannot eat without 
 
 me, 
 Nor laugh without me;. I am to his body 
 As necessary as his digestion, 
 And equally do make him whole or 
 
 sick. 
 And shall I wrong this man ? Base man ! 
 
 Ingrate ! 
 Hast thou the power, straight with thy 
 
 gory hands. 
 To rip thy image from his bleeding heart, 
 To scratch thy name from out the holy 
 
 book 
 Of his remembrance, and to wound his 
 
 name 
 That holds thy name so dear? Or rend 
 
 his heart 
 To whom thy heart was knit and join'd 
 
 together ? — 
 And yet I must. Then Wendoll, be con- 
 tent! 
 Thus villains, when they would, cannot 
 repent. 
 Jen. What a strange humor is my new 
 master in ! Pray God he be not mad ; if 
 he should be so, I should never have any 
 mind to serve him in Bedlam.*" It may 
 be he 's mad for missing of me. 
 Wen. What, Jenkin ! Where 's your mis- 
 tress? 
 Jen. Is your worship married? 
 Wen. Why dost thou ask? 
 Jen. Because you are my master; and if I 
 have a mistress, I would be glad, like a 
 good servant, to do my duty to her. 
 Wen. I mean Mistress Frankford. 
 Jen. Marry, sir, her husband is riding out 
 of town, and she went very lovingly to 
 bring him on his way to horse. Do you 
 
 38 a coin with a cross on one side. 89 kinship. to lunatic asylum. 
 
166 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 see, sir? Here she comes, and here I go. 
 Wen. Vanish ! 
 
 Exit Jenkin. 
 
 Enter Mistress Frankford. 
 
 Mrs. F. You are well met, sir; now, in 
 troth, my husband 
 
 Before he took horse, had a great desire 
 
 To speak with you; we sought about the 
 house, 
 
 Halloo'd into the fields, sent every way, 
 
 But could not meet you. Therefore, he 
 enjoin'd me 
 
 To do unto you his most kind com- 
 mends, — 
 
 Nay, more : he wills you, as you prize his 
 love, 
 
 Or hold in estimation his kind friend- 
 ship, 
 
 To make bold in his absence, and com- 
 mand 
 
 Even as himself were present in the 
 house ; 
 
 For you must keep his table, use his serv- 
 ants. 
 
 And be a present Frankford in his ab- 
 sence. 
 Wen. I thank him for his love. — 
 
 (Aside.) Give me a name, you, whose 
 infectious tongues 
 
 Are tipt with gall and poison: as you 
 wou}d 
 
 Think on a man that had your father 
 slain, 
 
 Murd'red your children, made your wives 
 base strumpets, 
 
 So call me, call me so ; print in my face 
 
 The most stigmatic title of a villain, 
 
 For hatching treason to so true a friend ! 
 Mrs. F. Sir, you are much beholding to 
 my husband ; 
 
 You are a man most dear in his regard. 
 Wen. I am bound unto your husband, and 
 you too. 
 
 (Aside.) I will not speak to wrong a 
 gentleman 
 
 Of that good estimation, my kind friend. 
 
 I will not; zounds! I will not. I may 
 choose, 
 
 And I will choose. Shall I be so mis- 
 led, 
 
 Or shall I purchase to my father's crest 
 
 The motto of a villain? If I say 
 
 I will not do it, what thing can enforce 
 me? 
 
 What can compel me? What sad des- 
 tiny 
 
 Hath such command upon my yielding 
 thoughts? 
 
 I will not; — ha! Some fury pricks me 
 
 on; 
 The swift fates drag me at their chariot 
 
 wheel. 
 And hurry me to mischief. Speak I 
 
 must: 
 Injure myself, wrong her, deceive his 
 trust ! 
 Mrs. F. Are you not well, sir, that you 
 seem thus troubled? 
 There is sedition in your countenance. 
 Wen. And in my heart, fair angel, chaste 
 and wise. 
 I love you ! Start not, speak not, answer 
 
 not; 
 I love you, — nay, let me speak the rest; 
 Bid me to swear, and I will call to record 
 The host of Heaven. 
 Mrs. F. The host of Heaven forbi(J 
 
 Wendoll should hatch such a disloyal 
 thought? 
 Wen. Such is my fate; to this suit was I 
 bom, 
 To wear rich pleasure's crown, or for- 
 tune's scorn. 
 Mrs. F. My husband loves you. 
 Wen. I know it. 
 
 Mrs. F. He esteems you, 
 
 Evien as his brain, his eye-ball, or his 
 heart. 
 Wen. I have tried it. 
 Mrs. F. His purse is your exchequer, and 
 his table 
 Doth freely serve you. 
 Wen. So I have found it. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, with what face of brass, what 
 brow of steel, 
 Can you, unblushing, speak this to the 
 
 face 
 Of the espous'd wife of so dear a friend? 
 It is my husband that maintains your 
 
 state. — 
 Will you dishonor him that in your 
 
 power 
 Hath left his whole affairs? I am his 
 
 wife. 
 It is to me you speak. 
 Wen. speak no more ; 
 
 For more than this I know, and have re- 
 corded 
 Within the red-leav'd table of my heart. 
 Fair, and of all belov'd, I was not fear- 
 ful 
 Bluntly to give my life into your hand. 
 And at one hazard all my earthly 
 
 means. 
 Go, tell your husband; he will turn me 
 
 off, 
 And I am then undone. I care not, I; 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 167 
 
 'T was for your sake. Perchance, in rage 
 he'll kill me; 
 
 I care not, 't was for you. Say I incur 
 
 The general name of villain through the 
 world, 
 
 Of traitor to my friend ; I care not, I. 
 
 Beggary, shame, death, scandal, and re- 
 proach, — 
 
 For you I'll hazard all. Why, what 
 care 11 
 
 For you I'll live, and in your love I'll 
 die. 
 Mrs. F. You move me, sir, to passion and 
 to pity. 
 
 The love I bear my husband is as pre- 
 cious 
 
 As my soul's health. 
 Wen. I love your husband too. 
 
 And for his love I will engage my life. 
 
 Mistake me not; the augmentation 
 
 Of my sincere aflfeetion borne to you 
 
 Doth no whit lessen my regard to him. 
 
 I will be secret, lady, close as night; 
 
 And not the light of one small glorious 
 star 
 
 Shall shine here in my forehead, to be- 
 wray 
 
 That act of night. 
 Mrs. F. What shall I say'? 
 
 My soul is wandering, and hath lost her 
 way. 
 
 Oh, Master Wendell ! Oh ! 
 Wen. Sigh not, sweet saint ; 
 
 For every sigh you breathe draws from 
 my heart 
 
 A drop of blood. 
 Mrs. F. I ne'er offended yet : 
 
 My fault, I fear, will in my brow be 
 writ. 
 
 Women that fall, not quite bereft of 
 grace, 
 
 Have their offenses noted in their face. 
 
 I blush, and am asham'd. Oh, Master 
 Wendoll, 
 
 Pray God I be not born to curse your 
 tongue. 
 
 That hath enchanted me! This maze I 
 am in 
 
 I fear will prove the labyrinth of sin. 
 
 Enter Nicholas behind. 
 
 Wen. The path of pleasure and the gate 
 
 to bliss, 
 Which on your lips I knock at with a 
 
 kiss! 
 Nich. I'll kill the rogue. 
 Wen. Your husband is from home, your 
 
 bed 's no blab. 
 
 11 secret practices. 
 
 Nay, look not down and blush ! 
 Exeunt Wendoll and Mistress Frankford. 
 Nich. Zounds I I 'II stab. 
 
 Aye, Nick, was it thy chance to come 
 
 just in the nick? 
 I love my master, and I hate that slave; 
 I love my mistress, but these tricks I 
 
 like not. 
 My master shall not pocket up this 
 
 wrong; 
 I'll eat my fingers first. What say'st 
 
 thou, metal? 
 Does not the rascal Wendoll go on legs 
 That thou must cut off? Hath he not 
 
 ham-strings 
 That thou must hough? Nay, metal, 
 
 thou shalt stand 
 To all I say. I'll henceforth turn a 
 
 spy, 
 
 And watch them in their close convey- 
 ances.*'^ 
 
 I never look'd for better of that rascal. 
 
 Since he came miehing*? first into our 
 house. 
 
 It is that Satan hath corrupted her ; 
 
 For she was fair and chaste. I'll have 
 an eye 
 
 In all their gestures. Thus I think of 
 them : 
 
 If they proceed as they have done before, 
 
 Wendoll 's a knave, my mistress is a 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. Sir Charles Mountford's house. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Mountford and Susan. 
 
 Sir C. Sister, you see we are driven to 
 hard shift, 
 
 To keep this poor house we have left 
 unsold. 
 
 I'm now enforc'd to follow husbandry. 
 
 And you to milk; and do we not live 
 well? 
 
 Well, I thank God. 
 Susan. brother! here's a change. 
 
 Since old Sir Charles died, in our fa- 
 ther's house. 
 Sir C. All things on earth thus change, 
 some up, some down; 
 
 Content's a kingdom, and I wear that 
 crown. 
 
 Enter Shafton, with a Sergeant. 
 
 42 sneaking. 
 
168 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Shaft. Good morrow, morrow, Sir 
 Charles! What! With your sister, 
 
 Plying your husbandry? — Sergeant, 
 stand off! — 
 
 You have a pretty house here, and a gar- 
 den, 
 
 And goodly ground about it. Since it 
 lies 
 
 So near a lordship that I lately bought, 
 
 I would fain buy it of you. I will give 
 
 you 
 
 Sir C. Oh, pardon me; this house suc- 
 cessively 
 
 Hath long'd to me and my progenitors 
 
 Three hundred years. My great-great- 
 grandfather, 
 
 He in whom first our gentle style *^ be- 
 gan? 
 
 Dwelt here, and in this ground increast 
 this mole-hill 
 
 Unto that mountain which my father left 
 me. 
 
 Where he the first of all our house began, 
 
 I now the last will end, and keep this 
 house, — 
 
 This virgin title, never yet deflower'd 
 
 By any unthrift of the Mountfords' line. 
 
 In brief, I will not sell it for more 
 gold 
 
 Than you could hide or pave the ground 
 withal. 
 Shaft. Ha, ha! a proud mind and a beg- 
 
 gar's purse 
 
 Where 's my three hundred pounds, be- 
 sides the use?** 
 
 I have brought it to an execution 
 
 By course of law. What ! Is my money 
 ready? 
 Sir C. An execution, sir, and never tell 
 me 
 
 You put my bond in suit? You deal ex- 
 tremely. 
 Shaft. Sell me the land, and I'll acquit 
 
 you straight. 
 Sir C. Alas, alas! 'T is all trouble hath 
 left me 
 
 To cherish me and my poor sister's life. 
 
 If this were sold, our names should then 
 be quite 
 
 Raz'd from the bead-roll*" of gentility. 
 
 You see what hard shift we have made 
 to keep it 
 
 Allied still to our name. This palm you 
 see, 
 
 Labor hath glow'd within; her silver 
 brow. 
 
 That never tasted a rough winter's blast 
 
 Without a mask or fan, doth with a 
 grace 
 
 Defy cold winter, and his storms out- 
 face. 
 Susan,. Sir, we feed sparing, and we labor 
 hard, 
 
 We lie uneasy, to reserve to us 
 
 And our succession this small spot of 
 ground. 
 Sir G. I have so bent my thoughts to hus- 
 bandry,*" 
 
 That I protest I scarcely can remember 
 
 What a new fashion is ; how silk or satin 
 
 Feels in my hand. Why, pride is grown 
 to us 
 
 A mere, mere stranger. I have quite 
 forgot 
 
 The names of all that ever waited on 
 me. 
 
 I cannot name ye any of my hounds. 
 
 Once from whose echoing mouths I heard 
 all music 
 
 That e'er my heart desir'd. What should 
 I say? 
 
 To keep this place, I have chang'd my- 
 self away. 
 Shaft. Arrest him at my suit! — Actions 
 and actions 
 
 Shall keep thee in perpetual bondage 
 fast; 
 
 Nay, more, I '11 sue thee by a late appeal. 
 
 And call thy former life in question. 
 
 The keeper is my friend ; thou shalt have 
 irons, 
 
 And usage such as I '11 deny to dogs. — 
 
 Away with him. 
 Sir C. You are too timorous.*^ 
 
 But trouble is my master. 
 
 And I will serve him truly. — My kind sis- 
 ter. 
 
 Thy tears are of no use to mollify 
 
 The flinty man. Go to my father's 
 brother. 
 
 My kinsmen, and allies ; entreat them for 
 me. 
 
 To ransom me from this injurious man' 
 
 That seeks my ruin. 
 Shaft. Come, irons! Come away; 
 
 I '11 see thee lodg'd far from the sight of 
 day. 
 
 Exeunt, except Susan. 
 Susan. My heart's so hard'ned with the 
 frost of grief, 
 
 Death cannot pierce it through. — Tyrant 
 too fell! 
 
 So lead the fiends condemned souls to 
 hell. 
 
 43 rank as gentry. 
 
 44 interest. 
 
 45 list ; properly a 
 list of names to 
 
 be prayed for. 
 46 economy. 
 
 47 Neilson suggests tyrawnous. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 169 
 
 Enter Sir Francis Acton and Malby. 
 
 Sir F. Again to prison! Malby, hast 
 thou seen 
 
 A poor slave better tortur'd? Shall we 
 hear 
 
 The music of his voice cry from the 
 grate,** 
 
 Meat, for the Lord's sake? No, no; yet 
 I am not 
 
 Throughly reveng'd. They say, he hath 
 a pretty wench 
 
 Unto his sister; shall I, in mercy-sake 
 
 To him and to his kindred, bribe the 
 fool 
 
 To shame herself by lewd, dishonest lust? 
 
 I'll proffer largely; but, the deed being 
 done, 
 
 I '11 smile to see her base confusion. 
 Mai. Methinks, Sir Francis, you are full 
 reveng'd 
 
 Eor greater wrongs than he can proffer 
 you. 
 
 See where the poor sad gentlewoman 
 stands ! 
 Sir F. Ha, ha! Now will I flout her 
 poverty. 
 
 Deride her fortunes, scoff her base es- 
 tate; 
 
 My very soul the name of Mountford 
 hates. 
 
 But stay, my heart! Oh, what a look 
 did fly 
 
 To strike my soul through with thy 
 piercing eye! 
 
 I am enchanted; all my spirits are fled. 
 
 And with one glance my envious spleen 
 struck dead. 
 Susan. Acton ! That seeks our blood ! 
 
 Buns away. 
 Sir F. chaste and fair! 
 
 Mai Sir Francis! Why, Sir Francis! 
 Zounds, in a trance? 
 
 Sir Francis! What cheer, man? Come, 
 come, how is't? 
 Sir F. Was she not fair? Or else this 
 judging eye 
 
 Cannot distinguish beauty. 
 Mai. She was fair. 
 
 Sir F. She was an angel in a mortal's 
 shape. 
 
 And ne'er descended from old Mount- 
 ford's line. 
 
 But soft, soft, let me call my wits to- 
 gether ! 
 
 A poor, poor wench, to my great adver- 
 sary 
 
 Sister, whose very souls denounce stern 
 
 war 
 One against other! How now, Frank, 
 
 turn'd fool 
 Or madman, whether? But no! Master 
 
 of 
 My perfect senses and directest wits. 
 Then why should I be in this violent 
 
 humor 
 Of passion and of love? And with a 
 
 person 
 So different every way, and so oppos'd 
 In all contractions *° and still-warring 
 
 actions? 
 Pie, fie! How I dispute against my 
 
 soul! 
 Come, come ; I '11 gain her, or in her fair 
 
 quest 
 Purchase my soul free and immortal rest. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Frankford's house. 
 
 Enter three or four Serving-men, one with 
 a voider ^° and a wooden knife, to take 
 away all; another the salt arid bread; 
 another with the tdble-eloth and napkins; 
 another the carpet; ^'^ Jenkin with two 
 lights after them. 
 
 Jen. So; march in order, and retire in 
 battle array ! My master and the guests 
 have supp'd already; all's taken away. 
 Here, now spread for the serving-men in 
 the hall! — Butler, it belongs to your 
 office. 
 
 But. I know it, Jenkin. What d' ye call 
 the gentleman that supp'd there to-night? 
 
 Jen. Who? My master? 
 
 But. No, no ; Master Wendoll, he 's a daily 
 guest. I mean the gentleman that came 
 but this afternoon. 
 
 Jen. His name 's Master Cranwell. God's 
 light! Hark, within there; my master 
 calls to lay more billets ^^ upon the fire. 
 Come, come! Lord, how we that are in 
 office here in the house are troubled ! 
 One spread the carpet in the parlor, and 
 stand ready to snuff the lights; the rest 
 be ready to prepare their stomachs! 
 More lights in the hall, there! Come, 
 Nicholas, 
 
 Exeunt all but Nicholas. 
 
 Nich. I cannot eat; but had I WendoU's 
 heart, 
 I would eat that. The rogue grows im- 
 pudent, 
 
 48 grated window of 
 the debtor's prison. 
 
 40 dealings. 
 
 60 crumb-tray. 
 
 SI table-cloth. 
 
 S2 logs. 
 
170 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Oh! I have seen such vile, notorious 
 
 tricks, 
 Ready to make my eyes dart from my 
 
 head. 
 I '11 tell my master; by this air, I will; 
 Fall what may fall, I '11 tell him. Here 
 
 he comes. 
 
 Enter Master Frankford, as it were 
 brushing the crumbs from his clothes 
 with a napkin, as newly risen from sup- 
 per. 
 
 Frank. Nicholas, what make you here? 
 
 Why are not you 
 At supper in the hall, among your fel- 
 lows? 
 Nich. Master, I stay'd your rising from 
 
 the board. 
 To speak with you. 
 Frank. Be brief then, gentle Nicholas; 
 My wife and guests attend °' me in the 
 
 parlor. 
 Why dost thou pause? Now, Nicholas, 
 
 you want money. 
 And, unthrift-like, would eat into your 
 
 wages 
 Ere you had earn'd it. Here, sir, 's half- 
 
 a-crown ; 
 Play the good husband,''* — and away to 
 
 supper ! 
 Nich. By this hand, an honorable gentle- 
 man ! I will not see him wrong'd. 
 Sir, I have serv'd you long; you enter- 
 
 tain'd me 
 Seven years before your beard ; you knew 
 
 me, sir, 
 Before you knew my mistress. 
 Frank. What of this, good Nicholas? 
 Nieh. I never was a make-bate"" or a 
 
 knave; 
 I have no fault but one — I'm given to 
 
 quarrel. 
 But not with women. I will tell you, 
 
 master, 
 That which will make your heart leap 
 
 from your breast. 
 Your hair to startle from your head, your 
 
 ears to tingle. 
 Frank. What preparation 's this to dis- 
 mal news? 
 Nich. 'Sblood ! sir, I love you better than 
 
 your wife. 
 I'll make it good. 
 Frank. You are a knave, and I have much 
 
 ado 
 With wonted patience to contain my rage. 
 And not to break thy pate. Thou art a 
 
 knave. 
 
 I'll turn you, with your base compari- 
 sons, 
 Out of my doors. 
 Nich. Do, do. 
 
 There is not room for WendoU and me 
 
 too. 
 Both in one house. O master, master, 
 That WendoU is a villain ! 
 Frank. Aye, saucy ? 
 
 Nich. Strike, strike, do strike; yet hear 
 
 me! I am no fool; 
 I know a villain, when I see him act 
 Deeds of a villain. Master, master, the 
 
 base slave 
 Enjoys my mistress, and dishonors you. 
 Frank. Thou hast kill'd me with a 
 
 weapon, whose sharp point 
 Hath prick'd quite through and through 
 
 my shiv'ring heart. 
 Drops of cold sweat sit dangling on my 
 
 hairs. 
 Like morning's dew upon the golden 
 
 flowers. 
 And I am plung'd into strange agonies. 
 What did'st thou say ? If any word that 
 
 toucht 
 His credit, or her reputation. 
 It is as hard to enter my belief. 
 As Dives into heaven. 
 Nich. I can gain nothing: 
 
 They are two that never wrong'd me. I 
 
 knew before 
 'T was but a thankless office, and per- 
 haps 
 As much as is my service, or my life 
 Is worth. All this I know ; but this, and 
 
 more. 
 More by a thousand dangers, could not 
 
 hire me 
 To smother such a heinous wrong from 
 
 you. 
 I saw, and I have said. 
 Frank. (Aside.) 'T is probable. Though 
 
 blunt, yet he is honest. 
 Though I durst pawn my Ufe, and on 
 
 their faith 
 Hazard the dear salvation of my soul, 
 Yet in my trust I may be too secure. 
 May this be true? Oh, may it? Can 
 
 it be? 
 Is it by any wonder possible? 
 Man, woman, what thing mortal can we 
 
 trust. 
 When friends and bosom wives prove so 
 
 unjust? — 
 What instance '"' hast thou of this strange 
 
 report? 
 Nich. Eyes, eyes. 
 
 ES await. 
 
 04 thrifty man. 
 
 BB breeder of quarrels. 
 
 B6 evidence. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 171 
 
 Frank. Thy eyes may be deceiv'd, I tell 
 thee; 
 
 Tor should an angel from the heavens 
 drop down, 
 
 And preach this to me that thyself hast 
 told, 
 
 He should have much ado to win belief; 
 
 In both their loves I am so confident. 
 Nich. Shall I discourse the same by cir- 
 cumstance 1 
 Frank. No more! To supper, and com- 
 mand your fellows 
 
 To attend us and the strangers! Not a 
 word, 
 
 I charge thee, on thy life! Be secret 
 then ; 
 
 For I know nothing. 
 Nieh. I am dumb; and, now that I have 
 eas'd my stomach,^^ 
 
 I will go fill my stomach. 
 
 Exit. 
 Frank. Away ! Begone ! — 
 
 She is well bom, descended nobly; 
 
 Virtuous her education; her repute 
 
 Is in the general voice of all the country 
 
 Honest and fair; her carriage, her de- 
 meanor, 
 
 In all her actions that concern the love 
 
 To me her husband, modest, chaste, and 
 godly. 
 
 Is all this seeming gold plain copper? 
 
 But he, that Judas that hath borne my 
 purse. 
 
 Hath sold me for a sin. God! 
 God! 
 
 Shall I put up these wrongs'? No! 
 Shall I trust 
 
 The bare report of this suspicious groom, 
 
 Before the double-gilt, the well-hatch'd =^ 
 ore 
 
 Of their two hearts? No, I will lose 
 these thoughts; 
 
 Distraction I will banish from my brow. 
 
 And from my looks exile sad discon- 
 tent, 
 
 Their wonted favors in my tongue shall 
 flow; 
 
 Till I know all, I'll nothing seem to 
 know. — 
 
 Lights and a table there ! Wife, Master 
 WendoU, 
 
 And gentle Master Cranwell! 
 
 Enter Mistress Frankford, Master Wen- 
 doll, Master Cranwell, Nicholas, and Jen- 
 
 kin with cards, carpets, stools, and other 
 necessaries. 
 
 Frank. 0! Master Cranwell, you are a 
 stranger here. 
 And often balk °^ my house ; faith, y' are 
 
 a churl! — 
 Now we have supp'd, a table, and to 
 cards ! 
 
 Jen. A pair"" of cards, Nicholas, and a 
 carpet to cover the table ! Where 's 
 Cicely, with her counters and her box? 
 Candles and candlesticks, there! Fie! 
 We have such a household of serving- 
 creatures! Unless it be Nick and I, 
 there 's not one amongst them all that 
 can say bo to a goose. — Well said,""^ 
 Nick! 
 
 (They spread a carpet: set down lights 
 and cards.) 
 
 Mrs. F. Come, Mr. Frankford, who shall 
 take my part ? °^ 
 
 Frank. Marry, that will I, sweet wife. 
 
 Wen. No, by my faith, when you are to- 
 gether, I sit out. It must be Mistress 
 Frankford and I, or else it is no match. 
 
 Frank, I do not like that match. 
 
 Nich. {Aside.) You have no reason, 
 marry, knowing all. 
 
 Frank. 'T is no great matter, neither. — 
 Come, Master Cranwell, shall you and I 
 take them up? 
 
 Cran. At your pleasure, sir. 
 
 Frank. I must look to you. Master Wen- 
 doU, for you '11 be playing false. Nay, 
 so will my wife, too. 
 
 Nich. {Aside.) Aye, I will be sworn she 
 will. 
 
 Mrs. F. Let them that are taken playing 
 
 ' false, forfeit the set! 
 
 Frank. Content ; it shall go hard but I '11 
 take you. 
 
 Cran. Gentlemen, what shall our game be? 
 
 Wen. Master Frankford, you play best at 
 noddy.*' 
 
 Frank. You shall not find it so; indeed, 
 you shall not. 
 
 Mrs. F. I can play at nothing so well as 
 double-ruff. 
 
 Frank. If Master Wendoll and my wife 
 be together, there's no playing against 
 them at double-hand. 
 
 Nich. I can tell you, sir, the game that 
 Master Wendoll is best at. 
 
 Wen. What game is that, Nick? 
 
 67 anger. 80 pack. 63 This, and the other games mentioned, were all popular at 
 
 58 of noble origin. 8i well done. the time. The doubles entendres thi'oughout the scene 
 
 59 Bhun. 62 l3e my partner, should be noted ; such scenes, punning on the terms em- 
 
 ployed in various games, occur in several Elizabethan plays. 
 
172 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD . 
 
 Nioh. Marry, sir, knave out of doors. 
 Wen. She and I will take you at lo- 
 
 dam. 
 Mrs. F. Husband, shall we play at saint? 
 Frank. (Aside.) My saint 's turn'd devil. 
 — No, we'll none of saint: 
 You are best at new-cut, wife, you'll 
 play at that. 
 Wen. If you play at new-cut, I 'm soonest 
 
 hitter of any here, for a wager. 
 Frank. (Aside.) 'T is me they play on. — 
 Well, you may draw out; 
 Tor all your cunning, 't wiU be to your 
 
 shame ; 
 I 'II teach you, at your new-eut, a new 
 
 game. 
 Come, come! 
 Cran. If you cannot agree upon the game. 
 
 To post and pair! 
 Wen. We shall be soonest pairs; and my 
 good host. 
 When he comes late home, he must kiss 
 the post.^* 
 Frank. Whoever wins, it shall be to thy 
 
 cost. 
 Cran. Faith, let it be vide-ruff, and let 's 
 
 make honors! 
 Frank. If you make honors, one thing let 
 me crave : 
 Honor the king and queen, except the 
 knave. 
 Wen. Well, as you please for that. — 
 
 Lift«5 who shall deal? 
 Mrs. F. The least in sight. What are 
 
 you, Master Wendoll? 
 Wen. I am a knave. 
 Nich. (Aside.) I '11 swear it. 
 
 Mrs. F. la queen. 
 
 Frank. (Aside.) A quean,"' thou should'st 
 say. — Well, the cards are mine : 
 They are the grossest pair*' that e'er I 
 felt. 
 Mrs. F. Shuffle, I'll cut: would I had 
 
 never dealt ! 
 Frank. I have lost my dealing. 
 Wen. Sir, the fault 's in me ; 
 
 This queen I have more than mine own, 
 
 you see. 
 Give me the stock ! '^ 
 Frank. My mind 's not on my game. 
 
 Many a deal I've lost; the more's your 
 
 shame. 
 You have serv'd me a bad trick. Master 
 WendoU. 
 . Wen. Sir, you must take your lot. To 
 end this strife. 
 
 I know I have dealt better with your 
 wife. 
 Frank. Thou hast dealt falsely, then. 
 Mrs. F. What's trumps? 
 Wen. Hearts. Partner, I rub.'^ 
 Frank. (Aside.) Thou robb'st me of my 
 soul, of her chaste love; 
 In thy false dealing thou hast robb'd my 
 
 heart. — 
 Booty you play ; '* I like a loser stand. 
 Having no heart, or here or in my 
 
 hand. 
 I will give o'er the set, I am not well. 
 Come, who will hold my cards? 
 Mrs. F. Not well, sweet Master Frank- 
 ford? 
 Alas, what ails you? 'Tis some sudden 
 qualm. 
 Wen. How long have you been so. Mas- 
 ter Frankford? 
 Frank. Sir, I was lusty, and I had my 
 health. 
 But I grew ill when you began to deal. — 
 Take hence this table! — Gentle Master 
 
 Cranwell, 
 Y' are welcome; see your chamber at 
 
 your pleasure! 
 I am sorry that this megrim '"' takes me 
 
 so, 
 I cannot sit and bear you company. — 
 Jenkin, some lights, and show him to his 
 chamber ! ■* 
 
 Exeunt Cranwell and Jenkin. 
 Mrs. F. A nightgown for my husband; 
 quickly, there! 
 It is some rheum or cold. 
 Wen. Now, in good faith. 
 
 This illness you have got by sitting late 
 Without your gown. 
 Frank. I know it. Master Wendell. 
 
 Go, go to bed, lest you complain like 
 
 me! — 
 Wife, prithee, wife) into my bed-cham- 
 ber! 
 The night is raw and cold, and rheu- 
 matic. 
 Leave me my gown and light; I'll walk 
 away my fit. 
 Wen. Sweet sir, good night ! 
 Frank. Myself, good' night ! 
 
 Exit WendoU. 
 
 Mrs. F. Shall I attend you, husband? 
 
 Frank. No, gentle wife, thou 'It catch cold 
 
 in thy head. 
 
 Prithee, begone, sweet; I'll make haste 
 
 to bed. 
 
 04 be shut out. 
 
 65 cut. 
 
 60 strumpet. 
 
 07 pack. 
 
 68 take all the cards 
 of the suit. 
 
 80 "To play booty 
 was to ,ioxn with 
 confederated to 
 
 victimize another 
 player." (N. E- 
 
 70 headache. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 173 
 
 Mrs. F. No sleep will fasten on mine eyes, 
 
 Susan. Gold is but earth; thou earth 
 
 you know, 
 
 enough shalt have, 
 
 Until you come. 
 
 When thou hast once took measure of thy 
 
 Exit Mrs. Frankford. 
 
 grave. 
 
 Frank. Sweet Nan, I prithee, go ! — 
 
 You know me. Master Sandy, and my 
 
 I have bethought me; get me by degrees 
 
 suit. 
 
 The keys of all my doors, which I will 
 
 Sandy. I knew you, lady, when the old 
 
 mould 
 
 man liv'd; 
 
 In wax, and take their fair impression. 
 
 I knew you ere your brother sold his 
 
 To have by them new keys. This being 
 
 land. 
 
 compast, 
 
 Then you were Mistress Sue, trick'd up 
 
 At a set hour a letter shall be brought 
 
 in jewels'; 
 
 me, 
 
 Then you sung well, play'd sweetly on 
 
 And when they think they may securely 
 
 the lute; 
 
 play, 
 
 But now I neither know you nor your 
 
 They nearest are to danger.— Nick, I 
 
 suit. 
 
 must rely 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Upon thy trust and faithful secrecy. 
 
 Susan. You, Master - Roder, was my 
 
 Nich. Build on my faith ! 
 
 brother's tenant; 
 
 'Frank. To bed, then, not to rest ! 
 
 Rent-free he plac'd you in that wealthy 
 
 Care lodges in my brain, grief in my 
 
 farm, 
 
 breast. 
 
 Of which you are possest. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Roder. True, he did; 
 
 
 And have I not there dwelt still for his 
 
 
 sake? 
 
 
 I have some business now; but, without 
 
 Scene 3. Old Mount ford's house. 
 
 doubt. 
 
 
 They that have hurl'd him in, will help 
 
 Enter Susan, Old Mountford, Sandy, 
 
 him out. 
 
 Boder, and Tidy. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 
 Susan. Cold comfort still. What say you, 
 
 Old Mount. You say my nephew is in 
 
 cousin Tidy? 
 
 great distress; 
 
 Tidy. I say this comes of roysting,^^ swag- 
 
 Who brought it to him but his own lewd 
 
 gering. 
 
 life? 
 
 Call me not cousin; each man for him- 
 
 I cannot spare a cross. I must confess. 
 
 self! 
 
 He was my brother's son; why, niece. 
 
 Some men are born to mirth, and some 
 
 what then? 
 
 to sorrow: 
 
 This is no world in which to pity men. 
 
 I am no cousin unto them that borrow. 
 
 Susan. I was not born a beggar, though 
 
 Exit. 
 
 his extremes 
 
 Susan. Charity, why art thou fled to 
 
 Enforce this language from^ me. I pro- 
 
 heaven. 
 
 test 
 
 And left all things upon this earth un- 
 
 No foi-tune of mine own could lead my 
 
 even? 
 
 tongue 
 
 Their scoffing answers I will ne'er return, 
 
 To this base key. I do beseech you. 
 
 But to myself his grief in silence mourn. 
 
 uncle, , 
 
 
 For the name's sake, for Christianity, 
 
 . Enter Sir Francis and Malby. 
 
 Nay, for God's sake, to pity his distress. 
 
 
 He is denied the freedom of the prison. 
 
 Sir F. She is poor, I'll therefore tempt 
 
 And in the hole is laid with men con- 
 
 her with this gold. 
 
 demn'd ; 
 
 Go, Malby, in my name deliver it, 
 
 Plenty he hath of nothing but of irons. 
 
 And I will stay thy answer. 
 
 And it remains in you to free him thence. 
 
 Mai. Fair mistress, as I understand your 
 
 Old Mount. Money I cannot spare; men 
 
 grief 
 
 should take heed. 
 
 Doth grow from want, so I have here in 
 
 He lost my kindred when he fell to need. 
 
 store 
 
 Exit. 
 
 A means to furnish you, a bag of gold, 
 
 71 roistering. 
 
174 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Which to your hands I freely tender you. 
 Susan. I thank you, Heavens! I thank 
 you, gentle sir: 
 God make me able to requite this favor! 
 Mai. This gold Sir Francis Acton sends 
 by me, 
 And prays you — 
 Sman. Acton? God! That name I'm 
 born to curse. 
 Hence, bawd ; hence, broker ! See, I 
 
 spurn his gold. 
 My honor never shall for gain be sold. 
 Sir F. Stay, lady, stay! 
 Susan. From you I '11 posting hie, 
 
 Even as the doves from f eather'd eagles 
 
 fly. 
 
 Exit. 
 Sir F. She hates my name, my face; how 
 should I woo? 
 
 I am disgrac'd in every thing I do. 
 
 The more she hates me, and disdains my 
 love. 
 
 The more I am rapt in admiration 
 
 Of her divine and chaste perfections. 
 
 Woo her with gifts I cannot, for all gifts 
 
 Sent in my name she spurns; with looks 
 I cannot, 
 
 For she abhors my sight; nor yet with 
 letters. 
 
 For none she will receive. How then? 
 how then? 
 
 Well, I will fasten such a kindness on 
 her. 
 
 As shall o'ereome her hate and conquer it. 
 
 Sir Charles, her brother, lies in execu- 
 tion 
 
 For a great sum of money ; and, besides, 
 
 The appeal is sued still for my hunts- 
 men's death. 
 
 Which only I have power to reverse. 
 
 In her I '11 bury all my hate of him. — 
 
 Go seek the keeper, Malby, bring him to 
 me! 
 
 To save his body, I his debts will pay ; 
 
 To save his life, I his appeal will stay. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. A prison cell. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Mountford, with irons, 
 his feet bare, his garments all ragged 
 and torn. 
 
 Sir C. Of all on the earth's face most 
 miserable, 
 
 T2 ceased. 
 
 Breathe in this hellish dungeon thy la- 
 ments ! 
 
 Thus like a slave ragg'd, like a felon 
 gyv'd,— 
 
 That hurls thee headlong to this base 
 estate. 
 
 Oh, unkind uncle ! Oh, my friends in- 
 grate ! 
 
 Unthankful kinsmen! Mountford 's all 
 too base, 
 
 To let thy name be fetter'd in disgrace. 
 
 A thousand deaths here in this grave I 
 die; 
 
 Fear, hunger, sorrow, cold, all threat my 
 death, 
 
 And join together to deprive my breath. 
 
 But that which most torments me, my 
 dear sister 
 
 Hath left '"' to visit me, and from my 
 friends 
 
 Hath brought no hopeful answer; there- 
 fore, I 
 
 Divine they will not help my misery. 
 
 If it be so, shame, scandal, and con- 
 tempt 
 
 Attend their covetous thoughts; need 
 make their graves! 
 
 Usurers they live, and may they die like 
 slaves ! 
 
 Enter Keeper. 
 
 Keep. Knight, be of comfort, for I bring 
 
 thee freedom 
 From all thy troubles. 
 Sir C. Then, I am doom'd to die : 
 
 Death is the end of all calamity. 
 Keep. Live! Your appeal is stay'd; the 
 
 execution 
 Of all your debts discharg'd; your cred- 
 itors 
 Even to the utmost penny satisfied. 
 In sign whereof your shackles I knock 
 
 off. 
 You are not left so much indebted to us 
 As for your fees; all is discharg'd; all 
 
 paid. 
 Go freely to your house, or where you 
 
 please ; 
 After long miseries, embrace your ease. 
 Sir C. Thou grumblest out the sweetest 
 
 music to me 
 That ever organ play'd. — Is this a 
 
 dream ? 
 Or do my waking senses apprehend 
 The pleasing taste of these applausive '' 
 
 news? 
 Slave that I was, to wrong such honest 
 
 friends, 
 
 73 joyful. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 175 
 
 My loving kinsman, .and my near allies ! 
 
 Tongue, I will bite thee for the scandal 
 breath'd 
 
 Against such faithful kinsmen; they are 
 aU 
 
 Compos'd of pity and compassion, 
 
 Of melting charity and of moving ruth. 
 
 That which I spoke before was in my 
 rage; 
 
 They are my friends, the mirrors of this 
 age; 
 
 Bounteous and free. The noble Mount- 
 ford's race ' 
 
 Ne'er bred a covetous thought, or humor 
 base. 
 
 Enter Susan. 
 
 Susan. I cannot longer stay from visiting 
 
 My woful brother. While I could, I 
 kept 
 
 My hapless tidings from his hopeful ear. 
 Sir C. Sister, how much am I indebted to 
 thee 
 
 And to thy travail! 
 Susan. What, at liberty? 
 
 Sir C. Thou seest I am, thanks to thy in- 
 dustry. 
 
 Oh! Unto which of all my courteous 
 friends 
 
 Am I thus bound? My uncle Mount- 
 ford, he 
 
 Even of an infant lov'd me; was it he? 
 
 So did my cousin Tidy; was it he? 
 
 So Master Koder, Master Sandy, too. 
 
 Which of all these did this high kindness 
 do? 
 Susan. Charles, can you mock me in your 
 poverty. 
 
 Knowing your friends deride your mis- 
 ery? 
 
 Now, I protest I stand so much amaz'd, 
 
 To see your bonds free, and your irons 
 knock'd off, 
 
 That I am rapt into a maze of wonder; 
 
 The rather for I know not by what 
 means 
 
 This happiness hath chanc'd. 
 Sir C. Why, by my uncle, 
 
 My cousins, and my friends; who else, I 
 pray, 
 
 Would take upon them all my debts to 
 pay? 
 Susan. Oh, brother! they are men all of 
 flint. 
 
 Pictures of marble, and as void of pity 
 
 As chased bears. I begg'd, I sued, I 
 kneel'd, 
 
 Laid open all your griefs and miseries. 
 
 Which they derided; more than that, de- 
 nied us 
 
 A part in their alliance; but, in pride, 
 
 Said that our kindred with our plenty 
 died. 
 Sir C. Drudges too much,''* — ^what did 
 they? Oh, known evil! 
 
 Rich fly the poor, as good men shun the 
 devU. 
 
 Whence should my freedom come? Of 
 whom alive. 
 
 Saving of those, have I deserv'd so well? 
 
 Guess, sister, call to mind, remember '^ 
 me! 
 
 These have I rais'd, they follow the 
 world's guise. 
 
 Whom rich in honor, they in woe despise. 
 Susan. My wits have lost themselves ; let 's 
 
 ask the keeper ! 
 Sir C. Gaoler! 
 Keep. At hand, sir. 
 
 Sir C. Of courtesy resolve me one de- 
 mand! 
 
 What was he took the burden of my 
 debts 
 
 From off my back, stayed my appeal to 
 death, 
 
 Diseharg'd my fees, and brought me lib- 
 erty? 
 Keep. A courteous knight, one call'd Sir 
 
 Francis Acton. 
 Sir C. Ha ! Acton ! Oh me ! More dis- 
 tress'd in this 
 
 Than all my troubles ! Hale me back. 
 
 Double my irons, and my sparing meals 
 
 Put into halves, and lodge me in a dun- 
 geon 
 
 More deep, more dark, more cold, more 
 comfortless ! 
 
 By Acton freed! Not all thy manacles 
 
 Could fetter so my heels, as this one 
 word 
 
 Hath thrall'd my heart; and it must now 
 lie bound 
 
 In more strict prison than thy stony 
 gaol. 
 
 I am not free, I go but under bail. 
 Keep. My charge is done, sir, now I have 
 my fees. 
 
 As we get little, we will nothing leese.''" 
 Sir C. "By Acton freed, my dangerous op- 
 posite ! 
 
 Why, to what end? On what occasion? 
 Ha! 
 
 Let me forget the name of enemy. 
 
 And with indifference balance ''^ this high 
 favor ! 
 
 T4too base in their conduct. (Ward.) 
 
 75 remind. 
 
 76 lose. 
 
 77 weigli impartially. 
 
176 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Susan. (Aside.) His love to me, upon 
 
 my soul, 'tis so! 
 That is the root from ■whence these 
 
 strange things grow. 
 Sir C. Had this proceeded from my fa- 
 ther, he 
 That by the law of Nature is most bound 
 In offices of love, it had deserv'd 
 My best employment to requite that 
 
 grace. 
 Had it proceeded from my friends, or 
 
 him. 
 From them this action had deserv'd my 
 
 life,— 
 And from a stranger more, because from 
 
 such 
 There is less execution of good deeds. 
 But he, nor father, nor ally, nor friend, 
 More than a stranger, both remote in 
 
 blood, 
 And in his heart oppos'd my enemy, 
 That this high bounty should proceed 
 
 from him, — 
 Oh ! there I lose myself. What should I 
 
 say, 
 What think, what do, his bounty to re- 
 pay? 
 Susan. You wonder, I am sure, whence 
 
 this strange kindness 
 Proceeds in- Acton; I will tell you, 
 
 brother. 
 He dotes on me, and oft hath sent me 
 
 gifts. 
 Letters, and tokens ; I ref us'd them all. 
 Sir C. I have enough, though poor: my 
 
 heart is set. 
 In one rich gift to pay back all my debt. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Frankford's house. 
 
 Enter Frankford and Nicholas, with 
 keys. 
 
 Frank. This is the night that I must play 
 my part, 
 To try two seeming angels. — Where's 
 my keys? 
 Nieh. They are made according to your 
 mould in wax. 
 I bade the smith be secret, gave him 
 
 money, 
 And here they are. The letter, sir! 
 (Gives Nicholas letter.) 
 Frank. True, take it, there it is; 
 And when thou seest me in my pleas- 
 ant'st vein, 
 
 78 influence with. 
 
 Ready to sit to supper, bring it me ! 
 Nich. I '11 do 't ; make no more question 
 but I '11 do it. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Mistress Frankford, Cranwell, 
 Wendoll, and Jenkin. 
 
 Mrs. F. Sirrah, 'tis six o'clock already 
 struck ; 
 Go bid them spread the cloth, and serve 
 in supper ! 
 Jen. It shall be done, forsooth, mistress. 
 Where 's Spigot, the butler, to give us 
 out salt and trenchers? 
 
 Exit. 
 Wen. We that have been a hunting all the 
 
 day, 
 Come with prepared stomachs. — Master 
 
 Frankford, 
 We wish'd you at our sport. 
 Frank. My heart was with you, and my 
 
 mind was on you. — 
 Fie, Master Cranwell! You are still 
 
 thus sad. — 
 A stool, a stool ! Where 's Jenkin, and 
 
 Where's Nick? 
 'T is supper time at least an hour ago. 
 What 's the best news abroad? 
 Wen. I know none good. 
 Frank. (Aside.) But I know too much 
 
 bad. 
 
 Enter Butler and Jenkin, with a table- 
 cloth, bread, trenchers, and salt; then 
 exeunt. 
 
 Cran. Methinks, sir, you might have that 
 interest ''^ 
 
 In your wife's brother, to be more re- 
 miss ^° 
 
 In his hard dealing against poor Sir 
 Charles, 
 
 Who, as I hear, lies in York Castle, 
 needy 
 
 And in great want. 
 Frank. Did not more weighty business of 
 mine own 
 
 Hold me away, I would have labor'd 
 peace 
 
 Betwixt them with all care; indeed I 
 would, sir. 
 Mrs. F. I '11 write unto my brother ear- 
 nestly 
 
 In that behalf. 
 Wen. A charitable deed, 
 
 And will beget the good opinion 
 
 Of all your friends that love you, Mis- 
 tress Frankford. 
 
 79 lenient. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 177 
 
 Frank. That 's you, for one ; I know you 
 
 love Sir Charles, 
 (Aside.) And my wife too, well. 
 Wen. He deserves the love 
 
 Of all true gentlemen; be yourselves 
 
 judge ! 
 Frank. But supper, ho! — Now, as thou 
 
 lov'st me, Wendoll, 
 Which I am sure thou dost, be merry, 
 
 pleasant, 
 And frolic it to-night ! — Sweet Mr. Cran- 
 
 weU, 
 Do you the like! — ^Wife, I protest, my 
 
 heart 
 Was ne'er more bent on sweet alacrity. 
 Where be those lazy knaves to serve in 
 
 supper? 
 
 Enter Nicholas. 
 
 Nich. Here 's a letter, sir. 
 
 Frank. Whence comes it, and who brought 
 
 it? 
 Nich. A stripling that below attends your 
 answer, 
 And, as he tells me, it is sent from York. 
 Frank. Have him into the cellar, let him 
 taste 
 A cup of our March beer; go, make him 
 drink ! 
 Nich. I'll make him drivik, if he be a 
 
 Trojan.so 
 Frank. {After reading the letter.) My 
 boots and spurs ! Where 's Jenkin 1 
 God forgive me. 
 How I neglect my business ! — Wife, look 
 
 here! 
 I have a matter to be tried to-morrow 
 By eight o'clock ; and my attorney writes 
 
 me, 
 I must be there betimes with evidence. 
 Or it will go against me. Where's my 
 boots? 
 
 Re-enter Jenkin, with hoots and spurs. 
 
 Mrs. F. I hope your business craves no 
 such despatch. 
 That you must ride to-night? 
 Wen. (Aside.) I hope it doth. 
 
 Frank. God's me! No such despatch? 
 Jenkin, my boots! Where's Nick? 
 
 Saddle my roan, 
 And the gray dapple for himself! — Con- 
 tent ye. 
 It much concerns me. — Gentle Master 
 
 Cranwell, 
 And Master Wendoll, in my absence use 
 
 so good fellow. 81 armed. 
 
 Tlie very riiiest pleasure of my house! 
 Wen. Lord! Master Frankford, will you 
 ride to-night? 
 The ways are dangerous. 
 Frank. Therefore will I ride 
 
 Appointed '^ well ; and so shall Nick, my 
 man. 
 Mrs. F. I'll call you up by five o'clock 
 
 to-morrow. 
 Frank. No, by my faith, wife, I'll not 
 trust to that: 
 'T is not such easy rising in a morning 
 From one I love so dearly. No, by my 
 
 faith, 
 I shall not leave so sweet a bedfellow. 
 But with much pain. You have made 
 
 me a sluggard 
 Since I first knew you. 
 Mrs. F. Then, if you needs will go 
 
 This dangerous evening. Master Wendoll, 
 Let me entreat you bear him company. 
 Wen. With all my heart, sweet mistress. — 
 
 My boots, there ! 
 Frank. Fie, fie, that for my private busi- 
 ness 
 I should disease *^ a friend, and be a 
 
 trouble 
 To the whole house ! — Nick ! 
 Nich. Anon, sir! 
 
 Frank. Bring forth my gelding! — ^As you 
 love me, sir, 
 Use no more words : a hand, good Master 
 Cranwell ! 
 Cran. Sir, God be your good speed ! 
 Frank. Good night, sweet Nan; nay, nay, 
 
 a kiss, and part ! 
 (Aside.) Dissembling lips, you suit '^ not 
 with my heart. 
 
 Exeunt Frankford and Nicholas. 
 Wen. (Aside.) How business, time, and 
 hours, all gracious prove. 
 And are the furtherers to my new-born 
 
 love! 
 I am husband now in Master Frank- 
 ford's place, 
 And must command the house. — My 
 
 pleasure is 
 We will not sup abroad so publicly. 
 But in your private chamber, Mistress 
 Frankford. 
 Mrs. F. Oh, sir ! you are too public in 
 your love, 
 
 And Master Frankford's wife 
 
 Cran. Might I crave favor, 
 
 I would entreat you I might see my 
 
 chamber. 
 I am on the sudden grown exceeding ill. 
 And would be spar'd from supper. 
 
 &3 inconvenience. 
 
 83 agree. 
 
178 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Wen. Light there, ho! — 
 
 See you want nothing, sir, for if you do, 
 You injure that good man, and wrong me 
 too. 
 Cran. I will make bold ; good night ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Wen. How all conspire 
 
 To make our bosom ** sweet, and full en- 
 tire! 
 Come, Nan, I prithee, let us sup within! 
 Mrs. F. Oh ! what a clog unto the soul is 
 sin! 
 We pale offenders are still full of fear ; 
 Every suspicious eye brings danger near ; 
 When they, whose clear hearts from of- 
 fense are free, 
 Despise report, base scandals do outface. 
 And stand at mere defiance with dis- 
 grace. 
 Wen. Fie, fie! You talk too like a puri- 
 tan. 
 Mrs. F. You have tempted me to mis- 
 chief, Master Wendoll : 
 I have done I know not what. Well, you 
 
 plead custom; 
 That which for want of wit I granted 
 
 erst, 
 I now must yield through fear. Come, 
 
 come, let 's in ; 
 Once over shoes, we are straight o'er 
 head in sin. 
 Wen. My jocund soul is joyful beyond 
 measure ; 
 I '11 be profuse in Frankf ord's richest 
 treasure. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. Another part of the house. 
 
 Enter Cicely, Jenkin, Butler, and other 
 Serving-men. 
 
 Jen. My mistress and Master Wendoll, 
 my master, sup in her chamber to-night. 
 Cicely, you are pref err'd, from being the 
 cook, to be chambermaid. Of all the 
 loves betwixt thee and me, tell me what 
 thou think'st of this? 
 
 Cie. Mum ; there 's an old proverb, — ^when 
 the cat's away, the mouse may play. 
 
 Jen. Now you talk of a eat. Cicely, I 
 smell a rat. 
 
 Cic. Good words, Jenkin, lest you be call'd 
 to answer them! 
 
 Jen. Why, God made my mistress an hon- 
 est woman! Are not these good words? 
 Pray God my new master play not the 
 
 84 intimacy. 
 
 knave with my old master ! Is there any 
 hurt in this? God send no villainy in- 
 tended ; and if they do sup together, pray 
 God they do not lie together ! God make 
 my mistress chaste, and make us all His 
 servants! What harm is there in all 
 this ? Nay, more ; here in my hand, thou 
 shalt never have my heart, unless thou 
 say, Amen. 
 Cic. Amen; I pray God, I say. 
 
 Enter Serving-man. 
 
 Serving-man. My mistress sends that you 
 should make less noise, to lock up the 
 doors, and see the household all got to 
 bed. You, Jenkin, for this night are 
 made the porter, to see the gates shut 
 in. 
 
 Jen. Thus by little and little I creep into 
 office. Come, to kennel, my masters, to 
 kennel; 'tis eleven o'clock already. 
 
 Serving-man. When you have lock'd the 
 gates in, you must send up the keys to 
 my mistress. 
 
 Cie. Quickly, for God's sake, Jenkin; for 
 I must carry them. I am neither pillow 
 nor bolster, but I know more than both. 
 
 Jen. To bed, good Spigot ; to bed, good 
 honest serving-creatures; and let us sleep 
 as snug as pigs in pease-straw! 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 Scene 4. Outside the house. 
 
 Enter Frankf ord and Nicholas. 
 
 Frank. Soft, soft ! We 've tied our geld- 
 ings to a tree. 
 Two flight-shot *° off, lest by their thun-' 
 
 dering hoofs 
 They blab our coming back. Hear'st 
 thou no noise? 
 Nich. Hear? I hear nothing but the owl 
 
 and you. 
 Frank. So; now my watch's hand points 
 upon twelve. 
 And it is dead midnight. Where are my 
 keys? 
 Nich. Here, sir. 
 
 Frank. This is the key that opes my out- 
 ward gate; 
 This, the hall-door; this, the withdraw- 
 
 ing-chamber ; 
 But this, that door that 's bawd unto my 
 shame, 
 
 86 bow-shots. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 179 
 
 Fountain and spring of aU my bleeding 
 
 thoughts, 
 Where the most hallowed order and true 
 
 knot 
 Of nuptial sanctity hath been profan'd. 
 It leads to my polluted bed-chamber, 
 Once my terrestrial heaven, now my 
 
 earth's hell. 
 The place where sins in all their ripeness 
 
 dwell. — 
 But I forget myself ; now to my gate ! 
 Nich. It must ope with far less noise 
 Than Cripplegate,^" or your plot 's 
 
 dash'd. 
 Frank. So; reach me my dark lantern 
 
 to the rest ! 
 Tread softly, softly! 
 Nicfi. I will walk on eggs this pace. 
 
 Frank. A general silence hath surpris'd 
 
 the house, 
 And this is the last door. Astonishment, 
 Fear, and amazement, beat upon my 
 
 heart, 
 Even as a madman beats upon a drum. 
 Oh, keep my eyes, you Heavens, before 
 
 I enter. 
 From any sight that may transfix my 
 
 soul; 
 Or, if there be so black a spectacle. 
 Oh, strike mine eyes stark blind; or, if 
 
 not so. 
 Lend me such patience to digest my 
 
 grief, 
 That I may keep this white and virgin 
 
 hand 
 From any violent outrage, or red mur- 
 der! — 
 And with that prayer I enter. 
 
 Exeunt into the house. 
 
 Scene 5. The hall of .the house. 
 
 Enter Nicholas. 
 
 Nich. Here 's a circumstance ! " 
 A man may be made cuckold in the time 
 That he 's about it. An ^l the case were 
 
 mine, 
 As't it my master's, 'sblood! (that he 
 
 makes me swear!) 
 I would have plac'd his action,'' enter'd 
 
 there ; 
 I would, I would! 
 
 Enter Frankford. 
 
 Frank. Oh! oh! 
 
 Nich. Master! 'Sblood! Master, master! 
 
 86 One of the old 
 gates ot London. 
 
 Frank. Oh me unhappy! I have found 
 
 them lying 
 Close in each other's arms, and fast 
 
 asleep. 
 But that I would not damn two precious 
 
 souls, 
 Bought with my Savior's blood, and send 
 
 them, laden 
 With all their scarlet sins upon their 
 
 backs. 
 Unto a fearful judgment, their two lives 
 Had met upon my rapier., 
 Nich. Master, what, have you left them 
 
 sleeping still? 
 Let me go wake 'em! 
 Frank. Stay, let me pause awhile ! — 
 
 Oh, God! Oh, God! That it were pos- 
 sible 
 To undo things done ; to call back yester- 
 day; 
 That Time could turn up his swift sandy 
 
 glass. 
 To untell '" the days, and to redeem these 
 
 hours ! 
 Or that the sun 
 Could, rising from the west, draw his 
 
 coach backward; 
 Take from th' account of time so many 
 
 minutes. 
 Till he had all these seasons call'd again. 
 Those minutes, and those actions done in 
 
 them, 
 Even from her first offense; that I might 
 
 take her 
 As spotless as an angel in my arms ! 
 But, oh ! I talk of things impossible, 
 And cast beyond the moon.®"^ God give 
 
 me patience; 
 For I will in, and wake them. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Nich. Here 's patience perforce ! 
 
 He needs must trot afoot that tires" his 
 
 horse. 
 
 Enter Wendoll running over the stage in a 
 night- g own, ^^ Frankford after him with 
 his sword drawn; a maid in her smock 
 stays his hand, and clasps hold on him. 
 He pauses for a while.,, 
 
 Frank. 1 thank thee, maid; thou, like the 
 
 angel's hand. 
 Hast stay'd me from a bloody sacrifice. — 
 Go, villain; and my wrongs sit on thy 
 
 soul 
 As heavy as this grief doth upon mine ! 
 
 87 formality. 
 
 88 if, . 
 
 89 established his 
 case. (Ward.) 
 
 90 count backwards. 
 »x proverbial for any 
 
 impossible wish, 
 K dressins-gowa. 
 
180 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 When thou record'st my many courtesies, 
 And shalt compare th^m with thy treach- 
 erous heart, 
 Lay them together, weigh them equally, — 
 'T wiU be revenge enough. Go, to thy 
 
 friend 
 A Judas; pray, pray, lest I live to see 
 Thee, Judas-like, hang'd on an elder- 
 tree! 
 
 Enter Mistress Frank ford in her smock, 
 night-gown, and night-attirer 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, by what word, what title, or 
 
 what name, 
 Shall I -entreat your pardon? Pardon! 
 
 Oh! 
 I am as far from hoping such sweet 
 
 grace, 
 As Lucifer from Heaven. To call you 
 
 husband, — 
 Oh me, most wretched ! I have lost that 
 
 name; 
 I am no more your wife. 
 Nich. 'Sblood, sir, she swoons. 
 
 Frank. Spare thou thy tears, for I will 
 
 weep for thee; 
 And keep thy count'nance, for I '11 blush 
 
 for thee. 
 Now, I protest, I think 't is I am tainted, 
 Eor I am most asham'd; and 'tis more 
 
 hard 
 For me to look upon thy guilty face 
 Than on the sun's clear brow. What 
 
 would'st thou speak? 
 Mrs. F. I would I had no tongue, no ears, 
 
 no eyes, 
 No apprehension, no capacity. 
 When do you spurn me like a dog? 
 
 When tread me 
 Under feet ? When drag me by the hair? 
 Though I deserve a thousand thousand 
 
 fold, 
 More than you can inflict — ^yet, once my 
 
 husband, 
 Tor womanhood, to which I am a shame, 
 Though once an ornament — even for His 
 
 sake. 
 That hath redeem'd our souls, mark not 
 
 my face, 
 Nor hack me with your sword; but let 
 
 me go 
 Perfect and undef ormed to my tomb ! 
 I am not worthy that I should prevail 
 In the least suit ; no, not to speak to you, 
 Nor look on you, nor to be in your pres- 
 ence; 
 Yet, as an abject, this one suit I crave; 
 
 98 rank. 
 
 This granted, I am ready for my grave. 
 Frank. My God, with patience arm me ! — 
 Rise, nay, rise. 
 And I'll debate with thee. Was it for 
 
 want 
 Thou play'dst the strumpet? Wast thou 
 
 not supplied 
 With every pleasure, fashion, and new 
 
 toy,— 
 Nay, even beyond my calling? °^ 
 Mrs. F. I was. 
 
 Frank. Was it, then, disabiKty in me; 
 Or in thine eye seem'd he a properer 
 man? 
 Mrs. F. Oh, no ! 
 
 Frank. Did I not lodge thee in my bosom? 
 
 Wear thee here in my heart? 
 Mrs. F. You did. 
 
 Frank. I did, indeed; witness my tears, I 
 did— 
 Go, bring my infants hither! — 
 {Two Children are brought in.) 
 
 Oh, Nan! Oh, Nan! 
 If neither fear of shame, regard of 
 
 honor, 
 The blemish of my house, nor my dear 
 
 love, 
 Could have withheld thee from so lewd 
 
 a fact,"* 
 Yet for these infants, these young, harm- 
 less souls. 
 On whose white brows thy shame is char- 
 
 acter'd. 
 And grows in greatness as they wax in 
 
 years, — 
 Look but on them, and melt away in 
 
 tears ! — 
 Away with them; lest, as her spotted 
 
 body 
 Hath stain'd their names with stripe of 
 
 bastardy, 
 So her adulterous breath may blast their 
 
 spirits 
 With her infectious thoughts! Away 
 with them! 
 
 Exeunt Children. 
 Mrs. F. In this one life, I die ten thou- 
 sand deaths. 
 Frank. Stand up, stand up! I will do 
 nothing rashly. 
 I will retire awhile into my study, 
 And thou shalt hear thy sentence pres- 
 ently. 
 
 Exit. 
 Mrs. F. 'T is welcome, be it death. Oh 
 me, base strumpet. 
 That, having such a husband, such sweet 
 children, 
 
 94 crime. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 181 
 
 Must enjoy neither! Oh, to redeem my 
 honor, 
 
 I 'd have this hand cut off, these my 
 breasts sear'd; 
 
 Be raek'd, strappado'd, put to any tor- 
 ment: 
 
 Nay, to whip but this scandal out, I'd 
 hazard 
 
 The rich and dear redemption of my 
 soul! 
 
 He cannot be so base as to forgive me, 
 
 Nor I so shameless to accept his pardon. 
 
 Oh, women, women, you that yet have 
 kept 
 
 Your holy matrimonial vow unstain'd. 
 
 Make me your instance ; when you tread 
 awry. 
 
 Your sins, like mine, will on your con- 
 science lie. 
 
 Enter Cicely, Spigot, all the Serving-men, 
 and Jenkin, as newly come out of bed. 
 
 All. Oh, mistress, mistress! What have 
 
 you done, mistress? 
 Nich. 'Sblood, what a caterwauling keep 
 
 you here ! 
 Jen. Lord, mistress, how comes this to 
 pass? My master is run away in his 
 shirt, and never so much as call'd me to 
 bring his clothes after him. 
 Mrs. F. See what g:uilt is ! Here stand I 
 in this place, 
 Asham'd to look my servants in the face. 
 
 Enter Frankford and Cranwell; whom 
 seeing, she falls on her knees. 
 
 Frank. My words are regist'red in 
 
 Heaven already. 
 With patience hear me ! I '11 not martyr 
 
 thee, 
 Nor mark thee for a strumpet; but with 
 
 usage 
 Of more humiKty torment thy soul. 
 And kill thee even with kindness. 
 Cran. Master Frankford — 
 Frank. Good Master Cranwell! — ^Woman, 
 
 hear thy judgment! 
 Go make thee ready in thy. best attire; 
 Take with thee all thy gowns, all thy 
 
 apparel ; 
 Leave nothing that did ever call thee mis- 
 tress, 
 Or by whose sight, being left here in the 
 
 house, 
 I may remember such a woman by. 
 Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy 
 
 chamber ; 
 
 96 nearby. "8 allow. 
 
 Take with thee every thing which hath 
 
 thy mark. 
 And get thee to my manor seven mile off. 
 Where live; — 'tis thine; I freely give it 
 
 thee. 
 My tenants by °° shall furnish thee with 
 
 wains 
 To carry all thy stuff within two hours; 
 No longer will I limit '° thee my sight. 
 Choose which of all my servants thou 
 
 lik'st best, 
 And they are thine to attend thee. 
 Mrs. F. A mild sentence. 
 
 Frank. But, as thou hop'st for Heaven, 
 
 as thou believ'st 
 Thy name 's recorded in the book of life, 
 I charge thee never after this sad day 
 To see me, or to meet me; or to send. 
 By word or writing, gift or otherwise. 
 To move me, by thyself, or by thy 
 
 friends ; 
 Nor challenge any part in my two chil- 
 dren. 
 So farewell. Nan ; for we will henceforth 
 
 be 
 As we had never seen, ne'er more shall 
 
 see. 
 Mrs. F. How full my heart is, in mine 
 
 eyes appears; 
 What wants in words, I will supply in 
 
 tears. 
 Frank. Come, take your coach, your stuff; 
 
 all must along. 
 Servants and all make ready; all be- 
 
 gone 
 
 It was thy hand cut two hearts out of 
 one. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. Before Sir Francis Acton's 
 house. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Mountford, gentleman- 
 like, and Susan, gentlewoman-like. 
 
 Susan. Brother, why have you trick'd ''' 
 me like a bride. 
 Bought me this gay attire, these orna- 
 ments? 
 Forget you our estate, our poverty? 
 Sir C. Call me not brother, but imagine 
 me 
 Some barbarous , outlaw, or uncivil 
 kern ; "^ 
 
 97 adorned. 
 
 98 Irish irregular foot-soldier. 
 
182 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Tor if thou shutt'st thine eye, and only 
 
 hear'st 
 The words that I shall utter, thou shalt 
 
 judge me 
 Some staring ruffian, not thy brother 
 
 Charles. 
 
 Oh, sister! 
 
 Susan. Oh, brother! what doth this 
 
 strange language mean? 
 Sir G. Dost love me, sister? Would'st 
 
 thou see me live 
 A bankrupt beggar in the world's dis- 
 grace, 
 And die indebted to mine enemies? 
 Wouldst thou behold me stand like a 
 
 huge beam 
 In the world's eye, a by-word and a 
 
 scorn ? 
 It lies in thee of these to acquit me free, 
 And all my debt I may outstrip by thee. 
 Susan. By me? Why, I have nothing, 
 
 nothing left ; 
 I owe even for the clothes upon my 
 
 back; 
 
 I am not worth 
 
 Sir C. O sister, say not so ! 
 
 It lies in you my downcast state to raise ; 
 To make me stand on even points with 
 
 the world. 
 Come, sister, you are rich; indeed, you 
 
 are. 
 And in your power you have, without 
 
 delay 
 Acton's five hundred pounds back to re- 
 pay- 
 Susan. Till now I had thought you lov'd 
 
 me. By my honor 
 (Which I have kept as spotless as the 
 
 moon), 
 I ne'er was mistress of that single doit ®° 
 Which I reserv'd not to supply your 
 
 wants ; 
 And do you think that I would hoard 
 
 from you? 
 Now, by my hopes of Heaven, knew I 
 
 the means 
 To buy you from the slavery of your 
 
 debts 
 (Especially from Acton, whom I hate), 
 I would redeem it with my life or blood ! 
 Sir C. I challenge it, and, kindred set 
 
 apart, 
 Thus, ruffian-like, I lay siege to your 
 
 heart. 
 What do I owe to Acton? 
 Susan, Why, some five hundred pounds; 
 
 towards which', I swear, 
 In all the world I have not one denier,^ 
 
 Sir C. It will not prove so. Sister, now 
 
 resolve ^ me : 
 What do you think (and speak your eon- 
 science) 
 Would Acton give, might he enjoy your 
 
 bed? 
 Susan. He would not shrink to spend a 
 
 thousand pound 
 To give the Mountfords' name so deep a 
 
 wound. 
 Sir C. A thousand pound! I but five 
 
 hundred owe: 
 Grant him your bed ; he 's paid with in- 
 terest so. 
 Susan. Oh, brother! 
 
 Sir C. Oh, sister! only this one way, 
 
 With that rich jewel you my debts may 
 
 pay. 
 In speaking this my cold heart shakes 
 
 with shame; 
 Nor do I woo you in a brother's name. 
 But in a stranger's. Shall I die in debt 
 To Acton, my grand foe, and you still 
 
 wear 
 The precious jewel that he holds so dear? 
 Susan. My honor I esteem as dear and 
 
 precious 
 As my redemption. 
 Sir C. I esteem you, sister. 
 
 As dear, for so dear prizing it. 
 Susan. Will Charles 
 
 Have me cut off my hands, and send 
 
 them Acton? 
 Rip up my breast, and with my bleeding 
 
 heart 
 Present him as a token? 
 Sir C. Neither, sister; 
 
 But hear me in my strange assertion ! 
 Thy honor and my soul are equal in my 
 
 regard ; 
 Nor will thy brother Charles survive thy 
 
 shame. 
 His kindness, like a burden, hath sur- 
 
 charg'd me. 
 And under his good deeds I stooping go. 
 Not with an upright soul. Had I re- 
 
 main'd 
 In prison still, there doubtless I had died. 
 Then, unto him that freed me from that 
 
 prison. 
 Still do I owe this life. What mov'd my 
 
 foe 
 To enfranchise me? 'Twas, sister, for 
 
 your love; 
 With full five hundred pounds he bought 
 
 your love; — 
 And shall he not enjoy it? Shall the 
 
 weight 
 
 09 any small coin. 
 
 1 penny. 
 
 t B8SVT«, 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 183 
 
 Of all this heavy burden lean on me, 
 
 And will not you bear part? You did 
 partake 
 
 The joy of my release; wUl you not 
 stand 
 
 In joint-bond bound to satisfy the debt? 
 
 Shall I be only charged? 
 Susan. But that I know 
 
 These arguments come from an honor'd 
 mind, 
 
 As in your most extremity of need 
 
 Scorning to stand in debt to one you 
 hate, — 
 
 Nay, rather would engage your unstain'd 
 honor, 
 
 Than to be held ingrate, — I should con- 
 demn you. 
 
 I see your resolution, and assent; 
 
 So Charles will have me, and I am eon- 
 tent. 
 Sir C. For this I trick'd you up. 
 Susan. But here 's a knife, 
 
 To save mine honor, shall slice out my 
 life. 
 Sir C. I know thou pleasest me a thou- 
 sand times 
 
 More in that resolution than thy grant. — 
 
 Observe her love ; to soothe it to my suit, 
 
 Her honor she will hazard, though not 
 lose; 
 
 To bring me out of debt, her rigorous 
 hand 
 
 Will pierce her heart, — wonder! — that 
 will choose, 
 
 Rather than stain her blood, her life to 
 lose. 
 
 Come, you sad sister to a woful brother. 
 
 This is the gate. I '11 bear him such a 
 present. 
 
 Such an acquittance for the knight to 
 seal, 
 
 As will amaze his senses, and surprise 
 
 With admiration all his fantasies. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis Acton and Maiby. 
 
 Susan. Before his unchaste thoughts shall 
 seize on me, 
 'T is here shall my imprison'd soul set 
 free. 
 Sir F. How! Mountford with his sister, 
 hand in hand ! 
 What miracle's afoot? 
 Mai. It is a sight 
 
 Begets in me much admiration.' 
 Sir C. Stand not amaz'd to see me thus 
 attended ! 
 Acton, T owe thee money, and, being un- 
 able 
 
 3 yvond^r. 
 
 To bring thee the full sum in ready coin, 
 Lo ! for thy more assurance, here 's a 
 
 pawn, — 
 My sister, my dear sister, whose chaste 
 
 honor 
 I prize above a million. Here! Nay, 
 
 take her; 
 She 's worth your money, man ; do not 
 
 forsake her. 
 Sir F. I would he were in earnest! 
 Susan. Impute it not to my immodesty. 
 My brother, being rich in nothing else 
 But in his interest that he hath in me. 
 According to his poverty hath brought 
 
 you 
 Me, all his store; whom, howsoe'er you 
 
 prize, 
 As forfeit to your hand, he values highly, 
 And would not sell, but to acquit your 
 
 debt. 
 For any emperor's ransom. 
 Sir F. Stern heart, relent, 
 
 Thy former cruelty at length repent ! 
 Waa ever known, in any former age. 
 Such honorable, wrested * courtesy? 
 Lands, honors, life, and all the world 
 
 forego. 
 Rather than stand engag'd to such a 
 
 foe! 
 Sir C. Acton, she is too poor to be thy 
 
 bride. 
 And I too much oppos'd to be thy 
 
 brother. 
 There, take her to thee; if thou hast the 
 
 heart 
 To seize her as a rape, or lustful prey; 
 To blur our house, that never yet was 
 
 stain'd ; 
 To murder her that never meant thee 
 
 harm; 
 To kill me now, whom once thou sav'dst 
 
 from death : — 
 Do them at once; on her all these rely. 
 And perish with her spotless chastity. 
 Sir F. You overcome me in your love, Sir 
 
 Charles. 
 I cannot be so cruel to a lady 
 I love so dearly. Since you have not 
 
 spar'd 
 To engage your reputation to the world. 
 Your sister's honor, which you prize so 
 
 dear. 
 Nay, all the comforts which you hold on 
 
 earth, 
 To grow out of my debt, being your 
 
 foe, — 
 Your honor'd thoughts, lo ! thus I recom- 
 pense. 
 
 4 over- wrought. 
 
184 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Your metamorphos'd foe receives your 
 
 gift 
 In satisfaction of all former wrongs. 
 This jewel I will wear here in my heart; 
 And where before I thought her, for her 
 
 wants, 
 Too base to be my bride, to end all strife, 
 I seal you my dear brother, her my wife. 
 Susan. You still exceed us. I will yield 
 
 to fate, 
 And learn to love, where I till now did 
 
 hate. 
 Sir C. With that enchantment you have 
 
 charm'd my soul 
 And made me rich even in those very 
 
 words ! 
 I pay no debt, but am indebted more ; 
 Rich in your love, I never can be poor. 
 Sir F. AH 's mine is yours ; we are alike 
 
 in state; 
 Let 's knit in love what was oppos'd in 
 
 hate! 
 Come, for our nuptials we will straight 
 
 provide. 
 Blest only in our brother and fair bride. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Frankford's house. 
 
 Enter Cranwell, Frankford, and 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Cran. Why do you search each room 
 
 about your house, 
 Now that you have despateh'd your wife 
 
 awayf 
 Frank. Oh, sir, to see that nothing may be 
 
 left 
 That ever was my wife's. I lov'd her 
 
 dearly ; 
 And when I do but think of her unkind- 
 
 ness, 
 My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid 
 
 which torment, 
 I would not have a bodkin or a cuff, 
 A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wire," 
 Nor anything that ever' was call'd hers, 
 Left me, by which I might remember 
 
 her. — 
 Seek round about. 
 Nich. 'Sblood! master, here's her lute 
 
 flung in a comer. 
 Frank. Her lute! God! Upon this 
 
 instrument 
 Her fingers have run quick division,' 
 Sweeter than that which now divides our 
 
 hearts. 
 
 E wire used to support a ruff. 
 
 These frets have made me pleasant, that 
 
 have now 
 Frets of my heart-strings made. Mas- 
 ter Cranwell ! 
 Oft hath she made this melancholy wood, 
 Now mute and dumb for her disastrous 
 
 chance, 
 Speak sweetly many a note, sound many 
 
 a strain i f 
 
 To her own ravishing voice ; which being f - 
 
 well strung, ' 
 
 What pleasant strange airs have they 
 
 jointly sung! — 
 Post with it after her! — Now nothing's 
 
 left; 
 Of her and hers I am at once bereft. 
 Nich. I '11 ride and overtake her; do my 
 
 message, 
 And come back again. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Cran. Meantime, sir, if you please, 
 
 I '11 to Sir Francis Acton, and inform 
 
 him 
 Of what hath past betwixt you and his 
 
 sister. 
 Frank. Do as you please. — How iU am I 
 
 bested. 
 To be a widower ere my wife be dead ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. A country road. 
 
 I , 
 
 Enter Mistress Frankford, with Jenkin, \ ', 
 her maid Cicely, her Coachmen, and three 
 Carters. 
 
 Mrs. F. Bid my coach stay ! Why should 
 I ride in state. 
 Being hurl'd so low down by the hand 
 
 of fate? 
 A seat like to my fortunes let me have, — 
 Earth for my chair, and for my bed a 
 grave ! 
 Jen. Comfort, good mistress; you have 
 watered your coach with tears already. 
 You have but two miles now to go to 
 your manor. A man cannot say by my 
 old master Frankford as he may say by 
 me, that he wants manors; for he hath 
 three or four, of which this is one that 
 we are going to now. 
 Cic. Good mistress, be of good cheer! 
 Sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you 
 not; we all mourn to see you so sad. 
 Carter. Mistress, I spy one of my land- 
 lord's men 
 Come riding post: 'tis like he brings 
 some news. 
 
 6 variation. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 185 
 
 . F. Comes he from Master Frank- 
 ford, he is welcome; 
 So are his news, because they come from 
 him. 
 
 Enter Nicholas. 
 
 Nich. There ! 
 
 Mrs. F. I know the lute. Oft have I 
 
 sung to thee; 
 We both are out of tune, both out of 
 
 time. 
 Nich. Would that had been the worst in- 
 strument that e'er you played on! My 
 master commends him to ye ; there 's all 
 he can find that was ever yours ; he hath 
 nothing left that ever you could lay 
 claim to but his own heart, and he could 
 afford you that! All that I have to de- 
 liver you is this : he prays you to forget 
 him ; and so he bids you farewell. 
 Mrs. F. 1 thank him ; he is kind, and ever 
 
 was. 
 All you that have true feeling of my 
 
 grief, 
 That know my loss, and have relenting 
 
 hearts, 
 Gird me about, and help me with your 
 
 tears 
 To wash my spotted sins ! My lute shall 
 
 groan; 
 It cannot weep, but shall lament my 
 
 moan. 
 
 Enter Wendoll behind. 
 
 Wen. Pursu'd with horror of a guilty 
 
 soul, 
 And with the sharp scourge of repent- 
 ance lash'd, 
 I fly from mine own shadow. my 
 
 stars ! 
 What have my parents in their lives de- 
 
 serv'd, 
 That you should lay this penance on their 
 
 son? 
 When I but think of Master Frankford's 
 
 love, 
 And lay it to my treason, or compare 
 My murdering him for his relieving 
 
 me, 
 It strikes a terror like a lightning's flash. 
 To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the 
 
 owl, 
 Asham'd of day, live in these shadowy 
 
 woods, 
 Afraid of every leaf or murmuring blast. 
 Yet longing to receive some perfect 
 
 knowledge 
 
 How he hath dealt with her. (Seeing 
 Mistress Frankford.) my sad 
 fate! 
 
 Here, and so far from home, and thus 
 attended ! 
 
 God! I have divore'd the truest tur- 
 tles' 
 
 That ever liv'd ' together, and, being di- 
 vided, 
 
 In several places make their several 
 moan; 
 
 She in the fields laments, and he at 
 home; 
 
 So poets write that Orpheus made the 
 trees 
 
 And stones to dance to his melodious 
 harp, 
 
 Meaning the rustic and the barbarous 
 hinds, 
 
 That had no understanding part in them : 
 
 So she from these rude carters tears ex- 
 tracts, 
 
 Making their flinty hearts with grief to 
 rise. 
 
 And draw down rivers from their rocky 
 eyes. 
 Mrs. F. (To Nicholas.) If you return 
 unto my master, say 
 
 (Though not from me, for I am all un- 
 worthy 
 
 To blast his name so with a strumpet's 
 tongue) 
 
 That you have seen me weep, wish my- 
 self dead! 
 
 Nay, you may say, too, for my vow is 
 pass'd. 
 
 Last night you saw me eat and drink my 
 last. 
 
 This to your master you may say and 
 swear ; 
 
 For it is writ in heaven, and decreed' 
 here. > 
 
 Nich. I '11 say you wept ; I '11 swear you 
 made me sad. 
 
 Why, how now, eyes'? What now? 
 What's here to do? 
 
 I'm gone, or I shall straight turn baby 
 too. 
 Wen. (Aside.) I cannot weep, my heart 
 is all on Are. 
 
 Curs'd be the fruits of my unchaste de- 
 sire! 
 Mrs. F. Go, break this lute upon my 
 coach's wheel. 
 
 As the last music that I e'er shall 
 make, — 
 
 Not as my husband's gift, but my fare- 
 well 
 
 T turtle doTeg. 
 
186 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 To all earth's joy: and so your master 
 tell! 
 Nidh. If I can for crying. 
 Wen. {Aside.) Grief, have done, 
 
 Or, like a madman, I shall frantic run. 
 Mrs. F. You have beheld the wofull'st 
 wretch on earth, — 
 
 A woman made of tears; would you had 
 words 
 
 To express but what you see! My in- 
 ward grief 
 
 No tongue can utter; yet unto your 
 power 
 
 You may describe my sorrow, and dis- 
 close 
 
 To thy sad master my abundant woes. 
 Nich. I '11 do your commendations.* 
 Mrs. F. Oh, no ! 
 
 I dare not so presume; nor to my chil- 
 dren; 
 
 I am diselaim'd in both ; alas ! I am. 
 
 Oh, never teach them, when they come to 
 speak, 
 
 To name the name of mother: chide 
 their tongue. 
 
 If they by chance light on that hated 
 word; 
 
 Tell them 'tis naught; for when that 
 word they name. 
 
 Poor, pretty souls! they harp on their 
 own shame. 
 Wen. {Aside.) To recompense their 
 wrongs, what canst thou do? 
 
 Thou hast made her husbandless, and 
 childless too. 
 Mrs. F. I have no more to say. — Speak 
 not for me; 
 
 Yet you may tell your master what you 
 
 Nich. I 'il do 't. 
 
 Exit. 
 Wen. {Aside.) I'll speak to her, and 
 comfort her in grief. 
 Oh, but her wound cannot be cur'd with 
 
 words ! 
 No matter, though ; I '11 do my best good 
 
 will 
 To work a cure on her whom I did kill. 
 Mrs. F. So, now unto my coach, then to 
 my home, 
 So to my death-bed; for from this sad 
 
 hour, 
 I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor 
 
 taste 
 Of any cates ' that may preserve my 
 
 life. 
 I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor 
 rest; 
 
 But when my tears have wash'd my black 
 
 soul white. 
 Sweet Savior, to thy hands I yield my 
 
 sprite. 
 Wen. {Coming forward.) Mistress 
 
 Frankf ord ! 
 Mrs. F. Oh, for God's sake, ily ! 
 
 The devil doth come to tempt me, ere I 
 
 die. 
 My coach! — This sin, that with an 
 
 angel's face 
 Conjur'd i" mine honor, till he sought my 
 
 wrack. 
 In my repentant eye seems ugly, black. 
 
 Exeunt all except Wendoll and Jenkin; 
 the Carters whistling. 
 
 Jen. What, my young master, that fled 
 in his shirt! How come you by your 
 clothes again? You have made our 
 house in a sweet pickle, ha' ye not, think 
 you? What, shall I serve you still, or 
 cleave to the old house? 
 Wen. Hence, slave! Away, with thy un- 
 
 season'd mirth! 
 Unless thou canst shed tears, and sigh, 
 
 and howl. 
 Curse thy sad fortunes, and exclaim on 
 
 fate. 
 Thou art not for my turn. 
 Jen. Marry, an you will not, another will; 
 farewell, and be hang'd! Would you || 
 had never come to have kept this coil '' j ' 
 within our doors ! We shaU ha' you run 
 away like a sprite again. 
 
 Exit. 
 Wen. She 's gone to death ; I live to want 
 
 and woe. 
 Her life, her sins, and aU upon my 
 
 head. 
 And I must now go wander, like a Cain, 
 In foreign countries and remoted climes. 
 Where the report of my ingratitude 
 Cannot be heard. I '11 over first to 
 
 France, 
 And so to Germany and Italy; 
 Where, when I have recovered, and by 
 
 travel 
 Gotten those perfect tongues,^^ and that 
 
 these rumors 
 May in their height abate, I will re- 
 turn: 
 And I divine (however now dejected), 
 My worth and parts being by some great 
 
 man prais'd, 
 At my return I may in court be rais'd. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 8 present your re- 
 spects. 
 
 9 food. 
 10 seduced by Us charm. 
 
 11 made this trouble. 
 
 12 those languages 
 perfectly. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 187 
 
 Scene 4. Before the Manor House. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles 
 Mountford, Cranwell, Malby, and Susan. 
 
 Sir. F. Brother, and now my wife, I 
 
 think these trouhles. 
 Fall on my head by justice of the 
 
 heavens, 
 For being so strict to you in your ex- 
 tremities ; 
 But we are now aton'd.^^ I would my 
 
 sister 
 Could with like happiness o'ercome her 
 
 griefs 
 As we have ours. 
 Siisan. You tell us, Master Cranwell, won- 
 drous things 
 Touching the patience of that gentleman, 
 With what strange virtue he demeans ^* 
 
 his grief. 
 Cran. I told you what I was a witness of; 
 It was my fortune to lodge there that 
 
 night. 
 Sir F. Oh, that same villain, WendoU! 
 
 'T was his tongue 
 That did corrupt her; she was of herself 
 Chaste and devoted well. Is this the 
 
 house ? 
 Cran. Yes, sir; I take it, here your sister 
 
 lies. 
 Sir F. My brother Frankford show'd too 
 
 mild a spirit 
 In the revenge of such a loathed crime. 
 Less than he did, no man of spirit could 
 
 do. 
 I am so far from blaming his revenge. 
 That I commend it. Had it been my 
 
 case. 
 Their souls at once had from their. 
 
 breasts been freed; 
 Death to such deeds of shame is the due 
 
 meed. 
 
 Enter Jenkin and Cicely. 
 
 Jen. Oh, my mistress, my mistress! my 
 poor mistress! 
 
 Cicely. Alas ! that ever I was born ; what 
 shall I do for my poor mistress? 
 
 Sir C. Why, what of her? 
 
 Jen. Oh, Lord, sir! she no sooner heard 
 that her brother and her friends had 
 come to see how she did, but she, for very 
 shame of her guilty conscience, fell into 
 such a swoon, that we had much ado to 
 get life into her. 
 
 13 reconciled. 
 
 Susan. Alas, that she should bear so hard 
 a fate ! 
 Pity it is repentance comes too late. 
 
 Sir F. Is she so weak in body? 
 
 Jen. sir, I can assure you there 's no 
 hope of life in her; for she will take no 
 sust'nance : she hath plainly starv'd her- 
 self, and now she is as lean as a lath. 
 She ever looks for the good hour. Many 
 gentlemen and gentlewomen of the coun- 
 try are come to comfort her. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. Mistress Frankford's Bed- 
 chamber. 
 
 Mistress Frankford in bed; enter Sir 
 Charles Mountford, Sir Francis Acton, 
 Malby, arid Susan. 
 
 Mai. How fare you, Mistress Frankford? 
 Mrs. F. Sick, sick, oh, sick! Give me 
 some air, I pray you ! 
 
 Tell me, oh, tell me, where is Master 
 Frankford? 
 
 Will not he deign to see me ere I die? 
 Mai. Yes, Mistress Frankford; divers 
 gentlemen, 
 
 Your loving neighbors, with that just re- 
 quest 
 
 Have mov'd, and told him of your weak 
 estate : 
 
 Who, though with much ado to get be- 
 lief. 
 
 Examining of the general circumstance. 
 
 Seeing your sorrow and your penitence. 
 
 And hearing therewithal the great de- 
 sire 
 
 You have to see him, ere you left the 
 world. 
 
 He gave to us his faith to follow us, 
 
 And sure he will be here immediately. 
 Mrs. F. You have half reviv'd me with 
 the pleasing news. 
 
 Raise me a little higher in my bed. 
 
 Blush I not, brother Acton? Blush I 
 not. Sir Charles? 
 
 Can you not read my fault writ in my 
 cheek? 
 
 Is not my crime there? Tell me, gentle- 
 men. 
 Sir C. Alas, good mistress, sickness hath 
 not left you 
 
 Blood in your face enough to make you 
 blush. 
 
 14 exercises. 
 
188 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Mrs. F. Then, sickness, like a friend, my 
 fault would hide. — 
 
 Is my husband come? My soul but tar- 
 ries 
 
 His arrive; then I am fit for heaven. 
 Sir F. I came to chide you, but my words 
 of hate 
 
 Are tum'd to pity and compassionate 
 giief. 
 
 I came to rate ^° you, but my brawls, you 
 see. 
 
 Melt into tears, and I must weep by 
 thee. — 
 
 Here 's Master Frankford now. 
 
 Enter Frankford. 
 
 Frank. Good morrow, brother; morrow, 
 
 gentlemen ! 
 God, that hath laid his cross upon our 
 
 heads, 
 Might (had He pleas'd) have made our 
 
 cause of meeting 
 On a more fair and more contented 
 
 ground ; 
 But He that made us made us to this 
 
 woe. 
 Mrs. F. And is he come? Methinks that 
 
 voice I know. 
 Frank. How do you, woman? 
 Mrs. F. Well, Master Frankford, well; 
 
 but shall be better, 
 I hope within this hour. Will you 
 
 vouchsafe, 
 Out of your grace and your humanity, 
 To take a spotted strumpet by the hand? 
 Frank. This hand once held my heart in 
 
 faster bonds, 
 Than now 't is gripp'd by me. God par- 
 don them 
 That made us first break hold! 
 Mrs. F. Amen, amen! 
 
 Out of my zeal to Heaven, whither I'm 
 
 now bound, 
 I was so impudent to wish you here ; 
 And once more beg your pardon. 
 
 good man. 
 And father to my children, pardon me. 
 Pardon, oh, pardon me: my fault so 
 
 heinous is, 
 That if you in this world forgive it not, 
 Heaven will not clear it in the world to 
 
 come. 
 Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my 
 
 knees, 
 That kneel I cannot; but on my heart's 
 
 IS upbraid. 
 
 My prostrate soul lies thrown down at 
 
 your feet, 
 To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, 
 oh, pardon me! 
 Frank. As freely, from the low depth of 
 my soul. 
 As my Redeemer hath forgiven His 
 
 death, 
 I pardon thee. I will shed tears for 
 
 thee ; pray with thee ; 
 And, in mere pity of thy weak estate, 
 I '11 wish to die with thee. 
 All. So do we all. 
 
 Nich. So wiU not I; 
 
 I'll sigh and sob, but, by my faith, not 
 die. 
 Sir F. Oh, Master Frankford, all the 
 near alliance 
 I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee. 
 You are my brother by the nearest 
 
 way; 
 Her kindred hath fall'n off, but yours 
 doth stay. 
 Frank. Even as I hope for pardon, at 
 that day 
 When the Great Judge of Heaven in 
 
 scarlet sits, 
 So be thou pardon'd! Though thy rash 
 
 offence 
 Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears 
 Unite our souls. 
 Sir C. Then comfort. Mistress Frank- 
 ford! 
 You see your husband hath forgiven your 
 
 fall; 
 Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your 
 fainting soul ! 
 Susan. How is it with you? 
 Sir F. How do you feel yourself? 
 
 Mrs. F. Not of this world. 
 Frank. I see you are not, and I weep to 
 see it. 
 My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ! 
 Both those lost names I do restore thee 
 
 back. 
 And with this kiss I wed thee once again. 
 Though thou art wounded in thy honor'd 
 
 name, 
 And with that grief upon thy death-bed 
 
 liest. 
 Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou 
 diest. 
 Mrs. F. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in 
 heaven art free; 
 Once more thy wife, dies thus embracing 
 thee." 
 
 (Dies.) 
 
 10 Verity suggests, Once more (i. e. Kiss me once more) ; thy wife diet, etc. 
 
A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS 
 
 189 
 
 Frank. New-married, and new-widow'd. — 
 
 Oh! she's dead, 
 And a cold grave must be her nuptial 
 
 bed. 
 Sir C. Sir, be of good comfort, and your 
 
 heavy sorrow 
 Part equally amongst us; storms divided 
 Abate their force, and with less rage are 
 
 guided. 
 Cran. Do, Master Frankford; he that 
 
 hath least part, 
 WUl find enough to drown one troubled 
 
 heart. 
 Sir F. Peace with thee. Nan ! — Brothers 
 
 and gentlemen, 
 AU we that can plead interest in her 
 
 grief. 
 Bestow upon her body funeral tears ! 
 Brother, had you with threats and usage 
 
 bad 
 Punish'd her sin, the grief of her of- 
 
 ' fense 
 Had not with such true sorrow touch'd 
 
 her heart. 
 Frank. I see it had not ; therefore, on her 
 
 grave 
 WiU I bestow this funeral epitaph. 
 Which on her marble tomb shall be en- 
 
 grav'd. 
 In golden letters shall these words be 
 
 fill'd:" 
 Here lies she whom her husband's kind- 
 ness kill'd. 
 
 17 cut and filled in with gold. (N.) 18 pure. 
 
 THE EPILOGUE. 
 
 An honest crew, disposed to be merry, 
 
 Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine. 
 The drawer brought it, smiling like a 
 
 cherry. 
 And told them it was pleasant, neat ^^ 
 
 and fine. 
 "Taste it," quoth one. He did so. "Fie !" 
 
 quoth he ; 
 "This wine was good ; now 't runs too near 
 
 the lee." 
 
 Another sipp'd, to give the wine his due, 
 
 And said unto the rest it drunk too flat; 
 The third said it was old; the fourth, too 
 new; 
 "Nay," quoth the fifth, "the sharpness 
 likes ^° me not." 
 Thus, gentlemen, you see how, in one hour. 
 The wine was new, old, flat, sharp, sweet, 
 and sour. 
 
 Unto this wine we do allude ^^ our play. 
 
 Which some will judge too trivial, some 
 
 too grave : 
 
 You as our guests we entertain this day, 
 
 And bid you welcome to the best we have. 
 
 Excuse us, then; good wine may be dis- 
 
 grac'd. 
 When every several mouth hath sundry 
 taste. 
 
 19 pleases. 
 
 20 compare. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 
 
 PHILASTER 
 
 Francis Beaumont (1585-1616) came of 
 an old Leicestershire family, his father being 
 a Justice of Common Pleas. He entered Ox- 
 ford in 1597, and the Middle Temple as a 
 law student in 1600. He may have been 
 writing for the stage as early as 1605, and 
 was soon working in collaboration witli 
 Fletcher. He cannot be traced on the stage 
 after 1612. He died a month before Shakes- 
 peare, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 John Fletcher (1579-1625) was the son of 
 a clergyman who rose to be Bishop of London. 
 From the time that he entered Cambridge 
 in 1591 we lose sight of him until he appears 
 in 1607 as a dramatist. He continued active 
 as a playwright till his death of the plague, 
 collaborating at first with Beaumont, after- 
 ward with Shakespeare, Massinger, Field, 
 and others. Tradition has it that Beaumont 
 and Fletcher lived together in terms of closest 
 intimacy on the Bankside. In the share 
 which each contributed to the work going 
 under their names there has been great in- 
 terest from their own day to ours, but only 
 six or seven plays are now believed to be of 
 their joint authorship. 
 
 To Beaumont and Fletcher is usually as- 
 cribed the honor of introducing to the Eng- 
 lish stage a new type of play, the tragi- 
 comedy, or, as it has sometimes been loosely 
 called, the romance. Philaster was staged 
 somewhere between 1608 and 1610. By that 
 time Shakespeare had perfected romantic 
 love-comedy, introduced by Lyly, chronicle- 
 history, and tragedy; Ben Jonson had intro- 
 duced the comedy of humors, Jonson and Mid- 
 dleton had established realistic comedy, and 
 the vogue of domestic drama was practically 
 over. Realism, owing largely to Jonson's in- 
 fluence, had been the prevailing force for a 
 number of years, and the time was ripe for a 
 swing of the pendulum of popular taste back 
 toward romanticism. Into the vexed ques- 
 tion of priority between Shakespeare and 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, specifically between 
 the dates of production of Oymbelme and 
 Philaster, it is not profitable here to venture. 
 The more generally accepted opinion is to the 
 efl'ect that the younger dramatists were the 
 innovators; certain it is that to them we 
 owe the popularization and fixing of the 
 chief features of the new type. 
 
 In order to account for the wide differ- 
 ence in spirit and manner between this tragi- 
 comedy and earlier work it is necessary to 
 
 190 
 
 understand certain social changes which had 
 been taking place. The drama of 1580-1600 
 is marked by a very healthy tone; during 
 the next ten years an element of decadence 
 crept in, and, broadly speaking, the drama 
 degenerated steadily until the closing of the 
 theaters in 1642. Times had changed since 
 tlie brave days of Queen Bess. As G. C. 
 Macaulay says (Camb. Hist. Engl. Lit., VI. 
 121): "The genuinely national interest in 
 the drama which especially characterized the 
 last fifteen years of Elizabeth had, to a 
 great extent, passed away, and the taste of 
 the court had become gradually more and 
 more the prevailing influence." Now the 
 court of James was morally much less sound 
 than that of Elizabeth. Corruption, political 
 and social, was rife, and as the drama in- 
 creasingly came to be the plaything of the 
 court it reflected with increasing faithfulness 
 the moral tone of the court. The immediate 
 effect was a stimulation to greater brilliance, 
 but at the expense of depth and a true inter- 
 pretation' of national life. " Closely con- 
 nected with the want of moral earnestness 
 was the demand for theatrical entertain- 
 ments which did not make any serious ap- 
 peal to the intelleot; and hence, on the one 
 hand, the exaggerated love of pageantry, 
 which was gratified by the magnificence of 
 the masques presented at court, and, on the 
 other, the growing preference . . . for plots 
 full of interesting events and surprising turns 
 of fortune, rather than such as were de- 
 veloped naturally from situation and char- 
 acters: the result being a comparative neg- 
 lect of character interest, and a disregard for 
 the principle of artistic unity " ( Camb. Hist., 
 VI. 122). To be purveyors of entertainment 
 of this new sort for court audiences Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher were by birth and breed- 
 ing well fitted. We get with them for the 
 first time men of good family writing for the 
 stage and it is not surprising that they 
 should have been leaders in a new court 
 drama. 
 
 Philaster is so thoroughly typical an ex- 
 ample of Beaumont and Fletcher's tragi- 
 comedy that an analysis of it along the lines 
 suggested by Professor Thorndike's study will 
 serve to characterize the genre. The scene of 
 the play is Sicily, but so far as realism of 
 setting is concerned it might be anywhere else 
 in the world; the locality of these plays is 
 perfectly immaterial — the action always oc- 
 curs in a No-man's Land of romance. As 
 
BEAUMUJNT AND FLETCHER 
 
 191 
 
 usual however, in Elizabethan drama, the 
 speech and manner of the inhabitants even of 
 No-man's Land occasionally bear a strange 
 resemblance to those of the citizens of a more 
 familiar city on the banks of the Tliames; 
 the captain's oration to the mob might be 
 delivered by Simon Eyre to a band of shoe- 
 maker apprentices, and it is with a. right 
 London swagger that the scene goes. The 
 plot, probably invented, is highly ingenious, 
 very complicated, and utterly improbable. 
 With a story of pure sentimental love is con- 
 trasted one of base sensual passion; from the 
 conflict of the two sorts of love arise the 
 complications, for upon the discovery of 
 Megra's intrigue with Pharamond hangs her 
 spiteful accusation regarding Arethusa and 
 the supposed Bellario, the working out of 
 which fills the rest of the play. The action 
 is developed by a series of striking situations, 
 each of which is carefully planned to secure 
 the greatest degree of theatrical effectiveness, 
 regardless of its probability or improbability. 
 The play begins on a note of excitement in 
 Philaster's almost hysterical defiance of 
 Pharamond, capped by an obviously feigned 
 submission, followed by . a surprise as 
 Arethusa woos Philaster and the rivals are 
 again brought into confiict. Between two 
 scenes of lust is laid the strongly contrasting, 
 sentimental conversation of Arethusa and Bel- 
 lario. The fourth scene of act II is a good 
 illustration of a situation developed for its 
 own sake. With its cleverly arranged exits 
 and entrances, its working up to the unex- 
 pected appearance of Megra on the balcony, 
 and her sensational charge, it is most skil- 
 fully handled; but we should note that the 
 revelation of the intrigue, out of which all 
 possible effect is obtained, has no permanent 
 interest of its own, and that the one point 
 in which the scene advances plot is in the 
 rousing of suspicion about Arethusa, which 
 could have been done far more simply. The 
 appeal of the third act is mainly through im- 
 passioned rhetoric. Replete with sensation 
 are the wood scenes of act IV, with turn and 
 counterturn, surprising meetings and equally 
 surprising exits, culminating in the amazing 
 episodes where Philaster wounds Arethusa 
 and the sleeping Bellario. Probability would 
 suggest that in the third scene Bellario, who 
 could not very well help seeing that Are- 
 thusa's life was endangered, might easily have 
 prevented bloodshed by revealing his identity, 
 but in that event, of course, the play would 
 have ended then and there; Bellario, there- 
 fore, keeps silence and meekly disappears at 
 Philaster's command. The conduct of the 
 rest of the scene is highly ingenious as Bel- 
 lario takes on himself the crime of wound- 
 ing Arethusa, while Philaster, not to be out- 
 done in generosity, crawls out from under his 
 bush to confess his guilt. The union of 
 Philaster and Arethusa in act V seems to 
 clear her honor, though the charge against 
 
 her has never been refuted, but we are in dif- 
 ficulties once more when the king pronounces 
 his sentence of death on the lovers. At this 
 critical juncture the mob constitutes itself a 
 deus ex machma, and Philaster's quelling of 
 the riot seems to establish him in favor. 
 Here Megra, who has almost been forgotten, 
 reiterates her charge, and Philaster is on the 
 point of killing himself when Bellario makes 
 his confession. The skill with which this 
 denouement is secured is undeniable, as is 
 also the artificiality of structure whicli 
 makes it possible. No better example could 
 be found of the use of surprise in tragi- 
 comedy, for the audience is as much astounded 
 as are the persons of the play by Bellario's 
 metamorphosis. Coleridge has called at- 
 tention to Shakespeare's preference for the 
 "expectation method" of denouement as con- 
 trasted with the " surprise method." Shakes- 
 peare uses the former consistently; with him, 
 as, for instance, in the church scene in Much 
 Ado About Nothing, no character assumes dis- 
 guise without informing the audience of the 
 fact and its- purpose. The audience is therefore 
 at all times more cognizant of the true situa- 
 tion than are the persons of the play — is sure 
 that the truth will be revealed in time to 
 avert a tragic conclusion, and the play is kept 
 in the realm of comedy. The sole intention 
 of Beaumont and Fletcher, on the contrary, 
 is to provide as sensational an ending as pos- 
 sible, and they delight in harrowing the feel- 
 ings of the audience till the last moment. 
 Where in Shakespeare the spectators think 
 of the characters, their emotions, and their 
 behavior in the situation, in tragicomedy 
 their attention is directed to the event itself. 
 The violent contrast of tragic and comic feel- 
 ing involved in the surprise method is an 
 essential characteristic of tragicomedy. The 
 gist of the complications in Philaster is ex- 
 pressed in Philaster's reproach to Bellario 
 in the last scene: 
 
 " All these jealousies 
 
 Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered 
 
 What now we know." 
 
 Such stressing of plot, or, more accurately, 
 of situation, is practically certain to result 
 in a slurring of characterization. Anything 
 like psychological analysis or logical develop- 
 ment of character is sacrificed to immediate 
 theatrical effectiveness. The behavior of 
 Philaster is a case in point. When viewed 
 coolly he stands forth a cad of deepest dye. 
 His readiness to believe the worst of Are- 
 thusa in ihe face of her own and Bellario's 
 protestations of innocence shakes our confi- 
 dence in him, and when this egregious hero 
 attempts to kill first his mistress and later 
 a sleeping boy all semblance of consistency 
 and lifelikeness is destroyed. Most of the 
 characters are exaggerated or intensified on 
 some one side; they are too indubitably bad 
 or too angelically good. Enphrasia's senti- 
 mental devotion, Megra's lustfulness, Phara- 
 
192 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 mond's poltroonery, Philaster's sensibility, 
 are emphaeized to the point of impossibility. 
 Essentially they are not much more than 
 types, which appear again and again in tragi- 
 comedy and the later Fletcherian romantic 
 tragedy. As always, the chief figures are of 
 high rank, and make no impression of reality. 
 Lamb's well-known apology for the behavior 
 of the people in Kestoration comedy on the 
 ground that they live in a world of their 
 own, like fairies, might be applied to Phil- 
 aster, Bellario, Megra, and the rest. 
 
 Whatever criticism may be passed upon 
 plotting and characterization, no dissent is 
 possible Jrom the unanimous opinion as to 
 the dramatic propriety and poetic beauty of 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's verse. Smooth, 
 easy-running, adapting itself with perfect 
 facility to the action, as adequate for the ex- 
 pression of frantic passion or heart-broken 
 pathos as for the badinage of courtiers, ever 
 without strain or visible effort, it is the per- 
 fection of dramatic blank verse. Nothing 
 quite like it had been heard on the Elizabethan 
 stage before; small wonder that it delighted 
 the auditors and readers of its own day, and 
 that it was regarded by the Restoration as 
 the perfect model of dramatic dialogue. At 
 its best it has a haunting beauty, especially 
 when Arethusa or Bellario is speaking. Bel- 
 lario's reply to Philaster's 
 
 " Oh, but thou dost not know 
 What *t is to die ' ' — 
 
 " Yes, I do know, my lord : 
 *Tis less than to be bornj a lasting slee_p, 
 A quiet resting fi'om all jealousy, 
 A thing we all pursue; I know, besides, 
 It is but giving over of a game 
 That must be lost " ; 
 
 and Bellario's speech in V. ii: 
 
 " Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing 
 Worthy your noble thoughts; 't is no* a life, 
 'T is but a piece of childhood thrown away "— 
 
 the exquisite tenderness of these is beyond 
 praise. 
 
 On the basis of stylistic differences at- 
 tempts have been made to assign various parts 
 of the play to one or the other of the joint 
 authors, and while such identifications are al- 
 ways dangerous, it may be well to summarize 
 the conclusions reached by Thorndike and 
 Gayley, two of the most careful and recent 
 of investigators. To Beaumont are assigned 
 I. i (to entrance of King), ii; II. i, ii (to en- 
 trance of Megra, Gayley), iii, iv (to re-en- 
 trance of Dion) ; III. i, ii (in part) ; IV. i, ii, 
 iii, iv; V. i, ii, v. To Fletcher: I. i (from 
 entrance of King) ; II. ii (only from entrance 
 of Megra, Gayley), iv. (from re-entrance 
 of Dion) ; III. ii (in part) ; V. iii, iv. This 
 gives to Beaumont ,much the greater share 
 in the composition, and most of the finest 
 poetry of the play, like Philaster's descrip- 
 tion of Bellario in I. ii, and all the wood 
 scenes. 
 
 Philaster was popular in its own day, held 
 the stage up to the closing of the theaters, 
 was put on as soon as they reopened (Pepys 
 saw it in 1661 and 1668), and had several 
 revivals in the eighteenth century. Its 
 theatrical effectiveness and the astonishing 
 brilliance of the verse are quite sufficient to 
 account for its longevity, and its importance 
 in the history of the drama is enhanced by 
 the fact that in tragicomedy may be found 
 the roots of the heroic drama of the Restora- 
 tion. 
 
 PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 Bt FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. 
 
 NAMES OP THE CHAKACTEES 
 
 The King of Sicilt. 
 
 Philasteb, Heir to the Grown. 
 
 Phabamond, Prince of Spain. 
 
 Dion, a Lord. 
 
 Clebemont, \ Voile Oentlemen, his assooi- 
 
 Thbasiline, J ates. 
 
 An Old Captain. 
 
 Five Citizens. 
 
 A Coimtry Fellow. 
 
 Two Woodmen. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. The presence chamber in the 
 
 palace. 
 
 Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 
 
 Cle. Ilere's nor lords nor ladies. 
 
 Dion, Credit me, gentlemen, I woiider at 
 
 The King's Guard and Train. 
 Abethtjsa, Daughter of the King. 
 EuPHBASiA, Daughter of Dion, but disguised 
 
 like a Page and called Bellabio. 
 Megba, a lasoivious Lady. 
 Galatea, a wise, modest Lady attending the 
 
 Princess. 
 Two other Ladies. 
 
 Scene, — ^Sicily. 
 
 it. They reeeiv'd strict charge from the 
 King to attend here; besides, it was 
 boldly published that no officer should 
 forbid any gentleman that desired to at- 
 tend and hear. 
 
 Cle. Can you guess the cause? 
 
 Dion. Sir, it is plain, about the Spanish 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 193 
 
 Prince that 's come to marry our king- 
 dom's heir and be our sovereign. 
 
 Ihra. Many that will seem to know much 
 say she looks not on him like a maid in 
 love. 
 
 Dion. Faith, sir, the multitude, that sel- 
 dom know any thing but their own opin- 
 ions, speak that they would have; but 
 the prince, before his own approach, re- 
 ceiv'd so many confident messages from 
 the state, that I think she 's resolv'd to be 
 rul'd. 
 
 Cle. Sir, it is thought, with her he shall 
 enjoy both these kingdoms of Sicily and 
 Calabria. 
 
 Dion. Sir, it is without controversy so 
 meant. But 't will be a troublesome la- 
 bor for him to enjoy both these kingdoms 
 with safety, the right heir to one of them 
 living, and living so virtuously : espe- 
 cially, the .people admiring the bravery 
 of his mind and lamenting his injuries. 
 
 Cle. Who? Philaster? 
 
 Dion. Yes; whose father, we all know, 
 was by our late King of Calabria un- 
 righteously deposed from his fruitful 
 Sicily. Myself drew some blood in those 
 wars, which I would give my hand to be 
 washed from. 
 
 Cle. Sir, my ignorance in state-policy 
 will not let me know why, Philaster being 
 heir to one of these kingdoms, the King 
 should suffer him to walk abroad with 
 such free liberty. 
 
 Dion. Sir, it seems your nature is more 
 constant than to inquire after state- 
 news. But the King, of late, made a 
 hazard of both the kingdoms, of Sicily 
 and his own, with offering but to im- 
 prison Philaster; at which the city was 
 in arms, not to be eharm'd down by any 
 state-order or proclamation, till they 
 saw Philaster ride through the streets 
 pleas'd and without a guard: at which 
 they threw their hats and their arms 
 from them; some to make bonfires, some 
 to drink, all for his deliverance: which 
 wise men say is the cause the King la- 
 bors to bring in the power of a foreign 
 nation to awe his own with. 
 
 Enter Galatea, a Lady, and Megra. 
 
 Thru. See, the ladies! What's the first? 
 Dion. A wise ,and modest gentlewoman 
 
 that attends the princess. 
 Cle. "The second? 
 Dion. She is one that may stand still dis- 
 
 1 cheat, 
 
 creetly enough and ill-favor'dly dance 
 her measure; simper when she is courted 
 by her friend, and slight her husband. 
 
 Cle. The last? 
 
 Dion. Faith, I think she is one whom th^ 
 state keeps for the agents of our Con- 
 federate princes ; she '11 cog ^ and lie 
 with a whole army, before the league 
 shall break. Her name is common 
 through the kingdom, and the trophies 
 of her dishonor advanced beyond Her- 
 cules' Pillars.^ She loves to try the 
 several constitutions of men's bodies; 
 and, indeed, has destroyed the worth of 
 her own body by making experiment 
 upon it for the good of the common- 
 wealth. 
 
 Cle. She's a profitable member. 
 
 Meg. Peace, if you love me! You shall 
 see these gentlemen stand their ground 
 and not court us. 
 
 Gal. What if they should ? 
 
 La. What if they should! 
 
 Meg. Nay, let her alone. — What if they 
 should ? Why, if they should, I say they 
 were never abroad. What foreigner 
 would do so? It writes them directly 
 untravell'd. 
 
 Gal. Why,. what if they be? 
 
 La. What if they be ! 
 
 Meg. Good madam, let her go on. — ^What 
 if they be? Why, if they be, I will 
 justify, they cannot maintain discourse 
 with a judicious lady, nor make a leg,* 
 nor say "Excuse me." 
 
 Gal. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Meg. Do you laugh, madam? 
 
 Dion. Your desires upon you, ladies! 
 
 Meg. Then you must sit beside us. 
 
 Dion. I shall sit near you then, lady. 
 
 Meg. Near me, perhaps ; but there 's a 
 lady endures no stranger; and to me you 
 appear a very strange fellow. 
 
 La. Methinks he 's not so strange ; he 
 would quickly be acquainted. 
 
 Thra. Peace, the King! 
 
 Enter King, Pharamond, Arethusa, and 
 Train. 
 
 King. To give a stronger testimony of 
 
 love 
 Than sickly promises (which commonly 
 In princes find both birth and burial 
 In' one breath) we have drawn you, 
 
 worthy sir, 
 To make your fair endearments to orfr 
 
 daughter. 
 
 2 The rocky promontories forming the Straits of Gibraltar were bo 
 called from the legend that they were torn asunder by Hercules, 
 
 show. 
 
194 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 And worthy services known to our sub- 
 jects, 
 
 Now lov'd and wondered at; next, our 
 intent 
 
 To plant you deeply our immediate heir 
 
 Both to our blood and kingdoms. Tor 
 this lady, 
 
 (The best part of your life, as you con- 
 firm me, 
 
 And I believe,) though her few years 
 and sex 
 
 Yet teach her nothing but her fears and 
 blushes, 
 
 Desires without desire, discourse and 
 knowledge 
 
 Only of what herself is to herself. 
 
 Make her feel moderate health ; and when 
 she sleeps. 
 
 In making no ill day, knows no ill 
 dreams. 
 
 Think not, dear sir, these undivided 
 parts. 
 
 That must mould up a virgin, are put 
 on 
 
 To show her so, as borrowed ornaments 
 
 To speak her perfect love to you, or 
 add 
 
 An artificial shadow to her nature, — 
 
 No, sir; I boldly dare proclaim her yet 
 
 No woman. But woo her still, and think 
 her modesty 
 
 A sweeter mistress than the ofiEer'd lan- 
 guage 
 
 Of any dame, were she a queen, whose 
 eye 
 
 Speaks common loves and comforts to 
 her servants.* 
 
 Last, noble son (for so I now must call 
 you), 
 
 What I have done thus public, is not 
 only 
 
 To add a comfort in particular 
 
 To you or me, but all; and to confirm 
 
 The nobles and the gentry of these king- 
 doms 
 
 By oath to your succession, which shall 
 be 
 
 Within this month at most. 
 Thru. This will be hardly done. 
 Cle. It must be ill done, if it be done. 
 Dion. When 't is at best, 't will be but half 
 done, whilst 
 
 So brave a gentleman is wrong'd.and 
 flung off. 
 Thra. I fear. 
 Cle. Who does not? 
 Dion. I fear not for myself, and yet I 
 fear too. 
 
 Well, we shaU see, we shall see. No 
 
 more. 
 Pha. Kissing your white hand, mistress, 
 
 I take leave 
 To thank your royal father; and thus far 
 To be my own free trumpet. Under- 
 stand, 
 Great K-ing, and these your subjects, 
 
 mine that must be, 
 (For so deserving you have spoke me, 
 
 sir. 
 And so deserving I dare speak myself,) 
 To what a person, of what eminence. 
 Ripe expectation, of what faculties, 
 Manners and virtues, you would wed 
 
 your kingdoms; 
 You in me have your wishes. Oh, this 
 
 country ! - 
 By more than all the gods, I hold it 
 
 happy; 
 Happy in their dear memories that have 
 
 been 
 Kings great and good; happy in yours 
 
 that is; 
 And from you (as a chronicle to keep 
 Your noble name from eating age) do I 
 Opine myself most happy. Gentlemen, 
 Believe me in a word, a prince's word. 
 There shall be nothing to make up a 
 
 kingdom 
 Mighty and flourishing, defensed, fear'd, 
 Equal to be commanded and obeyed. 
 But through the travails of my life I '11 
 
 find it. 
 And tie it to this country. By all the 
 
 gods. 
 My reign shall be so easy to the subject. 
 That every man shall be his prince him- 
 self. 
 And his own law — ^yet I his prince and 
 
 law. 
 And dearest lady, to your dearest self 
 (Dear in the choice of him whose name 
 
 and lustre 
 Must make you more and mightier) let 
 
 me say. 
 You are the blessed'st living; for, sweet 
 
 princess, 
 You shall enjoy a man of men to be 
 Your servant; you shall make him yours, 
 
 for ■ whom 
 Great queens must die. 
 Thra. Miraculous ! 
 
 Cle. This speech calls him Spaniard, be- 
 ing nothing but a large inventory pf his 
 own commendations. 
 Dion. I wonder what 's his price; for cer- 
 tainly 
 
 4 lovers. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 195 
 
 He'll sell himself, he has so prais'd his 
 shape. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 But here conies one more worthy those 
 
 large speeches 
 Than the large speaker of them. 
 Let me be swallowed quick, if I can find, 
 In all the anatomy of yon man's virtues, 
 One sinew sound enough to promise for 
 
 him 
 He shall be constable. By this sun, 
 He '11 ne'er make king unless it be of 
 
 trifles, 
 In my poor judgment. 
 Phi. (Kneeling.) Right noble sir, as low 
 as my obedience, 
 And with a heart as loyal as my knee, 
 I beg your favor. 
 King. Rise ; you have it, sir. 
 
 Dion. Mark but the King, how pale he 
 looks! He fears! 
 Oh, this same whoreson ° conscience, how 
 it jades us! 
 King. Speak your intents, sir. 
 Phi. Shall I speak 'em freely ? 
 
 Be still my royal sovereign. 
 King. As a subject, 
 
 We give you freedom. 
 Dion. Now it heats. 
 
 Phi. Then thus I turn 
 
 My language to you, prince, you, for- 
 
 eign man 
 
 Ne'er stare nor put on wonder, for you 
 
 must 
 Endure me, and you shall. This earth 
 
 you tread upon 
 (A dowry, as you hope, with this fair 
 
 princess). 
 By my dead father (oh, I had a father, 
 Whose memory I bow to!) was not left 
 To your inheritance, and I up and liv- 
 ing- 
 Having myself about me and my sword. 
 The souls of all my name and memories, 
 These arms and some few friends beside 
 
 the gods — 
 To part so calmly with it, and sit still 
 And say, "I might have been." I tell 
 
 thee, Pharamond, 
 When thou art king, look I be dead and 
 
 rotten, 
 And my name ashes : for, hear me, Phara- 
 mond, 
 This very ground thou goest on, this fat 
 
 earth 
 My father's friends made . fertile with 
 their faiths, 
 
 Before that day of shame shall gape and 
 
 swallow 
 Thee and thy nation, like a hungry 
 
 grave, 
 Into her hidden bowels. Prince, it shall ; 
 By the just gods, it shall ! 
 Pha. He 's mad ; beyond cure, mad. 
 
 Dion. Here is a fellow has some fire in 's 
 veins : 
 The outlandish prince looks like a tooth- 
 drawer. 
 Phi. Sir Prince of popinjays, I '11 make it 
 well 
 Appear to you I am not mad. 
 King. You displease us : 
 
 You are too bold. 
 Phi. No, sir, I am too tame, 
 
 Too much a turtle,* a thing born without 
 
 •passion, 
 A faint shadow, that every drunken 
 
 cloud 
 Sails over, and makes nothing. 
 King. I do not fancy this. 
 
 ■ Call our physicians ; sure, he 's somewhat 
 
 tainted.^ 
 Thra. I do not think 't will prove so. 
 Dion. H'as given him a general purge al- 
 ready. 
 For all the right he has; and now he 
 
 means 
 To let him blood. Be constant, gentle- 
 men: 
 By heaven, I '11 run his hazard. 
 Although I run my name out of the 
 kingdom ! 
 Cle. Peace, we are all one soul. 
 Pha. What you have seen in me to stir 
 offence 
 I cannot find, unless it be this lady, 
 Offer'd into mine arms with the succes- 
 sion; 
 Which I must keep, (though it hath 
 
 pleas'd your fury 
 To mutiny within you,) without dis- 
 puting 
 Your genealogies, or taking knowledge 
 Whose branch you are. The King will 
 
 leave it me, 
 And I dare make it mine. You have 
 your answer. 
 Phi. If thou wert sole inheritor to him 
 That made the world his,' and couldst 
 
 see no sun 
 Shine upon any thing but thine; were 
 
 Pharamond 
 As truly valiant as I feel him cold. 
 And ring'd amongst the choicest of his 
 friends 
 
 plaguey. 
 
 6 turtledove. 
 
 T unbalanced. 
 
 8 Alexander the Great. 
 
196 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 (Such as would blush to talk such serious 
 
 follies, 
 Or back such bellied ^ commendations), 
 And from this presence, spite of all these 
 
 bugs,^'' 
 You should hear further from me. 
 King. Sir, you wrong the prince; I gave 
 you not this freedom 
 To brave our best friends. You deserve 
 
 our frown. 
 Go to; be better temper'd. 
 Phi. It must be, sir, when I am nobler 
 
 us'd. 
 Gal. Ladies, 
 
 This would have been a pattern of suc- 
 cession,^^ 
 Had he ne'er met this mischief. By my 
 
 life. 
 He is the worthiest the true name df man 
 This day within my knowledge. 
 Meg. I cannot tell what you may call 
 your knowledge; 
 But the other is the man set in mine eye. 
 Oh, 't is a prince of wax ! ^^ 
 Gal. A dog it is. 
 
 King. Philaster, tell me 
 
 The injuries you aim at in your riddles. 
 Phi. If you had my eyes, sir, and suff^- 
 ance, 
 My griefs upon you, and my broken for- 
 tunes, 
 My wants great, and now nought but 
 
 hopes and fears, 
 My wrongs would make ill riddles to be 
 
 laught at. 
 Dare you be still my king, and right me 
 not? 
 King. Give me your wrongs iji private. 
 Phi. Take them, 
 
 And ease me of a load would bow strong 
 Atlas. 
 
 (They whisper.) 
 Cle. He dares not stand the shock. 
 Dion. I cannot blame him ; there 's dan- 
 ger in 't. Every man in this age has not 
 a soul of crystal, for all men to read their 
 actions through: men's hearts and faces 
 are so far asunder, that they hold no in- 
 telligence. Do but view yon stranger 
 well, and you shall see a fever through 
 all his bravery,^* and feel him shake like 
 a true tenant.^* If he give not back his 
 crown again upon the report of an elder- 
 gun, I have no augury. 
 King. Go to; 
 Be more yourself, as you respect our 
 favor; 
 
 You '11 stir us else. Sir, I must have you 
 
 know, 
 That y' are and shall be, at our pleasure, 
 
 what 
 Fashion we will put upon you. Smooth 
 
 your brow. 
 
 Or by the gods 
 
 Phi. I am dead, sir; y' are my fate. It 
 
 was not I 
 Said, I was wrong'd: I carry all about 
 
 me 
 My weak stars lead me to, all my weak 
 
 fortunes. 
 Who dares in aU this presence speak, 
 
 (that is 
 But man of flesh, and may be mortal,) 
 
 tell me 
 I do not most entirely love this prince, 
 And honor his full virtues ! 
 King. Sure, he 's possess'd. 
 
 Phi. Yes, with my father's spirit. It's 
 
 here, King, 
 A dangerous spirit! Now he tells me. 
 
 King, 
 I was a king's heir, bids me be a king. 
 And whispers to me, these are all my 
 
 subjects. 
 'T is strange he will not let me sleep, but 
 
 dives 
 Into my fancy, and there gives me 
 
 shapes 
 That kneel and do me service, cry me 
 
 king. 
 But I'll suppress him; he's a factious 
 
 spirit. 
 And will undo me. — {To Phar.) Noble 
 
 sir, your hand ; 
 I am your servant. 
 ^ Away ! I do not like this : 
 
 I '11 make you tamer, or I '11 dispossess . 
 
 you 
 Both of your life and spirit. Tor this 
 
 time 
 I pardon your wild speech, without so 
 
 much 
 As your imprisonment. 
 Exeunt King, Pharamond, Arethusa, and 
 Train. 
 
 I thank you, sir; you dare not for 
 
 the people. 
 
 Ladies, what think you now of this 
 
 brave fellow? 
 
 A pretty talking fellow, hot at 
 hand. But eye yon' stranger: is he not a 
 fine complete gentleman ? Oh, . these 
 strangers, I do affect ^^ them strangely ! 
 They do -the rarest home-things, and 
 
 Dion. 
 
 Gal. 
 
 Meg. 
 
 9 swollen. 
 
 10 bugbears. 
 
 11 to succeeding 
 kings. 
 
 12 a model prince, 
 IS ostentation. 
 
 14 Probably corrupt. 
 Qi truant. 
 
 15 love. 
 
■PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 197 
 
 please the fullest! As I live, I could 
 love all the nation over and over for his 
 
 Gal. Gods comfort your poor head-piece, 
 
 lady! 'T is a weak one, and had need 
 
 of a night-cap. 
 
 Exeunt Ladies. 
 Dion. See, how his fancy labors ! Has he 
 not 
 
 Spoke home and bravely? What a dan- 
 gerous train 
 
 Did he give fire to! How he shook the 
 King, 
 
 Made his soul melt within him, and his 
 blood 
 
 Run into whey! It stood upon his brow 
 
 Like a cold winter dew. 
 Phi. Gentlemen, 
 
 You have no suit to me? I am no min- 
 ion. 
 
 You stand, methinks, like men that would 
 be courtiers. 
 
 If I could well iDe flatter'd at a price 
 
 Not to undo your children.^" You 're all 
 honest : 
 
 Go, get you home again, and make your 
 country 
 
 A virtuous court, to which your great 
 ones may, 
 
 In their diseased age, retire and live re- 
 cluse. 
 Cle. How do you, worthy sir? 
 Phi. Well, very well; 
 
 And so well that, if the King please, I 
 find 
 
 I may live many years. 
 Dion. The King must please, 
 
 Whilst we know what you are and who 
 you are, 
 
 Your wrongs and virtues. Shrink not, 
 worthy sir. 
 
 But add your father to you; in whose 
 name 
 
 We'll waken all the gods, and conjure 
 up 
 
 The rods of vengeance, the abused people, 
 
 Who, like to raging torrents, shall swell 
 high, 
 
 And so begirt the dens of these male- 
 dragons, 
 
 That, through the strongest safety, they 
 shall beg 
 
 For mercy at your sword's point. 
 Phi. Friends, no more; 
 
 Our ears may be corrupted ; 't is an age 
 We dare not trust our wills to. Do you 
 love me? 
 
 18 Mason conj. Qq. F. you. If you could flatter me without ruin- 
 ing your families by antagonizing the king. (Neilson.) 
 
 Thra. Do we love heaven and honor? 
 Phi. My Lord Dion, you had 
 A virtuous gentlewoman call'd you fa- 
 ther; 
 Is she yet alive? 
 Dion. Most honor'd sir, she is; 
 
 And for the penance but of an idle 
 
 dream. 
 Has undertook a tedious pilgrimage. 
 
 Enter a Lady. 
 
 Phi. Is it to me, or any of these gentle- 
 men, you come? 
 Lady. To you, brave lord; the princess 
 would entreat 
 Your present company. 
 Phi. The princess send for me! You are 
 
 mistaken. 
 Lady. If you be called Philaster, 'tis to 
 
 . you. 
 Phi. Kiss her fair hand, and say I will 
 attend her. 
 
 Exit Lady. 
 Dion. Do you know what you do ? 
 Phi. Yes; go to see a woman. 
 Cle. But do you weigh the danger you are 
 
 in? 
 Phi. Danger in a sweet face ! 
 
 By Jupiter, I must not fear a woman ! 
 Thra. But are you sure it was the princess 
 sent? 
 It may be some foul train to catch your 
 life. 
 Phi. 1 do not think it, gentlemen; she's 
 noble. 
 Her eye may shoot me dead, or those true 
 
 red 
 And white friends in her cheeks may 
 
 steal my soul out; 
 There's all the danger in't. But, be 
 
 what may. 
 Her single ^^ name hath arm'd me. 
 
 Exit. 
 Dion. Go on. 
 
 And be as truly happy as thou'rt fear- 
 less ! — 
 Come, gentlemen, let 's make our friends 
 
 acquainted, 
 Lest the King prove false. 
 
 "^ Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Arethusa's apartment in the 
 palace. 
 
 Enter Arethusa and a Lady. 
 
 Are. Comes he not? 
 
 Lady. Madam? 
 
 Are. Will Philaster come? 
 
 17 mere. 
 
19S 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to 
 credit me 
 At first. 
 Are. But didst thou tell me so? 
 
 I am forgetful, and my woman's 
 
 strength 
 Is so o'ereharg''d with dangers like to 
 
 grow 
 About my marriage, that these under- 
 
 things 
 Dare not abide in such a troubled sea. 
 How lookt he when he told thee he would 
 come? 
 Lady. Why, well. 
 Are. And not a little fearful? 
 Lady. Fear, madam ! Sure, he knows not 
 
 what it is. 
 Are, You all are of his faction ; the whole 
 court 
 Is bold in praise of him ; whilst I - 
 May live neglected, and do noble things. 
 As fools in strife throw gold into the sea, 
 Drown'd in the doing. But I know hp 
 fears. 
 Lady. Fear, madam! Methought, his 
 looks hid more 
 Of love than fear. 
 Are. Of love! To whom? To you? 
 
 Did you deliver those plain words I sent, 
 With such a winning gesture and quick 
 
 look 
 That you have caught him? 
 Lady. Madam, I mean to you. 
 
 Are. Of love to me! Alas, thy ignorance 
 Lets thee not see the crosses of our births ! 
 Nature, that loves not to be questioned 
 Wby she did this or that, but has her 
 
 ends, 
 And knows she does well, never gave the 
 
 world 
 Two things so opposite, so contrary 
 As he and I am : if a bowl of blood 
 Drawn from this arm of mine would 
 
 poison thee, 
 A draught of his would cure thee. Of 
 love to me ! 
 Lady. Madam, I think I hear him. 
 Are. Bring him in. 
 
 Exit Lady. 
 You gods, that would not have your 
 
 dooms withstood, 
 Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is 
 To make the passion of a feeble maid 
 The way unto your justice, I obey. 
 
 Re-enter Lady with Philaster. 
 
 Lady. Here is my Lord Philaster. 
 Are. Oh, 't is well. 
 
 Withdraw yourself. Exit Lady. 
 
 Phi. Madam, your messenger 
 
 Made me believe you wish'd to speak with 
 me. 
 Are. 'T is true, Philaster; but the, words 
 are such 
 I have to say, and do so ill beseem 
 The mouth of woman, that I wish them 
 
 said, , 
 
 And yet am loth to speak them. Have 
 
 you known 
 That I have aught detracted fronf your 
 
 worth ? 
 Have I in person wrong'd you, or have 
 
 set 
 My baser instruments to throw disgrace 
 Upon your virtues? 
 Phi. Never, madam, you. 
 
 Are. Why, then, should you, in such a 
 public place. 
 Injure a princess, and a scandal lay 
 Upon my fortunes, f am'd to be so great, 
 Calling a great part of my dowry in 
 question ? 
 Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall 
 speak will be 
 Foolish : but, for your fair and virtuous 
 
 self, 
 I could afford myself to have no right 
 To any thing you wish'd. 
 Are. Philaster, know, 
 
 I must enjoy these kingdoms. 
 Phi. Madam, both? 
 
 Are. Both, or I die: by heaven, I die, 
 Philaster, 
 If I not calmly may enjoy them both. 
 PM. I would do much to save that noble 
 life; 
 Yet would be loth to have posterity 
 Find in our stories, that Philaster gave 
 His right unto a scepter and a crown 
 To save a lady's longing. 
 Are. Nay, then, hear: 
 
 I must and will have them, and more 
 
 Phi. What more? 
 
 Are. Or lose that little life the gods pre- 
 pared 
 To trouble this poor piece of earth 
 withal. 
 Phi. Madam, what more? 
 Are. Turn, then, away thy face. 
 
 Phi. No. 
 Are. Do. 
 
 Phi. I can endure it. Turn away my 
 face! 
 I never yet saw enemy that lookt 
 So dreadfully, but that I thought mv- 
 self 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 199 
 
 As great a basilisk^* as he; or spake 
 So horrible, but that I thought my 
 
 tongue 
 Bore thunder underneath, as much as his ; 
 Nor beast that I could turn frojn. Shall 
 
 I then 
 Begin to fear sweet sounds'! A lady's 
 
 voice. 
 Whom I do love? Say you would have 
 
 my life; 
 Why, I will give it you ; for 't is of me 
 A thing so loath'd, and unto you that 
 
 ask 
 Of so poor use, that I shall make no 
 
 price: 
 If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear. 
 Are. Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy 
 
 looks. 
 Phi. I do. 
 Are. Then know, I must have them and 
 
 thee. 
 Phi. And me? 
 
 Are. Thy love; without which, all the land 
 Discovered yet will serve me for no use 
 But to be buried in. 
 Phi. Is't possible? 
 
 Are. With it, it were too little to be- 
 stow 
 On thee. Now, though thy breath do 
 
 strike me dead, 
 (Which, know, it may,) I have unript 
 
 my breast. 
 Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble 
 
 thoughts. 
 To lay a train for this contemned life, 
 Which you may have for asking. To 
 
 suspect 
 Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love 
 
 you! 
 By all my hopes, I do, above my life ! 
 But how this passion should proceed 
 
 from you 
 So violently, would amaze a man 
 That would be jealous.^' 
 Are. Another soul into my body shot 
 Could not have flU'd me with more 
 
 strength and spirit 
 Than this thy breath. But spend not 
 
 hasty time 
 In seeking how I came thus : 't is the 
 
 gods. 
 The gods, that make me so; and, sure, 
 
 our love 
 Will be the nobler and the better blest. 
 In that the secret justice of the gods 
 Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and 
 
 kiss; 
 Lest some unwelcome guest should fall 
 
 betwixt us, 
 is a fabulous serpent that killed with a glance. 
 
 And we should part without it. 
 Phi. 'T will be ill 
 
 I should abide here long. 
 Are. . 'T is true ; and worse 
 
 You should come often. How shall we 
 
 devise 
 To hold intelligence, that our true loves. 
 On any new occasion, may agree 
 What path is best to tread? 
 Phi. I have a boy, 
 
 Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, 
 Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the 
 
 buck, 
 I found him sitting by a fountain's side. 
 Of which he borrow'd some to quench 
 
 bis thirst, 
 And paid the nymph again as much in 
 
 tears. 
 A garland lay him by, made by himself 
 Of many several flowers bred in the vale. 
 Stuck in that mystic order that the rare- 
 ness 
 Delighted me : but ever when he turn'd 
 His tender eyes upon 'em, lie would weep. 
 As if he meant to make 'em grow again. 
 Seeing such pretty helpless innocence 
 Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his 
 
 story. 
 He told me that his parents gentle died. 
 Leaving him to the mercy of the fields. 
 Which gave him roots; and of the crys- 
 tal springs, 
 Which did not stop their courses; and 
 
 the sun. 
 Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him 
 
 his light. 
 Then took he up his garland, and did 
 
 show 
 What every flower, as country-people 
 
 hold, 
 Did signify, and how all, ordered thus, 
 Exprest his grief; and, to my thoughts, 
 
 did read 
 The prettiest lecture of his country-art 
 That could be wisht: so that methought 
 
 I could 
 Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd 
 Him, who was glad to follow; and have 
 
 got 
 The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest 
 
 . boy 
 That ever master kept. Him will I send 
 To wait on you, and bear our hidden 
 
 love. 
 Are. 'T is well ; no more. 
 
 'Re-enter Lady. 
 
 Lady. Madam, the prince is come to do 
 
 service. 
 
 19 suspicious. 
 
200 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Are. What will you do, Philaster, with 
 
 yourself? 
 Pfti. Why, that which all the gods have 
 
 pointed out for me. 
 Are. Dear, hide thyself. — 
 Bring in the prince. 
 
 "Exit Lad/y. 
 Phi. Hide me from Pharamond ! 
 
 When thunder speaks, which is the voice 
 
 of God, 
 Though I do reverence, yet I hide me 
 
 not; 
 And shall a stranger-prince have leave 
 
 to brag 
 Unto a foreign nation, that he made 
 PhUaster hide himself? 
 Are. He cannot know it. 
 
 Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to 
 the world, 
 It is a simple sin to hide myself, 
 Which will for ever on my conscience lie. 
 Are. Then, good Philaster, give him scope 
 and way 
 In what he says; for he is apt to speak 
 What you are loth to hear. Tor my 
 sake, do. 
 Phi. I will. 
 
 Be-enter Lady with Pharamond. 
 
 Pha. My princely mistress, as true lovers 
 ought, 
 
 Exit Lady. 
 1 come to kiss these fair hands, and to 
 
 show, 
 In outward ceremonies, the dear love 
 Writ in my heart. 
 Phi. If I shall have an answer no di- 
 rectlier, 
 I am gone. 
 Pha. To what would he have answer? 
 Are. To his claim unto the kingdom. 
 Pha. Sirrah, I forbare you before the 
 
 King— 
 Phi. Good sir, do so still; I would not 
 
 talk with you. 
 Pha. But now the time is fitter. Do but 
 offer 
 To make mention of right to any king- 
 dom, 
 
 Though it be scarce habitable 
 
 Phi. Good sir, let me go. 
 
 Pha. And by the gods — 
 
 Phi. Peace, Pharamond ! if thou ■ 
 
 Are. Leave us, Philaster. 
 
 Phi. I have done. 
 
 (Going.) 
 Pha. You are gone ! by Heaven, I '11 fetch 
 you back. 
 
 Phi. You shall not need. 
 
 (Returning.) 
 Pha. What now? 
 
 Phi. Know, Pharamond, 
 
 I loathe to brawl with such a blast as 
 
 thou, 
 Who art nought but a valiant voice; but 
 
 if 
 Thou shalt provoke me further, men 
 
 shall say. 
 Thou wert, and not lament it. 
 Pha. Do you slight 
 
 My greatness so, and in the chamber of 
 The princess? 
 Phi. It is a place to which I must confess 
 I owe a reverence ; but were 't the church, 
 Aye, at the altar, there 's no place so safe. 
 Where thou dar'st injure me, but I" dare 
 
 kill thee. 
 And for your greatness, know, sir, I can 
 
 grasp 
 You and your greatness thusj thus into 
 
 nothing. 
 Give not a word, not a word back! 
 Farewell. Exit. 
 
 Pha. 'T is an odd fellow, madam ; we 
 must stop 
 His mouth with some office when we are 
 married. 
 Are. You were best make him your con- 
 troller. 
 Pha. I think he would discharge it well. 
 But, madam, 
 I hope our hearts are knit; but yet so 
 
 slow 
 The ceremonies of state are, that 'twill 
 
 be long" 
 Before our hands be so. If then you 
 
 please. 
 Being agreed in heart, let us not wait 
 For dreaming form, but take a little 
 
 stolen 
 Delights, and so prevent ^^ our joys to 
 come. 
 Are. If you dare speak such thoughts, 
 I must withdraw in honor. 
 
 Exit. 
 Pha. The constitution of my body will 
 never hold out till the wedding; I must 
 seek elsewhere. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene 1. An apartment in the palace. 
 
 Enter Philaster and Bellario. 
 
 Phi. And thou shalt find her honorable, 
 boy; 
 
 20 anticipate. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 201 
 
 Full of regard unto thy tender youth, 
 For thine own modesty; and, for my 
 
 sake, 
 Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, 
 Aye, or deserve. 
 Bel. Sir, you did take me up 
 
 When I was nothing; and only yet am 
 
 something 
 By being yours. You trusted me un- 
 known ; 
 And that which you were apt to eon- 
 
 ster 21 
 A simple innocence in me, perhaps 
 Might have been craft, the cunning of a 
 
 boy 
 Hard'ned in lies and theft: yet ventur'd 
 
 you 
 To part my miseries and me : for which, 
 I never can expect to serve a lady 
 That bears more honor in her breast than 
 
 you. 
 Phi. But, boy, it will prefer "^ thee. 
 
 Thou art young. 
 And bear'st a childish overflowing love 
 To them that clap thy cheeks and speak 
 
 thee fair yet; 
 But when thy judgment comes to rule 
 
 those passions. 
 Thou wilt remember best those careful 
 
 friends 
 That plac'd thee in the noblest way of 
 
 life. 
 She is a princess I prefer thee to. 
 Bel. In that small time that I have seen 
 
 the world, 
 I never knew a man hasty to part 
 With a servant he thought trusty. I 
 
 remember, 
 My father would prefer the boys he kept 
 To greater men than he ; but did it not 
 Till they were grown too saucy for him- 
 • self. 
 Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at 
 
 all 
 In thy behavior. 
 Bel. Sir, if I have made 
 
 A fault in ignorance, instruct my youth : 
 I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn; 
 Age and experience will adorn my mind 
 With larger knowledge; and if I have 
 
 done 
 A wilful fault, think me not past all 
 
 hope 
 For once. What master holds so strict 
 
 a hand 
 Over his boy, that he will part with him 
 Without one warning? Let me be cor- 
 rected 
 
 21 construe. ^^ advanpe. 
 
 To break my stubbornness, if it be so, 
 Rather than turn me off; and I shall 
 
 mend. 
 Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to 
 
 stay. 
 That, trust me, I could weep to part 
 
 with thee. 
 Alas, I do not turn thee off! Thou 
 
 knowest 
 It is my business that doth call thee 
 
 hence ; 
 And when thou art with her, tbou 
 
 dwell'st with me. 
 Think so, and 'tis so; and when time is 
 
 full. 
 That thou hast well discharg'd this 
 
 heavy trust. 
 Laid on so weak a one, I will again 
 With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will ! 
 Nay, weep not, gentle boy. 'T is more 
 
 than time 
 Thou didst attend the princess. 
 Bel. ' I am gone. 
 
 But since I am to part with you, my 
 
 lord, 
 And none knows whether I shall live to 
 
 do 
 More service for you, take this little 
 
 prayer : 
 Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all 
 
 your designs! 
 May sick men, if they have your wish, 
 
 be well; 
 And Heaven hate those you curse, 
 
 though I be one! Exit. 
 
 Phi. The love of boys unto their lords is 
 
 strange ; 
 
 I have read wonders of it: yet this boy 
 
 For my sake (if a man may judge by 
 
 looks 
 And speech) would out-do story. I may 
 
 see 
 A day to pay him for his loyalty. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. A gallery in the palace. 
 
 Enter Pharamond. 
 
 Pha. Why should these ladies stay so 
 long? They must come this way. I 
 know the queen employs 'em not ; for the 
 reverend mother ^^ sent me word, they 
 would all be for the garden. If they 
 should all prove honest now, I were in a 
 fair taking; I was never so long without 
 sport in my life, and, in my conscience, 
 'tis not my fault. Oh, for our country 
 ladies ! 
 
 23 in charge of the maids of honor. 
 
202 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Enter Galatea. 
 
 Here's one bolted; I'll hound at her. — 
 Madam ! 
 
 Gal. Your grace! 
 
 Pha. Shall I not be a trouble'? 
 
 Gal. Not to me, sir. 
 
 Pha. Nay, nay, you are too quick. By 
 this sweet hand 
 
 Gal. You '11 be forsworn, sir ; 't is but an 
 old glove. 
 If you will talk at distance, I am for 
 
 you: 
 But, good prince, be not bawdy, nor do 
 
 not brag; 
 These two I bar; 
 And then, I think, I shall have sense 
 
 enough 
 To answer all the weighty apophthegms 
 Your royal blood shall manage. 
 
 Pha. Dear lady, can you love? 
 
 Gal. Dear prince! how dear? I ne'er cost 
 you a coach yet, nor put you to the dear 
 repentance of a banquet. Here 'S no 
 scarlet, sir, to blush the sin out it was 
 given for. This wire ^* mine own hair 
 covers ; and this face has been so far 
 from being dear to any, that it ne'er cost 
 penny painting; and, for the rest of my 
 poor wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves 
 no hand ^° behind it, to make the jealous 
 mercer's wife curse our good doings. 
 
 Pha. You mistake me, lady. 
 
 Gal. Lord, I do so ; would you or I could 
 help it! 
 
 Pha. You 're very dangerous bitter, like a 
 potion. 
 
 Gal. No, sir, I do not mean to purge you, 
 though 
 I mean to purge a little time on you. 
 
 Pha. Do ladies of this country use to give 
 No more respect to men of my full being? 
 
 Gal. Full being! I understand you not, 
 unless your grace means growing to fat- 
 ness; and then your only remedy (upon 
 my knowledge, prince) is, in a morning, 
 a cup of neat white wine brewed with 
 carduus,^' then fast till supper; about 
 eight you may eat ; use exercise, and keep 
 a sparrow-hawk; you can shoot in a 
 tiller : ^^ but, of all, your grace must ily 
 phlebotomy,^' fresh pork, conger,'" and 
 clarified whey ; they are all duUers of the 
 vital spirits. 
 
 Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this 
 while. 
 
 Gal. 'T is very true, sir ; I talk of you. 
 
 Pha. (Aside.) This is a crafty wench ; I 
 
 24 1. e. of a headdress. 26 a thistle used (or 
 25 note o( indebtedness. medicinal purposes. 
 
 like her wit well ; 't will be rare to stir up 
 a leaden appetite. She's a Danae, and 
 must be courted in a shower of gold. — 
 Madam, look here; all these, and more 
 than 
 
 Gal. What have you there, my lord? 
 Gold! now, as I live, 'tis fair gold! 
 You would have silver for it, to play with 
 the pages. You could not have taken 
 me in a worse time; but, if you have 
 present use, my lord, I'll send my man 
 with silver and keep your gold for you. 
 
 Pha. Lady, lady! 
 
 Gal. She's coming, sir, behind, will take 
 white money. — 
 (Aside.) Yet for all this I '11 match ye. 
 Exit behind the hangings. 
 
 Pha. If there be but two such more in 
 this kingdom, and near the court, we 
 may even hang up our harps. Ten such 
 eamphire *" constitutions as this would 
 call the golden age again in question, and 
 teach the old way for every ill-fac'd hus- 
 band to get his own children; and what 
 a mischief that would breed, let all con- 
 sider! _ ^ ,, 
 
 Enter Megra. 
 
 Here 's another : if she be of the same 
 last, the devil shall pluck her on. — Many 
 fair mornings, lady! 
 Meg. As many mornings bring as many 
 
 Fair, sweet and hopeful to your grace ! 
 Pha. (Aside.) She gives good words yet ; 
 sure this wench is free.^* — 
 
 If your more serious business do not call 
 you. 
 
 Let me hold quarter with you; we will 
 talk 
 
 An hour out quickly. 
 Meg. What would your grace talk of? 
 
 Pha. Of some such pretty subject as your- 
 self: 
 
 I '11 go no further than your eye, or lip ; 
 
 There's theme enough for one man for 
 an age. 
 Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips 
 are yet even, 
 
 Smooth, young enough, ripe enough, and 
 red enough, 
 
 Or my glass wrongs me. 
 Pha. Oh, they are two twinn'd cherries 
 dy'd in blushes 
 
 Which those fair suns above with their 
 bright beams 
 
 Reflect upon and ripen. Sweetest beauty, 
 
 Bow down those branches, that the long- 
 ing taste 
 
 27 crosB-bow. 
 «8 bloodletting. 
 
 29 conger-eel. 
 80 i. e. cold. 
 
 31 responsive. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 20c 
 
 Of the faint looker-on may meet those 
 
 blessings, 
 And taste and live. 
 
 (They kiss.) 
 Meg. [Aside.) Oh, delicate sweet 
 
 prince ! 
 She that hath snow enough about her 
 
 heart 
 To take the wanton spring of ten such 
 
 lines off, 
 May be a nun without probation, — Sir, 
 You have in such neat poetry gathered a 
 
 kiss. 
 That if I had but five lines of that num- 
 ber, 
 Such pretty begging blanks,'^ I should 
 
 commend 
 Your forehead or your cheeks, and kiss 
 you too. 
 Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it, 
 
 madam. 
 Meg. I shall, I shall. 
 Pha. By my life, but you shall not; 
 
 I '11 prompt you first. {Kisses her^) 
 Can you do it now? 
 Meg. Methiuks 't is easy, now you ha' 
 done 't before me ; 
 But yet I should stick at it. 
 (Kisses him.) 
 Pha. Stick till to-morrow; 
 
 I 'U ne'er part you, sweetest. But^ we 
 
 lose time: 
 Can you love mel 
 Meg, Love you, my lord ! How would 
 
 you have me love you? 
 Pha. I '11 teach you in a short sentence, 
 'cause I will not load your memory; this 
 is all: love me, and lie with me. 
 Meg. Was it "lie with you" that you said "? 
 
 'T is impossible. 
 Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will en- 
 deavor. If I do not teach you to do it 
 as easily in "one night as you'll go to 
 bed, I '11 lose my royal blood for 't. 
 Meg. Why, prince, you have a lady of 
 your own 
 That yet wants teaching. 
 Pha. I '11 sooner teach a mare the old 
 measures than teach her anything be- 
 longing to the function. She's afraid 
 to lie with herself if she have but any 
 masculine imaginations about her. I 
 know, when we are married, I must rav- 
 ish her. 
 Meg. By mine honor, that 's a foul fault, 
 indeed ; 
 But time and your good help will wear 
 it out, sir. 
 
 Pha. And for any other I see, excepting 
 your dear self, dearest lady, I had rather 
 be Sir Tim the schoolmaster, and leap a 
 dairy-maid, madam. 
 
 Meg. Has your grace seen the court-star, 
 Galatea? 
 
 Pha. Out upon her ! She 's as cold of her 
 favor as an apoplex; she sail'd by but 
 now. 
 
 Meg. And how do you hold her wit, sir? 
 
 Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of 
 all the guard cannot hold it, if they were 
 tied to it; she would blow 'em out of the 
 kingdom. They talk of Jupiter; he's 
 but a squib-cracker to her: look well 
 about you, and you may find a tongue- 
 bolt. But speak, sweet lady, shall I be 
 freely welcome? 
 
 Meg. Whither? 
 
 Pha. To your bed. If you mistrust my 
 faith, you do me the unnoblest wrong. 
 
 Meg. I dare not, prince, I dare not. 
 
 Pha. Make your own conditions, my 
 purse shall seal 'em, and what you dare 
 imagine you can want, I '11 furnish you 
 withal. Give two hours to your thoughts 
 every morning about it. Come I know 
 you are bashful; 
 Speak in my ear, will you be mine? 
 
 Keep this. 
 And with it, me : soon I will visit you. 
 
 Meg. My lord, my chamber 's most un- 
 safe ; but when 't is night, 
 I'll flind some means to slip into your 
 
 lodging; 
 Till when 
 
 Pha. Till when, this and my heart go with 
 thee! Exeunt several ways. 
 
 'Re-enter Galatea from behind the hang- 
 ings. 
 Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat prince ! 
 are these your virtues? Well, if I do 
 not lay a train to blow your sport up, I 
 am no woman : and. Lady Towsabel, I '11 
 fit you for't. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. Arethusa's apartment in the 
 
 palace. 
 
 Enter Arethusa and a Lady. 
 
 Are. Where's the boy? 
 
 Lady. Within, madam. 
 
 Are. Gave you him gold to buy him 
 
 clothes ? 
 Lady. I did. 
 
 Are. And has he done't? 
 Lady. Yes, madam. 
 
 32 blank verses. 
 
204 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Are. 'Tis a pretty sad-talking boy, is it 
 not? 
 Asked you his name? 
 Lady. No, madam. 
 
 Enter Galatea. 
 
 Are. Oh, you are welcome. What good 
 
 news ? 
 Gal. As good as any one can tell your 
 grace, 
 That says she has done that you would 
 have wish'd. 
 Are. Hast thou discovered? 
 Gal. I have strain'd a point of modesty 
 
 for you. 
 Are. I prithee, how? 
 Gal. In list'ning after bawdry. I see, let 
 a lady live never so modestly, she shall 
 be sure to find a lawful time to hearken 
 after bawdry. Your prince, brave 
 Pharamond, was so hot on 't ! 
 Are. With whom? 
 Gal. Why, with the lady I suspected. I 
 
 can tell the time and place. 
 Are. Oh, when, and where? 
 Gal. To-night, his lodging. 
 Are. Run thyself into the presence; min- 
 gle there again 
 With other ladies ; leave the rest to me. 
 
 Exit Galatea. 
 If destiny (to whom we dare not say, 
 "Why didst thou this?") have not de- 
 creed it so, 
 In lasting leaves (whose smallest charac- 
 ters 
 Were never alter'd yet), this match shall 
 
 break. — 
 
 Where 's the boy ? 
 
 Lady. Here, madam. 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Are. Sir, you are sad to change your serv- 
 ice ; is 't not so ? 
 Bel. Madam, I have not chang'd; I wait 
 on you, 
 To do him service. 
 Are. Thou diselaim'st in me.^' 
 
 Tell me thy name. 
 Bel. Bellario. 
 
 Are. Thou canst sing and play ? 
 
 Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, 
 
 I can. 
 Are. Alas, what kind of grief can thy 
 years know? 
 Hadst thou a curst ^^ master when thou 
 
 went'st to school? 
 Thou art not capable of other grief; 
 
 33 my Tight to your services. 
 
 Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as 
 
 waters be 
 When no breath troubles them. Believe 
 
 me, boy, 
 Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hol- 
 low eyes, 
 And builds himself eaves, to abide in 
 
 them. 
 Come, sir, tell me truly, doth your lord 
 
 love me? 
 Bel. Love, madam! I know not what it 
 
 is. 
 Are. Canst thou know grief, and never 
 
 yet knew'st love? 
 Thou art deceiv'd, boy. Does he speak 
 
 of me 
 As if he wish'd me well? 
 Bel. If it be love 
 
 To forget all respect of his own friends 
 With thinking of your face; if it be 
 
 love 
 To sit eross-arm'd and sigh away the 
 
 day. 
 Mingled with starts, crying your name 
 
 as loud- 
 And hastily as men i' the streets do Are; 
 If it be love to weep himself away 
 When he but hears of any lady dead 
 Or kill'd, because it- might have been 
 
 your, chance; 
 If, when he goes to rest (which will not 
 
 be), 
 'Twixt every prayer he says, to name you 
 
 once. 
 As others drop a bead, be to be in love, 
 Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. 
 Are. Oh, you 're a cunning boy, and 
 
 taught to lie 
 For your lord's credit! But thou 
 
 know'st a lie 
 That bears this sound is welcomer to me 
 Than any truth that says he loves me not. 
 Lead the way, boy. — (To Lady.) Do 
 
 you attend me too. — 
 'T is thy lord's business hastes me thus. 
 
 Away! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. Before Pharamond's lodgirtg in 
 the court of the palace. 
 
 Enter Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, Megra, 
 and Galatea. 
 
 Dion. Come, ladies, shall we talk a round? 
 
 As men 
 Do walk a mile, women should talk an 
 
 hour 
 After supper : 't is their exercise. 
 
 34 cruel. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 205 
 
 Gal 'Tis late. 
 'Tis all 
 
 My eyes will do to lead me to my bed. 
 Gal. I fear, they are so heavy, you'll 
 scarce find 
 The way to your own lodging with 'em 
 to-night. 
 
 Enter Pharatnond. 
 
 Thru. The prince! 
 
 Pha. Not a-bed, ladies ? You 're good sit- 
 ters-up. 
 What think you of a pleasant dream, to 
 
 last 
 Till morning? 
 Meg. I should choose, my lord, a pleasing 
 wake before it. 
 
 Enter Arethusa and Bellario. 
 
 Are. 'T is well, my lord ; you 're courting 
 of these ladies. — 
 Is't not late, gentlemen? 
 Cle. Yes, madam. 
 Are. Wait you there. 
 
 Exit. 
 Meg. (Aside.) She 's jealous, as I live. — 
 Look you, my lord. 
 The princess has a Hylas, an Adonis. 
 Pha. His form is angel-like. 
 Meg. Why, this is he that must, when you 
 are wed. 
 Sit by your pillow, like young Apollo, 
 
 with 
 His hand and voice binding your 
 
 thoughts in sleep; 
 The princess does provide him for you 
 and for herself. 
 Pha. I find no music in these boys. 
 Meg. Nor I : 
 
 They can do little, and that small they 
 
 do, 
 They have not wit to hide. 
 Dion. Serves. he the princess? 
 
 Thra. Yes. 
 Dion. 'T is a sweet boy : how brave '^ 
 
 she keeps him! 
 Pha. Ladies all, good rest; I mean to kill 
 a buck 
 To-morrow morning ere you've done 
 your dreams. 
 Meg. All happiness attend your grace! 
 Exit Pharamond. 
 Gentlemen, good rest. — 
 Come, shall we go to bed? 
 Gal. Yes.— All, good night. 
 
 Dion. May your dreams be true to you ! — 
 Exeunt Galatea and Megra. 
 
 What shall we do, gallants? 'tis late. 
 
 The King 
 Is up still: see, he comes, a guard along 
 With him. 
 
 Enter King, Arethusa, and Guard. 
 
 King. Look your intelligence be true. 
 
 Are. Upon my life, it is ; and I do hope 
 Your highness will not tie me to a man 
 That in the heat of wooing throws me 
 
 off, 
 And takes another. 
 Dion. What should this mean? 
 
 King. If it be true. 
 
 That lady had been better have em- 
 
 brac'd 
 Cureless diseases. Get you to your rest : 
 You shall be righted. 
 
 Exeunt Arethusa and Bellario. 
 — Gentlemen, draw near; 
 We shall employ you. Is young Phara- 
 mond 
 Come to his lodging? 
 Dion. I saw him enter there. 
 
 King. Haste, some of you, and cunningly 
 discover 
 If Megra be in her lodging. 
 
 Exit Dion. 
 Cle. Sir, 
 
 She parted hence but now, with other 
 ladies. 
 King. If she be there, we shall not need 
 to make 
 A vain discovery of our suspicion. 
 {Aside.) You gods, I see that who un- 
 righteously 
 Holds wealth or state from others shall 
 
 be curst 
 In that which meaner men are blest 
 
 withal : 
 Ages to come shall know no male of him 
 Left to inherit, and his name shall be 
 Blotted from earth ; if he have any child, 
 It shall be crossly match'd; the gods 
 
 themselves 
 Shall sow wild strife betwixt her lord 
 
 and her. 
 Yet, if it be your wills, forgive the sin 
 I have committed; let it not fall 
 Upon this understanding child of mine! 
 She has not broke your laws. But how 
 
 can I 
 Look to be heard of gods that, must be 
 
 just. 
 Praying upon the ground I hold by 
 wrong? 
 
 Be-enter Dion. 
 
 85 richly attired. 
 
206 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Dion. Sir, I have asked, and her women 
 swear she is within ; but they, I think, are 
 bawds. I told 'em, I must speak with 
 her; they laught, and said, their lady lay 
 speechless. I said, my business was im- 
 portant; they said, their lady was about 
 it. I grew hot, and cried, my business 
 was a matter that eoncern'd life and 
 death ; they answered, so was sleeping, at 
 which their lady was. I urg'd again, she 
 had scarce time to be so since last I saw 
 her: they smil'd again, and seem'd to in- 
 struct me that sleeping was nothing but 
 lying down and winking.'" Answers 
 more direct I could not get : in short, sir, 
 I think she is not there. 
 King. 'T is then no time to dally. — You o' 
 
 th' guard, 
 Wait at the back door of the prince's 
 
 lodging, 
 And see that none pass thence, upon 
 
 your lives. 
 
 Exeunt Guards.' 
 Knock, gentlemen; knock loud; louder 
 
 yet. 
 (They knock at the door of Pharamond's 
 lodging.) 
 What, has their pleasure taken off their 
 
 hearing? — 
 I '11 break your meditations. — Knock 
 
 again. — 
 Not yet? I do not think he sleeps, hav- 
 ing this 
 Larum by him. — Once more. — Phara- 
 
 mond! prince! 
 
 (Pharamond appears above.) 
 Pha. What saucy groom knocks at this 
 
 dead of night? 
 Where be our waiters?'^ By my vexed 
 
 soul, 
 He meets his death that meets me, for his 
 
 boldness. 
 King. Prince, prince, you wrong your 
 
 thoughts; we are your friends: 
 Come down. 
 Pha. The King! 
 
 King. The same, sir. Come down, sir: 
 
 We have cause of present counsel with 
 
 you. 
 Pha. If your grace please 
 To use me, I '11 attend you to your cham- 
 ber. 
 
 ■Enter Pharamond below. 
 
 King. No, 't is too late, prince ; I '11 make 
 bold with yours. 
 
 Pha. I have some private reasons to my- 
 self 
 
 Makes me unmannerly, and say you can- 
 not. — 
 
 (They press to come in.) 
 Nay, press not forward, gentlemen; he 
 
 must 
 Come through my life that comes here. 
 King. Sir, be resolv'd I must and will 
 
 come. — Enter. 
 Pha. I will not be dishonor'd. 
 
 He that enters, enters upon his death. 
 Sir, 'tis a sign you make no stranger 
 
 of me, 
 To bring these renegadoes to my chamber 
 At these unseasoned hours. 
 King. Why do you 
 
 Chafe yourself so ? You are not wrong'd 
 
 nor shall be; 
 Only I '11 search your lodging, for some 
 
 cause 
 To ourself known. — Enter, I say. 
 Pha. I say, no. 
 
 Enter Megra above. 
 
 Meg. Let 'em enter, prince, let 'em enter; 
 I am up and ready : ^* I know their busi- 
 ness; 
 'T is the poor breaking of a lady's honor 
 They hunt so hotly after; let 'em enjoy 
 
 it.— - 
 You have your business, gentlemen ; I lay 
 
 here. 
 Oh, my lord the King, this is not noble 
 
 in you 
 To make public the weakness of a 
 
 woman ! 
 King. Come down. 
 Meg. I dare, my lord. Your hootings and 
 
 your clamors, 
 Your private whispers and your broad 
 
 fleerings,'' 
 Can no more vex my soul than this base 
 
 carriage.*" 
 But I have vengeance yet in store for 
 
 some 
 Shall, in the most contempt you can have 
 
 of me, 
 Be joy and nourishment. 
 King. Will you come down? 
 
 Meg. Yes, to laugh at your worst ; but' I 
 
 shall wring you. 
 If my skill fail me not. 
 
 Exit above. 
 King. Sir, I must dearly chide you for 
 
 this looseness; 
 You have wrong'd a worthy lady; but, 
 
 no more. — 
 Conduct him to my lodging and to bed. 
 
 Exeunt Pharamond and Attendants. 
 
 30 closing the eyea. 
 
 S7 those that wait on us. 3S dressed. 
 
 30 gibes. 
 
 40 conduct. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 207 
 
 Cle. Get him another wench, and you 
 
 bring him to bed indeed. 
 Dion. 'T is strange a man cannot ride a 
 
 stage 
 Or two, to breathe himself, without a 
 
 warrant. 
 If his gear hold, that lodgings be search'd 
 
 thus, 
 Pray God we may lie with our own wives 
 
 in safety, 
 That they be not by some trick of state 
 
 mistaken ! 
 
 Enter Attendants icith Megra below. 
 
 King. Now, lady of honor, where 's your 
 
 honor now? 
 No man can fit your palate but the 
 
 prince. 
 Thou most ill-shrouded rottenness, thou 
 
 piece 
 Made by a painter and a 'pothecary. 
 Thou troubled sea of lust, thou wilder- 
 ness 
 Inhabited by wild thoughts, thou swoln 
 
 cloud 
 Of infection, thou ripe mine of all dis- 
 eases. 
 Thou all-sin, all-hell, and last, all-devils, 
 
 tell me. 
 Had you none to pull on with your 
 
 courtesies 
 But he that must be mine, and wrong my 
 
 daughter? 
 By all the gods, all these, and all the 
 
 pages, 
 And all the court, shall hoot thee through 
 
 the court, 
 Fling rotten oranges, make ribald 
 
 rhymes. 
 And sear thy name with candles upon 
 
 walls ! 
 Do you laugh, Lady Venus? 
 Meg. Faith, sir, you must pardon me; 
 I cannot choose but laugh to see you 
 
 merry. 
 If you do this, King ! nay, if you dare 
 
 do it. 
 By all those gods you swore by, and as 
 
 many 
 More of my own, I will have fellows, and 
 
 such 
 Fellows in it, as shall make noble mirth ! 
 The princess, your dear daughter, shall 
 
 stand by me 
 On walls, and sung in ballads, any thing. 
 Urge me no more; I know her and her 
 
 haunts. 
 
 Her lays, leaps, and outlays, and will dis- 
 cover all; 
 Nay, will dishonor her. I know the boy 
 She "keeps; a handsome boy, about eight- 
 een; 
 Know what she does with him, where, 
 
 and when. 
 Come, sir, you put me to a woman's mad- 
 ness. 
 The glory of a fury ; and if I do not 
 
 Do 't to the height 
 
 King. What boy is this she raves at 1 
 
 Meg. Alas! good-minded prince, you 
 know not these things! 
 I am loth to reveal 'em. Keep this 
 
 fault. 
 As you would keep your health from the 
 
 hot air 
 Of the corrupted people, or, by Heaven, 
 I will not fall alone. What I have 
 
 known 
 Shall be as public as a print ; all tongues 
 Shall speak it as they do the language 
 
 they 
 Are bom in, as free and commonly; I'll 
 
 set it. 
 Like a prodigious *"■ star, for all to gaze 
 
 at. 
 And so high and glowing, that other 
 
 kingdoms far and foreign 
 Shall read it there, nay, travel with it, 
 
 till they find 
 No tongue to make it more, nor no more 
 
 people ; 
 And then behold the fall of your fair 
 princess ! 
 King. Has she a boy? 
 Cle. So please your grace, I have seen a 
 boy wait 
 On her, a fair boy. 
 King. Go, get you to your quarter : 
 
 For this time I will study to forget you. 
 Meg. Do you study to forget me, and I '11 
 study 
 To forget you. 
 
 Exeunt King, Megra, and Guard. 
 Cle. Why, here 's a male spirit fit for Her- 
 cules. If ever there be Nine Worthies of 
 women, this wench shall lide astride and 
 be their captain. 
 Dion. Sure, she has a garrison of devils 
 in her tongue, she uttered such balls of 
 wild-fire. She has so nettled the King, 
 that all the doctors in the country will 
 scarce cure him. That boy was a strange- 
 found-out antidote to cure her infection ; 
 that boy, that princess' boy; that brave, 
 chaste, virtuous lady's boy; and a fair 
 
 41 portentous. 
 
208 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 boy, a well-spoken boy! All these con- 
 sidered, can make nothing else — ^but there 
 I leave you, gentlemen. 
 Thra. Nay, we'U go wander with you. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. The court of the palace. 
 
 Ehter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 
 
 Cle. Nay, doubtless, 'tis true. 
 Dion. Aye ; and 't is the gods 
 
 That rais'd this punishment, to scourge 
 
 the King 
 With his own issue. Is it not a shame 
 Tor us that should write noble in the 
 
 land, 
 For us that should be freemen, to behold 
 A man that is the bravery of his age, 
 Philaster, prest down from his royal 
 
 right 
 By this regardless king? and only look 
 And see the sceptre ready to be cast 
 Into the hands of that lascivious lady 
 That lives in lust with a smooth boy, now 
 
 to be married 
 To yon strange prince, who, but that peo- 
 ple please 
 To let him be a prince, is bom a slave 
 In that which should be his most noble 
 
 part, 
 His mind? 
 Thra. That man that would not stir with 
 
 you 
 
 To aid Philaster, let the gods forget 
 That such a creature walks upon the 
 earth! 
 Cle. Philaster is too backward in't him- 
 self. 
 The gentry do await it, and the people, 
 Against their nature, are all bent for 
 
 him. 
 And like a field of standing com, that 's 
 
 moved 
 With a stiff gale, their heads bow all'one 
 way. 
 Dion. The only cause that draws Phil- 
 aster back 
 From this attempt is the fair princess' 
 
 love, 
 Which he admires, and we can now con- 
 fute. 
 Thra. Perhaps he'll not believe it. 
 Dion. Why, gentlemen, 't is without ques- 
 tion so. 
 
 42 scrupulous. 
 
 Cle. Aye,, 't is past speech she lives dis- 
 honestly. 
 But how shall we, if he be curious,^- 
 
 work 
 Upon his faith? 
 Thra. We all are satisfied within our- 
 selves. 
 Dion. Since it is true, and tends to Ijis 
 own good, . 
 I '11 make this new report to be my 
 
 knowledge ; 
 I '11 say I know it ; nay, I '11 swear I saw 
 it. 
 Cle. It will be best. 
 Thra. 'T will move him. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Dion. Here he comes. 
 
 Good morrow to your honor: we have 
 
 spent 
 Some time in seeking you. 
 Phi. My worthy friends, 
 
 You that can keep your memories to 
 
 know 
 Your friend in miseries, and cannot 
 
 frown 
 On men disgrac'd for virtue, a good day 
 Attend you all! What service may I do 
 Worthy your acceptation ? 
 Dion. My good lord. 
 
 We come to urge that virtue, which we 
 
 know 
 Lives in your breast, forth. Rise, and 
 
 make a head ; *^ 
 The nobles and the people are all dull'd 
 With this usurping king; and not a man, 
 That ever heard the word, or knew such 
 
 a thing 
 As virtue, but will second your attempts. 
 Phi. How honorable is this love in you 
 To me that have deserv'd none! Know, 
 
 my friends, 
 (You, that were bom to shame your poor 
 
 Philaster 
 With too much courtesy,) I could afford 
 To melt myself in thanks : but my designs 
 Are not yet ripe. Suffice it, that ere 
 
 long 
 I shall employ your loves; but yet the 
 
 time 
 Is short of what I would. 
 Dion. The time is fuller, sir, than you ex- 
 pect; 
 That which hereafter will not, perhaps, 
 
 be reaeh'd 
 By violence, may now be caught. As for 
 
 the King, 
 
 43 raise an army. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 209 
 
 You know the people have long hated 
 
 him; 
 But now the princess, whom they 
 
 lov'd 
 
 Phi. Why, what of her? 
 
 Dion. Is loath'd as much as he. 
 
 Phi. By what strange means'? 
 
 Dion. She 's known a whore. 
 
 Phi. Thou liest ! 
 
 Dion. My lord 
 
 Phi. Thou liest, 
 
 (Offers to draw and is held.) 
 And thou shalt feel it! I had thought 
 
 thy mind 
 Had been of honor. Thus to rob a lady 
 Of her good name is an infectious sin 
 Not to be pardon'd. Be it false as hell, 
 'T will never be redeem'd, if it be sown 
 Amongst the people, fruitful to increase 
 All evil they shall hear. Let me alone 
 That I may cut off falsehood whilst it 
 
 springs ! 
 Set hills on hills betwixt me and the man 
 That utters this, and I will scale them all, 
 And from the utmost top fall on his neck, 
 Like thunder from a cloud. 
 Dion. This is most strange: 
 
 Sure, he does love her. 
 Phi. I do love fair truth. 
 
 She is my mistress, and who injures 
 
 her 
 Draws vengeance from me. Sirs, let go 
 my arms. 
 Thra. Nay, good my lord, be patient. 
 Cle. Sir, remember this is your honor'd 
 friend, 
 That comes to do his service, and will 
 
 show you 
 Why he utter'd this. 
 Phi. I ask your pardon, sir ; 
 
 My zeal to truth made me unmannerly: 
 Should I have heard dishonor spoke of 
 
 Behind your back, untruly, I had been 
 
 As much distemper'd and enrag'd as now. 
 Dion. But this, my lord, is truth. 
 Phi. Oh, say not so ! 
 
 Good sir, forbear to say so: 'tis then 
 truth, 
 
 That womankind is false: urge it no 
 
 you think 
 
 more; 
 It is impossible. Why should 
 The princess light? 
 Dion. Why, she was taken at it. 
 
 Phi. 'Tis false! by Heaven, 'tis false! 
 It cannot be! 
 Can it? Speak, gentlemen; for God's 
 love, speak! 
 
 Is't possible? Can women all be 
 damn'd? 
 Dion. Why, no, my lord. 
 Phi. Why, then, it cannot be. 
 
 Dion. And she was taken with her boy. 
 Phi. ' What boy? 
 
 Dion. A page, a boy that serves her. 
 Phi. Oh, good gods ! 
 
 A little boy? 
 Dion. Aye ; know you him, my lord ? 
 
 Phi. (Aside.) Hell and sin know him ! — 
 Sir, you are deceiv'd; 
 I '11 reason it a little coldly with you. 
 If she were lustful, would she take a boy. 
 That knows not yet desire? She would 
 
 have one 
 Should meet her thoughts and know the 
 
 sin he acts. 
 Which is the great delight of wickedness. 
 You are abus'd,** and so is she, and I. 
 Dion. How you, my lord? 
 Phi. Why, all the world 's abus'd 
 
 In an unjust report. 
 Dion. Oh, noble sir, your virtues 
 
 Cannot look into the subtle thoughts of 
 
 woman ! 
 In short, my lord, I took them; I my- 
 self. 
 Phi. Now, all the devils, thou didst ! Fly 
 from my rage! 
 Would thou hadst ta'en devils engen- 
 
 d'ring plagues. 
 When thou didst take them! Hide thee 
 
 from mine eyes! 
 Would thou hadst taken thunder on thy 
 
 breast. 
 When thou didst take them; or been 
 
 strucken dumb 
 For ever; that this foul deed might have 
 
 slept 
 In silence ! 
 Thra. Have you known him so ill-tem- 
 
 per'd? 
 Cle. Never before. 
 
 Phi. The winds that are let loose 
 
 From the four several corners of the 
 
 earth. 
 And spread themselves all over sea and 
 
 land. 
 Kiss not a chaste one. What friend 
 
 bears a sword 
 To run me through? 
 Dion. ' Why, my lord, are you 
 
 So mov'd at this? 
 Phi. When any fall from virtue, 
 
 I am distract ; I have an interest in 't. 
 Dion. But, good my lord, recall yourself, 
 and think 
 
 44 deceived. 
 
210 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 What's best to be done. 
 Phi. I thank ygu ; I will do it. 
 
 Please you to leave me ; I '11 consider of 
 
 it. 
 To-morrow I will find your lodging forth, 
 And give you answer. 
 Dion. All the gods direct you 
 
 The readiest way ! 
 
 Thra. He was extreme impatient. 
 
 Cle. It was his virtue and his noble mind. 
 
 Exeunt Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 
 
 Phi. I had forgot to ask him where he 
 
 took them; 
 I'll follow him. Oh that I had a sea 
 Within my breast, to quench the Are I 
 
 feel! 
 More circumstances will but fan this Are : 
 It more afflicts me now, to know by 
 
 whom 
 This deed is done, than simply that 'tis 
 
 done; 
 And he that tells me this is honorable. 
 As far from lies as she is far from 
 
 truth. 
 Oh, that, like beasts, we could not grieve 
 
 ourselves 
 With that we see not! Bulls and rams 
 
 will fight 
 To keep their females standing in their 
 
 sight; 
 But take 'em from them, and you take at 
 
 once 
 Their spleens away; and they will fall 
 
 ^ain 
 Unto their pastures, growing fresh and 
 
 fat. 
 And taste the waters of the springs as 
 
 sweet 
 As 'twas before, finding no start in 
 
 sleep ; 
 But miserable man 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 See, see, you gods ! 
 He walks still; and the face you let him 
 
 wear 
 When he was innocent is still the same, 
 Not blasted! Is this justice? Do you 
 
 mean 
 To intrap mortality, that you allow 
 Treason so smooth a brow? I cannot 
 
 now 
 Think he is guilty. 
 Bel. Health to you, my lord ! 
 
 The princess doth commend her love, her 
 
 life, 
 And this, unto you. 
 
 {Gives a letter.) 
 Phi. Oh, Bellario, 
 
 Now I perceive she loves me: she does 
 
 show it 
 In loving thee, my boy; she has made 
 thee brave. 
 Bel. My lord, she has attir'd me past my 
 wish. 
 Past my desert; more fit for her attend- 
 ant. 
 Though far unfit for me who do attend. 
 Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy. — Oh, 
 let all women, 
 That love black deeds, learn to dissemble 
 
 here, 
 Here, by this paper! She does write to 
 
 me 
 As if her heart were mines of adamant 
 To all the world besides ; but, unto me, 
 A maiden-snow that melted with my 
 
 looks. — 
 Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess 
 
 use thee? 
 For I shall guess her love to me by that. 
 Bel. Scarce like her servant, but as if I 
 were. 
 Something allied to her, or had preserv'd 
 Her life three times by my fidelity ; 
 As mothers fond do use their only sons, 
 As I 'd use one that 's left unto my trust, 
 For whom my life should pay if he met 
 
 harm, 
 So she does use me. 
 Phi. Why, this is wondrous well : 
 
 But what kind language does she feed 
 thee with? 
 Bel. Why, she does tell me she will trust 
 my youth 
 With all her loving secrets, and does call 
 
 me 
 Her pretty servant; bids me weep no 
 
 more 
 For leaving you ; she '11 see my services 
 Eegarded: and such words of that soft 
 
 strain 
 That I am nearer weeping when she ends 
 Than ere she spake. 
 Phi. This is much better still. 
 
 Bel. Are you not ill, my lord? 
 Phi. 111? No, Bellario. 
 
 Bel. Methinks your words 
 Fall not from off your tongue so evenly, 
 Nor is there in your looks" that quiet- 
 ness 
 That I was wont to see. 
 Phi. Thou art deeeiv'd, boy: 
 
 And she strokes thy head? 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks? 
 Bel. She does, my lord. 
 
 Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy? ha! 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 211 
 
 Bel. How, my lord 9 
 
 Phi. She kisses thee? 
 Bel. Never, my lord, by heaven. 
 
 Phi. That 's strange, I know she does. 
 Bel. No, by my life! 
 
 Phi. Why then she does not love me. 
 Come, she does. 
 
 I bade her do it; I charged her, by all 
 charms 
 
 Of love between us, by the hope of peace 
 
 We should enjoy, to yield thee all de- 
 lights 
 
 Naked as to her bed ; I took her oath 
 
 Thou shouldst enjoy her. Tell me, gen- 
 tle boy. 
 
 Is she not parallelless? Is not her 
 breath 
 
 Sweet as Arabian winds when fruits are 
 ripe? 
 
 Are not her breasts two liquid ivory 
 balls? 
 
 Is she not all a lasting mine of joy? 
 Bel. Aye, now I see why my disturbed 
 thoughts 
 
 Were so perplex'd. When first I went 
 to her. 
 
 My heart held augury. You are abus'd; 
 
 Some villain has abus'd you ; I. do see 
 
 Whereto you tend. Fall rocks upon his 
 head 
 
 That put this to you ! 'T is some subtle 
 train 
 
 To bring that noble frame of yours to 
 nought. 
 Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with 
 thee. Come, 
 
 Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate 
 her more 
 
 Than I love happiness, and plac'd thee 
 there 
 
 To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. 
 
 Hast thou discovered? Is she fallen to 
 lust. 
 
 As I would wish her? Speak some com- 
 fort to me. 
 Bel. My lord, you did mistake the boy you 
 sent. 
 
 Had she the lust of sparrows or of goats, 
 
 Had she a sin that way, hid from the 
 world, 
 
 Beyond the name of lust, I would not 
 aid 
 
 Her base desires; but what I came to 
 know 
 
 As servant to her, I would not reveal. 
 
 To make my life last ages. 
 PM. Oh, my heart! 
 
 This is a salve worse than the main dis- 
 ease. — 
 
 Tell me thy thoughts; for I will know 
 
 the least 
 That dwells within thee, or will rip thy 
 
 heart 
 To know it. I will see thy thoughts as 
 
 plain 
 As I do now thy face. 
 Bel. Why, so you do. 
 
 She is (for aught I know) by all the 
 
 gods. 
 As chaste as ice! But were she foul as 
 
 hell. 
 And I did know it thus, the breath of 
 
 kings. 
 The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls 
 
 of brass. 
 Should draw it from me. 
 Phi. Then it is no time 
 
 To dally with thee; I will take thy 
 
 life. 
 For I do hate thee. I could curse thee 
 
 now. 
 Bel. If you do hate, you could not curse 
 
 me worse ; 
 The gods have not a punishment in 
 
 store 
 Greater for me than is your hate. 
 Phi. Fie, fie. 
 
 So young and so dissembling ! Tell me 
 
 when 
 And where thou didst enjoy her, or let 
 
 plagues 
 Fall on me, if I destroy thee not ! 
 (Draws his sword.) 
 Bel. By heaven, I never did; and when I 
 
 lie 
 To save my life, may I live long and 
 
 loath'd! 
 Hew me asunder, and, whilst I can think, 
 I '11 love those pieces you have cut away 
 Better than those that grow, and kiss 
 
 those limbs 
 Because you made 'em so. 
 PM. Fear'st thou not death? 
 
 Can boys contemn that ? 
 Bel. Oh, what boy is he 
 
 Can be content to live to be a man. 
 That sees the best of men thus passion- 
 ate. 
 Thus without reason ? 
 Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know 
 
 What 't is to die. 
 Bel. Yes, I do know, my lord : 
 
 'T is less than to be bom; a lasting 
 
 sleep ; 
 A quiet resting from all jealousy, 
 A thing we all pursue. I "know, besides, 
 It is but giving over of a game 
 That must be lost. 
 
212 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 PM. But there are pains, false boy, 
 
 For perjur'd souls. Think but on those, 
 
 and then 
 Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter 
 
 all. 
 Bel. May they fall all upon me whilst I 
 
 live. 
 If I be perjur'd, or have ever thought 
 Of that you charged me with! If I be 
 
 false, 
 Send me to suffer in those punishments 
 You speak of ; kill me ! 
 Phi. Oh, what should I do? 
 
 Why, who can but believe him? He 
 
 does swear 
 So earnestly, that if it were not true. 
 The gods would not endure him. Rise, 
 
 Bellario : 
 Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 
 Dost look so truly when thou utter'st 
 
 them. 
 That, though I know 'em false as were 
 
 my hopes, 
 I cannot urge thee further. But thou 
 
 wert 
 To blame to injure me, for I must love 
 Thy honest looks, and take no revenge 
 
 upon 
 Thy tender youth. A love from me to 
 
 thee 
 Is firm, whate'er thou dost;, it troubles 
 
 me 
 That I have call'd the blood out of thy 
 
 cheeks. 
 That did so well become thee. But, good 
 
 boy. 
 Let me not see thee more : somethmg is 
 
 done 
 That will distract me, that will make me 
 
 mad. 
 If I behold thee. If thou tender'st me. 
 Let me not see thee. 
 Bel. I will fly as far 
 
 As there is morning, ere I give distaste 
 To that most honor'd mind. But through 
 
 these tears, 
 Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see 
 A world of treason practis'd upon you, 
 And her, and me. Farewell for ever- 
 more! 
 If you shall hear that sorrow struck me 
 
 dead. 
 And after find me loyal, let there be 
 A tear shed from you in my memory. 
 And I shall rest in peace. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 PM. Blessing be with thee. 
 
 Whatever thou deserv'st! Oh, where 
 
 shall I 
 
 Go bathe this body 1 Nature too unkind, 
 That made no medicine for a troubled 
 mind! 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. Arefhusa's apartment in the 
 palace. 
 
 Enter Arethusa. 
 
 Are. I marvel my boy comes not back 
 
 again : 
 But that I know my love will question 
 
 him 
 Over and over, — ^how I slept, wak'd, 
 
 talk'd. 
 How I rememb'red him when his dear 
 
 name 
 Was last spoke, and how when I sigh'd, 
 
 wept, sung, 
 And ten thousand such, — ^I should be 
 
 angry at his stay. 
 
 Enter King. 
 
 King. What, at your meditations! Who 
 
 attends you? 
 Are. None but my single self. I need no 
 guard ; 
 
 I do no wrong, nor fear none. 
 King. Tell me, have you not a boy? 
 Are. Yes, sir. 
 
 King. What kind of boy ? 
 Are. A page, a waiting-boy. 
 
 King. A handsome boy? 
 Are. I think he be not ugly : 
 
 Well qualified and dutiful I know him ; 
 
 I took him not for beauty. 
 King. He speaks and sings and plays? 
 Are. Yes, sir. 
 
 King. About eighteen? 
 Are. I never ask'd his age. 
 
 King. Is he full of service ? 
 Are. By your pardon, why do yon ask? 
 King. Put him away. 
 Are. Sir ! 
 
 King. Put him away, I say. 
 
 He's done you that good service shames 
 me to speak of. 
 Are. Good sir, let me understand you. 
 King. If you fear me. 
 
 Show it in duty ; put away that boy. 
 Are. Let me have reason for it, sir, and 
 then 
 
 Your will is my command. 
 King. Do not yon blush to ask it? Cast 
 him off. 
 
 Or I shall do the same to you. You're 
 one 
 
 Shame with roe, and so near unto my- 
 self, 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 213 
 
 That, by my life, I dare not tell myself 
 
 What you, myself, have done. 
 Are. What have I done, my lord? 
 King. 'T is a new language, that all love 
 to learn : 
 
 The common people speak it well al- 
 ready; 
 
 They need no grammar. Understand me 
 well; 
 
 There be foul whispers stirring. Cast 
 him off, 
 
 And suddenly. Do it! Farewell. 
 
 Exit. 
 Are. Where may a maiden live securely 
 free. 
 
 Keeping her honor fair? Not with the 
 living; 
 
 They feed upon opinions, errors, dreams. 
 
 And make 'em truths; they draw a nour- 
 ishment 
 
 Out of defamings, grow upon disgraces, 
 
 And, when they see a virtue fortified 
 
 Strongly above the batt'ry of their 
 tongues, 
 
 Oh, how they cast *^ to sink it ! and, de- 
 feated, 
 
 (Soul-sick with poison) strike the monu- 
 ments 
 
 Where noble names Ue sleeping, till they 
 sweat. 
 
 And the cold marble melt. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, dear- 
 est mistress! 
 Are. Oh, my dearest servant, I have a 
 
 war within me ! 
 Phi. He must be more than man that 
 
 makes these crystals 
 Eun into rivers. Sweetest fair, the 
 
 cause 1 
 And, as J am your slave, tied to your 
 
 goodness, 
 Your creature, made again from what I 
 
 was 
 And newly-spirited, I'll right your 
 
 honor. 
 Are. Oh, my best love, that boy ! 
 Phi. What, boy? 
 
 Are. The pretty boy you gave me 
 
 Pfej. What of him? 
 
 Are. Must be no more mine. 
 Phi. Why? 
 
 j^re. They are jealous of him. 
 
 Phi. Jealous! Who? 
 Are. The King. 
 
 Phi. {Aside.) Oh, my misfortune! 
 
 Then 't is no idle jealousy.— Let him go. 
 
 Are. Oh, cruel! 
 Are you hard-hearted too? Who shall 
 
 now tell you 
 How much I lov'd you? Who shall 
 
 swear it to you. 
 And weep the tears I send? Who shall 
 
 now bring you 
 Letters, rings, bracelets? Lose his 
 
 health in service? 
 Wake tedious nights in stories of your 
 
 praise ? 
 Who shall now sing your crying elegies. 
 And strike a sad soul into senseless pic- 
 tures. 
 And make them mourn? Who shall take 
 
 up his lute. 
 And touch it till he crown a silent sleep 
 Upon my eye-lids, making me dream, and 
 
 cry, 
 "Oh, my dear, dear Philaster!" 
 Phi. (Aside.) Oh, my heart! 
 
 Would he had broken thee, that made me 
 
 know 
 This lady was not loyal ! — Mistress, 
 Forget the boy; I'll get thee a far bet- 
 ter. 
 Are. Oh, never, never such a boy again 
 
 As my Bellario. 
 Phi. 'T is but your fond affection. 
 
 Are. With thee, my boy, farewell for 
 ever 
 All secrecy in servants ! Farewell, faith. 
 And aU desire to do well for itself ! 
 Let all that shall succeed thee for thy 
 
 wrongs 
 Sell and betray chaste love ! 
 Phi. And all this passion for a boy? 
 Are. He w^s your boy, and you put him 
 to me. 
 And the loss of such must have a mourn- 
 ing for. 
 Phi. • Oh, thou forgetful woman ! 
 Are. How, my lord? 
 
 Phi. False Arethusa! 
 
 Hast thou a medicine to restore my wits. 
 When I have lost 'em? If not, leave to 
 
 talk. 
 And do thus. 
 Are. Do what, sir? Would you sleep ? 
 Phi. For ever, Arethusa. Oh, you gods 
 Give me a worthy patience! Have I 
 
 stood, 
 Naked, alone, the shock of many for- 
 tunes? 
 Have I seen mischiefs numberless and 
 
 mighty 
 Grow like a sea upon me? Have I 
 taken 
 
 46 plan. 
 
214 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Danger as stern as death into my bosom, 
 And laught upon it, made it but a 
 
 mirth, 
 And flung it by? Do I live now like 
 
 him, 
 Under this tyrant King, that languish- 
 ing 
 Hears his sad bell and sees his mourners 1 
 
 Do I 
 Bear all this bravely, and must sink at 
 
 length 
 Under a woman's falsehood? Oh, that 
 
 boy, 
 That cursed boy! None but a villain 
 
 boy 
 To ease your lust? 
 Are. Nay, then, I am betrayed : 
 
 I feel the plot cast for my overthrow. 
 Oh, I am wretched! 
 Phi. Now you may take that little right I 
 
 have 
 To this poor kingdom. Give it to your 
 
 joy. 
 
 For I have no joy in it. Some far 
 
 place, 
 Where never womankind durst set her 
 
 foot 
 Tor *^ bursting with her poisons, must I 
 
 seek, 
 And live to curse you ; 
 There dig a cave, and preach to birds and 
 
 beasts 
 What woman is, and help to save them 
 
 from you; 
 How heaven is in your eyes, but in your 
 
 hearts 
 More hell than hell has; how your 
 
 tongues, like scorpions, 
 Both heal and poison; *'* how your 
 
 thoughts are woven 
 With thousand changes in one subtle 
 
 web. 
 And worn so by you; how that foolish 
 
 man, 
 That reads the story of a woman's face 
 And dies believing it, is lost for ever; 
 How all the good you have is but a 
 
 shadow, 
 I' the morning with you, and at night 
 
 behind you. 
 Past and forgotten; how your vows are 
 
 frosts, 
 Fast for a night, and with the next sun 
 
 gone; 
 How you are, being taken all together, 
 A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos. 
 That love cannot distinguish. These 
 
 sad texts. 
 
 40 for fear of. 
 
 Till my last hour, I am bound to utter of 
 
 you. 
 So, farewell all my woe, all my de- 
 light ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Are. Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me 
 
 dead! 
 What way have I deserv'd this? Make 
 
 my breast 
 Transparent as pure crystal, that the 
 
 world, 
 Jealous of me, may see the foulest 
 
 thought 
 My heart holds. Where shall a woman 
 
 turn her eyes. 
 To find out constancy? 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Save me, how black 
 And guilty, methinks, that boy looks 
 
 now! 
 Oh, thou dissembler, that, before thou 
 
 spak'st, 
 Wert in thy cradle false, sent to make 
 
 lies 
 And betray innocents! Thy lord and 
 
 thou 
 May glory in the ashes of a maid 
 Fool'd by her passion; but the conquest 
 
 is 
 Nothing so great as wicked. Fly away! 
 Let my command force thee to that which 
 
 shame 
 Would do without it. If thou under- 
 
 stood'st 
 The loathed office thou hast undergone. 
 Why, thou wouldst hide thee under heaps 
 
 of hills. 
 Lest men should dig and find thee. 
 Bel. Oh, what god, 
 
 Angry with men, hath sent this strange 
 
 disease 
 Into the noblest minds! Madam, this 
 
 grief 
 You add unto me is no more than drops 
 To seas, for which they are not seen to 
 
 swell. 
 My lord hath struck his anger through 
 
 my heart. 
 And let out all the hope of future joys. 
 You need not bid me fly; I came to 
 
 part. 
 To take my latest leave. Farewell for 
 
 ever! 
 I durst not run away in honesty 
 From such a lady, like a boy that stole 
 Or made some grievous fault. The 
 
 power of gods 
 
 ^^ It was believed t)>at scorpioDS if applied to the wound they made, cured it. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 215 
 
 Assist you in your sufferings! Hasty 
 time 
 
 Reveal the truth to your abused lord 
 
 And mine, that he may know your worth ; 
 whilst I 
 
 Go seek out some forgotten place to die ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Are. Peace guide thee! Thou hast over- 
 thrown me once; 
 
 Yet, if I had another Troy to lose. 
 
 Thou, or another villain with thy 
 looks, 
 
 Might talk me out of it, and send me 
 naked. 
 
 My hair dishevell'd, through the fiery 
 streets. 
 
 Enter a Lady. 
 
 Lady. Madam, the King would hunt, and 
 calls for you 
 With earnestness. 
 Are. I am in tune to hunt ! 
 
 Diana, if thou canst rage with a maid 
 As with a man, let me discover thee 
 Bathing, and turn me to a fearful 
 
 hind. 
 That I may die pursued by cruel hounds, 
 And have my story written in my 
 wounds ! *^ 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. Before- the palace. 
 
 Enter King, Pharamond, Arethusa, Gala- 
 tea, Megra, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 King. What, are the hounds before and 
 
 all the woodmen? 
 
 Our horses ready and our bows bent 1 
 
 Dion. All, sir. 
 
 King. (To Pharamond.) You are cloudy, 
 
 sir. Come, we have forgotten 
 
 Your venial trepass; let not that sit 
 
 heavy 
 Upon your spirit ; here 's none dare utter 
 it. 
 Dion. He looks like an old surfeited stal- 
 lion, dull as a dormouse. See how he 
 sinks ! The wench has shot him between 
 wind and water, and, I hope, sprung a 
 leak. 
 Thra. He needs no teaching, he strikes 
 sure enough. His greatest fault is, he 
 
 48 These five lines refer to the story of Actseon. 
 
 49 a hunting dog led Thomas Bacon's 53 Almanacs gave 
 o^ a line, or leash. The Sioke Man's the proper sea- 
 
 50 leash. Salve, 1561. sons for blood- 
 fli An allusion to a B2 physic-adminia- letting. 
 
 religious work, tering. 
 
 hunts too much in the purlieus; would 
 he would leave off poaching! 
 
 Dion. And for his horn, h'as left it at 
 the lodge where he lay late. Oh, he 's a 
 precious limehound ! *" Turn him loose 
 upon the pursuit of a lady, and if he 
 lose her, hang him up i' the slip."" 
 When my fox-bitch Beauty grows proud, 
 I '11 borrow him. 
 
 King. Is your boy turn'd away? 
 
 Are. You did command, sir, and I obey'd 
 you. 
 
 King. 'T is well done. Hark ye further. 
 {They talk apart.) 
 
 Cle. Is't possible this fellow should re- 
 pent? Methinks, that were not noble in 
 him; and yet he looks like a mortified 
 member, as if he had a sick man's salve ^'^ 
 in's mouth. If a worse man had done 
 this fault now, some physical "^ justice 
 or other would presently (without the 
 help of an almanac''^) have opened the 
 obstructions of his liver, and let him 
 blood with a dog-whip. 
 
 Dion. See, see how modestly yon lady 
 looks, as if she came from churching 
 with her neighbors! Why, what a devil 
 can a man see in her face but that she 's 
 honest ! 
 
 Thra. Faith, no great matter to speak of; 
 a foolish twinkling with the eye, that 
 spoils her coat ; "* but he must be a cun- 
 ning herald that finds it. 
 
 Dion. See how they muster one another I 
 Oh, there 's a rank regiment where the 
 devil carries the colors and his dam 
 drum-major! Now the world and the 
 flesh come behind with the carriage.^^ 
 
 Cle. Sure this lady has a good turn done 
 her against her will ; before she was com- 
 mon talk, now none dare say eanthari- 
 des °® can stir her. Her face looks like 
 a warrant, willing and commanding all 
 tongues, as they will answer it, to be tied 
 up and bolted when this lady means to let 
 herself loose. As I live, she has got her 
 a goodly protection and a gracious; and 
 may use her body discreetly for her 
 health's sake, once a week, excepting 
 Lent and dog-days. Oh, if they were to 
 be got for money, what a great sum 
 would come out of the city for these 
 licenses ! 
 
 King. To horse, to horse! we lose the 
 morning, gentlemen. Exeunt. 
 
 64 The allusion, sug- a younger and 
 
 gested by twin- therefore inferior 
 
 Ming, is to the branch, 
 
 introduction of 55 baggage, 
 
 stars into a coat 6fi a provocative 
 
 of arms, d^nqfin^ ' drug. 
 
216 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Scene 2. A forest. 
 Enter two Woodmen. 
 
 1 Wood. What, have you lodged" the 
 deer? 
 
 2 Wood. Yes, they are ready for the bow. 
 
 1 Wood. Who shoots? 
 
 2 Wood. The princess. 
 
 1 Wood. No, she'll hunt. 
 
 2 Wood. She '11 take a stand, I say. 
 
 1 Wood. Who else? 
 
 2 Wood. Why, the young stranger-prince. 
 
 1 Wood. He shall shoot in a stone-bow ^^ 
 for me. I never lov'd his beyond-sea- 
 ship since he forsook the say,^" for pay- 
 ing ten shillings. He was there at the 
 fall of a deer, and would needs (out of 
 his mightiness) give ten groats for the 
 doweets; marry, his steward would have 
 the velvet-head 8° into the bargain, to 
 turf 81 his hat withal. I think he should 
 love yenery; he is an old Sir Tristram; «= 
 for, if you be rememb'red, he forsook 
 the stag once to strike a rascal ^^ mich- 
 ing °* in a meadow, and her he kill'd in 
 the eye. Who shoots else? 
 
 2 Wood. The Lady Galatea. 
 
 1 Wood. That's a good wench, an she 
 would not chide us for tumbling of her 
 women in the brakes. She 's liberal, and 
 by the gods, they say she's honest, and 
 whether that be a fault, I have nothing 
 to do. There's all? 
 
 2 Wood. No, one more; Megra. 
 
 1 Wood. That's a firker,*" i' faith, boy. 
 There's a wench will ride her haunches 
 as hard after a kennel of hounds as a 
 hunting- saddle, and when she comes 
 home, get 'em clapt, and all is well again. 
 I have known her lose herself three times 
 in one afternoon (if the woods have been 
 answerable),** and it has been work 
 enough for one man to find her, and he 
 has sweat for it. She rides well and she 
 pays well. Hark ! let 's go. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 PM. Oh, that I had been nourish'd in these 
 
 woods 
 With milk of goats and acorns, and not 
 
 known 
 The right of crowns nor the dissembling 
 
 trains 
 Of women's looks; but digg'd myself a 
 
 cave 
 
 Where I, my fire, my cattle, and my bed. 
 Might have been shut together in one 
 
 shed; 
 And then had taken me some mountain- 
 girl, 
 Beaten with winds, chaste as the hard'ned 
 
 rocks 
 Whereon she dwelt, that might have 
 
 strewed my bed 
 With leaves and reeds, and with the skins 
 
 of beasts. 
 Our neighbors, and have borne at her big 
 
 breasts 
 My large coarse issue ! This had been a 
 
 life 
 Tree from vexation. 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Bel. Oh, wicked men ! 
 
 An innocent may walk safe among 
 
 beasts ; 
 Nothing assaults me here. See, my 
 
 griev'd lord 
 Sits as his soul were searching out a way 
 To leave his body! — Pardon me, that 
 
 must 
 Break thy last commandment; for I must 
 
 speak. 
 You that are griev'd can pity; hear, my 
 
 lord! 
 Phi. Is there a creature yet so miserable. 
 
 That I can pity? 
 Bel. Oh, my noble lord. 
 
 View my strange fortune, and bestow on 
 
 me. 
 According to your bounty (if my service 
 Can merit nothing), so much as may 
 
 serve 
 To keep that little piece I hold of life 
 From cold and hunger! 
 Phi. Is it thou? Begone! 
 
 Go, sell those misbeseeming clothes thou 
 
 wear'st. 
 And feed thyself with them. 
 Bel. Alas, my lord, I can get nothing for 
 
 them! 
 The silly country-people think 'tis trea- 
 son 
 To touch such gay things. 
 Phi. Now, by the gods, this is 
 
 Unkindly done, to vex me with thy sight. 
 Thou'rt fallen again to thy dissembling 
 
 trade ; 
 How shouldst thou think to cozen me 
 
 again ? 
 
 B7 brought to cov- 
 ert. 
 68 with a CTosB- 
 
 how that shoots 
 
 stones. 
 
 B9 Gave up his riRht 
 to the assay or 
 slitting of the 
 deer to test the 
 quality of the 
 
 flesh, in order to 
 escape payinK a 
 fee to the keeper. 
 60 the hart's horns, 
 covered with vel- 
 
 vet pile when 
 new. 
 
 61 cover. 
 
 62 Tristram, in the 
 romances, was a 
 
 famous hunter. 
 68 a lean doe. 
 
 64 lurking. 
 
 65 a fast one. 
 
 66 suitable. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 217 
 
 Remains there yet a plague untried for 
 
 me? 
 Even so thou wept'st, and lookt'st, and 
 
 spok'st when first 
 I took thee up. 
 Curse on the time! If thy commanding 
 
 tears 
 Can work on any other, use thy art; 
 I '11 not betray it. Which way yilt thou 
 
 take, 
 That I may shun thee, for thine eyes are 
 
 poison 
 To mine, and I am loth to grow in rage 1 
 This way, or that way? 
 Bel. Any will serve; but I will choose to 
 
 have 
 That path in chase that leads unto my 
 
 grave. 
 
 Exeunt severally. 
 Enter on one side Dion, and on the other 
 the two Woodmen. 
 
 Dion. This is the strangest sudden chance ! 
 — You, woodmen! 
 
 1 Wood. My lord Dion? 
 
 Dion. Saw you a lady come this way on a 
 sable horse studded with stars of 
 white? 
 
 2 Wood. Was she not young and tall? 
 Dion. Yes. Rode she to the wood or to 
 
 the plain? 
 2 Wood. Faith, my lord, we saw none. 
 
 Exeunt Woodmen. 
 Dion. Pox of your questions then ! 
 
 Enter Cleremont. 
 
 What, is she found? 
 
 Cle. Nor will be, I think. 
 
 Dion. Let him seek his daughter himself. 
 She cannot stray about a little necessary 
 natural business, but the whole court 
 must be in arms. When she has done, 
 we shall have peace. 
 
 Cle. There 's already a thousand father- 
 less tales amongst us. Some say, her 
 horse ran away with her; some, a wolf 
 pursued her; others, 'twas a plot to kill 
 her, and that arm'd men were seen in the 
 wood: but questionless she rode away 
 willingly. 
 
 Enter King a/nd Thrasilime. 
 
 King. Where is she? 
 
 Cle. Sir, I cannot tell. 
 
 King. How's that? 
 
 ■Answer me so again ! 
 Cle. Sir, shall I lie? 
 
 King. Yes, lie and damn, rather than tell 
 me that. 
 
 I say again, where is she? Mutter 
 
 not!— 
 Sir, speak you; where is she? 
 Dion. Sir, I do not know. 
 
 King. Speak that again so boldly, and, 
 by Heaven, 
 It is thy last!— You, fellows, answer me; 
 Where is she ? Mark me, all ; I am your 
 
 King: 
 I wish to see my daughter ; show her me ; 
 I do command you all, as you are sub- 
 jects. 
 To show her me ! What ! am I not your 
 
 King? 
 If aye, then am I not to be obeyed ? 
 Dion. Yes, if you command things possi- 
 ble and honest. 
 King. Things possible and honest! Hear 
 me, thou, — 
 Thou traitor, that dar'st confine thy King 
 
 to things 
 Possible and honest ! Show her me, 
 Or, let me perish, if I cover not 
 All Sicily with blood ! 
 Dion. Faith, I cannot. 
 
 Unless you tell me where she is. 
 King. You have betray'd me; you have 
 let me lose 
 The jewel of my life. Go bring her 
 
 me. 
 And set her here before me. 'T is the 
 
 King 
 Will have it so, whose breath can still the 
 
 winds, 
 Uncloud the sun, charm down the swell- 
 ing sea, 
 And stop the fioods of heaven. Speak, 
 can it not? 
 Dion. No. 
 King. No ! cannot the breath of 
 
 kings do this? 
 Dion. No; nor smell sweet itself, if once 
 the lungs 
 Be but corrupted. 
 King. Is it so? Take heed! 
 
 Dion. Sir, take you heed how you dare the 
 powers 
 That must be just. 
 King. Alas! what are we kings! 
 
 Why do you gods place us above the rest, 
 To be serv'd, flatter'd, and ador'd, till we 
 Believe we hold within our hands your 
 
 thunder? 
 And when we come to try the power we 
 
 have. 
 There 's not a leaf shakes at our threat'- 
 
 nings. 
 I have sinn'd, 'tis true, and here stand 
 to be punish'd; 
 
218 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Yet would not thus be punish'd. Let me 
 
 choose 
 My way, and lay it on! 
 Dion. (Aside.) He articles with the 
 gods. Would somebody would draw 
 bonds for the performance of covenants 
 betwixt them! 
 
 Enter Pharamond, Galatea, and Megra. 
 
 King. What, is she found? 
 Pha. No ; we have ta'en her horse ; 
 
 He gallop'd empty by. There is some 
 
 treason. 
 You, Galatea, rode with her into the 
 
 wood; 
 Why left you her? 
 Gal. She did command me. 
 
 King. Command ! you should not. 
 Gal. 'T would ill become my fortunes and 
 my birth 
 To disobey the daughter of my king. 
 King. You're all cunning to obey us for 
 our hurt; 
 But I will have her. 
 Pha. If I have her not, 
 
 By this hand, there shall be no more 
 Sicily. 
 Dion. (Aside.) What, will he carry it to 
 
 Spain in 's pocket 1 
 Pha. I will not leave one man alive, but 
 the king, 
 A cook, and a tailor. 
 Dion. (Aside.) Yes; you may do well to 
 spare your lady-bedfellow; and her you 
 may keep for a spawner. 
 King. I see the injuries I have done must 
 
 be reveng'd. 
 Dion. Sir, this is not the way to find her 
 
 out. 
 King. Run all, disperse yourselves. The 
 man that finds her, 
 Or (if she be kill'd) the traitor, I'll 
 make him great. 
 Dion. I know some would give five thou- 
 sand pounds to find her. 
 Pha. Come, let us seek. 
 King. Each man a several way; here I 
 
 myself. 
 Dion. Come, gentlemen, we here. 
 Cle. Lady, you must go search too. 
 Meg. I had rather be search'd myself. 
 Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene 3. Another part of the forest. 
 
 Enter Arethusa. 
 
 Are. Where am I now? Feet, find me 
 out a way. 
 Without the counsel of my troubled head. 
 
 I 'II, follow you boldly about these woods, 
 O'er mountains, thorough brambles, pits, 
 
 and floods. 
 Heaven, I hope, will ease me : I am sick. 
 (Sits down.) 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Bel. Yonder 's my lady. God knows I 
 
 want nothing. 
 Because I do not wish to live ; yet I 
 Will try her charity. — Oh hear, you have 
 
 plenty ! 
 From that flowing store drop some on 
 
 dry ground. — See, 
 The lively red is gone to guard her heart ! 
 I fear she faints. — Madam, look up ! — 
 
 She breathes not. — 
 Open once more those rosy twins, and 
 
 send 
 Unto my lord your latest farewell! — Oh, 
 
 she stirs. — 
 How is it. Madam? Speak comfort. 
 Are. 'T is not gently done, 
 
 To put me in a miserable life. 
 And hold me there. I prithee, let me go ; 
 I shall do best without thee ; I am well. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage. 
 I'll tell her coolly when and where 1 
 
 heard 
 This killing truth. I will be temperate 
 
 In speaking, and as just in hearing. 
 
 Oh, monstrous! Tempt me not, you 
 
 gods! good gods. 
 Tempt not a frail man ! What 's he, that 
 
 has a heart, 
 But he must ease it here ! 
 Bel. My lord, help, help! The princess! 
 Are. I am well: forbear. 
 Phi. (Aside.) Let me love lightning, let 
 
 me be embrae'd 
 And kist by scorpions, or adore the eyes 
 Of basilisks, rather than trust the 
 
 tongues 
 Of hell-bred women! Some good god 
 
 look down. 
 And shrink these veins up! Stick me 
 
 here a stone, 
 Lasting to ages in the memory 
 Of this damn'd act! — Hear me, you 
 
 wicked ones! 
 You have put hills of fire into this 
 
 breast, 
 Not to be quench'd with tears ; for which 
 
 may guilt 
 Sit on your bosoms ! At your meals and 
 
 beds 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 219 
 
 Despair await you ! What, before my 
 
 face? 
 Poison of asps between your lips! Dis- 
 
 , eases 
 Be your best issues! Nature make a 
 
 curse, 
 And throw it on you ! 
 Are. Dear Philaster, leave 
 
 To be enrag'd, and hear me. 
 Pfei. I have done; 
 
 Forgive my passion. Not the calmed 
 
 sea, 
 When ^olus locks up his windy brood, 
 Is less disturb'd than I. I '11 make you 
 
 know 't. 
 Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword, 
 
 {Offers his drawn sword.) 
 And search how temperate a heart I 
 
 have; 
 Then you and this your boy may live and 
 
 reign 
 In lust without control. — Wilt thou, Bel- 
 
 lario? 
 I prithee kill me; thou art poor, and 
 
 may'st 
 Nourish ambitious thoughts; when I am 
 
 dead. 
 Thy way were freer. Am I raging 
 
 now? 
 If I were mad, I should desire to live. 
 Sirs,*' feel my pulse, whether you have 
 
 known 
 A man in a more equal tune to die. 
 Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps mad- 
 man's time! 
 So does your tongue. 
 Phi. You will not kill me, then? 
 
 Are. Kill you! 
 
 Bel. Not for the world. 
 
 Phi. I blame not thee, 
 
 Bellario; thou hast done but that which 
 
 gods 
 Would have transform'd themselves to 
 
 do. Be gone. 
 Leave me without reply; this is the last 
 Of all our meetings. — 
 
 Exit Bellario. 
 Kill me with this sword; 
 Be wise, or worse will follow: we are 
 
 two 
 Earth cannot bear at once. Resolve to 
 
 do. 
 Or suffer. 
 Are. If my fortune be so good to let me 
 fall 
 Upon thy hand, I shall have peaoe in 
 death. 
 
 Yet tell me this, will there be no slan- 
 ders. 
 No jealousy in the other world; no ill 
 there? 
 Phi. No. 
 
 Are. Show me, then, the way. 
 Phi. Then guide my feeble hand. 
 
 You that have power to do it, for I must 
 Perform a piece of justice! — If your 
 
 youth 
 Have any way offended Heaven, let 
 
 prayers 
 Short and effectual reconcile you to it. 
 Are. I am prepared. 
 
 Enter a Country Fellow. 
 
 C. Fell. I '11 see the King, if he be in the 
 forest; I have hunted him these two 
 hours. If I should come home and not 
 see him, my sisters would laugh at me. 
 I can see nothing but people better 
 hors'd than myself, that outride me; I 
 can hear nothing but shouting. These 
 kings had need of good brains ; this 
 whooping is able to put a mean man out 
 of his wits. There 's a courtier with his 
 sword drawn; by this hand, upon a 
 woman, I think! 
 
 Phi. Are you at peace? 
 
 Are. With heaven and earth. 
 
 Phi. May they divide thy soul and body! 
 (Wounds her.) 
 
 C. Fell. Hold, dastard ! strike a woman ! 
 Thou 'rt a craven. I warrant thee, thou 
 wouldst be loth to, play half a dozen 
 venies ^' at wasters *® with a good fellow 
 for a broken head. 
 
 Phi. Leave us, good friend. 
 
 Are. What ill-bred man art thou, to in- 
 trude thyself 
 Upon our private sports, our recrea- 
 tion? 
 
 C. Fell. God 'uds '"' me, I understand you 
 not; but 
 I know the rogue has hurt you. 
 
 Phi. Pursue thy own affairs : it will be ill 
 To multiply blood upon my head; which 
 
 thou 
 Wilt force me to. 
 
 C. Fell. I know not your rhetoric; but I 
 can lay it on, if you touch the woman. 
 
 Phi. Slave, take what thou deservest! 
 {They fight.) 
 
 Are. Heavens guard my lord ! 
 
 C. Fell. Oh, do you breathe? 
 
 Phi. I hear the tread of people. I am 
 hurt. 
 
 67 Formerly used to women as well as to men. ea bouts. 
 
 09 cudgels. 
 
 TO God judge. 
 
220 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 The gods take part against me: could 
 
 this boor 
 Have held me thus else? I must shift 
 
 for life, 
 Though I do loathe it. I would find a 
 
 course 
 To lose it rather by my will than force. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 C. Fell. I cannot follow the rogue. I 
 
 pray thee, wench, come and kiss me now. 
 
 Enter Pharamond, Dion, Cleremont, 
 Thrasiline, and Woodmen. 
 
 Pha. What art thou? 
 
 C. Fell. Almost kill'd I am for a foolish 
 
 woman ; a knave has hurt her. 
 Pha. The princess, gentlemen ! — Where 's 
 
 the wound, madam! Is it dangerous? 
 Are. He has not hurt me. 
 C. Fell. By God, she Ues; h'as hurt her 
 in the breast; 
 
 Look else. 
 Pha. sacred spring of innocent blood ! 
 Dion. 'T is above wonder ! Who should 
 
 dare this? 
 Are. I felt it not. 
 Pha. Speak, villain, who has hurt the 
 
 princess? 
 C. Fell. *Is it the princess? 
 Dion. Aye. 
 
 C. Fell. Then I have seen something yet. 
 Pha. But who has hurt her? 
 C. Fell. I told you, a rogue; I ne'er saw 
 
 him before, I. 
 Pha. Madam, who did it? 
 Are. Some dishonest wretch ; 
 
 Alas, I know him not, and do forgive 
 him! 
 C. Fell. He 's hurt too ; he cannot go far ; 
 
 I made my father's old fox ''''■ fly about 
 
 his ears. 
 Pha. How wiU you have me kill him ? 
 Are. Not at all; 'tis some distracted fel- 
 low. 
 Pha. By this hand, I '11 leave ne'er a piece 
 
 of him bigger than a nut, and bring him 
 
 all to you in my hat. 
 Are. Nay, good sir, 
 
 If you do take him, bring him quick ^^ 
 to me, 
 
 And I will study for a punishment 
 
 Great as his fault. 
 Pha. I will. 
 Are. But swear. 
 Pha. By all my love, I will. 
 
 Woodmen, conduct the princess to the 
 King, 
 
 And bear that wounded fellow to dress- 
 ing. 
 
 Come, gentlemen, we'U follow the chase 
 close. 
 Exeunt Arethusa, Pharamond, Dion, 
 Cleremont, Thrasiline, and 1 Wood- 
 man. 
 G. Fell. I pray you, friend, let me see 
 
 the King. 
 2 Wood. That you shall, and receive 
 
 thanks. 
 C. Fell. If I get clear with this, I '11 go 
 see no more gay sights. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4 Another part of the forest. 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Bel. A heaviness near death sits on my 
 
 brow, 
 And I must sleep. Bear me, thou gentle 
 
 bank. 
 For ever, if thou wilt. You sweet ones 
 
 all, 
 
 (Lies down.) 
 Let me unworthy press you ; I could wish 
 I rather were a corse strew'd o'er with 
 
 you 
 Than quick above you. Dulness ^^ shuts 
 
 mine eyes. 
 And I am giddy: oh, that I could take 
 So sound a sleep that I might never 
 
 wake! 
 
 {Sleeps.) 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Phi. I have done ill; my conscience calls 
 
 me false 
 To strike at her -that would not strike 
 
 at me. 
 When I did flght, methought I heard her 
 
 pray 
 The gods to guard me. She may be 
 
 abus'd. 
 And I a loathed villain; if she be. 
 She will conceal who hurt her. He has 
 
 wounds 
 And cannot follow ; neither knows he me. 
 Who's this? Bellario sleeping! If 
 
 thou be'st 
 Guilty, there is no justice that thy sleep 
 Should be so sound, and mine, whom thou 
 
 hast wrong'd, 
 So broken. (Cry within.) Hark! I 
 
 am pursued. You gods, 
 I '11 take this offer'd means of my escape. 
 
 71 broad sword. 
 
 72 alive. 
 
 78 drowsinesB. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 221 
 
 They have no mark to know me but my 
 
 blood, 
 If she be true ; if false, let mischief light 
 On all the world at once! Sword, print 
 
 my wounds 
 Upon this sleeping boy! I ha' none, I 
 
 think. 
 Are mortal, nor would I lay greater on 
 thee. 
 
 {Wounds Bellario.) 
 Bel. Oh, death, I hope, is come ! Blest be 
 that hand ! 
 It meant me well. Again, for pity's 
 sake! 
 Phi. I have caught msrself ; 
 (Falls.) 
 The loss of blood hath stay'd my flight. 
 
 Here, here. 
 Is he that struck thee : take thy full re- 
 venge ; 
 Use me, as I did mean thee, worse than 
 
 death ; 
 I '11 teach thee to revenge. This luckless 
 
 hand 
 Wounded the princess; tell my follow- 
 ers ''* 
 Thou didst receive these hurts in staying 
 
 me. 
 And I will second thee ; get a reward. 
 Bel. Fly, fly, my lord, and save yourself! 
 Phi. How's this? 
 
 Wouldst thou I should be safe? 
 Bel. Else were it vain 
 
 For me to live. These little wounds I 
 
 have 
 Ha' not bled much. Reach me that 
 
 noble hand ; 
 I'll help to cover you. 
 Phi. Art thou then true to me? 
 
 Bel. Or let me perish loatk'd ! Come, my 
 good lord, 
 Creep in amongst those bushes; who 
 
 does know 
 But that the gods may save your much- 
 lov'd breath? 
 Phi. Then I shall die for grief, if not for 
 this, 
 That I have wounded thee. What wilt 
 thou do? 
 Bel Shift for myself well. Peace! I 
 hear 'em come. 
 (Philaster creeps into a bush.) 
 Voices within. Follow, follow, follow! 
 
 that way they went. 
 Bel. With my own wounds I '11 bloody my 
 own ^word. 
 I need not counterfeit to fall; Heaven 
 knows 
 
 That I can stand no longer. 
 {Falls.) 
 
 Enter Pharamond, Dion, Cleremont, and 
 TKrasiline. 
 
 Pha. To this place we have trackt him by 
 
 his blood. 
 Cle. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away. 
 Dion. Stay, sir! what are you? 
 Bel. A wretched creature, wounded in 
 these woods 
 By beasts. Relieve me, if your names 
 
 be men, 
 Or I shall perish. 
 Dion. This is he, my lord, 
 
 Upon my soul, that hurt her. 'Tis the 
 
 boy, 
 That wicked boy, that serv'd her. 
 Pha. Oh, thou damn'd 
 
 In thy creation! What cause eouldst 
 
 thou shape 
 To hurt the princess? 
 Bel: Then I am betrayed. 
 
 Dion. Betrayed! No, apprehended. 
 Bel. I confess, 
 
 (Urge it no more) that, big with evil 
 
 thoughts, 
 I set upon her, and did make my aim. 
 Her death. For charity let fall at once 
 The punishment you mean, and do not 
 
 load 
 This weary flesh with tortures. 
 Pha. I will know 
 
 Who hir'd thee to this deed. 
 Bel. Mine own revenge. 
 
 Pha. Revenge! for what? 
 Bel. It pleas'd her to receive 
 
 Me as her page and, when my fortunes 
 
 ebb'd. 
 That men strid o'er them careless, she 
 
 did shower 
 Her welcome graces on me, and did swell 
 My fortunes till they overflow'd their 
 
 banks, 
 Threat'ning the men that crost 'em; 
 
 when, as swift 
 As storms arise at sea, she turn'd her 
 
 eyes 
 To burning suns upon me, and did dry 
 The streams she had bestow'd, leaving me 
 
 worse 
 And more contemn'd than other little 
 
 brooks, 
 Because I had been great. In short, I 
 
 knew 
 I could not live, and therefore did desire 
 To die reveng'd. 
 Pha. If tortures can be found 
 
 74 pursuers. 
 
222 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Long as thy natural life, resolve to feel 
 The utmost rigor. 
 {Philaster creeps out of the bush.) 
 Cle. Help to lead him hence. 
 
 Phi. Turn back, you ravishers of inno- 
 cence ! 
 Know ye the price of that you bear 
 
 away 
 So rudely'? 
 Pha. Who's that? 
 
 Dion. 'T is the Lord Philaster. 
 
 Phi. 'T is not the treasure of all kings in 
 one, 
 The wealth of Tagus, nor the rocks of 
 
 pearl 
 That pave the court of Neptune, can 
 
 weigh down 
 That virtue. It was I that hurt the prin- 
 cess. 
 Place me, some god, upon a pyramis '° 
 Higher than hills of earth, and lend a 
 
 voice 
 Loud as your thunder to me, that ffom 
 
 hence 
 I may discourse to all the under-world 
 The worth that dwells in him ! 
 Pha. How's this? 
 
 Bel. My lord, some man 
 
 Weary of life, that would be glad to 
 die. 
 Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bel- 
 
 lario. 
 BeK Alas, he's mad! Come, will you 
 
 lead me on ? 
 Phi. By all the oaths that men ought most 
 to keep. 
 And gods to punish most when men do 
 
 break, 
 He touch'd her not. — Take heed, Bellario, 
 How thou dost drown the virtues thou 
 
 hast shown 
 With perjury. — By all that 's good, 't was 
 
 I! 
 You know she stood betwixt me and my 
 right. 
 Pha. Thy own tongue be thy judge ! 
 Cle. It was Philaster. 
 
 Dion. Is 't not a brave boy 9 
 
 Well, sirs, I fear me we were all de- 
 ceived. 
 Phi. Have I no friend here? 
 Dion. Yes. 
 
 Phi. Then show it : some 
 
 Good body lend a hand to draw us nearer. 
 Would you have tears shed for you when 
 
 you die? 
 Then lay me gently on his neck, that 
 there 
 
 76 pyramid. 
 
 76 i.e. out ol my Benses 
 
 I may weep floods and breathe forth my 
 
 spirit. 
 'Tis not the wealth of Plutus, nor the 
 
 gold 
 
 {Embraces Bellario.) 
 Lockt in the heart of earth, can buy 
 
 away 
 This arm-full from mej this had been a 
 
 ransom 
 To have redeem'd the great Augustus 
 
 Caesar, 
 Had he been taken. You hard-hearted 
 
 men, 
 More stony than these mountains, can 
 
 you see 
 Such clear pure blood drop, and not cut 
 
 your flesh 
 To stop his. life, to bind whose bitter 
 
 wounds. 
 Queens ought to tear their hair, and with 
 
 their tears 
 Bathe 'em? — Eorgive me, thou that art 
 
 the wealth 
 Of poor Philaster! 
 
 Enter King, Arethusa, and Guard. 
 
 King. Is the villain ta'en? 
 
 Pha. Sir, here be two confess the deed; 
 but sure 
 It was Philaster. 
 Phi. Question it no more; 
 
 It was. 
 King. The fellow that did fight with him, 
 
 Will tell us that. 
 Are. Ay me! I know he will. 
 
 King. Did not you know him? 
 Are. Sir, if it was he, 
 
 He was disguis'd. 
 Phi. I was so.'^ — Oh, my stars, 
 
 That I should live stUl ! 
 King. Thou ambitious fool, 
 
 Thou that hast laid a train for thy own 
 
 life!— 
 Now I do mean to do ; I '11 leave to talk.''' 
 Bear them to prison. 
 Are. Sir, they did plot together to take 
 hence 
 This harmless life; should it pass unre- 
 
 veng'd, 
 I should to earth go weeping. Grant me, 
 
 then, 
 By all the love a father bears his child, 
 Their custodies, and that I may appoint 
 Their tortures and their deaths. 
 Dion. Death! Soft; our law will not 
 
 reach that for this fault., 
 King. 'T is granted ; take 'em to you with 
 a guard. — 
 
 77 I '11 cease talking. 
 
PHILASTEK OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 223 
 
 Come, princely Pharamond, this business 
 
 past, 
 We may with security go on 
 To your intended match. 
 Exeunt all except Dion, Cleremont, and 
 
 Thrasiline. 
 Cle. I pray that his action lose not Phil- 
 aster the hearts of the people. 
 Dion. Tear it not; their over-wise heads 
 will think it but a trick. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. Before the palace. 
 Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 
 
 Thra. Has the King sent for him to 
 
 death? 
 Dion. Yes; but the King must know 'tis 
 
 not in his power to war with Heaven. 
 Cle. We linger time; the King sent for 
 
 Philaster and the headsman an hour ago. 
 Thra. Are all his wounds well? 
 Dion. All; they were but scratches; but 
 
 the loss of blood made him faint. 
 Cle. We dally, gentlemen. 
 Thra. Away ! 
 
 Dion. We '11 scuffle hard before he perish. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. A prison. 
 
 Enter Philaster, Arethusa, and Bellario. 
 
 Are. Nay, faith, Philaster, grieve not; we 
 
 are well. 
 Bel. Nay, good my lord, forbear; we're 
 
 wondrous well. 
 Phi. Arethusa, Bellario,- 
 Leave to be kind! 
 I shall be shut from Heaven, as now 
 
 from earth. 
 If you continue so. I am a man 
 False to a pair of the most trusty ones 
 That ever earth bore; can it bear us all? 
 Forgive, and leave me. But the King 
 
 hath sent 
 To call me to my death : oh, show it me. 
 And then forget me ! And for thee, my 
 
 boy, 
 I shall deliver words will mollify 
 The hearts of beasts to spare thy inno- 
 cence. 
 Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing 
 Worthy your noble thoughts! 'Tis not 
 
 a life, 
 'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown 
 
 away. 
 
 Should I outlive you, I should then out- 
 live 
 
 Virtue and honor; and when that day 
 comes. 
 
 If ever I shall close these eyes but once. 
 
 May I live spotted for my perjury, 
 
 And waste my limbs to nothing! 
 Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever 
 was, 
 
 Forc'd with my hands to bring my lord 
 to death) 
 
 Do by the honor of a virgin swear 
 
 To tell no hours beyond it ! 
 Phi. Make me not hated so. 
 
 Are. Come from this prison all joyful to 
 
 our deaths! 
 Phi. People will tear me, when they find 
 you true 
 
 To such a wretch as I ; I shall die loath'd. 
 
 Enjoy your kingdoms peaceably whilst I 
 
 For ever sleep forgotten with my faults. 
 
 Every just servant, every maid in love, 
 
 Will have a piece of me, if you be true. 
 Are. My dear lord, say not so. 
 Bel. A piece of you! 
 
 He was not bom of woman that can cut 
 
 It and look on. 
 Phi. Take me in tears betwixt you, for 
 my heart 
 
 Will break with shame and sorrow. 
 Are. Why, 'tis well. 
 
 Bel. Lament no more. 
 Phi. Why, what would you have done 
 
 If you had wrong'd me basely, and had 
 found 
 
 Your life no price eompar'd to mine? 
 For love, sirs. 
 
 Deal with me truly. 
 Bel. 'T was mistaken, sir. 
 
 Phi. Why, if it were? 
 Bel. Then, sir, we would have ask'd 
 
 You pardon. 
 Phi. And have hope to enjoy it? 
 
 Are. Enjoy it ! aye. 
 
 Phi. Would you indeed? Be plain. 
 
 Bel. We would, my lord. 
 Phi. Forgive me, then. 
 
 Are. So, so. 
 
 Bel. 'T is as it should be now. 
 Phi. Lead to my death. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. A state-room in the palace. 
 
 Enter King, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 King. Gentlemen, who saw the prince? 
 Cle. So please you, sir, he's gone to see 
 the city 
 
224 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 And the new platform, with somf gentle- 
 men 
 
 Attending on him. 
 King. Is the princess ready 
 
 To bring her prisoner out? 
 Thra. She waits your grace. 
 
 King. Tell her we stay. 
 
 Exit Thrasiline. 
 Dion. (Aside.) King, you may be de- 
 ceiv'd yet. 
 
 The head you aim at cost more setting on 
 
 Than to be lost so lightly. If it must 
 ofE,— 
 
 Like a wild overflow, that swoops before 
 him 
 
 A golden stack, and with it shakes down 
 bridges, 
 
 Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose 
 cable-roots 
 
 Held out a thousand storms, a thousand 
 thunders. 
 
 And, so made mightier, takes whole vil- 
 lages 
 
 Upon his back, and in that heat of pride 
 
 Charges strong towns, towers, castles, 
 palaces. 
 
 And lays them desolate; so shall thy 
 head. 
 
 Thy noble head, bury the lives of thou- 
 sands. 
 
 That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice. 
 
 In thy red ruins. 
 
 Enter Arethusa, Philaster, Bellario in a 
 robe and garland, and Thrasiline. 
 
 King. How now? What masque is this? 
 Bel. Right royal sir, I should 
 
 Sing you an epithalamion of these lovers. 
 But having lost my best airs with my 
 
 fortunes. 
 And wanting a celestial harp to strike 
 This blessed union on, thus in glad story 
 I give you all. These two fair cedar- 
 branches. 
 The noblest of the mountain where they 
 
 grew, 
 Sttaightest and tallest, under whose still 
 
 shades 
 The worthier beasts have made their lairs, 
 
 and slept 
 Free from the fervor of the Sirian star ^' 
 And the fell thunder-stroke, free from 
 
 the clouds 
 When they were big with humor, and 
 
 deliver'd 
 In thousand spouts their issues to the 
 
 earth; . I 
 
 78 SiriuB, the dog-star, was supposed 
 
 79 Hymen wore a saffron robe in the 
 
 Oh, there was none but silent quiet there ! 
 Till never-pleased Fortune shot up 
 
 shrubs. 
 Base under-brambles, to divorce these 
 
 branches ; 
 And for a while they did so, and did 
 
 reign 
 Over the mountain, and choke up his 
 
 beauty 
 With brakes, rude thorns and thistles, 
 
 till the sun 
 Scorcht them even to the roots and dried 
 
 them there. 
 And now a gentle gale hath blown again. 
 That made these branches meet and twine 
 
 together. 
 Never to be divided. The god that sings 
 His holy numbers over marriage-beds 
 Hath knit their noble hearts; and here 
 
 they stand 
 Your children, mighty King; and I have 
 
 done. 
 King. How, how? 
 
 Are. Sir, if you love it in plain truth, 
 
 (For now there is no masquing in 't,) 
 
 this gentleman. 
 The prisoner that you gave me, is become 
 My keeper, and through all the bitter 
 
 throes 
 Your jealousies and his ill fate have 
 
 wrought him. 
 Thus nobly hath he struggled, and at 
 
 length 
 Arrived here my dear husband. 
 King. Your dear husband! — 
 
 Call in the Captain of the Citadel — 
 There you shall keep your wedding. 
 
 I '11 provide 
 A masque shall make your Hymen turn 
 
 his saffron '^ 
 Into a sullen coat, and sing sad requiems 
 To your departing souls. 
 Blood shall put out your torches; and, 
 
 instead 
 Of gaudy flowers about your wanton 
 
 necks. 
 An axe shall hang, like a prodigious 
 
 meteor, 
 Ready to crop your loves' sweets. Hear, 
 
 you gods! 
 From this time do I shake all title off 
 Of father to this woman, this base 
 
 woman ; 
 And what there is of vengeance in a 
 
 lion 
 Chaf'd among dogs or robb'd of his dear 
 
 young, 
 
 to bring hot weather, the dog-days, 
 masques. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 225 
 
 The same, enforc'd more terrible, more 
 mighty, 
 
 Expect from me ! 
 &.re. Sir, by that little life I have left to 
 swear by. 
 
 There 's nothing that can stir me from 
 myself. 
 
 What I have done, I have done without 
 repentance, 
 
 For death can be no bugbear unto me, 
 
 So long as Pharamond is not my heads- 
 man. 
 Bion. {Aside.') Sweet peace upon thy 
 soul, thou worthy maid. 
 
 Whene'er thou diest ! For this time I '11 
 excuse thee. 
 
 Or be thy prologue. 
 Pfei. Sir, let me speak next; 
 
 And let my dying words be better with 
 you 
 
 Than my dull living actions. If you aim 
 
 At the dear life of this sweet innocent. 
 
 You are a tyrant and a savage monster. 
 
 That feeds upon the blood you gave a 
 life to; 
 
 Your memory shall be as foul behind 
 you. 
 
 As you are living; all your better deeds 
 
 Shall be in water writ, '"ut this in mar- 
 ble; 
 
 No chronicle shall speak you, though 
 your own, 
 
 But for the shame of men. No monu- 
 ment, 
 
 Though high and big as Pelion, shall be 
 able 
 
 To cover this base murder: make it rich 
 
 With brass, with purest gold, and shining 
 
 jasper, 
 .Like the Pyramides; lay on epitaphs 
 
 Such as make great men gods; my little 
 marble. 
 
 That only clothes nay ashes, not my 
 faults. 
 
 Shall far outshine it. And for after- 
 issues. 
 
 Think not so madly of the heavenly wis- 
 doms, 
 
 That they will give you more for your 
 mad rage 
 
 To cut off, unless it be some snake, or 
 something 
 
 Like yourself, that in his birth shall 
 strangle you. 
 
 Remember my father, King! There was 
 a fault; 
 
 But I forgive it. Let that sin persuade 
 you 
 
 so fearing tor. 
 
 To love this lady; if you have a soul. 
 Think, save her, and be saved. For my- 
 self, 
 I have so long expected this glad hour. 
 So languisht under you, and daily with- 
 ered. 
 That, Heaven knows, it is a joy to die; 
 I find a recreation in 't. 
 
 'Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mess. Where is the King? 
 King. Here. 
 
 Mess. Get you to your strength. 
 
 And rescue the Prince Pharamond from 
 
 danger ; 
 He 's taken prisoner by the citizens. 
 Fearing *" the Lord Philaster. 
 Dion. (Aside.) Oh, brave followers ! 
 
 Mutiny, my fine dear countrymen, 
 
 mutiny ! 
 Now, my brave valiant foremen, show 
 
 your weapons 
 In honor of your mistresses ! 
 
 Enter a Second Messenger. 
 
 2 Mess. Arm, arm, arm, arm! 
 King. A thousand devils take 'em! 
 Dion. (Aside.) A thousand blessings on 
 
 'em ! 
 2 Mess. Arm, King! The city is in 
 mutiny, 
 Led by an old gray ruffian, who comes on 
 In rescue of the Lord Philaster. 
 King. Away to the citadel ! I '11 see them 
 safe. 
 And then cope with these burghers. Let 
 
 the guard 
 And all the gentlemen give strong at- 
 tendance. 
 Exeunt all except Dion, Cleremont, and 
 Thrasiline. 
 Cle. The city up! This was above our 
 
 wishes. 
 Dion. Aye, and the marriage too. By my 
 life. 
 This noisle lady has deceiv'd us all. 
 A plague upon myself, a thousand 
 
 plagues, 
 For having such unworthy thoughts of 
 
 her dear honor! 
 Oh, I could beat myself! Or do you 
 
 beat me. 
 And I '11 beat you ; for we had all one 
 thought. 
 Cle. No, no, 't will but lose time. 
 Dion. You say true. Are your swords 
 sharp? — Well, my dear countrymen 
 What-ye-lacks,*^ if you continue, and 
 
 81 i.e. shopkeepers, who thus addressed passers-by. 
 
226 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 fall not back upon the first broken skin, 
 I '11 have you chronicled and chronicled, 
 and cut and chronicled, and all-to-be- 
 prais'd and sung in sonnets, and bawled 
 in new brave ballads, that all tongues 
 shall troll you in saeeula saeculorum, my 
 kind can-carriers. 
 
 Thra. What, if a toy ^^ take 'em i' th' 
 heels now, and they run all away, and 
 cry, "the devil take the hindmost'"? 
 
 Dion. Then the same devil take the fore- 
 most too, and souse him for his break- 
 fast! If they all prove cowards, my 
 curses fly among them, and be speeding! 
 May they have murrains reign to keep 
 the gentlemen at home unbound in easy 
 frieze ! May the moths branch '^ their 
 velvets, and their silks only be worn be- 
 fore sore eyes ! ^* May their false lights 
 undo 'em, and discover presses,*^ holes, 
 stains, and oldness in their stuffs, and 
 make them shop-rid! May they keep 
 whores and horses, and break; and live 
 mewed up with necks of beef and tur- 
 nips! May they have many children, 
 and none like the father! May they 
 know no language but that gibberish they 
 prattle to their parcels, unless it be the 
 goatish Latin they write in their bonds — 
 and may they write that false, and lose 
 their debts! 
 
 Be-enter King. 
 
 King. Now the vengeance of all the gods 
 confound them! How they swarm to- 
 gether ! What a hum . they raise ! — 
 Devils choke your wild throats! — If a 
 man had need to use their valors, he must 
 pay a brokage for it, and then bring 'em 
 on, and they will fight like sheep. 'T is 
 Philaster, none but Philaster, must allay 
 this heat. They will not hear me speak, 
 but fling dirt at me and call me tyrant. 
 Oh, run, dear friend, and bring the Lord 
 Philaster! Speak him fair; call him 
 prince ; do him all the courtesy you can ; 
 commend me to him. Oh, my wits, my 
 wits! 
 
 Exit Cleremont. 
 
 Dion. {Aside.) Oh, my brave country- 
 men! as I live, I will not buy a pin out 
 of your walls *" for this. Nay, you shall 
 cozen me, and I '11 thank you, and send 
 you brawn and bacon, and soil *^ you 
 every long vacation a brace of foremen,*' 
 that at Michaelmas shall come up fat and 
 kicking. 
 
 King. What they wiU do with this poor 
 prince, the gods know, and I fear. 
 
 Dion. (Aside.) Why, sir, they'll flay 
 him, and make church-buckets on 's skin, 
 to quench rebeUion; then clap a rivet 
 in 's sconce, and hang him up for a sign. 
 
 Enter Cleremont with Philaster. 
 
 King. Oh, worthy sir, forgive me! Do 
 
 not make 
 Your miseries and my faults meet to- 
 gether, 
 To bring a greater danger. Be yourself, 
 Still sound amongst diseases. I have 
 
 wrong'd you;. 
 And though I find it last, and beaten 
 
 to it. 
 Let first your goodness know it. Calm 
 
 the people. 
 And be what you were born to. Take 
 
 your love. 
 And with her my repentance, all my 
 
 wishes, 
 And all my prayers. By the gods, my 
 
 heart speaks this; 
 And if the least fall from me not per- 
 
 form'd. 
 May I be struck with thunder ! 
 Phi. Mighty sir, 
 
 I will not do your greatness so much 
 
 wrong. 
 As not to make your word truth. Free 
 
 the princess 
 And the poor boy, and let me stand the 
 
 shock 
 Of this mad sea-breach, which I '11 either 
 
 turn, 
 Or perish with it. 
 King. Let your own word free them. 
 
 Phi. Then thus I take my leave, kissing 
 
 your hand. 
 And hanging on your royal word. Be 
 
 kingly. 
 And be not mov'd, sir. I shall bring you 
 
 peace. 
 Or never bring myself back. 
 King. All the gods go with thee. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. A street. 
 
 Enter an old Captain and Citizens with 
 Pharamond. 
 
 Cap. Come, my brave myrmidons, let u£ 
 fall on. 
 
 82 whim. 
 
 83 eat patterns on. 
 
 84 {. e. for patches. 
 
 85 creases. 
 
 8 outside your 
 shops. 
 
 87 fatten. 
 
 88 geese. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 227 
 
 Let your caps swarm, my boys, and your 
 
 nimble tongues 
 Forget your mother-gibberish of "what 
 
 do you lack?" 
 And set your mouths ope, children, till 
 
 your palates 
 Fall frighted half a fathom past the 
 
 cure 
 Of bay-salt ^^ and gross pepper, and then 
 
 cry 
 "Philaster, brave Philaster!" Let Phil- 
 aster 
 Be deeper in request, my ding-dongs,*" 
 My pairs of dear indentures,"^ kings of 
 
 clubs,»i 
 Than your cold water-camlets,®^ or your 
 
 paintings 
 Spitted with copper."^ Let not your 
 
 hasty °* silks. 
 Or your braneh'd cloth of bodkin,®^ or 
 
 your tissues. 
 Dearly belov'd of spiced cake and cus- 
 tards, 
 You Robin Hoods, Scarlets, and Johns,'* 
 
 tie your affections 
 In darkness to your shops. No, dainty 
 
 duckers,"' 
 Up with your three-pil'd spirits, your 
 
 wrought valors;'* 
 And let your uncut cholers*' make the 
 
 King feel 
 The measure of your mightiness. Phil- 
 aster ! 
 Cry, my rose-nobles,^ cry ! 
 All. Philaster! Philaster! 
 
 Cap. How do you like this, my lord 
 
 prince? 
 These are mad boys, I tell you ; these are 
 
 things 
 That will not strike their top-sails to a 
 
 foist,^ 
 And let a man of war, an argosy, 
 Hull ^ and cry cockles.* 
 PJia, Why, you rude slave, do you know 
 
 what you do? 
 Cap. My pretty prince of puppets, we do 
 
 know; 
 And give your greatness warning that 
 
 you talk 
 No more such bug's-words,* or that 
 
 solder'd crown 
 
 Shall be scrateh'd with a musket." Dear 
 
 prince Pippin,' 
 Down with your noble blood, or, as I 
 
 live, 
 I'll have you coddled.* — Let him loose, 
 
 my spirits : 
 Make us a round ring with your biUs,* 
 
 my Hectors, 
 And let us see what this trim man dares 
 
 do. 
 Now, sir, have at you ! here I lie ; 
 And with this swashing blow (do you 
 
 see, sweet prince?) 
 I could hulk ^" your grace, and hang you 
 
 up cross-legg'd, '^,.,- 
 Like a hare at a poiilter's, and do this 
 
 with this wiper. '^^ 
 Pha. You will not see me murder'd, 
 
 wicked villains? 
 1 Cit. Yes, indeed, will we, sir; we have 
 
 not seen one 
 For a great while. 
 Cap. He would have weapons, would 
 
 he? 
 Give him a broadside, my brave boys, 
 
 with your pikes; 
 Branch me his skin in flowers like a 
 
 satin, 
 And between every flower a mortal cut. — 
 Your royalty shall ravel! — Jag^^ him, 
 
 gentlemen ; 
 I '11 have him cut to the kell,^* then down 
 
 the seams. 
 
 for a whip to make him galloon- 
 
 laces ! ^* 
 
 1 '11 have a eoach-whip. 
 
 Pha. Oh, spare me, gentlemen! 
 
 Cap. Hold, hold; 
 
 The man begins to fear and know him- 
 self. 
 
 He shall for this time only be seel'd up,*^ 
 
 With a feather through his nose, that 
 he may only 
 
 See heaven, and think whither he is go- 
 ing. 
 
 Nay, my beyond-sea sir, we will pro- 
 claim you: 
 
 You would be king! 
 
 Thou tender heir apparent to a church- 
 ale,i» 
 
 Thou slight prince of single sarcenet,^' 
 
 89 coarse-grained 
 salt, oMained Tjy 
 evaporation from 
 sea-water. 
 
 90 brave fellows, 
 
 91 apprentices, who 
 were bound by 
 
 indentures and 
 whose usual weap- 
 ons were clubs, 
 
 92 rich fabrics with 
 a watered surface. 
 
 93 colored cloth in- 
 terwoven with 
 copper, 
 
 94 i. e. that soon 
 wear out, 
 
 9B embroidered cloth 
 of gold and silk, 
 
 96 Scarlet and Little 
 .John were two 
 of Robin Hood's 
 men, 
 
 97 eringers ( ! ) , 
 
 duck-hunters ( ! ) . 
 
 98 a pun on velour, 
 
 99 a pun on collars, 
 
 1 another pun ; rose- 
 
 nobles were gold 
 coins, 
 
 2 a small vessel, 
 
 3 float idly. 
 
 4 be basely occupied, 
 
 5 swaggering words. 
 a male sparrow- 
 hawk, with a pun 
 
 on the weapon, 
 
 7 Pepin, King of the 
 
 Franks, with a 
 pun on the fruit, 
 
 8 stewed, 
 
 9 pikes with a 
 
 broad, spiked 
 blade, 
 
 10 disembowel. 
 
 11 instrument for 
 cleaning a gun, 
 
 12 slash. 
 
 13 membrane of the 
 paunch, 
 
 14 ribbons, tape, 
 
 15 have his eyelids 
 * sewed together 
 
 like a hawk's, 
 
 16 i, e. a bastard,, 
 one born after the 
 convivialities of a 
 church feast. 
 
 17 thin siik. , 
 
228 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Thou royal ring-tail," fit to fly at noth- 
 ing 
 
 But poor men's poultry, and have every 
 boy 
 
 Beat thee from that too with his bread 
 and butter! 
 Pha. Gods keep me from these hell- 
 hounds ! 
 1 at. Shall 's geld him, captain? 
 Cap. No, you shall spare his dowcets, my 
 dear donsels; ^^ 
 
 As you respect the ladies, let them flour- 
 ish. 
 
 The curses of a longing woman kill 
 
 As speedy as a-^plague, boys. 
 
 1 Git. 1 '11 have a' leg, that 's certain. 
 
 2 Git. I '11 have an arm. 
 
 3 Git. I '11 have his nose, and at mine 
 
 own charge build 
 A college and clap 't upon the gate.^" 
 
 4 Git. I'll have his little gut to string a 
 
 kit 21 with ; 
 For certainly a royal gut will sound like 
 
 silver. 
 Pha. Would they were in thy belly, and I 
 
 past 
 My pain once! 
 
 5 Git. Good captain, let me have his livsr 
 
 to feed ferrets. 
 Cap. Who will have parcels ^^ else 1 
 
 Speak. 
 Pha. Good gods, consider me! I shall be 
 
 tortur'd. 
 
 1 Git. Captain, I'll give you the trim- 
 
 ming of your two-hand sword, 
 And let me have his skin to make false 
 scabbards. 
 
 2 Git. He had no horns, sir, had he? 
 Gap. No, sir, he 's a pollard.^* 
 
 What wouldst thou do with horns? 
 2 Git. Oh, if he had had, 
 
 I would have made rare hafts and 
 
 whistles of 'em; 
 But his shin-bones, if they be sound, shall 
 
 serve me. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 All. Long live Philaster, the brave Prince 
 
 Philaster ! 
 Phi. 1 thank you, gentlemen. But why 
 are these 
 Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach 
 
 your hands 
 Uncivil trades? 
 
 Is the King soci- 
 Art thou above thy 
 
 Gap. My royal Rosicleer,^* 
 
 We are thy myrmidons, thy guard, thy 
 
 roarers ; '"^ 
 And when thy noble body is in durance. 
 Thus do we clap our musty murrions '^ 
 
 on. 
 And trace the streets in terror. Is it 
 
 peace. 
 Thou Mars of men? 
 
 able. 
 And bids thee live? 
 
 foemen, 
 And free as Phcebus? Speak. If not, 
 
 this stand " 
 Of royal blood shall be abroach, a-tilt. 
 And run even to the lees of honor. 
 Phi. Hold, and be satisfied. I am myself. 
 Free as my thoughts are; by the gods, I 
 
 am! 
 Cap. Art thou the dainty darling of the 
 
 King? 
 Art thou the Hylas to our Hercules? 
 Do the lords bow, and the regarded scar- 
 lets ?8 
 Kiss their gumm'd golls,^* and cry, "We 
 
 are your servants"? 
 Is the court navigable and the presence ^^ 
 
 stuck 
 With flags of friendship? If not, we 
 
 are thy castle. 
 And this man sleeps. 
 Phi. I am what I desire to be, your 
 
 friend ; 
 I am what I was born to be, your prince. 
 Pha. Sir, there is some humanity in you; 
 You have a noble soul. Forget my name. 
 And know my misery ; set me safe aboard 
 From these wild cannibals, and as I live, 
 I '11 quit this land for ever. There is 
 
 nothing, — 
 Perpetual prisonment, cold, hunger, sick- 
 ness 
 Of all sorts, of all dangers, and all to- 
 gether, 
 The worst company of the worst men, 
 
 madness, age. 
 To be as many creatures as a woman. 
 And do as all they do, nay, to despair, — 
 But I would rather make it a new nature, 
 And live with all these, than endure one 
 
 hour 
 Amongst these wild dogs. 
 Phi. I do pity you. — Friends, discharge 
 
 your fears; 
 
 18 kite, an inferior 
 bird of prey. 
 
 19 youths aspiring 
 to knighthood. 
 
 20 in allusion to 
 
 Brasenose Col- 
 lege, Oxford. 
 
 21 a small fiddle. 
 
 22 i. e. bits of him. 
 
 23 hornless stag. 
 
 24 A hero in The 
 Mirrour of 
 Knighthood, a 
 romance trans- 
 lated from the 
 
 Spanish. 
 
 28 courtiers clad in 
 
 2rt bullies. 
 
 scarlet. 
 
 26 steel caps. 
 
 29 perfumed hattds. 
 
 27 cask, i. e. Pbara- 
 
 so presence cham- 
 
 mond. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 229 
 
 Deliver me the prince. I '11 warrant you 
 I shall be old enough to find my safety. 
 3 at. Good sir, take heed he does not 
 hurt you;- 
 He is a fierce man, I can tell you, sir. 
 Cap. Prince, by your leave, I '11 have a 
 surcingle,^ ^ 
 And make ^- you like a hawk. 
 (Pharamond strives.) 
 Phi, Away, away, there is no danger in 
 him: 
 Alas, he had rather sleep to shake his fit 
 
 off! 
 Look you, friends, how gently he leads! 
 
 Upon my word. 
 He's tame enough, he needs no further 
 
 watching. 
 Good, my friends, go to your houses. 
 And by me have your pardons and my 
 
 love; 
 And know there shall be nothing in my 
 
 power 
 You may deserve, but you shall have your 
 
 wishes. 
 To give you more thanks, were to flatter 
 
 you. 
 Continue still your love; and for an 
 
 earnest. 
 Drink this. 
 
 (Gives money.) 
 All. Long mayst thou live, brave prince, 
 brave prince, brave prince ! 
 Exeunt Philaster and Pharamond. 
 Cap. Go thy ways, thou art the king of 
 courtesy ! 
 Fall off again, my sweet youths. Come, 
 And every man trace to his house again, 
 And hang his pewter ^^ up; then to the 
 
 tavern. 
 And bring your -tyives in muffs. We will 
 
 have music; 
 And the red grape shall make us dance 
 and rise, boys. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. An apartment in the palace. 
 
 Enter King, Arethusa, Galatea, Megra, 
 Dion, Cleremont, ThrasiUne, Bellario, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 King. Is it appeas'd? 
 
 Dion. Sir, all is quiet as this dead of 
 night, 
 As peaceable as sleep. My lord Phil- 
 aster 
 
 Brings on the prince himself. 
 King. Kind gentleman! 
 
 I will not break the least word I have 
 
 given 
 In promise to him. I have heap'd a 
 
 world 
 Of grief upon his head, which yet I hope 
 To wash away. 
 
 Enter Philaster and Pharamond. 
 
 Cle. My lord is come. 
 
 King. My son! 
 
 Blest be the time that I have leave to call 
 Such virtue mine ! Now thou art in mine 
 
 arms, 
 Methinks I have a salve unto my breast 
 For all the stings that dwell tbere. 
 
 Streams of grief 
 That I have wrong'd thee, and as much 
 
 of joy 
 That I repent it, issue from mine eyes ; 
 Let them appease thee. Take thy right; 
 
 take her; 
 She is thy right too; and forget to urge 
 My vexed soul with that I did before. - 
 Phi. Sir, it is blotted from my memory, 
 Past and forgotten. — ^For you, prince of 
 
 Spain, 
 Whom I have thus redeem'd, you have 
 
 full leave 
 To make an honorable voyage home. 
 And if you would go furnish'd to your 
 
 realm 
 With fair provision, I do see a lady, 
 Methinks, would gladly bear you com- 
 pany. 
 How like you this piece? 
 Meg. Sir, he likes it wellyL 
 
 For he hath tried it, and hath found it 
 
 worth 
 His princely liking. We were ta'en 
 
 abed ; 
 I know your meaning. I am not the first 
 That nature taught to seek a fellow forth ; 
 Can shame remain perpetually in me, 
 And not in others ? Or have princes 
 
 salves : \ 
 
 To cure ill names, that meaner people 
 
 want? ■"•\ 
 
 Phi. What mean you ? 
 Meg. ' You must get another ,shtp, 
 
 To bear the princess and her boy to- 
 gether, "x X 
 Dion. How now! 
 Meg. Others took me, and I took her and^ 
 
 him ,'.,,- 
 
 SI band. 
 
 82 train. 
 
 sword. 
 
230 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 At that all women may be ta'en some- 
 time. 
 Ship us all four, my lord ; we can endure 
 Weather and wind alike. 
 King. Clear thou thyself, or know not me 
 
 for father. 
 Are. This earth, how false it is! What 
 means is left for me 
 To clear myself? It lies in your belief. 
 My lords, believe me; and let all things 
 
 else 
 Struggle together to dishonor me. 
 Bel. Oh, stop your ears, great King, that 
 I may speak 
 As freedom would ! Then I wiU call this 
 
 lady 3* 
 As base as are her actions. Hear me, 
 
 sir; 
 Believe your heated blood when it rebels 
 Against your reason, sooner than this 
 lady. 
 Meg. By this good light, he bears it hand- 
 somely. 
 Phi. This lady! I will sooner trust the 
 wind 
 With feathers, or the troubled sea with 
 
 pearl, 
 Than her with any thing. Believe her 
 
 not. 
 Why, think you, if I did believe her 
 
 words, 
 I would outlive 'em ? Honor cannot take 
 Revenge on you; then what were to be 
 
 known 
 But death? 
 King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit 
 
 Between us. But I must request of you 
 One favor, and will sadly ^^ be denied. 
 Phi. Command, whate'er it be. 
 King. Swear to be true 
 
 To what you promise. 
 Phi. By the powers above. 
 
 Let it not be the death of her or him, 
 And it is granted ! 
 King. Bear away that boy 
 
 To torture; I will have her clear'd or 
 buried. 
 Phi. Oh, let me call my word back, worthy 
 sir! 
 Ask something else: bury ray life and 
 
 right 
 In one poor grave ; but do not take away 
 My life and fame at once. 
 King. Away with him! It stands ir- 
 revocable. 
 Phi. Turn all your eyes on me. Here 
 stands a man, 
 
 SI t. e. Megra. 
 
 The falsest and the basest of this world. 
 Set swords against this breast, some hon- 
 est man, 
 For I have liv'd till I am pitied! 
 My former deeds were hateful; but this 
 
 last 
 Is pitiful, for I unwillingly 
 Have given the dear preserver of my life 
 Unto his torture. Is it in the power 
 Of flesh and blood to carry this, and live 1 
 (Offers to stab himself.) 
 Are. Dear sir, be patient yet! Oh, stay 
 
 that hand! 
 King. Sirs, strip that boy. 
 Dion. Come, sir; your tender flesh 
 
 WiU try your constancy. 
 Bel. Oh, kill me, gentlemen! 
 
 Bion. No. — Help, sirs. 
 Bel. Will you torture me? 
 
 King. Haste there; 
 
 Why stay you? 
 Bel. Then I shall not break my vow. 
 
 You know, just gods, though I discover 
 all. 
 King. How's that? Will he confess? 
 Dion. Sir, so he says. 
 
 King. Speak then. 
 
 Bel. Great King, if you command 
 
 This lord to talk with me alone, my 
 
 tongue 
 Urg'd by my heart, shall utter all the 
 
 thoughts 
 My youth hath knovm; and stranger 
 
 things than these 
 You hear not often. 
 King. Walk aside with him. 
 
 {Dion and Bellario walk apart.) 
 Dion. Why speak'st thou not? 
 Bel, Know you this face, my lord ? 
 
 Dion. No. / 
 
 Bel. Have you not seen it, nor the like ? 
 Dion. Yes, I have seen the like, but readily 
 
 I know not where. 
 Bel. I have been often told 
 
 In court of one Euphrasia, a lady. 
 And daughter to you ; betwixt whom and 
 
 me 
 They that would flatter my bad face 
 
 would swear 
 There was such strange resemblance, that 
 
 we two 
 Could not be known asunder, drest alike. 
 Dion. By Heaven, and so there is ! 
 Bel. For her fair sake. 
 
 Who now doth spend the spring-time of 
 
 her life 
 In holy pilgrimage, move to the King, 
 
 se shall be sorry to be denied. 
 
PHILASTER OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING 
 
 231 
 
 That I may scape this torture. 
 Dion. But thou speak'st 
 
 As like Euphrasia as thou dost look. 
 How came it to thy knowledge that she 
 
 lives 
 In pilgrimage? 
 Bel. I know it not, my lord ; 
 
 But I have heard it, and do scarce be- 
 lieve it. 
 Dion. Oh, my shame! is it possible? 
 Draw near, 
 That I may gaze upon thee. Art thou she. 
 Or else her murderer?^® Where wert 
 thou born? 
 Bel. In Syracusa. 
 
 Dion. What's thy name? 
 
 Bel. Euphrasia. 
 
 Dion. Oh, 't is just,'' 't is she ! 
 
 Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou 
 
 hadst died. 
 And I had never seen thee nor my shame ! 
 How shall I own thee ? Shall this tongue 
 
 of mine 
 E'er call thee daughter more ? 
 Bel. Would I had died indeed! I wish it 
 too; 
 And so I must have done by vow, ere 
 
 publish'd 
 What I have told, but that there was no 
 
 means 
 To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this. 
 The princess is all clear. 
 King. , What, have you done ? 
 
 Dion. All is discovered. 
 Phi. Why then hold you me? 
 
 AH is discovered! Pray you, let me go. 
 (Offers to stab himself.) 
 King. Stay him. 
 
 Are. What is discovered? 
 
 Dion. Why, my shame. 
 
 It is a woman ; let her speak the rest. 
 Phi. How? That again! 
 Dion. It is a woman. 
 
 Phi. Blest be you powers that favor inno- 
 cence ! 
 King. Lay hold upon that lady. 
 
 (Megra is seized.) 
 Phi. It is a woman, sir! — Hark, gentle- 
 men, 
 It is a woman! — Arethusa, take 
 My soul into thy breast, that would be 
 
 gone 
 With joy. It is a woman! Thou art 
 
 fair, 
 And virtuous still to ages, in despite 
 Of malice. 
 
 King. Speak you, where lies his shame? 
 Bel. 1 am his daughter. 
 
 Phi. The gods are just. 
 Dion. I dare accuse none ; but, before you 
 two. 
 
 The virtue of our age, I bend my knee 
 
 Eor mercy. 
 
 Phi. 
 
 ) 
 
 (Raising him.) Take it freely; for 
 I know. 
 
 Though what thou didst were undiscreetly 
 done, 
 
 'T was meant well. 
 Are. And for me, 
 
 I have a power to pardon sins, as oft 
 
 As any man has power to wrong me. 
 Cle. Noble and worthy! 
 Phi. But, Bellario, 
 
 (For I must call thee still so,) tell me 
 why 
 
 Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a 
 fault, 
 
 A fault, Bellario, though thy other 
 deeds 
 
 Of truth outweigh'd it: all these jeal- 
 ousies 
 
 Had flown to nothing if thou hadst dis- 
 covered 
 
 What now we know. 
 Bel. My father oft would speak 
 
 Your worth and virtue; and, as I did 
 grow 
 
 More and more apprehensive,^' I did 
 thirst 
 
 To see the man so prais'd. But yet all 
 this 
 
 Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost 
 
 As soon as found ; till, sitting in my win- 
 dow. 
 
 Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a 
 god, 
 
 I thought, (but it was you,) enter our 
 
 My blood flew out and back again, as 
 
 fast 
 As I had puft it forth and suckt it in 
 Like breath. Then was I call'd away in 
 
 To entertain you. Never was a man, 
 Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a scepter, 
 
 rais'd 
 So high in thoughts as I. You left a 
 
 kiss 
 Upon these lips then, which I mean to 
 
 keep 
 From you for ever. I did hear you talk, 
 
 36 In Bome barbarous countries, it was believed that the 
 murderer inherited the form and qualities of his vic- 
 tim. (Mason.) 
 
 S7 true. 
 
 86 able to understand. 
 
232 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Far above singing. After you were gone, 
 I grew acquainted with my heart, and 
 
 search'd 
 What stirr'd it so : alas, I found it love ! 
 Yet far from lust; for, could I but have 
 
 liv'd 
 In presence of you, I had had my end. 
 For this I did delude my noble father 
 With a f eign'd pilgrimage, and drest my- 
 self 
 In habit of a boy; and, for I knew 
 My birth no match for you, I was past 
 
 hope 
 Of having you; and, understanding well 
 That when I made discovery of my sex 
 I could not stay with you, I made a vow. 
 By aU the most religious things a maid 
 Could call together, never to be known. 
 Whilst there was hope to hide me from 
 
 men's eyes, 
 For other than I seem'd, that I might 
 
 ever 
 Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount. 
 Where first you took me up. 
 King. Search out a match 
 
 Within our kingdom, where and when 
 
 thou wilt, 
 And I Will pay thy dowry ; and thyself 
 Wilt well deserve him. 
 Bel. Never, sir, will I 
 
 Marry ; it is a thing within my vow : 
 But, if I may have leave to serve the 
 
 princess, 
 To see the virtues of her lord and her, 
 I shall have hope to live. 
 Are. t, Philaster, 
 
 Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady 
 Drest like a page to serve you ; nor will I 
 Suspect her living here. — Come, live with 
 
 me; 
 Live free as I do. She that loves my 
 
 lord. 
 Curst be the wife that hates herl 
 
 Phi. 1 grieve such virtue should be laid in 
 
 earth 
 Without an heir. — Hear me, my royal 
 
 father : 
 Wrong not the freedom of our souls so 
 
 much. 
 To think to take revenge of that base 
 
 woman ; 
 Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free 
 As she was born, saving from shame and 
 
 sin. 
 King. Set her at liberty. — But leave the 
 
 court ; 
 This is no place for such. — You, Phara- 
 
 mond, 
 Shall have free passage, and a conduct 
 
 home 
 Worthy so great a prince. When you 
 
 come tliere. 
 Remember 'twas your faults that lost 
 
 you her. 
 And not my purpos'd will. 
 Pha. I do confess. 
 
 Renowned sir. 
 King. Last, join your hands in one. En- 
 joy, Philaster, 
 This kingdom, which is yours, and, after 
 
 me. 
 Whatever I call mine. My blessing on 
 
 you! 
 All happy hours be at your marriage- 
 joys, 
 That you may grow yourselves over all 
 
 lands, 
 And live to see your plenteous branches 
 
 spring 
 Wherever there is sun! Let princes 
 
 learn 
 By this to rule the passions of their 
 
 blood ; 
 For what Heaven wills can never be 
 
 withstood. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
BEN JONSON 
 
 THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 Benjamin or Ben Jonson, as he has always 
 been called (1573-1637), the stepson of a 
 bricklayer, sained the beginnings of his 
 solid classical learning in Westminster School 
 under the celebrated Camden, but went to no 
 university. After working as a bricklayer, 
 fighting in Flanders, and being imprisoned for 
 killing a man in a duel, he produced his first 
 extant play, Every Man in His Humor, in 
 1598. In 1598-1602 he was concerned in a 
 vigorous literary quarrel, especially with Dek- 
 ker and Marston, during which they were 
 fertile in dramas satirical of each other. His 
 tragedies, Sejanus and Catiline, were pro- 
 duced in 1603 and 1611, and his greatest 
 comedies, those of his middle period, Volpone, 
 Epicene, The Alchemist and Bartholomew 
 Fair, from 1605 to 1614. Though his later 
 plays were less meritorious, and though his 
 lack of popular success often left him poor, to- 
 ward the end of his life he held a station of 
 commanding literary influence. 
 
 Jonson is the most vivid literary person- 
 ality of the whole Elizabethan epoch; indeed, 
 he is the first English writer whom we know 
 intimately as a man. We know him through 
 the self-expression in his candid, pugnacious 
 prologues and epilogues, and in certain prose 
 works; and we know him through one of the 
 most delightful of seventeenth-century books, 
 the Conversations with him recorded by Wil- 
 liam Drummond, whom he fascinated but re- 
 pelled. With Jonson's classical sympathies 
 and literary good-taste, his gifts as a talker, 
 his trenchant humor and biting tongue, his 
 influence over younger men, his solidity, his 
 downright good-sense, he reminds us to an 
 extraordinary degree of his namesake Samuel, 
 a century and a half later, to whose biography 
 by Boswell the Conversations by Drummond 
 are like a sort of unflattering first sketch. 
 Jonson, however, was no less inferior to John- 
 son as a Christian soul than he was superior 
 in both the importance and variety of his 
 literary work, which shows most remarkable 
 versatility. The most vigorous and pene- 
 trating of early literary critics, author of an 
 English grammar, yet also of some of the 
 most limpid of songs, of strict and learned 
 classical tragedy, of mordant realistic 
 comedy, of highly poetic masques, he was the 
 most weighty and versatile man of letters, 
 though of course not the greatest poet or 
 dramatist, in the entire Elizabethan period. 
 While the other dramatists differ among 
 
 233 
 
 themselves in degree, he stands apart in kind. 
 The foundation of Jonson's literary ideals 
 was an admiration for the classics, their con- 
 scientious finish, their temperance and firm- 
 ness, their reality. In the prologue to his 
 first known comedy he cut loose from the 
 extravagances of romantic drama in favor of 
 
 deeds, and language, such as men do use, 
 And persons such as comedy would choose, 
 When she would show an image of the times. 
 And sport with human follies, not with crimes. 
 
 Jonson was the real founder and first worthy 
 exponent of classicism in English literature. 
 But he was fortunate in living in a romantic 
 age, so that the bonds of the classic were 
 never tight upon him. The conventionality 
 which lay heavy as frost and deep almost 
 as life on so much of the literature of the 
 eighteenth century and earlier is not to be 
 seen in liis work. In a word, he was free, 
 and wrote as he did because it pleased 
 him. 
 
 The Alchemist (first performed in 1610, and 
 printed in 1612) has usually been recognized 
 as his masterpiece. It was played till the 
 theaters closed in 1642, and was one of the 
 first comedies revived after the Restoration; 
 Pepys the diarist thought it incomparable; 
 indeed at this time Jonson was if anything 
 preferred to Shakespeare, and Restoration 
 comedy shows much of his influence. The 
 play remained popular in the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, when Garrick played both Face and 
 Abel Drugger. Coleridge deemed the plots of 
 Sophocles' (Edipus, The Alchemist, and Field- 
 ing's Tom Jones the three most perfect ever 
 devised, and Swinburne called the play a 
 faultless work of art. It is too hard and cold 
 in its realism to be beloved or widely popu- 
 lar; Jonson wrote from and appeals to the 
 head and not the heart; the play has been 
 appreciated best in satirical times and by 
 those who respond most to supreme technical 
 skill. 
 
 The Alchemist is thoroughly typical of Jon- 
 son's plays. In his preface he censures the 
 unrestrained extravagance of most of the 
 dramatists, who he admits however will win 
 more general favor than they who " use elec- 
 tion and a mean " ( selection and modera- 
 tion). The play is a satirical picture of con- 
 temporary life, written with something of real 
 moral purpose ; his pen " did never aim to 
 grieve, but better men " ; a salutary effect 
 is even said to have been produced by his 
 
234 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 exposure of the folly of those who trust 
 charlatans. It contains little or nothing fan- 
 tastic or improbable (save for the heightening 
 essential to poetry). It follows classical 
 precedent in its observance of the three uni- 
 ties; in The Alchemist the plot is single 
 (though far from simple), and the action 
 occurs in a single place and within one day. 
 Though the plot, as usual with Jonson, is in 
 general original, it shows much influence of 
 Plautus, especially of the Mostellaria, or 
 Haunted Hoitse. Both poets, like R. L. 
 Stevenson, felt the fascinating possibilities, 
 even the romance, of an empty house. In the 
 Mostellaria, Philolaches in his father's ab- 
 sence Introduces a disorderly crew into his 
 house and holds high revel. A scene of lively 
 quarreling at the opening of each play tells 
 us the situation, but with such skill in The 
 Alchemist that we hardly realize we are be- 
 ing informed; the peace-making Doll is soon 
 as irate as the other two. Lovewit's re- 
 turn at the end of act four, and the complica- 
 tions which follow, reflect a similar situation 
 toward the middle of the Mostellaria. These 
 form the chief of Jonson's literary debts. 
 The characters and most of the intrigue and 
 situations, all that gives the play its vitality, 
 are his own. Of a surety there is no anemic 
 classicism in Sir Epicure Mammon, Face, and 
 Tribulation Wholesome, in the scenes of 
 bustling quackery, or in the deliciously human 
 ending, where lovewit, who cannot belie his 
 name, smiles to himself so much over Face's 
 cleverness that he must needs forgive him. 
 Jonson did not understand his literary theory 
 so narrowly as his successors in regard to 
 moral teaching, poetic justice, and the like; 
 he has even been censured by critics of our 
 ovm day for letting off his rogues scot-tree. 
 But such critics miss the point of the play, 
 and of Jonson's whole moral attitude. He 
 would " sport with human follies, not with 
 crimes." The real villains of the piece are 
 the hypocritical and superstitious, who allow 
 themselves to be duped through their avarice 
 and self-seeking, and get the kind of punish- 
 ment which they always get in life. But 
 there was no more need of condemning the 
 criminals. Subtle and Doll, than of organizing 
 a crusade against the damned in the bottom- 
 less pit. Jonson could not have made their 
 rascality alluring if he had wished, though 
 he does leave us in a good humor with the 
 rascals. They are the instruments with which 
 he scourges his real villains. 
 
 It is in his refusal to dole out trivial poetic 
 justice that Jonson shows himself most 
 laudably free from the narrower classic- 
 ism. The play shows a classical spirit 
 vitally animating a native English body. The 
 personages are types, as is announced by 
 their names, of the significant sort to be used 
 so largely in later comedies and novels of 
 manners; but they are not the traditional 
 types, as in other plays under classical in- 
 
 fluence, such as Lyly's Mother Bombie. The 
 play is a comedy of manners, exhibiting the 
 society of the day, or a part of it, in firmly 
 but broadly sketched persons. In Jonson's 
 satirical and moral realism, and his vividly 
 typical personages, we feel almost equally the 
 traits of the ancient comedy and the medieval 
 morality. So vigorous yet so general is the 
 characterization that we recognize much of 
 it as permanently true of human nature, 
 though the forms of embodiment may vary. 
 The satire is mainly on gullibility and Puri- 
 tan hypocrisy. The most imposing creation 
 is Sir Epicure Mammon, in whom avarice and 
 lust, without being made attractive, have 
 become impressive through the force of his 
 Imagination. The two Puritans are dis- 
 tinguished from each other, Ananias narrow 
 and more or less sincere. Tribulation intelli- 
 gent but more of a hypocrite, of the Jesuit- 
 type which is to be found in all religions. It 
 is of much interest to see this unflattering 
 old English picture of the Puritans exiled in 
 Amsterdam, who were to sail from Holland 
 for New England a few years later, and be 
 canonized among their descendants as the 
 Pilgrim Fathers. There is also similar 
 satire in Bartholomew Fair. It must be re- 
 membered, of course, that Jonson and other 
 literary men, apostles of pagan culture and 
 the drama, naturally were prejudiced against 
 foes of the drama and apostles of a some- 
 times bigoted piety and asceticism. A figure 
 of more temporary significance is that of 
 "the angry boy," who would learn the eti- 
 quette of quarreling, much as Touchstone 
 would have taught it (As You Like It, V. 
 iv). The personage most suggestive of 
 modern counterparts is Subtle, whose arts 
 and methods are those of the quacks and 
 confidence-men of all times, whether they capi- 
 talize a false science or a feigning religion; 
 he has their dust-in-the-eyes methods, their 
 skill in using decoys like Face, their pre- 
 tense of personal sanctity and austerity. 
 
 A word should be said as to the pseudo- 
 science which he exploits. Alchemy had long 
 been studied in the Middle Ages, but the 
 teaching of Paracelsus (1493-1541) had de- 
 prived it of much of its supposed basis, and 
 it had always been in disrepute among the 
 sensible. Chaucer had attacked it in the 
 Canon's Yeoman's Tale, Lyly in Gallathea, 
 Reginald Scot in his Discovery of Witchcraft 
 (1584), and Jonson himself in Eastward Ho: 
 he told Drummond that he had once fooled 
 a woman by disguising himself as an astrolo- 
 ger. There is reason to believe that alchemy 
 and other occult studies with which it was 
 closely allied, astrology, magic, and forms of 
 spiritualism, were particularly a pest about 
 the time of this play. As is well known, the 
 chief desire of the alchemists was to discover 
 a recipe or stone or elixir by which other 
 substances could be transformed into gold. 
 Such a possibility was not discountenanced 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 23S 
 
 by medieval scientific conceptions, according 
 to which gold was not an element wholly un- 
 related to others, but all jnetals were com- 
 bined out of simpler elements; a view in fact 
 not so inconsistent with the chemical theory 
 of to-day as witli that of a lew years ago. 
 Gold might come into existence out of some- 
 thing else, just as animal life, to one un- 
 aware of the ubiquity of minute germs and 
 eggs, seems to do out of putrefaction or stag- 
 nant water {cf. II. i.). A large amount 
 of gold might grow from a small; therefore 
 a goldmine was sometimes sealed up with 
 the expectation that in time the gold would 
 increase. The methods of the alchemists were 
 largely based on the prevalent mystical con- 
 ception of the universe, and on false analo- 
 
 gies. Sex, likes and dislikes, goodness and 
 badness, and other human traits, were at- 
 tributed to physical matter. Besides this 
 there was much traditional hocus-pocus. By 
 no means all the votaries of alchemy were 
 mere cranks or rogues; even those who ex- 
 torted money by duping the foolish and deal- 
 ing in other dubious and occult arts often 
 did so in order to carry on experiments which 
 the next day, they believed, might lay the 
 world at their feet. Finally, though the sub- 
 ject and its terminology are too intricate and 
 baffling to be fully explained here or in the 
 notes, the reader may be assured that Jonson 
 was not airily fluttering things he did not 
 understand, but had read the masters of the 
 subject and understood it thoroughly. 
 
 THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 By ben jonson 
 names of the characters 
 
 Subtle, the Alchemist. 
 Face, the House-keeper. 
 DoL Common, their colleague. 
 Dapper, u. Lawyer's clerk. 
 Druggee, a Tobacco-man. 
 LoVEWiT, Master of the House. 
 SiH Epicure Mammon, a Knight. 
 Peetinax Surly, a Gamester. 
 
 TO THE READER 
 
 If thou beest more, thou art an under- 
 stander, and then I trust thee. If thou 
 art one that tak'st up, and but a pretender, 
 beware at what hands thou reeeiv'st thy 
 commodity; for thou wert never more fair 
 in the way to be coz'ned than in this age in 
 poetry, especially in plays: wherein now 
 the concupiscence of jigs and dances so 
 reigneth, as to run away from nature and 
 be afraid of her is the only point of art that 
 tickles the spectators. But how out of pur- 
 pose and place do I name art, when the 
 professors are grown so obstinate con- 
 temners of it, and presumers on their own 
 naturals,^ as they are deriders of all dili- 
 gence that way, and, by simple mocking at 
 the terms when they understand not "the 
 things, think to get off wittily with their 
 ignorance! Nay, they are esteem'd the 
 more learned and sufficient for this by the 
 multitude, through their excellent vice ^ of 
 judgment. For they commend writers as 
 they do fencers or wrastlers; who, if they 
 come in robustiously and put for it with a 
 
 Tribulation Wholesome, a Pastor of Ams- 
 terdam. 
 Ananias, a Deacon there. 
 Kastrill, the angry boy. 
 Dame Pliant, his sister, a Widow. 
 Neighbors. 
 Officers, Mutes. 
 
 Scene. — London 
 
 great deal of violence, are receiv'd for the 
 braver fellows ; when many times their own 
 rudeness is the cause of their disgrace, and 
 a little touch of their adversary gives all 
 that boisterous force the foil.^ I deny not 
 but that these men who always seek to do 
 more than enough may some time happen 
 on some thing that is good and great; but 
 very seldom : and when it comes, it doth not 
 recompense the rest of their ill. It sticks 
 out, perhaps, and is more eminent, because 
 all is sordid and vile about it ; as lights are 
 more discern'd in a thick darkness than a 
 faint shadow. I speak not this out of a 
 hope to do good on any man against his 
 will ; for I know, if it were put to the ques- 
 tion of theirs and mine, the worse would 
 find more suffrages, because the most favor 
 common errors. But I give thee this warn- 
 ing, that there is a great difference between 
 those that (to gain the opinion of copie*) 
 utter all they can, however unfitly, and 
 those that use election and a mean.° For it 
 is only the disease of the unskillful to think 
 rude things greater than polish'd, or seat- 
 ter'd more numerous than compos'd. 
 
 1 natural endow- 
 ments. 
 
 2 surpassing error. 
 
 3 check. 
 
 i copiousness ; Lat. copia. B moderation. 
 
236 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 ARGUMENT 
 
 T he sickness * hot, a master quit, for fear, 
 H is house in town, and left one servant 
 
 there. 
 E ase him corrupted, and gave means to 
 
 know 
 A Cheater and his punk ; ^ who now 
 
 brought low, 
 L eaving .their narrow practice, were be- 
 come 
 C oz'ners * at large ; and only wanting 
 
 some 
 H ouse to set up, with him they here 
 
 contract, 
 E aeh for a share, and all begin to act. 
 M uch company they draw, and much 
 
 abuse, , 
 
 I n casting figures,* telling fortunes, news, 
 S elling of flies,^" flat bawdry, with the 
 
 stone,^^ 
 T ill it, and they, and all, in fume^^ are 
 
 gone. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Fortune, that favors fools, these two short 
 hours 
 We wish away, both for your sakes and 
 ours. 
 Judging spectators; and desire in place. 
 To th' author justice, to ourselves but 
 grace. 
 Our scene is London, 'cause we would make 
 known, 
 No country's mirth is better than our 
 own. 
 No clime breeds better matter for your 
 whore, 
 Bawd, squire,^^ impostor, many persons 
 more. 
 Whose manners, now call'd humors, feed 
 the stage; 
 And which have still been subject for the 
 rage 
 -Or spleen of comic writers. Though this 
 pen 
 Did never aim to grieve, but better men ; 
 Howe'er the age he lives in doth endure 
 The vices that she breeds, above their 
 cure. 
 But when the wholesome remedies are 
 sweet. 
 And, in their working gain and profit 
 meet, 
 
 6 the plague, 
 T mistress: 
 8 swindlers. 
 horoscopes, 
 10 dealing in famil- 
 iar spirits. 
 
 11 philosophers' 
 stone, 
 
 12 smoke, 
 
 13 pimp, 
 
 14 Jonson manages 
 his action so clev- 
 
 He hopes to find no spirit so much diseas'd. 
 But will with such fair correctives be 
 pleas'd. * 
 For here he doth not fear who can apply. 
 
 If there be any that will sit so nigh 
 Unto the stream, to look what it doth run, 
 They shall find things, they 'd think, or 
 wish, were done; 
 They are so natural follies, but so shown, 
 As even the doers may see, and yet not 
 own. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene 1. A room in Lovewit's housed* 
 
 Enter Face, in a captain's uniform, and 
 Subtle with a vial, quarreling, and fol- 
 lowed by Dol Comifion. 
 
 Face. Believe 't, I wiU. 
 Stib. Thy worst. I fart at thee. 
 Dol. Ha' you your wits? Why, gentle- 
 men! for love 
 
 Face. Sirrah, I '11 strip you 
 
 Sub. What to do? Lick figs " 
 
 Out at my 
 
 Face. Rogue, rogue ! — out of all your 
 
 sleights.^* 
 Dol. Nay, look ye, sovereign, general, are 
 
 you madmen ? 
 Sub. 0, let the wild sheep loose. I'U 
 gum your silks 
 With good strong water, an ^^ you come. 
 Dol. Will you have 
 
 The neighbors hear you? WiU you be- 
 tray all? 
 Hark ! I hear somebody. 
 
 Face. Sirrah 
 
 Sub. I shall mar 
 
 All that the tailor has made, if you ap- 
 proach. 
 Fa^e. You most notorious whelp, you in- 
 solent slave. 
 Dare you do this? 
 Sub. Yes, faith; yes, faith. 
 
 Face. Why, who 
 
 Am I, my mongrel, who am I? 
 Sub. I '11 teU you, 
 
 Since you know not yourself. 
 Fa^e. Speak lower, rogue. 
 
 Sub. Yes. You were once (time 's not 
 long past) the good. 
 Honest, plain, livery-three-pound- 
 thrum,^* that kept 
 
 an insulting con 
 notation. 
 18 drop your tricks. 
 
 17 if. 
 
 18 underpaid serv 
 ant in livery. 
 
 erly that practi- 
 cally all the 
 scenes can he con- 
 ceived of as tak- 
 ing place in a 
 single room ; con- 
 
 sequently changes 
 of scene are rare- 
 ly indicated in 
 the stage direc- 
 tions, 
 IB The phrase has 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 237 
 
 Your master's worship's house here in 
 the rriars,!" 
 
 For the vacations ^° 
 
 Face. Will you be so loud 1 
 
 Sub. Since, by my means, translated ^'^ 
 
 suburb-captain. 
 Face. By your means, doctor dog! 
 Sub. Within man's memory. 
 
 All this I speak of. 
 
 Face. Why, I pray you, have I 
 
 Been eountenane'd by you, or you by me 1 
 
 Do but collect, sir, where I met you first. 
 
 Sub. I do not hear well. 
 
 Face. Not of this, I think it. 
 
 But I shall put you in mind, sir ; — at Pie- 
 
 , corner, 
 Taking your meal of steam in, from 
 
 cooks' stalls. 
 Where, like the father of hunger, you 
 
 did walk 
 Piteously costive, with your pinch'd- 
 
 horn-nose. 
 And your complexion of the Roman 
 
 wash,^^ 
 Stuck full of black and melancholic 
 
 worms, 
 Like powder-corns "^ shot at the artillery- 
 yard. 
 Sub. I wish you could advance your voice 
 
 a little. 
 Face. When you went pinn'd up in the 
 several rags 
 You had rak'd and pick'd from dung- 
 hills, before day; 
 Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your 
 
 .24 
 
 A felt of rug,^° and a thin threaden 
 
 cloak, 
 That scarce would cover your no-but- 
 tocks 
 
 Sub. So, sir ! 
 
 Face. When all your alchemy, and your 
 
 algebra. 
 Your minerals, vegetals, and animals. 
 Your conjuring, coz'ning, and your dozen 
 
 of trades. 
 Could not relieve your corpse with so 
 
 much linen 
 Would make you tinder, but to see a 
 
 fire; 26 
 I ga' you count'nance, credit for your 
 
 coals. 
 Your stills, your glasses, your materials; 
 
 Built you a furnace, drew you customers, 
 Advanc'd all your black arts; lent you, 
 
 beside, 
 
 A house to practise in 
 
 Sub. Your master's house! 
 
 Face. Where you have studied the more 
 
 thriving skill 
 Of bawdry, since., 
 Sub. Yes, in your master's house. 
 
 You and the rats here kept possession. 
 Make it not strange.^^ I know you were 
 
 one could keep 
 The buttery-hatch still lock'd, and save 
 
 the chippings, 
 Sell the dole beer to aqua-vitae men,^^ 
 The which, together with your Christmas 
 
 vails 2° 
 At post-and-pair,^" your letting out of 
 
 counters,^^ 
 Made you a pretty stock, some twenty 
 
 marks, 
 And gave you credit to converse with 
 
 cobwebs. 
 Here, since your mistress' death hath 
 
 broke up house. 
 Face. You might talk softlier, rascal. 
 Sub. No, you scarab,^^ 
 
 I'll thunder you in pieces. I will teach 
 
 you 
 How to beware to tempt a Fury again 
 That carries tempest in his hand and 
 
 voice. 
 Face. The place has made you valiant. 
 Sub. No, your clothes. 
 
 Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee out of 
 
 dung. 
 So poor, so wretched, when no living 
 
 thing 
 Would keep thee company, but a spider 
 
 or worse? 
 Kais'd thee from brooms, and dust, and 
 
 wat'ring-pots, 
 Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and flx'd 
 
 thee 
 In the third region, call'd our state of 
 
 grace 1 
 Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, 
 
 with pains 
 Would twice have won me the philoso- 
 pher's work? 
 Put thee in words and fashion? made 
 
 thee fit 
 For more than ordinary fellowships? 
 
 19 Elackfriare ; a 
 quarter of Lon- 
 don. 
 
 20 between the ses- 
 sions of court. 
 
 21 changed to. 
 
 22 a cosmetic of 
 some sort. 
 
 23 grains of powder. 
 
 24 chilblains. 
 2.5 a rough hat. 
 
 26 tinder enough to 
 make a fire .that 
 could be even 
 
 ig- 
 
 27 don't feign 
 norance. 
 
 28 It was usu al to 
 distribute at .the 
 pantry door (but- 
 tery hatch) of 
 great houses, a 
 
 daily or weekly 
 dole of broken 
 bread (chippinps) 
 and beer to the 
 poor (GifEord) ; 
 the Litter, says 
 Subtle, Face has 
 
 sold to liquor 
 dealers. 
 2(1 tips. 
 
 30 a game of cards. 
 
 31 renting of mark- 
 ers or chips. 
 
 32 beetle. 
 
238 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Giv'n thee thy oaths, thy quarreling di- 
 mensions? ^^ 
 Thy rules to cheat at horse-race, cock-pit, 
 
 cards, 
 Dice, or whatever gallant tincture ^^ else? 
 Made thee a second in mine own great 
 
 art? 
 And have I this for thanks! Do you 
 
 rebel? 
 Do you fly out i' the projection? ^^ 
 Would you be gone now? 
 Dol. Gentlemen, what mean you? 
 
 Will you mar all? 
 
 Sub. Slave, thou hadst had no name 
 
 Dol. Will you undo yourselves with civil 
 
 war? 
 Sub. Never been known, past equi cliba- 
 num, 
 The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in 
 
 cellars. 
 Or an ale-house darker than deaf John's; 
 
 been lost 
 To all mankind, but laundresses and tap- 
 sters. 
 Had not t been. 
 Dol. Do you know who hears you, sover- 
 eign? 
 
 Face. Sirrah 
 
 Dol. Nay, general, I thought you 
 
 were civU. 
 Face. I shall turn desperate, if you grow 
 
 thus loud. 
 Sub. And hang thyself, I care not. 
 Fckee. Hang thee, collier, 
 
 And all thy pots and pans, in picture I 
 will, 
 
 Since thou hast mov'd me 
 
 Dol. (Aside.) 0, this '11 o'erthrow all. 
 
 Face. Write thee up bawd in Paul's ; '° 
 have all thy tricks 
 Of coz'ning with a hollow coal,^^ dust, 
 
 scrapings. 
 Searching for things lost, with a sieve 
 
 and shears, 
 Erecting figures in your rows of houses, 
 And tafing in of shadows with a glass, 
 Told in red letters; and a face cut for 
 
 thee. 
 Worse than Gamaliel Ratsey's.'* 
 Dol. Are you sound? 
 
 Ha' you your senses, masters? 
 Face. I will have 
 
 A book, but barely reckoning thy impos- 
 tures, 
 
 Shall prove a true philosopher's stone to 
 printers. 
 Sub. Away, you trencher-raseal ! 
 Face. Out, you dog-leech ! 
 
 The vomit of all prisons 
 
 Dol. Will you be 
 
 Your own destructions, gentlemen? 
 Face. Still spew'd out 
 
 For lying too heavy o' the basket.*^ 
 Sub. Cheater! 
 
 Face. Bawd ! 
 Sub. Cow-herd ! 
 
 Face. Conjurer! 
 
 Sub. Cutpurse ! 
 
 Face. Witch ! 
 
 Dol. me! 
 
 We are ruin'd, lost! Ha' you no more 
 
 regard 
 To your reputations? Where's your 
 
 judgment? 'Slight, 
 Have yet some care of ,me, o' your re- 
 public 
 
 Face. Away, this brach ! *° I '11 bring 
 thee, rogue, within 
 The statute of sorcery, tricesimo tertio 
 Of Harry the Eighth : aye, and perhaps 
 
 thy neck 
 Within a noose, for laund'ring gold and 
 barbing it.*^ 
 Dol. You'll bring your bead within a 
 cocks-comb,*^ wiU you? 
 (She catcheth out Face his sword, and 
 
 breaks Subtle's glass.) 
 And you, sir, with your menstrue ! *' — 
 
 Gather it up. 
 'Sdeath, you abominable pair of stink- 
 ards, 
 Leave off your barking, and grow one 
 
 again. 
 Or, by the light that shines, I '11 cut your 
 
 throats. 
 I '11 not be made a prey unto the mar- 
 shal 
 For ne'er a snarling dog-bolt ** o' you 
 
 both. 
 Ha' you together cozen'd all this while, 
 And all the world, and shall it now be 
 
 said. 
 You've made most courteous shift to 
 
 cozen yourselves? 
 (To Face.) You will accuse him! You 
 
 will bring him in 
 Within the statute! Who shall take 
 your word? 
 
 38 rules. 
 
 34 inclination. 
 
 35 when the process 
 is approaching 
 completion, 
 
 S6 AdveTtisements 
 
 were posted in 
 St. Paul's. 
 37 Chaucer exposes 
 this practice in 
 the Oanon'B Yeo- 
 man's Tale. Va- 
 
 rious tricks of 
 astrologers are 
 named in the fol- 
 lowing lines. 
 38 A highwayman, 
 hanged in 1605, 
 
 who wore a hide- 
 ous mask. 
 80 eating more than 
 Ms share of brok- 
 en meats sent in 
 to prisoners. 
 
 40 bitch. 
 
 41 "sweating" and 
 clipping coins. 
 
 42 f ool s cap. 
 
 43 a solvent. 
 
 44 blockhead. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 239 
 
 A whoreson, upstart, apocryphal cap- 
 tain, 
 Whom not a Puritan in Blackfriars will 
 
 trust 
 So much as for a feather : *' and you, too, 
 {To Subtle.) Will give the cause, for- 
 sooth ! You will insult. 
 And claim a primacy in the divisions ! 
 You must be chief ! As if you, only, had 
 The powder to project** with, and the 
 
 work 
 Were not begun out of equality! 
 The venture tripartite! All things in 
 
 common ! 
 Without priority! 'Sdeath! you per- 
 petual curs. 
 Fall to your couples again, and cozen 
 
 kindly, 
 And heartily, and lovingly, as you should. 
 And lose not the beginning of a term,*' 
 Or, by this hand, I shall grow factious 
 
 too. 
 And take my part, and quit you. 
 Face. 'T is his fault ; 
 
 He ever murmurs, and objects his pains, 
 And says, the weight of all lies upon 
 him. 
 Sub. Why, so it does. 
 Dol. ' How does it? Do not we 
 
 Sustain our parts? 
 Sub. Yes, but they are not equal. 
 
 Dol. Why, if your part exceed to-day, I 
 hope 
 Ours may to-morrow match it. 
 Sub. Aye, they may. 
 
 Dol. May, murmuring mastiff! Aye, and 
 do. Death on me ! 
 Help me to throttle him. 
 
 (Seizes Subtle by the throat.) 
 Sub. Dorothy I Mistress Dorothy ! 
 
 'Ods precious, I '11 do anything. What 
 do you mean? 
 Dol. Because o' your fermentation** and 
 cibation?*» 
 
 Sub. Not I, by heaven 
 
 Dol. Your Sol and Luna 
 
 {To Face.) Help me. 
 Sub. Would I were hang'd then! I'll 
 
 conform myself. 
 Dol. Will you, sir? Do so then, and 
 
 quickly: swear. 
 Sub. What should I swear? 
 Dol. To leave your faction,"" sir, 
 
 And labor kindly in the common work. 
 
 Sub. Let me not breathe if I meant aught 
 beside. 
 I only us'd those speeches as a spur 
 To him. 
 Dol. I hope we need no spurs, sir. Do 
 
 we? 
 Face. 'Slid, prove to-day who shall shark 
 
 best. 
 Sub. Agreed. 
 
 Dol. Yes, and work close and friendly. 
 Sub. 'Slight, the knot 
 
 Shall grow the stronger for this breach, 
 with me. 
 
 {They shake hands.) 
 Dol, Why, so, my good baboons ! Shall 
 we go make 
 A sort °^ of sober, scurvy, precise neigh- 
 bors. 
 That scarce have smil'd twice sin' the 
 
 king came in,''^ 
 A feast of laughter at our follies? Ras- 
 cals, 
 Would run themselves from breath, to 
 
 see me ride,^' 
 Or you t' have but a hole to thrust your 
 
 heads in,^* 
 For which you should pay ear-rent? °^ 
 
 No, agree. 
 And may Don Provost ride a feasting 
 
 long, 
 In his old velvet jerkin and stain'd scarfs. 
 My noble sovereign, and worthy gen- 
 eral. 
 Ere we contribute a new crewel ^* garter 
 To his most worsted worship. 
 Sub. Royal Dol! 
 
 Spoken like Claridiana,"'^ and thyself. 
 Face. For which at supper, thou shalt sit 
 in triumph, 
 And not be styl'd Dol Common, but Dol 
 
 Proper, 
 Dol Singular : the longest cut at night, 
 Shall draw thee for his Dol Particular. 
 {Bell rings without.) 
 Sub. Who's that?_ One rings. To the 
 window, Dol: {Exit Dol.) — Pray 
 heav'n. 
 The master do not trouble us this quarter. 
 Face. 0, fear not him. While there dies 
 one a week 
 0' the plague, he's safe from thinking 
 
 toward London. 
 Beside, he 's busy at his hop-yards now ; 
 I had a letter from him. If he do, 
 
 4B Blackfriars was *e change one metal 
 lull of Puritans, to another 
 
 many of whom 47 term of court, 
 were in the busi- *8 chemical change 
 ness of selling of a substance by 
 feathers. something which 50 factiousness, 
 
 worked on it like Bi crew. 
 
 yeast. 
 49 supplying with 
 fresh material to 
 make up for evap- 
 oration. 
 
 B2 In 1603. 
 
 (>3 be carted for a 
 
 bawd. 
 64 the pillory. 
 5r> have your ears 
 
 cut off. 
 66 yarn ; note puns 
 
 on crewel and 
 worsted. 
 B7 The heroine of 
 the "Mirror of 
 Knighthood," a 
 romance. 
 
240 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 He'll send such word, for airing o' the 
 
 house, 
 As you shall have sufficient time to quit 
 
 it: 
 Though we break up a fortnight, 't is no 
 
 matter. 
 
 Ee-enter Dol. 
 
 Sub. Who is it, Dol? 
 
 Dol. A fine young quodling.°* 
 
 Face. 0, 
 
 My lawyer's clerk, I lighted on last night, 
 
 In Holborn, at the Dagger. He would 
 
 have 
 (I told you of him) a familiar. 
 To rifle ^^ with at horses, and win cups. 
 Dol. O, let him in. 
 Sub. Stay. Who shall do 'tl 
 
 Face. Get you 
 
 Your robes on ; I will meet him, as going 
 out. 
 Dol. And what shall I do? 
 Face. Not be seen ; away ! 
 
 Exit Dol. 
 Seem you very reserv'd. 
 Sub. Enough. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Face. (Aloud and retiring.) God be wi' 
 
 you, sir, 
 
 I pray you let him know that I was here : 
 
 His name is Dapper. I would gladly 
 
 have stay'd, but 
 
 SCEITE 2. 
 
 Enter Face. 
 
 Dap. (Within.) Captain, I am here. 
 Face. Who 's that?— He's come, I think, 
 doctor. 
 
 Enter Dapper. 
 
 Good faith, sir, I was going away. 
 Dap. In truth, 
 
 I am very sorry, captain. 
 Face. But I thought 
 
 Sure I should meet you. 
 Dap. Aye, I am very glad. 
 
 I had a scurvy writ or two to make, 
 And I had lent my watch last night to 
 
 one 
 That dines to-day at the sherifE's, and so 
 
 was robb'd 
 Of my pass-time. 
 
 Re-enter Subtle in his velvet cap and 
 gown. 
 Is this the cunning-man? 
 
 cs codling, green 
 apple ; hence, 
 greenhorn. 
 
 59 raffle, gamble. 
 
 60 broached the mat- 
 ter. 
 
 Face. This is his worship. 
 Dap. Is he a doctor? 
 
 Face. Yes. 
 
 Dap. And ha' you broke "'' with him, cap- 
 tain? 
 Face. Aye. 
 
 Dap. And how? 
 
 Face. Faith, he does make the matter, sir, 
 so dainty, 
 I know not what to say. 
 Dap. Not so, good captain. 
 
 Face. Would I were fairly rid on 't, be- 
 lieve me. 
 Dap. Nay, now you grieve me, sir. Why 
 should you wish so? 
 I dare assure you, I '11 not be ungrateful. 
 Face. I cannot think you will, sir. But 
 the law 
 
 Is such a thing and then he says, 
 
 Reade's ^^ matter 
 
 Falling so lately 
 
 Dap. Reade! he was an ass. 
 
 And dealt, sir, with a fool. 
 Face. It was a clerk, sir. 
 
 Dap. A clerk! 
 
 Face. Nay, hear me, sir. You know the 
 law 
 
 Better, I think 
 
 Dap. I should, sir, and the danger: 
 
 You know, I show'd the statute to you. 
 Face. You did so. 
 
 Dap. And will I tell then! By this hand 
 of flesh. 
 Would it might never write good court- 
 hand more. 
 If I discover.*^ What do you think of 
 
 me. 
 That I am a chiaus? 
 Face. What's that? 
 
 Dap. The Turk was here. 
 
 As one would say, do you think I am a 
 Turk? 
 Face. I '11 tell the doctor so. 
 Dap. Do, good sweet captain. 
 
 Face. Come, noble doctor, pray thee let 's 
 prevail ; 
 This is the gentleman, and he is no chiaus. 
 Sub. Captain, I have return'd you all my 
 answer. 
 
 I would do much, sir, for your love 
 
 But this 
 I neither may, nor can. 
 Face. Tut, do not say so. 
 
 You deal now with a noble fellow, doctor, 
 One that will thank you richly ; and he 's 
 
 no chiaus: 
 Let that, sir, move you. 
 
 82 disclose. 
 
 61 A man named 
 Reade had been 
 indicted in 1608 
 
 for dealing with 
 evil spirits. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 241 
 
 Pray you, forbear- 
 
 He has 
 
 Suh. 
 Face. 
 
 Pour angels here. 
 ■ Suh. You do me wrong, good sir. 
 
 Face. Doctor, wherein? To tempt you 
 
 with these spirits'? 
 Sub. To tempt my art and love, sir, to my 
 peril. 
 'Fore heav'n, I scarce can think you are 
 
 my friend. 
 That so would draw me to apparent dan- 
 ger. 
 Face. I draw you! A horse draw you, 
 and a halter, 
 
 You, and your flies ** together 
 
 Dap. Nay, good captain. 
 
 Face. That know no difference of men. 
 Sub. Good words, sir. 
 
 Face. Good deeds, sir, doctor dogs'-meat. 
 'Slight, I bring you 
 No cheating Glim o' the Cloughs or Clari- 
 
 bels,«* 
 That look as big as five-and-flfty, and 
 flush; «= 
 
 And spit out secrets like hot custard 
 
 Dap. Captain ! 
 
 Face. Nor any melancholic underscribe, 
 ShaU tell the vicar; but a special gentle. 
 That is the heir to forty marks a year. 
 Consorts with the small poets of the time. 
 Is the sole hope of his old grandmother; 
 That knows the law, and writes you six 
 
 fair hands. 
 Is a fine clerk, and has his eiph'ring per- 
 fect. 
 WiU take his oath o' the Greek Xenophon, 
 If need be, in his pocket; and can court 
 His mistress out of«®vid. 
 
 Dap. Nay, dear captain 
 
 Face. Did you not tell me so 1 
 Dap. Yes ; but I 'd ha' you 
 
 Use master doctor with some more re- 
 spect. 
 Face. Hang him, proud stag, with his 
 broad velvet head ! ™ — 
 But for your sake, I 'd choke ere I would 
 
 change 
 An article of breath with such a puck- 
 
 flst!" 
 Come, let 's be gone. 
 
 (Going.) 
 Sub. Pray you le' me speak with you. 
 
 Dap. His worship calls you, captain. 
 Face. I am sorry 
 
 I e'er embark'd myself in such a business. 
 Dap. Nay, good sir; he did call you. 
 
 Face. 
 
 Sub. 
 
 Face. 
 
 Sub. 
 
 Face. 
 
 Sub. 
 
 First, hear me- 
 
 Will he take then? 
 
 Face. 
 Sub. 
 
 Not a syllable, 'less you take. 
 
 Pray ye, sir 
 
 Upon no terms but an assumpsit.^' 
 Your humor must be law. 
 {He takes the money.) 
 Face. Why now, sir, talk. 
 
 Now I dare hear you with mine honor. 
 
 Speak. 
 So may this gentleman too. 
 
 Why, sir ■ 
 
 (Offering to wKisper Face.) 
 
 j No whisp'ring. 
 
 'Pore heav'n, you do not apprehend 
 the loss 
 You do yourself in this. > 
 
 Face. Wherein? for what? 
 
 Sub. Marry, to be so importunate for one 
 That, when he has it, will undo you all: 
 He'll win up all the money i' the town. 
 Face. How? 
 
 Sub. Yes, and blow up gamester 
 
 after gamester. 
 As they do crackers in a puppet-play. 
 If I do give him a familiar, 
 Give you him all you play for; never 
 
 set ^® him : 
 For he will have it. 
 Face. You 're mistaken, doctor. 
 
 Why, he does ask one but for cups and 
 
 horses, 
 A rifling fly; none o' your great famil- 
 iars. 
 
 Yes, captain, I would have it for all 
 games. 
 
 I told you so. 
 (Taking Dap. aside.) 'Slight, that 
 is a new business! 
 I understood you, a tame bird, to fly 
 Twice in a term, or so, on Friday nights, 
 When you had left the ofl&ee; for a nag 
 Of forty or flfty shillings. 
 Dap. Aye, 't is true, sir ; 
 
 But I do think, now, I shall leave the 
 law. 
 
 And therefore 
 
 Face. Why, this changes quite the case. 
 
 Do you think that I dare move him? 
 Dap. If you please, sir; 
 
 AH 's one to him, I see. 
 Face. What ! for that money ? 
 
 I cannot with my conscience; nor should 
 
 you 
 Make the request, methinks. 
 Dap. No, sir, I mean 
 
 Dap. 
 
 Sub. 
 Face. 
 
 63 familiar spirits. 
 
 64 heroes of ballad 
 and romance. 
 
 65 that show a tell- 
 tale face when 
 holding iive-wnd- 
 
 fifty and flush, the 
 highest counts at 
 primero. (Schel- 
 
 ling.) 
 
 66 cap. 
 
 67 close-fisted person. 
 
 68 contract. 
 
 69 bet with. 
 
242 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN JPBRIOD 
 
 To add consideration. 
 Face. Why, then, sir, 
 
 I'lltiy. {Goes to Subtle.) Say that it 
 wfre for all games, doctor? 
 Sub. I say then, not a mouth shall eat for 
 him 
 At any ordinary,^" but o' the score ; ^^ 
 That is a gaming mouth, conceive me. 
 Face. Indeed ! 
 
 Sub. He'll draw you all the treasure of 
 the realm, 
 If it be set him. 
 Face. Speak you this from art ? 
 
 Sub. Aye, sir, and reason too, the ground 
 of art. 
 He is o' the only best complexion, 
 The queen of Fairy loves. 
 Face. What! Is he? 
 
 Sub. Peace. 
 
 He '11 overhear you. Sir, should she but 
 
 see him- 
 
 Face. What? 
 
 Sub. Do not you tell him. 
 
 Face. Will he win at cards too? 
 
 Sub. The spirits of dead Holland, living 
 Isaae,^^ 
 You 'd swear, were in him ; such a vigor- 
 ous luck 
 As cannot be resisted. 'Slight, he '11 put 
 Six o' your gallants to a cloak,^^ indeed. 
 Face. A strange success, that some man 
 shall be bom to! 
 He hears you, man- 
 
 Sub. 
 Bap. 
 Face, 
 
 Sir, I '11 not be ingratef ul. 
 Faith, I have a confidence in his 
 good nature: 
 You hear, he says he will not be ingrate- 
 ful. 
 Sub. Why, as you please ; my venture fol- 
 lows yours. 
 Fa^eL Troth, do it, doctor; think him 
 trusty, and make him. 
 He may make us both happy in an hour ; 
 Win some five thousand pound, and send 
 us two on 't. 
 Dap. Believe it, and I will, sir. 
 Face. And you shall, sir. 
 
 You have heard all? 
 
 (Face takes him aside.) 
 Bap. No, what was 't? Nothing, I, sir. 
 Face. Nothing? 
 Bap. A little, sir. 
 
 Face. Well, a rare star 
 
 Reign'd at your birth. 
 Bap. At mine, sir ! No. 
 Face. The doctor 
 
 Swears that you are 
 
 Sub. Nay, captain, you'll tell all now. 
 
 Face. Allied to the queen of Fairy. 
 
 Bap. Who! That I am? 
 
 Believe it, no such matter 
 
 Face. Yes, and that 
 
 You were born with a caul o' your head.''* 
 Bap. Who says so? 
 
 Face. Come 
 
 You know it well enough, though you dis- 
 semble it. 
 Bap. I' fac,''^ I do not; yon are mistaken. 
 Face: How ! 
 
 Swear by your fae, and in a thing so 
 known 
 
 Unto' the doctor? How shall we, sir, 
 trust you 
 
 I' the other matter? Can we ever think. 
 
 When you have won five or six thousand 
 pound. 
 
 You'll send us shares in't, by this rate? 
 Bap. By Jove, sir, 
 
 I '11 win ten thousand pound, and send 
 you half. 
 
 I' f ac ^s no oath. 
 Sub. No, no, he did but jest. 
 
 Face. Go to. Go thank the doctor. He 's 
 your friend, 
 
 To take it so. 
 Bap. I thank his worship. 
 
 Face. So! 
 
 Another angel. 
 Dap. Must I? 
 
 Face. Must you! 'Slight, 
 
 What else is thanks? Will you be 
 trivial ? — ^Doctor, 
 (Bapper gives him the money.) 
 
 When must he come for his familiar? 
 Bap. Shall I not Ija' it with me? 
 Sub. ■ 0, good sir! 
 
 There must a world of ceremonies pass ; 
 
 You must be bath'd and fumigated 
 first: 
 
 Besides, the queen of Fairy does not rise 
 
 Till it be noon. 
 Face. Not if she dane'd to-night. 
 
 Sub. And she must bless it. 
 Face. Did you never see 
 
 Her royal grace yet? 
 Bap. Whom? 
 
 Face. Your aunt of Fairy? 
 
 Sub. Not since she kist him in the cradle, 
 captain ; 
 
 I can resolve you that. 
 Face. Well, see her grace, 
 
 Whate'er it cost you, for a thing that I 
 know. 
 
 It will be somewhat hard to compass ; but 
 
 TO eating house. 71 The gamblers (who frequented ordinaries) will 
 be so impoverished through his winnings that 
 they will have to eat on credit. (NeiUon.) 
 
 72 Perhaps 
 two gam- 
 blers of the 
 time. 
 
 73 strip to the cloak. 
 
 74 a sign of good luck. 
 
 75 faith. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 243 
 
 However, see her. You are made, be- 
 lieve it, 
 If you can see her. Her grace is a lone 
 
 ■woman, 
 And very rich ; and if she take a fancy, 
 She will do strange things. See her, at 
 
 any hand. 
 'Slid, she may hap to leave you all she 
 
 has! 
 It is the doctor's fear. 
 Bap. How will 't be done, then 1 
 
 Face. Let me alone, take you no thought. 
 Do you 
 But say to me, "Captain, I '11 see her 
 grace." 
 Bap. Captain, I '11 see her grace. 
 Face. Enough. 
 
 (One knocks without.) 
 Sub. Who's there? 
 
 Anon. — (Aside to Face.) Conduct him 
 
 forth by the back way. 
 Sir, against one o'clock prepare your- 
 self; 
 TUl when you must be fasting ; only take 
 Three drops of vinegar in at your nose, 
 Two at your moutL, and one at either 
 
 ear; 
 Then bathe your fingers' ends and wash 
 
 your eyes, 
 To sharpen your five senses, and cry hum 
 Thrice, and then huz as often; and then 
 come. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Face. Can you remember this? 
 
 Bap. I warrant you. 
 
 Face. Well then, away. It is but your 
 
 bestowing 
 
 Some twenty nobles 'mong her grace's 
 
 servants. 
 And put on a el^an shirt. You do not 
 
 know 
 What grace her grace may do you in 
 clean linen. 
 
 Exeunt Face and Bapper. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Sub. (Within.) Come in! Good wives, I 
 pray you forbear me now; 
 Troth, I can do you no good till after- 
 noon. — 
 
 Enter Subtle, followed by Brugger. 
 
 Sub. What is your name, say you? Abel 
 
 Drugger? 
 Bmg. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. A seller of tobacco? 
 
 76 belonging to the ?7 plan. 
 
 Grocers' Guild. 78 recommended, 
 
 Brug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. Umph ! 
 
 Free of the grocers? '" 
 Brug. Aye, an 't please you. 
 
 Sub. Well— 
 
 Your business, Abel? 
 Brug. This, an 't please your worship ; 
 I am a young beginner, and am building 
 Of a new shop, an 't like your worship, 
 
 just 
 At corner of a street: — Here is the 
 
 plot " on 't 
 
 And I would know by art, sir, of your 
 
 worship, 
 Which way I should make my door, by 
 
 necromancy. 
 And where my shelves ; aad which should 
 
 be for boxes. 
 And which for pots. I would be glad to 
 
 thrive, sir: 
 And I was wish'd '^^ to your worship by 
 
 a gentleman. 
 One Captain Face, that says you know 
 
 men's planets. 
 And their good angels, and their bad. 
 Sub. I do. 
 
 If I do see 'em 
 
 Enter Face. 
 
 Face. What ! my honest Abel? 
 
 Thou art well met here. 
 Brug. Troth, sir, I was speaking. 
 
 Just as your worship came here, of your 
 
 worship. 
 I pray you speak for me to master doc- 
 tor. 
 Face. He shall do anything. Doctor, do 
 you hear? 
 This is my friend, Abel, an honest fel- 
 low; 
 He lets me have good tobacco, and he 
 
 does not 
 Sophisticate it with' sack-lees or oil. 
 Nor washes it in muscadel and grains, 
 Nor buries it in gravel, under ground, 
 Wrapp'd up in greasy leather, or piss'd 
 
 clouts : 
 But keeps it in fine lily pots, that, open'd. 
 Smell like conserve of roses, or French 
 
 beans. , 
 
 He has his maple block,^' his silver tongs, 
 Winchester pipes, and fire of juniper : ^'' 
 A neat, spruce, honest fellow, and no 
 goldsmith.'^ 
 Sub. He 's a fortunate fellow, that I am 
 sure on. 
 
 19 to Bhred 
 on. 
 
 tobacco 80 to light 
 with. 
 
 81 usurer ; gold- 
 
 smiths used to 
 lend money. 
 
244 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Face. Already, sir, ha' you found it? Lo 
 thee, Abel ! 
 
 Sub. And in right way toward riches 
 
 Face. Sir ! 
 
 Suh. This summer. 
 
 He will be of the clothing *- of his com- 
 pany. 
 And next spring call'd to the scarlet,*^ 
 spend what he can. 
 Face. What, and so little beard? 
 Sub. Sir, you must think, 
 
 He may have a receipt to make hair 
 
 come: 
 But he 'U be wise, preserve his youth, and 
 
 fine for'tj 
 His fortune looks for him another way. 
 Face. 'Slid, doctor, how canst thou know 
 this so soon? 
 I am amus'd** at that. 
 Sub. By a rule, captain, 
 
 In metoposcopy,*' which I do work by; 
 A certain star i' the forehead, which you 
 
 see not. 
 Tour chestnut or your olive-color'd face 
 Does never fail: and your long ear doth 
 
 promise. 
 I knew 't, by certain spots, too, in his 
 
 teeth. 
 And on the nail of his mercurial finger. 
 Fa^e. Which finger's that? 
 Sub. His little finger. Look. 
 
 You were bom upon a Wednesday ? 
 Drug. Yes, indeed, sir. 
 
 Sub. The thumb, in chiromancy, we give 
 Venus ; 
 The forefinger to Jove; the midst to 
 
 Saturn ; 
 The ring to Sol ; the least to Mercury, 
 Who was the lord, sir, of his horoscope, 
 His house of life being Libra ; which f or- 
 
 show'd 
 He should be a merchant, and should 
 trade with balance. 
 Face. Why, this is strange! Is it not, 
 
 honest Nab? 
 Sub. There is a ship now coming from 
 Ormus, 
 That shall yield him such a commodity 
 
 Of drugs This is the west, and this 
 
 the south? 
 
 {Pointing to the plan.) 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. And those are your two sides? 
 
 Drug. Aye, sir. 
 
 Sub. Make me your door then, south; 
 
 your broad side, west : 
 
 And on the east side of your shop, aloft. 
 
 Write Mathlai, Tarmiel, and Baraborat; 
 Upon the north part, Rael, Velel, Thiel. 
 They are the names of those Mercurial 
 
 spirits 
 That do fright flies from boxes. 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. And 
 
 Beneath your threshold, bury me a load- 
 stone 
 To draw in gallants that wear spurs : the 
 
 rest. 
 They '11 seem to follow. 
 Face. That's a secret. Nab! 
 
 Sub. And, on your stall, a puppet, with a 
 vice ^* 
 And a court-fucus,*^ to call city-dames: 
 You shall deal much with minerals. 
 Drug. Sir, I have. 
 
 At home, already 
 
 Sub. Aye, I know, you 've arsenic, 
 
 Vitriol, sal-tartar, argaile, alkali, 
 Cinoper. I know all. — This fellow, cap- 
 tain. 
 Will come, in time, to be a great distiller, 
 And give a say *' — I will not say di- 
 rectly, 
 But very fair — at the philosopher's stone. 
 Face. Why, how now, Abel! is this true? 
 Drug. {Aside to Fade.) Good captain, 
 
 What must I give? 
 Face. Nay, I '11 not counsel thee. 
 
 Thou hear'st what wealth (he says, spend 
 
 what thou canst) 
 Thou 'rt like to come to. 
 Drug. I would gi' him a crown. 
 
 Face. A crown! and toward such a for- 
 tune ? Heart, 
 Thou shalt rather gi' him thy shop. No 
 gold about thee? 
 Drug. Yes, I have a portague,*' I ha' kept 
 
 this half-year. 
 Face. Out on thee. Nab! 'Slight, there 
 was such an offer — 
 Shalt keep 't no longer, I '11 gi' it him for 
 
 thee. Doctor, 
 Nab prays your worship to drink this, 
 
 and swears 
 He will appear more grateful, as your 
 
 skUl 
 Does raise him in the world. 
 Drug. I would entreat 
 
 Another favor of his worship. 
 Face. What is't, Nab? 
 
 Drug. But to look over, sir, my almanac, 
 And cross out my ill-days,°° that I may 
 
 neither 
 Bargain, nor trust upon them. 
 
 82 be a full member. 
 
 83 be made aherifE, 
 
 84 amazed. 
 
 8s reading charac- 
 ter by tbe lace, 
 se a mechanism to 
 
 move the puppet. 
 87 cosmetic. 
 
 88 make an attempt. 
 80 a gold coin. 
 
 80 unlucky days 
 
THE Alchemist 
 
 245 
 
 Face. That he shall, Nab : 
 
 Leave it, it shall be done, 'gainst after- 
 noon. 
 Sub. And a direction for his shelves. 
 Face. Now, Nab, 
 
 Art thou well pleas'd, Nab? 
 Drug. 'Thank, sir, both your worships. 
 Face. Away. 
 
 Exit Drugger. 
 Why, now, you smoky persecutor of na- 
 ture! 
 Now do you see, that something's to be 
 
 done 
 Beside your beech-coal, and your cor- 
 
 'sive "■ waters. 
 Tour erosslets,®^ crucibles, and cucur- 
 
 bites?»3 
 You must have stuff brought home to 
 
 you, to work on : 
 And yet you think, I am at no expense 
 In searching out these veins, then follow- 
 ing 'em, 
 Then trying 'em out. 'Pore God, my in- 
 telligence 
 Costs me more money than my share oft 
 
 comes to, 
 In these rare works. 
 Sub. You're pleasant, sir. — How now! 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Face, Subtle. Enter Dol. 
 
 Sub. What says my dainty Dolkinl 
 Dol. Yonder fish-wife 
 
 Will not away. And there 's your 
 
 The bawd of Lambeth. 
 Sub. Heart, I cannot speak with 'em. 
 
 Dol. Not afore night, I have told 'em in a 
 voice, 
 Thorough the trunk,'* like one of your 
 
 familiars. 
 But I have spied Sir Epicure Mam- 
 mon 
 
 Sub. Where? 
 
 Dol. Coming along, at far end of the 
 lane. 
 Slow of his feet, but earnest of his 
 
 tongue 
 To one that 's with him. 
 Sub. Face, go you and shift. 
 
 Dol, you must presently make ready too. 
 
 Exit Face. 
 Dol. Why, what's the matter? 
 Sub. 0, I did look for him 
 
 With the sun's rising: marvel he could 
 sleep ! 
 
 This is the day I am to perfect for him 
 The magisterium, our great work, the 
 
 stone ; 
 And yield it, made, into his hands; of 
 
 which 
 He has, this month, talk'd as he were 
 
 possess'd. 
 And now he 's dealing pieces on 't away. 
 Methinks I see him .ent'ring ordinaries. 
 Dispensing for the pox, and plaguy 
 
 houses. 
 Beaching his dose, walking Moorflelds 
 
 for lepers. 
 And ofE'ring citizens' wives pomander- 
 
 braeelets,*' 
 As his preservative, made of the elixir; 
 Searching the 'spital, to make old bawds 
 
 young; 
 And the highways, for beggars to make 
 
 rich. 
 I see no end of his labors. He will make 
 Nature asham'd of her long sleep; when 
 
 art. 
 Who 's but a step-dame, shall do more 
 
 than she, 
 In her best love to mankind, ever could. 
 If his dream last, he '11 turn the age to 
 
 gold. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 Enter Sir Epicure Mammon and Surly. 
 
 Mam. Come on, sir. Now you set your 
 
 foot on shore 
 In Novo Orbej here's the rich Peru : 
 And there within, sir, are the golden 
 
 mines, 
 Great Solomon's Ophir ! He was sailing 
 
 to't 
 Three years, but we have reach'd it in ten 
 
 ' months. 
 This is the day wherein, to all my 
 
 friends, 
 I will pronounce the happy word. Be 
 
 rich; 
 This day totj shall be spbctatissimi. 
 You shall no more deal with the hollow 
 
 die, 
 Or the frail card ; no more be at charge 
 
 of keeping 
 The livery-punk for the young heir, that 
 
 must 
 Seal, at all hours, in his shirt: no more. 
 If he deny, ha' him beaten to 't, as he is 
 That brings him the commodity ; no more 
 
 91 COTTOSiTe. 
 
 92 crucibles. 
 
 93 TeSBels for distilling. 
 
 94 speaking tube. 
 
 95 bracelets with perfume balls attached 
 to guard against the plague. 
 
246 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hun- 
 ger 
 
 Of velvet entrails '° for a rude-spun 
 cloak, 
 
 To be display'd at Madam Augusta's, 
 make 
 
 The sons of Sword and Hazard fall be- 
 fore 
 
 The golden calf, and on their knees, 
 whole nights. 
 
 Commit idolatry with wine and trum- 
 pets: 
 
 Or go a-feasting after drum and ensign. 
 
 No more of this. You shall start up 
 young viceroys. 
 
 And have your punks and punkettees, 
 my Surly. 
 
 And unto thee I speak it first, Be eich. 
 
 Where is my Subtle there? Within, ho! 
 Face. (Within,.) Sir, 
 
 He '11 come to you by and by. 
 Mam. That is his fire-drake, 
 
 His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that pufEs 
 his coals. 
 
 Till he firk ^^ nature up, in her own 
 center. 
 
 You are not faithful,** sir. This night 
 I'll change 
 
 All that is metal in my house to gold: 
 
 And, early in the morning, will I send 
 
 To all the plumbers and the pewterers. 
 
 And buy their tin and lead up; and to 
 Lothbury 
 
 For all the copper. 
 Sur. What, and turn that, too? 
 
 Mam. Yes, and I '11 purchase Devonshire 
 and Cornwall, 
 
 And make them perfect Indies! You 
 admire now? 
 Sur. No, faith. 
 
 Mam. But when you see th' effects of the 
 Great Med'cine, 
 
 Of which one part projected on a 'hun- 
 dred 
 
 Of Mercury, or Venus,*° or the Moon,^ 
 
 Shall turn it to as many of the Sun; ^ 
 
 Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum : 
 
 You will believe me. 
 Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will. 
 
 But if my eyes do cozen me so, and I 
 
 Giving 'em no occasion, sure I '11 have 
 
 A whore, shall piss 'em out next day. 
 Mam. Ha! why? 
 
 Do you think I fable with you? I assure 
 you. 
 
 He that has once the flower of the sun, 
 
 The perfect ruby, which we call elixir, 
 Not only can do that, but by its virtue, 
 Can confer honor, love, respect, long 
 
 life; 
 Give safety, valor, yea, and victory, 
 To whom he will. In eight and twenty 
 
 days, 
 I 'II make an old man of fourscore, a 
 child. 
 Sur. No doubt ; he 's that already. 
 Mam. Nay, I mean, 
 
 Eestore his years, renew him, like an 
 
 eagle. 
 To the fifth age; make him get sons and 
 
 daughters. 
 Young giants; as our philosophers have 
 
 done. 
 The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood. 
 But taking, once a week, on a knife's 
 
 point. 
 The quantity of a grain of mustard of it ; 
 Become stout Marses, and beget young 
 Cupids. 
 Sur. The decay'd vestals of Pickt-hatch^ 
 would thank you, 
 That keep the fire alive there. 
 Mam. 'T is the secret 
 
 Of nature naturiz'd 'gainst all infec- 
 tions. 
 Cures all diseases coming of all causes; 
 A month's grief in a day, a year's in 
 
 twelve ; 
 And, of what age soever, in a month. 
 Past all the doses of your drugging doc- 
 tors. 
 I'll undertake, withal, to fright the 
 
 plague 
 Out o' the kingdom in three months. 
 Sur. And I'll 
 
 Be bound, the players shall sing your 
 
 praises then. 
 Without their poets.* 
 Mam. Sir, I'll do't. Meantime, 
 
 I'll give away so much unto my man, 
 Shall serve th' whole city with preserva- 
 tive 
 Weekly ; each house his " dose, and at the 
 
 rate 
 
 Sur. As he that built the Water-work does 
 
 with water? 
 Mam. You are incredulous. 
 Sur. Faith, I have a humor, 
 
 I would not willingly be gull'd.* Your 
 
 stone 
 Cannot transmute me. 
 Mam. Pertinax Surly, 
 
 06 lining. 
 
 1 silver. 
 
 1)7 rouse. 
 
 2 gold. 
 
 08 creduloua. 
 
 8 a quarter in Lon 
 
 flo copper. 
 
 don of evil repute 
 
 4 Because the banish- 
 ment of the plague 
 would mean that 
 the theaters would 
 
 never be obliged to s its. 
 close on account of B tricked, 
 its prevalence. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 247 
 
 Will you believe antiquity? Records? 
 
 I '11 show you a book where Moses, and 
 his sister, 
 
 And Solomon have written of the art; 
 
 Aye, and a treatise penn'd by Adam 
 
 Sur. How 1 
 
 Mam. Of the philosopher's stone, and in 
 
 High Dutch. 
 Sur. Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch? 
 Mam. He did; 
 
 Which proves it was the primitive 
 tongue. 
 Sur. What paper? 
 
 Mam. On cedar board. 
 Sur. that, indeed, they say. 
 
 Will last 'gainst worms. 
 Mam. 'T is like your Irish wood 
 
 'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of 
 Jason's fleece too, 
 
 Which was no other than a book of al- 
 chemy. 
 
 Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram- 
 vellum. 
 
 Such was Pythagoras' thigh. Pandora's 
 tub. 
 
 And aU that fable of Medea's charms. 
 
 The manner of our work; the bulls, our 
 furnace, 
 
 Still breathing fire; our argent-vive,^ the 
 dragon : 
 
 The dragon's teeth, mercury sublimate. 
 
 That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and 
 the biting; 
 
 And they are gathered into Jason's helm, 
 
 Th' alembic, and then sow'd in Mars his 
 field, 
 
 And thence sublim'd so often, till they're 
 flx'd. 
 
 Both this, th' Hesperian garden, Cad- 
 mus' story, 
 
 Jove's shower,^ the boon of Midas, Ar- 
 gus' eyes, 
 
 Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands 
 more. 
 
 All abstract riddles of our stone. — How 
 now! 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Mammon, Surly. Enter Face, as a 
 Servant. 
 
 Mam. Do we succeed? Is our day come? 
 
 And holds it? 
 Face. The evening will set red upon you, 
 
 sir; 
 You have color for it, crimson : the red 
 
 ferment 
 
 7 qnicksilver. fl a flask with a long sovereign 
 
 8 {. e. on Danae. neck, making 
 
 10 Beech was the chemist's 
 
 Has done his office; three hours hence 
 
 prepare you 
 To see projection. 
 Mam. Pertinax, my Surly. 
 
 Again I say to thee, aloud, Be eich. 
 This day thou shalt have ingots; and 
 
 to-morrow 
 Give lords th' affront. — Is it, my Zephy- 
 
 rus, right? 
 Blushes the bolt's-head? » 
 Face. Like a wench with child, sir. 
 
 That were but now discovefd to her mas- 
 ter. 
 Mam. Excellent witty Lungs! — ^My only 
 care is 
 Where to get stuff enough now, to pro- 
 ject on; 
 This town will not half serve me. 
 Face. No, sir? Buy 
 
 The covering off o' churches. 
 Mam. That's true. 
 
 Face. Yes. 
 
 Let 'em stand bare, as do their auditory ; 
 Or cap 'em new with shingles. 
 Mam. No, good thatch : 
 
 Thatch will lie light upo' the rafters, 
 
 Lungs. 
 ^Lungs, I will manumit thee from the 
 
 furnace ; 
 I will restore thee thy complexion. Puff, 
 Lost in the embers ; and repair this brain. 
 Hurt wi' the fume o' the metals. 
 Face. I have blown, sir, 
 
 Hard, for your worship; thrown by 
 
 many a coal. 
 When 't was not beech ; ''■" weigh'd those I 
 
 put in, just 
 To keep your heat still even. These 
 
 blear'd eyes 
 Have wak'd to read your several colors, 
 
 sir. 
 Of the pale citron, the green lion, the 
 
 crow, 
 The peacock's tail, the plumed swan. 
 Mam. And lastly, 
 
 Thou hast descried the flower, the sanguis 
 agnif ^^ 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mam. Where's master? 
 
 Fa^e. At's prayers, sir, he; 
 
 Good man, he 's doing his devotions 
 For the success. 
 Mam. Lungs, I will set a period 
 
 To all thy labors ; thou shalt be the mas- 
 ter 
 Of my seraglio. 
 Face. Good, sir. 
 
 wood in 11 red, the color of the alchemical 
 
 the al- the last stage of process. 
 
 fire. 
 
248 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Mam. But do you hear? 
 
 I '11 geld you, Lungs, 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mam. Eor I do mean 
 
 To have a list of wives and concubines 
 Equal with Solomon, who had the stone 
 Alike with me; and I will make me a 
 
 . back 
 With the elixir, that shall be as tough 
 As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. — 
 Thou 'rt sure thou saw 'st it blood'! 
 Face. Both blood and spirit, sir. 
 
 Mam. I will have all my beds blown up, 
 
 not stuft; 
 Down is too hard: and then, mine oval 
 
 room 
 FUl'd with such pictures as Tiberius took 
 From Elephantis, and dull Aretine 
 But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses 
 Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse 
 And multiply the figures, as I walk 
 Naked between my succubae.^^ My 
 
 mists 
 I'll have of perfume, vapor'd 'bout the 
 
 room, 
 To lose our selves in; and my baths, like 
 
 pits 
 To fall into; from whence we will come 
 
 forth, 
 And roll us dry in gossamer and roses. — 
 
 Is it arrived ruby? ^Where I spy 
 
 A wealthy citizen, or a rich lawyer. 
 Have a sublim'd ^^ pure wife, unto that 
 
 fellow 
 1'n send a thousand pound to be my 
 
 cuckold. 
 Face. And I shall carry it? 
 Mam. No. I'll ha' no bawds 
 
 But fathers and mothers : they will do it 
 
 best. 
 Best of all others. And my flatterers 
 Shall be the pure and gravest of divines. 
 That I can get for money. My mere 
 
 fools, 
 Eloquent burgesses, and then my poets 
 The same that writ so subtly of the 
 
 fart. 
 Whom I will entertain still for that sub- 
 ject. 
 The few that would give out themselves 
 
 to be 
 Court and town-stallions, and, each- 
 
 where, belie 
 Ladies who are known most innocent, for 
 
 them, — 
 
 12 strumpets. particular fash- 
 
 13 surpassing. 
 
 14 a famous epicure 
 I of Tiberius' time. 
 , IB dressed in some 
 
 Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs 
 
 of: 
 And they shall fan me with ten estrich 
 
 tails 
 A-piece, made in a plume to gather wind. 
 We will be brave. Puff, now we ha' the 
 
 med'cine. 
 My meat shall all come in, in Indian 
 
 shells. 
 Dishes of agate set in gold, and studded 
 With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and 
 
 rubies. 
 The tongues of carps, dormice, and cam- 
 els' heels, 
 Boil'd i' the spirit of sol, and dissolv'd 
 
 pearl 
 (Apicius' ^* diet, 'gainst the epilepsy) : 
 And I will eat these broths with spoons 
 
 of amber. 
 Headed with diamond and carbuncle. 
 My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, eal- 
 
 ver'd ^^ salmons, 
 Knots,"^* godwits,^' lampreys : ^' I myself 
 
 will have 
 The beards of barbel >•' serv'd, instead of 
 
 salads ; 
 Oil'd mushrooms; and the swelling unc- 
 tuous paps 
 Of a fat pregnant sow, newjy cut off, 
 Drest with an exquisite and poignant 
 
 sauce ; 
 For which, I '11 say unto my cook, 
 
 There 's gold; 
 Go forth, and he a knight.^^ 
 Face. Sir, I'll go look 
 
 A little, how it heightens. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Mam. Do. — ^My shirts 
 
 I'll have of taffeta-sarsnet,** soft and 
 
 light 
 As cobwebs; and for all my other rai- 
 ment, 
 It shall be such as might provoke the 
 
 Persian, 
 Were he to teach the world riot anew. 
 My gloves of fishes and birds' skins, per- 
 
 fum'd 
 With gums of paradise, and Eastern 
 
 air 
 
 Sur. And do you think to have the stone 
 
 with this? 
 Mam. No, I do think t' have all this with 
 
 the stone. 
 Sur. Why, I have heard he must be homo 
 
 frugi,"" 
 
 particular 
 ion. 
 16 birds delicate 
 eat. 
 
 ITflsll. 
 
 to 
 
 18 An allusion to 
 James I's readi- 
 ness to confer 
 knighthood on all 
 
 who could pay for 
 the honor. 
 
 19 a fine, soft silk. 
 
 20 Piety was sup- 
 
 posed to be an es- 
 sential character- 
 istic of a success- 
 ful alchemist. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 249 
 
 A pious, holy, and religious man, 
 One free from mortal sin, a very virgin. 
 Mam. That makes it, sir; he is so. But I 
 
 buy it; 
 My venture brings it me. He, honest 
 
 wretch, 
 A notable, superstitious, good soul, 
 Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers 
 
 bald, 
 "With prayer and fasting for it : and, sir, 
 
 let him 
 Do it alone, for me, still. Here he 
 
 comes. 
 Not a profane word afore him; 'tis 
 
 poison. — 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Mammon, Surly. Enter Subtle. 
 
 Mam. Good morrow, father. 
 Sub. Grentle son, good morrow, 
 
 And to your friend there. What is he 
 
 is with you? 
 Mam. An heretic, that I did bring along. 
 
 In hope, sir, to convert him. 
 Sub. Son, I doubt 
 
 You 're covetous, that thus you meet your 
 
 time 
 I' the just point, prevent your day at 
 
 morning. 
 This argues something worthy of a fear 
 Of importune and carnal appetite. 
 Take heed you do not cause the blessing 
 
 leave you, 
 With your ungovem'd haste. I should 
 
 be sorry 
 To see my labors, now e'en at perfection, 
 Got by long watching and large patience, 
 Not prosper where my love and zeal hath 
 
 plac'd 'em. 
 Which (heaven I call to witness, with 
 
 your self, 
 To whom I have pour'd my thoughts) 
 
 in all my ends. 
 Have look'd no way, but unto public 
 
 good, 
 To pious uses, and dear charity, 
 Now grown a prodigy with men. 
 
 Wherein 
 If you, my son, should now prevaricate. 
 And to your own particular lusts em- 
 ploy 
 So great and catholic a bliss, be sure 
 A curse will follow, yea, and overtake 
 Your subtle and most secret ways. 
 
 I know, sir; 
 
 You shall not need to fear me ; I but come 
 To ha' you confute this gentleman. 
 Sur. Who is, 
 
 Indeed, sir, somewhat costive of belief 
 Toward your stone; would not be guU'd. 
 Sub. Well, son. 
 
 All that I can convince him in, is this, 
 The work is done, bright Sol is in his 
 
 robe. 
 We have a med'cine of the triple soul, 
 The glorified spirit. Thanks be to 
 
 heaven. 
 And make us worthy of it! — XJlen Spie- 
 gel! 21 
 Face. {Within.) Anon, sir. 
 Sub. Look well to the register. 
 
 And let your heat still lessen by degrees. 
 To the aludels.22 
 Face. {Within..) Yes, sir. 
 Sub. Did you look 
 
 0' the bolt's head yet? 
 Face. {Within.) Which? On D, sir? 
 Sub. Aye; 
 
 What's the complexion? 
 Face. {Within.) Whitish. 
 Sub. Infuse vinegar. 
 
 To draw his volatile substance and his 
 
 tincture : 
 And let the water in glass E be Alfred, 
 And put into the gripe's egg.^^ Lute ^s 
 
 him well; 
 And leave him clos'd in balnea.^* 
 Face. {Within.) 1 will, sir. 
 
 Sur. What a brave language here is ! next 
 
 to canting.2^ 
 Sub. I have another work you never saw, 
 son. 
 That three days since past the philoso- 
 pher's wheel, 
 Li the lent2» heat of Athanor;^? and's 
 
 become 
 Sulphur o' Nature. 
 Mam. But 'tis for me? 
 
 Sub. What need you? 
 
 You have enough, in that is, perfect. 
 
 Mam,. 0, but 
 
 Sub. Why, this is covetise! 
 Mam. No, I assure you, 
 
 I shall employ it all in pious uses, 
 Founding of colleges and grammar 
 
 schools. 
 Marrying young virgins, building hospi- 
 tals. 
 And, now and then, a church. 
 
 21 the rascally hero 
 of a German jest- 
 book. 
 
 22 vessels used in 
 the alchemical 
 process. 
 
 28 smear with clay 
 for protection 
 
 from the fire. 
 
 Be-enter Face. 
 
 2i in the bath of 28 slow. 
 
 warm water. 27 a furnace. 
 
 25 thieves' slang. 
 
250 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Sub. How now! 
 
 Sub. But I care not; 
 
 Face. Sir, please you, 
 
 Let him e'en die; we have enough be- 
 
 Shall I not change the filter? 
 
 side. 
 
 Sub. Marry, yes; 
 
 In embrion. H has his white shirt on? 
 
 And bring me the complexion of glass B. 
 
 Face. Yes, sir, 
 
 Exit Face. 
 
 He's ripe for ineeration,^^ he stands 
 
 Mam, Ha' you another? 
 
 warm, 
 
 Sub.'" Yes, son; were I assur'd 
 
 In his ash-fire. I would not you should 
 
 Your piety were firm, we would not want 
 
 let 
 
 The means to glorify it: but I hope the 
 
 Any die now, if I might counsel, sir, 
 
 best. 
 
 For luck's sake to the rest: it is not 
 
 I mean to tinct C in sand-heat to-mor- 
 
 good. 
 
 row. 
 
 Mam. He says right. 
 
 And give him imbibition.^' 
 
 Sur. (Aside.) Aye, are you bolted'?'* 
 
 Mam. Of white oil? 
 
 Face. Nay, I know 't, sir. 
 
 Sub. No, sir, of red. P is come over the 
 
 I 've seen th' ill fortune. What is some 
 
 helm too, 
 
 three ounces 
 
 I thank my maker, in S. Mary's bath. 
 
 Of fresh materials? 
 
 And shows lac virginis. Blessed be 
 
 Mam. Is't no more? 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 Face. No more, sir. 
 
 I sent you of his faeces there calcin'd: 
 
 Of gold, t' amalgam with some six of 
 
 Out of that calx, I ha' won the salt of 
 
 mercury. 
 
 mercury. 
 
 Mam. Away, here's money. What will 
 
 Mam. By pouring on your rectified 
 
 serve? 
 
 water? 
 
 Face. Ask him, sir. 
 
 Sub. Yes, and reverberating ^° in Atha- 
 
 Mam. How much? 
 
 nor. 
 
 Sub. Give him nine pound : 
 
 "Re-enter "Face 
 
 you may gi' him ten. 
 
 XI/& ^IVIl^l i Ul/C 
 
 Sur. (Aside.) Yes, twenty, and be 
 
 How now! what color says it? 
 
 cozen'd, do. 
 
 Face. The ground black, sir. 
 
 Mam. There 't is. 
 
 Mam. That's your crow's head? 
 
 (Gives Face the money.) 
 
 Sur. Your cock's comb's, is it not? 
 
 Sub. This needs not; but that you will 
 
 Sub. No, 't is not perfect. Would it were 
 
 have it so. 
 
 the crow! 
 
 To see conclusions of all : for two 
 
 That work wants something. 
 
 Of our inferior works are at fixation, 
 
 Sur. (Aside.) 0, I look'd for this. 
 
 A third is in ascension. Go your ways, 
 
 The hay 's '» a pitching. 
 
 Ha' you set the oil of Luna in kemia ? ^* 
 
 Sub. Are you sure you loos'd 'em. 
 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 
 In their own menstrue? 
 
 Sub. And the philosopher's vinegar? 
 
 Face. Yes, sir, and then married 'em. 
 
 Face. Aye. Exit. 
 
 And put 'em in a bolt's-head nipp'd to 
 
 Sur. We shall have a salad! 
 
 digestion. 
 
 Mam. When do you make projection? 
 
 According as you bade me, when I set 
 
 Sub. Son, be not hasty. I exalt our med'- 
 
 The liquor of Mars to circulation 
 
 cine. 
 
 In the same heat. 
 
 By hanging him in balnea vaporoso, 
 
 Sub. The process then was right. 
 
 And giving him solution; then congeal 
 
 Face. Yes, by the token, sir, the retort 
 
 him; 
 
 brake. 
 
 And then dissolve him; then again con- 
 
 And what was sav'd was put into the 
 
 geal him; 
 
 pelican,*^ 
 
 For look, how oft I iterate the work. 
 
 And sign'd with Hermes' seal.'^ 
 
 So many times I add unto his virtue. 
 
 Sub. I think 'twas so. 
 
 As, if at first one ounce convert a hun- 
 
 We should have a new amalgama. 
 
 dred, 
 
 Sur. (Aside.) 0, this ferret 
 
 After his second loose, he '11 turn a thou- 
 
 Is rank as any polecat. 
 
 sand; 
 
 28 saturation. 
 
 29 heating by reflec- 
 tion. 
 
 30 a rabbit net; i.e. 
 the snare is being 
 laid. 
 
 31 alembic. 
 
 32 hermetically 
 sealed. 
 
 33 softening. 
 
 34 driven out, lilce a 
 rabbit. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 251 
 
 His third solution, ten ; his fourth, a hun- 
 dred ; 
 After his fifth, a thousand thousand 
 
 ounces 
 Of any imperfect metal, into pure 
 Silver or gold, in all examinations. 
 As good as any of the natural mine. 
 Get you your stuff here against after- 
 noon, 
 Your brass, your pewter, and your and- 
 irons. 
 Mam. Not those of iron ? 
 Sub. Yes, you may bring them too; 
 
 We '11 change all metals. 
 Sur. I believe you in that. 
 
 Mam. Then I may send my spits? 
 Sub. Yes, and your racks. 
 
 Sur. And dripping-pans, and pot-hangers, 
 and hooks? 
 Shall he not? 
 Sub. If he please. 
 
 Sur. — To be an ass. 
 
 Sub. How, sir! 
 
 Mam. This gent'man you must bear 
 withal. 
 I told you he had no faith. 
 Sur. And little hope, sir; 
 
 But much less charity, should I gull my- 
 self. 
 Sub. Why, what have you observ'd, sir, in 
 our art. 
 Seems so impossible ? 
 Sur. But your whole work, no more. 
 
 That you should hatch gold in a furnace, 
 
 sir. 
 As they do eggs in Egypt ! 
 Sub. Sir, do you 
 
 Believe that eggs are hatch'd so? 
 Sur. If I should? 
 
 Sub. Why, I think that the greater mir- 
 acle. 
 No egg but differs from a chicken more 
 Than metals in themselves. 
 Sur. That cannot be. 
 
 The Bgg 's ordain'd by nature to that end. 
 And is a chicken in potentia. 
 Sub. The same we say of lead and other 
 metals, 
 Which would be gold if they had time. 
 Mam. And that 
 
 Our art doth further. 
 Sub. Aye, for't were absurd 
 
 To think that nature in the earth bred 
 
 gold 
 Perfect i' the instant : something went be- 
 fore. 
 There must be remote matter. 
 Sur. Aye, what is that? 
 Sub. Marry, we say 
 
 Mam. Aye, now it heats: stand, father. 
 
 Pound him to dust. 
 Sub. It is, of the one part, 
 
 A humid exhalation, which we call 
 
 Materia liquida, or the unctuous water; 
 
 On th' other part, a certain crass and 
 viscous 
 
 Portion of earth; both which, coneor- 
 porate. 
 
 Do make the elementary matter of gold; ' 
 
 Which is not yet propria materia, 
 
 But common to all metals and all stones ; 
 
 For, where it is forsaken of that mois- 
 ture. 
 
 And hath more dryness, it becomes a 
 stone : 
 
 Where it retains more of the humid 
 fatness, 
 
 It turns to sulphur, or to quicksilver. 
 
 Who are the parents of all other metals. 
 
 Nor can this remote matter suddenly 
 
 Progress so from extreme unto extreme. 
 
 As to grow gold, and leap o'er all the 
 means. 
 
 Nature doth first beget th' imperfect, 
 then 
 
 Proceeds she to the perfect. Of that 
 airy 
 
 And oily water, mercury is engend'red; 
 
 Sulphur o' the fat and earthy part; the 
 one, 
 
 Which is the last, supplying the place of 
 male, 
 
 The other of the female, in all metals. 
 
 Some do believe hermaphrodeity, 
 
 That both do act and suffer. But these 
 two 
 
 Make the rest ductile, malleable, exten- 
 sive. 
 
 And even in gold they are; for we do 
 find 
 
 Seeds of them by our fire, and gold in 
 them; 
 ' And can produce the species of each 
 metal 
 
 More perfect thence, than nature doth 
 in earth. 
 
 Beside, who doth not see in daily prac- 
 tice 
 
 Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, 
 wasps. 
 
 Out of the carcases and dung of crea- 
 tures ; 
 
 Yea, scorpions of an herb, being rightly 
 plac'd? 
 
 And these are living creatures, far more 
 perfect 
 
 And excellent than metals. 
 
 Well said, father! 
 
252 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Nay, if he take you in hand, sir, with an 
 argument, 
 
 He '11 bray you in a mortar. 
 Sur. Pray you, sir, stay. 
 
 Rather than I'll be bray'd, sir, I'll be- 
 lieve 
 
 That Alchemy is a pretty kind of game, 
 
 Somewhat like tricks o' the cards, to 
 cheat a man 
 
 With charming. 
 Sub. Sir? 
 
 Sur. What else are all your terms, 
 
 Whereon no one o' your writers 'grees 
 with other? 
 
 Of your elixir, your lae virginis, 
 
 Your stone, your med'cine, and your 
 chrysosperm. 
 
 Your sal, your sulphur, and your mer- 
 cury. 
 
 Your oil of height, your tree of life, your 
 blood. 
 
 Your marchesite, your tutie, your mag- 
 nesia. 
 
 Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and 
 your panther; 
 
 Your sun, your moon, your firmament, 
 your adrop. 
 
 Your lato, azoch, zemich, ehibrit, heau- 
 tarit, 
 
 And then your red man, and your white 
 woman. 
 
 With all your broths, your menstrues, 
 and materials 
 
 Of piss and egg-shells, women's terms, 
 man's blood. 
 
 Hair o' the head, burnt clouts, chalk, 
 merds, and clay. 
 
 Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass. 
 
 And worlds of other strange ingredients, 
 
 Would burst a man to name? 
 Sub. And all these, nam'd, 
 
 Intending but one thing; which art our 
 writers 
 
 Us'd to obscure their art. 
 Mam. Sir, so I told him — 
 
 Because the simple idiot should not learn 
 it. 
 
 And make it vulgar. 
 Sub. Was not all the knowledge 
 
 Of the Egyptians writ in mystic sym- 
 bols? 
 
 Speak not the scriptures oft in par- 
 ables? 
 
 Are not the choicest fables of the poets. 
 
 That were the fountains and first springs 
 of wisdom. 
 
 Wrapt in perplexed allegories? 
 Mam. I urg'd that, 
 
 you 
 
 And clear'd to him, that Sisyphus was 
 
 damn'd 
 To roll the ceaseless stone, only because 
 He would have made ours common. (Dol 
 
 is seen at the door.) — Who is this? 
 Sub. God's precious! — What do 
 
 mean? Go in, good lady, 
 Let me entreat you. {Dol retires.) — 
 
 Where's this varlet? 
 
 Be-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Sir. 
 
 Sub. You very knave ! do you use me 
 
 thus? 
 Face. Wherein, sir? 
 
 Sub. Go in and see, you traitor. Go! 
 
 Exit Face. 
 Mam. Who is it, sir? 
 
 Sub, Nothing, sir; nothing. 
 Mam. What 's the matter, good sir? 
 
 I have not seen you thus distemp'red: 
 who is't? 
 Sub. All arts have still had, sir, their ad- 
 versaries ; 
 But ours the most ignorant. — 
 
 Face returns. 
 
 What now? 
 Face. 'T was not my fault, sir; she would 
 
 speak with you. 
 Sub. Would she, sir ! Follow me. 
 
 Exit. 
 Mam. (Stopping Mm.) Stay, Lungs. 
 Face. I dare not, sir. 
 
 Mam. How ! pray thee, stay. 
 Face. She 's mad, sir, and sent hither — 
 Mam. Stay, man; what is she? 
 Face. A lord's sister, sir. 
 
 He '11 be mad too. — 
 Mam. I warrant thee. — Why sent hither? 
 Face. Sir, to be cur'd. 
 Sub. {Within.) Why, rascal! 
 Face. Lo you ! — Here, sir ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Mam. Tore God, a Bradamante,^" a brave 
 
 piece. 
 Sur. Heart, this is a bawdy-house! I'll 
 
 be burnt else. 
 Mam. 0, by this light, no: do not wrong 
 him. He 's 
 Too scrupulous that way : it is his vice. 
 No, he 's a rare physician, do him right. 
 An excellent Paracelsian, and has done 
 Strange cures with mineral physic. He 
 
 deals all 
 With spirits, he ; he will not hear a word 
 Of Galen; or his tedious recipes. — 
 Face again. 
 
 SB a female warrior in Ariosto's Orlwndo Furioao. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 253 
 
 How now, Lungs! 
 
 Face. Softly, sir; speak softly. I meant 
 
 To ha' told your worship all. This must 
 
 not hear. 
 
 Mam. No, he will not be guU'd ; let him 
 
 alone. 
 Face. You're very right, sir; she is a 
 most rare scholar, 
 And is gone mad with studying Brough- 
 
 ton's ^^ works. 
 If you but name a word touching the 
 
 Hebrew, 
 She falls into her fit, and will discourse 
 So learnedly of genealogies, 
 As you would run mad too, to hear her, 
 sir. 
 Mam. How might one do t' have confer- 
 ence with her. Lungs'? 
 Face. 0, divers have run mad upon the 
 conference. 
 I do not know, sir: I am sent in haste 
 To fetch a vial, 
 Sur. Be notgull'd, Sir Mammon. 
 
 Mam. Wherein? Pray ye, be patient. 
 Sur. Yes, as you are, 
 
 And trust confederate knaves and bawds 
 and whores. 
 Mam. You are too foul, believe it. — Come 
 here, TJlen, 
 One word. 
 Face. 
 
 Mam. 
 Face. 
 
 Mam. 
 
 Face. 
 
 I dare not, in good faith. 
 {Going.) 
 
 Stay, knave. 
 He 's extreme angry that you saw 
 her, sir. 
 
 Drink that. {Gives him money.) 
 What is she when she's out of her 
 fit? 
 
 0, the most affablest creature, sir! 
 so merry! 
 So pleasant ! She '11 mount you up, like 
 
 quicksilver, 
 Over the helm ; and circulate like oil, 
 A very vegetal : discourse of state. 
 
 Of mathematics, bawdry, anything 
 
 Mam. Is she no way accessible? no 
 means, 
 
 No trick to give a man a taste of her 
 
 wit 
 
 Or so? 
 Sub. {Within.) Ulenl 
 Face. I'll come to you again, sir. 
 
 Exit. 
 Mam. Surly, I did not think one o' your 
 breeding 
 Would traduce personages of worth. 
 Sur. Sir Epicure, 
 
 Your friend to use; yet still loth to be 
 
 guU'd : 
 I do not like your philosophical bawds. 
 Their stone is lechery enough to pay for, 
 Without this bait. 
 Mam. Heart, you abuse yourself. 
 
 I know the lady, and her friends, and 
 
 means. 
 The original of this disaster. Her 
 
 brother 
 Has told me all. 
 Sur. And yet you ne'er saw her 
 
 Till now! 
 Mam. yes, but I forgot. I have, be- 
 lieve it. 
 One o' the treacherous'st memories, I do 
 
 think. 
 Of all mankind. 
 Sur, What call you her brother? 
 
 Mam. My lord 
 
 He wi' not have his name known, now I 
 think on 't. 
 Sur. A very treacherous memory ! 
 
 Mam. 0' my faith 
 
 Sur. Tut, if you ha' it not about you, 
 pass it 
 Till we meet next. 
 Mam. Nay, by this hand, 't is true. 
 
 He 's one I honor, and my noble friend ; 
 And I respect his house. 
 Sur. Heart! can it be 
 
 That a grave sir, a rich, that has no need, 
 A wise sir, too, at other times, should 
 
 thus. 
 With his own oaths, and larguments, 
 
 make hard means 
 To gull himself ? An this be your elixir. 
 Your lapis mineralis, and your lunary,^' 
 Give me your honest trick yet at 
 
 primero,^* 
 Or gleek,^' and take your lutum sapien- 
 
 tis, 
 Your menstruum simplex! I'll have 
 
 gold before you, 
 And with less danger of the quicksilver. 
 Or the hot sulphur. 
 
 Be-enter Face. 
 
 from 
 
 Face. {To Surly.) Here's ( 
 Captain Face, sir, 
 
 Desires you meet him i' the Temple- 
 church, 
 
 Some half-hour hence, and upon earnest 
 business. 
 
 Sir {Whispers Mammon), if you please 
 to quit us now, and come 
 
 36 Hugh BrongMon (1549-1612), 
 a rabbinical scholar. 
 
 37 The herb moonwort. 
 
 38 games at cards. 
 
254 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Again within two hours, you shall have 
 My master busy examining o' the works; 
 And I will steal you in unto the party, 
 That you may see her converse. — Sir, 
 
 shall I say 
 You '11 meet the captain's worship ? 
 Sur. Sir, I will. — 
 
 (Walks aside.) 
 But, by attorney, and to a second pur- 
 pose. 
 Now, I am sure it is a bawdy-house ; 
 I'll swear it, were the marshal here to 
 
 thank me: 
 The naming this commander doth con- 
 firm it. 
 Don Eace ! why, he 's the most authentic 
 
 dealer 
 I' these commodities, the superintendent 
 To all the quainter traffickers in town ! 
 He is the visitor, and does appoint 
 Who lies with whom, and at what hour; 
 
 what price; 
 Which gown, and in what smock; what 
 
 f all,»» what tire." 
 Him will I prove, by a third person, to 
 
 find 
 The subtleties of this dark labyrinth : 
 Which if I do discover, dear Sir Mam- 
 mon, 
 You'll give your poor friend leave, 
 
 though no philosopher, 
 To laugh ; for you that are, 't is thought, 
 shall weep. 
 Face. Sir, he does pray you '11 not forget. 
 Sur. I will not, sir. 
 
 Sir Epicure, I shall leave you. 
 
 Exit. 
 Mam. I follow you straight. 
 
 Face. But do so, good sir, to avoid sus- 
 picion. 
 This gent'man has a parlous head. 
 Mam. But wilt thou, Vlen, 
 
 Be constant to thy promise? 
 Face. As my life, sir. 
 
 Mam. And wilt thou insinuate what I am, 
 and praise me. 
 And say I am a noble fellow? 
 Face. 0, what else, sir? 
 
 And that you '11 make her royal with the 
 
 stone, 
 An empress; and yourself King of Ban- 
 tam. 
 Mam. Wilt thou do this? 
 Face. Will I, sir! 
 
 Mam. Lungs, my Lungs ! 
 
 I love thee. 
 Face. Send your stuff, sir, that my master 
 
 39 a collar, or a veil. 
 
 40 a head-dresB. 
 
 41 a machine for 
 turning a spit. 
 
 May busy himself about projection. 
 Mam. Thou 'st witch'd me, rogue : take, go. 
 
 (Gives him money.) 
 Face. Your jack,*! and all, sir. 
 
 Mam. Thou art a villain — I will send my 
 jack, 
 And the weights too. Slave, I could bite 
 
 thine ear. 
 Away, thou dost not care for me. 
 Face. Not I, sir! 
 
 Mam. Come, I was born to make thee, my 
 good weasel. 
 Set thee on a bench, and ha' thee twirl a 
 
 chain 
 With the best lord's vermin of 'em all. 
 Face. Away, sir. 
 
 Mam. A count, nay, a count palatine 
 
 Face. Good sir, go. 
 
 Mam. Shall not advance thee better: no, 
 nor faster. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Face. Re-enter Subtle and Del. 
 
 Sub. Has he bit? has he bit? 
 Face. And swallow'd, too, my Subtle. 
 
 I ha' given him line, and now he plays, i' 
 faith. 
 Sub. And shall we twitch him? 
 Face. Thorough both the gills. 
 
 A wench is a rare bait, with which a man 
 No sooner 's taken, but he straight firks 
 mad. 
 Sub. Dol, my Lord What's-hum's sister, 
 you must now 
 Bear yourself statelich. 
 Dol. 0, let me alone, 
 
 I '11 not forget my race, I warrant you. 
 I'll keep my distance, laugh and talk 
 
 aloud; 
 Have all the tricks of a proud scurvy 
 
 lady, 
 And be as rude 's her woman. 
 Face. Well said, sanguine ! *^ 
 
 Sub. But will he send his andirons? 
 Face. His jack too, 
 
 And 's iron shoeing-hom ; I ha' spoke to 
 
 him. Well, 
 I must not lose my wary gamester yon- 
 der. 
 Sub. 0, Monsieur Caution, that will not 
 
 be guU'd? 
 Face. Aye, 
 
 If I can strike a fine hook into him, 
 now! — 
 
 42 with light hair and ruddy complexioa. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 255 
 
 The Temple-church, there I have cast 
 mine angle. 
 
 Well, pray for me. I '11 about it. 
 (One knocks.) 
 Sub. What, more gudgeons ! *' 
 
 Dol, scout, scout! (Dol goes to the win- 
 dow.) Stay, Face, you must go to 
 the door; 
 
 'Pray God it be my anabaptist — W^ho 
 is't, Dol? 
 Dol. I know him not: he looks like a 
 
 gold-end-man.** 
 Sub. Gods so! 'tis he, he said he would 
 send — ^what call you him? 
 
 The sanctified elder, that should deal 
 
 For ^Mammon's jack and andirons. Let 
 him in. 
 
 Stay, help me off, first, with my gown. 
 {Exit Face with the gown.) Away, 
 
 Madam, to your withdrawing chamber. 
 Now, 
 
 Exit Dol. 
 
 In a new tune, new gesture, but old lan- 
 guage.— 
 
 This fellow is sent from one negotiates 
 with me 
 
 About the stone too, for the holy breth- 
 ren 
 
 Of Amsterdam, the exil'd saints, that 
 hope 
 
 To raise their discipline *° by it. I must 
 use him 
 
 In some strange fashion now, to make 
 him admire me. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Subtle. Enter Ananias. 
 
 Where is my drudge? 
 
 Enter Face. 
 
 Face. Sir ! 
 
 Sub. Take away the recipient, 
 
 And rectify your raenstrue from the 
 phlegma. 
 
 Then pour it on the Sol, in the cucurbite. 
 
 And let 'em macerate together. 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 
 And save the ground? 
 Sub. No : terra damnata 
 
 Must- not have entrance in the work. — 
 Who are you? 
 Ana. A faithful brother, if it please you. 
 Sub. What's that? 
 
 A Lullianist? a Ripley?" Filius artisf 
 Can you sublime and dulcify? Calcine? 
 Know you the sapor pontic? Sapor 
 
 stiptic? 
 Or what is homogene, or heterogene? 
 Ana. I understand no heathea language, 
 
 truly. 
 Sub. Heathen ! You Knipperdoling? " 
 Is Ars sacra, 
 Or ehrysopoeia, or spagyrica. 
 Or the pamphysic, or panarchic knowl- 
 edge, 
 A heathen language? 
 Ana. Heathen Greek, I take it. 
 
 Sub. How! Heathen Greek? 
 Ana. All 's heathen but the Hebrew. 
 
 Sub. Sirrah my varlet, stand you forth 
 and speak to him 
 Like a philosopher: answer i' the lan- 
 guage. 
 Name the vexations, and the martyriza- 
 
 tions 
 Of metals in the work. 
 Face. Sir, putrefaction. 
 
 Solution, ablution, sublimation, 
 Cohobation, calcination, ceration, and 
 Fixation. 
 Sub. This .is heathen Greek, to you, 
 
 now! — 
 And when comes vivification? 
 Face. After .mortification. 
 
 Sub. What's cohobation? 
 Face. 'T is the pouring on 
 
 Your aqua regis, and then draviring him 
 
 off. 
 To the trine circle of the seven spheres. 
 Sub. What 's the proper passion of 
 
 metals ? 
 Face. Malleation. 
 
 Sub. What's your ultimum supplicium 
 
 auri? 
 Face, Antimonium. 
 
 Sub. This's heathen Greek to you! — And 
 
 what's your mercury? 
 Face. A very fugitive, he will be gone, sir. 
 Sub. How know you him? 
 Face. By his viscosity, 
 
 His oleosity, and his suscitability. 
 Sub. How do you sublime him? 
 Face. With the ealce of egg-shells. 
 
 White marble, tale. 
 Sub. Your magisterium now, 
 
 What's that? _ 
 Face. Shifting, sir, your elements, 
 
 Dry into cold, cold into moist, moist into 
 hot. 
 
 43 fools. 
 
 44 a buyer of brok^ 
 en pieces of gold. 
 
 45 Puritan form of 
 churcli govern- 
 ment. (NeilBon.) 
 
 46 Lully and Bipley 
 were writers on 
 alchemy. 
 
 47 A German Ana- 
 baptist. 
 
256 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Hot into dry. 
 Sub. This is heathen Greek to you still ! 
 
 Your lapis pMlosophicusf 
 Face. 'T is a stone, 
 
 And not a stone; a spirit, a soul, and a 
 
 body : 
 Which if you do dissolve, it is dissolv'd; 
 If you coagulate, it is coagulated ; 
 If you make it to fly, it flieth. 
 Sub. Enough. 
 
 Exit Face. 
 This 's heathen Greek to you ! What are 
 you, sir? 
 Ana. Please you, a servant of the exil'd 
 brethren, 
 That deal with widows' and with orphans' 
 
 goods, 
 And make a just account unto the saints : 
 A deacon. 
 Sub. 0, you are sent from Master Whole- 
 some, 
 Your teacher? 
 Ana. Erom Tribulation Wholesome, 
 
 Our very zealous pastor. 
 Sub. Good ! I have 
 
 Some orphans' goods to come here. 
 Ana. Of what kind, sir? 
 
 Sub. Pewter and brass, andirons and 
 kitchenware. 
 Metals, that we must use our med'cine 
 
 on: 
 Wherein the brethren may have a 
 
 penn'orth 
 For ready money. 
 Ana. Were the orphans' parents 
 
 Sincere professors'? 
 Sub. Why do you ask? 
 
 Ana. Because 
 
 We then are to deal justly, and give, in 
 
 truth. 
 Their utmost value. 
 Sub. 'Slid, you 'd cozen else, 
 
 An if their parents were not of the faith- 
 ful!— 
 I will not trust you, now I think on 
 
 it, 
 Till I ha' talk'd with your pastor. Ha' 
 
 you brought money 
 To buy more coals? 
 Ana. No, surely. 
 
 Sub. No? How so? 
 
 Ana. The brethren bid me say unto you, 
 sir. 
 Surely, they will not venture any more 
 Till they may see projection. 
 Sub. How ! 
 
 Ana. You 've had 
 
 48 "Bayard, the typo of chivalry 
 Face's uniform and Drugger' 
 
 For the instruments, as bricks, and loam, 
 and glasses, 
 
 Already thirty pound; and for materials. 
 
 They say, some ninety more: and they 
 have heard since. 
 
 That one, at Heidelberg, made it of an 
 egg, 
 
 And a small paper of pin-dust. 
 Sub. What 's your name? 
 
 Ana. My name is Ananias. 
 Sub. Out ! the varlet 
 
 That cozen'd the apostles ! Hence, away ! 
 
 Flee, mischief! had your holy consistoi-y 
 
 No name to send me, of another sound 
 
 Than wicked Ananias? Send your el- 
 ders 
 
 Hither, to make atonement for you, 
 quickly. 
 
 And gi' me satisfaction; or out goes 
 
 The Are; and down th' alembics, and the 
 furnace, 
 
 Piger Henricus, or what not. Thou 
 wretch ! 
 
 Both sericon and bufo shall be lost. 
 
 Tell 'em. All hope of rooting out the 
 bishops, 
 
 Or th' anti- Christian hierarchy shall per- 
 ish. 
 
 If they stay threescore minutes: the 
 aqueity, 
 
 Terreity, and sulphureity 
 
 Shall run together again, and aU be an- 
 nuU'd, 
 
 Thou wicked Ananias! {Exit Ananias.) 
 This will fetch 'em. 
 
 And make 'em haste towards their gull- 
 ing more. 
 
 A man must deal like a rough nurse, and 
 fright 
 
 Those that are f roward, to an appetite. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 Subtle. Enter Face in his uniform, fol- 
 lowed by Brugger. 
 
 Face. He's busy with his spirits, but 
 we '11 upon him. 
 
 Sub. How now ! What mates, what Bay- 
 ards *' ha' we here ? 
 
 Face. I told you he would be furious. — 
 Sir, here's Nab 
 Has brought you another piece of gold to 
 
 took on ; 
 — We must appease him. Give it me, — 
 and prays you, 
 
 and soldierly bearing in allusion to 
 's smart bearing." (Schelling.) 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 257 
 
 You would devise — ^what is it, Nab? 
 Drug. A sign, sir. 
 
 Face. .Aye, a good lucky one, a tliriving 
 
 sign, doctor. 
 Sub. I was devising now. 
 Face. {Aside to Subtle.) 'Slight, do not 
 say so. 
 He will repent he ga' you any more. — 
 What say you to his constellation, doc- 
 tor. 
 The Balance? 
 Sub. No, that way is stale and common. 
 A townsman born in Taurus, gives the 
 
 bull, 
 Or the bull's head: in Aries, the ram. — 
 A poor device! No, I will have his 
 
 name 
 Form'd in some mystic character; whose 
 
 radii, 
 Striking the senses of the passers-by, 
 Shall, by a virtual influence, breed affec- 
 tions, 
 That may result upon the party owns it : 
 
 As thus 
 
 Face. Nab ! 
 
 Sub. He first shall have a bell, that 's 
 
 Abel; 
 And by it standing one whose name is 
 
 Dee/' 
 In a rug gown, there 's D, and Bug, 
 
 that's drug; 
 And right anenst him a dog snarling er; 
 There 's Drugger, Abel Drugger. That 's 
 
 his sign. 
 And here 's now mystery and hiero- 
 glyphic ! 
 Face. Abel, thou art made. 
 Drug. Sir, I do thank his worship. 
 
 Face. Six o' thy legs ^^ more will not do 
 it. Nab. 
 He has brought you a pipe of tobacco, 
 doctor. 
 Drug. Yes, sir; 
 
 I have another thing I would impart 
 
 Face. Out with it, Nab. 
 
 Drug. Sir, there is lodg'd, hard by me, 
 
 A rich young widow 
 
 Face. Good ! a bona roba ? ^^ 
 
 Drug. But nineteen at the most. 
 Face. Very good, Abel. 
 
 Drug. Marry, she's not in fashion yet; 
 she wears 
 A hood, but 't stands a-eop.^^ 
 Face. No matter, Abel. 
 
 Drug. And I do now and then give her a 
 
 fucus 
 
 Face. What! dost thou deal, Nab? 
 
 49 Dr. .Tohn Dee (1527-1608), an 
 astrologer of great repute, 
 
 Sub. I did tell you, captain. 
 
 Drug. And physic too, sometime, sir; for 
 which she trusts me 
 With all her mind. She 's come up here 
 
 of purpose 
 To learn the fashion. 
 Face. Good (his match too!) — On, Nab. 
 Drug. And she does strangely long to 
 
 know her fortune. 
 Face. God's lid. Nab, send her to the doc- 
 tor, hither. 
 Drug. Yes, I have spoke to her of his 
 worship already; 
 But she 's afraid it will be blown abroad. 
 And hurt her marriage. 
 Face. Hurt it ! 't is the way 
 
 To heal it, if 't were hurt ; to make it 
 
 more 
 Eollow'd and sought. Nab, thou shalt 
 
 tell her this. 
 She '11 be more known, more talk'd of ; 
 
 and your widows 
 Are ne'er of any price till they be fa- 
 mous; 
 Their honor is their multitude of suit- 
 ors. 
 Send her, it may be thy good fortune. 
 
 .What! 
 Thou dost not know ? 
 Drug. No, sir, she '11 never marry 
 
 Under a knight : her brother has made a 
 vow. 
 Face. What! and dost thou despair, my 
 little Nab, 
 Knowing what the doctor has set down 
 
 for thee. 
 And seeing so many o' the city dubb'd? 
 One glass o' thy water, with a madam I 
 
 know. 
 Will have it done. Nab. What 's her 
 brother? a knight? 
 Drug. No, sir, a gentleman newly warm 
 in's land, sir, 
 Scarce cold in his one and twenty, that 
 
 does govern 
 His sister here; and is a man himself 
 Of some three thousand a year, and is 
 
 come up 
 To learn to quarrel, and to live by his 
 
 wits. 
 And will go down again, and die i' the 
 country. 
 Face. How! to quarrel? 
 Drug. Yes, sir, to carry quarrels. 
 
 As gallants do ; to manage 'em by line. 
 Face. 'Slid, Nab, the doctor is the only 
 man 
 
 fio bows. 
 
 51 handsom? w^nch. 
 
 53 on the top of the head, 
 
258 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 In Christendom for him. He has made 
 
 a table, 
 With mathematical demonstrations, 
 Touching the art of quarrels : he will give 
 
 him 
 An instrument to quarrel by. Go, bring 
 
 'em both, 
 Him and his sister. And, for thee, with 
 
 her 
 The doctor happ'ly may persuade. Go 
 
 to: 
 'Shalt give his worship a new damask 
 
 suit 
 Upon the premises. 
 Sub. O, good captain! 
 
 Face. He shall; 
 
 He is the honestest fellow, doctor. Stay 
 
 not. 
 No offers; bring the damask, and the 
 parties. 
 Drug. I '11 try my power, sir. 
 Face. And thy will too. Nab. 
 
 Sub. "I is good tobacco, this ! What is 't 
 
 an ounce? 
 Face. He '11 send you a pound, doctor. 
 Sub. O no. 
 
 Face. He will do 't. 
 
 It is the goodest soul ! — ^Abel, about it. 
 Thou shalt know more anon. Away, be 
 gone. 
 
 Exit Abel. 
 A miserable rogue, and lives with cheese, 
 And has the worms. That was the cause, 
 
 indeed. 
 Why he came now: he dealt with me in 
 
 private. 
 To get a med'cine for 'em. 
 Sub. And shall, sir. This works. 
 
 Face. A wife, a wife for one on 's, my 
 dear Subtle! 
 We'll e'en draw lots, and he that fails, 
 
 shall have 
 The more in goods, the other has in tail. 
 5Mb. Rather the less; for she may be so 
 light 
 She may want grains. 
 Face. Aye ; or be such a burden, 
 
 A man would scarce endure her for the 
 whole. 
 Sub. Eaith, best let's see her first, and 
 
 then determine. 
 Face. Content: but Dol must ha' no 
 
 breath on 't. 
 Sub. Mum. 
 
 Away you, to your Surly yonder, catch 
 him. 
 Face. Pray God I ha' not stay'd too long. 
 Sub. I fear it. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. The lane before Lovewit's house. 
 
 Enter Tribulation Wholesome and 
 Ananias. 
 
 Tri. These chastisements are common to 
 the saints, 
 And such rebukes we of the separation 
 Must bear with willing shoulders, as the 
 
 trials 
 Sent forth to tempt our frailties. 
 Ana. In pure zeal 
 
 I do not like the man ; he is a heathen, 
 And speaks the language of Canaan, 
 truly. 
 Tri. I think him a profane person indeed. 
 Ana. He bears 
 
 The visible mark of the beast in his fore- 
 head. 
 And for his stone, it is a work of dark- 
 ness. 
 And with philosophy blinds the eyes of 
 man. 
 Tri. Good brother, we must bend unto all 
 means 
 That may give furtherance to the holy 
 cause. 
 Ana. Which his cannot: the sanctified 
 cause 
 Should have a sanctified course. 
 Tri. Not always necessary: 
 
 The children of perdition are oft times 
 Made instruments even of the greatest 
 
 works. 
 Beside, we should give somewhat to man's 
 
 nature. 
 The place he lives in, still about the fire. 
 And fume of metals, that intoxicate 
 The brain of man, and make him prone 
 
 to passion. 
 Where have you greater atheists than 
 
 your cooks'? 
 Or more profane or choleric, than your 
 
 glassmen ? 
 More anti-Christian than your bell- 
 founders? 
 What makes the devil so devilish, I would 
 
 ask you, 
 Satan, our common enemy, but his being 
 Perpetually about the fire, and boiling 
 Brimstone and arsenic? We must give, 
 
 I say. 
 Unto the motives, and the stirrers up 
 Of humors in the blood. It may be so, 
 When as the work is done, the stone is 
 
 made, 
 This heat of his may turn into a zeal, 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 259 
 
 And stand up for the beauteous disci- 
 pline 
 
 Against the menstrous °^ cloth and rag 
 of Rome. 
 
 We must await his calling, and the com- 
 ing 
 
 Of the good spirit.. You did fault, t' up- 
 braid hiui 
 
 With the brethren's blessing of Heidel-i 
 berg, weighing 
 
 What need we have to hasten on the 
 work, 
 
 For the restoring of the silenc'd saints,"* 
 
 Which ne'er will be but by the philoso- 
 . pher's stone. 
 
 And so a learned elder, one of Scotland, 
 
 Assur'd me; aurum potabile being 
 
 The only med'cine for the civil magis- 
 trate, 
 
 T' incline him to a feeling of the cause; 
 
 And must be daily us'd in the disease. 
 Ana. I have not edified more, truly, by 
 man; 
 
 Not since the beautiful light first shone 
 on me: 
 
 And I am sad my zeal hath so offended. 
 Tri. Let us call on him then. 
 Ana. The motion 's good, 
 
 And of the spirit ; I will knock first. 
 (Knocks.) Peace be within! 
 The door is opened, and tkey enter. 
 
 Scene 2. A room in Lovewit's house. 
 
 Enter Subtle, followed by Tribulation 
 and Ananias. 
 
 Sub. 
 
 time. 
 
 0, are you come"? 'Twas 
 Your threescore minutes 
 
 Were at last thread, you see; and down 
 had gone 
 
 Furnus acediae, turris circulatorius : 
 
 Lembie, bolt's-head, retort, and pelican 
 
 Had all been cinders. Wicked Ananias! 
 
 Art thou returu'd? Nay, then it goes 
 down yet. 
 Tri. Sir, be appeased ; he is come to hum- 
 ble 
 
 Himself in spirit, and to ask your pa- 
 tience, 
 
 If too much zeal hath carried him aside 
 
 From the due path. 
 Sub. Why, this doth qualify ! 
 
 5'n. The brethren had no purpose, verily. 
 
 To give you the least grievance; but are 
 ready 
 
 To lend their willing hands to any proj- 
 ect 
 The spirit and you direct. 
 Sub. This qualifies more ! 
 
 Tri. And for the orphans' goods, let them 
 
 be valu'd, 
 Or what is needful else to the holy work. 
 It shsill be numb'red; here, by me, the 
 
 saints 
 Throw down their purse before you. 
 Sub. This qualifies most ! 
 
 Why, thus it should be, now you under- 
 stand. 
 Have I diseours'd so unto you of our 
 
 stone. 
 And of the good that it shall bring your 
 
 cause 1 
 Show'd you (beside the main of hiring 
 
 forces 
 Abroad, drawing the Hollanders, your 
 
 friends, 
 From th' Indies, to serve you, with all 
 
 their fleet) 
 That even the med'cinal use shall make 
 
 you a faction 
 And party in the realm? As, put the 
 
 case, 
 That some great man in state, he have 
 
 the gout. 
 Why, you but send three drops of your 
 
 elixir, 
 You help him straight : there you have 
 
 made a friend. 
 Another has the palsy or the dropsy, 
 He takes of your incombustible stuff. 
 He 's young again : there you have made 
 
 a friend. 
 A lady that is past the feat of body, 
 Though not of mind, and hath her face 
 
 decay'd 
 Beyond all cure of paintings, you restore 
 With the oil of talc : there you have made 
 
 a friend; 
 And all her friends. A lord that is a 
 
 leper, 
 A knight that has the bone-ache, or a 
 
 squire 
 That hath both these, you make 'em 
 
 smooth and sound 
 With a bare fricaee-^" of your med'cine ; 
 
 still 
 You increase your friends. 
 Tri. Aye, 't is very pregnant. 
 
 Sub. And then the turning of this law- 
 yer's pewter 
 
 To plate at Christmas 
 
 Ana. Christ-tide,"* I pray you. 
 
 !is polluted. 
 
 B4 Non-conformist 
 
 ministers 
 lowed to 
 
 not al- 
 preach. 
 
 (Neilson.) 
 l>5 rubbing. 
 
 66 because the Puritans objected to the 
 use of the word mass in Christmas. 
 
260 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Sub. Yet, Ananias ! 
 
 Ana. I have done. 
 
 Sub. Or changing 
 
 His parcel ^'' gilt to massy gold. You 
 cannot 
 
 But raise you friends. Withal, to be of 
 power 
 
 To pay an army in the field, to buy 
 
 The King of France out of his realms, or 
 Spain 
 
 Out of his Indies. What can you not 
 do 
 
 Against lords spiritual or temporal. 
 
 That shall oppone ^* you ? 
 Tri. Yerily, 'tis true. 
 
 We may be temporal lords ourselves, I 
 take it. 
 Sub. You may be anything, and leave off 
 to make 
 
 Long-winded exercises; or suck up 
 
 Your ha! and hum! in a tune. I not 
 deny. 
 
 But such as are not graced in a state, 
 
 May, for their ends, be adverse in reli- 
 gion, 
 
 And get a tune to call the flock together : 
 
 For, to say sooth, a tune does much with 
 women 
 
 And other phlegmatic people; it is your 
 bell. 
 Ana. Bells are profane; a tune may be 
 
 religious. 
 Sub. No warning with you? Then fare- 
 well my patience. 
 
 'Slight, it shall down; I will not be thus 
 tortur'd. 
 Tri. I pray you, sir. 
 Sub. All shall perish. I have spoke it. 
 Tri. Let me find grace, sir, in your eyes; 
 the man. 
 
 He stands corrected ; neither did his zeal. 
 
 But as your self, allow a tune some- 
 where. 
 
 Which now, being tow'rd the stone, we 
 shall not need. 
 5Mb. No, nor your holy vizard, to win 
 widows 
 
 To give you legacies; or make zealous 
 wives 
 
 To rob their husbands for the common 
 cause : 
 
 Nor take the start of bonds broke but 
 one day, 
 
 And say they were forfeited by provi- 
 dence. 
 
 Nor shall you need o'er night to eat huge 
 meals, 
 
 B7 partly. "S oppose. 
 
 To celebrate your next day's fast the 
 better; 
 
 The whilst the brethren and the sisters 
 humbled. 
 
 Abate the stiffness of the flesh. Nor 
 cast 
 
 Before your hungry hearers scrupulous 
 bones; 
 
 As whether a Christian may hawk or 
 hunt. 
 
 Or whether matrons of the holy assem- 
 bly 
 
 May lay their hair out, or wear doublets, 
 
 Or have that idol, starch, about their 
 linen. 
 Ana. It is indeed an idol. 
 Tri. Mind" him not, sir. 
 
 I do command thee, spirit (of zeal, but 
 trouble), 
 
 To peace within him! Pray you, sir, 
 go on. 
 Sub. Nor shall you need to libel 'gainst 
 the prelates, 
 
 And shorten so your ears"® against the 
 hearing 
 
 Of the next wire-drawn grace. Nor of 
 necessity 
 
 Rail against plays, to please the alder- 
 man 
 
 Whose daily custard you devour; nor lie 
 
 With zealous rage till you are hoarse. 
 Not one 
 
 Of these so singular arts. Nor call your- 
 selves 
 
 By names of Tribulation, Persecution, 
 
 Restraint, Long-patience, and such like, 
 affected 
 
 By the whole family or wood ^^ of you. 
 
 Only for glory, and to catch the ear 
 
 Of the disciple. 
 Tri. Truly, sir, they are 
 
 Ways that the godly brethren have in- 
 vented. 
 
 For propagation of the glorious cause, 
 
 As very notable means, and whereby also 
 
 Themselves grow soon, and profitably, fa- 
 mous. 
 Sub. 0, but the stone, all's idle to't! 
 Nothing ! 
 
 The art of angels, nature's miracle. 
 
 The divine secret that doth fly in 
 clouds 
 
 From east to west : and whose tradition 
 
 Is not from men, but spirits. 
 Ana. I hate traditions; 
 
 I do not trust them 
 
 Tri. Peace I 
 
 59 in the pillory. 
 
 60 crowd. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 261 
 
 Ana. They are popish all. 
 
 I will not peace: I will not 
 
 Tri. Ananias ! 
 
 Ana. Please the profane, to grieve the 
 
 godly; I may not. 
 Sub. Well, Ananias, thou shalt overcome. 
 Tri. It is an ignorant zeal that haunts 
 him, sir: 
 But truly else a very faithful brother, 
 A botcher,"* and a man by revelation 
 That hath a competent knowledge of the 
 truth. 
 Suh. Has he a competent sum there i' the 
 bag 
 To buy the goods within? I am made 
 
 guardian, 
 And must, for charity and conscience' 
 
 sake. 
 Now see the most be made for my poor 
 
 orphan ; 
 Though I desire the brethren, too, good 
 
 gainers : 
 There they are within. When you have 
 
 view'd and bought 'em. 
 And ta'en the inventory of what they 
 
 are. 
 They are ready for projection; there's 
 
 no more 
 To do : cast on the med'cine, so much 
 
 silver 
 As there is tin there, so much gold as 
 
 brass, 
 I '11 gi' it you in by weight. 
 Tri. But how long time. 
 
 Sir, must the saints expect yet 1 
 Sub. Let me see, 
 
 How's the moon now? Eight, nine, ten 
 
 days hence, 
 He will be silver potate ; then three days 
 Before he citronise.®^ Some fifteen days, 
 The magisterium will be perfected. 
 Ana. About the second day»of the third 
 week. 
 In the ninth month ? 
 Sub. ' Yes, my good Ananias.- 
 
 Tri. What will the orphans' goods arise 
 
 to, think you? 
 Sub. Some hundred marks, as much as 
 flll'd three ears. 
 Unladed now : you '11 make six millions 
 
 of 'em 
 
 But I must ha' more coals laid in. 
 Tri. How? 
 
 Sub. Another load, 
 
 And then We ha' flnish'd. We must now 
 
 increase 
 Our fire to ignis ardens; we are past. 
 Fimus equirms, balnei, cineris, 
 
 61 a mender of clothes or shoes. 62 turn 
 
 And all those lenter "^ heats. If the holy 
 
 purse 
 Should with this draught fall low, and 
 
 that the saints 
 Do need a present sum, I have a trick 
 To melt the pewter you shall buy now 
 
 instantly. 
 And with a tincture make you as good 
 
 Dutch dollars 
 As any are in Holland. 
 Tri. Can you so? 
 
 Sub. Aye, and shall bide the third exami- 
 nation. 
 Ana. It will be joyful tidings to the 
 
 brethren. 
 Sub. But you must carry it secret. 
 Tri. Aye; but stay. 
 
 This act of coining, is it lawful? 
 Ana. Lawful ! 
 
 We know no magistrate : or, if we did, 
 This 's foreign coin. 
 Sub. It is no coining, sir. 
 
 It is but casting. 
 Tri. Ha ! you distinguish well : 
 
 Casting of money may be lawful. 
 Ana. 'T is, sir. 
 
 Tri. Truly, I take it so. 
 Sub. There is no scruple, 
 
 Sir, to be made of it ; believe Ananias ; 
 This case of conscience he is studied in. 
 Tri. I '11 make a question of it to the 
 
 brethren. 
 Ana. The brethren shall approve it law- 
 ful, doubt not. 
 Where shall 't be done? 
 Sub. For that we '11 talk anon. 
 (Knock without.) 
 There's some to speak with me. Go in, 
 
 I pray you, 
 And view the parcels. That 's the inven- 
 tory. 
 I'll come to you straight. (Exeunt Tri. 
 and Ana.) Who is it? — Face! ap- 
 pear. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Subtle. Enter Face in his uniform. 
 
 Sub. How now! good prize? 
 
 Face. Good pox ! Yond' costive cheater 
 
 Never came on. 
 Sub. How then? 
 
 Face. ' I ha' walk'd the round 
 
 Till now, and no such thing. 
 Sub. And ha' you quit him? 
 
 yellow. 
 
 63 gentler. 
 
262 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Face. Quit him! An hell would quit him 
 too, he were happy. 
 'Slight! would you have me stalk like a 
 
 mill-jade, 
 All day, for one that will not yield us 
 
 grains ? 
 I know him of old. 
 Sub. 0, but to ha' gull'd him, 
 
 Had been a mastery. 
 Face. Let him go, black boy ! ** 
 
 And turn thee, that some fresh news may 
 
 possess thee. 
 A noble count, a don of Spain (my dear 
 Delicious compeer, and my party-bawd). 
 Who is come hither private for his con-- 
 
 science 
 And brought munition with him, six 
 
 great slops,*^ 
 Bigger than three Dutch hoys,"' beside 
 
 round trunks, 
 Purnish'd with pistolets,*^ and pieces of 
 
 eight. 
 Will straight be here, my rogue, to have 
 
 thy bath, 
 (That is the color,*') and to make his 
 
 batt'ry 
 Upon our Del, our castle, our cinqueport. 
 Our Dover pier, our what thou wilt. 
 
 Wliere is she? 
 She must prepare perfumes, delicate 
 
 linen. 
 The bath in chief, a banquet, and her 
 
 wit. 
 For she must milk his epididimis. 
 Where is the doxy? 
 Sub. I'll send her to thee: 
 
 And but despatch my brace of little John 
 
 Leydens ""' 
 And come again myself. 
 Face. Are they within then ? 
 
 Sub. Numb'ring the sun. 
 Face. How much? 
 
 Sub. A hundred marks, boy. 
 
 Exit. 
 Face. Why, this is a lucky day. Ten 
 pounds of Mammon ! 
 Three o' my clerk! A portague o' my 
 
 grocer 
 
 This o' the brethren! Beside reversions 
 And states to come, i' the widow, and 
 
 my count! 
 My share to-day will not be bought for 
 
 forty 
 
 Dol. 
 
 84 knave. 
 
 es large breeches. 
 
 Enter Dol. 
 What? 
 
 ee small sloops. 
 67 Spanish coins. 
 
 Face. Pounds, dainty Dorothy ! Art tlipu 
 
 so near? 
 Dol. Yes; say, lord general, how fares our 
 
 camp? 
 Face. As with the few that had entrench'd 
 themselves 
 Safe, by their discipline, against a world, 
 
 Dol, 
 And laugh'd within those trenches, and 
 
 grew fat 
 With thinking on the booties, Dol, 
 
 brought in 
 Daily by their small parties. This dear 
 
 hour, 
 A doughty don is taken with my Dol ; 
 Ard thou raayst make his ransom what 
 
 thou wilt. 
 My Dousabel; he shall be brought here, 
 
 fetter'd 
 With thy fair looks, before he sees thee; 
 
 and thrown 
 In a down-bed, as dark as any dungeon ; 
 Where thou shalt keep him waking with 
 
 thy drum; 
 Thy drum, my Dol, thy drum; till he be 
 
 ■ tame 
 As the poor blackbirds were i' the great 
 
 frost. 
 Or bees are with a basin ; and so hive him 
 I' the swan-skin coverlid and cambric 
 
 sheets, 
 Till he work honey and wax, my little 
 God's-gift." 
 Dol. What is he, general? 
 Face. An adalantado,'^ 
 
 A grandee, girl. Was not my Dapper 
 here yet? 
 Dol. No. 
 
 Face. Nor my Drugger? 
 
 Dol. Neither. 
 
 Face. A pox on 'em. 
 
 They are so long a-fumishing! such 
 
 stinkards 
 Would not be seen upon these festival 
 days. — 
 
 Ee-enter Subtle. 
 
 How now! ha' you done? 
 Sub. Done. They are gone : the sum 
 
 Is here in bank, my Face. I would we 
 
 knew 
 Another chapman now who would buy 
 'em outright. 
 Face. 'Slid, Nab shall do 't against he ha' 
 the widow, 
 To furnish household. 
 
 68 pretext. 
 
 66 Leyden was an 
 Anabaptist leader. 
 
 70 the literal mean- 
 ing of Dorothy. 
 
 Ti governor of a 
 province. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 263 
 
 Sub. Excellent, well thought on ; 
 
 Pray God he come. 
 Face. I pray he keep away 
 
 Till our new business be o'erpast. 
 Sub. But, Face, 
 
 How camst thou by this secret don 1 
 Face. A spirit 
 
 Brought me th' intelligence in a paper 
 
 here. 
 As I was conjuring yonder in my cir- 
 cle 
 For Surly; I ha' my flies abroad. Your 
 
 bath 
 Is famous. Subtle, by my means. Sweet 
 
 Del, 
 You must go tune your virginal, no 
 
 losing 
 0' the least time. And — do you hear?— ^ 
 
 good action ! 
 Firk like a flounder; kiss like a scallop, 
 
 close ; 
 And tickle him with thy mother-tongue. 
 
 His' great 
 VerdugosHip has not a jot of lan- 
 guage; 
 So much the easier to be cozen'd, my 
 
 Dolly. 
 He will come here in a hir'd coach, ob- 
 scure. 
 And our own coachman, whom I have 
 sent as guide, 
 
 creature else. (One knocks.) 
 Who's that? 
 
 Exit Dol. 
 It is not he? 
 no, not yet this hour. 
 
 No 
 
 Sub. 
 Face 
 
 'Re-enter Dol. 
 
 Sub. Who is 't? 
 
 Dol. Dapper, 
 
 Your clerk. 
 Face. God's will then, Queen of Fairy, 
 
 On with your tire; (Exit Dol.) and, doe- 
 tor, with your robes. . 
 Let 's despatch him for God's sake. 
 Sub. 'Twill be long. 
 
 Face. I warrant you, take but the cues I 
 give you, 
 It shall be brief enough. (Goes to the 
 
 window.) 'Slight, here are more! 
 Abel, and I think the angry boy, the 
 
 heir, 
 That fain would quarrel. 
 Sub. And the widow? 
 
 Face. No, 
 
 Not that I see. Away! 
 
 Exit Sub. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Face. Enter Dapper. 
 
 Face. 0, sir, you are welcome. 
 
 The doctor is within a moving for you; 
 I have had the most ado to win him 
 
 toit!— 
 He swears you'll be the darling o' the 
 
 dice: 
 He never heard her highness dote till 
 
 now. 
 Your aunt has giv'n you the most gra- 
 cious words 
 That can be thought on. 
 Dap. Shall I see her grace? 
 
 Face. See her, and kiss her too. — 
 
 Enter Abel, followed by Kastril. 
 
 What, honest Nab! 
 Hast brought the damask? 
 Drug. No, sir; here's tobacco. 
 
 Face. 'T is well done. Nab ; thou 'It bring 
 
 the damask too? 
 Drug. Yes. Here 's the gentleman, cap- 
 tain. Master Kastril, 
 I have brought to see the doctor. 
 Face. Where 's the widow? 
 
 Drug. Sir, as he likes, his sister, he "says, 
 
 shall come. 
 Face. O, is it so? Good time. Is your 
 
 name Kastril, sir? 
 Kas. Aye, and tie best o' the Kastrils, I 'd 
 be sorry else. 
 By fifteen hundred a year. Where is 
 
 this doctor? 
 My mad tobacco-boy here tells me of one 
 That can do things. Has he any skill? 
 Face. Wherein, sir? 
 
 Kas. To carry a business, manage a quar- 
 rel fairly, 
 Upon fit terms. 
 Face. It seems, sir, you 're but young 
 
 About the town, that can make that a 
 question. 
 Kas. Sir, not so young but I have, heard 
 some speech 
 Of the angry boys,^^ and seen 'em take 
 
 tobacco ; 
 And in his shop ; and I can take it too. 
 And I would fain be one of 'em, and go 
 
 down 
 And practise i' the country. 
 Face. Sir, for the duello, 
 
 The doctor, I assure you, shall inform 
 
 you, 
 To the least shadow of a hair ; and show 
 you 
 
 72 "roaring boys," bravadoes. 
 
264 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 An instrument he has of his own mak- 
 ing,. 
 Wherewith, no sooner shall you make 
 
 report 
 Of any quarrel, but he will take the 
 
 height on't 
 Most instantly, and tell in what degree 
 Of safety it lies in, or mortality. 
 And how it may be borne, whether in a 
 
 right line, 
 Or a half circle ; or may else be cast 
 Into an angle blunt, if not acute : 
 And this he will demonstrate. And then, 
 
 rules 
 To give and take the lie by. 
 Kas. How! to take it? 
 
 Face. Yes, in oblique he 'U show you, or 
 in circle ; ^^ 
 But ne'er in diameter.^* The whole town 
 Study his theorems, and dispute them 
 
 ordinarily 
 At the eating academies. 
 Kas. But does he teach 
 
 Living by the wits too? 
 Face. Anything whatever. 
 
 You cannot think that subtlety but he 
 
 reads it. 
 He made me a captain. I was a stark 
 
 pimp. 
 Just o' your standing, 'fore I met with 
 
 him; 
 It 's not two months since. I '11 tell you 
 
 his method: 
 First, he will enter you at some ordi- 
 nary. 
 Kas. No, I '11 not come there : you shall 
 
 pardon me. 
 Face. For why, sir? 
 
 Kas. There 's gaming there, and tricks. 
 Face. Why, would you be 
 
 A gallant, and not game? 
 Kas. Aye, 't will spend a man. 
 
 Face. Spend you! It will repair you 
 when you are spent. 
 How do they live by their wits there, that 
 
 •have vented 
 Six times your fortunes? 
 Kas. What, three thousand a year ! 
 
 Face. Aye, forty thousand. 
 Kas. Are there such? 
 
 Face. Aye, sir, 
 
 And gallants yet. Here 's a young gen- 
 tleman 
 Is bom to nothing. — {Points to Dapper.) 
 
 forty marks a year 
 Which I count nothing : — ^he 's to be in- 
 itiated. 
 
 73 the lie circum- 
 Btuntial. 
 
 74 the lie direct. charge of 
 
 75 an official having gaming at 
 
 And have a fly o' the doctor. He will 
 win you 
 
 By unresistible luck, within this fort- 
 night. 
 
 Enough to buy a barony. They will set 
 him 
 
 Upmost, at the groom porter's,'^ aU the 
 Christmas : 
 
 And for the whole year through at every 
 place 
 
 Where there is play, present him with 
 the chair, 
 
 The best attendance, the best drink, some- 
 times 
 
 Two glasses of Canary, and pay noth- 
 ing; 
 
 The purest linen and the sharpest knife. 
 
 The partridge next his trencher: and 
 somewhere 
 
 The dainty bed, in private, with the 
 dainty. 
 
 You shall ha' your ordinaries bid for 
 him, 
 
 As playhouses for a poet; and the mas- 
 ter 
 
 Pray him aloud to name what dish he af- 
 fects, 
 
 Which must be butter'd shrimps: and 
 those that drink 
 
 To no mouth else, will drink to his, as 
 being 
 
 The goodly president mouth of all the 
 board. 
 Kas. Do you not gull one? 
 Face. 'Odsmylife! Do you think it? 
 
 You shall have a east '° commander, 
 (can but get 
 
 In credit with a glover, or a spurrier. 
 
 For some two pair of cither's ware afore- 
 hand,) 
 
 Will, by most swift posts, dealing [but] 
 with him, 
 
 Arrive at competent means to keep him- 
 self. 
 
 His punk, and naked boy, in excellent 
 fashion. 
 
 And be admir'd for 't. 
 Kas. Will the doctor teach this? 
 
 Face. He will do more, sir: when your 
 land is gone, 
 
 (As men of spirit hate to keep earth 
 long). 
 
 In a vacation,^' when small money is stir- 
 ring. 
 
 And ordinaries suspended till the term, 
 
 He '11 show a perspective,'* where on one 
 side 
 
 the 76 discharged. the law-courts, 
 
 court. 77 between terms of 78 conjuror's glass. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 265 
 
 You shall behold the faces and the per- 
 sons 
 
 Of all suflfleient young heirs in town, 
 
 Whose bonds are current for com- 
 modity; '"'• 
 
 On th' other side, the merchants' forms, 
 and others, 
 
 That without help of any second broker, 
 
 Who would expect a share, will trust 
 such parcels : 
 
 In the third square, the vei^ street and 
 sign 
 
 Where the commodity dwells, and does 
 but wait 
 
 To be delivered, be it pepper, soap, 
 
 Hops, or tobacco, oatmeal, woad,*" or 
 cheeses. 
 
 All which you may so handle, to enjoy 
 
 To your own use, and never stand 
 oblig'd. 
 Kas. I' faith ! is he such a fellow 1 
 Face. Wiy, Nab here knows him. 
 
 And then for making matches for rich 
 widows, 
 
 Young gentlewomen, heirs, the fortu- 
 nat'st man ! 
 
 He 's sent to, far and near, all over Eng- 
 land, 
 
 To have his 'counsel, and to know their 
 fortunes. 
 Kas. God's will, my suster shall see him. 
 Face. I'll tell you, sir, 
 
 What he did teU me of Nab. It 's a 
 strange thing — 
 
 (By the way, you must eat no cheese. 
 Nab, it breeds melancholy. 
 
 And that same melancholy breeds worms) 
 but pass it: — 
 
 He told me, honest Nab here was ne'er at 
 tavern 
 
 But once in 's life. 
 Drug. Truth, and no more I was not. 
 
 Face. And then he was so sick 
 
 Could he tell you that too ? 
 How should I know it 1 
 In troth, we had been a shoot- 
 ing, 
 
 And had a piece of fat ram-mutton to 
 supper, 
 
 That lay so heavy o' my stomach 
 
 Face. And he has no head 
 
 To bear any wine; for what with the 
 noise o' the fiddlers. 
 
 And care of his shop, for he dares keep 
 
 no servants 
 
 Drug. My head did so ache 
 
 Face. 
 Drug. 
 
 Face. As he was fain to be brought home. 
 
 The doctor told me : and then a good old 
 
 woman^ — 
 
 Drug. Yes, faith, she dwells in Seacoal- 
 
 lane, — did cure me 
 
 With sodden ale, and pellitory o' the 
 
 wall;" 
 Cost me but twopence. I had another 
 
 sickness 
 Was worse than that. 
 Face. Aye, that was with the grief 
 
 Thou took'st for being cess'd ^^ at eight- 
 
 een-pence, 
 For the waterwork. 
 Drug. In truth, and it was like 
 
 T' have cost me almost my life. 
 Face. Thy hair went off? 
 
 Drug, Yes, sir ; 't was done for spite. 
 Face. Nay, so says the doctor. 
 
 Kas. Pray thee, tobacco-boy, go fetch my 
 suster; 
 I 'U see this learned boy before I go ; 
 And so shall she. 
 Face. Sir, he is busy now : 
 
 But if you have a sister to fetch hither. 
 Perhaps your own pains may command 
 
 her sooner; 
 And he by that time will be free. 
 Kas. I go. 
 
 Exit. 
 Face. Drugger, she's thine: the damask! 
 — {Exit Abel.) Subtle and I 
 Must wrastle for her. (Aside.) Come 
 
 on, Master Dapper, 
 You see how I turn clients here away. 
 To give your cause dispatch; ha' you 
 
 perform'd 
 The ceremonies were enjoin'd you? 
 Dap. Yes, o' the vinegar. 
 
 And the clean shirt. 
 Face. 'T is well : that shirt may do you 
 More worship than you think. Your 
 
 aunt's afire. 
 But that she will not show it, t' have a 
 
 ' sight of you. 
 Ha' you provided for her grace's serv- 
 ants? 
 Dap, Yes, here are six score Edward shil- 
 lings. 
 Face. Good ! 
 
 Dap. And an old Harry's sovereign. 
 Face. Very good ! 
 
 Dap, And three James shillings, and an 
 Elizabeth groat, 
 Just twenty nobles. 
 Face. 0, you are too just. 
 
 79 The reference is to the "commodity" fraud, in which a 80 used for blue dye. S2 assessed, 
 
 borrower was obliged to take part of a loan in merchan- 81 wall pellitory, a 
 dise, which the lender frequently bought back by agents for plant growing in 
 
 much less than it represented in the loan. (Neilson.) old walls. 
 
266 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 I would you had had the other noble in 
 Maries. 
 Dap. I have some Philip and Maries. 
 Face. Aye, those "same 
 
 Are best of all: where are they? Hark, 
 the doctor. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Face, Dapper. Enter Subtle^ disguised 
 like a priest of Fairy with a strip of 
 cloth. 
 
 Sub. (In a feigned voice.) Is yet her 
 
 grace's cousin come? 
 Face. He is come. 
 
 Sub. And is he fasting? 
 Face. Yes. 
 
 Sub. And hath cried "hum"? 
 
 Face. Thrice, you must answer. 
 Dap. Thrice. 
 
 Sub. And as oft "buz"? 
 
 Face. If you have, say. 
 Dap. I have. 
 
 Sub. Then, to her eoz, 
 
 Hoping that he hath vinegar'd his senses, 
 As he was bid, the Tairy queen dis- 
 penses, 
 By me, this robe, the petticoat of For- 
 tune; 
 Which that he straight put on, she doth 
 
 importune. 
 And though to Fortune near be her petti- 
 coat. 
 Yet nearer is her smock, the queen doth 
 
 note: 
 And therefore, even of that a piece she 
 
 hath sent, 
 Which, being a child, to wrap him in was 
 
 rent; 
 And prays him for a scarf he now will 
 
 wear it, 
 With as diuch love as then her grace did 
 
 tear it. 
 About his eyes (They blind him with the 
 
 rag.) to show he is fortunate. 
 And, trusting unto her to make his state, 
 He '11 throw away all worldly pelf about 
 
 him; 
 Which that he will perform, she doth not 
 doubt him. 
 Face. She need not doubt him, sir. Alas, 
 he has nothing 
 But what he will part withal as willingly, 
 Upon her grace's word — ^throw away 
 your purse — 
 
 88 honestly. 
 
 As she would ask it : — handkerchiefs and 
 
 all- 
 She cannot bid that thing but he'll 
 
 obey. — 
 If you have a ring about you, cast it off. 
 Or a silver seal at your wrist; her grace 
 will send 
 (He throws away, as they bid him.) 
 Her fairies here to search you, therefore 
 
 deal 
 Directly*^ with her highness: if they 
 
 find 
 That you conceal a mite, you are undone. 
 Dap. Truly, there's all. 
 Face. All what? 
 
 Dap. My money; truly. 
 
 Face. Keep nothing that is transitory 
 about you. 
 (Aside to Subtle.) Bid Dol play music. 
 — Look, the elves are come 
 (Dol enters with a cittern.) 
 To pinch you, if you tell not the truth. 
 Advise you. 
 
 (They pinch him.) 
 Dap. 0! I have a paper with a spur- 
 
 ryal '* in 't. 
 Face. Ti, ti. 
 
 They knew 't, they say. 
 Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti. He has more yet. 
 
 Face. Ti, ti-ti-ti. I' the other pocket? 
 Stib. Titi, titi, titi, titi, titi. 
 
 They must pinch him or he will never 
 confess, they say. 
 
 (They pinch him again.) 
 Dap. 0, 0! 
 
 Face. Nay, pray you, hold: he is her 
 grace's nephew. 
 Ti, ti, tif What care you? Good faith, 
 
 you shall care. — 
 Deal plainly, sir, and shame the fairies. 
 
 Show 
 You are innocent. 
 Dap. By this good light, I ha' nothing. 
 
 Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti, to, ta. He does equivo- 
 cate she says: 
 Ti, ti do ti, ti ti do, ti da; and swears 
 by the light when he is blinded. 
 Dap. By this good dark, I ha' nothing but 
 a half-crown 
 Of gold about my wrist, that my love 
 
 gave me; 
 And a leaden heart I wore sin' she for- 
 sook me. 
 Face. I thought 't was something. And 
 would you incur 
 Your aunt's displeasure for these trifles? 
 Come, 
 
 84 a gold coin worth ISs. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 267 
 
 I had rather you had thrown away 
 
 To anybody, till then. 
 
 twenty half-crowns. 
 
 Face. For that we'll put, sir, 
 
 (Takes it off.) 
 
 A stay in 's mouth. 
 
 You may wear your leaden heart still. — 
 
 Sub. Of what? 
 
 How now! 
 
 Face. Of gingerbread. 
 
 Suh. What news, Dol? 
 
 Make you it fit. He that hath pleas'd 
 
 Dol. Yonder 's your knight, Sir Mammon. 
 
 her grace 
 
 Face. God's lid, we never thought of him 
 
 Thus far, shall not now crinkle'" for a 
 
 till now! 
 
 little. 
 
 Where is he? 
 
 Gape, sir, and let him fit you. 
 
 Dol. Here hard by. He 's at the door. 
 
 (They thrust a gag of gingerbread into his 
 
 Sub. And you are not ready now! Dol, 
 
 mouth.) 
 
 get his suit. 
 
 Sub. Where shall we now 
 
 Exit Bol. 
 
 Bestow him? 
 
 He must not be sent back. 
 
 Dol. I' the privy. 
 
 Face. 0, by no means. 
 
 Sub. Come along, sir. 
 
 What shall we do with this same puffin *° 
 
 I must now show you Fortune's privy 
 
 here. 
 
 lodgings. 
 
 Now he 's o' the spit t 
 
 Face. Are they perfum'd, and his bath 
 
 Suh. Why, lay him back awhile. 
 
 ready? 
 
 With some device. 
 
 Sub. All: 
 
 
 Only the fumigation 's somewhat strong. 
 
 Re-enter Dol with Face's clothes. 
 
 Face. (Speaking through the keyhole.) 
 
 
 Sir Epicure, I am yours, sir, by and 
 
 —Ti, ti, ti, ti, ti, ti. Would her 
 
 by." 
 
 grace speak with me? 
 
 Exeunt with Dapper. 
 
 I come. — Help, Dol! 
 
 
 (Knocking without.) 
 
 
 Face. (Speaks through the keyhole.) — 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Who's there? Sir Epicure, 
 
 
 My master's i' the way. Please you to 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 walk 
 
 
 Three or four turns, but tiU his back be 
 
 Enter Face and Mammon. 
 
 tum'd, 
 
 
 And I am for you.— Quickly, Dol ! 
 
 Face. 0, sir, you 're come i' the only finest 
 
 Sub. Her grace 
 
 time. 
 
 Commends her kindly to you, Master 
 
 Mam. Where's master? 
 
 Dapper. 
 
 Face. Now preparing for projection, sir. 
 
 Dap. I long to see her gi-ace. 
 
 Your stuff will be all chang'd shortly. 
 
 Sub. She now is set 
 
 Mam. Into gold? 
 
 At dinner in her bed, and she has sent 
 
 Face. To gold and silver, sir. 
 
 you 
 
 Mam. Silver I care not for. 
 
 From her own private trencher, a dead 
 
 Face. Yes, sir, a little to give beggars. 
 
 mouse. 
 
 Mam. Where's the lady? 
 
 And a piece of gingerbread, to be merry 
 
 Face. At hand here. I ha' told her such 
 
 withal. 
 
 brave things o' you. 
 
 And stay your stomach, lest you faint 
 
 Touching your bounty and your noble 
 
 with fasting : 
 
 spirit 
 
 Yet if you could hold out till she saw 
 
 Mam. Hast thou? 
 
 you, she says. 
 
 Face. As she is almost in her fit to see 
 
 It would be better for you. 
 
 you. 
 
 Face. Sir, he shall 
 
 But, good sir, no divinity i' your con- 
 
 Hold out, an 't were this two hours, for 
 
 ference, 
 
 her highness; 
 
 For fear of putting her in rage. 
 
 I can assure you that. We will not lose 
 
 Mam. I warrant thee. 
 
 All we ha' done. 
 
 Face. Six men will not hold her down. 
 
 Sub. He must not see, nor speak 
 
 And then. 
 
 85 fool. 
 
 8a waver. 
 
 87 immediately. 
 
268 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 If the old man should hear or see 
 
 you 
 
 Mam. Fear not. 
 
 Face. The very house, sir, would run mad. 
 You know it, 
 How scrupulous he is, and violent, 
 'Gainst the least act of Din. Physic or 
 
 mathematics, 
 Poetry, state,'* or bawdry, as I told you, 
 She will endure, and never startle; but 
 No word of controversy. 
 Mam. I am school'd, good TJlen. 
 
 Face. And you must praise her house, re- 
 member that, 
 And her nobility. 
 Mam. Let me alone: 
 
 No herald, no, nor antiquaiy. Lungs, 
 Shall do it better. Go. 
 Face. (Aside.) Why, this is yet 
 
 A kind of modern happiness,'* to have 
 Dol Common for a great lady. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Mam. Now, Epicure, 
 
 Heighten thyself, talk to her all in gold ; 
 
 Rain her as many showers as Jove did 
 
 drops 
 Unto his Danae ; show the god a miser, 
 Compar'd with Mammon. What! the 
 
 stone will do 't. 
 She shall feel gold, taste gold, hear gold, 
 
 sleep gold; 
 Nay, we will coneumbere gold ; I will be 
 
 puissant, 
 And mighty in my talk to her. — 
 
 Me-enter Face with Dol richly dressed. 
 
 Here she comes. 
 Face. To him, Dol, suckle him. This is 
 
 the noble knight 
 
 I told your ladyship 
 
 Mam. Madam, with your pardon, 
 
 I kiss your vesture. 
 Dol. Sir, I were uncivil 
 
 If I would suffer that ; my lip to you, sir. ' 
 Mam. I hope my lord your brother be in 
 
 health, lady. 
 Dol. My lord my brother is, though I no 
 
 lady, sir. 
 Face. (Aside.) Well said, my Guinea 
 
 bird. 
 
 Mam. Right noble madam 
 
 Face. (Aside.) 0, we shall have most 
 
 fierce idolatry. 
 Mam. 'T is your prerogative. 
 Dol. Rather your courtesy. 
 
 Mam. Were there nought else t' enlarge 
 
 your virtues to me, 
 
 88 politics. 
 
 These answers speak your breeding and 
 your blood. 
 Dol, Blood we boast none, sir; a poor 
 
 baron's daughter. 
 Mam. Poor! and gat you? Profane not. 
 Had your father 
 Slept all the happy remnant of his life 
 After that act, lain but there still, and 
 
 panted. 
 He 'd done enough to make himself, his 
 
 issue. 
 And his posterity noble. 
 Dol. Sir, although 
 
 We may be said to want the gUt and 
 
 trappings. 
 The dress of honor, yet we strive to keep 
 The seeds and the materials. 
 Mam. 1 do see 
 
 The old ingredient, virtue, was not lost. 
 Nor the drug money us'd to make your 
 
 compound. 
 There is a strange nobility i' your eye, 
 This lip, that chin ! Methinks you do re- 
 semble 
 One o' the Austriac princes. 
 Face. (Aside.) Very like! 
 
 Her father was an Irish costermonger. 
 Mam, The house of Valois just had such 
 a nose. 
 And such a forehead yet the Medici 
 Of Florence boast. 
 Dol. Troth, and I have been lik'ned 
 
 To all these princes. 
 Face. (Aside.) I '11 be sworn, I heard it. 
 Mam. I know not how ! it is not any one, 
 But e'en the very choice of all their fea- 
 tures. 
 Face. (Aside.) I'll in, and laugh. 
 
 Exit. 
 Mam. A certain touch, or air, 
 
 That sparkles a divinity beyond 
 An earthly beauty ! 
 Dol. 0, you play the courtier. 
 
 Mam. Good lady, gi' me leave 
 
 Dol. In faith, I may not, 
 
 To mock me, sir. 
 Mam. To burn i' this sweet flame ; 
 
 The phoenix never knew a nobler death. 
 Dol. Nay, now you court the courtier, and 
 destroy 
 What you would build. This art, sir, i' 
 
 your words. 
 Calls your whole faith in question. 
 
 Mam. By my soul 
 
 Dol. Nay, oaths are made o' the same air, 
 
 sir. 
 Mam. Nature 
 
 Never bestow'd upon mortality 
 
 8S up-to-date fitness. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 269 
 
 A more unblam'd, a more harmonious 
 feature ; 
 
 She play'd the step-dame in all faces 
 else: 
 
 Sweet madam, le' me be particular 
 
 Bol. Particular, sir! I pray you, know 
 
 your distance. 
 Mam. In no ill sense, sweet lady: but to 
 ask 
 
 How your fair graces pass the hours ? I 
 see 
 
 You 're lodg'd here, i' the house of a rare 
 man, 
 
 An excellent artist : but what 's that to 
 you? 
 Dol. Yes, sir; I study here the mathe- 
 matics and distillation. 
 Mam. O, I cry your pardon. 
 
 He 's a divine instructor ! can extract 
 
 The souls of all things by his art; call 
 all 
 
 The virtues, and the miracles of the sun. 
 
 Into a temperate furnace ; teach dull na- 
 ture 
 
 What her own forces are. A man, the 
 emp'ror 
 
 Has courted above Kelly ; ^° sent his 
 medals 
 
 And chains, t' invite him. 
 
 Bol. Aye, and for his physic, sir 
 
 Mam. Above the art of .^sculapius. 
 
 That drew the envy of the Thunderer ! 
 
 I know all this, and more. 
 Bol. Troth, I am taken, sir. 
 
 Whole with these studies that contem- 
 plate nature. 
 Mam. It is a noble humor; but this form 
 
 Was not intended to so dark a use. 
 
 Had you been crooked, foul, of some 
 coarse mould, 
 
 A cloister had done well; but such a 
 feature. 
 
 That might stand up the glory of a king- 
 dom, 
 
 To live recluse is a mere solecism, 
 
 Though in a nunnery. It must not be. 
 
 I muse, my lord your brother will per- 
 mit it: 
 
 You should spend half my land first, 
 were I he. 
 
 Does not this diamond better on my fin- 
 ger 
 
 Than i' the quarry? 
 Bol. Yes. 
 
 Mam. Why, you are like it.- 
 
 You were created, lady, for the light. 
 
 Here, you shall wear it ; take it, the first 
 pledge 
 
 80 An astrologer, and associate of John Dee 
 
 Of what I speak, to bind you to believe 
 me. 
 Bol. In chains of adamant? - 
 Mam. Yes, the strongest bands. 
 
 And take a secret too. — Here, by your 
 
 side. 
 Doth stand this hour the happiest man in 
 Europe. 
 Bol. You are contented, sir? 
 Mam. Nay, in true being. 
 
 The envy of princes and the fear of 
 states. 
 Bol. Say you so. Sir Epicure? 
 Mam. Yes, and thou shalt p!rove it, 
 
 Daughter of honor. I have cast mine 
 
 eye 
 Upon thy form, and I will rear this 
 
 beauty 
 Above all styles. 
 Bol. You mean no treason, sir? 
 
 Mam. No, I will take away that jealousy. 
 I am the lord of the philosopher's 
 
 stone. 
 And thou the lady. 
 Bol. How, sir! ha' you that? 
 
 Mam. I am the master of the mastery. 
 This day the good old wretch here o' the 
 
 house 
 Has made it for us : now he 's at projec- 
 tion. 
 Think therefore thy first wish now, let 
 
 me hear it ; 
 And it shall rain into thy lap, no shower. 
 But fioods of gold, whole cataracts, a del- 
 uge, 
 To get a nation on thee. 
 Bol. You are pleas'd, sir. 
 
 To work on the ambition of our sex. 
 Mam. I am pleas'd the glory of her sex 
 should know. 
 This nook here of the Eriars is no cli- 
 mate 
 For her to live obscurely in, to learn 
 Physic and surgery, for the constable's 
 
 wife 
 Of some odd hundred in Essex ; but come 
 
 forth, 
 And taste the air of palaces ; eat, drink 
 The toils of empirics, and their boasted 
 
 practice ; 
 Tincture of pearl, and coral, gold, and 
 
 amber ; 
 Be seen at feasts and triumphs; have it 
 
 ask'd. 
 What miracle she is ; set all the eyes 
 Of court a-fire, like a burning glass. 
 And work 'em into cinders, when the 
 jewels 
 
 the emperor is Rudolph II of Germany. 
 
270 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Of twenty states adorn thee, and the 
 light 
 
 Strikes out-the stars that, when thy name 
 is mention'd, 
 
 Queens may look pale ; and, we but show- 
 ing our love, 
 
 Nero's Poppsea may be lost in story ! 
 
 Thus will we have it. 
 Dol. I could well consent, sir. 
 
 But in a monarchy, how will this be? 
 
 The prince will soon take notice, and 
 both seize 
 
 You and your stone, it being a wealth 
 unfit 
 
 For any private subject. 
 Mam. If he knew it. 
 
 Dol. Yourself do boast it, sir. 
 Mam. To thee, my life. 
 
 Dol. 0, but beware, sir! You may come 
 to end 
 
 The remnant of your days in a loath'd 
 prison, 
 
 By speaking of it. 
 Mam. 'T is no idle fear. 
 
 We '11 therefore go with all, my girl, and 
 live 
 
 In a free state, where we will eat our 
 mullets, 
 
 Sous'd in high-country wines, sup pheas- 
 ants' eggs, 
 
 And have our cockles boil'd in silver 
 shells ; 
 
 Our shrimps to swim again, as when they 
 liv'd, 
 
 In a rare butter made of dolphins' milk. 
 
 Whose cream does look like opals; and 
 with these 
 
 Delicate meats set ourselves high for 
 pleasure, 
 
 And take us down again, and then renew 
 
 Our youth and strength with drinking the 
 elixir. 
 
 And so enjoy a perpetuity 
 
 Of life and lust! And thou shalt ha' 
 thy wardrobe 
 
 Richer than Nature's, still to change thy- 
 self, 
 
 And vary oft'ner, for thy pride, than 
 she, 
 
 Or Art, her wise and almost-equal serv- 
 ant. 
 
 Ee-enter Face.' 
 
 Face. Sir, you are too loud. I hear you 
 
 every word 
 Into the laboratoiy. Some fitter place; 
 The garden, or great chamber above. 
 
 How like you her? 
 
 Mam. Excellent! Lungs, There's for 
 thee.. 
 
 (Gives him money.) 
 Face. But do you hearl 
 
 Good sir, beware, no mention of the rab- 
 bins. 
 Mam. We think not on 'em. 
 
 Exeunt Mam. and Dol. 
 Face. 0, it is well, sir. — Subtle! 
 
 Scene 2. 
 Face. Enter Subtle. 
 
 Dost thou not laugh ? 
 Sub, Yes; are they gone? 
 
 Face. All 's clear. 
 
 Sub. The widow is come. 
 Face. And your quarreling disciple? 
 
 Sub. Aye. 
 Face. I must to my captainship again 
 
 then. 
 Sub. Stay, bring 'em in first. 
 Face. So I meant. What is she? 
 
 A bonnibel? 
 Sub. I know not. 
 
 Face. We '11 draw lots : 
 
 You'llstand to that? 
 Sub. What else? 
 
 Face. 0, for a suit. 
 
 To fall now like a curtain, flap ! 
 Sub. To th' door, man. 
 
 Face. You '11 ha' the first kiss, 'cause I am 
 not ready. 
 
 Exit. 
 Sub. Yes, and perhaps hit you through 
 
 both the nostrils. 
 Face. {Within.) Who would you speak 
 
 with? 
 Kas. {Within.) Where's the captain? 
 Face. {Within.) Gone, sir. 
 
 About some business. 
 Kas. {Within.) Gone! 
 
 Face. {Within.) He'll return straight. 
 
 But, master doctor, his lieutenant, is 
 here. 
 
 Enter Kastril, followed by Dame Pliant. 
 
 Sub. Come near, my worshipful boy, my 
 terrae flli, 
 
 That is, my boy of land; make thy ap- 
 proaches : 
 
 Welcome; I know thy lusts and thy de- 
 sires, 
 
 And I will serve and satisfy 'em. Begin, 
 
 Charge me from thence, or thence, or in 
 this line; 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 271 
 
 Here is my centre: ground thy quarrel. 
 
 Kas. You lie. 
 
 Sub. How, child of wrath and anger ! the 
 
 loud lie? 
 
 For what, my sudden boy 1 
 
 Kas. Nay, that look you to, 
 
 I am aforehand. 
 Sub. 0, this is no true grammar, 
 
 And as ill logic ! You must render 
 
 causes, child, 
 Your first and second intentions, know 
 
 your canons 
 And your divisions, moods, degrees, and 
 
 differences, 
 Your predicaments, substance, and acci- 
 dent, 
 Series extern and intern, with their 
 
 causes, 
 Efficient, material, formal, final. 
 And ha' your elements perfect? 
 Kas. What is this? 
 
 The angry tongue he talks in? 
 Sub. That false precept. 
 
 Of being aforehand, has deceiv'd a num- 
 ber, 
 And made 'em enter quarrels oftentimes 
 Before they were aware; and afterward, 
 Against their wills. 
 Kas. How must I do then, sir? 
 
 Sub. I cry this lady mercy; she should 
 first 
 Have been saluted. {Kisses her.) I do 
 
 call you lady. 
 Because you are to be one ere't be long, 
 My soft and buxom widow. 
 Kas. Is she, i' faith? 
 
 Sub. Yes, or my art is an egregious liar. 
 Kas. How know you ? 
 Sub. 'By inspection on her forehead. 
 
 And subtlety of her lip, which must be 
 
 tasted 
 Often to make a judgment. (Kisses her 
 
 again.) 'Slight, she melts 
 Like a myrobolane."^ Here is yet a line, 
 In rivo frontis, tells me he is no knight. 
 Dame P. What is he then, sir? 
 Sub. Let me see your hand. 
 
 0, your linea fortunae makes it plain ; 
 And Stella here in monte Y^'^^^^^- 
 But, most of all, junctura annularis. 
 He is a soldier, or a man of art, lady. 
 But shall have some great honor shortly. 
 Dame P. Brother, 
 
 He 's a rare man, believe me ! 
 
 Re-enter Face, in his uniform.' 
 
 Kas. Hold your peace. 
 
 91 a dried plum, a sweetmeat. 
 
 Here comes t' other rare man. — 'Save 
 you, captain. 
 Face. Good Master Kastril ! Is this your 
 
 sister? 
 Kas. Aye, sir. 
 
 Please you to kuss her, and be proud to 
 know her. 
 Face. I shall be proud to know you, lady. 
 
 (Kisses her.) 
 Dame P. Brother, 
 
 He calls me lady, too. 
 Kas. Aye, peace : I heard it. 
 
 (Takes her aside.) 
 Face. The count is come. 
 Sub. Where is he? 
 
 Face. At the door. 
 
 Sub. Why, you must entertain him. 
 Face. What will you do 
 
 With these the while? 
 Sub. Why, have 'em up, and show 'em 
 
 Some fustian '^ book, or the dark glass. 
 Face. 'Fore God, 
 
 She is a delicate dabchick ! I must have 
 her. 
 
 Exit. 
 Sub. (Aside.) Must you! Aye, if your 
 fortune will, you must. — 
 Come, sir, the captain will come to us 
 
 presently : 
 I '11 ha' you to my chamber of demonstra- 
 tions. 
 Where I 'U show you both the grammar 
 
 and logic, 
 And rhetoric of quarreling; my whole 
 
 method 
 Drawn out in tables ; and my instrument. 
 That hath the several scales upon 't shall 
 
 make you 
 Able to quarrel at a straw's-breadth by 
 
 moonlight. 
 And, lady, I '11 have you look in a glass. 
 Some half an hour, but to clear your eye- 
 sight, 
 Against you see your fortune; which is 
 
 greater 
 Than I may judge upon the sudden, trust 
 me. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Enter Face. 
 
 Face. Where are you, doctor? 
 
 Sub. (Within.) I'll come to you pres- 
 ently. 
 
 Face. I will ha' this same widow, now I 
 ha' seen her, 
 
 02 full of incomprehensible jargon. 
 
272 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 On any composition."^ 
 
 Enter Subtle. 
 
 Sub. What do you say? 
 
 Face. Ha' you dispos'd of them? 
 Sub. ■ I ha' sent 'em up. 
 
 Face. Subtle, in troth, I needs must have 
 
 this widow. 
 Sub. Is that the matter? 
 Face. Nay, but bear me. 
 
 Sub. Go to. 
 
 If you rebel once, Dol shall know it aU : 
 Therefore be quiet, and obey your chance. 
 Face. Nay, thou art so violent now. Do 
 but conceive. 
 
 Thou art old, and canst not serve 
 
 Sub. Who cannot? I? 
 
 'Slight, I will serve her with thee, foj 
 
 a 
 
 Face. Nay, 
 
 But understand : I '11 gi' you composition. 
 Sub. I will not treat with thee. What! 
 sell my fortune ? 
 'T is better than my birthright. Do not 
 
 murmur : 
 Win her, and carry her. If you grum- 
 ble, Dol 
 Knows it directly. 
 Face. Well, sir, I am silent. 
 
 Will you go help to fetch in Don in 
 state? 
 
 Exit. 
 Sub. 1 follow you, sir. We must keep 
 Face in awe. 
 Or he will overlook us like a tyrant. 
 
 Be-enter Face, introducing Surly like a 
 Spaniard. 
 
 Brain of a tailor! who comes here? 
 Don John I 
 Sur. Senores, beso las manos a vuestras 
 
 mercedes.^* 
 Sub. Would you had stoop'd a little, and 
 
 kist our anos. 
 Face. Peace, Subtle! 
 Sub. Stab me ; I shall never hold, man. 
 He looks in that deep ruff like a head in 
 
 a platter, 
 Serv'd in by a short cloak upon two tres- 
 tles. 
 Face. Or what do you say to a collar of 
 brawn,"^ cut down 
 Beneath the souse,** and wriggled '^ with 
 a knife? 
 
 Sub. 'Slud, he does look too fat to be a 
 
 Spaniard. 
 Face. Perhaps some Tleming or some 
 Hollander got him 
 In d' Alva's »8 time; Count Egmont's»» 
 bastard. 
 Sub. Don, 
 
 Your scurvy, yellow, Madrid face is wel- 
 come. 
 Sur. Gratia. 
 
 Sub. He speaks out of a fortification. 
 
 Pray God he ha' no* squibs in those deep 
 sets.^ 
 Sur. For dios, senores, muy linda casa!^ 
 Sub. What says he? 
 Face. Praises the house, I think; 
 
 I know no more but 's action. 
 Sub. Yes, the casa, 
 
 My precious Diego, will prove fair 
 
 enough 
 To cozen you in. Do you mark? You 
 
 shall 
 Be cozened, Diego. 
 Face. Cozened, do you see, 
 
 My worthy Donzel,^ cozened. 
 Sur. Entiendo.* 
 
 Sub. Do you intend it? So do we, dear 
 Don. 
 Have you brought pistolets or portagues, 
 My solemn Don? (To Face.) Dost 
 thou feel any? 
 Face. (Feels his pockets.) Full. 
 
 Sub. You shall be emptied, Don, pumped 
 and drawn 
 Dry, as they say. 
 Face. Milked, in troth, sweet Don. 
 
 Sub. See all the monsters; the great lion 
 
 of all, Don. 
 Sur. Con licencia, se puede ver a esta se- 
 
 noraf ^ 
 Sub. What talks he now? 
 Face. Of the senora. 
 
 Sub. 0, Don, 
 
 This is the lioness, which you shall see 
 Also, my Don. 
 Face. 'Slid, Subtle, how shall we do? 
 
 Sub. For what? 
 
 Face. Why, Dol 's employ'd, you know. 
 
 Sub. That's true. 
 
 'Fore heav'n I know not: he must stay, 
 
 that 's all. 
 
 Face. Stay ! that he must not by no means. 
 
 Sub. No! why? 
 
 Face. Unless you'll mar all. 'Slight, 
 
 he '11 suspect it ; 
 
 93 on any terms. 
 
 94 "Sirs, I kiss your 
 hands." 
 
 95 a rolled-up piece 
 of boar's flesh. 
 
 96 under the ears. 
 
 97 slashed (so that it 
 looks like a ruff). 
 
 08 The Duke of 
 Alva, governor of 
 
 the Netherlands, 
 1567-78. 
 99 A Flemish leader, 
 executed by Alva. 
 
 1 folds. 
 
 2 "Gad, sirs, a very 
 pretty house." 
 
 8 squire. 
 
 4 "I understand " 
 6 "If you please, 
 
 may I see the 
 
 lady!" 
 
Tttm ALCHEMIST 
 
 273 
 
 And then he will not pay, not half so 
 
 I '11 think of this. Will you, sir, call the 
 
 well. 
 
 widow? 
 
 This is a travell'd punk-master, and does 
 
 Face. Yes, and I'll take her too with all 
 
 know 
 
 her JEaults, 
 
 All the delays ; a notable hot rascal, 
 
 Now I do think on 't better. 
 
 And looks already rampant. 
 
 Sub. With all my heart, sir; 
 
 Sub. 'Sdeath, and Mammon 
 
 Am I discharg'd o' the lot? 
 
 Must not be troubled. 
 
 Face. As you please. 
 
 Face. Mammon ! in no case. 
 
 Sub. Hands. 
 
 Sub. What shall we do then? 
 
 {They shake hands.) 
 
 Face. Think: you must be sudden. 
 
 Face. Remember now, that upon any 
 
 Sur. Entiendo que la senora es tan 
 
 change 
 
 hermosa, que codicio tan a verla como la 
 
 You never claim her. 
 
 bien aventuranza de mi vida.' 
 
 Sub. Much good joy and health to you. 
 
 Face. Mi vida! 'Slid, Subtle, he puts me 
 
 sir, 
 
 in mind o' the widow. 
 
 Marry a whore! Fate, let me wed a 
 
 What dost thou say to draw her to 't. 
 
 witch first. 
 
 ha! 
 
 Sur, For estas honradas barbas '^° 
 
 And tell her 'tis her fortune? All our 
 
 Sub. He swears by his beard-. 
 
 venture 
 
 Dispatch, and call the brother too. 
 
 Now lies upon 't. It is but one man 
 
 Exit Face. 
 
 more, 
 
 Sur. Tengo duda, senores, que no me ha- 
 
 Which on 's chance to have her : and be- 
 
 gan alguna traycion.^^ 
 
 side, 
 
 Sub. How, issue on? Yes, praesto, senor. 
 
 There is no maidenhead to be fear'd or 
 
 Please you ' 
 
 lost. 
 
 Enthratha the chambratha, worthy don : 
 
 What dost thou think on 't. Subtle? 
 
 Where if you please the fates, in your 
 
 Sub. Who, I? why 
 
 bathada, 
 
 Face. The credit of our house too is en- 
 
 You shall be soak'd, and strok'd, and 
 
 gag'd. 
 
 tubb'd, and rubb'd. 
 
 Sub. You made me an offer for my share 
 
 And serubb'd, and fubb'd,^^ dear Don, 
 
 ere-while. 
 
 before you go. 
 
 What wilt thou gi' me, i' faith? 
 
 You shall in faith, my scurvy baboon 
 
 Face. ' 0, by that light 
 
 Don, 
 
 I'll not buy now. You know your 
 
 Be curried, claw'd, and flaw'd,^^ and 
 
 doom ^ to me. 
 
 taw'd,^* indeed. 
 
 E'en take your lot, obey your chance, sir ; 
 
 I will the heartlier go about it now, 
 
 win her. 
 
 And make the widow a punk so much the 
 
 And wear her out, for me. 
 
 sooner. 
 
 Sub. 'Slight, I '11 not work her then. 
 
 To be reveng'd on this impetuous Face: 
 
 Face. It is the common cause; therefore 
 
 The quickly doing of it is the grace. 
 
 bethink you. 
 
 Exeunt Subtle and Surly. 
 
 Dol else must know it, as you said. 
 
 
 Sub. I care not. 
 
 
 Sur. Senores, porque se tarda tanto? * 
 
 
 Sub. Faith, I am not fit, I am old. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Face. That 's now no reason, sir. 
 
 
 Sur. Puede- ser de hazer burla de mi 
 
 Enter Face, Kastril, and Dame Pliant. 
 
 amor? ' 
 
 
 Face. You hear the Don too? By this air 
 
 Face. Come, lady: I knew the doctor 
 
 I call. 
 
 would not leave 
 
 And loose the hinges. Dol ! 
 
 Till he had found the very nick of her 
 
 Sub. A plague of hell 
 
 fortune. 
 
 Face. Will you then do? 
 
 Kas. To be a countess, say you? 
 
 Sub. You 're a terrible rogue ! 
 
 Face. A Spanish countess, sir. 
 
 "I understand that 
 the lady is so 
 handsome that I 
 am as eager to see 
 her as the good 
 
 fortune of my 
 life." 
 
 7 pledge. 
 
 8 "Sirs, why so long 
 delay?" 
 
 9 "Can it he that 11 "I fear, sirs, that 1* soaked, like a 
 you make sport of you are playing hide in tanning, 
 my love?" me some trick." 
 
 10 "By this honored 12 gulled, 
 beard " is cracked. 
 
274 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Bame P. Why, is that better than an 
 
 English countess? 
 Face. Better! 'Slight, make you that a 
 
 question, lady? 
 Kas. Nay, she is a fool, captain, you must 
 
 pardon her. 
 FcKe. Ask from your courtier to your 
 
 inns-of -court-man. 
 To your mere milliner ; they will tell you 
 
 all, 
 Your Spanish jennet is the best horse; 
 
 your Spanish 
 Stoop "^^ is the best garb ; ^" your Spanish 
 
 beard 
 Is the best cut; your Spanish ruffs are 
 
 the best 
 Wear ; your Spanish pavin ^' the best 
 
 dance ; 
 Your Spanish titillation in a glove 
 The best perfume : and for your Spanish 
 
 pike. 
 And Spanish blade, let your poor cap- 
 tain speak. — 
 Here comes the doctor. 
 
 Enter Subtle with a paper. 
 
 Sub. My most honored lady, 
 
 For so I am now to style you, having 
 
 found 
 By this my scheme,^* you are to undergo 
 An honorable fortune very shortly. 
 
 What will you say now, if some 
 
 Face. 1 ha' told her all, sir, 
 
 And her right worshipful brother here, 
 
 that she shall be 
 A countess; do not delay 'em, sir; a 
 Spanish countess. 
 Sub. Still, my scarce-worshipful captain, 
 you can keep 
 No secret ! Well, since he has told you, 
 
 madam. 
 Do you forgive him, and I do. 
 Kas. She shall do that, sir; 
 
 I '11 look to it ; 't is my charge. 
 Sub. Well then: nought rests 
 
 But that she fit her love now to her for- 
 tune. 
 Dame P. Truly I shall never brook a 
 
 Spaniard. 
 Sub. No? 
 
 Dame P. Never sin' eighty-eight '^^ could 
 I abide 'em. 
 And that was some three years afore I 
 was bom, in truth. 
 
 16 stooping posture. 
 
 16 fashion. 
 
 I T a stately dance. 
 
 18 horoscope. 
 
 10 1588, the year of 
 
 Sub. Come, you must love him, or be 
 miserable ; 
 Choose which you wUl. 
 Face. By this good rush,, persuade her, 
 
 She will cry ^^ strawberries else within 
 this twelve month. 
 Sub, Nay, shads and mackerel, which is 
 
 worse. 
 Face. Indeed, sir! 
 
 Kas. God's lid, you shall love him, or I '11 
 
 kick you. 
 Dame P. Why, 
 
 I '11 do as you will ha' me, brother. 
 Kas. Do, 
 
 Or by this hand I '11 maul you. 
 Face. Nay, good sir, 
 
 Be not so fierce. 
 Sub. No, my enraged child ; 
 
 She will be rul'd. What, when she comes 
 
 to taste 
 The pleasures of a countess! to be 
 
 courted 
 
 Face. And kiss'd and ruffled! 
 Sub. Aye, behind the hangings. 
 
 Face. And then come forth in pomp ! 
 Sub. And know her state! 
 
 Face. Of keeping all th' idolators o' the 
 chamber 
 Barer to her, than at their prayers ! 
 Sub. Is serv'd 
 
 Upon the knee! 
 Face. And has her pages, ushers. 
 
 Footmen, and coaches 
 
 Sub. Her six mares 
 
 Face. Nay, eight! 
 
 Sub. To hurry her through London, to th' 
 Exehange,^^ 
 
 Bet'lem,^^ the China-houses^^ 
 
 Face. Yes, and have 
 
 The citizens gape at her, and praise her 
 
 tires. 
 And my lord's goose-turd^* bands, that 
 rides with her! 
 Kas. Most brave! By this hand, you are 
 not my suster 
 If you refuse. 
 Dame P. I will not refuse, brother. 
 
 Enter Surly. 
 
 Sur. 
 
 the Armada. shops. 23 where oriental 
 
 20 hawk about town. 22 It was a fashion- wares were sold. 
 
 21 The Royal Ex- able amusement to 24 green, 
 change had ar visit Bedlam, the 2C "Why does n't she 
 cades of small lunatic asylum. 
 
 Que es esto, senores, que non se 
 
 vengaf 
 Esta tardanza me mata! ^° 
 Face. It is the count come: 
 
 The doctor knew he would be here, by his 
 
 art. 
 
 come, sirs! This 
 delay is killing 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 275 
 
 Sub. En gallanta, madama, Bon! gal- 
 
 I love a Spanish boy with all my heart. 
 
 lantissima! 
 
 Sub. Nay, and by this means, sir, you 
 
 Sur. For todos los dioses, la mas acabada 
 
 shall be brother 
 
 Rermosura, que he visto en ma vida!'"' 
 
 To a great count. 
 
 Face. Is't not a gallant language that 
 
 Kas. Aye, I knew that at first. 
 
 they speak? 
 
 This match will advance the house of the 
 
 Kas. An admirable language! Is't not 
 
 Kastrils. 
 
 Trench? 
 
 ;S'm6. 'Pray God your sister prove but 
 
 Face. No, Spanish, sir. 
 
 pliant ! 
 
 Kas. It goes like law French, 
 
 Kas. Why, 
 
 And that, they say, is the court-liest lan- 
 
 Her name is so, by her other husband. 
 
 guage. 
 
 Sub. How ! 
 
 Face. List, sir. 
 
 Kas. The Widow Pliant. Knew you not 
 
 Sur. El sol ha perdito su lumbre, con el 
 
 that? 
 
 Resplandor que true esta dana! Volga 
 
 Sub. No, faith, sir; 
 
 me dios!" 
 
 Yet, by the erection of her figure,'^ I 
 
 Face. H' admires your sister. 
 
 guess'd it. 
 
 Kas. Must not she make curt'sy. 
 
 Come, let 's go practise. 
 
 Sub. 'Ods will, she must go to him, man. 
 
 Kas. Yes, but do you think, doctor, 
 
 and kiss him ! 
 
 I e'er shall quarrel well ? 
 
 It is the Spanish fashion, for the women 
 
 Sub. I warrant you. 
 
 To make first court. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Face. 'T is true he tells you, sir : 
 
 
 His art knows all. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Sur. Porque no se acude? ^* 
 
 
 Kas. He speaks to her, I think. 
 
 Enter Dol followed by Mammon. 
 
 Face. That he does, sir. 
 
 
 Sur. For el amor de dios, que es esto que 
 
 Dol. {In her fit of talking.) For after 
 
 se tarda? 2' 
 
 Alexander's death 
 
 Kas. Nay, see: she will not understand 
 
 Mam. Good lady 
 
 him ! Gull, noddy ! 
 
 Dol. That Perdiceas and Antigonus were 
 
 Dame F. What say you, brother? 
 
 slain. 
 
 Kas. Ass, my suster, 
 
 The two that stood, Seleue' and Ftol- 
 
 Go kuss him, as the cunning man would 
 
 omy 
 
 ha' you; 
 
 Mam. Madam — 
 
 I '11 thrust a pin i' your buttocks else. 
 
 Dol. Made up the two' legs, and the fourth 
 
 Face. no, sir. 
 
 beast, 
 
 Sur. Senora mia, mi persona muy indigna 
 
 That was Gog-north and Egypt-south: 
 
 esta 
 
 which after 
 
 Allegar a tanta hermosura.^° 
 
 Was called Gog-iron-leg and South-iron- 
 
 Face. Does he not use her bravely? 
 
 leg 
 
 Kas. Bravely, i' faith! 
 
 Mam. Lady 
 
 Face. Nay, he will use her better. 
 
 Dol. And then Gog-horned. So was 
 
 Kas. Do you think so? 
 
 Egypt, too: 
 
 Sur. Senora, si sera servida, entrimos.^'^ 
 
 Then Egypt-clay-leg, and Gog-clay- 
 
 Exit with Dame Pliant. 
 
 leg 
 
 Kas. Where does he cari-y her? 
 
 Mam. Sweet madam 
 
 Face. Into the garden, sir; 
 
 Dol. And last Gog-dust, and Egypt-dust, 
 
 Take you no thought : I must interpret 
 
 which fall 
 
 for her. 
 
 In the last link of the fourth chain. And 
 
 Sub. Give Dol the word. 
 
 these 
 
 (Aside to Face, who goes out.) 
 
 Be stars in story, which none see, or look 
 
 — Come, my fierce child, advance, 
 
 at 
 
 We '11 to our quarreling lesson again. 
 
 Mam. What shall I do? 
 
 Kas. Agreed. 
 
 Dol. For, as he says, except 
 
 26 "By all the so<ls, 
 the most perfect 
 beauty I have 
 seen in my life." 
 
 27 "The sun has 'ost 2s "Why don't you 
 
 his liffht with the draw near?" 
 
 splendor this ladv 21' "For the love of 
 
 brings, so help God. why this de 
 
 me God," layl" 
 
 30 "Madam, my per- 
 son is unworthy 
 to approach such 
 beauty." 
 
 31 "Madam, at your 
 service, let us go 
 in " 
 
 33 by her horoscope. 
 
276 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 We call the rabbins, and the heaXhen 
 
 Greeks 
 
 Mam. Dear lady 
 
 Bol. To come from Salem, and from 
 Athens, 
 And teach the people of Great Brit- 
 ain 
 
 Enter Face hastily, in his servant's 
 dress. 
 
 Face. What's the matter, sir? 
 
 Dol. To speak the tongue of Eber and 
 
 Javan 
 
 Mam. Oh, 
 
 She 's in her fit. 
 
 Dol. We shall know nothing 
 
 Face. Death, sir, 
 
 We are undone! 
 Dol. Where then a learned linguist 
 
 Shall see the ancient us'd communion 
 
 Of vowels and consonants 
 
 Face. My master will hear ! 
 
 Dol. A wisdom, which Pythagoras held 
 
 most high 
 
 Mam. Sweet honorable lady ! 
 Dol. To comprise 
 
 All sounds of voices, in few marks of 
 letters. 
 Face. Nay, you must never hope to lay 
 her now. 
 {They all speak together.) 
 Dol. And so we may arrive by Talmud 
 
 And profane Greek, to raise the building 
 
 up 
 Of Helen'shouse against the Ismaelite, 
 King of Thogarma, and his habergions 
 Brimstony, blue, and fiery; and the force 
 Of king Abaddon, and the beast of Cit- 
 
 tim : 
 Which rabbi David Kimchi, Onkelos, 
 And Aben Egra do interpret Bome. 
 
 Face. How did you put her into 't 1 
 
 Mam. Alas, I talk'd 
 
 Of a fifth monarchy I would erect 
 With the philosopher's stone, by chance, 
 
 and she 
 Palls on the other four straight. 
 
 Face. Out of Broughton ! " 
 
 I told you so. 'Slid, stop her mouth. 
 
 Mam. Is 't best? 
 
 Face. She '11 never leave else. If the old 
 man hear her, 
 We are but faBces, ashes. 
 
 Sub. (Within.) What 's to do there ? 
 
 38 In the early editions this speech is printed in par- 
 allel columns with the dialogue immediately follow- 
 ing, to indicate simultaneous utterance. (Neilson.) 
 
 Face. 0, we are lost ! Now she hears 
 him, she is quiet. 
 
 Enter Subtle; upon Subtle' s entry they 
 disperse. 
 
 Mam. Where shall I hide me! 
 Sub. How! What sight is here? 
 
 Close deeds of darkness, and that shun 
 
 the Ught! 
 Bring him again. Who is he? What, 
 
 my son! 
 0, I have liv'd too long. 
 Mam. Nay, good, dear father. 
 
 There was no unchaste purpose. 
 Sub. Not? and flee me 
 
 When I come in? 
 Mam. That was my error. 
 
 Sub. Error? 
 
 Guilt, guilt, my son; give it the right 
 
 name. No marvel 
 If I found check in our great work 
 
 within, 
 When such affairs as these were man- 
 aging! 
 Mam. Why, have you so? 
 Sub. It has stood still this half hour: 
 
 And all the rest of our less works gone 
 
 back. 
 Where is the instrument of wickedness. 
 My lewd false drudge? 
 Mam. Nay, good sir, blame not him ; 
 
 Believe me, 'twas against his will or 
 
 knowledge : 
 I saw her by chance. 
 Sub. Will you commit more sin, 
 
 T' excuse a varlet? 
 Mam. By my hope, 't is true, sir. 
 
 Sub. Nay, then I wonder less, if you, for 
 whom 
 The blessing was prepar'd, would so 
 
 tempt heaven. 
 And lose your fortunes. 
 Mam. Why, sir? 
 
 Sub. This will retard 
 
 The work a month at least. 
 Mam. Why, if it do. 
 
 What remedy? But think it not, good 
 
 father : 
 Our purposes were honest. 
 Sub. As they were, 
 So the reward wUl prove. (A great 
 crack and noise within.) — How now! 
 ay me! 
 God and all saints be good to us. 
 
 Be-enter Face. 
 
 SI cf . p. 254, n. 36, Dol's jargon is taken from a book 
 of Broughton's, Tft? Concent of Scripture. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 277 
 
 What's that? 
 Face. 0, sir, we are defeated! All the 
 works 
 Are flown in fumo, every glass is burst ; 
 Furnace and all rent down, as if a bolt 
 Of thunder had been driven through the 
 
 house. 
 Retorts, receivers, pelicans, bolt heads, 
 All struck in shivers! 
 
 {Subtle falls down as in a swoon.) 
 
 Help, good sir! alas, 
 Coldness and death invades him. Nay, 
 
 Sir Mammon, 
 Do the fair offices of a man ! You stand, 
 As you were readier to depart than he. 
 
 (One knocks.) 
 Wbo 's there ? My lord her brother is 
 come. 
 Mam. Ha, Lungs! 
 
 Face. His coach is at the door. Avoid 
 his sight. 
 For he 's as furious as his sister 's mad. 
 Mam. Alas ! 
 
 Face. My brain is quite undone 
 
 with the fume, sir, 
 I ne'er must hope to be mine own man 
 again. 
 Mam. Is all lost. Lungs'? Will nothing be 
 preserv'd 
 Of all our cost? 
 Face. Faith, very little, sir; 
 
 A peck of coals or so, which is cold com- 
 fort, sir. 
 Mam. O, my voluptuous mind! I am 
 
 justly punish'd. 
 Face. And so am I, sir. 
 
 Mam. Cast from all my hopes 
 
 Face. Nay, certainties, sir. 
 
 Mam. By mine own base affections. 
 
 Sub. (Seeming to come to himself.) 0, 
 
 the curst fruits of vice and lust ! 
 Mam. Good father. 
 
 It was my sin. Forgive it. 
 Sub. Hangs my roof 
 
 Over us still, and will not fall, justice, 
 Upon us, for this wicked man ! 
 Face. Nay, look, sir, 
 
 You grieve him now with staying in his 
 
 sight. 
 Good sir, the nobleman will come too, and 
 
 take you. 
 And that may breed a tragedy. 
 Mam. I'll go- 
 
 Face. Aye, and repent at home, sir. It 
 may be, 
 For some good penance you may ha' it yet ; 
 A hundred pound to the box at Bet'- 
 lem 
 
 85 change your clothes. 
 
 Mam. Yes. 
 
 Face. For the restoring such as — ha' their 
 
 wits. 
 Mam. I '11 do 't. 
 
 Face. I '11 send one to you to receive it. 
 Mam. Do. 
 
 Is no projection left? 
 Face. All flown, or stinks, sir. 
 
 Mam. Will nought be sav'd that 's good 
 
 for med'cine, think'st thou? 
 Face. I cannot tell, sir. There will be 
 perhaps 
 Something about the scraping of the 
 
 shards. 
 Will cure the itch, — ^though not your itch 
 
 of mind, sir. (Aside.) 
 It shall be sav'd for you, and sent home. 
 
 Good sir. 
 This way, for fear the lord shall meet 
 you. 
 
 Exit Mammon. 
 
 Sub. (Baising his head.) Face! 
 
 Face. Aye. 
 Sub. Is he gone? 
 
 Face. Yes, and as heavily 
 
 As all the gold he hop'd for were in's 
 
 blood. 
 Let us be light though. 
 Sub. (Leaping up.) Aye, as balls, and 
 bound 
 And hit our heads against the roof for 
 
 joy: 
 There 's so much of our care now cast 
 away. 
 Face. Now to our don. 
 Sub. Yes, your young widow by this 
 
 time 
 Is made a countess, Face; she's been in 
 
 travail 
 Of a young heir for you. 
 Face. Good, sir. 
 
 Sub. Of£ with your case,^^ 
 
 And greet her kindly, as a bridegroom 
 
 should. 
 After these common hazards. 
 Face. Very well, sir. 
 
 Will you go fetch Don Diego off the 
 while? 
 Sub. And fetch him over too, if you 'II be 
 pleas'd, sir. 
 Would Dol were in her place, to pick his 
 podkets now! 
 Face. Why, you can do't as well, if you 
 would set to 't. 
 I pray you prove your virtue.^^ 
 Sub. For your sake, sir. 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 86 ability. 
 
278 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Scene 6. 
 Enter Surly and Dame Pliant. 
 
 Sur. 
 
 Lady, you see into what hands you 
 
 are fall'n; 
 'Mongst what a nest of villains ! and how 
 
 near 
 Your honor was t' have eateh'd a certain 
 
 clap, 
 Through your credulity, had I but been 
 So punctually forward, as place, time, 
 And other circumstance would ha' made 
 
 a man ; 
 For you're a handsome woman: would 
 
 you were wise too! 
 T am a gentleman come here disguis'd. 
 Only to find the knaveries of this cita- 
 del; 
 And where I might have wrong'd your 
 
 honor, and have not, 
 I claim some interest in your love. You 
 
 are. 
 They say, a widow, rich ; and I 'ra a 
 
 bachelor, 
 Worth nought : your fortunes may make 
 
 me a man, 
 As mine ha' preserv'd you a woman. 
 
 Think upon it. 
 And whether I have deserv'd you or no. 
 Dame P. I will, sir. 
 
 Sur. And for these household-rogues, let 
 
 me alone 
 To treat with them. 
 
 Enter Subtle. 
 
 Sub. How doth my noble Diego, 
 
 And my dear madam countess? Hath 
 
 the count 
 Been courteous, lady? liberal and open? 
 Donzel, methinks you look melancholic, 
 I do not like the dulness of your eye ; 
 It hath a heavy cast, 't is upsee Dutch,^'' 
 And says you are a lumpish whore-mas- 
 ter. 
 Be lighter, I will make your pockets so. 
 (He falls to picking of them.) 
 Sur. (Throws open his cloak.) Will you, 
 IDon bawd and pick-purse? (Strikes 
 him down.) How now! Reel 
 you? 
 Stand up, sir, you shall find, since I am 
 
 so heavy, 
 I '11 gi' you equal weight. 
 Sub. Help! murder! 
 
 Sur. No, sir. 
 
 There *s no such thing intended. A good 
 
 cart** 
 And a clean whip shall ease you of that 
 
 fear. 
 I am the Spanish Don that should be 
 
 cozened. 
 Do you see? Cozened? Where's your 
 
 Captain Face, 
 That parcel-broker,'* and whole-bawd, 
 
 all rascal? 
 
 Enter Face in his uniform. 
 
 Face. How, Surly! 
 
 Sur. 0, make your approach, good 
 
 Captain. 
 I 've found from whence your copper 
 
 rings and spoons 
 Come now, wherewith you cheat abroad 
 
 in taverns. 
 'T was here you learn'd t' anoint your 
 
 boot with brimstone. 
 Then rub men's gold on 't for a kind of 
 
 touch. 
 And say, 't was naught, when you had 
 
 ehang'd the color, 
 That you might ha't for nothing. And 
 
 this .doctor. 
 Your sooty, smoky-bearded compeer, he 
 Will close you so much gold, in a bolt's- 
 
 head. 
 And, on a turn, convey i' the stead an- 
 other 
 With sublim'd mercury, that shall burst 
 
 i' the heat. 
 And fly out all in fumo! Then weeps 
 
 Mammon ; 
 Then swoons his worship. Or (Face 
 
 slips out.) he is the Faustus, 
 That casteth figures and can conjure, 
 
 cures 
 Plagues, piles, and pox, by the ephemeri- 
 
 des.*" 
 And holds intelligence with all the 
 
 bawds 
 And midwives of three shires : while you 
 
 send in 
 
 Captain! — what! is he gone? — damsels 
 
 with child. 
 Wives that are barren, or the waiting- 
 maid 
 With the green sickness. (Seises Subtle 
 
 as he is retiring.) — Nay, sir, you 
 
 must tarry, 
 Though he be scap'd ; and answer by the 
 
 ears, sir. 
 
 37 as if you were drunk aii u Dutchman. 3» Bawds were carted through Uie streets. 
 
 4U astrologer's almanac. 
 
 39 part pawnbroker. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 279 
 
 Scene 7. 
 
 Kas. Yes, how then, sir? 
 
 Re-enter Face with Kastril to Surly and 
 
 Enter Brugger with a piece of damask. 
 
 Subtle. 
 
 
 
 Face. Nay, here's an honest fellow too 
 
 Face. Why, now 's the time, if ever you 
 
 that knows him, 
 
 will quarrel 
 
 And all his tricks. (Make good what I 
 
 Well, as they say, and be a true-born 
 
 say, Abel. 
 
 child : 
 
 This cheater would ha' cozen'd thee o' the 
 
 The doctor and your sister both are 
 
 widow.) 
 
 abus'd." 
 
 He owes this honest Drugger here seven 
 
 Kas. Where is he? Which is he? He is 
 
 pound. 
 
 a slave. 
 
 He has had on him in twopenny'orths of 
 
 Whate'er he is, and the son of a whore. — 
 
 tobacco. 
 
 Are you 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir. And he has damn'd him- 
 
 The man, sir, I would know? 
 
 self three terms to pay me. 
 
 Sur. I should be loth, sir. 
 
 Face. And what does he owe for lo- 
 
 To confess so much. 
 
 tium?" 
 
 Kas. Then you lie i' your throat. 
 
 Drug. Thirty shillings, sir; 
 
 Sur. How ! 
 
 And for six syringes. 
 
 Face. (To Kastril.) A very arrant rogue. 
 
 Sur. Hydra of villainy! 
 
 sir, and a cheater. 
 
 Face. Nay, sir, you must quarrel him out 
 
 Employ'd here by another conjurer 
 
 o' the house. 
 
 That does not love the doctor, and would 
 
 Kas. I will: 
 
 cross him 
 
 — Sir, if you get not out o' doors, you 
 
 If he knew how. 
 
 Ue; 
 
 Sur. Sir, you are abus'd. 
 
 And you are a pimp. 
 
 Kas. You lie : 
 
 Sur. Why, this is madness, sir. 
 
 And 't is no matter. 
 
 Not valor in you ; I must laugh at this. 
 
 Face. Well said, sir! He is 
 
 Kas. It is my humor; you are a pimp and 
 
 The impudent'st rascal 
 
 a trig.*= 
 
 Sur. You are indeed. Will you hear me, 
 
 And an Amadis de Gaul, or a Don Quix- 
 ote. 
 Drug. Or a knight o' the curious coxcomb, 
 
 sir? 
 Face. By no means : bid him be gone. 
 
 Kas. Begone, sir, quickly. 
 
 do you see? 
 
 Sur. This is strange! — ^Lady, do you in- 
 
 
 form your brother. 
 
 Enter Ananias. 
 
 Face. There is not such a foist *2 in all 
 
 
 the town. 
 
 Ana. Peace to the household ! 
 
 The doctor had him presently; and finds 
 
 Kas. I '11 keep peace for no man. 
 
 yet 
 
 Ana. Casting of dollars is concluded law- 
 
 The Spanish count will come here. — 
 
 ful. 
 
 (Aside.) Bear up. Subtle. 
 
 Kas. Is he the constable? 
 
 Sub. Yes, sir, he must appear within this 
 
 Sub. Peace, Ananias. 
 
 hour. 
 
 Face. No, sir. 
 
 Face. And yet this rogue would come in 
 
 Kas. Then you are an otter, and a shad, a 
 
 a disguise. 
 
 whit, 
 
 By the temptation of another spirit. 
 
 A very tim. 
 
 To trouble our art, though he could not 
 
 Sur. You '11 hear me, sir? 
 
 hurt it! 
 
 Kas. I will not. 
 
 Kas. Aye, 
 
 Ana. What is the motive? 
 
 I know — Away, (To his sister.) you talk 
 
 Sub. Zeal in the young gentleman. 
 
 like a foolish mauther.*' 
 
 Against his Spanish slops. 
 
 Sur. Sir, all is truth she says. 
 
 Ana. ' They are profane. 
 
 Face. Do not believe him, sir. 
 
 Lewd, superstitious, and idolatrous 
 
 He is the lying'st swabber! Come your 
 
 breeches. 
 
 ways, sir. 
 
 Sur. New rascals ! 
 
 Sur. You are valiant out of company! 
 
 Kas. Will you be gone, sir? 
 
 41 deceived. 
 
 i2 rogue. 
 
 48 country girl. 
 
 41 a lotion. 
 
 45 coxcomb. 
 
280 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Ana. Avoid, Satan! 
 
 Thou art not of the Ught! That ruflf of 
 
 pride 
 About thy neck, betrays thee; and is the 
 
 same 
 With that which the unclean birds, in 
 
 seventy-seven. 
 Were seen to prank it with on divers 
 
 coasts : 
 Thou look'st like antichrist, in that lewd 
 hat. 
 Sur. I must give way. 
 Kas. Be gone, sir. 
 
 Sur. But I '11 take 
 
 A course with you. 
 
 Ana. Depart, proud Spanish fiend ! 
 
 Sur. Captain and doctor. 
 Ana. Child of perdition ! 
 
 Kas. Hence, sir! — ■ 
 
 Exit Surly. 
 Did I not quarrel bravely'! 
 Face. Yes, indeed, sir. 
 
 Kas. Nay, an I give my mind to 't, I shall 
 
 do't. 
 Face. O, you must follow, sir, and 
 threaten him tame : 
 He '11 turn again else. 
 Kas. I '11 re-turn him then. 
 
 Exit. 
 Face. Drugger, this rogue prevented ** us, 
 for thee: 
 We had determin'd that thou should'st ha' 
 
 come 
 In a Spanish suit, and ha' carried her 
 
 so; and he, 
 A brokerly slave, goes, puts it on him- 
 self. 
 Hast brought the damask 1 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Face. Thou must borrow 
 
 A Spanish suit. Hast thou no credit 
 with the players? 
 Drug. Yes, sir ; did you never see me play 
 
 the fool? 
 Face. I know not, Nab; — thou shalt, if I 
 can help it. — (Aside.) 
 Hieronimo's " old cloak, ruff, and hat 
 
 will serve; 
 I '11 tell thee more when thou bring'st 'em. 
 Exit Drugger. Subtle hath whisper'd 
 with Ana. this while. 
 Ana. Sir, I know. 
 
 The Spaniard hates the brethren, and 
 
 hath spies 
 Upon their actions: and that this was 
 
 one 
 I make no scruple. — But the holy 
 synod 
 
 4« anticipated. *^ The hero of Kyd's 
 
 Have been in prayer and meditation for 
 
 it; 
 And 'tis reveal'd no less to them than 
 
 me, 
 That easting of money is most lawful. 
 Sub. True. 
 
 But here I cannot do it : if the house 
 Should chance to be suspected, all would 
 
 out. 
 And we be lock'd up in the Tower for 
 
 ever, 
 To make gold there for th' state, never 
 
 come out; 
 And then are you defeated. 
 Ana. I will tell 
 
 This to the elders and the weaker breth- 
 ren. 
 That the whole company of the sepa- 
 ration 
 May join in humble prayer again. 
 Sub. And fasting. 
 
 Ana. Yea, for somfe fitter place. The 
 peace of mind 
 Rest with these walls! 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Sub. Thanks, courteous Ananias. 
 
 Face. What did he come for? 
 
 Sub. About casting dollars. 
 
 Presently out of hand. And so I told 
 
 him, 
 A Spanish minister came here to spy, 
 
 Against the faithful 
 
 Face. I conceive. Come, Subtle, 
 
 Thou art so down upon the least disaster ! 
 
 How wouldst thou ha' done, if I had not 
 
 helpt thee out? 
 
 Sub. I thank thee. Face, for the angry 
 
 boy, i' faith. 
 Face. Who would ha' look'd*' it should 
 ha' been that rascal 
 Surly? He had dy'd his beard and all 
 
 Well, sir. 
 Here 's damask come to make you a suit, 
 Sub. Where's Druggerl 
 
 Face, He is gone to borrow me a Spanish 
 habit ; 
 I '11 be the count now. 
 Sub. But where 's the widow V 
 
 Face. Within, with my lord's sister; 
 Madam Dol 
 Is entertaining her. 
 Sub. By your favor, Pace, 
 
 Now she is honest, I will stand again. 
 Face. You will not offer it? 
 Sub. Why? 
 
 Face. Stand to your word, 
 
 Or — here comes Dol. She knows 
 
 Sub. You 're tyrannous still. 
 
 Spanish Tragedy. 43 expected. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 281 
 
 Enter Dol hastily. 
 
 You'll do it? 
 
 
 Sub. Yes, I '11 shave you as well as I can. 
 
 Face. — Strict for my right. — How now, 
 
 Face. And not cut my throat, but trim 
 
 Dol! Hast told her 
 
 me? 
 
 The Spanish count will come'? 
 
 Sub. You shall see, sir. 
 
 Dol. Yes; but another is come, 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 YouUttlelook'dfor! 
 
 
 Face. Who's that? 
 
 
 Dol. Your master ; 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 The master of the house. 
 
 
 Sub. How, Dol! 
 
 Scene 1. Before Lovewifs door. 
 
 Face. She lies! 
 
 
 This is some trick. Come, leave your 
 
 Enter Lovewit, with several of the 
 
 quiblins,*' Dorothy. 
 
 Neighbors. 
 
 DoL Look out and see. 
 
 
 {Face goes to the window.) 
 
 Love. Has there been such resort, say you ? 
 
 Sub. Art thou in earnest? 
 
 1 Net. Daily, Sir. 
 
 Dol. 'Slight, 
 
 2 Nei. And nightly, too. 
 
 Forty o' the neighbors are about him. 
 
 3 Nei. Aye, some as brave as lords. 
 
 talking. 
 
 4 Nei. Ladies and gentlewomen. 
 
 Face. 'T is he, by this good day. 
 
 5 Nei. Citizens' wives. 
 
 Dol. 'T will prove ill day 
 
 1 Nei. And knights. 
 
 For some on us. 
 
 6 Nei. In coaches. 
 
 Face. We are undone, and taken. 
 
 2 Nei. Yes, and oyster-women. 
 
 Dol. Lost, I'm afraid. 
 
 1 Nei. Beside other gallants. 
 
 Sub. You said he would not come, 
 
 3 Nei. Sailors' wives. 
 
 While there died one a week within the 
 
 4 Nei. Tobacco men. 
 
 liberties.^" 
 
 Nei. Another Pimlieo.^^ 
 
 Face. No : 't was within the walls. 
 
 Love. What should my knave advance, 
 
 Sub. Was 't so? Cry you mercy. 
 
 To draw this company? He himg out 
 
 I thought the liberties. What shall we 
 
 no banners 
 
 do now. Face? 
 
 Of a strange calf with five legs to be 
 
 Face. Be silent : not a word, if he call or 
 
 seen, 
 
 knock. 
 
 Or a huge lobster with six claws? 
 
 I '11 into mine old shape again and meet 
 
 6 Nei. No, sir. 
 
 him. 
 
 3 Nei. We had gone in then, sir. 
 
 Of Jeremy, the butler. I' the meantime, 
 
 Love. He has no gift 
 
 Do you two pack up all the goods and 
 
 Of teaching i' the nose "^ that e'er I knew 
 
 purchase ^^ 
 
 of. 
 
 That we can carry i' the two trunks. 
 
 You saw no bills set up that promis'd 
 
 I '11 keep him 
 
 cure 
 
 Off for to-day, if I cannot longer: and 
 
 Of agues or the tooth-ache? 
 
 then 
 
 2 Nei. No such thing, sir! 
 
 At night, I'll ship you both away to 
 
 Love. Nor heard a drum struck for 
 
 Katcliff, 
 
 baboons or puppets? 
 
 Where we will meet to-morrow, and there 
 
 5 Nei. Neither, sir. 
 
 we'll share. 
 
 Love. What device should he bring 
 
 Let Mammon's brass and pewter keep the 
 
 forth now? 
 
 cellar; 
 
 I love a teeming wit as I love my nourish- 
 
 We'll have another time for that. But, 
 
 ment : 
 
 Dol, 
 
 'Pray God he ha' not kept such open 
 
 Prithee go heat a little water quickly; 
 
 house, 
 
 Subtle must shave me. All my captain's 
 
 That he hath sold my hangings, and my 
 
 beard 
 
 bedding ! 
 
 Must off, to make me appear smooth 
 
 I left him nothing else. If he have eat 
 
 Jeremy. 
 
 'em, 
 
 49 quibbling. plague in the 62 a summer resort, 03 preaching "perhaps ventrilo- 
 
 50 as long as there parts of the city famous for cakes through the nose quism." (Schel- 
 was one dead a outside the walls. and ale. like a Puritan ; or ling. ) 
 
 week from the oi booty. 
 
282 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 A plague o' the moth, say I! Sure he 
 has got 
 
 Some bawdy pictures to call all this 
 ging; " 
 
 The Friar and the Nun; or the new 
 motion °^ 
 
 Of the knight's courser covering the par- 
 son's mare; 
 
 The boy of six year old, with the great 
 thing : 
 
 Or 't may be, he has the fleas that run at 
 
 tut 
 
 Upon a table, or some dog to dance. 
 When saw you him 1 
 
 1 Net. Who, sir, Jeremy? 
 
 2 Nei. Jeremy butler? 
 We saw him not this month. 
 
 Love. How ! 
 
 4 Nei. Not these five weeks, sir. 
 6 Nei. These six weeks, at the least. 
 Love. You amaze me, neighbors ! 
 
 5 Nei. Sure, if your worship know not 
 
 where he is. 
 He's slipt away. 
 
 6 Nei. Pray God he be not made away. 
 
 (He knocks.) 
 Love. Ha! it's no time to question, 
 
 then. 
 6 Nei. About 
 
 Some three weeks since I heard a doleful 
 cry, 
 , As I sat up a-mending my wife's stock- 
 ings. 
 Love. This's strange that none will an- 
 swer ! Did'st thou hear 
 A cry, sayst thou? 
 6 Nei. Yes, sir, like unto a man 
 
 That had been strangled an hour, and 
 could not speak. 
 
 2 Nei. I heard it, too, just this day three 
 
 weeks, at two o'clock 
 Next morning. 
 Love. These be miracles, or you make 'em 
 
 so! 
 A man an hour strangled, and could not 
 
 speak, 
 And both you heard him cry? 
 
 3 Nei. Yes, downward, sir. 
 Love. Thou art a wise fellow. Give me 
 
 thy hand, I pray thee. 
 What trade art thou on? 
 3 Nei. A smith, an't please your 
 
 worship. 
 Love. A smith! Then lend me thy help 
 
 to get this door open. 
 3 Nei. That I will presently, sir, but 
 fetch my tools — 
 
 Exit. 
 
 1 Nei. Sir, best to knock again afore you 
 break it. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Lovewit, Neighbors. 
 
 Love. (Knocks again.) I will. 
 
 Enter Face in his butler's livery. 
 
 Face. What mean you, sir? 
 
 1,2,4 Nei. 0, here 's Jeremy ! 
 
 Face. Good sir, come from the door. 
 Love. Why, what 's the matter? 
 
 Face. Yet farther, you are too near yet. 
 Love. I' the name of wonder. 
 
 What means the fellow ! 
 Face. The house, sir, has been visited. 
 
 Love. What, with the plague? Stand 
 
 thou then farther. 
 Face. No, sir, 
 
 I had it not. 
 Love. Who had it then? I left 
 
 None else but thee i' the house. 
 Face, Yes, sir, my fellow, 
 
 The eat that kept the buttery, had it on 
 
 her 
 A week before I spied it; but I got her 
 Convey'd away i' the night: and so I 
 shut 
 
 The house for a month 
 
 Love. How ! 
 
 Face, Purposing then, sir, 
 
 To have burnt rose-vinegar, treacle, and 
 
 tar, 
 And ha' made it sweet, that you should 
 
 ne'er ha' known it; 
 Because I knew the news would but af- 
 flict you, sir. 
 Love, Breathe less, and farther off! 
 Why this is stranger: 
 The neighbors tell me all here that the 
 doors 
 
 Have still been open 
 
 Face, How, sir! 
 
 Love. Gallants, men and women, 
 
 And of all sorts, tag-rag, been seen to 
 
 flock here 
 In threaves,"" these ten weeks, as to a 
 
 second Hogsden, 
 In days of Pimlico and Eye-bright.^' 
 Face. Sir, 
 
 Their wisdoms will not say so. 
 Love. To-day they speak 
 
 Of coaches and gallants; one in a French 
 hood 
 
 ti gang. 
 
 ee puppet show. 
 
 CG droves. 
 
 57 possibly the name of a tavern. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 283 
 
 Went in, they tell me; and another was 
 
 seen 
 In a velvet gown at the window: divers 
 
 more 
 Pass in and out. 
 Face. They did pass through the 
 
 doors then, 
 Or walls, I assure their eye-sights, and 
 
 their spectacles; 
 For here, sir, are the keys, and here 
 
 have been. 
 In this my pocket, now above twenty 
 
 days! 
 And for before, I kept the fort alone 
 
 there. 
 But that 'tis yet not deep i' the after- 
 noon, 
 I should believe my neighbors had seen 
 
 double 
 Through the black pot, and made these 
 
 apparitions ! 
 For, on my faith to your worship, for 
 
 these three weeks 
 And upwards, the door has not been 
 
 open'd. 
 Love. Strange ! 
 
 1 Nei. Good faith, I think I saw a coach. 
 
 2 Nei. And I too, 
 I 'd ha' been sworn. 
 
 Love. Do you but think it now 1 
 
 And but one coach 1 
 4 Nei. We cannot tell, sir: Jeremy 
 
 Is a very honest fellow. 
 Face. Did you see me at all? 
 
 1 Nei. No; that we are sure on. 
 
 2 Nei. I'll be sworn o' that. 
 Love. Fine rogues to have your testi- 
 monies built on! 
 
 Be-enter third Neighbor, with his tools. 
 
 3 Nei. Is Jeremy come! 
 
 1 Nei. yes ; you may leave your tools ; 
 We were deceiv'd, he says. 
 
 2 Nei. He 's had the keys ; 
 And the door has been shut these three 
 
 weeks. 
 
 3 Nei. Like enough. 
 
 Love. Peace, and get hence, you change- 
 lings. 
 
 Enter Surly and Mammon. 
 
 Face. (Aside.) Surly come. 
 
 And Mammon made acquainted ! They '11 
 
 tell all. 
 How shall I beat them off? What shall 
 
 I do? 
 
 Nothing's more wretched than a guilty 
 conscience. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Surly, Mammon, Lovewit, Face, 
 Neighbors. 
 
 Sur. No, sir, he was a great physician. 
 This, 
 It was no bawdy-house, but a mere chan- 
 cel! 
 You knew the lord and his sister. 
 
 Mam. Nay, good Surly. 
 
 Sur. The happy word, Be eich 
 
 Mam. Play not the tyrant. — 
 
 Sur. Should be to-day pronounc'd to all 
 your friends. 
 And where be your andirons now? And 
 
 your brass pots, 
 That should ha' been golden flagons, and 
 great wedges'? 
 Mam. Let me but breathe. What, they 
 ha' shut their doors, 
 Methinks ! 
 
 (He and Surly knock.) 
 Sur. Aye, now 't is holiday with them. 
 Mam. Rogues, 
 
 Cozeners, impostors, bawds ! 
 Face. What mean you, sir? 
 
 Mam. To enter if we can. 
 Face. Another man's house I 
 
 Here is the owner, sir; turn you to him. 
 And speak your business. 
 Mam. Are you, sir, the owner? 
 
 Love. Yes, sir. 
 Mam. And are those knaves within, 
 
 your cheaters! 
 Love. What knaves, what cheaters? 
 Mam. Subtle and his Lungs. 
 
 Face. The gentleman is distracted, sir! 
 No lungs 
 Nor lights ^^ ha' been seen here these 
 
 three weeks, sir, 
 Within these doors upon my word. 
 Sur. Your word, 
 
 Groom arrogant ! 
 Face. Yes, sir, I am the housekeeper. 
 
 And know the keys ha' not been out o' 
 my hands. 
 Sur. This 's a new Face. 
 Face. You do mistake the house, sir : 
 
 What sign was 't at ? °° 
 Sur. You rascal! This is one 
 
 Of the confederacy. Come, let 's get 
 
 oflScers, 
 And force the door. 
 
 58 lungs, punningly. '■9 Even private houses were sometimes distinguished by signs, like taverns or shops. 
 
284 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Love. Pray you stay, gentlemen. 
 
 Ana. Call her not sister; she's a harlot 
 
 Sur. No, sir, we '11 come with warrant. 
 
 verily. 
 
 Mam. Aye, and then 
 
 Kas. I'll raise the street. 
 
 We shall ha' your doors open. 
 
 Love, Good gentleman, a word. 
 
 Exeunt Mam. and Sur. 
 
 Ana. Satan, avoid, and hinder not our 
 
 Love. What means this? 
 
 zeal! 
 
 Face. I cannot tell, sir. 
 
 Exeunt Ana., Trib., and Kas. 
 
 1 Nei. These are two o' the gallants 
 
 Love. The world 's turn'd Bet'lem. 
 
 That we do think we saw. 
 
 Face. These are all broke loose. 
 
 Face. Two o' the fools ! 
 
 Out of St. Katherine's, where they use 
 
 You talk as idly as they. Good faith, sir, 
 
 to keep 
 
 I think the moon has eraz'd 'em all. — 
 
 The better sort of mad-folks. 
 
 (Aside.) me. 
 
 1 Nei. All these persons 
 
 Enter Kastril. 
 
 We saw go in and out here. 
 
 
 2 Nei, Yes, indeed, sir. 
 
 The angry boy come too ! He '11 make a 
 
 3 Nei. These were the parties. 
 
 noise, 
 
 Face. Peace, you drunkards ! Sir, 
 
 And ne'er away till he have betray'd us 
 
 I wonder at it. Please you to give me 
 
 all. 
 
 leave 
 
 Kas. (Knocking.) What, rogues, bawds, 
 
 To touch the door; I'll try an the lock 
 
 slaves, you '11 open the door anon ! 
 
 be chang'd. 
 
 Punk, cockatrice, my suster! By this 
 
 Love. It mazes me! 
 
 light 
 
 Face. (Goes to the door.) Good faith. 
 
 I'll fetch the marshal to you. You are 
 
 sir, I believe 
 
 a whore 
 
 There's no such thing: 'tis all deceptio 
 
 T^/1 l^nnw^ TTm-.v« Ann4-1n 
 
 
 ±u Keep ^uur caaLic 
 
 visus. — 
 
 Face. Who would you speak with, sir? 
 
 (Aside.) Would I could get him away. 
 
 Kas. The bawdy doctor, and the cozening 
 
 Dap. (Within.) Master captain! Mas- 
 
 captain, 
 
 ter doctor! 
 
 And puss my suster. 
 
 Love. Who's that? 
 
 Love. This is something, sure. 
 
 Face. (Aside.) Our clerk within, that I 
 
 Face. Upon my trust, the doors were 
 
 forgot ! — I know not, sir. 
 
 never open, sir. 
 
 Dap. (Within.) For God's sake, when 
 
 Kas. I have heard all their tricks told me 
 
 will her grace be at leisure? 
 
 twice over, 
 
 Face. Ha! 
 
 By the fat knight and the lean gentle- 
 
 Illusions, some spirit o' the air! — 
 
 man. 
 
 (Aside.) His gag is melted. 
 
 Love. Here comes another. 
 
 And now he sets out the throat. 
 
 Enter Ananias and Tribulation. 
 
 Dap. (Within.) I am almost stifled 
 
 Face. (Aside.) Would you were alto- 
 
 Face. Ananias too! 
 
 gether ! 
 
 And his pastor! 
 
 Love. 'T is i' the house. 
 
 Tri. The doors are shut against us. 
 
 Ha! list! 
 
 (THey beat too, at the door.) 
 
 Face. Believe it, sir, i' the air. 
 
 Ana. Come forth, you seed of sulphur. 
 
 Love. Peace, you. 
 
 sons of fire! 
 
 Dap. (Within.) Mine aunt's grace does 
 
 Your stench it is broke forth; abomina- 
 
 not use me well. 
 
 tion 
 
 Sub. (Within.) You fool, 
 
 Is in the house. 
 
 Peace, you'll mar all. 
 
 Kas. Aye, my suster 's there. 
 
 Face. (Speaks through the keyhole, while 
 
 Ana. The place. 
 
 Lovewit advances to the door unob- 
 
 It is become a cage of unclean birds. 
 
 served.) Or you will else, you 
 
 Kas. Yes, I will fetch the scavenger, and 
 
 rogue. 
 
 the constable. 
 
 Love. 0, is it so? Then you converse 
 
 Tri. You shall do well. 
 
 with spirits! — 
 
 Ana. We '11 join to weed them out. 
 
 Come, sir. No more o' your tricks, good 
 
 Kas. You will not eorae then, punk de- 
 
 Jeremy. 
 
 vice,*" my suster ! 
 
 The truth, the shortest way. 
 
 80 complete. 
 
 81 optical illusion. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 285 
 
 Face. Dismiss this rabble, sir. — 
 
 (Aside.) What shall I do? I am 
 
 eateh'd. 
 Love. Good neighbors, 
 
 I thank you all. You may depart. (Ex- 
 eunt Neighbors.) — Come, sir, 
 You know that I am an indulgent mas- 
 ter; 
 And therefore conceal nothing. What 's 
 
 your medicine. 
 To draw so many several sorts of wild 
 
 fowl? 
 Face. Sir, you were wont to affect mirth 
 
 and wit — 
 But here's no place to talk on't i' the 
 
 street. 
 Give me but leave to make the best of 
 
 my fortune, 
 And only pardon me th' abuse of your 
 
 house : 
 It 's all I beg. I '11 help you to a widow, 
 In recompense, that you shall gi' me 
 
 thanks for, 
 Will make you seven years younger, and 
 
 a rich one. 
 'Tis but your putting on a Spanish 
 
 cloak : 
 I have her within. You need not fear 
 
 the house; 
 It was not visited. 
 Love. But by me, who came 
 
 Sooner than you expected. 
 Face. It is true, sir. 
 
 Pray you forgive me. 
 Love. Well : let 's see your widow. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. A room in the house. 
 
 Enter Subtle leading in Dapper, with his 
 eyes bound as before. 
 
 Sub. How! ha' you eaten your gag? 
 Dap. Yes, faith, it crumbled 
 
 Away i' my mouth. 
 Sub. You ha' spoil'd all then. 
 
 Dap. No! 
 
 I hope my aunt of Fairy will forgive me. 
 Sub. Your aunt's a gracious lady; but in 
 troth 
 
 You were to blame. 
 Dap. The fume did overcome me, 
 
 And I did do't to stay my stomach. 
 Pray you. 
 
 So satisfy her grace. 
 
 Enter Face in his uniform. 
 
 Here comes the captain. 
 
 Face. How now ! Is his mouth down 1 
 Sub. Aye, he has spoken ! 
 
 Face. A pox, I heard him, and you too. 
 He 's undone then. — 
 (Aside to Subtle.) I have been fain to 
 
 say, the house is haunted 
 With spirits, to keep churl back. 
 Sub. And hast thou done it? 
 
 Face. Sure, for this night. 
 Sub. Why, then triumph and sing 
 
 Of Face so famous, the precious king 
 Of present wits. 
 Face. Did you not hear the coil "^ 
 
 About the door? 
 Sub. Yes, and I dwindled with 
 
 it. 
 Face. Show him his aunt, and let him be 
 dispateh'd : 
 I '11 send her to you. 
 
 Exit Face. 
 
 Sub. Well, sir, your aunt her grace 
 
 Will give you an audience presently, on 
 
 my suit. 
 And the captain's word that you did not 
 
 eat your gag 
 In any contempt of her highness. 
 (Unbinds his eyes.) 
 Dap. Not I, in troth, sir. 
 
 Enter Dol like the Queen of Fairy. 
 
 Sub. Here she is come. Down o' your 
 knees and wriggle: 
 She has a stately presence. (Dapper 
 kneels and shuffles towards her.) 
 Good! Yet nearer. 
 And bid, God save you ! 
 Dap. Madam ! 
 
 Sub. And your aunt. 
 
 Dap. And my most gracious aunt, God 
 
 save your grace. 
 Dol. Nephew, we thought to have been 
 angry with you; 
 But that sweet face of yours hath tum'd 
 
 the tide. 
 And made it flow with joy, that ebb'd of 
 
 love. 
 Arise, and touch our velvet gown. 
 Sub. The skirts. 
 
 And kiss 'em. So! 
 Dol. Let me now stroke that head. 
 
 Much, nephew, shaft thou win, much 
 
 shalt thou spend; 
 Much shalt thou give away, much shalt 
 thou lend. 
 Sub. (Aside.) Aye, much! indeed.— 
 
 Why do you not thank her grace ? 
 Dap. I cannot speak for joy. 
 
 62 hubbub. 
 
286 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Sub. See, the kind wretch ! 
 
 Your grace's kinsman right. 
 
 Dol. Give me the bird. 
 
 Here is your fly in a purse, about your 
 
 neck, cousin; 
 Wear it, and feed it about this day sev'n- 
 night. 
 
 On your right wrist 
 
 Sub. Open a vein with a pin 
 
 And let it suck but once a week ; till then, 
 You must not look on 't. 
 Dol. No : and, kinsman, 
 
 Bear yourself worthy of the blood you 
 came on. 
 Sub. Her grace would ha' you eat no 
 more Woolsack "^ pies 
 Nor Dagger °^ f rumety.®* 
 Dol. Nor break his fast ' 
 
 In Heaven *^ and Hell.°^ 
 Sub. She 's with you everywhere! 
 
 Nor play with costermongers, at mum- 
 chance,*' traytrip,*' 
 God-make-you-rich *° (when as your 
 
 aunt has done it) ; but keep 
 The gallant'st company, and the best 
 
 games 
 
 Dap. Yes, sii. 
 
 Sub. Gleek "' and primero ; *° and what 
 
 you get, be true to us. 
 Dap. By this hand, I will. 
 Sub. You may bring 's a thousand pound 
 Before to-morrow night, if but three 
 
 thousand 
 Be stirring, an you wiU. 
 
 Dap. 
 Sub. 
 Face. 
 Sub. 
 
 I swear I will then. 
 Your fly will learn you all games. 
 
 (Within.) Ha' you done there? 
 
 Your grace will command him no 
 more duties? 
 Dol. No: 
 
 But come and see me often. I may 
 
 chance 
 To leave him three or four hundred 
 
 chests of treasure, 
 And some twelve thousand acres of fairy 
 
 land, 
 If he game well and comely with good 
 gamesters. 
 
 There 's a kind aunt : kiss her de- 
 parting part. — 
 
 you must sell your forty mark a 
 year now. 
 Aye, sir, I mean. 
 
 Or, give 't away ; pox on 't ! 
 I'll gi"t mine aunt. I'll go and 
 fetch the writings. 
 
 Exit. 
 'T is well ; away. 
 
 Sub. 
 
 But 
 
 Dap. 
 Sub. 
 Dap. 
 
 Sub. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Where's Subtle? 
 
 Sub: Here: what news? 
 
 Face. Drugger is at the door; go take his 
 suit, 
 And bid him fetch a parson presently. 
 Say he shall marry the widow. Thou 
 
 shalt spend 
 A hundred pound by the service ! 
 
 Exit Subtle. 
 Now, Queen Dol, 
 Have you pack'd up all? 
 Dol. Yes. 
 
 Face. And how do you like 
 
 The Lady Pliant? 
 Dol. A good dull innocent. 
 
 Re-enter Subtle. 
 
 Sub. Here's your Hieronimo's cloak and 
 
 hat. 
 Face. Give me 'em. 
 
 Sub. And the ruff too? 
 Face. Yes ; I '11 come to you presently. 
 
 Exit. 
 Sub. Now he is gone about his project, 
 Dol, 
 I told you of, for the widow. 
 Dol. 'Tis direct 
 
 Against our articles. 
 Sub. Well, we will fit him, wench. 
 
 Hast thou gull'd her of her jewels or her 
 bracelets ? 
 Dol. No; but I will do 't. 
 Sub. Soon at night, my Dolly, 
 
 When we are shipt, and all our goods 
 
 aboard. 
 Eastward for Ratclifif, we will turn our 
 
 course 
 To Brainford, westward, if thou sayst 
 
 the word. 
 And take our leaves of this o'erweening 
 
 rascal, 
 This peremptory Face. 
 Dol. Content ; I 'm weary of him. 
 
 Sub. Thou 'st cause, when the slave will 
 run a-wiving, Dol, 
 Against the instrument that was dJawn 
 between us. 
 Dol. I '11 pluck his bird as bare as I can. 
 Sub. Yes, tell her 
 
 She must by any means address some 
 
 present 
 To th' cunning man, make him amends 
 
 for wronging 
 His art with her suspicion; send a ring, 
 Or chain of pearl; she will be tortur'd 
 else 
 
 G3 names of taverns. 
 
 64 wheat boiled in millc. 
 
 65 games of chance. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 287 
 
 Extremely in her sleep, say, and ha' 
 
 strange things 
 Come to her. Wilt thou? 
 Dol. Yes. 
 
 Suh. My fine flitter-mouse,*^ 
 
 My bird o' the night ! We '11 tickle it at 
 
 the Pigeons,*' 
 When we have all, and may unlock the 
 
 trunks, 
 And say, this 's mine, and thine ; and 
 
 thine, and mine. (They kiss.) 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. What now! a-billing'? 
 Sub. Yes, a little exalted 
 
 In the good passage of our stock-affairs. 
 Face. Drugger has brought his parson; 
 take him in. Subtle, 
 And send Nab back again to wash his 
 face. 
 Suh. I will: and shave himself 9 
 
 Exit. 
 Face. If you can get him. 
 
 Dol. You are hot upon it, Face, whate'er 
 
 it is! 
 Face. A trick that Dol shall spend ten 
 pound a month by. . 
 
 - Be-enter Subtle. 
 
 Is he gone? 
 Sub. The chaplain waits you i' the hall, sir. 
 Face. I '11 go bestow him. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Dol. He '11 now marry her instantly. 
 
 Sub. He cannot yet, he is not ready. 
 
 Dear Dol, 
 
 Cozen her of all thou canst. To deceive 
 
 him 
 Is no deceit, but justice, that would break 
 Such an inextricable tie as ours was. 
 Dol. Let me alone to fit him. 
 
 Be-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Come, my venturers, 
 
 You ha' pack'd up all? Where be the 
 trunks? Bring forth. 
 Sub. Here. 
 Face. Let us see 'em. Where's the 
 
 money?- 
 Sub. Here, 
 
 Jn this. 
 Face. Mammon's ten pound; eight 
 
 score before : 
 The brethren's money this. Drugger's 
 
 and Dapper's. 
 What paper's that? 
 
 66 bat. 68 small change. 
 
 67 an inn at Brentford. 
 
 Dol. The jewel of the waiting maid's. 
 That stole it from her lady, to know cer- 
 tain 
 
 Face. If she should have precedence of 
 
 her mistress? 
 Dol. Yes. 
 
 Face. What box is that? 
 Sub. The fish-wives' rings, I think, 
 
 And th' ale-wives' single money.*' Is't 
 not, Dol? 
 Dol. Yes ; and the whistle that the sailor's 
 wife 
 Brought you to know an her husband 
 were with Ward.*' 
 Face. We '11 wet it to-morrow ; and our 
 silver beakers 
 And tavern cups. Where be the French 
 
 petticoats 
 And girdles and hangers? 
 Sub. Here, i' the trunk, 
 
 And the bolts of lawn. 
 Face. Is Drugger's damask there, 
 
 And the tobacco? 
 Sub. Yes. 
 
 Face. Give me the keys. 
 
 Dol. Why you the keys? 
 Sub. ' No matter, Dol; because 
 
 We shall not open 'em before he comes. 
 Face. 'T is true, you shall not open them, 
 indeed ; 
 Nor have 'em forth, do you see? Not 
 forth, Dol. 
 Dol. No ! 
 
 Face. No, my smock-rampant. The right 
 is, my 'master 
 Knows all, has pardon'd me, and he will 
 
 keep 'em. 
 Doctor, 't is true — ^you look — for all your 
 
 figures : 
 I sent for him, indeed.'"' Wherefore, 
 
 good partners, 
 Both he and she, be satisfied : for here 
 Determines '^ the indenture tripartite 
 'Twixt Subtle, Dol, and Face. All I can 
 
 do 
 Is to help you over the wall, o' the back- 
 side, 
 Or lend you a sheet to save your velvet 
 
 gown, Dol. 
 Here will be officers presently, bethink 
 
 you 
 Of some course suddenly to scape the 
 
 doct ; 
 For thither you '11 come else. {Some 
 knock.) Hark you, thunder. 
 SuK You are a precious fiend! 
 OJfi. (Without.) Open the door. 
 
 71 comes to an end. 
 
 69 a notorious pirate. 70 Face's crowning lie. 
 
288 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Face. Dol, I am sorry for thee i' faith; 
 but hear'st thou? 
 It shall go hard but I will place thee 
 
 somewhere : 
 Thou shalt ha' my letter to Mistress 
 
 Amo 
 
 Bol. Hang you ! 
 
 Face. Or Madam Csesarean. 
 Dol. Pox upon you, rogue ! 
 
 Would I had but time to beat thee! 
 Face. Subtle, 
 
 Let 's know where you '11 set up next ; I 
 
 will send you 
 A customer now and then, for old ac- 
 quaintance. 
 What new course have you? 
 Suh. Rogue, I'll hang myself. 
 
 That I may walk a greater devil than 
 
 thou, 
 And haunt thee i' the flock-bed '^ and 
 the buttery. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Enter Lovewit in the Spanish dress, with 
 the Parson. Loud knocking at the 
 door. 
 
 Love. What do you mean, my masters? 
 Mam. {Without.) Open your door. 
 
 Cheaters, bawds, conjurers. 
 Offi. (Without.) Or we '11 break it open. 
 Love. What warrant have you? 
 Offl. {Without.) Warrant enough, sir, 
 doubt not, 
 
 If you '11 not open it. 
 Love. Is there an officer there ? 
 
 Ofp. {Without.) Yes, two or three for 
 
 failing. ''' 
 Love. Have but patience, 
 
 And I will open it straight. 
 
 Enter Face, as butler. 
 
 Face. Sir, ha' you done? 
 
 Is it a marriage? Perfect? 
 Love. Yes, my brain. 
 
 Face. Off with your ruff and cloak then; 
 
 be yourself, sir. 
 Sur. {Without.) Down with the door. 
 Kas. {Without.) 'Slight, ding-'^ it open. 
 Love. {Opening the door.) Hold, 
 
 Hold, gentlemen, what means this vio- 
 lence? 
 
 Mammon, Surly, Kastril, Ananias, Trib- 
 ulation and Officers rush in. 
 
 Mam. Where is this collier? 
 
 Sur. And my Captain Face? 
 
 Mam. These day-owls. 
 
 Sur. They are birding in men's purses. 
 
 Mam. .Madam Suppository. 
 
 Kas. Doxy, my suster. 
 
 Ana. Locusts 
 
 Of the foul pit. 
 Tri. Profane as Bel and the Dragon. 
 
 Ana. Worse than the grasshoppers, or the 
 
 lice of Egypt. 
 Love. Good gentlemen, hear me. Are 
 you officers, 
 And cannot stay this violence? 
 1 Offl. Keep the peace. 
 
 Love. Gentlemen, what is the matter? 
 
 Whom do you seek? 
 Mam. The chemical cozener. 
 Sur. And the captain pander. 
 
 Kas. The nun my suster. 
 Mam. Madam Rabbi. 
 
 Ana. Scorpions, 
 
 And caterpillars. 
 Love. Fewer at once, I pray you. 
 
 1 Offl. One after another, gentlemen, I 
 charge you. 
 By virtue of my staff. 
 Ana. They are the vessels 
 
 Of pride, lust, and the cart.- 
 Love. Good zeal, lie still 
 
 A little whUe. 
 Tri. Peace, Deacon Ananias. 
 
 Love. The house is mine here, and the 
 doors are open ; 
 If there be any such persons as you seek 
 
 for, 
 Use your authority, search on o' God's 
 
 name, 
 I am but newly come to town, and finding 
 This tumult 'bout- my door, to tell you 
 
 true, 
 It somewhat maz'd me ; till my man here, 
 
 fearing 
 My more displeasure, told me he had 
 
 done 
 Somewhat an insolent part, let out my 
 
 house 
 (Belike presuming on my known aver- 
 sion 
 From any air o' the town while there 
 
 was sickness). 
 To a doctor and a captain: who, what 
 
 they are 
 Or where they be, he knows not. 
 Mam. Are they gone? 
 
 Love. You may go in and search, sir. 
 {Mammon, Ana., and Trib. go in.) 
 Here, I find 
 
 72 mattress. 
 
 73 to prevent failure. 
 
 74 smash. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 2g9 
 
 The empty walls worse than I left 'em, 
 
 smok'd, 
 A few erack'd pots, and glasses, and a 
 
 furnace ; 
 The ceiling flll'd with poesies of the can- 
 dle, 
 And "Madam with a dildo" '"^ writ o' the 
 
 walls. 
 Only one gentlewoman I met here 
 That is within, that said she was a 
 
 widow 
 
 Kas. Aye, that 's my suster; I '11 go thump 
 her. Where is she? 
 {Goes in.) 
 Love. And should ha' married a Spanish 
 count, but he, 
 When he came to 't, neglected her so 
 
 grossly. 
 That I, a widower, am gone through with 
 her. 
 Sur. How ! have I lost her then 1 
 Love. Were you the don, sir? 
 
 Good faith, now she does blame you ex- 
 tremely, and says 
 You swore, and told her you had ta'en 
 
 the pains 
 To dye your beard, and umber o'er your 
 
 face, 
 Borrowed a suit, and ruff, all for her 
 
 love: 
 And then did nothing. What an over- 
 sight 
 And want of putting forward, sir, was 
 
 this! 
 Well fare an old harquebusier ''" yet, 
 Could prime his powder, and give fire, 
 
 and hit, 
 All in a twinkling ! 
 
 {Mammon comes forth.) 
 Mam. The whole nest are fled ! 
 
 Love. What sort of birds were they? 
 Mam. A kind of choughs, 
 
 Or thievish daws, sir, that have piek'd 
 
 my purse. 
 Of eight score and ten pounds within 
 
 these five weeks, 
 Beside my first materials ; and my goods, 
 That lie i' the cellar, which I am glad 
 
 they ha' left, 
 I may have home yet. 
 Love. Think you so, sir? 
 
 Mam. Aye. 
 
 Love. By order of law, sir, but not other- 
 wise. 
 Mam. Not mine own stuff! 
 Love. Sir, I can take no knowledge 
 
 That they are yours; but by public 
 means. 
 
 If you can bring certificate that you were 
 
 guU'd of 'em, 
 Or any formal writ out of a court, 
 That you did cozen yourself, I will not 
 hold them. 
 Mam. I 'II rather lose 'em. 
 Love. That you shall not, sir, 
 
 By me, in troth; upon these terms, 
 
 they're yours. 
 What, should they ha' been, sir, turn'd 
 into gold, all? 
 Mam. No. 
 
 I cannot tell. — ^It may be they should. — 
 What then? 
 Love. What a great loss in hope have you 
 
 sustain'd ! 
 Mam. Not I; the commonwealth has. 
 Face. Aye, he would ha' built 
 
 The city new; and made a ditch about 
 
 it 
 Of silver, should have run with cream 
 
 from Hogsden; 
 That every Sunday in Moorfields the 
 
 younkers, 
 And tits " and tom-boys should have fed 
 on, gratis. 
 Mam. I will go mount a turnip-cart, and 
 preach 
 The end o' the world within these two 
 
 months. Surly, 
 What! in a dream? 
 Sur. Must I needs cheat myself 
 
 With that same foolish vice of honesty! 
 Come, let us go and hearken out the 
 
 rogues : 
 That Face I'U mark for mine, if e'er I 
 meet him. 
 Face. If I can hear of him, sir, I '11 bring 
 you word 
 Unto your lodging; for in troth, they 
 
 were strangers 
 To me; I thought 'em honest as myself, 
 sir. 
 
 {They come forth.) 
 
 Ee-enter Ananias and Tribulation. 
 
 Tri. 'T is well, the saints shall not lose all 
 yet. Go 
 
 And get some carts 
 
 Love. For what, my zealous friends ? 
 
 Ana, To bear away the portion of the 
 righteous 
 Out of this den of thieves. 
 Love. What is that portion? 
 
 Ana. The goods sometimes the orphans', 
 that the brethren 
 Bought with their silver pence. 
 
 75 perhaps a ballad refrain. 
 
 78 musketeer. 
 
 77 strumpets. 
 
290 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Love. What, those i' the cellar, 
 
 The knight Sir Mammon claims'? 
 Ana. I do defy 
 
 The wicked Mammon, so do all the 
 
 brethren. 
 Thou profane man ! I ask thee with 
 
 what conscience 
 Thou canst advance that idol against us, 
 That have the seal?" Were not the 
 
 shillings numb'red 
 That made the pounds; were not the 
 
 pounds told out 
 Upon the second day of the fourth week, 
 In the eighth month, upon the table dor- 
 mant. 
 The year of the last patience of the 
 
 saints, 
 Six hundred and ten 1 
 Love., Mine earnest vehement botcher, 
 
 And deacon also, I cannot dispute with 
 
 you: 
 But if you get you not away the sooner, 
 I shall confute you with a cudgel. 
 Ana. Sir! 
 
 Tri. Be patient, Ananias. 
 Ana. I am strong. 
 
 And will stand up, well girt, against an 
 
 host 
 That threatens Gad in exile. 
 Love. I shall send you 
 
 To Amsterdam, to your cellar. 
 Ana. I will pray there, 
 
 Against thy house. May dogs defile thy 
 
 walls. 
 And wasps and hornets breed beneath 
 
 thy roof. 
 This seat of falsehood, and this cave of 
 
 coz'nage 
 
 Love. 
 Drug 
 Love. 
 
 Face. 
 
 Exeunt Ana. and Tri. 
 Enter Drugger. 
 
 Another too? 
 
 Not I, sir, I am no brother. 
 {Beats him.) Away, you Harry 
 Nicholas!" do you talk? 
 
 Exit Drug. 
 No, this was Abel Drugger. Good 
 sir, go, (To the Parson.) 
 
 And satisfy him ; tell him all is done : 
 He stay'd too long a washing of his face. 
 The doctor, he shall hear of him at West- 
 chester; 
 And of the captain, tell him, at Yar- 
 mouth, or 
 Some good port-town else, lying for a 
 wind. 
 
 Exit Parson. 
 
 If you can get off the angry child now, 
 sir 
 
 Enter Kastril, dragging in his sister. 
 
 Kas. Come on, you ewe, you have match'd 
 most sweetly, ha' you not? 
 Did not 'I say, I would never ha' you tupt 
 But by a dubb'd boy,*" to make you a 
 
 lady-torn? 
 'Slight, you are a mammet ! *^ 0, I 
 
 could touse you now. 
 Death, mun *^ you marry with a pox ! 
 Love. You lie, boy; 
 
 As sound as you; and I'm aforehand 
 with you. 
 Kas. Anon ! 
 
 Love. Come, will you quarrel? I will 
 feeze ** you, sirrah ; 
 Why do you not buckle to your tools? 
 Kas. God's light, 
 
 This is a fine old boy as e'er I saw ! 
 Love. What, do you change your copy 
 now? Proceed; 
 Here stands my dove : stoop '* at her if 
 you dare. 
 Kas. 'Slight, I must love him! I cannot 
 choose, i' faith. 
 An I should be hang'd for 't ! Suster, I 
 
 protest, 
 I honor thee for this match. 
 Love. 0, do you so, sir? 
 
 Kas. Yes, an thou canst take tobacco and 
 drink, old boy, 
 I '11 give her five hundred pound more to 
 
 her marriage. 
 Than her own state. 
 Love. Fill a pipe full, Jeremy. 
 
 Face. Yes; but go in and take it, sir. 
 Love. We will. 
 
 I will be rul'd by thee in anything, 
 Jeremy. 
 Kas. 'Slight, thou art not hide-bound, 
 thou art a jovy*^ boy! 
 Come, let us in, I pray thee, and take 
 our whiffs. 
 Love. Whiff in with your sister, brother 
 boy. 
 
 Exeunt Kas. and Dame Pliant. 
 That master 
 That hath receiVd such happiness by a 
 
 servant. 
 In such a widow, a,nd with so much 
 
 wealth, 
 Were very ungrateful, if he would not be 
 A little indulgent to that servant's wit, 
 
 78 sealed aa God's 
 
 people. 
 78 a German reli- 
 
 gious fanatic, wlio 
 founded a sect 
 called "The Pam- 
 
 ily of Love." 
 
 82 must. 
 
 84 swoop, like a 
 
 80 knight. 
 
 S3 settle your busi- 
 
 hawk on its prey. 
 
 81 puppet. 
 
 ness. 
 
 85 jovial. 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 291 
 
 And help his fortune, though with some 
 
 small strain 
 Of his own candor.'® (Advancing.) 
 
 Therefore, gentlemen, 
 And kind spectators, if I have outstript 
 An old man's gravity, or strict canon, 
 
 think 
 What a young wife and a good brain 
 
 may do; 
 Stretch age's truth sometimes, and crack 
 
 it too. 
 Speak for thyself, knave. 
 Face. So I will, sir. {Advancing to the 
 
 front of the stage.) Gentlemen, 
 
 My part a little fell in this last scene. 
 Yet 't was decorum.*^ And though I am 
 
 clean 
 Got oS from Subtle, Surly, Mammon, 
 
 Dol, 
 Hot Ananias, Dapper, Drugger, all 
 With whom I traded; yet I put myself 
 On you, that are my country : '* and this 
 
 pelf 
 Which I have got, if you do quit me, 
 
 rests. 
 To feast you often, and invite new 
 
 guests. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 fie honor. 
 
 87 dramatic propriety. 
 
 88 jury. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 Of the life of John Webster ( 1580 ?-1625 1 ) , 
 probably the son of a London tailor, almost 
 nothing is known. He began writing for the 
 stage as early as 1602, at first as a collabo- 
 rator, more especially with Dekker, who 
 strongly influenced his dramatic beginnings. 
 Plays known to be by him alone number only 
 four, all dating between 1607 and 1619. 
 Writing slowly and carefully, compared with 
 his contemporaries he apparently lacked pro- 
 ductiveness and therefore prominence, but was 
 thought highly of by good judges. 
 
 Webster's reputation depends mainly on 
 The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona 
 (1607-12) and The Duchess of Malfi, (1609- 
 14), both romantic tragedies, the kind of play 
 which most people are apt to think of, per- 
 haps, as most typical of the Elizabethan 
 drama, because the most intense of its plays 
 are of this class. In the last hundred years 
 and more they have been the chief models for 
 writers of poetic drama (as in Shelley's 
 Cenci). Both of Webster's plays mentioned 
 belong to a subdivision of the type, the 
 tragedy of blood. The most celebrated and 
 influential early example is Thomas Kyd's 
 Spanish Tragedy (1585-7) and the great- 
 est is Shakespeare's Hamlet (1600-1604?), 
 though its original elements are so refined 
 and ennobled as to gain a new character. 
 The tragedy of blood abounds in crime, vio- 
 lence, madness, and bloodshed; ghosts glide 
 through its scenes, much is made of physical 
 horror, revenge is a frequent motive of its 
 personages. Its obvious appeal was some- 
 what crude and popular; but the great 
 strength of the Elizabethan drama was that 
 while its roots ran deep into popular belief, 
 taste and life, it was formed by the great 
 geniuses of the age. A particular develop- 
 ment of the tragedy of blood is seen in these 
 two plays of Webster and some others. Here 
 the horror is both intensified and refined; 
 mere bloodshed is not enough, other and 
 more elaborate .physical horrors are added, 
 and especially mental and moral horrors, in- 
 human wickedness, long-drawn and ingenious 
 agonies, the subtleties of the sinner's inmost 
 thought. The intensity is heightened by a 
 more realistic setting; the ghosts are some- 
 times absent, as in The Duchess of Malfi, and 
 we find ourselves in an almost contemporary 
 age, often in Italy — which was regarded by 
 the English, who had heard lurid tales of its 
 corruption and had misunderstood Machi- 
 
 202 
 
 avelli, as the home of dire and subtle evil. 
 In The Duchess of Malfi there is no lack of 
 murder and sudden death. All the chief 
 characters die violently, four men, three 
 women, two children. As often in Elizabethan 
 tragedy, the play is closed by a group of lofty 
 personages, unimportant for the play, with 
 solemn and regretful comments on the gen- 
 eral ruin. Strange and elaborate are the 
 vehicles of dread and torment — the dancing 
 and singing of lunatics, the feigned corpses 
 of her husband and children which wring the 
 Duchess' soul, the cold dead hand grasped in 
 the dark, the coffin and bell, the dolorous 
 echo, the poisoned book which slays by a kiss. 
 The struggling and screaming of Cariola at 
 her death not only serve as a foil to the 
 Duchess' composure, but bring a new shock. 
 The moral horror is not in the mere wicked- 
 ness, common enough in all tragedy. Bosola 
 is not a highly impressive villain, but an in- 
 different counterpart to lago, with his pre- 
 tense of frank honesty and success at dis- 
 simulation; with also, it is true, some indi- 
 vidual traits, melancholy, railing and a medi- 
 tative and scholarly turn. He has a con- 
 science and a heart at bottom; he serves as a 
 contrast to the more depraved brothers, and 
 rebels against them; the gods are just, and 
 of their own creature make an instrument to 
 destroy them. Their motives are revenge and 
 covetousness ; both brothers resent the sup- 
 posed dishonor brought by the Duchess on 
 their royal blood, and Ferdinand hoped 
 
 Had she continued widow, to have gained 
 An infinite mass of treasure by her death (IV. 
 ii; cf. I. i). 
 
 But their wickedness is so out of proportion 
 to any advantage which it might produce that 
 we feel it is the very air in which they live. 
 We see it in the cold calculation with which 
 they have planned all the accompaniments 
 of their sister'p murder. Ferdinand is the 
 weaker and less abnormal of the two. Violent 
 and impulsive as he is, when he sees 
 his sister lying dead his shell of callousness 
 is finally broken by resurgent family feeling 
 and remembrances of their youth, and re- 
 morse invades his reason. As to the Car- 
 dinal, he is more discerning, abler, firmer 
 than his brother, and it is he who claims re^ 
 sponsibility for the strangling of the Duchess 
 and her children. His frigid calm can be dis- 
 turbed only by the fear of political dis- 
 grace, and by the brief moment when he per- 
 
JOHN WEBSTER 
 
 293 
 
 mits himself to peer into the gulf of eternity 
 which lies before him. One of the most ab- 
 horrent passages in Elizabethan tragedy is 
 at the beginning of the final scene, where the 
 Cardinal shudders over one of his theological 
 books describing the fire of hell. He is a 
 devil who half-believes and trembles. He re- 
 calls the political cardinal of two or three 
 centuries earlier who is reported to have said 
 that if he had a soul he had lost it for the 
 Ghibellines. 
 
 Like Shakespeare, Webster is not borne 
 down by the distressing, the negative, the de- 
 structive; he is strong enough to battle his 
 way above them. We do not almost forget 
 them, as in Hamlet — he has taken good care 
 that we should not. But we concern our- 
 selves more with the normal and benign per- 
 sonages who are finally engulfed in the murky, 
 tempestuous ending. As usual with Webster, 
 the most interesting person is a woman; in- 
 deed, for Julia too, as for Vittoria Corom- 
 bona, he shows sympathy — for a bad woman 
 who has heroic traits, a type always popular 
 on the stage. The Duchess' vpe fancy in the 
 full ripeness of womanhood (though possibly 
 meant to be younger), between youth and 
 middle age, woman rather than sovereign, but 
 both. Nothing could be more perfect than 
 the scene where she reveals to Antonio her 
 resolve to marry him; here is all the charm 
 we feel when circumstances make it proper 
 and necessary for a woman to do the woo- 
 ing; the Duchess is mature enough to do it 
 without embarrassment, but with the beam- 
 ing eyes and roguish humor she always 
 shows in talking with Antonio, as in the 
 wonderfully human and dramatic scene (III. 
 ii) where Ferdinand surprises them to- 
 gether. Yet she is almost more mother than 
 wife, the sort of woman, the hope of the 
 human race, who takes a, husband to be the 
 father of her children. Almost her last 
 words are a domestic order (for a syrup for 
 her boy's cold), which the situation raises to 
 the highest poetry, but which turns to pain- 
 ful irony when we see the children strangled 
 instantly after her. Antonio, though less 
 fascinating and lifelike, is more elaborately 
 studied than she, doubtless in order to rec- 
 oncile an aristocratic age to -seeing a sov- 
 ereign marry beneath her; a soldier, diplo- 
 mat, statesman, penetrating and with a re- 
 markable knowledge of human nature, yet 
 modest, honest, charitable, praised even by 
 Bosola, and with a touch of modern-seeming 
 cultivation in his love of ruins and history. 
 He lacks interest a little through being pas- 
 sive and acted on throughout, for his status, 
 in the drama as in his life, is that of a prince 
 consort. Another curious modern trait is in 
 both, a certain emancipation and liberalism 
 as to religion, partly a reflection of 
 the usual English prejudice against popery. 
 The Duchess rebukes her woman as " a 
 superstitious fool" because she objects 
 to feigning a pilgrimage, and it is doubtless 
 
 not only the unconsciously ironical Cardinal 
 who would say that Antonio did " account 
 religion but a school-name " ( V. ii, and cf . 
 III. iii ) . Both seem satisfied, as in the 
 original source of the play, with a marriage 
 certainly informal and barely legal. Julia 
 too in her noble dying words " goes she 
 knows not whither," A certain skepticism 
 seems to have excited Webster's sympathy. 
 
 In truly Elizabethan manner, the construc- 
 tion and style of the play are ample and 
 broad, not compact and minutely careful, 
 like the work of such a man as Jonson. The 
 verse is lax and irregular, sometimes unpar- 
 donably so, approaching mere rhythmical 
 prose, as in some of the latest of the drama- 
 tists. Slurred and tumbling syllables often 
 give a dramatic, easy, natural effect; but 
 Webster's lines are sometimes diflicult to 
 read in any way which leaves the metrical 
 norm still recognizable. In structure and 
 incident he is at times a trifle careless. An- 
 tonio draws up an unnatural and dangerous 
 memorandum for his son's horoscope, and 
 drops it indifferently just when he should 
 have been most careful; and at the end of 
 the play this child who had been condemned 
 by the stars to an early death is the only one 
 of his family who survives! The play takes 
 a sudden emotional turn toward the middle. 
 The cloud in the sunny sky which beams over 
 the first part is no bigger than a man's hand. 
 The storm rolls up with speed, and nothing 
 breaks the gloom of the last part. Webster 
 daringly allows the interest to drop after the 
 death of the Duchess, but towards the mid- 
 dle of the last act it revives, with new uncer- 
 tainties and with the ingenious and appalling 
 disasters which crush the sinners. 
 
 The source of the play is the story of the 
 Duchess of Amalfi, perhaps partly historical, 
 which forms the twfenty-third novel in the 
 second volume of Painter's Palace of Pleas- 
 ure (1567), and which came through the 
 French of Belle-Forest from the Novelle of 
 Bandello. Painter's interest, like that of all 
 contemporary novelists, is in sensational 
 events, in rhetorical talk, and in drawing 
 forced moral lessons ; he censures the Duchess 
 for her uncontrolled desire for marriage, and 
 Antonio for his ambitious folly in marrying 
 above him. The characterization is ex- 
 tremely simple and obvious; Bosola is in- 
 conspicuous, and Julia not present at all, 
 nor most of the matter of Webster's fifth act. 
 
 A near kinship between Webster and 
 Shakespeare has long been felt by both 
 readers and spectators (the play was acted 
 long and successfully, even as lately as 1851, 
 with overwhelming effect, it is said). There 
 are signs of Shakespeare's influence on it, as 
 of the death of Desdemona in that of the 
 Duchess; if a strangled person revived, as 
 they both do, well enough to be able to speak, 
 there is no reason why she should not re- 
 cover. But it is doubtful whether Webster 
 should be called a pupil of Shakespeare; if so 
 
294 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PEMOD 
 
 he was not ready to admit it, for in the pref- 
 ace to The White Devil, after analyzing the 
 merits of Chapman, Jonson, Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, he dismisses Shakespeare, Dekker, 
 and Heywood in one breath. He approaches 
 Shakespeare on only one of his many dram- 
 atic sides, in his deeply human tragedy. His 
 two best plays put us more nearly in the 
 frame of mind produced by Hamlet, Lear, 
 and Othello than those of any other Eliza- 
 bethan dramatist. The two men are alike in 
 giving us more than we have any right to 
 demand in a play. Without enlarging on ab- 
 stract subjects, without mere talk, they give 
 us glimpses into deep musings over human 
 nature, life, and destiny. Both had wide in- 
 tellectual interests. Both, in their greatest 
 plays, though not pessimists, are somber. 
 Their people are more than carefully drawn 
 and individual pictures; they have the con- 
 trasting sides and the suggestions of strange 
 possibilities, of the hidden and unknown, 
 which we feel in the rare individual in real 
 
 life. They give us the utterly unexpected, 
 which we instantly accept. Webster knows 
 what strangely commonplace, what terse and 
 significant things, people will say at supreme 
 moments, as in the staccato dialogue between 
 Ferdinand and Bosola after the Duchess' 
 murder (IV. ii). He makes us feel the mo- 
 ment of tense silence which divides the chat- 
 ter of affectionate intimacy from the queenly 
 acceptance of doom: 
 
 I '11 asBure you, 
 You shall get no more children till my brothers 
 Consent to be your gossips. — Have you lost 
 your tongue! 
 
 *T is welcome : 
 For know, whether I am doomed to live or die, 
 I can. do both like a prince. 
 
 We are aware, in both poets, of mental power 
 and acifteness combined with warmth of 
 heart and a living soul. In Swinburne's 
 words, there is no poet morally nobler than 
 Webster. Such likeness was not due to 
 study, it was innate. 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 By JOHN WEBSTER 
 
 NAMES OP THE CHAEACTERS 
 
 Febdinaks, Duke of Calabria. 
 
 Cabdinal, his hrother. 
 
 Antonio Bologna, Steward of the House- 
 hold to the Duchess. 
 
 Dklio, his friend. 
 
 Daniel de Bosola, Gentleman of the Horse 
 to the Duchess. 
 
 Castbuccio, an old lord. 
 
 Maequis of Pescaka. 
 
 Count Malateste. 
 
 rodebioo, "] 
 
 Silvio, vLords. 
 
 Gbisolan, J 
 
 ACT I, 
 
 Scene 1. Amalf,. The presence-chaniber 
 m the Duchess's palace. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Delia. 
 
 Del. You are welcome to your country, 
 dear Antonio ; 
 
 You have been long in Prance, and you 
 return 
 
 A very formal Prenchman in your habit. 
 
 How do you like the French court? 
 'Ant. I admire it. 
 
 In seeking to reduce both state and peo- 
 ple 
 
 To a fix'd order, their judicious king 
 
 Begins at home ; quits first his royal pal- 
 ace 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Several Madmen. 
 
 Duchess op Malfi. 
 
 Cabiola, her woman. 
 
 Julia, tw/e to Oastrucoio, and mistress to 
 
 the Cardinal. 
 Old Lady. 
 Ladies, three young children, two pilgrims, 
 
 executioners, court officers, and attendants. 
 
 Scene. — Amalfi, Rome, Loretto, Milan. 
 
 Of flatt'ring sycophants, of dissolute 
 And infamous persons, — ^whieh he 
 
 sweetly terms 
 His master's master-piece, the work of 
 
 heaven ; 
 Considering duly that a prince's court 
 Is like a common fountain, whence should 
 
 flow 
 Pure silver drops in general, but if't 
 
 chance 
 Some curs'd example poison 't near the 
 
 head, 
 Death and diseases through the whole 
 
 land spread. 
 And what is 't makes this blessed govern- 
 ment 
 But a most provident council, who dare 
 
 freely 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 295 
 
 Inform him the corruption, of the times'? 
 Though some o' th' court hold it pre- 
 sumption 
 To instruct princes what they ought to 
 
 do, 
 It is a noble duty to inform them 
 What they ought to foresee.^ — Here 
 
 comes Bosola, 
 The only court-gall; yet I observe his 
 
 railing 
 Is not for simple love of piety : 
 Indeed, he rails at those things which he 
 
 wants ; 
 Would be as lecherous, covetous, or 
 
 proud, 
 Bloody, or envious, as any man, 
 If he had means to be so. — Here 's the 
 
 cardinal. 
 
 Enter Cardinal and Bosola. 
 
 Bos. I do haunt you still. 
 
 Card. So. 
 
 Bos. I have done you better service than 
 to be slighted thus. Miserable age, 
 where only the reward of doing well is 
 the doing of it ! 
 
 Card. You enforce your merit too much. 
 
 Bos. I fell into the galleys in your serv- 
 ice; where, for two years together, I wore 
 two towels instead of a shirt, with a knot 
 on the shoulder, after the fashion of a 
 Roman mantle. Slighted thus! I will 
 thrive some way. Blackbirds fatten best 
 in hard weather; why not I in these dog 
 days? 
 
 Card. Would you could become honest! 
 
 Bos. With all your divinity do but direct 
 me the way to it. I have known many 
 travel far for it, and yet return as arrant 
 knaves as they went forth, because they 
 carried themselves always along with 
 them. (Exit Cardinal.) Are you gone? 
 Some fellows, they say, are possessed 
 with the devil, but this great fellow were 
 able to possess the greatest devil, and 
 make him worse. 
 
 Ant. He hath denied thee some suit? 
 
 Bos. He and his brother are like plum- 
 trees that grow crooked over standing " 
 pools; they are rich and o'erladen with 
 fruit, but none but crows, pies,' and 
 caterpillars feed on them. Could I be 
 one of their flatt'ring panders, I would 
 hang on their ears like a horse-leech till 
 I were full, and then drop off. I pray, 
 leave me. Who would rely upon these 
 miserable dependencies, in expectation 
 
 to be advanc'd to-morrow? What crea- 
 ture ever fed worse than hoping Tanr 
 talus? Nor ever died any man more 
 fearfully than he that hop'd for a par- 
 don. There are rewards for hawks and 
 dogs when they have done us service ; but 
 for a soldier that hazards his limbs in a 
 battle, nothing but a kind of geometry is 
 his last supportation. 
 Delia. Geometry? 
 
 Bos. Aye, to hang in a fair pair of slings, 
 take his latter swing in the world upon 
 an honorable pair of crutches, from hos- 
 pital to hospital. Fare ye well, sir : and 
 yet do not you scorn us ; for places in the 
 court are but like beds in the hospital, 
 where this man's head lies at that man's 
 foot, and so lower and lower. 
 
 Exit. 
 Del. I knew this fellow seven years in the 
 
 galleys 
 For a notorious murder; and 'twas 
 
 thought 
 The cardinal suborn'd it : he was releas'd 
 By the French general, Gaston de Foix, 
 When he recover'd Naples. 
 Ant. 'T is great pity 
 
 He should be thus neglected: I have 
 
 heard 
 He's very valiant. This foul melan- 
 choly 
 Will poison all his goodness; for, I'll 
 
 tell you. 
 If too immoderate sleep be truly said 
 To be an inward rust unto the soul, 
 It then doth follow want of action 
 Breeds all black malcontents; and their 
 
 close rearing, 
 Like moths in cloth, do hurt for want of 
 
 wearing. 
 
 Scene 2. The same. 
 
 Antonio, Delio. Enter Silvio, Castruecio, 
 JuUa, Boderigo, and Grisolan. 
 
 Delio. The presence 'gins to fill: you 
 
 promis'd me 
 
 To make me the partaker of the natures 
 
 Of some of your great courtiers. 
 
 Ant. The lord cardinal's 
 
 And other strangers' that are now in 
 
 court? 
 I shall. — Here comes the great Calabrian 
 duke. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand and Attendants. 
 
 Ferd. Who took the ring oft'nest?* 
 
 1 provide against. 
 
 2 gtagnant. 
 
 3 magpies. 
 
 4 A sport in which a horseman tried to carry off on the point of his spear 
 an iron ring hanging from the cross-piece of a post. 
 
296 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Sil. Antonio Bologna, my lord. 
 
 Ferd. Our sister duchess' great master of 
 her household? Give him the jewel. — 
 When shall we leave this sportive action, 
 and fall to action indeed? 
 
 Cast. Methinks, my lord, you should not 
 desire to go to war in person. 
 
 Ferd. Now for some gravity. — Why, my 
 lord? 
 
 Cast. It is fitting a soldier arise to be a 
 prince, but not necessary a prince de- 
 scend to be a captain. 
 
 Ferd. No? 
 
 Cast. No, my lord; he were far better do 
 it by a deputy. 
 
 Ferd. Why should he not as well sleep or 
 eat by a deputy? This might take idle, 
 offensive, and base office from him, 
 whereas the other deprives him of honor. 
 
 Cast. Believe my experience, that realm 
 is never long in quiet where the ruler is 
 a soldier. 
 
 Ferd. Thou told'st me thy wife could not 
 endure fighting. 
 
 Cast. True, my lord. 
 
 Ferd. And of a jest she broke of ° a cap- 
 tain she met full of wounds : I have for- 
 got it. 
 
 Cast. She told him, my lord, he was a piti- 
 ful fellow, to lie,* like the children of 
 Ishmael, all in tentsJ 
 
 Ferd. Why, there 's a wit were able to 
 undo all the chirurgeons ' o' the city ; for 
 although gallants should quarrel, and had 
 drawn their weapons, and were ready to 
 go to it, yet her persuasions would make 
 them put up. 
 
 Cast. That she would, my lord. — How do 
 you like my Spanish gennet ? ' 
 
 Bod. He is all fire. 
 
 Ferd. I am of Pliny's opinion, I think he 
 was begot by the wind; he runs as if he 
 were ballas'd ^^ with quicksilver. 
 
 Sil. True, my lord, he reels from the tilt 
 often. 
 
 Rod. Gris. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Ferd. Why do you laugh? Methinks you 
 that are courtiers should be my touch- 
 wood, take fire when I give fire; that is, 
 laugh when I laugh, were the subject 
 never so witty. 
 
 Cast. True, my lord : I myself have heard 
 a very good jest, and have scorn'd to 
 seem to have so silly a wit as to under- 
 stand it. 
 
 Ferd. But I can laugh at your fool, my 
 lord. 
 
 Cast. He cannot speak, you know, but he 
 
 makes faces] my lady cannot abide him. 
 
 Ferd. No? 
 
 Cast. Nor endure to be in merry com- 
 pany; for she says too full laughing, and 
 too much company, fills her too full of 
 the wrinkle. 
 
 Ferd. 1 would, then, have a mathematical 
 instrument made for her face, that she 
 might not laugh out of compass. — I shall 
 shortly visit you at Milan, Lord Silvio. 
 
 Sil. Your grace shall arrive most wel- 
 come. 
 
 Ferd. You are a good horseman, Antonio : 
 you have excellent riders in France ; what 
 do you think of good horsemanship? 
 
 Ant. Nobly, my lord: as out of the Gre- 
 cian horse issued many famous princes, 
 so out of brave horsemanship arise the 
 first sparks of growing resolution, that 
 raise the mind to noble action. 
 
 Ferd. You have bespoke it worthily. 
 
 Sil. Your brother, the lord cardinal, and 
 sister duchess. 
 
 Enter Cardinal, Duchess, and Cariola. 
 
 Card. Are the galleys come about? 
 
 Gris. They are, my lord. 
 
 Ferd. Here's the Lord Silvio is come to 
 
 take his leave. 
 Delia. Now, sir, your promise : what 's 
 that cardinal? 
 I mean his temper. They say he's a 
 
 brave fellow. 
 Will play his five thousand crowns at 
 
 tennis, dance, 
 Court ladies, and one that hath fought 
 single combats. 
 Ant. Some such fiashes superficially hang 
 on him for form ; but observe his inward 
 character: he is a melancholy church- 
 man. The spring in his face is nothing 
 but the engend'ring of toads; where he 
 is jealous of any man, he lays worse 
 plots for them than ever was impos'd on 
 Hercules; for he strews in his way flat- 
 terers, panders, intelligencers, atheists, 
 and a thousand such political ^^ monsters. 
 He should have been Pope; but instead 
 of coming to it by the primitive decency 
 of the church, he did bestow bribes so 
 largely and so impudently as if he would 
 have carried it away without heaven's 
 knowledge. Some good he hath done— — 
 Delia. You have given too much of him. 
 
 What's his brother? 
 Ant; The duke there? A most perverse 
 and turbulent nature. 
 
 c at the expense of. 
 8 lodge. 
 
 7 rolls of lint used 
 for bandages. 
 
 8 surgeons. 
 
 8 a small horse. 
 
 10 ballasted. 
 
 11 intrigaing. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFl 
 
 297 
 
 What appears in him mirth is merely out- 
 side j 
 
 If he laught heartily, it is to laugh 
 
 All honesty out of fashion. 
 Delio. Twins? 
 
 Ant. In quality. 
 
 He speaks with others' tongues, and 
 hears men's suits 
 
 With others' ears ; will seem to sleep o' 
 th' bench 
 
 Only to entrap offenders in their an- 
 swers; 
 
 Dooms men to death by information; 
 
 Rewards by hearsay. 
 Delio. Then the law to him 
 
 Is like a foul, black cobweb to a spider, — 
 
 He makes it his dwelling and a prison 
 
 To entangle those shall feed him. 
 Ant. Most true: 
 
 He never pays debts unless they be 
 shrewd turns, 
 
 And those he will confess that he doth 
 owe. 
 
 Last, for his brother there, the cardinal, 
 
 They that do flatter him most say ora- 
 cles 
 
 Hang at his lips; and verily I believe 
 them, 
 
 For the devil speaks in them. 
 
 But for their sister, the right noble 
 duchess, 
 
 You never flx'd your eye on three fair 
 medals 
 
 Cast in one figure, of so different temper. 
 
 For her discourse, it is so full of rapture, 
 
 You only will begin then to be "sorry 
 
 When she doth end her speech, and wish, 
 in wonder. 
 
 She held it less vain-glory to talk much. 
 
 Than your penance to hear her. Whilst 
 she speaks, 
 
 She throws upon a man so sweet a look 
 
 That it were able to raise one to a gal- 
 liard " 
 
 That lay in a dead palsy, and to dote 
 
 On that sweet countenance; but in that 
 look 
 
 There speaketh so divine a continence 
 
 As cuts off all lascivious and vain hope. 
 
 Her days are praetis'd in such noble vir- 
 tue. 
 
 That sure her nights, nay, more, her very 
 sleeps, 
 
 Are more in heaven than other ladies' 
 shrifts. 
 
 Let all sweet ladies break their flatt'ring 
 glasses. 
 
 And dress themselves in her. 
 
 Delio. Fie, Antonio, 
 
 You play the wire-drawer with her com- 
 mendations. 
 Ant. I'll case the picture up; only thus 
 much: 
 All her particular worth grows to this 
 
 sum, — 
 She stains ^^ the time past, lights the 
 time to come. 
 Cari. You must attend my lady in the gal- 
 lery, 
 Some half an hour hence. 
 Ant. I shall. 
 
 Exeunt Antonio and Delio. 
 Ferd. Sister, I have a suit to you. 
 Dudh. To me, sir 1 
 
 Ferd. A gentleman here, Daniel de Bosola, 
 
 One that was in the galleys 
 
 Duch. Yes, I know him. 
 
 Ferd. A worthy fellow he 's : pray, let me 
 entreat for 
 The provisorship of your horse. 
 Duch. Your knowledge of him 
 
 Commends him and prefers him. 
 Ferd. Call him hither. 
 
 Exeunt Attendants. 
 We [are] now upon parting.'^* Good 
 
 Lord Silvio, 
 Do us commend to all our noble friends 
 At the leaguer.^^ 
 Sil. Sir, I shall. 
 
 Duch. You are for Milan ? 
 
 Sil. I am. 
 
 Duch. Bring the earoches.^" — We '11 bring 
 you down 
 To the'haven. 
 
 Exeunt all but Cardinal and Ferdinand. 
 Card. Be sure you entertain that Bosola 
 For your intelligence.^' I would not be 
 
 seen in 't ; 
 And therefore many times I have slighted 
 
 him 
 When he did court our furtherance, as 
 this morning. 
 Ferd. Antonio, the great master of her 
 household. 
 Had been far fitter. 
 Card. You are deceiv'd in liim. 
 
 His nature is too honest for such busi- 
 ness. — 
 He comes : I '11 leave you. 
 
 Exit. 
 Re-enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. I was lur'd to you. 
 
 Ferd, My brother, here, the cardinal could 
 never 
 Abide you. 
 
 12 a lively dance. 
 
 13 throws into the shade. 
 
 14 about to part. 
 
 IS camp. 
 
 16 coaches. 
 17 to give you a spy's information. 
 
298 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Bos. Never since he was in my debt. 
 
 Ferd. May be some oblique character in 
 
 your face 
 
 Made him suspect you. 
 
 Bos. Doth he study physiognomy? 
 
 There 's no more credit to be given to th' 
 
 face 
 Than to a sick man's urine, which some 
 
 call 
 The physician's whore, because she 
 
 cozens ■'* him. 
 He did suspect me wrongfully. 
 Ferd. For that 
 
 You must give great men leave to take 
 
 their times. 
 Distrust doth cause us seldom be de- 
 
 eeiv'd. 
 You see the oft shaking of the cedar- 
 tree 
 Fastens it more at root. 
 Bos. Yet take heed; 
 
 For to suspect a friend unworthily 
 Instructs him the next way to suspect 
 
 you, 
 And prompts him to deceive you. 
 Ferd. There 's gold. 
 
 Bos. So : 
 
 What follows? — (Aside.) Never rain'd 
 
 such showers as these 
 Without thunderbolts i' th' tail of them. 
 — Whose throat must I cut? 
 Ferd. Your inclination to shed blood 
 rides post^' 
 Before my occasion to use you. I give 
 
 you that 
 To live i' th' court here, and observe the 
 
 duchess ; 
 To note all the particulars of her be- 
 havior, 
 What suitors do solicit her for marriage, 
 And whom she best affects.^" She's a 
 
 young widow: 
 I would not have her marry again. 
 Bos. No, sir? 
 
 Ferd. Dp not you ask the reason; but be 
 satisfied. 
 I say I would not. . 
 Bos. It seems you would create me 
 
 One of your familiars. 
 Ferd. Familiar! What's that? 
 
 Bos. Why, a very quaint invisible devil in 
 flesh, — 
 An intelligencer.^^ 
 Ferd. Such a kind of thriving thing 
 
 I would wish thee; and ere long thou 
 
 mayst arrive 
 At a higher place by 't. 
 Bos. Take your devils, 
 
 IS cheats. lO runs ahead of. 20 likes. 
 
 Which hell calls angels ! ^^ These curs'd 
 
 gifts would make 
 You a corrupter, me an impudent traitor; 
 And should I take these, they'd take me 
 
 [to] hell. 
 Ferd. Sir, I 'U take nothing from you that 
 
 I have given. 
 There is a place that I procur'd for you 
 This morning, the provisorship 0' th' 
 
 horse; 
 Have you heard on 't? 
 Bos. No. 
 
 Ferd. 'T is yours : is 't not worth thanks? 
 Bos. I would have you curse yourself now, 
 
 that your bounty 
 (Which makes men truly noble) e'er 
 
 should make me 
 A villain. Oh, that to avoid ingratitude 
 For the good deed you have done me, I 
 
 must do 
 All the ill man can invent! Thus the 
 
 devil 
 Candies all sins o'er: and what heaven 
 
 terms vile. 
 That names he complimental. 
 Ferd. Be yourself; 
 
 Keep your old garb of melancholy ; 't will 
 
 express 
 You envy those that stand above your 
 
 reach. 
 Yet strive not to come near 'em. This 
 
 will gain 
 Access to private lodgings, where your- 
 self 
 
 May, Uke a politic dormouse 
 
 Bos. As I have seen some 
 
 Feed in a lord's dish, half asleep, not 
 
 seeming 
 To listen to any talk; and yet these 
 
 rogues 
 Have cut his throat in a dream. What 's 
 
 my place ? 
 The provisorship o' th' horse? Say, 
 
 then, my corruption 
 Grew out of horse-dung : I am your crea- 
 ture. 
 Ferd. Away ! Exit. 
 
 Bos. Let good men, for good deeds, covet 
 
 good fame, 
 Since place and riches oft are bribes of 
 
 shame. 
 Sometimes the devil doth preach. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. Amalfii. Gallery in the Duch- 
 ess's palace. 
 Enter Ferdinand, Duchess, Cardinal, and 
 Cariola. 
 
 21 spy. 22 gold coins worth ten shillings. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALPI 
 
 299 
 
 Card. We are to part from you; and your 
 own discretion 
 Must now be your director. 
 Ferd. You are a widow: 
 
 You know already what man isj find 
 
 therefore 
 Let not youth, high promotion, elo- 
 quence 
 
 Card. No, 
 Nor anything without the addition, 
 
 honor, 
 Sway your high blood. 
 Ferd. Marry! They are most luxuri- 
 ous^^ 
 Will wed twice. 
 Card. 0, fie! 
 
 Ferd. Their livers are more spotted 
 
 Than Laban's sheep.^* 
 Duch. Diamonds are of most value, 
 
 They say, that have past through most 
 jewelers' hands. 
 Ferd. Whores by that rule are precious. 
 Buck. Will you hear me ? 
 
 I '11 never marry. 
 Card. So most widows say; 
 
 But commonly that motion ^° lasts no 
 
 longer 
 Than the turning of an hour-glass: the 
 
 funeral sermon 
 And it end both together. 
 Ferd. Now hear me : 
 
 You live in a rank pasture, here, i' th' 
 
 court; 
 There is a kind of honey-dew that's 
 
 deadly; 
 'T will poison your fame ; look to 't. Be 
 
 not cunning; 
 For they whose faces do belie their 
 
 hearts 
 Are witches ere they arrive at twenty 
 
 years, 
 Aye, and give the devil suck. 
 Buck. This is terrible good counsel. 
 Ferd. Hypocrisy is woven of a fine small 
 thread, 
 Subtler than Vulcan's engine : 2« yet, be- 
 lieve 't. 
 Your darkest actions, nay, your privat'st 
 
 thoughts. 
 Will come to light. 
 Card. You may flatter yourself. 
 
 And take your own choice; privately be 
 married 
 
 Under the eaves of night 
 
 Ferd. Think 't the best voyage 
 
 That e'er you made; like the irregular 
 crab, 
 
 23 lustful. 25 resolve. 
 
 24 Genesis xxx. 31-42, 
 
 Which, though 't goes backward, thinks 
 
 that it goes right 
 Because it goes its own way : but observe, 
 Such weddings may more properly be 
 
 said 
 To be executed than celebrated. 
 Card. The marriage night 
 
 Is the entrance into some prison. 
 Ferd. And those joys, 
 
 Those lustful pleasures, are like heavy 
 
 sleeps 
 Which do fore-run man's mischief. 
 Card. Fare you well. 
 
 Wisdom begins at the end: remember it. 
 
 Exit. 
 Buck. I think this speech between you 
 
 both was studied, 
 It came so roundly off. 
 Ferd. You are my sister; 
 
 This was my father's poniard, do you 
 
 see? 
 I'd be loth to see't look rusty, 'cause 
 
 'twas his. 
 I would have you give o'er these charge- 
 able " revels : 
 A visor and a mask are whispering- 
 rooms 
 That were ne'er built for goodness, — fare 
 
 ye well — 
 And women like that part which, like the 
 
 lamprey. 
 Hath ne'er a bone in 't. 
 Buck. Fie, sir! 
 
 Ferd. Nay, 
 
 I mean the tongue; variety of courtship. 
 What cannot a neat knave with a smooth 
 
 tale 
 Make a woman believe? Farewell, lusty 
 
 widow. 
 
 Exit. 
 Buck. Shall this move me? If all my 
 
 royal kindred 
 Lay in my way unto this marriage, 
 I'd make them my low footsteps. And 
 
 even now. 
 Even in this hate, as men in some great 
 
 battles, 
 By apprehending danger, have achiev'd 
 Almost impossible actions (I have heard 
 
 soldiers say so), 
 So I through frights and threat'nings 
 
 will assay 
 This dangerous venture. Let old wives 
 
 report 
 I wink'd ^* and chose a husband. — Cari- 
 
 ola. 
 To thy known secrecy I have given up 
 
 26 the net in which 
 
 27 costly. 
 
 he caught Venus and Mars, 
 
 28 shut my eyes. 
 
300 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 More than my life, — my fame. 
 Cari. Both shall be safe; 
 
 For I 'U conceal this secret from the 
 
 world 
 As warily as those that trade in poison 
 Keep poison from their children. 
 Duch. Thy protestation 
 
 Is ingenious and hearty; I beUeve it. 
 Is Antonio come 1 
 Cari. He attends you. 
 
 Duch. Good dear soul, 
 
 Leave me; but place thyself behind the 
 
 arras. 
 Where thou may'st overhear us. Wish 
 
 me good speed; 
 For I am going into a wilderness, 
 Where I shall find nor path nor friendly 
 
 clue 
 To be my guide. 
 
 Cariola goes behind the arras. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 I sent for you : sit down ; 
 Take pen and ink, and write: are you 
 ready? 
 Ant. Yes. 
 
 Duch. What did I say? 
 Ant. That I should write somewhat. 
 Duch. 0, I remember. 
 
 After these triumphs and this large ex- 
 pense 
 It's fit, like thrifty husbands,^' we in- 
 quire 
 What 's laid up for to-morrow. 
 Ant. So please your beauteous excellence. 
 Duch. Beauteous ! 
 
 Indeed, I thank you. I look young for 
 
 your sake; 
 You have ta'en my cares upon yon. 
 Ant. I '11 fetch your grace 
 
 The particulars of your revenue and ex- 
 pense. 
 Duch. 0, you are 
 An upright treasurer, but you mistook ; 
 For when I said I meant to make inquiry 
 What's laid up for to-morrow, I did 
 
 mean 
 What 's laid up yonder for me. 
 Ant. Where? 
 
 Duch. In heaven. 
 
 I am making my will (as 'tis fit princes 
 
 should, 
 In perfect memory), and, I pray, sir, 
 
 tell me. 
 Were not one better make it smiling, 
 
 thus, 
 Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly 
 looks. 
 
 As if the gifts we parted with procur'd ^° 
 That violent distraction? 
 Ant. O, much better. 
 
 Duch. If I had a husband now, this care 
 were quit: 
 But I intend to make you overseer. 
 What good deed shall we first remember? 
 Say. 
 Ant. Begin with that first good deed be- 
 gan i' th' world 
 After man's creation, the sacrament of 
 
 marriage. 
 I 'd have you first provide for a good 
 
 husband ; 
 Give him all. 
 Duch. All! 
 
 Ant. Yes, your excellent self. 
 
 Duch. In a winding sheet? 
 Ant. In a couple.'' 
 
 Duch. Saint Winifred, that were a strange 
 
 wUl! 
 Ant. 'T were stranger if there were no will 
 in you 
 To marry again. 
 Duch. What do you think of marriage? 
 Ant. I take't, as those that deny purga- 
 toiy, 
 It locally contains or heaven or hell ; 
 There 's no third place in 't. 
 Duch. How do you affect it? 
 
 Ant. My banishment, feeding my melan- 
 choly, 
 Would often reason thus: — 
 Duch. Pray, let 's hear it. 
 
 Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have 
 children, 
 What takes that from him? Only the 
 
 bare name 
 Of being a father, or the weak delight 
 To see the little wanton ride a-eock-horse 
 Upon a painted stick, or hear him chat- 
 ter 
 Like a taught starling. 
 Duch. Fie, fie, what 's all this? 
 
 One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my 
 
 ring to 't. 
 They say 't is very sovereign. 'T was my 
 
 wedding-ring. 
 And I did vow never to part with it 
 But to my second husband. 
 Ant. You have parted with it now. 
 Duch. Yes, to help your eye-sight. 
 Ant. You have made me stark blind. 
 Duch. How? 
 
 Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil 
 
 Is dancing in this circle. 
 Duch. Remove him. 
 
 Ant. How? 
 
 20 housekeepers. 
 
 30 produced. 
 
 31 in marriage. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 301 
 
 Duch. There needs small conjuration, 
 when your finger 
 
 May do it : thus. Is it fit? 
 
 (She puts the ring upon his finger: he 
 kneels.) 
 Ant. What said you? 
 
 Duch. Sir, 
 
 This goodly roof of yours is too low 
 built; 
 
 I cannot stand upright in 't nor discourse, 
 
 "Without I xaise it higher. Kaise your- 
 self; 
 
 Or, if you please, my hand to help you : 
 so. 
 
 (Baises him.) 
 Ant. Ambition, madam, is a great man's 
 madness, 
 
 That is not kept in chains and close-pent 
 rooms, 
 
 But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is 
 girt 
 
 With the wild noise of prattling visitants. 
 
 Which makes it lunatic beyond all- cure. 
 
 Conceive not I am so stupid but I aim '^ 
 
 Whereto your favors tend : but he 's a 
 fool 
 
 That, being a-cold, would thrust his 
 hands i' th' fire 
 
 To warm them. 
 Duch. So, now the ground 's broke. 
 
 You may discover what a wealthy mine 
 
 I make you lord of. 
 Ant. my unworthiness ! 
 
 Duch. You were ill to sell yourself : ^^ 
 
 This dark'ning of your worth is not like 
 that 
 
 Which tradesmen use i' th' city; their 
 false lights s* 
 
 Are to rid bad wares off : and I must tell 
 you, 
 
 If you will know where breathes a com- 
 plete man 
 
 (I speak it without flattery), turn your 
 eyes, 
 
 And progress through yourself. 
 Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell, 
 
 I should be honest: I have long serv'd 
 virtue, 
 
 And ne'er ta'en wages of her. 
 Duch. Now she pays it. 
 
 The misery of us that are bom great ! 
 
 We are forc'd to woo, because none dare 
 woo us; 
 
 And as a tyrant doubles with his words 
 
 And fearfully equivocates, so we 
 
 Are forc'd to express our violent pas- 
 sions 
 
 In riddles and in dreams, and leave the 
 
 path 
 Of simple virtue, which was never made 
 To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag 
 You have left me heartless; mine is in 
 
 your bosom: 
 I hope 'twill multiply love there. You 
 
 do tremble: 
 Make not your heart so dead a piece of 
 
 flesh. 
 To fear more than to love me. Sir, be 
 
 confident. 
 What is't distracts you? This is flesh 
 
 and blood, sir ; 
 'Tis not the figure cut in alabeister 
 Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, 
 
 awake, man! 
 I do here put off all vain ceremony. 
 And only do appear to you a young 
 
 widow 
 That claims you for her husband, and; 
 
 like a widow, 
 I use but half a blush in 't. 
 Ant. Truth speak for me; 
 
 I will remain the constant sanctuary 
 Of your good name. 
 Duch. • 1 thank you, gentle love : 
 
 And 'cause you shall not come to me in 
 
 debt, 
 Being now my steward, here upon your 
 
 lips 
 I sign your Quietus est.^^ This you 
 
 should have begg'd now. 
 I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats 
 
 thus, 
 As fearful to devour them too soon. 
 Ant. But for your brothers? 
 Duch. Do not think of them : 
 
 All discord without this circumference 
 Is only to be pitied, and not fear'd : 
 Yet, should they know it, time will easily 
 Scatter the tempest. 
 Ant. These words should be mine. 
 
 And all the parts you have spoken, if 
 
 some part of it 
 Would not have savor'd flattery. 
 Duch. Kneel. 
 
 {Cariola comes from behind the arras.) 
 Ant. Ha ! 
 
 Duch. Be not amaz'd : this woman 's of 
 
 my counsel. 
 I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a 
 
 chamber 
 Per verba presenti '" is absolute marriage; 
 Bless, heaven, this sacred gordian,^'' which 
 
 let violence 
 Never untwine. 
 
 82 guess. 3* t'^e darkening of 
 
 33 you would be a poor their shops, 
 salesman of yourself. 
 
 35 The phrase used 
 ^0 Indicate settle- 
 
 ment of an ac- 86 in the hearing of 
 count. a third person. 
 
 87 knot. 
 
302 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Ant. And may our sweet affections, like 
 the spheres, 
 Be still in motion ! 
 Buch. Quick'ning, and make 
 
 The like soft music ! 
 Ant. That we may imitate the loving 
 palms, 
 Best emblem of a peaceful marriage, 
 That ne'er bore fruit, divided ! 
 Buch. What can the church force more? 
 Ant. That fortune may not know an acci- 
 dent, 
 Either of joy or sorrow, to divide 
 Our fixed wishes ! 
 Buch. How can the church build 
 
 faster? 38 
 We now are man and wife, and 'tis the 
 
 church 
 That must but echo this. — Maid, stand. 
 
 apart : 
 I now am blind. 
 Ant. What 's your conceit in this ? 
 
 Buch. I would have you lead your fortune 
 by the hand 
 Unto your marriage-bed : 
 (You speak in me this, for we now are 
 
 one.) 
 We '11 only lie and talk together, and plot 
 T' appease my humorous 3' kindred ; and 
 
 if you please, 
 Like the old tale in Alexander and Lodo- 
 
 wick,*" 
 Lay a naked sword between us, keep us 
 
 chaste. 
 0, let me shroud my blushes in your 
 
 bosom, 
 
 Since 't is the treasury of all my secrets ! 
 
 Exeunt Buchess and Antonio. 
 
 Can. Whether the spirit of greatness or 
 
 of woman 
 
 Reign most in her, I know not; but it 
 
 shows 
 A fearful madness. I owe her much of 
 
 pity. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene 1. Amalfi. An apartment in the 
 palace of the Buchess. 
 
 Enter Bosola and Castruccio. 
 
 Bos. You say you would fain be taken for 
 an eminent courtier? 
 
 Cast. 'Tis the very main*^ of my ambi- 
 tion. 
 
 Bos, Let me see: you have a reasonable 
 good face for 't already, and your night- 
 cap expresses your ears sufficient largely. 
 I would have you learn to twirl the 
 strings of your band with a good grace, 
 and in a set speech, at th' end of every 
 sentence, to hum three or four times, or 
 blow your nose till it smart again, to re- 
 cover yotrr memory. When you come to 
 be a president in criminal causes, if you 
 smile upon a prisoner, hat^ him; but if 
 you frown upon him and threaten him, 
 let him be sure to scape the gallows. 
 
 Cast. I would be a very merry president. 
 
 Bos. Do not sup o' nights; 'twill beget 
 you an admirable wit. 
 
 Cast. Rather it would make me have a 
 good stomach to quarrel; for they say, 
 your roaring boys *^ eat meat seldom, and 
 that makes them so valiant. But how 
 shall I know whether the people take me 
 for an eminent fellow? 
 
 Bos. I will teach a trick to know it: give 
 out you lie a-dying, and if you hear the 
 common people curse you, be sure you 
 are taken for one of the prime night- 
 caps. 
 
 Enter an Old Lady. 
 
 You come from painting now. 
 
 Old Lady. From what? 
 
 Bos. Why, from your scurvy faee-physie. 
 To behold thee not painted inclines some- 
 what near a miracle. These in thy face 
 here were deep ruts and foul sloughs the 
 last progress.** There was a lady in 
 France that, having had the small-pox, 
 flayed the skin off her face to make it 
 more level ; and whereas before she looked 
 like a nutmeg grater, after she resembled 
 an abortive hedge-hog. 
 
 Old Lady. Do you call this painting? 
 
 Bos. No, no, but you call [it] careening** 
 of an old morphew'd *5 lady, to make her 
 disembogue *° again : there 's rough-cast 
 phrase to your plastic.*' 
 
 Old Lady. It seems you are well ac- 
 quainted with my closet. 
 
 Bos. One would suspect it for a shop of 
 witchcraft, to find in it the fat of ser- 
 pents, spawn of snakes, Jews' spittle, and 
 their young children's ordure; and all 
 these for the face. I would sooner eat a 
 dead pigeon taken from the soles of the 
 feet of one sick of the plague,*' than 
 kiss one of you fasting. Here are two 
 
 38 more drmly. 
 
 3g captious. 
 
 40 A sixteenth cen- 
 tury ballad ; a 
 play BO entitled, 
 
 dealing with the 
 same story, is 
 mentioned in 
 
 Henslowe's Diaru 
 as acted in 1597. 
 
 41 chief part. 
 
 42 bullies. 
 
 48 royal journey, 
 
 44 turning over. 
 
 45 scabbed. 
 
 4B discJharge. 
 
 47 there's npppropri- 
 ately rough lan- 
 guage for your 
 
 face modelling. 
 4S a prescription 
 actually used at 
 the time. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 303 
 
 of you, whose sin of your youth is the 
 very patrimony of the physician; makes 
 him renew his foot-cloth with the spring, 
 and change his high-pric'd courtesan with 
 the fall of the leaf. I do wonder you do 
 not loathe yourselves. Observe my medi- 
 tation now. 
 What thing is in this outward form of 
 
 man 
 To be belov'd? We account it ominous. 
 If nature do produce a colt, or lamb, 
 A fawn, or goat, in any limb resembling 
 A man, and fly from 't as a prodigy. 
 Man stands amaz'd to see his deformity 
 In any other creature but himself. 
 But in our own flesh though we bear dis- 
 eases 
 Which have their true names only ta'en 
 
 from beasts, — 
 As the most ulcerous wolf *° and swinish 
 
 measle,'" — 
 Though we are eaten up of lice and 
 
 worms. 
 And though continually we bear about us 
 A rotten and dead body, we delight 
 To hide it in rich tissue : all our fear, 
 Nay, all our terror, is, lest our physician 
 Should put us in the ground to be made 
 
 sweet. — 
 Your wife's gone to Rome: you two 
 couple, and get you to the wells at Lucca 
 to recover your aches. I have other work 
 on foot. 
 
 Exeunt Castruccio and Old Lady. 
 I observe our duchess 
 Is sick a-days, she pukes, her stomach 
 
 seethes. 
 The fins of her eye-lids look most teem- 
 ing blue,'"- 
 She wanes i' th' cheek, and waxes fat i' 
 
 th' flank. 
 And, contrary to our Italian fashion. 
 Wears a loose-bodied gown: there's 
 
 somewhat in 't. 
 I have a trick may discover it, 
 A pretty one; I have bought some apri- 
 
 cocks, 
 The first our spring yields. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Delio, talking together 
 apart. 
 
 Delio. And so long since married? 
 
 You amaze me. 
 
 Ant. Let me seal your lips for ever : 
 
 For, did I think that anything but th' air 
 Could carry these words from you, I 
 should wish 
 
 You had no breath at all. — Now, sir, in 
 
 your contemplation? 
 You are studying to become a great wise 
 fellow. 
 
 Bos. 0, sir, the opinion of wisdom is a 
 foul tetter °^ that runs all over a man's 
 body : if simplicity direct us to have no 
 evil, it directs us to a happy being; for 
 the subtlest folly proceeds from the sub- 
 tlest wisdom. Let me be simply honest. 
 
 Ant. I do understand your inside. 
 
 Bos. Do you so? 
 
 Ant. Because you would not seem to ap- 
 pear to th' world 
 Puff'd up with your preferment, you con- 
 tinue 
 This out-of- fashion melancholy: leave it, 
 leave it. 
 
 Bos. Give me leave to be honest in any 
 phrase, in any compliment whatsoever. 
 Shall I confess myself to you? I look no 
 higher than I can reach : they are the gods 
 that must ride on winged horses. A law- 
 yer's mule of a slow pace will both suit 
 my disposition and business; for, mark 
 me, when a man's mind rides faster than 
 his horse can gallop, they quickly both 
 tire. 
 
 Ant. You would look up to heaven, but I 
 think 
 The devil, that rules i' th' air, stands in 
 your light. 
 
 Bos. O, sir, you are lord of the ascend- 
 ant,°' chief man with the duchess : a duke 
 was your cousin-german remov'd. Say 
 you were lineally descended from King 
 Pepin, or he himself, what of this? 
 Search the heads of the greatest rivers in 
 the world, you shall find them but bubbles 
 of water. Some would think the souls of 
 princes were brought forth by some more 
 weighty cause than those of meaner per- 
 sons: they are deceiv'd, there's the same 
 hand to them; the like passions sway 
 them ; the same reason that makes a vicar 
 go to law for a tithe-pig, and undo his 
 neighbors, makes them spoil a whole 
 . province, and batter down goodly cities 
 with the cannon. 
 
 Enter Duchess and Ladies. 
 
 Duck. Your arm, Antonio : do I not grow 
 
 fat? 
 I am exceeding short-winded. — Bosola, 
 I would have you, sir, provide for me a 
 
 litter ; 
 
 49 lupufl, nicer. called measles. as if she were 
 
 60 an eruptive dis- 61 her eyelids look pregnant, 
 
 ease of swine was heavy and black S2 scurf. 
 
 63 an astrological 
 term for a posi- 
 
 tion of 
 tance. 
 
 Impor' 
 
304 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Such a one as the Duchess of Florence 
 rode in. 
 Bos. The duchess us'd one when she was 
 
 great with child. 
 Duch. I think she did. — Come hither, mend 
 my ruff: 
 Here, when ? thou art such a tedious lady ; 
 
 and 
 Thy breath smells of lemon-pills: would 
 
 thou hadst done ! 
 Shall I swoon under thy fingers? I am 
 So troubled with the mother ! ®* 
 Bos. {Aside.) I fear, too much. 
 
 Dueh. I have heard you say that the 
 French courtiers 
 Wear their hats on 'fore the king. 
 Ant. I have seen it. 
 Duch. In the presence ? 
 
 Ant. Yes. 
 
 Duch. Why should not we bring up that 
 fashion ? 
 'T is ceremony more than duty that con- 
 
 In the removing of a piece of felt. 
 
 Be you the example to the rest o' th' 
 
 court; 
 Put on your hat first. 
 Ant. You must pardon me : 
 
 I have seen, in colder countries than in 
 
 France, 
 Nobles stand bare to th' prince; and the 
 
 distinction 
 Methought show'd reverently. 
 Bos. I have a present for your grace. 
 Duch. For me, sir? 
 
 Bos. Apricoeks, madam. 
 Duch. 0, sir, where are they? 
 
 I have heard of none to-year.'^ 
 Bos. {Aside.) Good; her color rises. 
 
 Duch. Indeed, I thank you : they are won- 
 drous fair ones. 
 What an unskilful fellow is our gardener ! 
 We shall have none this month. 
 Bos. Will not your grace pare them ? 
 
 Duch. No: they taste of musk, methinks; 
 
 indeed they do. 
 Bos. I know not: yet I wish your grace 
 
 had par'd 'em. 
 Duch. Why? 
 
 Bos. I forgot to tell you, the knave gar- 
 dener, 
 Only to raise his profit by them the 
 
 sooner, 
 Did ripen them in horse-dung. 
 Duch. 0, you jest. — 
 
 You shall judge : pray, taste one. 
 Ant. Indeed, madam, 
 
 I do not love the fruit. 
 
 Duch. Sir, you are loth 
 
 To rob us of our dainties. 'T is a delicate 
 
 fruit ; 
 They say they are restorative. 
 Bos. 'T is a pretty art. 
 
 This grafting. 
 Duch. 'T is so ; a bett'ring of nature. 
 Bos. To make a pippin grow upon a crab, 
 A damson on a black-thorn. — {Aside.) 
 
 How greedily she eats them ! 
 A whirlwind strike off these bawd far- 
 thingales ! 
 For, but for that and the loose-bodied 
 
 gown, 
 I should have discover'd apparently ^^ 
 The young springal °^ cutting a caper in 
 her belly. 
 Duch. I thank you, Bosola: they were 
 right good ones. 
 If they do not make me sick. 
 Ant. How now, madam! 
 
 Duch. This green fruit and my stomach 
 are not friends : 
 How they swell me! 
 Bos. {Aside.) Nay, you are too much 
 
 swell'd already. 
 Duch. 0, 1 am in an extreme cold sweat ! 
 Bos. I am very sorry. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Duch. Lights to my chamber! — good 
 
 Antonio, 
 
 I fear I am undone ! 
 
 Delia. Lights there, lights ! 
 
 Exeunt Duchess and Ladies. 
 
 Ant. my most trusty Delio, we are lost ! 
 
 I fear she 's f all'n in labor ; and there 's 
 
 left 
 No time for her remove. 
 Delio. Have you prepar'd 
 
 Those ladies to attend her; and procur'd 
 That politic safe conveyance for the mid- 
 wife 
 Your duchess plotted? 
 Ant. I have. 
 
 Delio. Make use, then, of this forc'd occa- 
 sion. 
 Give out that Bosola hath poison'd her 
 With these apricoeks ; that will give some 
 
 color" 
 For her keeping close. 
 Ant. Fie, fie, the physicians 
 
 Will then flock to her. 
 Delio. For that you may pretend 
 
 She '11 use some prepar'd antidote of her 
 
 own. 
 Lest the physicians should re-poison' her. 
 Ant. I am lost in amazement : I know not 
 what to think on 't. Exeunt. 
 
 El hysteria. 
 
 BB this year. 
 
 BO clearly. 
 
 B7 youngster. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALEI 
 
 305 
 
 Scene 2. A hall in the palace. 
 Enter Bosola and Old Lady. 
 
 Bos. So, so, there 's no question but her 
 techiness ^^ and most vulturous eating of 
 the aprieocks are apparent signs of breed- 
 ing. — Now ? 
 
 Old Lady. I am in haste, sir. 
 
 Bos. There was a young waiting-woman 
 had a monstrous desire to see the glass- 
 house °" — 
 
 Old Lady. Nay, pray, let me go. 
 
 Bos. And it was only to know what 
 strange instrument it was should swell up 
 a glass to the fashion of a woman's belly. 
 
 Old Lady. I will hear no more of the glass- 
 house. You are still '"' abusing women ! 
 
 Bos. Who? I? No; only, by the way 
 now and then, mention your frailties. 
 The orange-tree bears ripe and green 
 fruit and blossoms all together; and some 
 of you give entertainment for pure love, 
 but more for more precious reward. The 
 lusty spring smells well; but drooping 
 autumn tastes well. If we have the same 
 golden showers that rained in the time of 
 Jupiter the thunderer, you have the same 
 Danaes still, to hold up their laps to re- 
 ceive them. Didst thou never study the 
 mathematics ? 
 
 Old Lady. What's that, sir? 
 
 Bos. Why, to know the trick how to make 
 a many lines meet in one center. Go, go, 
 give your foster-daughters good counsel : 
 tell them, that the devil takes delight to 
 hang at a woman's girdle, like a false 
 rusty watch, that she cannot discern how 
 the time passes. 
 
 Exit Old Lady. 
 Enter Antonio, Boderigo, and Grisolan. 
 
 Ant. Shut up the court-gates. 
 
 Bod. Why, sir? What 's the danger ? 
 
 Ant. Shut up the posterns presently,""^ and 
 call 
 All the oflflcers o' th' court. 
 
 Gris. I shall instantly. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Ant. Who keeps the key o' th' park-gate? 
 
 Bod. Forobosco. 
 
 Ant. Let him bring 't presently. 
 
 Re-enter Grisolan and Servants. 
 
 1 Serv. Of gentlemen o' th' court, the 
 
 foulest treason ! 
 Bos. (Aside.) If that these aprieocks 
 should be poison'd now, 
 Without my knowledge? 
 
 1 Serv. There was taken even now a Swit- 
 
 zer in the duchess' bed-chamber — 
 
 2 Serv. A Switzer! 
 
 1 Serv. With a pistol in his great cod- 
 piece. 
 Bos. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 1 Serv. The codpiece was the case for't. 
 
 2 Serv. There was a cunning traitor. 
 Who would have search'd his codpiece ? 
 
 1 Serv. True; if he had kept out, of the 
 ladies' chambers. And all the molds of 
 his buttons' were leaden bullets. 
 
 2 Serv. wicked cannibal! A fire-lock 
 
 in 's codpiece ! 
 
 1 Serv. 'T was a French plot, upon my 
 
 life. 
 
 2 Serv. To see what the devil can do ! 
 Ant. Are all the oflSeers here ? 
 Servathts. We are. 
 
 Ant. Gentlemen, 
 
 We have lost much plate you know; and 
 
 but this evening 
 Jewels, to the value of four thousand 
 
 ducats. 
 Are missing in the duchess' cabinet. 
 Are the gates shut? 
 Serv. Yes. 
 
 Ant. 'T is the duchess' pleasure 
 
 Each officer be lock'd into his chamber 
 Till the sun-rising; and to send the keys 
 Of all their chests and of their outward 
 
 doors 
 Into her bed-chamber. She is very sick. 
 Rod. At her pleasure. 
 Ant. She entreats you take 't not ill : the 
 innocent 
 Shall be the more approv'd by it. 
 Bos. Gentlemen o' th' wood-yard, where 's 
 
 your Switzer now ? 
 1 Serv. By this hand, 'twas credibly re- 
 ported by one o' th' black guard."^ 
 
 Exeunt all except Antonio and Delio. 
 Delia. How fares it with the duchess? 
 Ant. She's expos'd 
 
 Unto the worst of torture, pain, and fear. 
 Belio. Speak to her all happy comfort. 
 Ant. How I do play the fool with mine 
 own danger! 
 You are this night, dear friend, to post 
 
 to Rome: 
 My life lies in your service. 
 Belio. Do not doubt me. 
 
 Ant. 0, 'tis far from me: and yet fear 
 presents me 
 Somewhat that looks like danger. 
 Belio. Believe it, 
 
 'Tis but the shadow of your fear, no 
 more. 
 
 58 irritability. 
 
 59 glass factory; 
 
 there was such a 
 factory near the 
 
 Blackfriara Thea- 
 ter, where this 
 
 play was performed. 
 60 always. 
 
 61 at once. 
 
 62 scullions. 
 
306 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 How superstitiously we mind our evils ! 
 The throwing down salt, or crossing of a 
 
 hare, 
 Bleeding at nose, the stumbling of a 
 
 horse. 
 Or singing of a cricket, are of power 
 To daunt whole man in us. Sir, fare you 
 
 well: 
 I wish you all the joys of a bless'd father; 
 And, for my faith, lay this unto your 
 
 breast, — 
 Old friends, like old swords, still are 
 
 trusted best. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Cariola. 
 
 Can. Sir, you are the happy father of a 
 son: 
 Your wife commends him to you. 
 Ant. Blessed comfort ! — 
 
 For heaven' sake, tend her well : I '11 pres- 
 ently 
 Go set a figure for 's nativity.'* 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. The inner court of the palace. 
 
 Enter Bosola, with a dark lantern. 
 
 Bos. Sure I did hear a woman shriek : list, 
 ha! 
 And the sound came, if I reeeiv'd it right. 
 From the duchess' lodgings. There's 
 
 some stratagem 
 In the confining all our courtiers 
 To their several wards : I must have part 
 
 of it; 
 My intelligence will freeze else. List, 
 
 again ! 
 It may be 't was the melancholy bird. 
 Best friend of sileuce and of solitariness, 
 The owl, that scream'd so. — ^Ha! An- 
 tonio ! 
 
 Enter Antonio with a candle, his sword 
 
 drawn. 
 
 Ant. I heard some noise. — ^Who's there? 
 
 What art thou? Speak. 
 Bos. Antonio, put not your face nor body 
 To such a f ore'd expression of fear ; 
 I am Bosola, your friend. 
 Ant. Bosola ! — 
 
 (Aside.) This mole does undermine me. — 
 Heard you not 
 A noise even now? 
 Bos. From whence ? 
 
 Ant. From the duchess' lodging. 
 
 Bos. Not I: did you? 
 
 Ant. I did, or else I dream'd. 
 
 Bos. Let 's walk towards it. 
 
 Ant. No : it may be 't was 
 
 But the rising of the wind. 
 Bos. Very likely. 
 
 Methinks 'tis very cold, and yet you 
 
 sweat : 
 You look wildly. 
 Ant. I have been setting a figure "* 
 
 For the duchess' jewels. 
 Bos. Ah, and how falls your question? 
 
 Do you find it radical? *' 
 Ant. What's that to you? 
 
 'T is rather to be question'd what design, 
 When all men were commanded to their 
 
 lodgings, 
 Makes you a night-walker. 
 Bos. In sooth, I '11 tell you : 
 
 Now all the court 's asleep, I thought the 
 
 devil 
 Had least to do here; I came to say my 
 
 prayers ; 
 And if it do offend you I do so. 
 You are a fine courtier. 
 Ant. (Aside.) This fellow will undo 
 me. — 
 You gave the duchess apricocks to-day: 
 Pray heaven they were not poison'd ! 
 Bos. Poison'd! a Spanish fig"" 
 
 For the imputation ! 
 Ant. Traitors are ever confident 
 
 Till they are discover'd. There were 
 
 jewels stol'n too: 
 In my conceit, none are to be suspected 
 More than yourself. 
 Bos. You are a false steward. 
 
 Ant. Saucy slave, I '11 pull thee up by the 
 
 roots. 
 Bos. May be the ruin will crush you to 
 
 pieces. 
 Ant. You are an impudent snake indeed, 
 sir: 
 Are you scarce warm, and do you show 
 
 your sting? 
 You libel «^ well, sir? 
 Bos. No, sir: copy it out, 
 
 And I will set my hand to 't. 
 Ant. (Aside.) My nose bleeds. 
 
 One that were superstitious would count 
 This ominous, when it merely comes by 
 
 chance. 
 Two letters, that are wrought here for my 
 
 name,°° 
 Are drown'd in blood! 
 Mere accident. — For you, 
 
 order 
 
 sir, I'll take 
 
 63 cast bis horo- 
 scope. 
 
 64 making an 
 
 trological calcula- 
 tion to discover 
 the jewels. 
 
 61! going to the root 
 of the matter. 
 
 66 an obscene ges- 
 ture of contempt. 
 07 write. 
 
 68 i.e. on 
 Icerchief. 
 
 hand- 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 307 
 
 I' th' morn you shall be safe. — (Aside.) 
 
 'T is that must color 
 Her lying-in. — Sir, this door you pass 
 
 not: 
 I do not hold it fit that you come near 
 The duchess' lodgings, till you have quit 
 
 yourself. — 
 (Aside.) The great are like the base, 
 
 nay, they are the same, 
 When they seek shameful ways to avoid 
 shame. Exit. 
 
 Bos. Antonio hereabout did drop a pa- 
 per: — 
 Some of your help, false friend.^' — 0, 
 
 here it is. 
 What's here? a child's nativity calcu- 
 lated! 
 
 (Reads.) 
 The duchess was deliver'd of a son, 'tween 
 the hours twelve and one in the night, 
 Anno Bom. 1504, — that 's this year — deci- 
 mo nono Decembris, — that 's this night — 
 taken according to the meridian of Malfi,, 
 — that 's our duchess : happy discovery ! — 
 TTie lord of the first house being com- 
 bust '" in the ascendant signifies short 
 life; and Mars heing in a human sign,''^ 
 joined to the tail of the Dragon, in the 
 eighth house, dbth threaten a violent 
 death. CcBtera non scrutantur.''^ 
 Why, now 'tis most apparent; this pre- 
 cise fellow 
 Is the duchess' bawd: — I have it to my 
 
 wish! 
 This is a parcel of intelligeney 
 Our courtiers were cas'd up '^ for : it 
 
 needs must follow 
 That I must be committed on pretense 
 Of poisoning her ; which I '11 endure, and 
 
 laugh at. 
 If one could find the father now ! but that 
 Time will discover. Old Castruccio 
 F th' morning posts to Rome : by him I '11 
 
 send 
 A letter that shall make her brothers' 
 
 galls 
 O'erflow their livers. This was a 
 
 thrifty ^* way ! 
 Though Lust do mask in ne'er so strange 
 
 disguise, 
 She 's oft found witty, but is never wise. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 4. Rome. A room in the Car- 
 dinal's palace. 
 
 Enter Cardinal and Julia. 
 
 Card. Sit: thou art my best of wishes. 
 Prithee, tell me 
 What trick didst thou invent to come to 
 
 Rome 
 Without thy husband? 
 Julia. Why, my lord, I told him 
 
 I came to visit an old anchorite 
 Here for devotion. 
 Card. Thou art a witty false one, — 
 
 I mean, to him. 
 Julia. You have prevail'd with me 
 
 Beyond my strongest thoughts; I would 
 
 not now 
 Find you inconstant. 
 Card. Do not put thyself 
 
 To such a voluntary torture, which pro- 
 ceeds 
 Out of your own guilt. 
 Julia, How, my lord ! 
 
 Card. You fear 
 
 My constancy, because you have ap- 
 
 prov'd ^° 
 Those giddy and wild turnings in your- 
 self. 
 Julia. Did you e'er find them? 
 Card. Sooth, generally for women, 
 
 A man might strive to make glass mal- 
 leable. 
 Ere he should make them fixed. 
 Julia. So, my lord? 
 
 Card. We had need go borrow that fan- 
 tastic glass 
 Invented by Galileo the Florentine 
 To view another spacious world i' th' 
 
 moon, 
 And look to find a constant woman there. 
 Julia. This is very well, my lord. • 
 Card. Why do you weep? 
 
 Are tears your justification? The self- 
 same tears 
 Will fall into your husband's bosom, lady, 
 With a loud protestation that you love 
 
 him 
 Above the world. Come, I '11 love you 
 
 wisely. 
 That 's jealously ; since I am very certain 
 You cannot make me cuckold. 
 Julia. I'll go home 
 
 To my husband. 
 Card. You may thank me, lady, 
 
 I have taken you off your melancholy 
 
 perch, 
 Bore you upon my fist, and show'd you 
 
 game. 
 And let you fly at it.'" I pray thee, kiss 
 me. 
 
 fal- 
 
 69 i.e. the lantern. 
 
 71 one of the signs 
 
 72 The rest not con- 
 
 74 ingenious. 
 
 three 
 
 lines 
 
 TO within eight de- 
 
 of the Zodiac with 
 
 sidered. 
 
 75 experienced. 
 
 taken 
 
 from 
 
 grees and thirty 
 
 human form, e. g. 
 
 73 shut up. 
 
 76 The figure in the 
 
 conry. 
 
 
 minutes of the 
 Bun. 
 
 Virgo. 
 
 
 
 
 
308 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 When thou wast with thy husband, thou 
 
 wast wateh'd 
 Like a tame elephant: — still you are to 
 
 thank me : — 
 Thou hadst only kisses from him and 
 
 high feeding; 
 But what delight was that? 'Twas just 
 
 like one 
 That hath a little fing'ring on the lute, 
 Yet cannot tune it: — still you are to 
 
 thank me. 
 Julia. You told me of a piteous wound i' 
 
 th' heart. 
 And a sick liver, when you woo'd me 
 
 first, 
 And spake like one in physic/' 
 Card. Who 's that?— 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Rest firm for my affection to thee. 
 Lightning moves slow to't. 
 Serv. Madam, a gentleman 
 
 That 's come post from Malfi, desires to 
 see you. 
 Card. Let him enter : I 'Ik withdraw. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Serv. He says 
 
 Your husband, old Castruccio, is come to 
 
 Rome, 
 Most pitifully tir'd with riding post. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Delia. 
 
 Julia. (Aside.) Signior Delio! 'tis one 
 
 of my old suitors. 
 Delio. I was bold to come and see you. 
 Julia. , Sir, you are welcome. 
 
 Delio. Do you lie '' here ? 
 Julia. Sure, your own experience 
 
 Will satisfy you no : our Roman prelates 
 Do not keep lodging for ladies. 
 Delio. Very well. 
 
 I have brought you no commendations 
 
 from your husband, 
 For I know none by him. 
 Julia. I hear he 's come to Rome. 
 
 Delio. I never knew man and beast, of a 
 horse and a knight, 
 So weary of each other. If he had had a 
 
 good back. 
 He would have undertook to have borne 
 
 his horse, 
 His breech was so pitifully sore. 
 Julia. Your laughter 
 
 Is ray pity. 
 Delio. Lady, I know not whether 
 
 You want money, but I have brought you 
 some. 
 Julia. From my husband? 
 Delio. No, from mine own allowance. 
 
 Julia. I must hear the condition, ere I be 
 
 bound to take it. 
 Delio. Look on 't, 't is gold ; hath it not a 
 
 fine color? 
 Julia. I have a bird more beautiful. 
 Delio. Try the sound on 't. 
 
 Julia. A lute-string far exceeds it. 
 It hath no smell, like cassia or civet ; 
 Nor is it physical," though some fond *" 
 
 doctors 
 Persuade us seethe 't in cuUises."- I'll 
 
 tell you. 
 This is a creature bred by — 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Your husband 's come, 
 
 Hath deliver'd a letter to the Duke of 
 
 Calabria 
 That, to my thinking, hath put him out of 
 his wits. Exit. 
 
 Julia. Sir, you hear : 
 
 Pray, let me know your business and your 
 
 suit 
 As briefly as can be. 
 Delio. With good speed : I would wish you, 
 At such time as you are non-resident 
 With your husband, my mistress. 
 Julia. Sir, I'll go ask my husband if I 
 shall. 
 And straight return your answer. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Delio. Very fine ! 
 
 Is this her wit, or honesty, that speaks 
 
 thus? 
 I heard one say the duke was highly 
 
 mov'd 
 With a letter sent from Malfi. I do fear 
 Antonio is betray'd. How fearfully 
 Shows his ambition now! Unfortunate 
 
 fortune ! 
 They pass through whirl-pools, and deep 
 
 woes do shun. 
 Who the event weigh ere the action 's 
 done. Exit. 
 
 Scene 5. Another room in the Cardinal's 
 palace. 
 
 Enter Cardinal and Ferdinand with a 
 letter, 
 
 Ferd. I have this night digg'd up a man- 
 drake.'^ 
 
 77 undergoing treat- 
 
 79 medicinal 
 
 ment. 
 
 so foolish. 
 
 78 lodge. 
 
 81 broths. 
 
 82 Popular superstition found in the forked root of the man- 
 drake resemblance to the human form, and alleged that the 
 root shrieked on being torn out of the ground ; the hearer 
 of such shrieks went mad. 
 
THE DUCHESS OP MALPI 
 
 309 
 
 Card. Say you? 
 
 Ferd. And I am grown mad with 't. 
 Card. What 's the prodigy? 
 
 Ferd. Read there, — a sister damn'd : she 's 
 loose i' th' hilts ; *^ 
 Grown a notorious strumpet. 
 Card. Speak lower. 
 
 Ferd. Lower ! 
 
 Rogues do not whisper 't now, but seek to 
 
 publish 't 
 (As servants do the bounty of their 
 
 lords) 
 Aloud ; and with a covetous searching eye, 
 To mark who note them. 0, confusion 
 
 seize her ! 
 She hath had most cunning bawds to serve 
 
 her turn, 
 And more secure conveyances for lust 
 Than towns of garrison for service. 
 Card. Is 't possible t 
 
 Can this be certain? 
 Ferd. Rhubarb, 0, for rhubarb 
 
 To purge this eholer ! Here 's the cursed 
 
 day 
 To prompt my memory ; and here 't shall 
 
 stick 
 Till of her bleeding heart I make a 
 
 sponge 
 To wipe it out. 
 Card. Why do you make yourself 
 
 So wild a tempest ? 
 Ferd. Would I could be one, 
 
 That I might toss her palace 'bout her 
 
 ears. 
 Root up her goodly forests, blast her 
 
 meads, 
 And lay her general territory as waste 
 As she hath done her honors. 
 Card. Shall our blood. 
 
 The royal blood of Arragon and Castile, 
 Be thus attainted? 
 Ferd. Apply desperate physic : 
 
 We must not now use balsamum, but Are, 
 The smarting cupping-glass, for that's 
 
 the mean 
 To purge infected blood, such blood as 
 
 hers. 
 I '11 give it to my handkercher; and now 
 There is a kind of pity in mine eye, — 
 
 't is here 
 I '11 bequeath this to her bastard. 
 Card. What to do? 
 
 Ferd. Why, to make soft lint for his moth- 
 er's wounds, 
 When I have hew'd her to pieces. 
 Card. Curs'd creature! 
 
 Unequal nature, to place women's hearts 
 
 So far upon the left side ! ** 
 Ferd. Foolish men, 
 
 That e'er will trust their honor in a bark 
 
 Made of so slight weak bulrush as is 
 woman. 
 
 Apt every minute to sink it ! 
 Card. Thus ignorance, when it hath pur- 
 chas'd honor, 
 
 It cannot wield it, 
 Ferd. Methinks I see her laughing, — 
 
 Excellent hyena ! Talk to me some- 
 what,*^ quickly, 
 
 Or my imagination will carry me 
 
 To see her in the shameful act of sin. 
 Card. With whom? 
 
 Ferd. Happily *" with some 
 
 strong-thigh'd bargeman. 
 
 Or one o' th' wood-yard that can quoit 
 the sledge *^ 
 
 Or toss the bar, or else some lovely squire 
 
 That carries coals up to her privy lodg- 
 ings. 
 Card. You fly beyond your reason. 
 Ferd. Go to, mistress ! 
 
 'Tis not your whore's milk that shall 
 quench my wild-flre. 
 
 But your whore's blood. 
 Card. How idly shows this rage, which 
 carries you. 
 
 As men convey'd by witches through the 
 air, 
 
 On violent whirlwinds! This intemper- 
 ate noise 
 
 Fitly resembles deaf men's shrill dis- 
 course. 
 
 Who talk aloud, thinking all other men 
 
 To have their imperfection 
 Ferd. Have not you 
 
 My palsy? 
 Card. Yes, [but] I can be angry 
 
 Without this rupture. There is not in 
 nature 
 
 A thing that makes man so deform'd, so 
 beastly. 
 
 As doth intemperate anger. Chide your- 
 self. 
 
 You have divers men who never yet ex- 
 press'd 
 
 Their strong desire of rest but by unrest. 
 
 By vexing of themselves. Come, put 
 yourself 
 
 In tune. 
 Ferd. So I will only study to seem 
 
 The thing I am not. I could kill her now, 
 
 In you, or in myself ; for I do think 
 
 It is some sin in us heaven doth revenge 
 
 By her. 
 
 S3 unchaste. 
 
 84 supposed to be a 
 sign of folly. (N.) 
 
 85 on some subject. 8Q haply. 
 
 87 throw the hammer. 
 
310 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Card. Are you stark mad ? 
 
 Ferd. I would have their bodies 
 
 Burnt in a coal-pit with the ventage 
 
 stopp'd, 
 That their eurs'd smoke might not ascend 
 
 to heaven; 
 Or dip the sheets they lie in in pitch or 
 
 sulphur, 
 Wrap them in 't, and then light them like 
 
 a match; 
 Or else to boil their bastard to a euUis, 
 And give 't his lecherous father to renew 
 The sin of his back. 
 Card. I '11 leave you. 
 
 Ferd. Nay, I have done. 
 
 I am confident, had I been damn'd in hell, 
 And should have heard of this, it would 
 
 have put me 
 Into a cold sweat. In, in; I'll go sleep. 
 Till I know who leaps my sister, I '11 not 
 
 stir: 
 That known, I '11 find scorpions to string 
 
 my whips, 
 And fix her in a general eclipse. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 Scene 1. Amalfi. A room in the 
 Duchess's palace. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Delia. 
 
 Ant. Our noble friend, my most beloved 
 Delio ! 
 0, you have been a stranger long at 
 
 court: 
 Came you along with the Lord Eerdi- 
 nand? 
 Delio. I did, sir : and how fares your noble 
 
 duchess 1 
 Ant. Right fortunately well : she 's an ex- 
 cellent 
 Feeder of pedigrees; since you last saw 
 
 her. 
 She hath had two children more, a son 
 and daughter. 
 Delio. Methinks 't was yesterday. Let me 
 but wink. 
 And not behold your face, which to mine 
 
 eye 
 Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dream 
 It were within this half hour. 
 Ant. You have not been in law, friend 
 Delio, 
 Nor in prison, nor a suitor at the court, 
 Nor begg'd the reversion of some great 
 man's place, 
 
 Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth 
 
 make 
 Your time so insensibly hasten. 
 Delio. Pray, sir, tell me. 
 
 Hath not this news arriv'd yet to the ear 
 Of the lord cardinal? 
 Ant, I fear it hath : 
 
 The Lord Eerdinand, that's newly come 
 
 to court, 
 
 Doth bear himself right dangerously. 
 
 DeUo. Pray, why? 
 
 Ant. He is so quiet that he seems to sleep 
 
 The tempest out, as dormice do in winter. 
 
 Those houses that are haunted are most 
 
 still 
 TiU the devil be up. 
 Delio. What say the common people? 
 
 Ant. The common rabble do directly say 
 
 She is a strumpet. 
 Delio. And your graver heads 
 
 Which would be politic, what censure 
 they? 
 Ant. They do observe I grow to infinite 
 purchase *^ 
 The left hand way; and all suppose the 
 
 duchess 
 Would amend it, if she could; for, say 
 
 they. 
 Great princes, though they grudge their 
 
 officers 
 Should have such large and unconfined 
 
 means 
 To get wealth under them, will not com- 
 plain. 
 Lest thereby they should make them odi- 
 ous 
 Unto the people. For other obligation 
 Of love or marriage between her and me 
 They never dream of. 
 DeUo. The Lord Ferdinand 
 
 Is going to bed. 
 
 Enter Duchess, Ferdinand, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 Ferd. I '11 instantly to bed. 
 
 For I am weai-y. — I am to bespeak 
 A husband for you. 
 Duch. For me, sir! Pray, who is't? 
 
 Ferd. The great Count Malateste. 
 Duch. Fie upon him ! 
 
 A count! He's a mere stick of sugar- 
 candy ; 
 You may look quite through him. When 
 
 I choose 
 A husband, I will marry for your hon6r. 
 Ferd. You shall do well in 't. — How is't, 
 worthy Antonio? 
 
 ss wealth. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 311 
 
 Duch. But, sir, I am to have private con- 
 ference with you 
 About a scandalous report is spread 
 Touching mine honor. 
 Ferd. Let me be ever deaf to 't : 
 
 One of Pasquil's paper-bullets,*" court- 
 calumny, 
 A pestilent air, which princes' palaces 
 Are seldom purg'd of. Yet, say that it 
 
 were true, 
 I pour it in your bosom, my fix'd love 
 Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, 
 
 deny 
 Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, 
 
 be safe 
 In your own innoeency. 
 Duch. (Aside.) bless'd comfort! 
 
 This deadly air is purg'd. 
 Exeunt Duchess, Antonio, Delio, and 
 Attendants. 
 Ferd. Her guilt treads on 
 
 Hot-burning coulters."" 
 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Now, Bosola, 
 How thrives our intelligence 1 
 Bos. Sir, uncertainly : 
 
 'T is rumor'd she hath had three bas- 
 tards, but 
 By whom we may go read i' th' stars. 
 Ferd. Why, some 
 
 Hold opinion all things are written there. 
 Bos. Yes, if we could find spectacles to 
 read them. 
 I do suspect there hath been some sorcery 
 Us'd on the duchess. 
 Ferd. Sorcery! to what purpose? 
 
 Bos. To make her dote on some desertless 
 fellow 
 She shames to acknowledge. 
 Ferd. Can your faith give way 
 
 To think there 's power in potions or in 
 
 charms, 
 To make us love whether we will or no? 
 Bos. Most certainly. 
 
 Ferd. Away! these are mere gulleries,"'^ 
 horrid things, 
 Invented by some cheating mountebanks 
 To abuse us. Do you think that herbs or 
 
 charms 
 Can force the will? Some trials have 
 
 been made 
 In this foolish practice, but the ingre- 
 dients 
 Were lenitive poisons, such as are of 
 force 
 
 ^9 ''Lampoons posted on a mutilated stattie in Rome and com* 
 monly called paequUg from a satirical cobbler named Pagquin, 
 who began the practice." (Thorndike.) 
 
 To make the patient mad; and straight 
 
 the witch 
 Swears by equivocation they are in love. 
 The witch-craft lies in her rank blood, 
 
 This night 
 I will force confession from her. You 
 
 told me 
 You had got, within these two days, a 
 
 false key 
 Into her bed-chamber. 
 Bos. I have. 
 
 Ferd. As I would wish. 
 
 Bos. What do you intend to do ? 
 Ferd, Can you guess ? 
 
 Bos. No. 
 
 Ferd. Do not ask, then : 
 
 He that can compass me, and know my 
 
 drifts. 
 May say he hath put a girdle 'bout the 
 
 world. 
 And sounded all her quick-sands. 
 Bos. I do not 
 
 Think so. 
 Ferd. AVhat do you think, then, pray? 
 Bos. That you 
 
 Are your own chronicle "^ too much, and 
 
 grossly 
 Flatter yourself. 
 Ferd. Give me thy hand ; I thank thee ; 
 
 I never gave pension but to flatterers, 
 Till I entertained thee. Farewell. 
 That friend a great man's ruin strongly 
 
 checks. 
 Who rails into his belief all his defects. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. The hed-chamber of the Duchess 
 in the same. 
 
 Enter Duchess, Antonio, and Cariola. 
 
 Duch. Bring me the casket hither, and the 
 glass. — 
 You get no lodging here to-night, my 
 lord. 
 Ant. Indeed, I must persuade one. 
 Duch. Very good : 
 
 I hope in time 't will grow into a custom, 
 That noblemen shall come with cap and 
 
 knee 
 To purchase a night's lodging of their 
 wives. 
 Ant. I must lie here. 
 Duch. Must! You are a 
 
 lord of mis-rule."* 
 Ant. Indeed, my rule is only in the night. 
 
 eo ploughshares, 
 91 deceptions. 
 
 92 chronicle your 
 own deeds. 
 
 93 master of reveUi 
 
312 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Duch. To what use will you put me ? 
 Ant. We '11 sleep together. 
 
 Duch. Alas, what pleasure can two lovers 
 
 find in sleep ? 
 Cari. My lord, I lie with her often, and I 
 know 
 She '11 much disquiet you. 
 Ant. See, you are eomplain'd of. 
 
 Cari. For she 's the sprawling'st bedfellow. 
 Ant. I shall like her the better for that. 
 Cari. Sir, shall I ask you a question? 
 Ant. I pray thee, Cariola. 
 Cari. Wherefore still when you lie with 
 my lady 
 Do you rise so early 1 
 Ant. Laboring men 
 
 Count the clock oft'nest, Cariola, 
 Are glad when their task 's ended. 
 Duch. I '11 stop your mouth. 
 
 {Kisses him.) 
 Ant. Nay, that 's but one ; Venus had two 
 soft doves 
 To draw her chariot; I must have an- 
 other. — 
 
 (She kisses him again.) 
 When wilt thou marry, Cariola? 
 Cari. Never, my lord. 
 
 Anf. 0, fle upon this single life! forgo 
 it. 
 We read how Daphne, for her peevish 
 
 flight, 
 Became a fruitless bay-tree; Syrinx 
 
 tum'd 
 To the pale empty reed ; Anaxarete 
 Was frozen into marble: whereas those 
 Which married, or prov'd kind unto their 
 
 friends, 
 Were by a gracious influence trans-shap'd 
 Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry. 
 Became flowers, precious stones, or emi- 
 nent stars. 
 Cari. This is a vain poetry: but I pray 
 you, tell me. 
 If there were propos'd me, wisdom, 
 
 riches, and beauty. 
 In three several young men, which should 
 I choose? 
 Ant. 'T is a hard question. This was 
 Paris' ease, 
 And he was blind in't, and there was a 
 
 great cause ; 
 For how was't possible he could judge 
 
 right, 
 Having three amorous goddesses in view. 
 And they stark naked? 'Twas a mo- 
 tion «* 
 Were able to benight the apprehension 
 Of the severest counselor of Europe. 
 
 Now I look on both your faces so well 
 
 form'd. 
 It puts me in mind of a question I would 
 
 ask. 
 Cari. What is 't? 
 
 Ant. I do wonder why hard-f avor'd ladies. 
 For the most part, keep worse-favor'd 
 
 waiting-women 
 To attend them, and cannot endure fair- 
 ones. 
 Duch. 0, that 's soon answered, 
 
 Did you ever in your life know an ill 
 
 painter 
 Desire to have his dwelling next door to 
 
 the shop 
 Of an excellent picture-maker? 'T would 
 
 disgrace 
 His face-making, and undo him. I pri- 
 thee. 
 When were we so merry? My hair 
 
 tangles. 
 Ant. Pray thee, Cariola, let's steal forth 
 
 the room. 
 And let her talk to herself : I have divers 
 
 times 
 Serv'd her the like, when she hath chaf'd 
 
 extremely. 
 I love to see her angry. Softly, Cariola. 
 Exeunt Antonio and Cariola. 
 Duch. Doth not the color of my hair 'gin 
 
 to change? 
 When I wax gray, I shall have all the 
 
 court 
 Powder their hair with arras,'" to be like 
 
 me. 
 You have cause to love me ; I ent'red you 
 
 into my heart 
 
 Enter Ferdinand unseen. 
 
 Before you would vouchsafe to call for 
 
 the keys. 
 We shall one day have my brothers take 
 
 you napping. 
 Methinks his presence, being now in 
 
 court. 
 Should make you keep your own bed ; but 
 
 you '11 say 
 Love mixt with fear is sweetest. I '11 as- 
 sure you, 
 You shall get no more children till my 
 
 brothers 
 Consent to be your gossips.'^ Have you 
 
 lost your tongue? 
 
 (Perceiving Ferdinand.) 
 'T is welcome : 
 For know, whether I am doom'd to live or 
 
 die, 
 I can do both like a prince. 
 
 94 proposal. 
 
 85 orriB-root. 
 
 86 god-parents. 
 
THE DUCHESS "OF MALJ'I 
 
 313 
 
 Ferd. Die, then, quickly. 
 
 {Giving her a poniard.) 
 Virtue, where art thou hid ? What hide- 
 ous thing 
 Is it that doth eclipse thee? 
 Buch. Pray> sir, hear me. 
 
 Ferd. Or is it true thou art but a bare 
 name. 
 And no essential thing? 
 Duch. Sir — 
 
 Ferd. Do not speak. 
 
 Duch. No, sir : 
 
 I will plant my soul in mine ears, to hear 
 
 you. 
 
 Ferd. most imperfect light of human 
 
 reason. 
 
 That mak'st [us] so unhappy to foresee 
 
 What we can least prevent ! Pursue thy 
 
 wishes, 
 And glory in them : there 's in shame no 
 
 comfort 
 But to be past all bounds and sense of 
 shame. 
 Duch. I pray, sir, hear me : I am married. 
 Ferd. So ! 
 
 Duch. Happily, not to your liking : but for 
 that, 
 Alas, your shears do come untimely now 
 To clip the bird's wings that's already 
 
 flown! 
 Will you see my husband? 
 Ferd. Yes, if I could change 
 
 Eyes with a basilisk.'^ 
 Duch. Sure, you came hither 
 
 By his confederacy. 
 Ferd. The howling of a wolf 
 
 Is music to thee, screech-owl: prithee, 
 
 peace. — 
 Whate'er thou art that hast enjoy'd my 
 
 sister. 
 Tor I am sure thou hear'st me, for thine 
 
 own sake 
 Let me not know thee. I came hither 
 
 prepar'd 
 To work thy discovery ; yet am now per- 
 suaded 
 It would beget such violent effects 
 As would damn us bothi I would not for 
 
 ten millions 
 I had beheld thee : therefore use all means 
 I never may have knowledge of thy name ; 
 Enjoy thy lust still, and a wretched life, 
 On that condition. — And for thee, vile 
 
 woman, 
 If thou do wish thy lecher may grow old 
 In thy embracements, I would have thee 
 build 
 
 87 i.e. so that I could kill him with 
 
 Such a room for him as our anchorites 
 To holier use; inhabit. Let not the sun 
 Shine on him till he 's dead ; let dogs and 
 
 monkeys 
 Only converse with him, and such dumb 
 
 things 
 To whom nature denies use to sound his 
 
 name; 
 Do not keep a paraquito, lest she learn 
 
 it; . . 
 
 If thou do love him, cut out thine own 
 
 tongue. 
 Lest it bewray him. 
 Duch. Why might not I marry? 
 
 I have not gone about in this to create 
 Any new world or custom. 
 Ferd. Thou art undone ; 
 
 And thou hast ta'en that massy sheet of 
 
 lead 
 That hid thy husband's bones, and folded 
 
 it 
 About my heart. 
 Duch. Mine bleeds for 't. 
 
 Ferd. Thine ! thy heart ! 
 
 What should I name 't, unless a hollow 
 
 bullet 
 Fill'd with unquenchable wild-flre ? 
 Duch. You are in this 
 
 Too strict ; and were you not my princely 
 
 brother, 
 I would say, too wilful : my reputation 
 Is safe. 
 Ferd. Dost thou know what reputa- 
 
 tion is? 
 I '11 tell thee, — ^to small purpose, since th' 
 
 instruction 
 Comes now too late. 
 Upon a time Reputation, Love, and 
 
 Death, 
 Would travel o'er the world ; and it was 
 
 concluded 
 That they should part, and take three 
 
 several ways. 
 Death told them, they should find him in 
 
 great battles. 
 Or cities plagu'd with plagues ; Love gives 
 
 them counsel 
 To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious 
 
 shepherds. 
 Where dowries were not talk'd of, and 
 
 sometimes 
 'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing 
 
 left 
 By their dead parents: "Stay," quoth 
 
 Reputation, 
 "Do not forsake me ; for it is my nature, 
 If once I part from any man I meet, 
 
 a glance (lik« the fabled basilisk). 
 
314 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 I am never found again." And so for 
 
 you: 
 You have shook hands with Eeputa- 
 
 tion, 
 And made him invisible. So, fare you 
 
 well: 
 I will never see you more. 
 Duch. Why should only I, 
 
 Of all the other princes of the world, 
 Be cas'd up, like a holy relic? I have 
 
 youth 
 And a little beauty. 
 Ferd. So you have some virgins 
 
 That are witches. I will never see thee 
 more. 
 
 Exit. 
 Re-enter Antonio with a pistol, and 
 Cariola. 
 
 Duch. You saw this apparition? 
 Ant. Yes: we are 
 
 Betray'd. How came he hither? I 
 
 should turn 
 This to thee, for that. 
 Cari. Pray, sir, do; and when 
 
 That you have cleft my heart, you shall 
 
 read there 
 Mine innocence. 
 Duch. That gallery gave him entrance. 
 
 Amt. I would this terrible thing would 
 come again, 
 That, standing on my guard, I might re- 
 late 
 My warrantable love. — 
 
 {She shows the poniard.) 
 
 Ha! what means this? 
 Duch. He left this with me, 
 Ant. And it seems did wish 
 
 You wpuld use it on yourself. 
 Duch. His action seem'd 
 
 To intend so much. 
 Ant. This hath a handle to 't, 
 
 As well as a point : turn it towards him, 
 
 and 
 So fasten the keen edge in his rank gall. 
 
 {Knocking within.) 
 How now! who faiocks? More earth- 
 quakes ? 
 Duch. I stand 
 
 As if a mine beneath my feet were ready 
 To be blown up. 
 Cari. 'T is Bosola. 
 
 Duch. Away ! 
 
 misery! methinks unjust actions 
 Should wear these masks and curtains, 
 
 and not we. 
 You must instantly part hence; I have 
 fashion'd it already. 
 
 Exit Antonio. 
 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. The duke your brother is ta'en up in 
 a whirlwind; 
 Hath took horse, and 's rid post to Rome. 
 Duch. So late? 
 
 Bos. He told me, as he mounted into th' 
 saddle. 
 You were undone. 
 Duch. Indeed, I am very near it. 
 
 Bos. What's the matter? 
 Duch. Antonio, the master of our house- 
 hold, 
 Hath dealt so falsely with me in 's ac- 
 counts. 
 My brother stood engag'd with me for 
 
 money 
 Ta'en up of certain Neapolitan Jews, 
 And Antonio lets the bonds be forfeit. 
 Bos. Strange! — (Aside.) This is cun- 
 ning. 
 Duch. And hereupon 
 
 My brother's bills at Naples are protested 
 Against. — CaU up our ofiBcers. 
 Bos. I shall. 
 
 Exit. 
 Be-enter Antonio. 
 
 Duch. The place that you must fly to is 
 Ancona : 
 Hire a house there ; I '11 send after you 
 My treasure and my jewels. Our weak 
 
 safety 
 Runs upon enginous wheels : °' short syl- 
 lables 
 Must stand for periods. I must now ac- 
 cuse you 
 Of such a feigned crime as Tasso calls 
 Magnanima memogna, a noble lie, 
 'Cause it must shield our honors. — Hark ! 
 they are coming. 
 
 Be-enter Bosola and Officers. 
 
 Ant. Will your grace hear me? 
 
 Duch, I have got well by you; you have 
 
 yielded me 
 A million of loss : I am Uke to inherit 
 The people's curses for your stewardship. 
 You had the trick in audit-time to be sick, 
 Till I had sign'd your quietus ;»° and 
 
 that eur'd you 
 Without help of a doctor. — Gentlemen, 
 I would have this man be an example to 
 
 you all; 
 So shall you hold my favor; I pray, let 
 
 hira; * 
 For V as done that, alas, you would not 
 
 think of. 
 And, because I intend to be rid of him. 
 
 (8 wheels ewif t as an engine's. 
 
 eg Cf. n. 36, p. 302. 
 
 1 let him go. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 315 
 
 I meau not to publish, — Use your fortune 
 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Ant. I am strongly arm'd to brook my 
 
 overthrow, 
 
 As commonly men bear with a hard year. 
 
 I will not blame the cause on't; but do 
 
 think 
 The necessity of my malevolent star 
 Procures this, not her humor. 0, the in- 
 constant 
 And rotten ground of service ! You may 
 
 see, 
 *Tis even like him, that in a winter 
 
 night, 
 Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire, 
 A-loth to part from 't; yet parts thence as 
 
 cold 
 As when he first sat down. 
 Dueh. "We do confiscate, 
 
 Towards the satisfying of your accounts. 
 All that you have. 
 Ant. I am all yours; and 'tis very fit 
 
 All mine should be so. 
 Duch. So, sir, you have your pass. 
 
 Ant. You may see, gentlemen, what 't is to 
 serve 
 A prince with body and soul. 
 
 Exit. 
 Bos. Here's an example for extortion: 
 what moisture is drawn out of the sea, 
 when foul weather comes, pours down, 
 and runs into the sea again. 
 Duch. I would know what are your opin- 
 ions 
 Of this Antonio. 
 
 2 Off. He could not abide to see a pig's 
 head gaping : I thought your grace would 
 find him a Jew. 
 
 3 Off. I would you had been his officer, 
 for your own sake. 
 
 4 Off. You would have had more money. 
 
 1 OJf. He stopp'd his ears with black 
 wool, and to those came to him for money 
 said he was thick of hearing. 
 
 2 Off. Some said he was an hermaphro- 
 dite, for he could not abide a woman. 
 
 4 Off. How scurvy proud he would look 
 when the treasury was full! Well, let 
 him go. 
 
 1 Off. Yes, and the ehippings of the but- 
 tery fly after him, to scour ^ his gold 
 chain.* 
 
 Dueh. Leave us. — 
 
 Exeunt Officers. 
 What do you think of these? 
 Bos. That these are rogues that in 's pros- 
 perity, 
 
 2 polish. 3 the badge of a steward. i ci 
 
 But to have waited on his fortune, could 
 
 have wish'd 
 His dirty stirrup riveted through their 
 
 noses. 
 And f oUow'd after 's mule, like a bear in 
 
 a ring; 
 Would have prostituted their daughters 
 
 to his lust; 
 Made their first-born intelligencers; 
 
 thought none happy 
 But such as were bom under his blest 
 
 planet, 
 And wore his livery: and do these lice 
 
 drop off now? 
 Well, never look to have the like again: 
 He hath left a sort * of flatt'ring rogues 
 
 behind him; 
 Their doom must follow. Princes pay 
 
 flatterers 
 In their own money: flatterers dissemble 
 
 their vices, 
 And they dissemble their lies; that's jus- 
 tice. 
 Alas, poor gentleman! 
 Duch. Poor! he hath amply fiU'd his cof- 
 fers. 
 Bos. Sure, he was too honest. Pluto,^ the 
 
 god of riches. 
 When he 's sent by Jupiter to any man, 
 He goes limping, to signify that wealth 
 That comes on God's name comes slowly; 
 
 but when he 's sent 
 On the devil's errand, he rides post and 
 
 comes in by scuttles.' 
 Let me show you what a most unvalu'd 
 
 jewel 
 You have in a wanton humor thrown 
 
 away, 
 To bless the man shall find him. He was 
 
 an excellent 
 Courtier and most faithful; a soldier that 
 
 thought it 
 As beastly to know his own value too 
 
 little 
 As devilish to acknowledge it too much. 
 Both his virtue and form deserv'd a far 
 
 better fortune: 
 His discourse rather delighted to judge 
 
 itself than show itself: 
 His breast was fill'd with all perfec- 
 tion. 
 And yet it seem'd a private whisp'ring- 
 
 room, 
 It made so little noise of 't. 
 Duch. But he was basely descended. 
 Bos. Will you make yourself a mercenary 
 
 herald, 
 
 B Properly Pluius. 
 
 quick steps. 
 
310 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Rather to examine men's pedigrees than 
 virtues? 
 
 You shall want ' him : 
 
 For know an honest statesman to a prince 
 
 Is like a cedar planted by a spring; 
 
 The spring bathes the tree's root, the 
 grateful tree 
 
 Rewards it with his shadow: you have 
 not done so. 
 
 I would sooner swim to the Bermoothes 
 on 
 
 Two politicians' rotten bladders, tied 
 
 Together with an intelligencer's heart- 
 string, 
 
 Than depend on so changeable a prince's 
 favor. 
 
 Fare thee well, Antonio ! Since the mal- 
 ice of the world 
 
 Would needs down with thee, it cannot 
 be said yet 
 
 That any ill happen'd unto thee, consid- 
 ering thy f aU. 
 
 "Was accompanied with virtue. 
 Duch. 0, you render me excellent music ! 
 Bos. Say you? 
 
 Duch. This good one that you speak of is 
 
 my husband. 
 Bos. Do I not dream? Can this ambi- 
 tious age 
 
 Have so much goodness in 't as to prefer 
 
 A man merely for worth, without these 
 shadows 
 
 Of wealth and painted honors? Possi- 
 ble? 
 Duch. I have had three children by him. 
 Bos. Fortunate lady ! 
 
 For you have made your private nuptial 
 bed 
 
 The bumble and fair seminary of peace, 
 
 No question but: many an unbeneflic'd 
 scholar 
 
 Shall pray for you for this deed, and 
 rejoice 
 
 That some preferment in the world can 
 yet 
 
 Arise from merit. The virgins of your 
 landr 
 
 That have no dowries shall hope your 
 example 
 
 Will raise them to rich husbands. Should 
 you want 
 
 Soldiers, 'twould make the very Turks 
 and Moors 
 
 Turn Christians, and serve you for this 
 act. 
 
 Last, the neglected poets of your time, 
 
 In honor of this trophy of a man. 
 
 Rais'd by that curious engine, your white 
 
 hand. 
 Shall thank you in your grave for 't, and 
 
 make that 
 More reverend than all .the cabinets 
 Of living princes. For Antonio, 
 His fame shall likewise flow from many 
 
 a pen. 
 When heralds shall want coats to sell to 
 men. 
 Duch. As I taste comfort in this friendly 
 speech. 
 So would I find concealment. 
 Bos. 0, the secret of my prince, 
 
 Which I will wear on th' inside of my 
 heart! 
 Duch. You shall take charge of all my 
 coin and jewels, 
 And follow him ; for he retires himself 
 To Ancona. 
 Bos. So. 
 
 Duch. Whither, within few days, 
 
 I mean to follow thee. 
 Bos. Let me think : 
 
 I would wish your grace to feign a pil- 
 grimage 
 To our Lady of Loretto,* scarce seven 
 
 leagues 
 From fair Ancona ; so may you depart 
 Your country with more honor, and your 
 
 flight 
 Will seem a princely progress, retaining 
 Your usual train about you. 
 Duch. Sir, your direction 
 
 Shall lead me by the hand. 
 Cari. " In my opinion, 
 
 She were better progress to the baths at 
 
 Lucca, 
 Or go visit the Spa 
 
 In Germany; for, if you will believe me, 
 I do not like this jesting with religion. 
 This feigned pilgrimage. 
 Duch. Thou art a superstitious fool : 
 Prepare us instantly for our departure. 
 Past sorrows, let us moderately lament 
 
 them. 
 For those to come, seek wisely to prevent 
 them. 
 
 Exeunt Duchess and Cariola. 
 Bos. A politician is the devil's quilted an- 
 vil; 
 He fashions all sins on him, and the 
 
 blows 
 Are never heard : he may work in a lady's 
 
 chamber, 
 As here for proof. What rests ® but I 
 reveal 
 
 8 Loretto boasted the possession of the house in which the Virgin Mary was 
 born, miraculously taken there from Palestine ; the shrine was famous. 
 
 s remains. 
 
THE DUCHESS OP MALFI 
 
 317 
 
 All to my lord? 0, this base quality ^° 
 Of intelligencer! Why, every quality i' 
 
 th' world 
 Prefers but gain or commendation : 
 Now, for this act I am certain to be 
 
 rais'd, 
 And men that paint weeds to the life are 
 
 prais'd. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. Bome. A room in the Cardi- 
 nal's palace. 
 
 Enter Cardinal, Ferdinand, Malateste, 
 Pescara, Delia, and Silvio. 
 
 Card. Must we turn soldier, then? 
 Mai. The emperor, 
 
 Hearing your worth that way, ere you 
 
 attaiu'd 
 This reverend garment, joins you in com- 
 mission 
 With the right fortunate soldier the Mar- 
 quis of Pescara, 
 And the famous Lannoy. 
 Card. He that had the honor 
 
 Of taking the French king ^'^ prisoner? 
 Mai. The same. 
 
 Here 's a plot drawn for a new fortifica- 
 tion 
 At Naples. 
 Ferd. This great Count Malateste, 
 
 I perceive, 
 Hath got employment? 
 Delia. . No emplojmient, my lord; 
 
 A marginal note in the muster-book that 
 
 he is 
 A voluntary lord. 
 Ferdl He's no soldier? 
 
 Delia. He has worn gun-powder in 's hol- 
 low tooth for the tooth-ache. 
 Sil. He comes to the leaguer ^^ with a full 
 intent 
 To eat fresh beef and garlic, means to 
 
 stay 
 Till the scent be gone, and straight re- 
 turn to court. 
 DeUo. He hath read all the late service ^^ 
 As the City Chronicle relates it; 
 And keeps two pewterers going, only to 
 
 express 
 Battles in model. 
 Sil. Then he '11 fight by the book." 
 
 Delia. By the almanac, I think, 
 
 To choose good days and shun the criti- 
 cal; 
 That 's his mistress' scarf. 
 
 Sil. Yes, he protests 
 
 He would do much for that taffeta. 
 
 Delia. I think he would run away from a 
 battle. 
 To save it from taking ^^ prisoner. 
 
 Sil. He is horribly afraid 
 
 Gun-powder will spoil the perfume on 't. 
 
 Delia. I saw a Dutchman .brea'k his pate 
 once 
 For calling him pot-gun ; he made his head 
 Have a bore in 't like a musket. 
 
 Sil. I would he had made a touch-hole 
 to't. 
 He is indeed a guarded sumpter-cloth,^* 
 Only for the remove of the court. 
 
 Enter Basola. 
 
 Pes. Bosola arriv'd! What should be the 
 business ? 
 Some falling-out among the cardinals? 
 These factions amongst great men, they 
 
 are like 
 Foxes, when their heads are divided,^^ 
 They carry fire in their taUs, and all the 
 
 country 
 About them goes to wrack for 't. 
 
 Sil. What's that Bosola? 
 
 Delia. I knew him in Padua, — a fantasti- 
 cal scholar, like such who study to know 
 how many knots was in Hercules' club, 
 of what color Achilles' beard was, or 
 whether Hector were not troubled with 
 the tooth-ache. He hath studied himself 
 half blear-ey'd to know the true symme- 
 try of Csesar's nose by a shoeing-horn ; 
 and this he did to gain the name of a 
 speculative man. 
 
 Pes. Mark Prince Ferdinand: 
 A very salamander lives in 's eye. 
 To mock the eager violence of fire. 
 
 Sil. That cardinal hath made more bad 
 faces with his oppression than ever 
 Michael Angelo made good ones. He 
 lifts up 's nose, like a foul porpoise be- 
 fore a storm. 
 
 Pes. The Lord Ferdinand laughs. 
 
 Delia. Like a deadly cannon 
 
 That lightens ere it smokes. 
 
 Pes. These are your true pangs of death,- 
 The pangs of life, that struggle with 
 great statesmen. 
 
 Delia. In such a defo.rmed silence witches 
 whisper their charms. 
 
 Card. Doth she make religion her riding- 
 hood 
 
 10 profession, 
 
 11 Francis I, at 
 PaTia, in 1525. 
 
 12 camp. 
 
 13 an account of the 
 late campaign. 
 
 14 i.e. he is a theo- 
 retical soldier. 
 
 15 heing taken. 
 
 18 an elaborate sad- 
 dle-cloth, used 
 only when the 
 
 court is making a 
 journey. 
 17 Of. Judges, XT. 4. 
 
318 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 To keep her from the sun and tempest? 
 Ferd. That, that damns her. Methinks 
 her fault and beauty, 
 
 Blended together, show like leprosy. 
 
 The whiter the fouler. I make it a ques- 
 tion 
 
 Whether, her beggarly brats were ever 
 christ'ned. 
 Card. I will instantly solicit the state of 
 Ancona 
 
 To have them banish'd. 
 Ferd. You are for Loretto : 
 
 I shall not be at your ceremony, fare you 
 well-^ 
 
 Write to the Duke of Malfl, my young 
 nephew, 
 
 She had by her first husband, and ac- 
 quaint him 
 
 With 's mother's honesty. 
 Bos. I will. 
 
 Ferd. Antonio ! 
 
 A slave that only smell'd of ink and coun- 
 ters. 
 
 And ne'er in 's life look'd like a gentle- 
 man, 
 
 But in the audit-time. — Go, go presently, 
 
 Draw me out an hundred and fifty of our 
 horse. 
 
 And meet me at the foot-bridge. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. Loretto. 
 
 Enter Two Pilgrims to the Shrine of our 
 Lady of Loretto. 
 
 1 Pil. I have not seen a goodlier shrine 
 than this; 
 
 Yet I have visited many. 
 8 Pil. The Cardinal of Arragon 
 
 Is this day to resign his cardinal's hat; 
 
 His sister duchess likewise is arriv'd 
 
 To pay her vow of pilgrimage. I expect 
 
 A noble ceremony. 
 1 Pil. No question. — They come. 
 
 Here the ceremony of the Cardinal's in- 
 stalment in the habit of a soldier per- 
 form'd in delivering up his cross, hat, 
 robes and ring at the shrine, and invest- 
 ing him with sword, helmet, shield, and 
 spurs. Then Antonio, the Duchess and 
 their children, having presented them- 
 selves at the shrine, are, by a form of 
 bamishment in dwmb-show expressed to- 
 wards them by the Cardinal and the state 
 
 of Ancona, banished: during all which 
 ceremony, this ditty is sung, to very 
 solemn music, by divers church-men; 
 and then exeunt all except the Two Pil- 
 
 Arms and honors deck thy story,^' 
 To thy fame's eternal glory! 
 Adverse fortune ever fiy thee; 
 No disastrous fate come nigh thee ! 
 I alone will sing thy praises. 
 Whom to honor virtue raises, 
 And thy study, that divine is, 
 Bent to martial discipline is; 
 Lay aside all those robes lie by thee; 
 Crown thy arts with arms, they '11 beautify 
 thee. 
 
 worthy of worthiest name, adorn'd in 
 
 this manner, 
 
 Lead bravely thy forces on under war's 
 warlike banner ! 
 
 O, mayst thou prove fortunate in all mar- 
 tial courses! 
 
 Guide thou stiU by skill in arts and forces ! 
 
 Victory attend thee nigh, whilst fame sings 
 loud thy powers; 
 
 Triumphant conquest crown thy head, and 
 blessings pour down showers! 
 
 1 Pil. Here 's a strange turn of state ! who 
 
 would have thought 
 
 So great a lady would have match'd her- 
 self 
 
 Unto so mean a person? Yet the cardi- 
 nal 
 
 Bears himself much too cruel. 
 3 Pil. They are banish'd. 
 
 1 Pil. But I would ask what power hath 
 
 this state 
 Of Ancona to determine^" of a free 
 prince ? 
 
 2 Pil. They are a free state, sir, and her 
 
 brother show'd 
 How that the Pope, fore-hearing of her 
 
 looseness. 
 Hath seiz'd into th' protection of the 
 
 church 
 The dukedom which she held as dowager. 
 
 1 Pil. Butby what justice? 
 
 2 Pil. Sure, I think by none. 
 Only her brother's instigation, 
 
 1 Pil. What was it with such violence he 
 
 took 
 Off from her finger? 
 
 2 Pil. 'Twas her wedding-ring; 
 Which he vow'd shortly he would sacri- 
 fice 
 
 To his revenge. 
 
 18 The first quarto has in the margin: "The author disclaims this ditty to be his." 19 dispose. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 319 
 
 1 Pil. Alas, Antonio ! 
 
 If that a man be thrust into a well, 
 No matter who sets hand to't, his own 
 
 weight 
 Will bring him sooner to th' bottom. 
 
 Come, let 's hence. 
 Fortune makes this conclusion general. 
 All things do help th' unhappy man to 
 
 fall. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. Near Loretto. 
 
 Enter Duchess, Antonio, Children, Cariola, 
 and Servants. 
 
 Duch. Banish'd Aneona! 
 
 Ant. Yes, you see what power 
 
 Lightens in great men's breath. 
 Duch. Is all our train 
 
 Shrunk to this poor remainder? 
 Ant. These poor men, 
 
 Which have got little in your service, vow 
 To take your fortune: but your wiser 
 
 buntings. 
 Now they are fledg'd, are gone. 
 Duch. They have done wisely. 
 
 This puts me in mind of death: phy- 
 sicians thus. 
 With their hands full of money, use to 
 
 give o'er 
 Their patients. 
 Ant. Right the fashion of the world : 
 
 From decay'd fortunes every flatterer 
 
 shrinks ; 
 Men cease to build where the foundation 
 sinks. 
 Duch. I had a very strange dream to- 
 night. 
 Ant. What was 't? 
 
 Duch. Methought I wore my coronet of 
 state. 
 And on a sudden all the diamonds 
 Were ehang'd to pearls. 
 Ant. My interpretation 
 
 Is, you '11 weep shortly ; for to me the 
 
 pearls 
 Do signify your tears. 
 Duch. The birds, that live i' th' field 
 
 On the wild benefit of nature, live 
 Happier than we: for they may choose 
 
 their mates. 
 And carol their sweet pleasures to the 
 spring. 
 
 Enter Bosola with a letter. 
 
 Bos. You are happily o'erta'en. 
 
 Duch. From my brother? 
 
 Bos. Yes, from the Lord Ferdinand your 
 brother 
 All love and safety. 
 Duch, Thou dost blanch mischief, 
 
 Would'st make it white. See, see, like to 
 
 calm weather 
 At sea before a tempest, false hearts 
 
 speak fair 
 To those they intend most mischief. 
 
 (Beads.) 
 "Send Antonio to me ; I want his head in 
 
 a business." 
 A politic equivocation! 
 He doth not want your counsel, but your 
 
 head; 
 That is, he cannot sleep till you be dead. 
 And here 's another pitfall that 's strew'd 
 
 o'er 
 With roses; mark it, 'tis a' cunning one : 
 
 {Beads.) 
 "I stand engaged for your husband for 
 several debts at Naples : let not that trou- 
 ble him ; I had rather have his heart than 
 his money." — 
 And I believe so too. 
 Bos. What do you believe ? 
 
 Duch. That he so much distrusts my hus- 
 band's love. 
 He will by no means believe his heart is 
 
 with him 
 Until he see it: the devil is not cunning 
 
 enough 
 To circumvent us in riddles. 
 Bos. Will you reject that noble and free 
 league 
 Of amity and love which I present you? 
 Duch. Their league is like that of some 
 politic kings. 
 Only to make themselves of strength and 
 
 power 
 To be our after-ruin : tell them so. 
 Bos. And what from you ? 
 Ant. Thus tell him : I will not come. 
 
 Bos. And what of this? 
 Ant. My brothers have dispers'd 
 
 Bloodhounds abroad; which till I hear 
 
 are muzzl'd, 
 No truce, though hateh'd with ne'er such 
 
 politic skill. 
 Is safe, that hangs upon our enemies' 
 
 will. 
 I '11 not come at them. 
 Bos. _ This proclaims your breeding. 
 
 Every small thing draws a base mind to 
 
 fear 
 As the adamant draws iron. Fare you 
 
 well, sir; 
 You shall shortly hear from 's. 
 
 Exit. 
 
320 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Duch. I suspect some ambush ; 
 
 Therefore by all my love I do conjure 
 you 
 
 To take your eldest son, and fly towards 
 Milan, 
 
 Let us not venture all this poor remain- 
 der 
 
 In one unlucky bottom. 
 Ant. You counsel safely. 
 
 Best of my life, farewell. Since we 
 must part. 
 
 Heaven hath a hand in 't ; but no other- 
 wise 
 
 Than as some curious artist takes in sun- 
 der 
 
 A clock or watch, when it is out of frame. 
 
 To bring 't in better order. 
 Duch. I know not which is best, 
 
 To see you dead, or part with you. Fare- 
 well, boy : 
 
 Thou art happy that thou hast not un- 
 derstanding 
 
 To know thy misery; for all our wit 
 
 And reading brings us to a truer sense 
 
 Of sorrow. — In the eternal church, sir, 
 
 I do hope we shall not part thus. 
 Ant. 0, be of comfort ! 
 
 Make patience a noble fortitude. 
 
 And think not how unkindly we are us'd : 
 
 Man, like to cassia, is prov'd best, being 
 bruis'd. 
 Duch. Must I, like to a slave-born Rus- 
 sian, 
 
 Account it praise to suffer tyranny? 
 
 And yet, heaven, thy heavy hand is 
 in't! 
 
 I have seen my little boy oft scourge his 
 topj^o 
 
 And compared myself to 't : naught made 
 me e'er 
 
 Go right but heaven's scourge-stick. 
 Ant. Do not weep : 
 
 Heaven fashion'd us of nothing; and we 
 strive 
 
 To bring ourselves to nothing. — Fare- 
 well, Cariola, 
 
 And thy sweet armful. — If I do never see 
 thee more. 
 
 Be a good mother to your little ones. 
 
 And save them from the tiger: fare you 
 well. 
 Duch. Let me look upon you once more, 
 for that speech 
 
 Came from a dying father. Your kiss is 
 colder 
 
 Than that I have seen an holy anchor- 
 ite 
 
 Give to a dead man's skull. 
 
 20 Tops were 
 
 Ant. My heart is turn'd to a heavy lump 
 of lead. 
 With which I sound my danger : fare you 
 well. 
 
 Exeunt Antonio and his son. 
 Duch. My laurel is all withered. 
 Cari, Look, madam, what a troop of armed 
 men 
 Make toward us ! 
 
 Re-enter Bosola, masked, with a Guard. 
 
 Duch. O, they are very welcome: 
 
 When Fortune's wheel is over-eharg'd 
 
 with princes. 
 The weight makes it move swift : I would 
 
 have my ruin 
 Be sudden. — I am your adventure, am I 
 not? 
 Bos. You are : you must see your husband 
 
 no more. 
 Duch. What devil art thou that counter- 
 
 feit'st heaven's thunder? 
 Bos. Is that terrible? I would have you 
 tell me whether 
 Is that note worse that frights the silly 
 
 birds 
 Out of the com, or that which doth allure 
 
 them 
 To the nets? You have heark'ned to the 
 last too much. 
 Duch. misery! like to a rusty o'er- 
 charg'd cannon, 
 Shall I never fly in pieces? Come, to 
 what prison? 
 Bos. To none. 
 Duch. Whither, then? 
 
 Bos. To your palace. 
 
 Duch. I have heard 
 
 That Charon's boat serves to convey all 
 
 o'er 
 The dismal lake, but brings none back 
 again. 
 Bos. Your brothers mean you safety and 
 
 pity. 
 Duch. Pity ! 
 
 With such a pity men preserve alive 
 Pheasants and quails, when they are not 
 
 fat enough 
 To be eaten. 
 Bos. These are your children? 
 
 Duch. Yes. 
 
 Bos. Can they prattle? 
 
 Duch. No : 
 But I intend, since they were bom ac- 
 
 curs'd, 
 Curses shall be their first language. 
 Bos. Fie, madam! 
 Forget this base, low fellow 
 
 spun with whips. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALEI 
 
 321 
 
 Buch. Were I a man, 
 
 I 'd beat that counterfeit face ^^ into thy 
 
 other. 
 Bos. One of no birth. 
 Duch. Say that he was born mean, 
 
 Man is most happy when 's own actions 
 Be arguments and examples of his virtue. 
 Bos. A barren, beggarly virtue. 
 Buch. I prithee, who is greatest? Can 
 
 you tell? 
 Sad tales befit my woe : I '11 tell you one. 
 A salmon, as she swam unto the sea. 
 Met with a dog-flsh, who encounters her 
 With this rough language: "Why art 
 
 thou so bold 
 To mix thyself with our high state of 
 
 floods, 
 Being no emiuent courtier, but one 
 That for the calmest and fresh time o' 
 
 th' year 
 Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thy- 
 self 
 With silly smelts and shrimps? And 
 
 darest thou 
 Pass by our dog-ship without reverence?" 
 "0," quoth the salmon, "sister, be at 
 
 peace : 
 Thank Jupiter we both have pass'd the 
 
 net! 
 Our value never can be truly known. 
 Till in the fisher's basket we be shown : 
 I' th' market then my price may be the 
 
 higher, 
 Even when I am nearest to the cook and 
 
 fire." 
 So to great men the moral may be 
 
 stretched ; 
 Men oft are valu'd high, when they're 
 
 most wretched. — 
 But come, whither you please. I am 
 
 arm'd 'gainst misery; 
 Bent to aU sways of the oppressor's will. 
 There 's no deep valley but near some 
 
 great hill. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV, 
 
 Scene 1. Amalfi. A room in the Bueh- 
 ess's palace. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand and Bosola. 
 
 Ferd. How doth our sister duchess bear 
 herself 
 In her imprisonment? 
 Bos. Nobly : I 'II describe her. 
 
 She 's sad as one long us'd to 't, and she 
 
 seems 
 Kather to welcome the end of misery 
 Than shun it ; a behavior so noble 
 As gives a majesty to adversity : 
 You may discern the shape of loveliness 
 More perfect in her tears than in her 
 
 smiles : 
 She will muse four hours together; and 
 
 her silence, 
 Methinks, expresseth more than if she 
 
 spake. 
 Ferd. Her melancholy seems to be forti- 
 fied 
 With a strange disdain. 
 Bos. 'T is so ; and this restraint, 
 
 Like English mastiffs that grow fierce 
 
 with tying. 
 Makes her too passionately apprehend 
 Those pleasures she is kept from. 
 Ferd. Curse upon her ! 
 
 I will no longer study in the book 
 Of another's heart. Inform her what I 
 
 told you. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Buchess and Attendants. 
 
 Bos. All comfort to your grace ! 
 Duch. I will have none. 
 
 Pray thee, why dost thou wrap thy poi- 
 
 son'd pills 
 In gold and sugar? 
 Bos. Your elder brother, the Lord Ferdi- 
 nand, 
 Is come to visit you, and sends you word, 
 'Cause once he rashly made a solemn vow 
 Never to see you more, he comes i' th' 
 
 night; 
 And prays you gently neither torch nor 
 
 taper 
 Shine in your chamber. He will kiss 
 
 your hand, 
 And reconcile himself ; but for his vow 
 He dares not see you. 
 Buch. At his pleasure. — 
 
 Take hence the lights. — He 's come. 
 
 Exeunt Attendants with lights. 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Where are you? 
 
 Buch. Here, sir. 
 
 Ferd. This darkness suits you well. 
 
 Buch. I would ask you pardon. 
 
 Ferd. You have it ; 
 
 For I account it the honorabl'st revenge, 
 Where I may kill, to pardon. — Where are 
 your cubs? 
 
 Buch. Whom? 
 
 21 mask. 
 
322 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Ferd. Call them your children; 
 
 For though our national law distinguish 
 
 bastards 
 From true legitimate issue, compassion- 
 ate nature 
 Makes them all equal. 
 Duch. Do you visit me for this? 
 
 You violate a sacrament o' th' church 
 Shall make you howl in hell for 't. 
 Ferd. It had been well 
 
 Could you have liv'd thus always; for, 
 
 indeed. 
 You were too much i' th' light: — ^but no 
 
 more; 
 I come to seal my peace with you. 
 Here 's a hand 
 
 {Gives her a dead man's hand.) 
 To which you have vow'd much love; the 
 
 ring upon 't 
 You gave. 
 Duch. I affectionately kiss it. 
 
 Ferd. Pray, do, and bury the print of it in 
 your heart. 
 I will leave this ring with you for a love- 
 token ; 
 And the hand as sure as the ring; and 
 
 do not doubt 
 But you shall have the heart too. When 
 
 you need a friend, 
 Send it to him that ow'd ^^ it; you shall see 
 Whether he can aid you. 
 Duch. You are very cold: 
 
 I fear you are not well after your 
 trflVGl — 
 
 Ha ! lights ! 0, horrible ! 
 
 Ferd. Let her have lights enough. 
 
 Exit. 
 Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, 
 that he hath left 
 A dead man's hand here? 
 (Here is discover'd, behind a traverse/'^ th^ 
 artificial figures of Antonio and his chil- 
 dren, appearing as if they were dead.) 
 Bos. Look you, here 's the piece from 
 which 't was ta'en. 
 He doth present you this sad spectacle, 
 That, now you know directly they are 
 
 dead. 
 Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve 
 For that which cannot be recovered. 
 Duch. There is not between heaven and 
 earth one wish 
 I stay for after this. It wastes me more 
 Than were't my picture,^* fashion'd out 
 
 of wax. 
 Stuck with a magical needle, and then 
 buried 
 
 In some foul dung hill ; and yon 's an 
 
 excellent property 
 For a tyrant, which I would account 
 mercy. 
 Bos. What's that? 
 
 Duch. If they would bind me to that life- 
 less trunk. 
 And let me freeze to death. 
 Bos. Come, you must live. 
 
 Duch. That 's the greatest torture souls 
 feel in hell. 
 In hell, that they must live, and cannot 
 
 die. 
 Portia,^^ I '11 new kindle thy coals again, 
 And revive the rare and almost dead ex- 
 ample 
 Of a loving wife. 
 Bos. 0, fie ! despair? Remember 
 
 Yon are a Christian. 
 Duch. The church enjoins fasting: 
 
 I '11 starve myself to death. 
 Bos. Leave this vain sorrow. 
 
 Things being at the worst begin to mend : 
 
 the bee, 
 When he hath shot his sting into your 
 
 hand, 
 May then play with your eye-lid. 
 Duch. Good comfortable fellow, 
 
 Persuade a wretch that 's broke upon the 
 
 wheel 
 To have all his bones new set; entreat 
 
 him live 
 To be executed again. Who must 
 
 despatch me? 
 I account this world a tedious theater. 
 For I do play a part in 't 'gainst my will. 
 Bos. Come, be of comfort; I .will save 
 
 your life. 
 Duch. Indeed, I have not leisure to tend 
 
 so small a business. 
 Bos. Now, by my life, I pity you. 
 Duch. Thou art a fool, then. 
 
 To waste thy pity on a thing so wretched 
 As cannot pity itself. I am full of dag- 
 gers. 
 Puff, let me blow these vipers from me. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 What are you ? 
 Serv. One that wishes you long life. 
 
 Duch. I would thou wert hang'd for the 
 horrible curse 
 Thou hast given me: I shall shortly 
 
 grow one 
 Of the miracles of pity. I '11 go pray ; — 
 
 Exit Serv. 
 No, I '11 go curse. 
 
 22 owned, 24 image ; as the image melted, the life of the person upon whom the spell was laid 
 
 23 curtain. ebbed away. . . , , 
 
 25 The wife of Brutus, who committed suicide by swallowing burning coals. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 323 
 
 Bos. 0, fle ! 
 
 Duch. I could curse the stars — 
 
 Bos. 0, fearful! 
 
 Duch. And those three smiling seasons of 
 the year 
 Into a Russian winter; nay, the world 
 To its first chaos. 
 Bos. Look you, the stars shine still. 
 
 Duch. 0, but you must 
 
 Remember, my curse hath a great way to 
 
 go.— 
 Plagues, that make lanes through largest 
 
 families, 
 Consume them ! — 
 Bos. Fie, lady ! 
 
 Duch. Let them, like tyrants, 
 
 Never be remembered but for the ill they 
 
 have done; 
 Let all the zealous prayers of mortified 
 Churchmen forget them! — 
 Bos. 0, uncharitable! 
 
 Duch. Let heaven a little while cease 
 crowning martyrs. 
 To punish them! — 
 Go, howl' them this, and say, I long to 
 
 bleed : 
 It is some mercy when men kill with 
 speed. 
 
 Exit. 
 Re-enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish ; she 's 
 
 plagu'd in art.^* 
 These presentations are but fram'd in 
 
 wax 
 By the curious master in that quality,^^ 
 Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them 
 For true substantial bodies. 
 Bos. Why do you do this? 
 
 Ferd. To bring her to despair. 
 Bos. Faith, end here, 
 
 And go no farther in your cruelty : 
 Send her a penitential garment to put on 
 Next to her delicate skin, and furnish 
 
 her 
 With beads and prayer-books. 
 Ferd. Damn her ! that body of hers, 
 
 While that my blood ran pure in 't, was 
 
 more worth 
 Than that which thou wouldst comfort, 
 
 eall'd a soul. 
 I will send her masques of common cour- 
 tesans, 
 Have her meat serv'd up by bawds and 
 
 ruffians, 
 And, 'cause she'll needs be mad, I am 
 
 resolv'd 
 To remove forth the common hospital 
 
 26 by artifice. 
 
 27 profession. 
 
 All the mad-folk, and place them near 
 
 her lodging; 
 There let them practise together, sing 
 
 and dance. 
 And act their gambols to the full o' th' 
 
 moon : 
 If she can sleep the better for it, let her. 
 Your work is almost ended. 
 Bos. Must I see her again? 
 
 Ferd. Yes. 
 Bos. Never. 
 
 Ferd. You must. 
 
 Bos. Never in mine own shape ; 
 
 That 's forfeited by my intelligence 
 And this last cruel lie : when you send me 
 
 next. 
 The business shall be comfort. 
 Ferd. Very likely, 
 
 Thy pity is nothing of kin to thee. An- 
 tonio 
 Lurks about Milan : thou shalt shortly 
 
 thither. 
 To feed a fire as great as my revenge. 
 Which ne'er will slack till it hath spent 
 
 his ^' fuel : 
 Intemperate agues make physicians cruel. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Another room in the Duchess's 
 palace. 
 
 Enter Ductless and Cariola. 
 
 Duch. What hideous noise was that? 
 Cari. 'T is the wild consort ^° 
 
 Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant 
 
 brother 
 Hath plac'd about your lodging. This 
 
 tyranny, 
 I think, was never practis'd till this hour. 
 Duch. Indeed, I thank him. Nothing but 
 noise and folly 
 Can keep me in my right wits; whereas 
 
 reason 
 And silence make me stark mad. Sit 
 
 down; 
 Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 
 Cari. 0, 't will increase your melancholy ! 
 Duch. Thou art deceiv'd : 
 
 To hear of greater grief would lessen 
 
 mine. 
 This is a prison? 
 Cari. Yes, but you shall live 
 
 To shake this durance off. 
 Duch. Thou art a fool : 
 
 The robin-red-breast and the nightingale 
 Never live long in cages. 
 
 28 its. 2g company, 
 
324 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Cai'i. -. Pray; dry your eyes. 
 
 What think you of, madam 'J 
 Duck. Of nothing; 
 
 When I muse thus, I sleep. 
 Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes 
 
 open? 
 Buck. Dost thou think we shall know one 
 another 
 In th' other world? 
 Cari. Yes, out of question. 
 
 Dueh. 0, that it were possible we might 
 But hold some two days' conference with 
 
 the dead! 
 From them I should learn somewhat, I 
 
 am sure, 
 I never shall know here. I '11 tell thee a 
 
 miracle : 
 I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow : 
 Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of 
 
 molten brass. 
 The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am 
 
 not mad. 
 I am acquainted with sad misery 
 As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar ; 
 Necessity makes me suffer constantly. 
 And custom makes it easy. Who do I 
 look like now? 
 Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery, 
 A deal of life in show, but none in prac- 
 tice; 
 Or rather like some reverend monument 
 Whose ruins are even pitied. 
 Duch. Very proper; 
 
 And Fortune seems only to have-her eye- 
 sight 
 To behold my tragedy. — How now ! 
 What noise is that? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. I am come to tell you 
 
 Tour brother hath intended you some 
 sport. 
 
 A great physician, when the Pope was 
 sick 
 
 Of a deep melancholy, presented him 
 
 With several sorts'" of madmen, which 
 wild object. 
 
 Being full of change and sport, fore'd 
 him to laugh. 
 
 And so th' imposthume *^ broke : the self- 
 same cure 
 
 The duke intends on you. 
 Duch. Let them come in. 
 
 Serv. There's a mad lawyer; and a secu- 
 lar priest; 
 
 A doctor that hath forfeited his wits 
 
 By jealousy ; an astrologian 
 
 That in his works said such a day o' th' 
 month 
 
 Should be the day of doom, and, failing 
 oft, 
 
 Ban mad; an English tailor craz'd i' th' 
 brain 
 
 With the study of new fashions; a gen- 
 tleman-usher 
 
 Quite beside himself with care to keep 
 in mind 
 
 The number of his lady's salutations. 
 
 Or "How do you," she employ'd him in 
 each morning; 
 
 A farmer, too, an excellent knave in 
 grain,'^ 
 
 Mad 'cause he was hind'red transporta- 
 tion : ^^ 
 
 And let one broker that 's mad loose to 
 these. 
 
 You 'd think the devil were among them. 
 Duch. Sit, Cariola. — ^Let them loose when 
 you please. 
 
 For I am ehain'd to endure all your 
 tyranny. 
 
 Enter Madmen. 
 
 Here by a Madman this song is sung to a 
 dismal kind of music. 
 
 O, let us howl some heavy note, 
 
 Some deadly dogged howl. 
 Sounding as from the threat'ning throat 
 
 Of beasts and fatal' fowl! 
 As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears, 
 
 We '11 bell, and bawl our parts. 
 Till Irksome noise have cloy'd your ears 
 
 And corrosiv'd your hearts. 
 At last, when as our choir wants breath. 
 
 Our bodies being blest. 
 We '11 sing, like swans, to welcome death. 
 
 And die in love and rest. 
 
 1 Madman. Dooms-day not come yet! 
 I '11 draw it nearer by a perspective,^* or 
 make a glass that shall set all the world 
 on fire upon an instant. I cannot sleep; 
 my pillow is stuft with a litter of porcu- 
 pines. 
 
 2 Madman. Hell is a mere glass-house, 
 where the devils are continually blowing 
 up women's souls on hollow irons, and 
 the fire never goes out. 
 
 3 Madman. I will lie with every woman 
 in my parish the tenth night. I will 
 tithe them over like hay-coeks. 
 
 4 Madman. Shall my 'potheeary oiit-go 
 me, because I am a cuckold? I have 
 
 30 bands. 
 81 abscess. 
 
 82 a pun on grain= 
 dye. 
 
 88 from exporting his grain. 
 
 81 telescope. 
 
THE DUCHESS OP MALPI 
 
 325 
 
 found out his roguery ; he makes alum of 
 his wife's urine, and sells it to Puritans 
 that have sore throats with over-straining. 
 
 1 Madman. I have skill in heraldry. 
 
 2 Madman. Hast? 
 
 1 Madman. You do give for your crest a 
 wood-cock's head with the brains piekt 
 out on 't ; you are a very ancient gentle- 
 man. 
 
 3 Madman. Greek is tum'd Turk: we are 
 only to be sav'd by the Helvetian trans- 
 lation.^^ 
 
 1 Madman. Come on, sir, I will lay the 
 law to you. 
 
 2 Madman. 0, rather lay a corrosive : the 
 law will eat to the bone. 
 
 3 Madman. He that drinks but to satisfy 
 nature is damn'd. 
 
 4 Madman. If I had my glass here, I 
 would show a sight should make all the 
 women here caU me mad doctor. 
 
 1 Madman. What's he? A rope-maker? 
 
 2 Madman. No, no, no; a snuffling knave 
 that while he shows the tombs, will have 
 his hand in a wench's placket.^" 
 
 3 Madman. Woe to the caroche ^' that 
 brought home my wife from the masque 
 at three o'clock in the morning! It had 
 a large feather-bed in it. 
 
 4 Madman. I have pared the devil's nails 
 forty times, roasted them in raven's eggs, 
 and cur'd agues with them. 
 
 3 Madman. Get me three hundred milch- 
 bats, to make possets ^' to procure sleep. 
 
 4 Madman. AH the college '^ may throw 
 their caps at me: I have made a soap- 
 boiler costive ; it was my masterpiece. 
 
 {Here the dance, consisting of Eight Mad- 
 men, with music answerable thereunto; 
 after which, Bosola, like an old man, 
 enters.) 
 Duch. Is he mad too? 
 Serv. Pray, question him. I '11 leave you. 
 Exeunt Servant and Madmen. 
 Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. 
 Duch. Ha ! my tomb ! 
 
 Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death- 
 bed, 
 Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive 
 me sick? 
 Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since 
 
 thy sickness is insensible. 
 Duch. Thou art not mad, sure : dost km)w 
 
 me? 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 Duch. Who am I? 
 
 36 the Geneva 
 
 87 coach. 
 
 89 College of 
 
 Phy- 
 
 41 mummia, a pitchy 
 
 Bible. 
 
 88 hot milk curdled 
 
 sicians. 
 
 
 substance sup- 
 
 3e petticoat. 
 
 •with liquor. 
 
 40 repository. 
 
 
 posedly derived 
 
 Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best 
 but a salvatory *" of green mummy.*^ 
 What's this flesh? A little crudded « 
 milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies 
 are weaker than those paper-prisons boys 
 use to keep flies in; more contemptible, 
 since ours is to preserve earth-worms. 
 Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage? 
 Such is the soul in the body: this world 
 is like her little turf of grass, and the 
 heaven o'er our heads, like her looking- 
 glass, only gives us a miserable knowl- 
 edge of the small compass of our prison. 
 
 Duch. Am I not thy duchess ? 
 
 Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for 
 riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad 
 in gray hairs) twenty years sooner than 
 on a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleep'st 
 worst than if a mouse should be forc'd 
 to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a 
 little infant that breeds its teeth, should 
 it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou 
 wert the more unquiet bedfellow. 
 
 Duch. I am Duchess of Malfl still. 
 
 Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken: 
 Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine 
 
 bright, 
 But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor 
 light. 
 
 Duch. Thou art very plain. 
 
 Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not 
 the living ; I am a tomb-maker. 
 
 Duch. And thou eom'st to make my tomb ? 
 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 Duch. Let me be a little merry : — of what 
 stuff wilt thou make it ? 
 
 Bos. Nay, resolve me first, of what fash- 
 ion? 
 
 Duch: Why, do we grow fantastical on our 
 deathbed? 
 Do we affect fashion in the grave? 
 
 Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images 
 on their tombs do not lie, as they were 
 wont, seeming to pray up to heaven ; but 
 with their hands under their cheeks, as if 
 they died of the tooth-ache. They are not 
 carved with their eyes fix'd upon the stars, 
 but as their minds were wholly bent upon 
 the world, the self -same way they seem 
 to turn their faces. 
 
 Duch. Let me know fully therefore the 
 effect 
 Of this thy dismal preparation. 
 This talk fit for a charnel. 
 
 Bos. Now I shall: — 
 
 from mummies, 
 used as a medicine. 
 42 curdled. 
 
326 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Enter Executioners, with a coffin, cords, 
 and a bell. 
 
 Here is a present from your princely 
 brothers ; 
 
 And may it arrive welcome, for it brings 
 
 Last benefit, last sorrow. 
 Dueh. Let me see it : 
 
 I have so much obedience in my blood, 
 
 I wish it in their veins to do them good. 
 Bos. This is your last presence-chamber. 
 Cari. my sweet lady ! 
 Dueh. Peace ; it affrights not me. 
 
 Bos. I am the common bellman 
 
 That usually is sent to condemn'd per- 
 sons 
 
 The night before they suffer. 
 Buck. Even now thou said'st 
 
 Thou wast a tomb-maker. 
 Bos. 'T was to bring you 
 
 By degrees to mortification. Listen. 
 
 Hark, now everything is still, 
 
 The screech-owl and the whistler shrill 
 
 Call upon our dame aloud, 
 
 And bid her quickly don her shroud ! 
 
 Much you had of land and rent; 
 
 Your length in clay 's now competent : 
 
 A long war disturb'd your mind; 
 
 Here your perfect peace is sign'd. 
 
 Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? 
 
 Sin their conception, their birth weeping, 
 
 Their life a general mist of error, 
 
 Their death a hideous storm of terror. 
 
 ■Strew your hair with powders sweet, 
 
 Don clean linen, bathe your feet. 
 
 And (the foul fiend more to check) 
 
 A crucifix let bless your neck. 
 
 'T is now full tide 'tween night and day ; 
 
 End your groan, and come away. 
 
 Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! 
 Alas! 
 What will you do with my lady? — Call 
 for help ! 
 Dueh. To whom? To our next neighbors? 
 
 They are mad-folks. 
 Bos. Remove that noise.** 
 Dueh. Farewell, Cariola. 
 
 In my last will I have not much to give : 
 A many hungry guests have fed upon 
 
 me; 
 Thine will be a poor reversion. 
 Cari. I will die with her. 
 
 Dueh. I pray thee, look thou giv'st my lit- 
 tle boy 
 Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl 
 Say her prayers ere she sleep. 
 (Cariola is forced out by the Executioners.) 
 
 Now what you please; 
 What death? 
 Bos. Strangling; here are your execution- 
 ers. 
 Dueh. I forgive them: 
 
 The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' 
 
 lungs, 
 Would do as much as they do. 
 Bos. Doth not death fright you? 
 Dueh. Who would be afraid on 't, 
 
 ^Knowing to meet such excellent company 
 In th' other world? 
 Bos. Yet, methinks, 
 
 The manner of your death should much 
 
 afflict you : 
 This cord should terrify you. 
 Dueh. Not a whit : 
 
 What would it pleasure me to have my 
 
 • throat cut 
 With diamonds? or to be smothered 
 With cassia? or to be shot to death with 
 
 pearls ? 
 I know death hath ten thousand several 
 
 doors 
 Tor men to take their exits; and 'tis 
 
 found 
 They go on such strange geometrical 
 
 hinges, 
 You may open them both ways : any way, 
 
 for heaven-sake, 
 So I were out of your whispering ! Tell 
 
 my brothers 
 That I perceive death, now I am well 
 
 awake, 
 Best gift is they can give or I can take. 
 I would fain put off my last woman's- 
 
 fault, 
 I 'd not be tedious to you. 
 1 Execut. We are ready. 
 
 Dueh. Dispose my breath how please you ; 
 but my body 
 Bestow upon my women, will you? 
 1 Exeeut. Yes. 
 
 Dueh. Pull, and pull strongly, for your 
 able strength 
 Must pull down heaven upon me : — 
 Yet stay; heaven-gates are not so highly 
 
 areh'd 
 As princes' palaces; they* that enter 
 
 there 
 Must go upon their knees (Kneels). — 
 
 Come, violent death 
 Serve for mandragora to make me 
 
 sleep ! — 
 Go tell my brothers, when I am laid 
 
 out, 
 They then may feed in quiet. 
 {They strangle her.) 
 
 *3 i.e. Cariola. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 327 
 
 Bos. "Where 's the waiting-woman t 
 
 Fetch her: some other strangle the chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Enter Gariola. 
 
 Look you, there sleeps your mistress. 
 Cari. 0, you are damn'd 
 
 Perpetually for this ! My turn is next ; 
 Is 't not so ordered 1 
 Bos. Yes, and I am glad 
 
 You are so well prepar'd for 't. 
 Cdri. You are deeeiv'd, sir, 
 
 I am not prepar'd for 't, I will not die ; 
 I will first come to my answer,** and 
 
 know 
 How I have offended. 
 Bos. Come, despatch her. — 
 
 You kept her counsel ; now you shall keep 
 ours. 
 Cari. I will not die, I must not ; I am con- 
 tracted 
 To a young gentleman. 
 1 Execut. Here 's your wedding-ring. 
 
 Cari. Let me but speak with the duke : I '11 
 discover 
 Treason to his person. 
 Bos. Delays: — throttle her. 
 
 1 Execut. She bites and scratches. 
 Cari. If you kill me now, 
 
 I am damn'd; I have not been at con- 
 fession 
 This two years. 
 Bos. (To Executioners.) When ! 
 Cari. I am quick with child. 
 
 Bos. Why, then. 
 
 Your credit's saved. 
 
 (They strangle Cariola.) 
 
 Bear her into th' next room ; 
 Let this *= lie still. 
 Exeunt Executioners with body of 
 Cariola. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Is she dead? 
 
 Bos. She is what 
 
 You'd have her. But here begin your 
 pity: 
 
 (Shows the Children strangled.) 
 Alas, how have these offended? 
 Ferd. The death 
 
 Of young wolves is never to be pitied. 
 Bos. Fix your eye here. 
 Ferd. Constantly. 
 
 Bos. Do you not weeip 1 
 
 Other sins only speak; murder shrieks 
 out. 
 
 44 trial. 
 
 The element of water moistens the earth. 
 
 But blood flies upwards and bedews the 
 heavens. 
 Ferd. Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: 
 
 she died young. 
 Bos. I think not so ; her infelicity 
 
 Seem'd to have years too many. 
 Ferd. She and I were twins; 
 
 And should I die this instant, I had liv'd 
 
 Her time to a minute. 
 Bos. It seems she was born first : 
 
 You have bloodily approv'd the ancient 
 truth, 
 
 That kindred commonly do worse agree 
 
 Than remote strangers. 
 Ferd. Let me see her face 
 
 Again. Why didst thou not pity her? 
 What 
 
 An excellent honest man mightst thou 
 have been. 
 
 If thou hadst'borne her to some sanctu- 
 ary! 
 
 Or, bold in a good cause, — oppos'd thy- 
 self. 
 
 With thy advanced sword above thy head, 
 
 Between her innocence and my revenge! 
 
 I bade thee, when I was distracted of my 
 wits, 
 
 Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast 
 done 't. 
 
 For let me but examine well the cause : 
 
 What was the meanness of her match to 
 me? 
 
 Only I must confess I had a hope. 
 
 Had she continu'd widow, to have gain'd 
 
 An infinite mass of treasure by her death : 
 
 And that was the main cause, — her mar- 
 riage, 
 
 That drew a stream of gall quite through 
 my heart. 
 
 For thee, as we observe in tragedies 
 
 That a good actor many times is curs'd 
 
 For playing a villain's part, I hate thee 
 for 't. 
 
 And, for my sake, say thou hast done 
 much ill well. 
 Bos. Let me quicken your memory, for I 
 perceive 
 
 You are falling into ingratitude : I chal- 
 lenge 
 
 The reward due to my service. 
 Ferd. I '11 tell thee 
 
 Whaf I '11 give thee. 
 Bos. Do. 
 
 Ferd. I'll give thee a pardon 
 
 For this murder. 
 Bos. Ha ! 
 
 Ferd. Yes, and 't is 
 
 46 the Duchess's body. 
 
328 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 The largest bounty I can study to do thee. 
 By what authority didst thou execute 
 This bloody sentence? 
 Bos. By yours. 
 
 Ferd. Mine! Was I her judge? 
 Did any ceremonial form of law 
 Doom her to not-being? Did a complete 
 
 jury 
 Deliver her conviction up i' th' court 1 
 Where shalt thou find this judgment 
 
 register" d, 
 Unless in hell ? See, like a bloody fool, 
 Thou 'st forfeited thy life, and thou shalt 
 die for 't. 
 Bos. The oflBce of justice is perverted 
 quite 
 When one thief hangs another. Who 
 
 shall dare 
 To reveal this? 
 Ferd. 0, I'll tell thee; 
 
 The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape 
 
 it up. 
 Not to devour the corpse, but to discover 
 The horrid murder. 
 Bos. You, not I, shall quake for 't. 
 
 Ferd. Leave me. 
 
 Bos. I will first receive my pension. 
 
 Ferd. You are a villain. 
 Bos. When your ingratitude 
 
 Is judge, I am so. 
 Ferd. horror. 
 
 That not the fear of him which binds the 
 
 devils 
 Can prescribe man obedience ! — 
 Never look upon me more. 
 Bos. Why, fare thee well. 
 
 Your brother and yourself are worthy 
 
 men! 
 You have a pair of hearts are hollow 
 
 graves. 
 Rotten, and rotting others ; and your ven- 
 geance. 
 Like two chain'd-buUets, still goes arm in 
 
 arm: 
 You may be brothers; for treason, like 
 
 the plague. 
 Doth take much in a blood.*^ I stand 
 
 like one 
 That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden 
 
 dream : 
 I am angry with myself now, that I wake. 
 Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' 
 the world. 
 That I may never see thee. 
 Bos. Let me know 
 
 Wherefore I should be thus neglected. 
 
 Sir, 
 I serv'd your tyranny, and rather strove 
 
 40 runs in a family. 47 This 
 
 To satisfy yourself than all the world : 
 And though I loath'd the evU, yet I lov'd 
 You that did counsel it; and rather 
 
 sought 
 To appear a true servant than an honest 
 
 man. 
 Ferd. I '11 go hunt the badger by owl- 
 light: 
 'T is a deed of darkness. 
 
 Exit. 
 Bos. He 's much distracted. Off, my 
 
 painted honor! 
 While with vain hopes our faculties "we 
 
 tire. 
 We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in 
 
 fire. 
 What would I do, were this to do again? 
 I would not change my peace of con- 
 science 
 For all the wealth of Europe. — She 
 
 stirs ; " here 's life : — 
 Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead 
 
 mine 
 Out of this sensible hell! — she's warm, 
 
 she breathes : — 
 Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart. 
 To store them with fresh color. — Who's 
 
 there? 
 Some cordial drink! — Alas! I dare not 
 
 call: 
 So pity would destroy pity. — Her eye 
 
 opes, 
 And heaven in it seems to ope, that late 
 
 was shut. 
 To take me up to mercy. 
 Dueh. Antonio ! 
 
 Bos. Yes, madam, he is living; 
 
 The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd 
 
 statues. 
 He's reconeil'd to your brothers; the 
 
 Pope hath wrought 
 The atonement. 
 Duch. Mercy ! 
 
 (Dies.) 
 Bos. 0, she's gone again! there the cords 
 
 of life broke. 
 sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps 
 On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty con- 
 science 
 Is a black register wherein is writ 
 All our good deeds and bad, a perspective 
 That shows us hell! That we cannot be 
 
 suffer'd 
 To do good when we have a mind to it ! 
 This is manly sorrow ; 
 These tears, I am very certain, never grew 
 In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk 
 Below the degree of fear: where were 
 
 revival of tlie Bucliess is reminiscent of Desdemona's. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 329 
 
 These penitent fountains while she was 
 
 living? 
 0, they were frozen up ! Here is a sight 
 As direful to my soul as is the sword 
 Unto a wretch hath slain his father. 
 Come, I '11 bear thee hence, 
 And execute thy last will: that's deliver 
 Thy body to the reverend dispose 
 Of some good women: that the cruel 
 
 tyrant 
 Shall not deny me. Then I'll post to 
 
 Milan, 
 Where somewhat I will speedily enact 
 Worth my dejection. 
 
 Exit with the body. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. Milan. A public place. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Delia. 
 
 Ant. Wha,t think you of my hope of re- 
 concilement 
 To the Arragonian brethren? 
 Delio. I misdoubt it; 
 
 For though they have sent their letters of 
 
 safe-conduct 
 For your repair to Milan, they appear 
 But nets to entrap you. The Marquis of 
 
 Peseara, 
 Under whom you hold certain land in 
 
 eheat,*8 
 Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been 
 
 mov'd 
 To seize those lands ; and some of his de- 
 pendants 
 Are at this instant making it their suit 
 To be invested in your revenues. 
 I cannot think they mean well to your 
 
 life 
 That do deprive you of your means of 
 
 life. 
 Tour living. 
 Ant. You are still an heretic 
 
 To any safety I can shape myself. 
 Delio. Here comes the marquis: I will 
 make myself 
 Petitioner for some part of your land. 
 To know whither it is flying. 
 Ant. I pray, do. 
 
 Withdraws. 
 Enter Peseara. 
 
 Delio. Sir, I have a suit to you. 
 Pes. To me? 
 
 Delio. An easy one : 
 
 There is the Citadel of Saint Bennet, 
 With some demesnes, of late in the pos- 
 session 
 Of Antonio Bologna, — please you bestow 
 them on me. 
 Pes. You are my friend; but this is such 
 a suit. 
 Nor fit for me to give, nor you to take. 
 Delio. No, sir? 
 
 Pes. I will give you ample reason for 't 
 Soon in private: — ^here's the cardinal's 
 mistress. 
 
 Enter Julia. 
 
 Julia. My lord, I am grown your poor 
 petitioner, 
 And should be an ill beggar, had I not 
 A great man's letter here, the cardinal's. 
 To court you in my favor. 
 Pes. He entreats for you 
 
 The Citadel of Saint Bennet, that be- 
 
 long'd 
 To the banish'd Bologna. 
 Julia. Yes. 
 
 Pes. I could not have thought of a friend 
 I could rather 
 Pleasure with it : 't is yours. 
 Julia. Sir, I thank you; 
 
 And he shall know how doubly I am 
 
 engag'd 
 Both in your gift, and speediness of giv- 
 
 .ing. 
 Which makes your grant the greater. 
 
 Exit. 
 Ant. How they fortify 
 
 Themselves with my ruin ! 
 Delio. Sir, I am 
 
 Little bound to you. 
 Pes. Why? 
 
 Delio. Because you deni'd this suit to me, 
 and gave 't 
 To such a creature. 
 Pes. Do you know what it was ? 
 
 It was Antonio's land ; not forfeited 
 By course of law, but ravish'd from his 
 
 throat 
 By the cardinal's entreaty. It were not 
 
 fit 
 I should bestow so main a piece of wrong 
 Upon my friend ; 't is a gratification 
 Only due to a strumpet, for it is injustice. 
 Shall I sprinkle the pure blood of inno- 
 cents 
 To make those followers I call my friends 
 Look ruddier upon me? I am glad 
 This land, ta'en from the owner by such 
 wrong. 
 
 48 in escheat; reverting to an overlord in the absence of heirs to the possessor. 
 
330 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Returns again unto so foul an use 
 
 As salaiy fpr his lust. Learn, good 
 
 Delio, 
 To ask noble things of me, and you shall 
 
 find 
 I '11 be a noble giver. 
 Delio. You instruct me well. 
 
 Ant. Why, here 's a man now would fright 
 impudence 
 From sauciest beggars. 
 Pes. Prince Ferdinand 's come to Milan, 
 Sick, as they give out, of an apoplexy ; 
 But some say 't is a frenzy : I am going 
 To visit him. 
 
 Exit. 
 Ant. 'T is a noble old fellow. 
 
 Delio. What course do you mean to take, 
 
 Antonio ? 
 Ant. This night I mean to venture all my 
 fortune, 
 Which is no more than a poor ling'ring 
 
 life. 
 To. the cardinal's worst of malice. I have 
 
 got 
 Private access to his chamber; and intend 
 To visit him about the mid of night. 
 As once his brother did our noble duchess. 
 It may be that the sudden apprehension 
 Of danger, — for I'll go in mine own 
 
 shape, — 
 When he shall see it fraught with love 
 
 and duty, 
 May draw the poison out of him, and 
 
 work 
 A friendly reconcilement. If it fail, 
 Tet it shall rid me of this infamous call- 
 ing; 
 For better fall once than be ever falling. 
 Delio. I'll second you in all danger; and, 
 howe'er. 
 My life keeps rank with yours. 
 Ant. You are still my lov'd and best 
 friend. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. A gallery in the Cardinal's 
 palace. 
 
 Enter Pescara and Doctor. 
 
 Pes. Now, doctor, may I visit your pa- 
 tient ? 
 Doc. If 't please your lordship; but he's 
 instantly 
 To take the air here in the gallery 
 By my direction. 
 Pes. Pray thee, what 's his disease ? 
 
 Doc. A very pestilent disease, my lord. 
 
 They call lycanthropia. 
 Pes. What's that? 
 
 I need a dictionary to't. 
 Doe. 1 '11 tell you. 
 
 In those that are possess'd with't there 
 o'erflows 
 
 Such melancholy humor they imagine 
 
 Themselves to be transformed into 
 wolves ; 
 
 Steal forth to church-yards in the dead 
 of night, 
 
 And dig dead bodies up : as two nights 
 since 
 
 One met the duke 'bout midnight in- a lane 
 
 Behind Saint Mark's church, with the leg 
 of a man 
 
 Upon his shoulder; and he howl'd fear- 
 . fully; 
 
 Said he was a wolf, only the difference 
 
 Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the out- 
 side. 
 
 His on the inside; bade them take their 
 swords. 
 
 Rip up his flesh, and try. Straight I was 
 sent for. 
 
 And, having minister'd to him, found his 
 grace 
 
 Very well recovered. 
 Pes. I am glad on 't. 
 Doc. Yet not without some fear 
 
 Of a relapse. If he grow to his fit again, 
 
 I '11 go a nearer way to work with him 
 
 Than ever Paracelsus *° dream'd of ; if 
 
 They '11 give me leave, I '11 buffet his mad- 
 ness out of him. 
 
 Stand aside; he comes. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand, Cardinal, Malateste, and 
 Bosola. 
 
 Ferd. Leave me. 
 
 Mai. Why doth your lordship love this 
 solitariness ? 
 
 Ferd. Eagles commonly fly alone : they are 
 crows, daws, and starlings that flock to- 
 gether. Look, what 's that follows me? 
 
 Mai. Nothing, my lord. 
 
 Ferd. Yes. 
 
 Mai. "I is your shadow. 
 
 Ferd. Stay it ; let it not haunt me. 
 
 Mai. Impossible, if you move, and the sun 
 shine. 
 
 Ferd. I will throttle it. 
 
 (Throws himself down on his shadow.) ■ 
 
 Mai. 0, my lord, you are angry with noth- 
 
 Ferd. You are a fool : how is 't possible I 
 should catch my shadow, unless I fall 
 
 49 a famous physician and alchemist of the sixteenth century. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALEI 
 
 331 
 
 upon 't ? When I go to hell, I mean to 
 carry a bribe; for, look you, good gifts 
 evermore make way for the worst per- 
 sons. 
 
 Pes. Rise, good my lord. 
 
 Ferd. I am studying the art of patien'ee. 
 
 Pes. 'T is a noble virtue. 
 
 Ferd. To drive six snails before me from 
 this town to Moscow; neither use goad 
 nor whip to them, but let them take their 
 own time; — the patient'st man i' th' 
 world match me for an experiment: — an 
 I '11 crawl after like a sheep-biter.^" 
 
 Card. Force him up. 
 
 {They raise Mm.) 
 
 Ferd. Use me well, you were best. What 
 I have done, I have done : I '11 confess 
 nothing. 
 
 Doc. Now let me come to him. — ^Are you 
 mad, my lord? 
 Are you out of your princely witsl 
 
 Ferd. What 'she? 
 
 Pes. Your doctor. 
 
 Ferd. Let me have his beard saw'd off, and 
 his eye-brows fil'd more civil. 
 
 Doc. I must do mad tricks with him, for 
 that 's ' the only way on 't. — I have 
 brought your grace a salamander's skin to 
 keep you from sunburning. 
 
 Ferd. I have cruel sore eyes. 
 
 Doc. The white of a cockatrix's ^^ egg i^ 
 present ^^ remedy. 
 
 Ferd. Let it be a new-laid one, you were 
 best. Hide me from him : physicians are 
 like kings, — They brook no contradiction. 
 
 Doc. Now he begins to fear me: now let 
 ' me alone with him. 
 
 Card. How now ! put off your gown ! 
 
 Doc. Let me have some forty urinals filled 
 with rose-water : he and I '11 go pelt one 
 another with them. — Now he begins to 
 fear me. — Can you fetch a frisk,^' sir? 
 — ^Let him go, let him go, upon my peril : 
 I find by his eye he stands in awe of me ; 
 I '11 make him as tame as a dormouse. 
 
 Ferd. Can you fetch your frisks, sir! — I 
 will stamp him into a cullis,^* flay off his 
 skin to cover one of the anatomies ^^ this 
 rogue hath set i' th' cold yonder in Bar- 
 ber-Chirurgeon's-hall.^° — Hence, hence ! 
 you are all of you like beasts for sacri- 
 fice. {Throws the Doctor down and beats 
 him.) There's nothing left of you but 
 tongue and belly, flattery and lechery. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Pes. Doctor, he did not fear you thor- 
 oughly. 
 
 Doc. True ; I was somewhat too forward. 
 Bos. Mercy upon me, what a fatal judg- 
 ment 
 Hath f all'n upon this Ferdinand ! 
 Pes. Knows your grace 
 
 What accident hath brought unto the 
 
 prince 
 This strange distraction? 
 Card. {Aside.) I must feign somewhat. — 
 
 Thus they say it grew. 
 You have heard it rumor'd, for these 
 
 many years 
 None of our family dies but there is seen 
 The shape of an old woman, which is 
 
 given 
 By tradition to us to have been murder'd 
 By her nephews for her riches. Such a 
 
 figure 
 One night, as the prince sat up late at 's 
 
 book, 
 Appear'd to him; when crying out for 
 
 help. 
 The gentleman of 's chamber found his 
 
 grace 
 All on a cold sweat, alter'd much in face 
 And language: since which apparition, 
 He hath grown worse and worse, and I 
 
 much fear 
 He cannot live. 
 Bos. Sir, I would speak with you. 
 
 Pes. We '11 leave your grace, 
 
 Wishing to the sick prince, our noble lord, 
 All health of mind and body. 
 Card. You are most welcome. 
 
 Exeunt Pescara, Malateste, and Doctor. 
 Are you come? so. — {Aside.) This fel- 
 low must not know 
 By any means I had intelligence 
 In our duchess' death; for, though I 
 
 counsel'd it. 
 The full of all th' engagement seem'd to 
 
 grow 
 From Ferdinand. — Now, sir, how fares 
 
 our sister? 
 I do not think but sorrow makes her look 
 Like to an oft-dy'd garment: she shall 
 
 now 
 Take comfort from me. Why do you 
 
 look so wildly ? 
 0, the fortune of your master here, the 
 
 prince. 
 Dejects you; but be you of happy com- 
 fort : 
 If you '11 do one thing for me I '11 entreat. 
 Though he had a cold tomb-stone o'er his 
 
 bones, 
 I 'd make you what you -would be. 
 
 BO a sheep-worrymg 
 
 dog. 
 51 a fabled serpent, 
 
 whose Blanoe, like 
 the basilisk's, was 
 deadly. 
 
 52 immediate. 
 
 53 cut a caper. 
 
 54 broth. 
 
 55 Rlceletons. 
 50 Guildhall of the 
 Barber - Surgeons 
 
 ( a London local 
 allusion). 
 
332 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Bos. Any thing; 
 
 Give it me in a breath, and let me fly to 't. 
 They that think long small expedition 
 
 win, 
 For musing much o' th' end cannot begin. 
 
 Enter Julia. 
 
 Julia. Sir, will you come in to supper? 
 Card. I am busy ; leave me. 
 
 Julia. (Aside.) What an excellent shape 
 hath that fellow ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Card. 'T is thus. Antonio lurks here in 
 Milan: 
 Inquire him out, and kill him. While he 
 
 lives. 
 Our sister cannot marry; and I have 
 
 thought 
 Of an excellent match for her. Do this, 
 
 and style me 
 Thy advancement. 
 Bos. But by what means shall I find him 
 
 out? 
 Card. There is a gentleman call'd Delio 
 Here in the camp, that hath been long ap- 
 
 prov'd 
 His loyal friend. Set eye upon that fel- 
 low; 
 Follow him to mass ; may be Antonio, . 
 Although he do account religion 
 But a school-name, for fashion of the 
 
 world 
 May accompany him; or else go inquire 
 
 out 
 Delio's confessor, and see if you can bribe 
 Him to reveal it. There are a thousand 
 
 ways 
 A man might find to trace him; as to 
 
 know 
 What fellows haunt the Jews for taking 
 
 up 
 Great sums of money, for sure he's in 
 
 want; 
 Or else to go to th' picture-makers, and 
 
 learn 
 Who bought her picture lately: some of 
 
 these 
 Happily may take. 
 Bos. Well, I 'U not freeze i' th' business : 
 I would see that wretched thing, Antonio, 
 Above all sights i' th' world. 
 Card. Do, and be happy. 
 
 Exit. 
 Bos. This fellow doth breed basilisks in 's 
 eyes. 
 He's nothing else but murderer; yet he 
 seems 
 
 B7 perfumed candies for the breath. 
 
 Not to have notice of the duchess' death. 
 'Tis his cunning: I must follow his ex- 
 ample ; 
 There cannot be a surer way to trace 
 Than that of an old fox. 
 
 Be-enter Julia, with a pistol. 
 
 Julia, So, sir, you are well met. 
 Bos. How now ! 
 
 Julia. Nay, the doors are fast enough: 
 Now, sir, I will make you confess your 
 treachery. 
 Bos. Treachery ! 
 
 Julia. Yes, confess to me 
 
 Which of my women 'twas you hir'd to 
 
 put 
 Love-powder into my drink? 
 Bos. Love powder ! 
 
 Julia. Yes, when I was at Malfl. 
 
 Why should I fall in love with such a 
 
 face else? 
 I have already suffer'd for thee so much 
 
 pain. 
 The only remedy to do me good 
 Is to kill my longing. 
 Bos. . Sure, your pistol holds 
 
 Nothing but perfumes or kissing-com- 
 
 fits." ExceUent lady! 
 You have a pretty way on 't to discover 
 Your longing. Come, come, I'll disarm 
 
 you. 
 And arm you thus : yet this is wondrous 
 strange. 
 Julia. Compare thy form and my eyes to- 
 gether. 
 You'll find my love no such great mir- 
 acle. 
 
 Now you '11 say 
 I am wanton : this nice modesty in ladies 
 Is but a troublesome familiar 
 That haunts them. 
 Bos. Know you me, I am a blunt soldier. 
 Julia. The better: 
 
 Sure, there wants fire where there are no 
 
 lively sparks 
 Of roughness. 
 Bos. And I want °* compliment. 
 Julia. Why, ignorance 
 
 In courtship cannot make you do amiss. 
 If you have a heart to do well. 
 Bos. You are very fair. 
 
 Julia. Nay, if you lay beauty to my 
 charge, 
 I must plead unguilty. 
 Bos. Your bright eyes 
 
 Carry a quiver of darts in them, sharper 
 Than sun-beams. 
 
 S8 lack. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 333 
 
 Julia. You will mar me with 
 
 commendation, 
 Put yourself to the charge of courting 
 
 me, 
 Whereas now I woo you. 
 Bos. (Aside.) I have it, I will work upon 
 this creature. — 
 Let us grow most amorously familiar: 
 If the great cardinal now should see me 
 
 thus. 
 Would he not count me a villain? 
 Julia. No ; he might count me a wanton. 
 Not- lay a scruple of offense on you; 
 For if I see and steal a diamond. 
 The fault is not i' th' stone, but in me the 
 
 thief 
 That purloins it. I am sudden with you. 
 We that are great women of pleasure use 
 
 to cut off 
 These uncertain wishes and unquiet long- 
 ings. 
 And in an instant join the sweet delight 
 And the pretty excuse together. Had 
 
 you been i' th' street. 
 Under my chamber-window, even there 
 I should have courted you. 
 Bos. O, you are an excellent lady ! 
 Julia. Bid me do somewhat for you pres- 
 ently 
 To express I love you. 
 Bos. I will ; and if you love me. 
 
 Fail not to effect it. 
 
 The cardinal is grown wondrous melan- 
 choly; 
 Demand the cause, let him not put you 
 
 off 
 With feign'd excuse; discover the main 
 ground on 't. 
 Julia. Why would you know this? 
 Bos. I have depended on him, 
 
 And I hear that he is f all'n in some dis- 
 grace 
 With the emperor: if he be, like the 
 
 mice 
 That forsake falling houses, I would shift 
 To other dependance. 
 Julia. You shall not need 
 
 Follow the wars : I '11 be your mainte- 
 nance. 
 Bos. And I your loyal servant : but I can- 
 not 
 Leave my calling. 
 Julia. Not leave an ungrateful 
 
 General for the love of a sweet lady ! 
 You are like some cannot sleep in feath- 
 er-beds. 
 But must have blocks for their pillows. 
 Bos. Will you da this? 
 
 Julia. Cunningly. 
 
 Bos. To-morrow I'll expect th' intelli- 
 gence. 
 Julia. To-morrow ! Get you into my cabi- 
 net; 
 You shall have it with you. Do not de- 
 lay me, 
 No more than I do you : I am like one 
 That is condemn'd; I have my pardon 
 
 promis'd. 
 But I would see it seal'd. Go, get you 
 
 in: 
 You shall see me wind my tongue about 
 
 his heart 
 Like a skein of silk. 
 
 Exit Bosola. 
 Be-enter Cardinal. 
 
 Card. Where are you? 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Servants. Here. 
 
 Card. Let none, upon your lives, have con- 
 ference 
 With the Prince Ferdinand, unless I 
 know it. — 
 {Aside.) In this distraction he may reveal 
 The murder. 
 
 Exeunt Servants. 
 Yond 's my lingering consumption : 
 I am weary of her, and by any means 
 Would be quit of. 
 Julia. How now, my lord! what ails you? 
 Card. Nothing. 
 
 Julia., 0, you are much alter'd: 
 
 Come, I must be your secretary, and re- 
 move 
 This lead from off your bosom: what's 
 the matter? 
 Card. I may not tell you. 
 Julia. Are you so far in love with sorrow 
 You cannot part with part of it? Or 
 
 think you 
 I cannot love your grace when you are 
 
 sad 
 As well as merry ? Or do you suspect 
 I, that have been a secret to your heart 
 These many winters, cannot be the same 
 Unto your tongue? 
 Card. Satisfy thy longing, — 
 
 The only way to make thee keep my 
 
 counsel 
 Is, not to tell -thee. 
 Julia. Tell your echo this, 
 
 Or flatterers, that like echoes still report 
 What they hear, though most imperfect, 
 
 and not me; 
 For if that you be true unto yourself, 
 I'll know. 
 
334 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Card. Will you rack '^^ me? 
 Julia. No, judgment shall 
 
 Draw it from you : it is an equal fault, 
 To tell one's secrets unto all or none. 
 Card. The first argues foUy. 
 Julia. But the last tyranny. 
 Card. Yisij well: why, imagine I have 
 committed 
 Some secret deed which I desire the world 
 May never hear of; 
 Julia. Therefore may not I know it? 
 
 You have eoneeal'd for me as great a 
 
 sin 
 As adultery. Sir, never was occasion 
 For perfect trial of my constancy 
 
 Till now; sir, I beseech you 
 
 Card. You '11 repent it. 
 
 Julia. Never. 
 
 Card. It hurries thee to ruin : I '11 not tell 
 thee. 
 Be well advis'd, and think what danger 
 
 'tis 
 To receive a prince's secrets. They that 
 
 do. 
 Had need have their breasts hoop'd with 
 
 adamant 
 To contain them. I pray thee, yet be 
 
 satisfi'd ; 
 Examine thine own frailty; 'tis more 
 
 easy 
 To tie knots than unloose them. 'T is a 
 
 secret 
 That, like a ling'ring poison, may chance 
 
 lie 
 Spread in thy veins, and kill thee seven 
 year hence. 
 Julia. Now you dally with me. 
 Card. No more ; thou shalt know it. 
 
 By my appointment, the great Duchess of 
 
 Malfi 
 And two of her young children, four 
 
 nights since. 
 Were strangled. 
 Julia. heaven! sir, what have you 
 
 done! 
 Card. How now? How settles this? 
 Think you your bosom 
 Will be a grave dark and obscure enough 
 For such a secret ? 
 Julia. You have undone yourself, sir. 
 
 Card. Why? 
 
 Julia. It lies not in me to conceal it. 
 
 Card. No? 
 
 Come, I will swear you to't upon this 
 book. 
 Julia. Most religiously. 
 Card. Kiss it. 
 
 {She kisses the hook.) 
 
 Now you shall never utter it; thy curios- 
 ity 
 
 Hath undone thee ; thou 'rt poison'd with 
 that book. 
 
 Because I knew thou couldst not ke.ep my 
 counsel, 
 
 I have bound thee to 't by death. 
 
 Re-enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. For pity sake, hold ! 
 Card. Haj Bosola! 
 
 Julia. I forgive you 
 
 This equal piece of justice you have 
 
 done; 
 For I betray'd your counsel to that fel- 
 low. 
 He over-heard it; that was the cause I 
 
 said 
 It lay not in me to conceal it. 
 Bos. foolish woman, 
 
 Couldst not thou have poison'd him? 
 Julia. 'T is weakness 
 
 Too much to think what should have been 
 
 done. I go, 
 I know not whither. 
 
 (Dies.) 
 Card. Wherefore com'st thou hither? 
 
 Bos. That I might find a great man like 
 yourselfj . 
 Not out of his wits, as the Lord Ferdi- 
 nand, 
 To remember my service. 
 Card. 1 11 have thee hew'd in pieces. 
 Bos. Make not yourself such a promise of 
 that life 
 Which is not yours to dispose of. 
 Card. Who plac'd thee here? 
 
 Bos. Her lust, as she intended. 
 Card. Very well : 
 
 Now you know me for your fellow-mur- 
 derer. 
 Bos. And wherefore should you lay fair 
 marble colors 
 Upon your rotten purposes to me? 
 Unless you imitate some that do plot great 
 
 treasons, 
 And when they have done, go hide them- 
 selves i' th' graves 
 Of those were actors in 't? 
 Card. No more; there is 
 
 A fortune attends thee. 
 Bos. Shall I go sue to Fortune any longer? 
 
 'T is the fool's pilgrimage. 
 Card. I have honors in store for thee. 
 Bos. There are a many ways that conduct 
 to seeming 
 Honor, and some of them very dirty ones. 
 
 50 torture me on the rack to reveal it. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 335 
 
 Card. Throw to the devil 
 
 Thy melancholy. The fire burns well; 
 What need we keep a stirring of 't, and 
 
 make 
 A greater smother'?"'' Thou wilt kill 
 Antonio '? 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 Card. Take up that body. 
 Bos. I think I shall 
 
 Shortly grow the common bier for church- 
 ■ yards. 
 Card. I will allow thee some dozen of at- 
 tendants 
 To aid thee in the murder. 
 Bos. O, by no means. Physicians that ap- 
 ply horse-leeches to any rank swelling 
 use to cut off their tails, that the blood 
 may run through them the faster : let me 
 have no train when I go to shed blood, 
 less it make me have a greater when I 
 ride to the gallows. 
 Card. Come to me after midnight, to help 
 to remove 
 That body to her own lodging. I '11 give 
 
 out 
 She died o' th' plague; 'twill breed the 
 
 less inquiry 
 After her death. 
 Bos. Where's Castruccio her husband'? 
 Card. He 's rode to Naples, to take posses- 
 sion 
 Of Antonio's citadel. 
 Bos. Believe me, you have done a very 
 
 happy turn. 
 Card. Fail not to come. There is the mas- 
 ter key 
 Of our lodgings; and by that you may 
 
 conceive 
 What trust I plant in you. 
 Bos. You shall find me ready. 
 
 Exit Cardinal. 
 poor Antonio, though nothing be so 
 
 needful 
 To thy estate as pity, yet I find 
 Nothing so dangerous! I must look to 
 
 my footing: 
 In such slippery ice-pavements men had 
 
 need 
 To be frost-nail'd well, they may break 
 
 their necks else ; 
 The precedent's here afore me. How 
 
 this man 
 Bears up in blood ! seems ,fearless ! WKy, 
 
 't is well : 
 Security some men call the suburbs of 
 
 hell. 
 Only a dead wall between. Well, good 
 Antonio, 
 
 I '11 seek thee out ; and all my care shall 
 
 be 
 To put thee into safety from the reach 
 Of these most cruel biters that have got 
 Some of thy blood already. It may be, 
 I '11 join with thee in a most just revenge. 
 The weakest arm is strong enough that 
 
 strikes 
 With the sword of justice. Still me- 
 
 thinks the duchess 
 Haunts me : there, there ! — 'T is nothing 
 
 but my melancholy. 
 Penitence, let me truly taste thy cup. 
 That throws men down only to raise them 
 
 up! 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. Milan. A fortification. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Delio. Echo from the 
 Duchess's Grave. 
 
 Delio. Yond 's the cardirSl's window. 
 This fortification 
 Grew from the ruins of an ancient abbey ; 
 And to yond side o' th' river lies a wall. 
 Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion 
 Gives the best echo that you ever heard, 
 So hollow and so dismal, and withal 
 So plain in the distinction of our words, 
 That many have suppos'd it is a spirit 
 That answers. 
 
 Ant. I do love these ancient ruins. 
 
 We never tread upon them but we set 
 Our foot upon some reverend history; 
 And, questionless, here in this open court, 
 Which now lies naked to the injuries 
 Of stormy weather, some men lie interr'd 
 Lov'd the church so well, and gave so \ 
 
 largely to't. 
 They thought it should have canopied 
 
 their bones 
 Till dooms-day. But all things have their 
 
 end; 
 Churches and cities, which have diseases 
 
 like to men, 
 Must have like death that we have. 
 
 Echo. Like death that we have. 
 
 Delio. Now the echo hath caught you. 
 
 Ant. It groan'd methought, and gave 
 A very deadly accent. 
 
 Echo. Deadly accent. 
 
 Delio. I told you 'twas a pretty one. 
 You may make it 
 A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician. 
 Or a thing of sorrow. 
 
 Echo. A thing of sorrow. 
 
 <o smoke. 
 
336 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Ant. Aye, sure, that suits it best. 
 Echo. That suits it best. 
 
 Ant. 'T is very like my wife's voice. 
 Echo. Aye, wife's voice. 
 
 Delia. Come, let us walk further from 't. 
 I would not have you go to the cardinal's 
 
 to-night : 
 Do not. 
 Echo. Do not. 
 
 Delia. Wisdom doth not more moderate 
 wasting sorrow 
 Than time. Take time for 't ; be mindful 
 of thy safety. 
 Echo. Be mindful of thy safety. 
 Ant. Necessity compels me. 
 
 Make scrutiny throughout the passages 
 Of your own life, you '11 find it impossible 
 To fly your fate. 
 Echo. O, fly your fate! 
 
 Delia. Hark ! the dead stones seem to have 
 pity on you. 
 And give you good counsel. 
 Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee, 
 
 For thou att a dead thing. 
 Echo. Thou art a dead thing. 
 
 Ant. My duchess is asleep now, 
 And her little ones, I hope sweetly. 
 
 heaven, 
 Shall I never see her more? 
 Echo. Never see her more. 
 
 Ani. I mark'd not one repetition of the 
 echo 
 But that ; and on the sudden a clear light 
 Presented me a face folded in sorrow. 
 Delia. Your fancy merely. 
 Ant. Come, I '11 be out of this ague. 
 
 Tor to live thus is not indeed to live : 
 It is a mockery and abuse of life. 
 I will not henceforth save myself by 
 
 halves ; 
 Lose all, or nothing. 
 Delia. Your own virtue save you ! 
 
 I '11 fetch your eldest son, and second you. 
 It may be that the sight of bis own blood 
 Spread in so sweet a figure may beget 
 The more compassion. However, fare 
 
 you weU. 
 Though in our miseries Fortune have a 
 
 part. 
 Yet in our noble suff'rings she hath none. 
 Contempt of pain, that we may call our 
 own. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. A room in the Cardinal's palace. 
 
 Enter Cardinal, Pescara, Malateste, 
 Roderigo, and Grisalan. 
 
 Card. You shall not watch to-night by the 
 sick prince; 
 His grace is very well recover'd. 
 Mai. Good my lord, suffer us. 
 Card. 0, by no means; 
 
 The noise, and change of object in his 
 
 eye. 
 Doth more distract him. I pray, all to 
 
 bed; 
 And though you hear him in his violent 
 
 fit, 
 Do not rise, I entreat you. 
 Pes. So, sir; we shall not. 
 Card. Nay, I must have you promise 
 
 Upon your honors, for I was enjoin'd 
 
 to 't 
 By himself; and he seem'd to urge it sen- 
 sibly. 
 Pes. Let our honors bind this trifle. 
 Card. Nor any of your followers. 
 Mai. Neither. 
 
 Card. It may be, to make trial of your 
 promise. 
 When he's asleep, myself will rise and 
 
 feign 
 Some of his mad tricks, and cry out for 
 
 help. 
 And feign myself in danger. 
 Mai. If your throat were cutting, 
 
 I 'd not come at you, now I have pro- 
 tested against it. 
 Card. Why, I thank you. 
 Gris. 'T was a foul storm to-night. 
 
 Bad. The Lord Ferdinand's chamber shook 
 
 like an osier. 
 Mai. 'T was nothing but pure kindness in 
 the devil 
 To rock his own child. 
 
 Exeunt all except the Cardinal. 
 
 Card. The reason why I would not suffer 
 
 these 
 
 About my brother, is, because at midnight 
 
 I may with better privacy convey 
 
 Julia's body to her own lodging. 0, my 
 
 conscience ! 
 I would pray now; but the devil takes 
 
 away my heart 
 For having any confidence in prayer. 
 About this hour I appointed Bosola 
 To fetch the body. When he hath serv'd 
 
 my turn, 
 He dies. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. Ha! 'twas the cardinal's voice; I 
 heard him name Bosola and my death. 
 Listen ; I hear one's footing. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 337 
 
 Ferd. Strangling 's a very death. 
 
 Bos. {Aside.) Nay, then, I see I must 
 
 stand upon my guard. 
 
 Ferd. What say to that? Whisper softly : 
 
 do you agree to 't ? So ; it must be done 
 
 i' th' dark; the cardinal would not for a 
 
 thousand pounds the doctor should see it. 
 
 Exit. 
 Bos. My death is plotted ; here 's the con- 
 sequence of murder. 
 We value not desert nor Christian breath, 
 When we know black deeds must be cur'd 
 with death. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Servant. 
 
 Serv. Here stay, sir, and be confident, I 
 pray; 
 I '11 fetch you a dark lantern. 
 
 Exit. 
 Ant. Could I take him at his prayers. 
 
 There were hope of pardon. 
 Bos. Fall right, my sword! — 
 (Stabs him.) 
 I'll not give thee so much leisure as to 
 ■pray. 
 Ant. O, I am gone! Thou hast ended a 
 long suit 
 In a minute. 
 Bos. What art thou? 
 
 Ant. A most wretched thing, 
 
 That only have thy benefit in death, 
 To appear myself. 
 
 Be-enter Servant with a lantern. 
 
 Serv. Where are you, sir? 
 Ant. Very near my home. — Bosola! 
 Serv. 0, misfortune ! 
 Bos. Smother thy pity, thou art dead else. 
 — Antonio ! 
 The man I would have sav'd 'bove mine 
 
 own life! 
 We are merely the stars' tennis-balls, 
 
 struck and bandied 
 Which way please them. — good An- 
 tonio, 
 I '11 whisper one thing in thy dying ear 
 Shall make thy heart break quickly! 
 Thy fair duchess 
 
 And two sweet children 
 
 Ant. Their very names 
 
 Kindle a little life in me. 
 Bos. Are murder'd. 
 
 Ant. Some men have wish'd to die 
 
 At the hearing of sad tidings ; I am glad 
 That I shall do 't in sadness.*^ I would 
 
 not now 
 Wish my wounds balm'd nor heal'd, for I 
 have no use 
 
 To put my life to. In all our quest of 
 
 greatness. 
 Like wanton boys whose pastime is their 
 
 care. 
 We follow after bubbles blown in th' air. 
 Pleasure of life, what is't? Only the 
 
 good hours 
 Of an ague ; merely a preparative to rest. 
 To endure vexation. I do not ask 
 The process of my death; only commend 
 
 me 
 To Delio. 
 Bos. Break, heart! 
 
 Ant. And let my son fly the courts of 
 
 princes. 
 
 {Dies.) 
 Bos. Thou seem'st to have lov'd Antonio. 
 Serv.. 1 brought him hither. 
 
 To have reeoneil'd him to the cardinal. 
 Bos. I do not ask thee that. 
 
 Take him up, if thou tender thine own 
 
 life. 
 And bear him where the lady Julia 
 Was wont to lodge. — 0, my fate moves 
 
 swift ! 
 I have this cardinal in the forge already ; 
 Now I '11 bring him to th' hammer. 
 
 direful misprision ! *^ 
 I will not imitate things glorious, 
 No more than base; I'll be mine own 
 
 example. — 
 On, on, and look thou represent, for si- 
 lence, 
 The thing thou bear'st.®^ 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. Another room in the palace, 
 with a gallery. 
 
 Enter Cardinal, with a hook. 
 
 Card. I am puzzl'd in a question about 
 
 hell; 
 He says, in hell there 's one material fire, 
 And yet it shall not bum all men alike. 
 Lay him by. How tedious is a guilty 
 
 conscience ! 
 When I look into the fish-ponds in my 
 
 garden, 
 Methinks I see a thing arm'd with a rake, 
 That seems to strike at me. 
 
 Enter Bosola, and Servant bearing 
 Antonio's body. 
 
 Now, art thou come? 
 Thou look'st ghastly; 
 There sits in thy face some great determi- 
 nation 
 Mix'd with some fear. 
 
 61 reality. 
 
 62 mistake. 
 
 63 i.e. the dead body. 
 
338 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 . Bos. Thus it lightens into action : 
 
 I am come to kill thee. 
 Card. Ha! — Help! o,ur guard! 
 
 Bos. Thou art deceiv'd; they are out of 
 
 thy howling. 
 Card. Hold; and I will faithfully divide 
 
 Revenues with thee. 
 Bos. Thy prayers and proffers 
 
 Are both unseasonable. 
 Card. Raise the watch! 
 
 We are betray'd ! 
 Bos. I have confln'd your flight: 
 
 I '11 suffer your retreat to Julia's cham- 
 ber, 
 
 But no further. 
 Card. Help ! we are betray'd ! 
 
 Enter, above, Pescara, Malateste, Bo- 
 derigo, and Grisolan. 
 
 Mai. Listen. 
 
 Card. My dukedom for rescue ! 
 Bod. Fie upon his counterfeiting! 
 Mai. Why, 'tis not the cardinal. 
 Bod. Yes, yes, 't is he : 
 
 But I '11 see him hang'd ere I '11 go down 
 to him. 
 Card. Here's a plot upon me; I am as- 
 saulted ! I am lost. 
 Unless some rescue ! 
 Gris. He doth this pretty well ; 
 
 But it will not serve to laugh me out of 
 mine honor. 
 Card. The sword 's at my throat ! 
 Bod. You would not bawl so loud then. 
 Mai. Come, come, let 's go to bed : he told 
 
 us this much aforehand. 
 Pes. He wish'd you should not come at 
 him; but, believe 't. 
 The accent of the voice sounds not in 
 
 jest. 
 I'D down to him, howsoever, and with 
 
 engines 
 Force ope the doors. 
 
 Exit above. 
 
 Bod. Let's follow him aloof, 
 
 And note how the cardinal will laugh at 
 
 him. Exeunt above. 
 
 Bos. There 's for you first, 
 
 'Cause you shall not unbarricade the door 
 
 To let in rescue. 
 
 (Kills the Servant.) 
 Card. What cause hast thou to pur- 
 
 sue my life? 
 Bos. Look there. 
 
 Card. Antonio ! 
 
 Bos. Slain by my hand unwittingly. 
 
 Pray, and be sudden. When thou 
 kill'd'st thy sister, 
 
 Tliou took'st from Justice her most equal 
 
 balance. 
 And left her naught but her sword. 
 Card. 0, mercy ! 
 
 Bos. Now it seems thy greatness was only 
 outward ; 
 For thou fall'st faster of thyself than 
 
 calamity 
 Can drive thee. I'll not waste longer 
 time; there! 
 
 (Stabs him.) 
 Card. Thou hast hurt me. 
 Bos. Again ! 
 
 Card. Shall I die like a leveret, 
 
 Without any resistance? — Help, help, 
 
 help! 
 I am slain ! 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Th' alarum! Give me a fresh 
 
 horse ; 
 Rally the vaunt-guard, or the day is lost. 
 Yield, yield! I give you the honor of 
 
 arms 
 Shake my sword over you; wUl you 
 yield? 
 Card. Help me; I am your brother! 
 Ferd. The devil! 
 
 My brother fight upon the adverse party ! 
 (He wounds the Cardinal, and, in the scuf' 
 fle, gives Bosola his death-wound.) 
 There flies your ransom. 
 Card. justice ! 
 I suffer now for what hath former been : 
 Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin. 
 Ferd. Now you 're brave fellows. Csesar's 
 fortune was harder than Pompey's; 
 Caasar died in the arms of ' prosperity, 
 Pompey at the feet of disgrace. You 
 both died in the field. The pain 's noth- 
 ing; pain many times is taken away with 
 the apprehension of greater, as the tooth- 
 ache with the sight of a barber that 
 comes to pull it out. There 's philosophy 
 for you. 
 Bos. Now my revenge is perfect. — Sink, 
 thou main cause 
 
 (Kills Ferdinand.) 
 Of my undoing! — The last part of my 
 
 life 
 Hath done me best service. 
 Ferd. Give me some wet hay; I am 
 broken-winded. 
 I do account this world but a dog-ken- 
 nel: 
 I will vault credits* and affect high 
 
 pleasures 
 Beyond death. 
 
 64 overleap belief. 
 
THE DUCHESS OF MALFI 
 
 339 
 
 Bos. He seems to come to himself, 
 
 Now he's so near the bottom. 
 Ferd. My sister, my sister ! there 's the 
 cause on't. 
 Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or 
 
 lust. 
 Like diamonds, we are cut with our own 
 dust. 
 
 {Dies.) 
 Card. Thou hast thy payment too. 
 Bos. Yes, I hold my weary soul in my 
 teeth ; 
 'T is ready to part from me. I' do glory 
 That thou, which stood'st like a huge 
 
 pyramid 
 Begun upon a large and ample base, 
 Shalt end in a little point, a kind of 
 nothing. 
 
 Enter, below, Pescara, Malateste, Boderigo, 
 and Grisolan. 
 
 Pes. How now, my lord! 
 Mai. sad disaster! 
 
 Bod. How comes this? 
 
 Bos. Revenge for the Duchess of Malfi 
 murdered 
 By th' Arragonian brethren ; for Antonio 
 Slain by this hand; for lustful Julia 
 Poison'd by this man ; and lastly for my- 
 self. 
 That was an actor in the main of all 
 Much 'gainst mine own good nature, yet 
 
 i' th' end 
 Neglected. 
 Pes. How now, my lord ! 
 
 Card. Look to my brother : 
 
 He gave us these large wounds, as we 
 
 were struggling 
 Here i' th' rushes.'^ And now, I pray, 
 
 let me 
 Be laid by and never thought of. 
 (Dies.) 
 Pes. How fatally, it seems, he did with- 
 stand 
 His own rescue ! 
 Mai. Thou wretched thing of blood. 
 
 How came Antonio by his death? 
 Bos. In a mist; I know not how; 
 Such a mistake as I have often seen 
 
 In a play. 0, I am gone! 
 
 We are only like dead walls or vaulted 
 graves, 
 
 That, ruin'd, yields no echo. Fare you 
 well! 
 
 It may be pain, but no harm, to me to 
 die 
 
 In so good a quarrel. O, this gloomy 
 world ! 
 
 In what a shadow, or deep pit of dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Doth womanish and fearful mankind 
 live! 
 
 Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in dis- 
 trust 
 
 To suffer death or shame for what is 
 just : 
 
 Mine is another voyage. 
 (Dies.) 
 Pes. The noble Delio, as I came to th' 
 palace. 
 
 Told me of Antonio's being here, and 
 show'd me 
 
 A pretty gentleman, his son and heir. 
 
 Enter Delia, and Antonio's Son. 
 
 Mai. 0, sir, you come too late! 
 Delio. 1 heard so, and 
 
 Was arm'd for't, ere I came. Let us 
 
 make noble use 
 Of this great ruin; and join all our force 
 To establish this young hopeful gentle- 
 man 
 In's mother's right. These wretched 
 
 eminent things 
 Leave no more fame behind 'em, than 
 
 should one 
 Fall in a frost, and leave his print in 
 
 snow; 
 As soon as the sun shines, it ever melts. 
 Both form and matter. I have ever 
 
 thought 
 Nature doth nothing so great for great 
 
 men 
 As when she's pleas'd to make them 
 
 lords of truth : 
 Integrity of life is fame's best friend. 
 Which nobly, beyond death, shall crown 
 
 the end. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 «s used as floor-coverings. 
 
JOHN FLETCHER 
 
 THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 The pursuit of the reluctant male by the 
 predatory female suggested Itself as a fit 
 theme for comedy long before it was dignified 
 in Man and Superman as an exhibition of the 
 Life Force. As Shaw reminds us in his pref- 
 ace, several of Shakespeare's heroines take 
 the offensive in vigorous campaigns to ob- 
 tain the men of their choice. The wonder 
 that we feel in such instances is not at the 
 spectacle of the heroine flying in the face of 
 tradition, for this she does with disarming 
 grace, but that she should be at such pains 
 to secure a husband so obviously her inferior 
 in brains, as is Baasanio to Portia, in ca- 
 pacity for love, as Proteus to Julia, in every- 
 thing but birth, as Bertram to Helena. A 
 somewhat similar attitude iS' conceivable to- 
 ward Oriana, the heroine of Fletcher's Wild- 
 Goose Chase. We might cavil, " The Wild- 
 Goose wasn't worth chasing"; Fletcher's re- 
 ply would be, " That 's not the question — 
 .wasn't the chase amusing?" Without con- 
 doning a freedom of speech and insinuation 
 impossible to modern taste, we may avoid the 
 error of judging too severely Fletcher's light- 
 hearted representation of the triple man- 
 hunt. To apply the test of morality to this 
 play is to break a butterfly on a wheel. It is 
 a perfect specimen of light comedy as prac- 
 tised by the wittiest and cleverest writer of 
 it in the Elizabethan period. Comedy of 
 manners in any strict sense The Wild-Goose 
 Chase is not. Fletcher makes no ett'ort to 
 hold the mirror up to nature and show 
 " the very, age and body of the time his form 
 and pressure." There is here little observa- 
 tion of English life, and no particular at- 
 tempt to portray manners exactly. In others 
 of his comedies, in Monsieur Thomas and Wit 
 without Money, for example, Fletcher ap- 
 proaches reality more closely. Nor is the 
 play high comedy, as the term is sometimes 
 applied to the Shakespearean romantic 
 comedy like Much Ado, for that involves an 
 idealization and a depth of characterization 
 wanting here. It is only necessary to re- 
 flect upon the difi'erent impressions which 
 Oriana and Viola or Rosalind make on us to 
 perceive the difference; the situations are 
 not dissimilar, but the glamour, the bloom 
 of romance, the ideal reality, so to speak, of 
 the Shakespearean work are altogether lack- 
 ing. .Although the influence of the Jon- 
 sonian humor comedy is evident in a figure 
 like Belleur, comedy of humors presupposes 
 a satirist's point of view, which Fletcher has 
 
 340 
 
 not. Comedy of intrigue it might be called, 
 though the name is too inclusive to be ot 
 much help in attempting a deflnition. The 
 sole purpose of this play is to entertain, and 
 light comedy is perhaps as good a name as 
 can be found to describe it. 
 
 As in Philaster, the main interest of the 
 play is in plot rather than in the characters. 
 The plot is much slighter, but there is the 
 same ingenuity of complication, the same use 
 of surprise and suspense, the same develop- 
 ment of episode at the expense of character, 
 as for instance when Oriana reveals herself 
 at the end of act IV. That part of the action, 
 indeed, in which Oriana feigns madness in 
 order to move Mirabel's heart to pity, the 
 soft prelude to love, is strongly reminiscent 
 of the method of tragicomedy. Neither the 
 other characters nor the audience are let into 
 Oriana's secret: she confesses that none set 
 her on, " nor any knew or even dreamed " 
 what she meant. Her adherents and sympa- 
 thizers are as thoroughly deceived as Mira- 
 bel, and Fletcher plays on their emotions, 
 and ours, to beguile us into a false sympathy 
 which he exploits to its utmost before laugh- 
 ing it away. In this respect, the situation 
 differs from the rest of the series of tricks 
 composing the plot, for in all the others we 
 are forewarned and are thus in a position to 
 get the full comic flavor of the play of cross- 
 purposes. The general criticism might be 
 made of the plot that the scheming is rather 
 too obvious. It is credible that Mirabel 
 should have been deceived once, even twice, 
 but that he should for a third time be hood- 
 winked passes belief. The devices employed 
 by each side, moreover, are so much of one 
 kind that the artificiality of structure is as 
 apparent as in the case of Mother Bombie. 
 The Wild-Goose is finally caught by the same 
 sort of disguise that he had once before un- 
 masked, and that he had himself unsuccess- 
 fully tried when he tricked out his English 
 courtesan as a fine lady to advance Pinac in 
 Lillia Bianca's esteem. It is, however, im- 
 reasonable to demand that work so obviously 
 intended merely for diversion should stand 
 close inspection, and the action moves for- 
 ward so clearly through its plots and counter- 
 plots, the pace is so brisk and the interest so 
 unflagging, that we are willing for the " two 
 hours' traffic of the stage " to accept the 
 story at its face value. 
 
 Dryden in a well-known passage in the Es- 
 say of Dramatic Poesy says of Beaumont and 
 
JOHN FLETCHER 
 
 341 
 
 Fletcher : " They understood and imitated 
 the conversation of gentlemen much better 
 [than Shakespeare] ; whose wild debaucheries 
 and quickness of wit in repartees, no poet 
 before them could paint as they have done. 
 ... I am apt to believe the English language 
 in them arrived to its highest perfection." 
 The Wild-Goose Chase might well serve as a 
 text for Dryden's comment. It was perfectly 
 adapted to the audience before which it was 
 produced in 1621, the gay, witty, cynical 
 group of the Jacobean court. In its ac- 
 curate reflection of the tone of the court it 
 resembles the comedy of manners more closely 
 than in its presentation of the manners them- 
 selves. It is not a play which a Puritan could 
 see without abhorrence, nor which a modern 
 Puritan can read with pleasure. Truly, these 
 fine ladies and gentlemen of Fletcher's have 
 little of the reticence in speech which we as- 
 sociate with breeding. The men are rakes 
 by habit, and the women rakes at heart; 
 Rosalura and Lillia Bianca are " honest " in 
 the Elizabethan sense, and all too honest, we 
 should say to-day, in the freedom with which 
 they express their desired. " Why should we 
 be ashamed to speak what we think? " queries 
 Lillia. But the sprightly gaiety of dialogue 
 and the smooth rapidity of the verse can de- 
 light us as they delighted Fletcher's auditors 
 and as they delighted Dryden. The action 
 moves fast from one amusing situation to the 
 next, and the verse keeps pace with it. There 
 are few speeches of any considerable length 
 
 (only seven of more than fifteen lines) ; the 
 dialogue consists mainly of thrust and parry, 
 two or three lines to a speech. No pause, no 
 time for reflection, simply a mitrmlleuse gun- 
 fire of wit, with no quarter asked or given. 
 For work of this sort Fletcher's light, easy- 
 running verse is admirably suited. What 
 in other writers is a device occasionally intro- 
 duced for variety, the use of lines of eleven 
 
 (or more) syllables, is with him a habit, a 
 conscious artifice intended to banish rhetori-. 
 cal formality and to replace it with a flexi- 
 
 bility giving the effect of colloquial prose. 
 The proportion of lines running over the 
 ten-syllable norm is so extraordinarily large 
 that it is no exaggeration to call the verse 
 hendecasyllabic. The familiar ease of such 
 a style is enhanced by a limpid clearness of 
 expression, a simplicity of vocabulary and ab- 
 sence of poetic adornment, meriting Dryden's 
 praise of the language. No blank-verse dia- 
 logue resembles more the matchless prose of 
 Congreve and Sheridan. 
 
 The mention of Congreve recalls the im- 
 portance of Fletcher's work as pointing the 
 way for Restoration comedy. The Wild- 
 Goose Chase was one of the first plays revived 
 on the reopening of the theaters in 1060 and 
 its gay abandon pleased the audience of those 
 days immensely. (Pepys, who saw it Janu- 
 ary 11, 1667, calls it a very famous play, but 
 was disappointed in it.) We need not under- 
 rate the influence of Moli6re on Restoration 
 comedy in order to appreciate what it owes to 
 Fletcher. The atmosphere — frivolous, cyn- 
 ical, sophisticated, frankly immoral — is 
 closer to that of Fletcher than it is to 
 Molifere's. The characters of this play are 
 precisely those of the later period — fine 
 ladies and gentlemen, sure of themselves 
 witty, and free of speech. The action, where 
 the whole business of life is centered in 
 amorous intrigue, foreshadows that of half 
 a hundred Restoration plays. Mirabel in 
 name and nonchalance prefigures his more 
 famous namesake of The Way of the World, 
 and his capitulation is as wittily contrived 
 and his promised reformation as little con- 
 vincing as those of the typical Restoration 
 hero. The slightness of plot, the emphasis 
 on dialogue^ the repartee, the brilliance of 
 style, received from the Restoration drama- 
 tists the sincerest flattery of imitation. Far- 
 quhar, indeed, remade this play as The Incon- 
 stant, not improving upon the original in the 
 process. Through the Restoration writers 
 and Sheridan, Fletcher's influence is yet alive 
 in society comedy. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 By JOHN FLETCHER 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 
 
 De Gabd, a noble staid Gentleman, that, be- 
 ing newly lighted from his travels, assists 
 his sister Oriana in her chase of Mirabel 
 the Wild-Goose. 
 
 La Castee, the indulgent father to Mirabel. 
 
 Mirabel the Wild-Goose, a traveled Mon- 
 sieur, and great defier of all ladies in the 
 icay of marriage, othencise their much 
 loose servant, at last caught by the despised 
 Oriana. 
 
 PiNAC, his fellow-traveler, of a lively spirit, 
 and servant to the no less sprightly Lillia 
 Bianca. 
 
 Bblleur, Companion to both, of a stout blunt 
 humor, in love with Rosalu/ra. 
 
 Najjtolet, father to Rosalura and Lillia 
 Bianca. 
 
 Lbgieb, the rough ami confident tutor to the 
 ladies, and chief engine to entrap the Wild- 
 Goose. 
 
 A Young Man disguised as a Factor. 
 
 Gentlemen, Foot-Boy, Singing-Boy, Two Men 
 disguised as Merchants, Priest, Servants. 
 
 Oriana, the fair betrothed of Mirabel, and 
 
 witty follower of the chase. 
 RosALUBA, \the airy daughters 
 
 Lillia Biaxca, Jo/ Nantolet. 
 Petella, their servant. 
 Mariana, an English Courtesam. 
 Four Women. 
 
 Scene. — Paris. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. A hall in the house of La Castre. 
 
 Enter Monsieur De Gard and a Foot-boy. 
 
 De Gard. Sirrah, you know I have rid 
 hard ; stir my horse well, 
 And let him want no litter. 
 F. Boy. 1 am sure I have run hard ; 
 Would somebody would walk me, and see 
 
 me litter'd, 
 For I think my fellow-horse cannot in 
 
 reason 
 Desire more rest, nor take up his cham- 
 ber before me : 
 But we are the beasts now, and the beasts 
 are our masters. 
 De Gard. When you have done, step to 
 
 the ten-crown ordinary 
 
 F. Boy. With all my heart, sir ; for I have 
 
 a twenty-crown stomach. 
 De Gard. And there bespeak a dinner. 
 F. Boy. (Going.) Yes, sir, presently.' 
 De Gard. For whom, I beseech you, sir? 
 F. Boy. For myself, I take it, sir. 
 
 De Gard. In truth, you shall not take it; 
 'tis not meant for you. 
 There's for your provender. {Gives 
 money.) Bespeak a dinner 
 
 For Monsieur Mirabel and his compan- 
 ions ; ' 
 They '11 be in town within this hour. 
 
 When you have done, sirrah, 
 Make ready all things at my lodging for 
 
 me, 
 And wait me there. 
 F. Boy. The ten-crown ordinary? 
 
 De Gard. Yes, sir, if you have not forgot 
 
 it. 
 F. Boy. I '11 forget my feet first : 
 'T is the best part of a footman's faith. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 De Gard. These youths, 
 
 For all they have been in Italy to learn 
 
 thrift. 
 And seem to wonder at men's lavish ways, 
 Yet they cannot rub off old friends, their 
 
 French itches; 
 They must meet sometimes to disport 
 
 their bodies 
 With good wine and good women, and 
 
 good store too. 
 Let 'em be what they will, they are arm'd 
 
 at all points. 
 And then hang saving, let the sea grow 
 
 high! 
 This ordinary can fit 'em of all sizes. 
 They must salute their country with old 
 
 customs. 
 
 342 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 343 
 
 Enter La Castre and Oriana. 
 
 Ori. Brother ! 
 
 Be Gard. My dearest sister ! 
 
 Ori. Welcome, -welcome ! 
 
 Indeed, ye are welcome home, most wel- 
 come! 
 Be Gard. Thank ye. 
 
 You are grown a handsome woman, Ori- 
 ana; 
 Blush at your faults. I am wondrous 
 
 glad to see ye. — 
 Monsieur La Castre, let not my affec- 
 tion 
 To my fair sister make me be held un- 
 mannerly. 
 I am glad to see ye well, to see ye lusty. 
 Good health about ye, and in fair com- 
 pany; 
 
 Believe me, I am proud 
 
 La Cast. Pair sir, I thank ye. 
 
 Monsieur De Gard, you are welcome from 
 
 your journey; 
 Good men have still good welcome; give 
 
 me your hand, sir. 
 Once more, you are welcome home. You 
 look still younger. 
 Be Gard. Time has no leisure to look after 
 us; 
 We wander every where; age cannot find 
 us. 
 La Cast. And how does alH 
 Be Gard. All well, sir, and all lusty. 
 
 La Cast. I hope my son be so. I doubt 
 not, sir, 
 But you have often seen him in your 
 
 journeys. 
 And bring me some fair news. 
 Be Gard. Your son is well, sir. 
 
 And grown a proper gentleman; he is 
 
 well and lusty. 
 Within this eight hours I took leave of 
 
 him, 
 And over-hied him, having some slight 
 
 business 
 That forc'd me out o' th' way. I can as- 
 sure you, 
 He will be here to-night. 
 La Cast. Ye make me glad, sir. 
 
 Tor, o' my faith, I almost long to see 
 him. 
 
 Methinks, he has been away 
 
 Be Gard. 'T is but your tenderness. 
 
 What are three years? A love-sick 
 
 wench will allow it. 
 His friends that went out with bira are 
 come back too, 
 
 2 moulted, gotten rid of. 
 
 Belleur and young Pinac. He bid me 
 
 say little. 
 Because he means to be his own glad 
 messenger, 
 La Cast. 1 thank ye for this news, sir. 
 He shall be welcome. 
 And his friends too ; indeed, I thank you 
 
 heartily. 
 And how (for I dare say you will not 
 
 flatter him) 
 Has Italy wrought on him? Has he 
 
 mew'd " yet 
 His wild fantastic toys? They say that 
 
 climate 
 Is a great purger of those humorous 
 
 fluxes. 
 How is he improved, I pray ye ? 
 Be Gard. No doubt, sir, well; 
 
 H'as borne himself a full and noble gen- 
 tleman : 
 To speak him farther is beyond my char- 
 ter. 
 La Cast. I am glad to hear so much good. 
 Come, I see 
 You long to enjoy your sister; yet I must 
 
 entreat ye, 
 Before I go, to sup with me to-night. 
 And must not be deni'd. 
 Be Gard. I am your servant. 
 
 La Cast. Where you shall meet fair, 
 merry, and noble company: 
 My neighbor Nantolet and his two fair 
 daughters. 
 Be Gard. Your supper's seasoned well, 
 
 sir; I shall wait upon ye. 
 La Cast. Till then I'll leave ye; and y' 
 are once more welcome. 
 
 Exit. 
 Be Gard. I thank ye, noble sir! Now, 
 Oriana, 
 How have ye done since I went? Have 
 
 ye had your health well? 
 And your mind free? 
 Ori. You see, I am not bated; ' 
 
 Merry, and eat my meat. 
 Be Gard. A good preservative. 
 
 And how have you been us'd? You 
 
 know, Oriana, 
 Upon my going out, at your request, 
 I left your portion in La Castre's hands. 
 The main means you must stick to. For 
 
 that reason, 
 And 'tis no little one, I ask ye, sis- 
 ter. 
 With what humanity he entertains ye, 
 And how ye find his courtesy ? 
 Ori, Most ready. 
 
 8 reduced, 
 
344 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 I can assure you, sir, I am us'd most 
 
 nobly. 
 De Gard. I am glad to hear it; but, I 
 
 prithee, tell me, 
 And tell me true, what end had you, 
 
 Oriana, 
 In trusting your money here? He is no 
 
 kinsman, 
 Nor any tie upon him of a guardian ; 
 Nor dare I think ye doubt my prodigal- 
 ity. 
 Ori. No, certain, sir; none of all this pro- 
 
 vok'd '' me ; 
 Another private reason. 
 Z>e Gard. 'Tis not private, 
 
 Nor carried so ; 't is common, my fair 
 
 sister : 
 Your love to Mirabel ; your blushes tell it. 
 'T is too much known, and spoken of too 
 
 largely; 
 And with no little shame I wonder at it. 
 Ori, Is it a shame to love? 
 De Gard. To love undisereetly : 
 
 A virgin should be tender of her honor. 
 Close, and secure. 
 Ori. I am as close as can be. 
 
 And stand upon as strong and honest 
 
 guards too ; 
 Unless this warlike age need a portcul- 
 lis: 
 Yet I confess, I love him. 
 Be Gard. Hear the people. 
 
 Ori. Now, I say, hang the people! He 
 
 that dares 
 Believe what they say dares be mad, and 
 
 give 
 His mother, nay, his own wife, up to 
 
 rumor. 
 All grounds of truth they build on is a 
 
 tavern. 
 And their best censure 's sack, sack in 
 
 abundance ; 
 For, as they drink, they think : they ne'er 
 
 speak modestly. 
 Unless the wine be poor, or they want 
 
 money. 
 Believe them ! Believe Amadis de Gaul, 
 The Knight o' the Sun, or Palmerin of 
 
 England; ° 
 For these, to them, are modest and true 
 
 stories. 
 Pray, understand me ; if their tongues be 
 
 truth, 
 And if in vino Veritas be an oracle. 
 What woman is, or has been ever, honest? 
 Give 'em but ten round cups, they'll 
 
 swear Lucretia 
 
 Died not for want of power to resist 
 Tarquin, 
 
 But want of pleasure, that he stay'd no 
 longer; 
 
 And Portia,^ that was famous for her 
 piety 
 
 To her lov'd lord, they '11 face ye out, 
 died o' th' pox. 
 De Gard. Well, there is something, sister. 
 Ori. If there be, brother, 
 
 'Tis none of their things; 'tis not yet 
 so monstrous: 
 
 My thing is marriage ; and, at his return, 
 
 I hope to put their squint eyes right 
 . again. 
 De Gard. Marriage? 'T is true his father 
 is a rich man, 
 
 Rich both in land and money ; he his heir, 
 
 A young and handsome man, I must con- 
 fess, too; 
 
 But of such qualities, and such wild 
 flings. 
 
 Such admirable^ imperfections, sister, 
 
 (For all his travel and bought experi- 
 ence,) 
 
 I should be loth to own him for my 
 brother. 
 
 Methinks, a rich mind in a state indiffer- 
 ent 
 
 Would prove the better fortune. 
 Ori. If he be wild. 
 
 The reclaiming him to good and honest, 
 brother, 
 
 Will make much for my honor; which, if 
 I prosper. 
 
 Shall be the study of my love, and life 
 too. 
 De Gard. Ye say well; would he thought 
 as well, and loved too! 
 
 He marry ! He 'II be hanged first. He 
 knows no more 
 
 What the conditions and the ties of love 
 are, 
 
 The honest purposes and grounds of mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Nor will know, nor be ever brought t' 
 endeavor. 
 
 Than I do how to build a church. He 
 was ever 
 
 A loose and strong defier of all order; 
 
 His loves are wanderers, they knock at 
 each door. 
 
 And taste each dish, but are no residents. 
 
 Or say, he may be brought to think of 
 marriage, 
 
 (As 't will be no small labor) , thy hopes 
 are strangers. 
 
 4' induced. 
 
 6 extravagant romantic tales. 
 
 « Brutus's wife. 
 
 7 remarkable. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 345 
 
 I know there is a labor'd match now 
 follow'd, 
 
 Now at this time, for which he was sent 
 for home too. 
 
 Be not abus'd : ' Nantolet has two fair 
 daughters, 
 
 And he must take his choice. 
 Ori. Let him take freely. 
 
 For all this I despair not ; my mind tells 
 me 
 
 That I, and only I, must make him per- 
 fect; 
 
 And in that hope I rest. 
 De Gard. Since y' are so confident. 
 
 Prosper your hope ! I '11 be no adver- 
 sary; 
 
 Keep yourself fair and right, he shall 
 not wrong ye. 
 Ori. When I forget my virtue, no man 
 know me ! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. A street before the same house. 
 
 Enter Mirabel, Pinac, Belleur, and 
 Servants. 
 
 Mir. Welcome to Paris, once more, gentle- 
 men! 
 
 We have had a merry and a lusty ordi- 
 nary,* 
 
 And wine, and good meat, and a bouncing 
 reckoning ; 
 
 And let it go for once; 'tis a good 
 physic. 
 
 Only the wenches are not for my diet; 
 
 They are too lean and thin, their em- 
 braces brawn-fallen." 
 
 Give me the plump Venetian, fat and 
 lusty. 
 
 That meets me soft and supple; smiles 
 upon me, 
 
 As if a cup of full wine leap'd to kiss 
 me, 
 
 These slight things I affect not. 
 Pin. They are ill-built; 
 
 Pin-buttocked," like your dainty Bar- 
 baries,"^^ 
 
 And weak i' the pasterns ; they '11 endure 
 no hardness. 
 
 There's nothing good or handsome 
 bred amongst us ; 
 
 Till we are travel'd, and live abroad, we 
 are coxcombs. 
 
 Ye talk of France — a slight unseason'd 
 country, 
 
 Abundance of gross food, which makes 
 us blockheads. 
 
 We are fair set out indeed, and so are 
 fore-horses : — 
 
 Men say, we are great courtiers, — ^men 
 abuse us; 
 
 We are wise, and valiant too, — non credo, 
 signor; 
 
 Our women the best linguists, — they are 
 parrots ; 
 
 0' this side the Alps they are nothing but 
 mere drolleries.^^ 
 
 Ha ! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money ! 
 
 Their policies, their customs, their fru- 
 galities, 
 
 Their courtesies so open, yet so reserv'd 
 too, 
 
 As, when you think y' are known best, ye 
 are a stranger. 
 
 Their very piek-teeth ^* speak more man 
 than we do. 
 
 And season of more salt. 
 Pin. 'T is a brave country ; 
 
 Not pester'd with your stubborn precise 
 puppies. 
 
 That turn all useful and allow'd content- 
 ments 
 
 To scabs and scruples — hang 'em, capon- 
 worshipers. 
 Bel. I like that freedom well, and like 
 their women too, 
 
 And would fain do as others do ; but I am 
 so bashful, 
 
 So naturally an ass ! Look ye, I can look 
 upon 'em, 
 
 And very willingly I go to see 'em, 
 
 (There's no man willinger), and I can 
 kiss 'em, 
 
 And make a shift 
 
 Mir. But, if they chance to flout ye, 
 
 Or say, "Ye are too bold! Fie, sir, re- 
 member ! 
 
 I pray, sit farther off " 
 
 Bel.- 'T is true — I am humbled, 
 
 I am gone; I confess ingenuously, I am 
 silenced ; 
 
 The spirit of amber ^^ cannot force me 
 answer. 
 
 Pin. Then would I sing and dance 
 
 Bel. You have wherewithal, sir. 
 
 Pin. And charge her up again. 
 
 Bel. I can be hang'd first : 
 
 Yet, where I fasten well, I am a tyrant. 
 Mir. Why, thou dar'st fight ? 
 Bel. Yes, certainly, I dare fight, 
 
 And fight with any man at any weapon. 
 
 8 deceived, 
 s fare. 
 
 30 weak. 12 Barbary horses. 13 dolls. 10 a provocative. 
 
 11 with narrow buttocks. ii tooth-picks. 
 
346 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Would th' other were no more! But, a 
 pox on't! 
 
 When I am sometimes in my height of 
 hope, 
 
 And reasonable valiant that way, my 
 heart harden'd, 
 
 Some scornful jest or other chops be- 
 tween me 
 
 And my desire. What would ye have me 
 to do, then, gentlemen? 
 Mir. Belleur, you must be bolder. Travel 
 three years. 
 
 And bring home such a baby to betray 
 
 ye 
 
 As bashfulness! A great fellow, and a 
 
 soldier ! 
 Bel. You have the gift of "Impudence ; be 
 
 thankful. 
 Every man has not the like talent. I 
 
 wiU study, 
 
 And, if it may be reveal'd to me 
 
 Mir. Learn of me, 
 
 And of Pinac. No doubt, you'll find 
 
 employment ; 
 Ladies wiU look for courtship. 
 Pin. 'T is but fleshing," 
 
 But standing one good brunt or two. 
 
 Hast thou any mind to marriage? 
 We'll provide thee some soft-natur'd 
 
 wench, that's dumb too. 
 Mir. Or an old woman that cannot refuse 
 
 thee in charity. 
 Bel. A dumb woman, or an old woman, 
 
 that were eager. 
 And car'd not for discourse, I were ex- 
 cellent at. 
 Mir. You must now put on boldness, 
 
 there 's no avoiding it. 
 And stand all hazards, fly at all games 
 
 bravely ; 
 They '11 say, you went out like an ox, and 
 
 retum'd like an ass, else. 
 Bel. I shall make danger,^' sure. 
 Mir. I am sent for home now; 
 
 I know it is to marry; but my father 
 
 shall pardon me : 
 Although it be a weighty ceremony. 
 And may concern me hereafter in my 
 
 gravity, 
 I will not lose the freedom of a trav- 
 eler. 
 A new strong lusty bark cannot ride at 
 
 one anchor. 
 Shall I make divers suits to show to the 
 
 same eyes? 
 'T is dull and homespun ; — study several 
 
 pleasures, 
 
 IS satisfying desire. 17 make trial. 
 
 18 face. 
 
 And want employments for 'em? I'll 
 be hang'd first. 
 
 Tie me to one smock? Make my travels 
 fruitless ? 
 
 I'll none of' that; for every fresh be- 
 havior, 
 
 By your leave, father, I must have a 
 fresh mistress. 
 
 And a fresh favor ^^ too. 
 Bel. I like that passingly; 
 
 As many as you will, so they be willing, 
 
 Willing, and gentle, gentle. 
 Pin. There's no reason 
 
 A gentleman, and a traveler, should be 
 clapt up, 
 
 (For 't is' a kind of bilboes ^° to be mar- 
 ried). 
 
 Before he manifest to the world his good 
 parts; 
 
 Tug ever, like a rascal, at one oar? 
 
 Give me the Italian liberty ! 
 Mir. That I study, 
 
 And that I will enjoy. Come, go in, 
 gentlemen ; 
 
 There mark how I behave myself, and 
 follow. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 3. Boom in the house of La Castre. 
 
 Enter La Castre, Nantolet, Lugier, Rosa- 
 lura, and Lillia Bianea. 
 
 La Cast. You and your beauteous daugh- 
 ters are most welcome. 
 Beshrew my blood, they are fair ones ! — 
 
 Welcome, beauties, 
 Welcome, sweet birds. 
 Nant. They are bound much to your 
 
 courtesies. 
 La Cast. I hope we shall be nearer ac- 
 quainted. 
 Nant. That 's my hope too : 
 
 For, certain, sir, I much desire your alli- 
 ance. 
 You see 'em; they are no gypsies. For 
 
 their breeding, 
 It has not been so coarse but they are 
 
 able 
 To rank themselves with women of fair 
 
 fashion ; 
 Indeed, they have been trained well. 
 Lug. Thank me. 
 
 Nant. Fit for the heirs of that state I 
 shall leave 'em: 
 
 10 shackles sliding on an iron bar. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 347 
 
 To say more, is to sell 'em. They say 
 your son, 
 
 Now he has travel'd, must be wondrous 
 curious 
 
 And choice in what he takes; these are 
 no coarse ones. 
 
 Sir, here's a merry wench — ^let him look 
 to himself — 
 
 All heart, i' faith — may chance to startle 
 him; 
 
 For all his care, and travel'd caution, 
 
 May creep into his eye. If he love 
 gravity. 
 
 Affect a solenm face, there's one will fit 
 him. 
 La Cast. So young and so demurs'? 
 Nant. She is my daughter. 
 
 Else I would tell you, sir, she is a mis- 
 tress 
 
 Both of those manners and that modesty 
 
 You would wonder at. She is no often- 
 speaker. 
 
 But, when she does, she speaks well; nor 
 no reveler. 
 
 Yet she can dance, and has studied the 
 court elements. 
 
 And sings, as some say, handsomely; if 
 a woman. 
 
 With the decency of her sex, may be a 
 scholar, 
 
 I can assure ye, sir, she understands too. 
 La Cast. These are fit garments, sir. 
 Lug. Thank them that cut 'em. 
 
 Yes, they are handsome women; they 
 have handsome parts too. 
 
 Pretty becoming parts. 
 La Cast. 'T is like they have, sir. 
 
 Lug. Yes, yes, and handsome education 
 they have had too, 
 
 Had it abundantly; they need not blush 
 at it. 
 
 I taught it, I'll avouch it. 
 La Cast. Ye say well, sir. 
 
 Lug. I know what I say, sir, and I say 
 but right, sir. 
 
 I am no trumpet of their commenda- 
 tions 
 
 Before their father; else I should say 
 farther. 
 La Cast. Pray ye, what 's this gentleman 1 
 Nant. One that lives with me, sir; 
 
 A man well bred and learn'd, but blunt 
 and bitter; 
 
 Yet it offends no wise man ; I take pleas- 
 ure in 't. 
 
 Many fair gifts he has, in some of which, 
 
 That lie most easy to their understand- 
 ings, • 
 
 H'as handsomely bred up my girls, I 
 thank him. 
 Lug. 1 have put it to 'em, that 's my part, 
 I have urg'd it. 
 It seems, they are of years now to take 
 hold on 't. 
 Nant. He's wondrous blunt. 
 La Cast. By my faith, I was afraid of 
 him. 
 Does he not fall out with the gentle- 
 women sometimes? 
 Nant. No, no; he's that way moderate 
 
 and discreet, sir. 
 Bos. If he did, we should be too hard for 
 
 him. 
 Lug. Well said, sulphur! 
 
 Too hard for thy husband's head, if he 
 wear not armor. 
 
 Enter Mirabel, Pinae, Belleur, Be Card, 
 and Oriana. 
 
 Nant. Many of these bickerings, sir. 
 La Cast. I am glad they are no oracles. 
 Sure as I live, he beats them, he 's so 
 puissant. 
 
 Ori. Well, if ye do forget 
 
 Mir. Prithee, hold thy peace. 
 
 I know thou art a pretty wench ; I know 
 
 thou lov'st me; 
 Preserve it till we have a fit time to dis- 
 course on 't. 
 And a fit place. I'll ease thy heart, I 
 
 warrant thee. 
 Thou seest I have much to do now. 
 Ori. - I am answer'd, sir: 
 
 With me ye shall have nothing on these 
 conditions. 
 De Gard. Your father and your friends. 
 La Cast. You are welcome home, sir; 
 
 Bless ye, ye are very welcome! Pray, 
 
 know this gentleman. 
 And these fair ladies. 
 Nant. Monsieur Mirabel, 
 
 I am much affected with your fair return, 
 
 sir; 
 You bring a general joy. 
 Mir. I bring you service. 
 
 And these bright beauties, sir. 
 Nant. Welcome home, gentlemen, 
 
 Welcome with all my heart ! 
 Bel. and Pin. We thank ye, sir. 
 
 La Cast. Your friends will have their 
 
 share too. 
 Bel. Sir, we hope 
 
 They'll look upon us, though we show 
 like strangers. 
 Nani. Monsieur De Gard, I must salute 
 you also. 
 
348 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 And this fair gentlewoman ; you are wel- 
 come from your travel too. 
 
 All welcome, all. 
 Be Gard. We render ye our loves, sir. 
 
 The best wealth we bring home. — By 
 your favors, beauties. — 
 
 {Aside to Ori.) One of these two: you 
 know my meaning. 
 Ori. Well, sir; 
 
 They are fair and handsome, I must 
 needs confess it. 
 
 And, let it prove the worst, I shall live 
 after it. 
 
 Whilst I have meat* and drink, love can- 
 not starve me ; 
 
 Eor, if I die o' th' first fit, I am unhappy. 
 
 And worthy to be buried with my heels 
 upward. 
 Mir. To marry, sir? 
 La Cast. You know I am an old man. 
 
 And every hour declining to my grave. 
 
 One foot already in; more sons I have 
 not, 
 
 Nor more I dare not seek whilst you are 
 worthy. 
 
 In you lies all my hope, and all my name. 
 
 The making good or wretched of my 
 memory. 
 
 The safety of my state. 
 Mir. And you have provided, 
 
 Out of this tenderness, these handsome 
 gentlewomen. 
 
 Daughters to this rich man, to take my 
 choice of? 
 La Cast. I have, dear son. 
 Mir. 'T is true, ye are old and f eebled ; 
 
 Would ye were young again, and in full 
 vigor ! 
 
 I love a bounteous father's life, a long 
 one; 
 
 I am none of those that, when they shoot 
 to ripeness. 
 
 Do what they can to break the boughs 
 they grew on. 
 
 I wish ye many years and many riches, 
 
 And pleasures to enjoy 'em; but, for 
 marriage, 
 
 I neither yet believe in 't, nor affect ^° it ; 
 
 Nor think it fit. 
 La Cast. You will render me your rea- 
 
 sons? 
 Mir. Yes, sir, both short and pithy, and 
 these they are: — 
 
 You would have me marry a maid? 
 La Cast. A maid ! what else ? 
 
 Mir. Yes, there be things called widows, 
 dead men's wills, 
 
 20 like. 
 
 I never lov'd to prove those; nor never 
 
 long'd yet 
 To be buried alive in another man's cold 
 
 monument. 
 And there be maids appearing, and maids 
 
 being; 
 The appearing are fantastic things, mere 
 
 shadows ; 
 And, if you mark 'em well, they want 
 
 their heads, too; 
 Only the world, to cozen '^ misty eyes, 
 Has clapt 'em on new faces: the maids 
 
 being 
 A man may venture on, if he be so mad 
 
 to marry. 
 If he have neither fear before his eyes, 
 
 nor fortune; 
 And let him take heed how he gather 
 
 these too; 
 For, look ye, father, they are just like 
 
 melons, 
 Musk-melons are the emblems of these 
 
 maids ; 
 Now they are ripe, now cut 'em, they 
 
 taste pleasantly. 
 And are a dainty fruit, digested easily; 
 Neglect this present time, and come to- 
 morrow. 
 They are so ripe they are rotten gone, 
 
 their sweetness 
 Run into humor, and their taste to sur- 
 feit. 
 La Cast. Why, these are now ripe, son. 
 Mir. I '11 try them presently, 
 
 And, if I like their taste 
 
 La Cast. 'Pray ye, please yourself, sir. 
 
 Mir. That liberty is my due, and I'll 
 
 maintain it. — 
 Lady, what think you of a handsome man 
 
 now? 
 Ros. A wholesome too, sir? 
 Mir. That 's as you make your bar- 
 gain. 
 A handsome, wholesome man, then, and a 
 
 kind man. 
 To cheer your heart up, to rejoice you, 
 
 lady? 
 Ros. Yes, sir, I love rejoicing. 
 Mir. To lie close to you? 
 
 Close as a cockle? Keep the cold nights 
 
 from ye? 
 Ros. That will be look'd for too; our 
 
 bodies ask it. 
 Mir. And get two boys at every birth? 
 Bos. That 's nothing? 
 
 I have known a cobbler do it, a poor thin 
 
 cobbler,' 
 
 21 cheat. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 349 
 
 A cobbler out of moldy cheese perform 
 it, 
 
 Cabbage, and coarse black bread. Me- 
 thinks, a gentleman 
 
 Should take foul scorn to have an awl 
 outname ^^ him. 
 
 Two at a birth! Why, every house-dove 
 has it. 
 
 That man that feeds well, promises as 
 well too, 
 
 I should expect indeed something of 
 worth from. 
 
 You talk of two ! 
 Mir. (Aside.) She would have me get 
 
 two dozen, 
 
 Like buttons, at a birth. 
 Ros. You love to brag, sir. 
 
 If you proclaim these offers at your mar- 
 riage, 
 
 (You are a pretty-timber'd man, take 
 heed,) 
 
 They may be taken hold of, and expected, 
 
 Yes, if not hoped for at a higher rate 
 too. 
 Mir. I will take heed, and thank ye for 
 your counsel. 
 
 Father, what think you? 
 La Cast. 'T is a merry gentlewoman ; 
 
 Will make, no doubt, a good wife. 
 Mir. Not for me. 
 
 I marry her, and, happily,^' get nothing ; 
 
 In what a state am I then, father? I 
 shall suffer, 
 
 For any thing I hear to the contrary, 
 more ma jorum; 
 
 1 were as sure to be a cuckold, father, 
 
 A gentleman of antler 
 
 La Cast. Away, away, fool! 
 
 Mir. As I am sure to fail her expectation. 
 
 I had rather get the pox than get her 
 babies. 
 La Cast. Ye are much to blame. If this 
 do not affect^* ye, 
 
 Pray, try the other; she's of a more de- 
 mure way. 
 Bel. (Aside.) That I had but the audac- 
 ity to talk thus ! 
 
 I love that plain-spoken gentlewoman ad- 
 mirably; 
 
 And, certain, I could go as near to please 
 her. 
 
 If down-right doing — she has a per'lous 
 countenance — 
 
 If I could meet one that would believe 
 
 And take my honest meaning without 
 circumstance 
 
 Mir. You shall have your will, sir; I will 
 
 try the other; 
 But 't will be to small use. — I hope, fair 
 
 lady, 
 (For, methinks, in your eyes I see more 
 
 mercy,) 
 You will enjoin your lover a legs penance ; 
 And though I'll promise much, as men 
 
 are liberal, 
 And vow an ample sacrifice of service. 
 Yet your discretion, and your tenderness. 
 And thriftiness in love, good huswife's 
 
 carefulness 
 
 To keep the stock entire 
 
 Lil. Good sir, speak louder. 
 
 That these may witness, too, you talk of 
 
 nothing. 
 I should be loth alone to bear the bur- 
 den 
 Of so much indiscretion. 
 Mir. Hark ye, hark ye ! 
 
 'Ods-bobs, you are angry, lady. 
 Lil. Angry! no, sir; 
 
 I never own'd an anger to lose poorly. 
 Mir. But you can love, for all this; and 
 
 delight too. 
 For all your set austerity to hear 
 Of a good husband, lady? 
 Lil. You say true, sir; 
 
 For, by my troth, I have heard of none 
 
 these ten years. 
 They are so rare; and there are so many, 
 
 sir, 
 So many longing women on their knees 
 
 too. 
 That pray the dropping-down of these 
 
 good husbands — 
 The dropping-down from heaven; for 
 
 they are not bred here — 
 That you may guess at all my hope, but 
 
 hearing 
 
 Mir. Why may not I be one? 
 Lil. You were near 'em once, sir. 
 
 When ye came o'er the Alps ; those are 
 
 near heaven. 
 But since ye miss'd that happiness, 
 
 there 's no hope of ye, 
 Mir. Can ye love a man? 
 Lil. Yes, if the man be lovely. 
 
 That is, be honest, modest. I would have 
 
 him valiant. 
 His anger slow, but certain for his honor ; 
 Travel'd he should be, but through him- 
 self exactly, 
 For 'tis fairer to know manners well 
 
 than countries. 
 He must be no vain talker, nor no lover 
 
 22 exceed. 
 
 23 baply. 
 
 21 please. 
 
350 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 To hear himself talk; they are brags of 
 a wanderer, 
 
 Of one finds no retreat for fair behavior. 
 
 Would ye learn more? 
 Mir. Yes. 
 
 Lil. Learn to hold your peace, then : 
 
 Fond ^® girls are got with tongues, 
 women with tempers. 
 Mir. Women, with I know what; but let 
 that vanish. 
 
 Go thy way, good-wife Bias ! ^^ Sure, 
 thy husband 
 
 Must have a strong philosopher's stone, 
 he will ne'er please thee else. — 
 
 Here's a starch'd piece of austerity! — 
 Do you hear, father? 
 
 Do you hear this moral lecture? 
 La Cast. Yes, and like it. 
 
 Mir. Why, there's your judgment now; 
 there 's an old bolt shot ! 
 
 This thing must have the strangest ob- 
 servation,^^ 
 
 (Do you mark me, father?) when she is 
 married once, 
 
 The strangest custom too of admiration 
 
 On all she does and speaks, 't will be past 
 sufferance. 
 
 I must not lie with her in common lan- 
 guage, 
 
 Nor cry, "Have at thee, Kate!" — I shall 
 be hiss'd then; 
 
 Nor eat my meat without the sauce of 
 sentences,^* 
 
 Your powder'd ^' beef and problems, a 
 rare diet! 
 
 My first son, Monsieur Aristotle, I know 
 it, 
 
 Great master of the metaphysics, or so ; 
 
 The second, Solon, and the best law-set- 
 ter; 
 
 And I must look '" Egyptian god-fathers. 
 
 Which will be no small trouble; my eld- 
 est daughter, 
 
 Sappho, or such a fiddling kind of 
 poetess. 
 
 And brought up, invita Minerva,^'^ at her 
 needle ! 
 
 My dogs must look their names too, and 
 all Spartan, 
 
 Lelaps, Melampus; no more Fox and 
 Bawdy-face. 
 
 I married to a sullen set of sentences ! 
 
 To one that weighs her words and her 
 behaviors 
 
 In the gold-weights ^^ of discretion ! I '11 
 be hang'd first. 
 
 La Cast. Prithee, reclaim thyself. 
 Mir. Pray ye, give me time, then. 
 
 If they can set me any thing to play at, 
 That seems fit for a gamester, have at 
 
 the fairest. 
 Till I see more, and try more ! 
 La Cast. Take your time, then; 
 
 I'll bar ye no fair liberty. — Come, gen- 
 tlemen ; 
 And ladies, come; to all, once more, a 
 
 ■ welcome ! 
 And, now let 's in to supper. 
 Exeunt La Castre, Nantolet, Lugier, Bosa- 
 
 lura, and Lillia Bianca. 
 Mir. How dost like 'em? 
 Pin. They are fair enough, but of so 
 
 strange behaviors — 
 Mir. Too strange for me. I must have 
 those have mettle, 
 And mettle to my mind. Come, let 's be 
 merry. 
 Bel. Bless me from this woman ! I would 
 stand the cannon, 
 Before ten words of hers. 
 
 Exeunt Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 
 Be Gard. Do you find him now? 
 
 Do you think he will be ever firm ? 
 Ori. I fear not. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene 1. A garden belonging to the house 
 of La Castre. 
 
 Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 
 
 Mir. Ne'er tell me of this happiness; 'tis 
 
 nothing; 
 The state ^* they bring with being 
 
 sought-to, scurvy : 
 I had rather make mine own play, and I 
 
 will do. 
 My happiness is in mine own content, 
 And the despising of such glorious'* 
 
 trifles, 
 As I have done a thousand more. For 
 
 my humor, 
 Give me a good free fellow, that sticks to 
 
 me, 
 A jovial fair companion; there's a 
 
 beauty ! 
 For women, I can have too many of them ; 
 Good women too, as the age reckons 'em, 
 More than I have emplojmnent for. 
 
 25 foolish. 
 
 26 One of tbe 
 "Seven Sages" of 
 
 ancient Greece. 20 salted. 
 27 devoted attention. 30 look for. 
 2S maxims. si against lier will. 
 
 82 most 5xact bal- 
 ances. 
 S3 estate. 
 
 34 vain-glorious. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 351 
 
 Pin. You are happy. 
 
 Mir. My only fear is, that I must be 
 forced, 
 
 Against my nature, to conceal myself : 
 
 Health and an able body are two jewels. 
 Pin. If either of these two women were 
 offered to me now, 
 
 I would think otherwise, and do accord- 
 ingly; 
 
 Yes, and recant my heresies ; I would, sir ; 
 
 And be more tender of opinion. 
 
 And put a little of my travel'd liberty 
 
 Out of the way, and look upon 'em seri- 
 ously. 
 
 Methinks, this grave-carried wench — 
 Bel. Methinks, the other, 
 
 The home-spoken gentlewoman, that de- 
 sires to be fruitful. 
 
 That treats of the full manage of the 
 matter, 
 
 (For there lies all my aim), that wench, 
 methinks, 
 
 If I were but well set on, for she is 
 affable. 
 
 If I were but hounded ^^ right, and one 
 to teach me — 
 
 She speaks to th' matter, and comes home 
 to th' point — 
 
 Now do I know I have such a body to 
 please her 
 
 As all the kingdom cannot fit her with, I 
 am sure on 't. 
 
 If I could but talk myself into her favor. 
 Mir. That 's easily done. 
 Bel. That's easily said; would 'twere 
 done! 
 
 You should see then how I would lay 
 about me. 
 
 If I were virtuous, it would never grieve 
 me, 
 
 Or any thing that might justify my mod- 
 esty; . , -, 
 
 But when my nature is prone to do a 
 charity, 
 
 And my calf's tongue will not help me — 
 Mir. Will ye go to 'em 1 
 
 They cannot but take it courteously. 
 Pin. I '11 do my part, 
 
 Though I am sure 't will be the hardest I 
 e'er play'd yet, 
 
 A way I never tried too, which will stag- 
 ger me ; 
 
 And, if it do not shame me, I am happy. 
 Mir. Win 'em, and wear 'em; I give up 
 
 my interest. 
 Pin. What say you, Monsieur Belleur? 
 Bel. Would I could say, 
 
 8S set on. 
 
 Or sing, or any thing that were but hand 
 
 some! 
 I would be with her presently ! 
 Pin. Yours is no> venture 
 
 A merry ready wench. 
 Bel. A vengeance squibber; '* 
 
 She '11 fleer me out of faith too. 
 Mir. I '11 be near thee 
 
 Pluck up thy heart; I'll second thee at 
 
 all brunts. 
 Be angry, if she abuse thee, and beat her 
 
 a little ; 
 Some women are won that way, 
 Bel. Pray, be quiet, 
 
 And let me think : I am resolv'd to go on ; 
 But how I shall get off again — 
 Mir. I am persuaded 
 
 Thou wilt so please her, she will go n^r 
 to ravish thee. 
 Bel. I would 't were come to that once ! 
 
 Let me pray a little. 
 Mir. Now, for thine honor, Pinac, board 
 me this modesty; 
 Warm but this frozen snow-ball, 't will be 
 
 a conquest 
 (Although I know thou art a fortunate 
 
 wencher, 
 And hast done rarely in thy days) above 
 all thy ventures. 
 Bel. You will be ever near? 
 Mir. At all necessities; 
 
 And take thee off, and set thee on again, 
 
 boy, 
 And cherish thee, and stroke thee. 
 Bel. Help me out too; 
 
 For I know I shall stick i' th' mire. If 
 
 you see us close once. 
 Be gone, and leave me to my fortune, sud- 
 denly, _ 
 For I am then determifl'd to do won- 
 ders. 
 Farewell, and fling an old shoe. How 
 
 my heart throbs ! 
 Would I were drunk! Farewell, Pinac; 
 
 Heaven send us 
 A joyful and a merry meeting, man ! 
 Pin. Farewell, 
 
 And cheer thy heart up; and remember, 
 
 Belleur, 
 They are but women. 
 Bel. I had rather they were lions. 
 
 Mir, About it ; I '11 be with you in- 
 stantly. — 
 
 Exeunt Belleur and Pinac, 
 Enter Oriana. 
 
 Shall I ne'er be at rest? No peace of 
 conscience 1 
 
 se sarcastic jester. 
 
352 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 No quiet for these creatures? Am I or- 
 dain'd 
 
 To be devour'd quick '' by these she- 
 cannibals? 
 
 Here's another they call handsome; I 
 care not for her, 
 
 I ne'er look after her. When I am half- 
 tippled, 
 
 It may be I should turn her, and peruse 
 her; 
 
 Or, in my want of women, I might call 
 for her; 
 
 But to be haunted when I have no fancy, 
 
 No maw to th' matter — Now, why do you 
 follow me ? 
 Ori. I hope, sir, 't is no blemish to my 
 virtue; 
 
 Nor need you, out of scruple, ask that 
 question. 
 
 If you remember ye, before your travel. 
 
 The contract you tied to me. 'T is my 
 love, sir. 
 
 That makes me seek ye, to confirm your 
 memory; 
 
 And, that being fair and good, I cannot 
 suffer. 
 
 I come to give ye thanks, too. 
 Mir. For what, prithee? 
 
 Ori. For that fair piece of honesty you 
 show'd sir. 
 
 That constant nobleness. 
 Mir. How? for I am short-headed.^' 
 
 Ori. I'll tell you then; for refusing that 
 free offer 
 
 Of Monsieur Nantolet's, those handsome 
 beauties, 
 
 Those two prime ladies, that might well 
 have press'd ye 
 
 If not to have broken, yet to have bow'd 
 your promise. 
 
 I know it was for my sake, for your faith- 
 sake. 
 
 You slipt 'em off; your honesty compell'd 
 
 ye; 
 
 And let me tell ye, sir, it show'd most 
 handsomely. 
 Mir. And let me tell thee, there was no 
 such matter; 
 
 Nothing intended that way, of that na- 
 ture. 
 
 I have more to do with my honesty than 
 to fool it, 
 
 Or venture it in such leak barks as 
 women. 
 
 I put 'em off because I lov'd 'em not. 
 
 Because they are too queasy*" for my 
 temper, 
 
 37 alive. 3° critical. 
 
 38 short of memoTy. 
 
 And not for thy sake, nor the contract- 
 sake. 
 
 Nor vows, nor oaths; I have made a thou- 
 sand of 'em; 
 
 They are things indifferent, whether kept 
 or broken ; 
 
 Mere venial slips, that grow not near the 
 conscience ; 
 
 Nothing concerns those tender parts ; they 
 are trifles ; 
 
 For, as I think, there was never man yet 
 hop'd for 
 
 Either constancy or secrecy from a 
 woman. 
 
 Unless it were an ass ordain'd for suf- 
 ferance ; 
 
 Nor to contract with such can be a tie-all. 
 
 So let them know again ; for 't is a justice 
 
 And a main point of civil policy, 
 
 Whate'er we say or swear, they being 
 reprobates, 
 
 Out of the state of faith, we are clear of 
 all sides,*" 
 
 And 't is a curious blindness to believe us. 
 Ori. You do not mean this, sure? 
 Mir. Yes, sure, and certain; 
 
 And hold it positively, as a principle. 
 
 As ye are strange things, and made of 
 strange fires and fluxes. 
 
 So we are allow'd as strange ways to ob- 
 tain ye. 
 
 But not to hold ; we are all created errant. 
 Ori. You told me other tales. 
 Mir. I not deny it ; 
 
 I have tales of all sorts for all sorts of 
 women, 
 
 And protestations likewise of all sizes. 
 
 As they have vanities to make us cox- 
 combs. 
 
 If I obtain a good turn, so it is, 
 
 I am thankful for it ; if I be made an ass, 
 
 The 'mends are in mine own hands, or the 
 surgeon's. 
 
 And there 's an end on 't. 
 Ori. Do not you love me, then? 
 
 Mir. As I love others ; heartily I love thee ; 
 
 When I am high and lusty, I love thee 
 cruelly. 
 
 After I have made a plenteous meal, and 
 satisfied 
 
 My senses with all delicates, come to me, 
 
 And thou shalt see how I love thee. 
 Ori. Will not you marry me? 
 Mir. No, certain, no, for any thing I know 
 yet. 
 
 I must not lose my liberty, dear lady, 
 
 40 An oath made to an unbeliever need not be kept. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 353 
 
 And, like a wanton slave, cry for more 
 
 shackles. 
 What should I marry for? Do I want 
 
 any thing? 
 Am I an inch the farther from my plea- 
 sure ? 
 Why should I be at charge to keep a wife 
 
 of mine own. 
 When other honest married men will ease 
 
 me, 
 And thank me too, and be beholding to 
 
 me? 
 Thou think'st I am mad for a maiden- 
 head ; thou art cozen'd : 
 Or, if I were addicted to that diet. 
 Can you tell me where I should have one ? 
 
 Thou art eighteen now. 
 And, if thou hast thy maidenhead yet 
 
 extant, 
 Sure, 't is as big as cods-head ; and those 
 
 grave dishes 
 I never love to deal withal. Dost thou 
 
 see this book here? 
 Look over all these ranks; all these are 
 
 women. 
 Maids, and pretenders to maidenheads; 
 
 these are my conquests; 
 All these I swore to marry, as I swore to 
 
 thee, 
 With the same reservation, and most 
 
 righteously : 
 Which I need not have done neither; for, 
 
 alas, they made no sample. 
 And I enjoy'd 'em at my will, and left 
 
 'em. 
 Some of 'em are married since, and were 
 
 as pure maids again. 
 Nay, o' my conscience, better than they 
 
 were bred for; 
 The rest, fine sober women. 
 Ori. Are ye not ashamed, sir ? 
 
 Mir. No, by my troth, sir;*^ there's no 
 
 shame belongs to it ; 
 I hold it as commendable to be wealthy in 
 
 pleasure, 
 As others do in rotten sheep and pasture. 
 
 Enter Be Gard. 
 
 Ori.- Are all my hopes come to this? Is 
 there no faith. 
 
 No troth, nor modesty, in men? {Weeps.) 
 Be Gard. How now, sister? 
 
 Why weeping thus? Did I not proph- 
 
 Come, tell me why — 
 
 41 formerly addressed to women also. 
 
 42 boastfully. 
 
 Ori. I am not well; pray ye pardon me. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Be Gard. Now, Monsieur Mirabel, what 
 
 ails my sister? 
 
 You have been playing the wag with her. 
 
 Mir. As I take it. 
 
 She is crying for a cod-piece. Is she 
 
 gone? 
 Lord, what an age is this ! I was calling 
 
 for ye; 
 For, as I live, I thought she would have 
 ravish'd me. 
 Be Gard. Ye are merry, sir. 
 Mir. Thou know'st this book, De Gard, 
 
 this inventory? 
 Be Gard. The debt-book of your mis- 
 tresses ; I remember it. 
 Mir. Why, this was it that anger'd her; 
 she was stark mad 
 She found not her name here; and cried 
 
 downright 
 Because I would not pity her immediately. 
 And put her in my list. 
 Be Gard. Sure, she had more modesty. 
 
 Mir. Their modesty is anger to be over- 
 done; 
 They '11 quarrel sooner for precedence 
 
 here, 
 And take it in more dudgeon to be 
 
 slighted. 
 Than they will in public meetings; 'tis 
 
 their natures : 
 And, alas, I have so many to despatch 
 
 yet. 
 And to provide myself for my affairs 
 
 too, 
 That, in good faith — 
 Be Gard. Be not too glorious *2 foolish ; 
 Sum not your travels up with vanities ; 
 It ill becomes your expectation.** 
 Temper your speech, sir: whether your 
 
 loose story 
 Be true or false (for you are so free, I 
 
 fear** it), 
 Name not my sister in 't; I must not 
 
 hear it. 
 Upon your danger, name her not! I 
 
 hold her 
 A gentlewoman of those happy parts and 
 
 carriage, 
 A good man's tongue may be right proud 
 to speak her. 
 Mir. Your sister, sir ! D' ye blench at 
 that? D'ye cavil? 
 Do you hold her such a piece she may not 
 be play'd withal? 
 
 43 our expectation of you. 
 
 44 suspect. 
 
354 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 I have had an hundred handsomer and 
 
 nobler 
 Have su'd to me, too, for such a courtesy ; 
 Your sister comes i' the rear. Since ye 
 
 are so angry, 
 And hold your sister such a strong re- 
 
 cusant,^^ 
 I tell ye, I may do it ; and, it may be, will 
 
 too; 
 It may be, have too ; there 's my free con- 
 fession ; 
 Work upon that now ! 
 Be Gard. If I thought ye 
 
 had, I would work. 
 And work such stubborn work should 
 
 make your heart ache : 
 But I believe ye, as I ever knew ye, 
 A glorious talker, and a legend-maker 
 Of idle tales and trifles; a depraver 
 Of your own truth : their honors fly about 
 
 ye! 
 And so, I take my leave; but with this 
 
 caution. 
 Your sword be surer than your tongue; 
 
 you '11 smart else. 
 Mir. I laugh at thee, so little I respect 
 . thee ; 
 And I'll talk louder, and despise thy sis- 
 ter; 
 Set up a chamber-maid that shall outshine 
 
 her, 
 And carry her in my coach too, and that 
 
 will kill her. 
 Go, get thy rents up, go ! 
 De Gard. Ye are a fine gentleman ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Mir. Now, have at my two youths! I'll 
 
 see how they do, 
 How they behave themselves; and then 
 
 I '11 study 
 What wench shall love me next, and when 
 
 I '11 lose her. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. A hall in Nantolet's house. 
 
 Enter Pinac and Servant, 
 
 Pin. Art thou her servant, sayest thou'? 
 Serv. Her poor creature; 
 
 But servant to her horse, sir. 
 Pin. Canst thou show me 
 
 The way to her chamber, or where I may 
 conveniently 
 
 See her, or come to talk to her? 
 
 is rebel. 
 
 Serv. That I can, sir; 
 
 But the question is, whether I wiU or no. 
 
 Pin. Why, I '11 content thee. 
 
 Serv. Why, I'll content thee, then; now 
 
 ye come to me. 
 Pin. There 's for your diligence. 
 
 (Gives money.) 
 Serv. There 's her chamber, sir, 
 
 And this way she comes out ; stand ye but 
 
 here, sir. 
 You have her at your prospect or your 
 pleasure. 
 Pin. Is she not very angry? 
 Serv. You '11 find that quickly. 
 
 May be she'll call ye saucy, scurvy fel- 
 low. 
 Or some such familiar name ; may be she 
 
 knows ye 
 And will fling a piss-pot at ye, or a 
 
 pantofle,** 
 According as ye are in acquaintance. If 
 
 she like ye, 
 May be she '11 look upon ye ; may be no'; 
 And two months hence call for ye. 
 Pin. This is fine. 
 
 She is monstrous proud, then ? 
 Serv. She is a little haughty; 
 
 Of a small body, she has a mind well 
 
 mounted. 
 Can ye speak Greek? 
 Pin. No, certain. 
 
 Serv. Get ye gone, then ! — 
 
 And talk of stars, and firmaments, and 
 
 fire-drakes ? 
 Do you remember who was Adam's 
 
 schoolmaster, 
 And who taught Eve to spin? She 
 
 knows all these, 
 And will run ye over the begianing o' th' 
 
 world 
 As familiar as a fiddler. 
 Can ye sit seven hours together, and say 
 
 nothing? 
 Which she will do, and, when she speaks, 
 
 speak oracles, 
 Speak things that no man understands, 
 nor herself neither. 
 Pin. Thou mak'st me wonder. 
 Serv. Can ye smile? 
 
 Pin. Yes, willingly; 
 
 For naturally I bear a mirth about me. 
 Serv. She '11 ne'er endure ye, then ; she is 
 never merry; 
 If she see one laugh, she 'U swound past 
 
 aqua vitae. 
 Never come near her, sir; if ye chance to 
 venture, 
 
 4S slipper. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 S55 
 
 And talk not like a doctor, you are 
 
 damn'd too. 
 I have told ye enough for your crown, 
 
 and so, good speed ye! 
 
 Exit. 
 Pin. I have a pretty task, if she be thus 
 
 curious,^^ 
 As, sure, it seems she is! If I fall off 
 
 now, 
 I shall be laugh'd at fearfully; if I go 
 
 forward, 
 I can but be abus'd, and that I look for; 
 And yet I may hit right, but 'tis un- 
 likely. 
 Stay: in what mood and figure sliall I 
 
 attempt her? 
 A careless way? No, no, that will not 
 
 waken her : 
 Besides, her gravity will give me line still, 
 And let me lose myself: yet this way 
 
 often 
 Has hit, and handsomely. A wanton 
 
 method? 
 Aye, if she give it leave to sink into her 
 
 consideration : 
 But there 's the doubt : if it but stir her 
 
 blood once. 
 And creep into the crannies of her fancy. 
 Set her a-gog; — ^but, if she chance to 
 
 slight it. 
 And by the power of her modesty fling it 
 
 back, 
 I shall appear the arrant'st rascal to her, 
 The most licentious knave, for I shall talk 
 
 lewdly. 
 To bear myself austerely? Rate** my 
 
 words? 
 And fling a general gravity about me. 
 As if I meant to give laws? But this I 
 
 cannot do. 
 This is a way above my understanding; 
 Or, if I could, 'tis odds she'll think I 
 
 mock her; 
 For serious and sad things are ever still 
 
 suspicious. 
 Well, I '11 say something : 
 But learning I have none, and less good 
 
 manners. 
 Especially for ladies. Well, I '11 set my 
 
 best face. 
 
 Enter Lillia Bianea and Petella. 
 I hear some coming. This is the first 
 
 woman 
 I ever fear'd yet, the first face that 
 shakes me. 
 
 (Betires.) 
 
 i7 captious. 
 
 Lil. Give me my hat, Petella; take this 
 veil off, 
 This sullen cloud ; it darkens my delights. 
 Come, wench, be free, and let the music 
 
 warble : — 
 Play me some lusty measure. 
 {Music within, to which presently Lillia 
 
 dances.) 
 Pin. (Aside.) This is she, sure. 
 
 The very same I saw, the very woman. 
 The gravity I wonder'd at. Stay, stay; 
 Let me be sure. Ne'er trust me, but she 
 
 danceth ! 
 Summer is in her face now, and she skip- 
 
 peth! 
 I 'II go a little nearer. 
 Lil. Quicker time, fellows ! 
 
 Enter Mirabel, and remains at the side of 
 the stage. 
 
 I cannot find my legs yet — Now, Petella! 
 Pin. (Aside.) I am amaz'd; I am found- 
 
 er'd in my fancy ! 
 Mir. (Aside.) Ha! say you so? Is this 
 your gravity? 
 
 This the austerity you put upon you? 
 
 I '11 see more o' this sport. 
 Lil. A song now ! 
 
 Call in for a merry and a, light song; 
 
 And sing it with a liberal spirit. 
 
 Enter a Man. 
 
 Man. Yes, madam. 
 
 Lil. And be not amaz'd, sirrah, but take 
 us for your own company. — 
 (A song by the Man, and exit.) 
 Let 's walk ourselves ; come, wench. 
 Would we had a man or two ! 
 Pin. (Aside.) Sure, she has spied me, 
 and *ill abuse me dreadfully. 
 She has put on this for the purpose : yet 
 I will try her. — ■ 
 
 (Advances.) 
 Madam, I would be loth my rude intru- 
 sion, 
 Which I must crave a pardon for — 
 Lil. Oh, ye are welcome, 
 
 Ye are very welcome, sir ! We want such 
 
 a one. 
 Strilie up again! — ^I dare presume ye 
 
 dance well : 
 Quick, quick, sir, quick ! the time' steals 
 on. 
 Pin. I would talk with you. 
 
 Lil. Talk as ye dance. 
 
 (They dance.) 
 
 <8 weigh. 
 
356 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Mir. 
 
 She '11 beat him 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 off his legs first. 
 This is the finest masque ! 
 Lil. Now, how do ye, sir? 
 
 Pin. You have given me a shrewd heat. 
 Lil. I '11 give ye a hundred. 
 
 Come, sing now, sing : for I know j'e sing 
 
 well; 
 I see ye have a singing face. 
 Pin. (Aside.) A fine modesty! 
 
 If I could, she 'd never give me breath. — 
 
 Madam, would 
 I might sit and recover! 
 Lil. Sit here, and sing now; 
 
 Let 's do things quickly, sir, and hand- 
 somely. — 
 Sit close, wench, close. — Begin, begin. 
 Pin. I am lesson'd. 
 
 (A song. ) 
 Lil. 'Tis very pretty, i' faith. Give me 
 
 some wine now. 
 Pin. I would fain speak to you. 
 Lil. You shall drink first, believe me. 
 
 Here 's to ye a lusty health. 
 (They drink.) 
 Pin, I thank ye, lady. — 
 
 (Aside. ) "Would I were oflE again I I 
 
 smell my misery; 
 I was never put to this rack: I shall be 
 drunk too. 
 Mir. (Aside.) If thou be'st not a right 
 one, I have lost mine aim much : 
 I thank Heaven that I have scap'd thee. 
 
 To her, Pinac ! 
 For thou art as sure to have her, and to 
 
 groan for her. — 
 I '11 see how my other youth does ; this 
 
 speeds trimly. 
 A fine grave gentlewoman, and worth 
 much honor ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Now, how do ye like me, sir? 
 
 I like ye rarely. 
 Ye see, sir, though sometimes we are 
 grave and silent. 
 And put on sadder dispositions, 
 Yet we are compounded of free parts, 
 
 and sometimes too 
 Our lighter, airy, and our fiery mettles 
 Break out, and show themselves: and 
 what think you of that, sir? 
 Pin. Good ladv, sit (for I am very weary), 
 
 'And then I '11 tell ye. 
 Lil. Fie ! a young man idle I 
 
 Up, and walk ; be still in action ; 
 The motions of the body are fair beau- 
 ties; 
 
 Lil. 
 Pin, 
 Lil. 
 
 Besides, 't is cold. 'Ods me, sir, let 's 
 
 walk faster! 
 What think ye now of the Lady Feheia ? 
 And Bellafronte, the duke's fair daugh- 
 ter? ha! 
 Are they not handsotne things? There is 
 
 Duarta, 
 And brown Olivia — 
 Pin. I know none of 'em. 
 
 Lil. But brown must not be east away, sir. 
 If young Lelia 
 Had kept herself till this day from a hus- 
 band, 
 Why, what a beauty, sir! You know 
 
 Ismena, 
 The fair gem of Saint-Germains? 
 Pin. By my troth, I do not. 
 
 Lil. And, then, I know, you must hear of 
 Brisac, 
 How unlike a gentleman — 
 Pin. As I live, I have heard nothing. 
 
 Lil. Strike me another galliard ! *" 
 Pin. By this light, I cannot ! 
 
 In troth, I have sprain'd my leg, madam. 
 Lil. Now sit ye down, sir, 
 
 And tell me why ye came hither? Why 
 
 ye chose me out? 
 What is your business? Your eiTand? 
 
 Despatch, despatch. 
 Maybe, you are some gentleman's man, 
 
 and I mistook ye, 
 That have brought me a letter, or a 
 
 haunch of venison, 
 Sent me from some friend of mine. 
 Pin. Do I look like a carrier? 
 
 You might aUow me, what I am, a gen- 
 tleman. 
 Lil. Cry ye mercy, sir! I saw ye yester- 
 day; 
 You are new-come out of travel; I mis- 
 took ye. 
 And how do all our impudent friends in 
 Italy? 
 Pin. Madam, I came with duty, and fair 
 courtesy. 
 Service, and honor to ye. 
 Lil. Ye came to jeer me. 
 
 Ye see I am merry, sir; I have chang'd 
 
 my copy; 
 None of the sages now : and, pray ye, pro- 
 claim it. 
 Fling on me what aspersion you shall 
 
 please, sir, 
 Of wantonness or wUdness; I look for it; 
 And tell the world I am an hypocrite, 
 Mask in a forc'd and borrow'd shape; I 
 expect it; 
 
 49 a lively dance. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 35T: 
 
 But not to have you believ'd: for, mark 
 
 ye, sir, 
 I have won a nobler estimation, 
 A stronger tie, by my discretion, 
 Upon opinion (howe'er you think I fore'd 
 
 it) 
 Than either tongue or art of yours can 
 
 slubber; ^° 
 And, when I please, I will be what I 
 
 please, sir, 
 So I exceed not mean; ^^ and none shall 
 
 brand it, 
 Either with scorn or shame, but shall be 
 
 slighted. 
 Pin. Lady, I come to love ye. 
 Lil. Love yourself, sir; 
 
 And, when I want observers,^^ I'll send 
 
 for ye. 
 Heigh-ho ! my fit 's almost off ; for we do 
 
 • all by fits, sir. 
 If ye be weary, sit till I come again to ye. 
 Exit with Petella. 
 Pin. This is a wench of a dainty spirit; 
 
 but 
 Hang me, if I know yet either what to 
 
 think 
 
 Or make of her. She had her will of me, 
 
 And baited me abundantly, I thank her; 
 
 ■ And, I confess, I never was so blurted,^' 
 
 Nor never so abus'd. I must bear mine 
 
 own sins. 
 Ye talk of travels ; here 's a curious coun- 
 try! 
 Yet I will find her out, or forswear my 
 
 faculty. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 3. A garden belonging to the house 
 of' Nantolet, with a summer-house in the 
 back-ground. 
 
 Enter Bosalura, Oriana, and a Maid. 
 
 Bos. Ne'er vex yourself, nor grieve ; ye are 
 
 a fool, then. 
 Ori. I am sure I am made so: yet, before 
 I suffer 
 Thus like a girl, and give him leave to tri- 
 umph — 
 Eos. You say right; for, as long as he 
 perceives ye 
 Sink under his proud scomings, he'll 
 
 laugh at ye. 
 For me, secure yourself; and, for my 
 sister. 
 
 I partly know her mind too : howsoever, 
 
 To obey my father, we have made a 
 tender 
 
 Of our poor beauties to the travel'd mon- 
 sieur; 
 
 Yet two words to a bargain. He slights; 
 us 
 
 As skittish things, and we shun him as 
 curious. 
 
 May be, my free behavior turns his stom- 
 ach, 
 
 And makes him seem to doubt a loose 
 opinion.^* 
 
 I must be so sometimes, though all the 
 world saw it. 
 Ori. Why should not ye? Are our minds 
 only measured? 
 
 As long as here ye stand secure — 
 Ros. Ye say true; 
 
 As long as mine own conscience makes no 
 question, 
 
 What care I for report? That woman 's 
 miserable, 
 
 That 's good or bad for their tongues' 
 sake. Come, let 's retire, 
 
 And get my veil, wench. {Exit Maid.) 
 By my troth, your sorrow. 
 
 And the consideration of men's humorous 
 maddings. 
 
 Have put me into a serious contempla- 
 tion. 
 
 Enter Mirabel and Belleur, on one side. 
 
 Ori. Coine, faith, let 's sit and think. 
 
 Ros. That 's all my business. 
 
 Mir. Why stand'st thou .peeping here? 
 
 Thou great slug, forward ! 
 Bel. She is there ; peace ! 
 Mir. Why stand'st thou here, then, 
 
 Sneaking and peeking as thou wouldst 
 steal linen ?- 
 
 Hast thou not place and time? 
 Bel. I had a rare speech 
 
 Studied, and almost ready; and your 
 violence 
 , Has beat it out of my brains. 
 Mir. Hang your rare speeches 1 
 
 Go me on like a man. 
 Bel. Let me set my beard up. 
 
 How has Pinac performed? 
 Mir. He has won already; 
 
 He stands not thrumming of ^'^ caps thus. 
 Bel. Lord, what should I ail ! 
 
 What a cold I have over my stomach! 
 Would I had some hum ! °* 
 
 no soil. 
 
 sx moderation. 
 
 52 admirers at a dis- 
 tance. 
 
 53 flouted. 
 
 54 reputation. 
 
 55 fiddling with. 
 
 5a unusually strong 
 ale. 
 
358 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Certain I have a great mind to be at her, 
 A mighty mind. 
 Mir. On, fool ! 
 
 Bel. Good words, I beseech ye ; 
 
 For I will not be abus'd by both. 
 Mir. Adieu, then 
 
 (I will not trouble you; I see you are 
 
 valiant) ; 
 And work your own way. 
 Bel. Hist, hist ! I will be rul'd ; 
 
 I will, i' faith ; I will go presently. 
 Will ye forsake me now, and leave me i' 
 
 th' suds? 
 You know I am false-hearted this way, 
 
 I beseech ye. 
 Good sweet Mirabel — I '11 cut your throat, 
 
 if ye leave me. 
 Indeed I will — sweet-heart — 
 Mir. 1 will be ready. 
 
 Still at thine elbow. Take a man's heart 
 
 to thee. 
 And speak thy mind ; the plainer still the 
 
 better. 
 She is a woman of that free behavior. 
 Indeed, that common courtesy, she cannot 
 
 deny thee. 
 Go bravely on. 
 Bel. Madam — ^keep close about me, 
 
 Still at my back — Madam, sweet 
 madam — 
 Bos. Ha! 
 
 What noise is that? What saucy sound 
 to trouble me? 
 Mir. What said she? 
 Bel. I am saucy. 
 
 Miv. 'T is the better. 
 
 Bel. She comes; must I be saucy still? 
 Mir. More saucy. 
 
 Bos. Still troubled with these vanities? 
 Heaven bless us! 
 What are we born to ? — Would you speak 
 
 with any of my people? 
 Go in, sir; I am busy. 
 Bel. This is not she, sure : 
 
 Is this two children at a birth? I'll be 
 
 hang'd, then: 
 Mine was a merry gentlewoman, talk'd 
 
 daintily, 
 Talk'd of those matters that befitted 
 
 women ; 
 This is a parcel prayer-book."' I'm 
 
 serv'd sweetly! 
 And now I am to look to ; I was prepar'd 
 for th' other way. 
 Bos. Do you know that man? 
 Ori. Sure, I have seen him, lady. 
 
 BT partly a prayer-book. 
 
 Bos. Methinks 't is a pity such a lusty fel- 
 low 
 Should wander up and down, and want 
 employment. 
 Bel. She takes me for a rogue ! — ^You may 
 
 do well, madam, 
 > To stay this wanderer, and set him 
 a-work, forsooth; 
 He can do something that may please 
 
 your ladyship. 
 I have heard of women that desire good 
 
 breedings. 
 Two at a birth, or so. 
 Bos. The fellow 's impudent. 
 
 Ori. Sure, he is eraz'd. 
 Bos. I have heard of men too that have 
 had good manners. 
 Sure, this is want of grace: indeed, 'tis 
 
 great pity 
 The young man has been bred so ill; but 
 
 this lewd age 
 Is full of such examples. 
 Bel. I am founder'd, 
 
 And some shall rue the setting of me on. 
 Mir. Ha! so bookish, lady? Is it pos- 
 sible? 
 Tum'd holy at the heart too? I'll be 
 
 hang'd then: 
 Why, this is such a feat, such an activity, 
 Such fast and loose ! ^^ A veil too for 
 your knavery? 
 
 Enter Maid with veiU 
 
 Dio, Dio! 
 Bos. What do you take me for, sir? 
 Mir. An hypocrite, a wanton, a dissembler, 
 
 Howe'er ye seem ; and thus ye are to be 
 
 handled ! — 
 Mark me, Belleur; — and this you love, I 
 know it. 
 Bos. Stand off, bold sir ! 
 Mir. You wear good clothes to this end, 
 
 Jewels; love feasts and masques. 
 Bos. Ye are monstrous saucy. 
 
 Mir. All this to draw on fools: and thus, 
 thus, lady, 
 
 (Attempts to remove the veil.) 
 You are to be luU'd. 
 Bel. Let her alone, I '11 swinge ye else, 
 
 1 will, i' faith ! for, though I cannot skill 
 o' this matter 
 
 Myself, I will not see another do it be- 
 fore me, 
 And do it worse. 
 Bos. Away ! ye are a vain thing. 
 
 5S Fast and loose was an old cheating game ; hence shiftiness. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 359 
 
 You have travel'd far, sir, to return 
 
 again 
 A windy and poor bladder. You talk of 
 
 women, 
 That are not worth the favor of a com- 
 mon one, 
 The grace of her grew in an hospital ! 
 Against a thousand such blown "' fool- 
 eries 
 I am able to maintain good women's 
 
 honors, 
 
 Their freedoms, and their fames, and I 
 
 will do it. — 
 
 Mir. She has almost struck me dumb too. 
 
 Bos. And declaim 
 
 Against your base malicious tongues, 
 
 your noises. 
 For they are nothing else. You teach be- 
 haviors ! 
 Or touch us for our freedoms! Teach 
 
 yourselves manners, 
 Truth and sobriety, and live so clearly 
 That our lives may shine in ye ; and then 
 
 task"" us. 
 It seems ye are hot ; the suburbs ^^ will 
 
 supply ye: 
 Good women scorn such gamesters. So, 
 
 I '11 leave ye. 
 I am sorry to see this: faith, sir, live 
 fairly. 
 
 Exit with, Oriana. 
 Mir. This woman, if she hold on, may be 
 virtuous ; 
 'Tis almost possible: we'll have a new 
 day. 
 Bel. Ye brought me on, ye forc'd me to 
 this foolery, 
 I am sham'd, I am scom'd, I am 
 
 flurted;*^ yes, I am so; 
 Though I cannot talk to a woman like 
 
 your worship. 
 And use my phrases and my learned 
 
 figures, 
 Yet I can fight with any man. 
 Mir. Pie! 
 
 Bel. I can, sir; 
 
 And I will fight. 
 Mir. With whom? 
 
 Bel. With you; with any man; 
 
 For all men now will laugh at me. 
 Mir. Prithee, be moderate. 
 
 Bel. And I '11 beat all men. Come. 
 Mir. ' I love thee dearly. 
 
 Bel. I will beat all that love; love has un- 
 done me. 
 Never tell me; I will not be a history. 
 
 Mir. Thou art not. 
 
 Bel. 'Sf oot, I will not ! Give me room. 
 And let me see the proudest of ye jeer 
 
 me; 
 And I '11 begin with you first. 
 Mir. Prithee, Belleur — 
 
 If I do not satisfy thee — 
 Bel, Well, look ye do. 
 
 But, now I think on 't better, 't is im- 
 possible ; 
 I must beat somebody. I am maul'd my- 
 self. 
 And I ought in justice — 
 Mir. No, no, no ; ye are cozen'd : 
 
 But walk, and let me talk to thee. 
 Bel. Talk wisely. 
 
 And see that no man laugh, upon no oc- 
 casion ; 
 For I shall think then 't is at me. 
 Mir. I warrant thee. 
 
 Bel. Nor no more talk of this. 
 Mir. Dost think I am maddish ? 
 
 Bel, I must needs fight yet, for I find it 
 concerns me; 
 A pox on't, I must fight. 
 Mir. I' faith, thou shalt not. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. A public walk. 
 
 Enter Be Gard and Lugier. 
 
 Be Gard. I know ye are a scholar, and can 
 
 do wonders. 
 Lug. There 's no great scholarship belongs 
 to this, sir; 
 
 What I am, I am. I pity" your poor sis- 
 ter, 
 
 And heartily I hate these travelers,. 
 
 These gim-cracks, made of mops °^ and 
 motions. 
 
 There 's nothing in their houses here but 
 hummings ; 
 
 A bee has more brains. I grieve and vex 
 too 
 
 The insolent licentious carriage 
 
 Of this out-facing fellow Mirabel; 
 
 And I am mad to see him prick his 
 plumes up. 
 Be Gard. His wrongs '* you partly know. 
 Lug. Do not you stir, sir; 
 
 Since he has begun with wit, let wit re- 
 venge it : 
 
 B9 empty. 
 
 eo take to task. 
 
 61 Many of the 
 London Buburhs 
 
 were notorious 
 ~for their houses 
 
 of ill-tame. 
 62 flouted. 
 
 63 grimaces. 
 
 64 insults. 
 
360 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Keep your sword close; we'll cut his 
 
 throat a new way. 
 I am asham'd the gentlewoman should 
 
 suffer 
 Such base lewd wrongs. 
 Be Gard. I will be rul'd; he shall live, 
 
 And left to your revenge. 
 Lug. Aye, aye, I 'II fit him. 
 
 He makes a common scorn of handsome 
 
 women ; 
 Modesty and good manners are his May- 
 games ; 
 He takes up maidenheads with a new 
 
 commission, — 
 The church-warrant 's out of date. Fol- 
 low my counsel. 
 For I am zealous in the cause. 
 De Gard. I will, sir, 
 
 And wiU be still directed; for the truth 
 
 is. 
 My sword will make my sister seem more 
 
 monstrous. 
 Besides, there is no honor won on repro- 
 bates. 
 Lug. You are i' th' right. The slight he 
 has show'd my "pupils 
 Sets me a-flre too. Go ; I '11 prepare your 
 
 sister, 
 And as I told ye. 
 De Gard. Yes ; all shall be fit, sir. 
 
 Lug. And seriously, and handsomely. 
 De Gard. I warrant ye. 
 
 Lug. A little counsel more. 
 (Whispers.) 
 De Gard. 'T is well. 
 
 Lug. ' Most stately! 
 
 See that observ'd; and then — 
 De Gard. I have ye every way. 
 
 Lug. Away, then, and be ready. 
 De Gard. With all speed, sir. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Lillia Bianca, Bosalura, and 
 Oriana. 
 
 Lug. We '11 learn to travel too, may be, be- 
 yond him. — 
 Good day, fair beauties! 
 Lil. You have beautified us, 
 
 We thank ye, sir; ye have set us o£E most 
 
 gallantly 
 With your grave precepts. 
 Bos. We expected husbands 
 
 Out of your documents "^ and taught be- 
 haviors, 
 Excellent husbands; thought men would 
 
 run stark mad on us, 
 Men of all ages and all states; we ex- 
 pected 
 
 An inundation of desires and offers, 
 
 A torrent of trim suitors; all we did, 
 
 Or said, or purpos'd, to be spells about 
 us, 
 
 Spells to provoke. 
 Lil. Ye have provok'd us finely ! 
 
 We foUow'd your directions, we did 
 rarely, 
 
 We were stately, coy, demure, careless, 
 light, giddy, 
 
 And play'd at all points : this, you swore, 
 would carry. 
 Bos. We made love, and contemn'd love; 
 now seem'd holy, 
 
 With such a reverent put-on reserva- 
 tion "^ 
 
 Which could not miss, according to your 
 principles ; 
 
 Now gave more hope again; now close," 
 now public. 
 
 Still up and down we beat it like a bil- 
 low; 
 
 And ever those behaviors you read to us, 
 
 Subtle and new: but all this will not 
 help us. 
 Lil. They help to hinder us of all ac- 
 quaintance, 
 
 They have frighted off all friends. What ,, 
 am I better, 
 
 For all my learning, if I -love a dunce, 
 
 A handsome dunce? To what use serves 
 my reading? 
 
 You should have taught me what belongs 
 to horses, 
 
 Dogs, dice, hawks, banquets, masques, 
 free and fair meetings. 
 
 To have studied gowns and dressings. 
 . Lug. Ye are not inad, sure ! 
 
 Bos. We shall be, if we follow your en- 
 couragements. 
 
 I '11 take mine own way now. 
 Lil. And I my fortune ; 
 
 We may live maids else till the moon drop 
 mill-stones. 
 
 I see, your modest women are taken for 
 monsters ; 
 
 A dowry of good breeding is worth noth- 
 ing. 
 Lug. Since ye take it so to th' heart, pray 
 ye, give me leave yet, 
 
 And ye shall see how- 1 '11 convert this 
 heretic. 
 
 Mark how this Mirabel — 
 Lil. Name him no more; 
 
 For, though I long for a husband, I hate 
 him, 
 
 And would be married sooner to a mon- 
 key, 
 
 65 lessons. 
 
 66 reserve. 
 
 6T secTet. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 361 
 
 Or to a Jack of Straw, than such a jug- 
 gler. 
 Bos. I am of that mind too. He is too 
 nimble, 
 And plays at fast and loose too learnedly, 
 For a plain-meaning woman ; that 's the 
 
 truth on 't. 
 Here 's one too, that we love well, would 
 be angry; 
 
 (Pointing to Oriana.) 
 And reason why. — No, no, we will not 
 
 trouble ye, 
 Nor him at this time: may he make you 
 
 happy ! 
 We'll turn ourselves loose now to our 
 
 fair fortunes; 
 And the downright way — 
 Lil. The winning way we '11 follow ; 
 
 We'll bait that men may bite fair, and 
 
 not be frighted. 
 Yet we '11 not be carried so cheap neither ; 
 
 we '11 have some sport, 
 Some mad-morris or other for our money, 
 tutor. 
 Lug. 'T is like enough : prosper your own 
 devices ! 
 Te are old enough to choose. But, for 
 
 this gentlewoman, 
 So please her give me leave — 
 Ori. I shall be glad, sir. 
 
 To find a friend whose pity may direct 
 me. 
 Lug. I 'U do my best, and faithfully deal 
 for ye; 
 But then ye must be rul'd. 
 Ori. In all, I vow to ye. 
 
 Bos. Do, do: he has a lucky hand some- 
 times, I assure ye. 
 And hunts the recovery of a lost lover 
 deadly. 
 Lug. You must away straight. 
 Ori. Yes. 
 
 Lug. And I '11 instruct ye : 
 
 Here ye can know no more. 
 Ori. By your leave, sweet ladies ; 
 
 And all our fortunes arrive at our own 
 wishes ! 
 lAl. Amen, amen! 
 
 Lug. I must borrow your man. 
 
 Lil. Prayj take him; 
 
 He is within. To do her good, take any 
 
 thing. 
 Take us and all. 
 Lug. No doubt, ye may find takers ; 
 
 And so, we 'II leave ye to your own dis- 
 poses. 
 
 Exeunt Lugier and Oriana. 
 
 Lil. Now, which way, wench 9 
 Bos. We '11 go a brave way, fear not ; 
 
 A safe and sure way too; and yet a by- 
 way. 
 I must confess I have a great mind to be 
 married. 
 Lil. So have I too a grudging *' of good- 
 will that way, 
 And would as fain be despatch'd. But 
 this Monsieur Quicksilver — 
 Bos. No, no; we'll bar him, bye and 
 main."' Let him trample ; 
 There is no safety in his surquedry.'" 
 An army-royal of women are too few for 
 
 him; 
 He keeps a journal of his gentleness. 
 And will go near to print his fair des- 
 patches. 
 And call it his "Triumph over time and 
 
 women." 
 Let him pass out of memory! What 
 think you 
 . Of his two companions'? 
 Lil. Pinac, methinks, is reasonable; 
 
 A little modesty he has brought home 
 
 with him. 
 And might be taught, in time, some hand- 
 some duty. 
 Bos. They say he is a weneher too. 
 Lil. I like him better; 
 
 A free light touch or two becomes a gen- 
 tleman. 
 And sets him seemly off : so he exceed not, 
 But keep his compass '^ clear, he may be 
 
 lookt at. 
 I would not marry a man that must be 
 
 taught, 
 And eonjur'd up with kisses; the best 
 
 game 
 Is play'd still by the best gamesters. 
 Bos. • Fie upon thee ! 
 
 What talk hast thou ! 
 Lil. Are not we alone, and merry? 
 
 Why should we be ashamed to speak what- 
 
 we think? Thy gentleman, 
 The tall fat fellow, he that came to see 
 thee — 
 Bos. Is't not a goodly man? 
 Lil. A wondrous goodly ! 
 
 H' as weight enough, I warrant thee. 
 
 Mercy upon me, 
 What a serpent wilt thou seem under 
 such a St. George! 
 Bos. Thou art a fool! Give me a man 
 Ijrings mettle. 
 Brings substance with him, needs no 
 broths to lare ''^ him. 
 
 GS inclination. 
 
 69 completely ; a 
 gambling phrase. 
 
 TO presumption. 
 71 bounds. 
 
 72 Possibly, as other 
 editors suggest, s 
 
 misprint for lard 
 =fatteu. 
 
362 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 These little fellows shew like fleas in 
 
 boxes, 
 Hop up and down, and keep a stir to vex 
 
 us. 
 Give me the puissant pike; take you the 
 
 small shot. 
 Lil. Of a great thing, I have not seen a 
 
 duller; 
 Therefore, methinks, sweet sister — 
 Ros. Peace, he 's modest ; 
 
 A bashfulness; which is a point of grace, 
 
 wench : 
 But, when these fellows come to mould- 
 ing, sister, 
 To heat, and handling — as I live, I like 
 
 him; 
 
 Enter Mirabel. 
 
 And, methinks, I could form him. 
 Lil. Peace; the fire-drake. 
 
 Mir. Bless ye, sweet beauties, sweet incom- 
 parable ladies. 
 Sweet wits, sweet humors! Bless you, 
 
 learned lady ! 
 And you, most holy nun, bless your de- 
 votions ! 
 Lil. And bless your brains, sir, your most 
 pregnant brains, sir ! 
 They are in travail; may they be de- 
 livered 
 Of a most hopeful wild-goose ! 
 Ros. Bless your manhood! 
 
 They say ye are a gentleman of action, 
 A fair accomplish'd man, and a rare en- 
 gineer. 
 You have a trick to blow up maidenheads, 
 A subtle trick, they say abroad. 
 Mir. I have, lady. 
 
 Ros. And often glory in their ruins. 
 Mir. Yes, forsooth; 
 
 I have a speedy trick, please you to try 
 
 it; 
 My engine will despatch ye mstantly. 
 Ros. 1 would I were a woman, sir, fit for 
 ye! 
 As there be such, no doubt, may engine 
 
 you too; 
 May, with a counter-mine, blow up your 
 
 valor : 
 But in good faith, sir, we are both too 
 
 honest ; 
 And, the plague is, we cannot be per- 
 suaded ; 
 For, look you, if we thought it were a 
 
 glory 
 To be the last of all your lovely ladies-— 
 Mir. Come, come, leave prating: this has 
 spoil'd your market! 
 
 73 fierce dogs. 
 
 This pride and puft-up heart will make 
 
 ye fast, ladies, 
 Fast when ye are hungry too. 
 Ros. The more our pain, sir. 
 
 Lil. The more our health, I hope too. 
 Mir. Your behaviors 
 
 Have made men stand amaz'd; those men 
 
 that lov'd ye. 
 Men of fair states and parts. Your 
 
 strange conversions 
 Into I know not what, nor how, nor 
 wherefore ; 
 . Your scorns of those that came to visit 
 
 ye; 
 
 Your studied whim-whams and your fine 
 set faces — 
 
 What have these got yel Proud and 
 harsh opinions. 
 
 A travel'd monsieur was the strangest 
 creature, 
 
 The wildest monster to be wond'red at ; 
 
 His person made a public scoff, his 
 knowledge 
 
 (As if he had been bred 'mongst bears or 
 ban-dogs^') 
 
 Shunn'd and avoided; his conversation 
 snuff'd " at ;— 
 
 What harvest brings all this? 
 Ros. I pray you, proceed, sir. 
 
 Mir. Now ye shall see in what esteem a 
 traveler. 
 
 An understanding gentleman, and a mon- 
 sieur. 
 
 Is to be held; and, to your griefs, con- 
 fess it. 
 
 Both to your griefs and galls. 
 Lil. In what, I pray ye, sir? 
 
 We would be glad to understand your 
 excellence. 
 Mir. Go on, sweet ladies; it becomes ye 
 rarely ! 
 
 For me, I have blest me from ye ; scoff on 
 seriously, 
 
 And note the man ye mock'd. You, Lady 
 Learning, 
 
 Note the poor traveler that came to visit 
 you. 
 
 That flat unfurnish'd fellow; note him 
 throughly; 
 
 You may chance to see him anon. 
 Lil. 'T is very likely. 
 
 .Mir. And see him courted by a travel'd 
 lady, 
 
 Held dear and honor'd by a virtuous vir- 
 gin; 
 
 May be, a beauty not far short of yours 
 neither ; 
 
 It may be, clearer. 
 
 74 sniffed. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 363 
 
 Lil. Not unlikely. 
 
 Mir. Younger : 
 
 As killing eyes as yours, a wit as poign- 
 ant; 
 
 May be, a state, too, that may top your 
 fortune. 
 
 Inquire how she thinks of him, how she 
 holds him; 
 
 His good parts, in what precious price al- 
 ready ; 
 
 Being a stranger to him, how she courts 
 him; 
 
 A stranger to his nation too, how she 
 dotes on him. 
 
 Inquire of this; be sick to know; curse, 
 lady, . 
 
 And keep your chamber; cry, and curse; 
 a sweet one, 
 
 A thousand in yearly land, well bred, well 
 friended, 
 
 Travel'd, and highly followed for her 
 fashions. 
 Lil. Bless his good fortune, sir ! 
 Mir. This scurvy fellow, 
 
 I think they call his name Pinae, this 
 serving-man 
 
 That brought ye venison, as I take it, 
 madam, 
 
 Note but this scab : 't is strange that this 
 coarse creature, 
 
 That has no more set-o£E '^ but his jug- 
 glings, 
 
 His travel'd tricks — 
 Lil. Good sir, I grieve not at him. 
 
 Nor envy not his fortune : yet I wonder. 
 
 He 's handsome ; yet I see no such per- 
 fection. 
 Mir. Would I had his fortune! For 'tis 
 a woman 
 
 Of that sweet-temper'd nature, and that 
 judgment, 
 
 Besides her state, that care, clear under- 
 standing. 
 
 And such a wife to bless him — 
 Bos. " Pray you, whence is she? 
 
 Mir. Of England, and a most accomplish'd 
 lady; 
 
 So modest that men's eyes are frighted at 
 her, 
 
 And such a noble carriage — 
 
 Enter a Boy.' 
 
 How now, sirrah 1 
 Boy. Sir, the great English lady — 
 Mir. What of her, sir? 
 
 Boy. Has newly left her coach, and com- 
 ing this way, 
 
 76 fail to do us justice. 
 
 Where you may see her plain: Monsieur 
 
 Pinac 
 The only man that leads her. 
 
 Enter Pinac, Mariana, and Attendants. 
 
 Mir. He is much honored ; 
 
 Would I had such a favor! Now vex, 
 
 ladies. 
 Envy, and vex, and rail ! 
 Bos. You are short of us,''' sir. 
 
 Mir. Bless your fair fortune, sir ! 
 Pin. I nobly thank ye. 
 
 Mir. Is she married, friend? 
 Pin. No, no. 
 
 Mir. A goodly lady; 
 
 A sweet and delicate aspect! — ^Mark, 
 
 mark, and wonder! — 
 Hast thou any hope of her? 
 Pin. A little. 
 
 Mir. Eollow close, then ; 
 
 Lose not that hope. 
 Pin. To you, sir. 
 
 {Mariana courtesies to Mirabel.) 
 Mir. Gentle lady ! 
 
 Bos. She is fair, indeed. 
 Lil. I have seen a fairer; yet 
 
 She is well. 
 Bos. Her clothes sit handsome too. 
 
 Lil. She dresses prettily. 
 
 Bos. And, by my faith, she is rich; she 
 looks still sweeter. 
 A well-bred woman, I warrant her. 
 Lil. Do you hear, sir? 
 
 May I crave this gentlewoman's name? 
 Pin. Mariana, lady. 
 
 Lil. I will not say I owe ye a quarrel, 
 monsieur. 
 For making me your stale : " a noble 
 
 gentleman 
 Would have had more courtesy, at least 
 
 more faith, 
 Than to turn off his mistress at first trial. 
 You know not what respect I might have 
 
 show'd ye; 
 I find ye have worth. 
 Pin. 1 cannot stay to answer ye; 
 
 Ye see my charge. I am beholding to ye 
 For all your merry tricks ye put upon 
 
 me. 
 Your bobs,'^ and base accounts. I came 
 
 to love ye. 
 To woo ye, and to serve ye; I am much 
 
 indebted to ye 
 For dancing me off my legs, and then for 
 
 walking me ; 
 For telling me strange tales I never 
 heard of. 
 
 TS attractiveness. 
 
 TT decoy. 
 
 78 sneers. 
 
364. 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 More to abuse me; for mistaking me, 
 When you both knew I was a gentleman, 
 And one deserv'd as rich a match as you 
 are. 
 Lik Be not so bitter, sir. 
 Pin. You see this lady: 
 
 She is young enough and fair enough to 
 
 please me; 
 A woman of a loving mind, a quiet. 
 And one that weighs the worth of him 
 
 that loves her: 
 I am content with this, and bless my 
 fortune. 
 
 Your curious wits, and beauties 
 
 Lil. Faith, see me once more. 
 
 Pin. 1 dare not trouble ye. 
 Lil. May I speak to your lady? 
 
 Pin. I pray ye, content yourself. I know 
 ye are bitter, 
 And, in your bitterness, ye may abuse 
 
 her; 
 Which if she comes to know (for she un- 
 derstands ye not), 
 It may breed such a quarrel to your kin- 
 dred. 
 And such an indiscretion fling on you 
 too 
 
 (For she is nobly friended) 
 
 Lil. (Aside.) I could eat her. 
 
 Pin. Rest as ye are, a modest noble gen- 
 tlewoman. 
 And afford your honest neighbors some 
 
 of your prayers. 
 Exeunt Pinae, Mariana, and Attendants. 
 Mir. Wliat think you now? 
 lAl. Faith, she's a pretty whiting; '^ 
 
 She has got a pretty catch too. 
 Mir. You are angry. 
 
 Monstrous angjy now, grievously angry; 
 And the pretty heart does swell now. 
 Lil. No, in troth, sir. 
 
 Mir. And it will cry anon, "A pox upon 
 it!" 
 And it will curse itself, and eat no meat, 
 
 lady; 
 And it wiU sigh. 
 lAl. Indeed, you are mistaken; 
 
 It will be very merry. 
 Uos. Why, sir, do you think 
 
 There are no more men living, nor no 
 
 handsomer, 
 Than he or you ? By this light, there be 
 
 ten thousand. 
 Ten thousand thousand! Comfort your- 
 self, dear monsieur; 
 Faces, and bodies, wits, and all abili- 
 
 ments ^° — 
 There are so many we regard 'em not. 
 
 Enter Belleur and two Gentlemen. 
 
 Mir. That such a noble lady — I could 
 burst now! — 
 
 So far above such trifles 
 
 Bel. You did laugh at me ; 
 
 And I know why ye laughed. 
 
 1 Gent. I pray ye, be satisfied: 
 If we did laugh, we had some private 
 
 reason. 
 And not at you. 
 
 2 Gent. Alas, we know you not, sirl 
 Bel. I '11 make you know me. Set your 
 
 faces soberly; 
 Stand this way, and look sad ; I '11 be no 
 
 May-game ; 
 Sadder, demurer yet. 
 Bos.. What is the matter? 
 
 What ails this gentleman? 
 Bel. Go off now backward, that I may be- 
 hold ye; 
 And not a simper, on your lives ! 
 Exeunt Gentlemen, walking backwards. 
 Lil. He 's mad, sure. 
 Bel. Do you observe me too? 
 
 Mir. I may look on ye. 
 
 Bel. Why do you grin? I know your 
 
 mind. 
 Mir, You do not. 
 
 You are strangely humorous. Is there 
 
 no mirth nor pleasure 
 But you must be the object? 
 Bel. Mark, and observe me. Wherever I 
 am nam'd. 
 The very word shall raise a general sad- 
 ness. 
 For the disgrace this scurvy woman did 
 
 me. 
 This proud pert thing. Take heed ye 
 
 laugh not at me, 
 Provoke me not; take heed. 
 Ros. I would fain please ye; 
 
 Do any thing to keep ye quiet. 
 Bel. Hear me. 
 
 Till I receive a satisfaction 
 Equal to the disgrace and scorn ye gave 
 
 me. 
 Ye are a wretched woman; till thou 
 
 woo'st me. 
 And I scorn thee as much, as seriously 
 Jeer and abuse thee ; ask what gill '? 
 
 thou art, 
 Or any baser name ; I will proclaim thee, 
 I will so sing thy virtue, so be-paint 
 
 thee 
 
 Bos. Nay, good sir, be more modest. 
 Bel. Do you laugh again? — ' 
 
 Because ye are a woman, ye are lawless. 
 
 IB a term of endearment. 
 
 80 faculties. 
 
 81 common woman. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 365 
 
 And out of compass of an honest anger. 
 Bos. Good sir, have a better belief of me. 
 Lil. Away, dear sister! 
 
 Exit with Rosalura. 
 Mir. Is not this better now, this seeming 
 madness, 
 Than falling out with your friends'? 
 Bel. Have I not frighted her? 
 
 Mir. Into her right wits, I warrant thee. 
 Follow this humor, 
 And thou shalt see how prosperously 
 't will guide thee. 
 Bel. I am glad I have found a way to woo 
 yet; I was afraid once 
 I never should have made a civil suitor. 
 WeU, I'll about it still. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Mir. Do, do, and prosper. 
 
 Wbat sport do I make with these foojs! 
 
 What pleasure 
 Feeds me, and fats my sides at their poor 
 innocence ! 
 
 Enter Lugier, disguised. 
 
 Wooing and wiving — ^hang it! Give me 
 mirth. 
 
 Witty and dainty mirth! I shall grow 
 in love, sure. 
 
 With mine own happy head. Who 's 
 this?— To me, sir?— 
 
 {Aside.) What youth is this? 
 Lug. Yes, sir, I would speak with you. 
 
 If your name be Monsieur Mirabel. 
 Mir. You have hit it : 
 
 Your business, I beseech you? 
 Lug. This it is, sir : 
 
 There is a gentlewoman hath long time 
 affected ye, 
 
 And lov'd ye dearly. 
 Mir. Turn over, and end that story ; 
 
 'T is long enough : I have no , faith in 
 women, sir. 
 Lug. It seems so, sir. I do not come to 
 woo for her, 
 
 Or sing her praises, though she well de- 
 serve 'em; 
 
 I come to tell ye, ye have been cruel to 
 her. 
 
 Unkind and cruel, falser of faith, and 
 careless. 
 
 Taking more pleasure in abusing her, 
 
 Wresting her honor to your wild dis- 
 poses. 
 
 Than noble in requiting her affection; 
 
 Which, as you are a man, I must desire 
 
 ye 
 
 (A gentleman of rank) not to persist in, 
 
 No more to load her fair name with your 
 injuries. 
 Mir. Why, I beseech you, sir? 
 Lug. Good sir, I '11 tell ye. 
 
 And I '11 be short ; I '11 tell ye because I 
 love ye. 
 
 Because I would have you shun the 
 shame may follow. 
 
 There is a nobleman, new come to town, 
 sir, 
 
 A noble and a great man, that affects her, 
 
 (A countryman of mine, a brave Sa- 
 voy an. 
 
 Nephew to th' duke) and so much honors 
 her. 
 
 That 't will be dangerous to pursue your 
 old way, 
 
 To touch at any thing concerns her 
 honor. 
 
 Believe, most dangerous. Her name is 
 Oriana, 
 
 And this great man will marry her. 
 Take heed, sir; 
 
 For howsoe'er her brother, a staid gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Lets things pass upon better hopes, this 
 lord, sir, 
 
 Is of that fiery and that poignant metal, 
 
 (Especially provok'd on by affection) 
 
 That 'twill be hard — ^but you are wise. 
 Mir. A lord, sir? 
 
 Lug. Yes, and a noble lord. 
 
 Mir. Send her good fortune ! 
 
 This will not stir her lord. A baroness! 
 
 Say ye so? Say ye so? By 'r lady, a 
 brave title! 
 
 Top and top-gallant now! Save her 
 great ladyship ! 
 
 I was a poor servant of hers, I must con- 
 fess, sir. 
 
 And in those days I thought I might be 
 jovy,*2 
 
 And make a little bold to call in to her; 
 
 But, basta; ^^ now I know my rules and 
 distance ; 
 
 Yet, if she want an usher, such an imple- 
 ment. 
 
 One that is throughly pac'd, a clean- 
 made gentleman. 
 
 Can hold a hanging ^* up with approba- 
 tion, 
 
 Plant his hat formally, and wait with 
 patience, 
 
 I do beseech you, sir 
 
 Lug. Sir, leave your seofSng, 
 
 And, as ye are a gentleman, deal fairly. 
 
 I have given ye a friend's counsel; so, 
 I'll leave ye. 
 
 82 jovial. 
 
 83 Ital. "enough." 
 
 84 portiere. 
 
366 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Mir. But, hark ye, hark ye, sir; is 't -pos- 
 sible 
 I may believe what you sayl 
 Lug. You may choose, sir. 
 
 Mir. No baits, no fish-hooks, sir? No 
 gins? no nooses? 
 No pitfalls to catch puppies? 
 Lug. I tell ye certain : 
 
 You may believe; if not, stand to the 
 danger ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Mir. A lord of Savoy, says he? The 
 duke's nephew? 
 A man so mighty ? By lady, a fair mar- 
 
 riage 
 
 By my faith, a handsome fortune! I 
 
 must leave prating : 
 For, to confess the truth, I have abus'd 
 
 her, 
 For which I should be sorry, but that 
 
 will seem scurvy. 
 I must confess she was, ever since I knew 
 
 her, 
 As modest as she was fair; I am sure 
 
 she lov'd me; 
 Her means good, and her breeding excel- 
 lent; 
 And for my sake she has refus'd fair 
 
 matches. 
 I may play the fool finely. — Stay: who 
 
 are these? 
 
 Re-enter De Gard, disguised, Oriana, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 (Aside.) 'Tis she, I am sure; and that 
 
 the lord, it should seem. 
 He carries a fair port, is a handsome 
 
 man too. 
 I do begin to feel I am a coxcomb.*^ ' 
 Ori. Good my lord, choose a nobler; for I 
 
 know 
 I am so far below your rank and honor, 
 That what ye can say this way I must 
 
 credit 
 But spoken to beget yourself sport. 
 
 Alas, sir, 
 I am so far off from deserving you. 
 My beauty so unfit for your affection, 
 That I am grown the scorn of common 
 
 railers, 
 Of such injurious things that, when they 
 
 cannot 
 Reach at my person, lie with my repu- 
 tation ! 
 I am poor, besides. 
 De Gard. Ye are all wealth and goodness ; 
 And none but such as are the scum of 
 
 men, 
 
 86 fool. 
 
 The ulcers of an honest state, spite- 
 weavers. 
 That live on poison only, like swoln 
 
 spiders. 
 Dare once profane such excellence, such 
 
 sweetness. 
 Mir. This man speaks loud indeed. 
 De Gard. Name but the men, lady; 
 
 Let me but know these poor and base de- 
 pravers. 
 Lay but to my revenge their persons 
 
 open, 
 And you shall see how suddenly, how 
 
 fuUy, 
 For your most beauteous sake, how dire- 
 
 fully, 
 I '11 handle their despites. Is this thing 
 
 one? 
 
 Be what he will 
 
 Mir: Sir? 
 
 De Gard. Dare your malicious tongue, 
 
 sir 
 
 Mir. I know you not, nor what you mean. 
 
 Ori. Good my lord 
 
 De Gard. If he, or any he 
 
 Ori. I beseech your honor — 
 
 This gentleman's a stranger to my 
 
 knowledge ; 
 And, no doubt, sir, a worthy man. 
 De Gard. Your mercy! — 
 
 But, had he been a tainter of your honor, 
 A blaster of those beauties reign within 
 
 ye— 
 But we shall find a fitter time. Dear 
 
 lady. 
 As soon as I have freed ye from your 
 
 guardian. 
 And done some honor'd oflBces unto ye, 
 I'll take ye with those faults the world 
 
 fiings on ye. 
 And dearer than the whole world I'll 
 
 esteem ye! 
 
 Exit with Oriana and Attendants. 
 Mir, This is a thund'ring lord : I am glad 
 
 I seap'd him. 
 How lovingly the wench disclaim'd my 
 
 villainy! 
 I am vex'd now heartily that he shall 
 
 have her; 
 Not that I care to marry, or to lose her, 
 But that this bilbo-lord '* shall reap that 
 
 maidenhead 
 That was my due; that he shall rig and 
 
 top her: 
 I'd give a thousand crowns now, he 
 
 might miss her. 
 
 Enter a Servant-. 
 80 swaggerer. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 367 
 
 Serv. Nay, if I bear your blows, and keep 
 your counsel, 
 You have good luck, sir : I '11 teach ye 
 to strike lighter. 
 Mir. Come hither, honest fellow : canst 
 thou tell me 
 Where this great lord lies, this Savoy 
 
 lord? Thou mett'st him; 
 He now went by thee, certain. 
 Serv. Yes, he did, sir; 
 
 I know him, and I know you are f ool'd. 
 
 Mir. Come hither : 
 
 Here 's all this, give me truth. 
 
 {Gives money.) 
 
 Serv. . Not for your money, 
 
 (And yet that may do much) but I have 
 
 been beaten, 
 And by the worshipful contrivers beaten, 
 
 and I '11 tell ye : 
 This is no lord, no Savoy lord. 
 Mir. Go forward. 
 
 Serv. This is a trick, and put upon you 
 grossly 
 By one Lugier. The lord is Monsieur 
 
 De Gard, sir. 
 An honest gentleman, and a neighbor 
 
 here; 
 Their ends you understand better than I, 
 sure. 
 Mir. Now I know him; know him now 
 
 plain. 
 Serv. I have diseharg'd my colors,*' so 
 God b'y ye, sir! 
 
 Exit. 
 Mir. What a purblind puppy was I. Now 
 I remember him ; 
 All the whole cast on 's face, though it 
 
 were umber'-dj*' 
 And mask'd with patches. What a dun- 
 
 derwhelp,*" 
 To let him domineer thus! How he 
 
 strutted, 
 And what a load of lord he elapt upon 
 
 him! 
 Would I had him here again! I would 
 
 so bounce him, 
 I would so thank his lordship for his 
 
 lewd »" plot ! 
 Do they think to carry it away, with a 
 
 great band made of bird-pots,*'^ 
 And a pair of pin-buttock'd breeches? — 
 
 Ha! 'tis he again; 
 He comes, he comes, he comes! have at 
 him! 
 
 Ee-enter De Gard, Oriana, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 My Savoy lord, why dost thou frown on 
 
 me? 
 And will that favor never sweeter be? 
 Wilt thou, I say, for ever play the fool? 
 De Gard, be wise, and. Savoy, go to 
 
 school ! 
 My lord De Gard, I thank you for your 
 
 antic ; 
 My lady bright, that will be sometimes 
 
 frantic ; 
 You worthy train, that wait upon this 
 
 pair, 
 Send you more wit, and them a bouncing 
 
 bair?»2 
 
 And so I take my humble leave of your 
 honors ! 
 
 Exit. 
 De Gard. We are discover'd; there's no 
 remedy. 
 Lillia Bianea's man, upon my life. 
 In stubbornness, because Lugier corrected 
 
 him — 
 A shameless slave ! Plague on him for a 
 rascal ! 
 Ori. I was in a perfect hope. The bane 
 on 't is now. 
 He will make mirth on mirth, to perse- 
 cute us. 
 De Gard. We must be patient ; I am vex'd 
 to the proof too. 
 I '11 try once more ; then, if I fail, here 's 
 one speaks. 
 
 (Puts his hand on his sword.) 
 Ori. Let me be lost and scom'd first ! 
 De Gard. Well, we'll consider. 
 
 Away, and let me shift ; I shall be hooted 
 else. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. A street before the lodging of 
 Pinac. 
 
 Enter Lugier, Lillia Bianca, and Servant 
 carrying a willow garland. 
 
 Lug, Paint not, but do ' as I direct ye : 
 trust me; 
 Believe me too; for what I have told ye, 
 
 As true as you are Lillia, is authentic; 
 
 I know it, I have found it: 'tis a poor 
 courage 
 
 Flies off for one repulse. These travel- 
 ers 
 
 87 Exact meaning 
 not known ; ap- 
 parently oquiya- 
 
 lent to "I have 88 stained brown, 
 fulfllled my obli- 89 blockhead. 
 EationB." 80 vile. 
 
 01 apparently some 
 extravagance of 
 
 dress. (Neilson.) 
 92 bairn, child. 
 
368 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Shall find, before we have done, a home- 
 spun wit, 
 A plain French understanding, may cope 
 
 with 'em. 
 They have had the better yet, thank your 
 
 sweet squire here! 
 And let 'em brag. You would be re- 
 veng'd? 
 Lil. Yes, surely. 
 
 LiU^g. And married too ? 
 Lil. I think so. 
 
 Lug. Then be counsel'd; 
 
 You know how to proceed. I have other 
 
 irons 
 Heating as well as yours, and I will 
 
 strike 
 Three blows with one stone home. Be 
 
 rul'd, and happy; 
 And so, I leave ye. Now is the time. 
 Lil. I am ready. 
 
 If he do come to do °' me. 
 
 Exit Lugier. 
 
 Serv. Will ye stand here. 
 
 And let the people think ye are God 
 
 knows what, mistress? 
 Let boys and prentices presume upon ye? 
 Lil. Prithee, hold thy peace. 
 
 Serv. Stand at his door that hates ye? 
 Lil. Prithee, leave prating. 
 
 Serv. Pray ye, go to the tavern : I '11 give 
 ye a pint of wine there. 
 If any of the mad-cap gentlemen should 
 
 come by. 
 That take up women upon special war- 
 rant. 
 You were in a wise ease now. 
 Enter Mirabel, Pinac, Mariana, Priest, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 Lil. Give me the garland ; 
 
 And wait you here. 
 
 (Takes the garland from Servant, who 
 
 retires.) 
 
 Mir. She is here to seek thee, sirrah. 
 
 I told thee what would follow; she is 
 
 mad for thee. 
 Show, and advance. — So early stirring, 
 
 lady? 
 It shows a busy mind, a fancy troubled. 
 A willow garland too ? Is 't possible ? 
 'Tis pity so much beauty should lie 
 
 musty ; 
 But 't is not to be help'd now. 
 Lil. The more 's my misery. — 
 
 Good fortune to ye, lady ! you deserve it ; 
 To me, too-late repentance 1 I have 
 sought it. 
 
 98 Sympson sug- 
 gests dor=mock. 
 
 I do not envy, though I grieve a little, 
 
 You are mistress of that happiness, those 
 joys, 
 
 That might have been, had I been wise — 
 but fortune — 
 Pin. She understands ye not; pray ye, do 
 not trouble her : 
 
 And do not cross me like a hare thus; 
 't is as ominous."* 
 Lil. I come not to upbraid your levity 
 
 (Though ye made show of love, and 
 though I lik'd ye), 
 
 To claim an interest (we are yet both 
 strangers ; 
 
 But what we might have been, had you 
 persever'd, sir!) 
 
 To be an eye-sore to your loving lady : 
 
 This garland shows I give "" myself for- 
 saken 
 
 (Yet, she must pardon me, 't is most un- 
 willingly) ; 
 
 And all the power and interest I had in 
 
 ye 
 
 (As, I ■ persuade myself, somewhat ye 
 
 lov'd me) 
 Thus patiently I render up, I offer 
 To her that must enjoy ye, and so bless 
 
 ye; 
 
 Only, I heartily desire this courtesy. 
 And would not be denied, to wait upon 
 
 ye 
 
 This day, to see ye tied, then no more 
 trouble ye. 
 Pin. It needs not, lady. 
 Lil. Good sir, grant me so much. 
 
 Pin. 'Tis private, and we make no invi- 
 tation. 
 Lil. My presence, sir, shall not proclaim it 
 
 public. 
 Pin. May be, 't is not in town. 
 Lil. I have a coach, sir. 
 
 And a most ready will to do you service. 
 Mir. (Aside to Pinae.) Strike now or 
 never; make it sure: I tell thee. 
 She will hang herself, if she have thee 
 not. 
 Pin. Pray ye, sir. 
 
 Entertain my noble mistress : only a word 
 
 or two 
 With this importunate woman, and I'll 
 
 relieve ye. — 
 Now ye see what your flings are, and 
 
 your fancies. 
 Your states, and your wild stubbornness ; 
 
 now ye find 
 What 'tis to gird°° and kick at men's 
 fair services. 
 
 94 It was consid- 
 ered bad luck to 
 
 have a hare cross 
 in front of one. 
 
 9B grant. 
 
 98 jeer. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 369 
 
 To raise your pride to such a pitch and 
 
 glory 
 That goodness shows like gnats, scorn'd 
 
 under ye. 
 'Tis ugly, naught; a self-will in a 
 
 woman, 
 Chain'd to an overweening thought, is 
 
 pestilent, 
 Murders fair fortune first, then fair 
 
 opinion. 
 There stands a pattern, a true patient 
 
 pattern, 
 Humble and sweet. 
 Lil. I can but grieve my ignorance. 
 
 Repentance, some say too, is the best sac- 
 rifice; 
 For, sure, sir, if my chance had been so 
 
 happy 
 (As I confess I was mine own destroyer) 
 As to have arriv'd at you, I will not 
 
 .prophesy. 
 But certain, as I think, I should have 
 
 pleas'd ye; 
 Have made ye as much wonder at my 
 
 courtesy. 
 My love, and duty, as I have disheart- 
 
 en'd ye. 
 Some hours we have of youth, and some 
 
 of folly; 
 And being free-born maids, we take a 
 
 liberty. 
 And, to maintain that, sometimes we 
 
 strain highly. 
 Pin. Now you talk reason. 
 Lil. But, being yok'd and govem'd, 
 
 Married, and those light vanities purg'd 
 
 from us. 
 How fair we grow, how gentle, and how 
 
 tender ! 
 We twine about those loves that shoot up 
 
 with us! 
 A sullen woman fear, that talks not to 
 
 " ye; 
 
 She has a sad and darken'd soul, loves 
 dully. 
 
 A merry and a free wench, give her 
 liberty. 
 
 Believe her, in the lightest form she ap- 
 pears to ye. 
 
 Believe her excellent, though she despise 
 
 ye; 
 
 Let but these fits and flashes pass, she 
 
 will show to ye 
 As jewels rubb'd from dust, or gold new 
 
 bumish'd : 
 Such had I been, had you believ'd. 
 Pin. Is 't possible? 
 
 Lil. And to your happiness, I dare as- 
 sure ye. 
 
 If true love be accounted so : your pleas- 
 ure, 
 
 Your will, and your command, had tied 
 my motions: 
 
 But that hope 's gone. I know you are 
 young and giddy, 
 
 And, till you have a wife can govern 
 with ye, 
 
 You sail upon this world's sea light and 
 empty. 
 
 Your bark in danger daily. 'T is not the 
 name neither 
 
 Of wife can steer you, but the noble na- 
 ture. 
 
 The diligence, the care, the love, the pa- 
 tience : 
 
 She makes the pilot, and preserves the 
 husband. 
 
 That knows and reckons every rib he is 
 built on. 
 
 But this I tell ye to my shame. 
 Pin. I admire ye; 
 
 And now am sorry that I aim beyond ye. 
 Mir. (Aside.) So, so, so : fair and softly ! 
 She is thine own, boy; 
 
 She comes now without lure. 
 Pin. But that it must needs 
 
 Be reckon'd to me as a wantonness. 
 
 Or worse, a madness, to forsake a bless- 
 ing, 
 
 A blessing of that hope 
 
 Lil. I dare not urge ye; 
 
 And yet, dear sir 
 
 Pin. 'Tis most certain, I had rather. 
 
 If 'twere in mine own choice — for you 
 are my country-woman, 
 
 A neighbor here, bom by me; she a 
 stranger, 
 
 And who knows how her friends- 
 
 Lil. Do as you please, sir ; 
 
 If ye be fast, not all the world — I love 
 
 It is most true, and clear I would per- 
 suade ye; 
 And I shall love you still. 
 Pin. Go, get before me — 
 
 So much you have won upon me — do it 
 
 presently. 
 Here 's a priest ready — I '11 have you. 
 Lil. Not now, sir; 
 
 No, you shall pardon me. Advance your 
 
 lady; 
 I dare not hinder your most high prefer- 
 ment: 
 'T is honor enough for me I have un- 
 mask'd you. 
 Pin. How's that? 
 
 Lil. I have caught ye, sir. Alas, I am 
 no stateswoman. 
 
370 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Nor no great traveler, yet I have found 
 
 ye; 
 
 I have found your lady too, your beaute- 
 ous lady; 
 
 I have found her birth and breeding too, 
 her discipline. 
 
 Who brought her over, and who kept 
 your lady. 
 
 And, when he laid her by, what virtuous 
 nunnery 
 
 Receiv'd her in: I have found all these. 
 Are ye blank now? 
 
 Methinks, such travel'd wisdoms should 
 not fool thus, — 
 
 Such excellent indiscretions ! 
 Mir. How could she know this? 
 
 Lil. 'T is true she 's English-born ; but 
 most part French now, 
 
 And so I hope you '11 find her to your 
 comfort. 
 
 Alas, I am ignorant of what she cost ye ! 
 
 The price of these hired clothes I do not 
 know, gentlemen! 
 
 Those jewels are the broker's, how ye 
 stand bound for 'em ! 
 Pin. Will you make this good? 
 Lil. Yes, yes ; and to her face, sir, 
 
 Tiat she is an English whore, a kind of 
 fling-dust. 
 
 One of your London light-o'-loves, a 
 right one; 
 
 Came over in thin pumps and half a pet- 
 ticoat. 
 
 One faith, and one smock, with a broken 
 haberdasher — 
 
 I know all this without a conjurer. 
 
 Her name is Jumping Joan, an ancient 
 sin-weaver ; 
 
 She was first a lady's chambermaid, there 
 slipp'd. 
 
 And broke her leg above the knee; de- 
 parted. 
 
 And set up shop he'rself ; stood the fierce 
 conflicts 
 
 Of many a furious term; there lost her 
 colors. 
 
 And last shipp'd over hither. 
 Mir. We are betray' d ! 
 
 Lil. Do you come to fright me with this 
 mystery ? 
 
 To stir me with a stink none can endure, 
 sir? 
 
 I pray ye, proceed ; the wedding will be- 
 come ye: 
 
 Who gives the lady? You? An excel- 
 lent father! 
 
 A careful man, and one that knows a 
 beauty ! 
 
 97 take tbose clothes off. 
 
 Send ye fair shipping, sir! and so, I'll 
 
 leave ye. 
 Be wise and manly; then I may chance 
 to love ye ! 
 
 Exit with Servant. 
 Mir. As I live, I am asham'd this wench 
 has reach'd me, 
 Monstrous asham'd ; but there 's no rem- 
 edy. 
 
 This skew'd-ey'd carrion 
 
 Pin. This I suspected ever. — 
 
 Come, come, unease; °' we have no more 
 
 use of ye; 
 Your clothes must back again. 
 Mari. Sir, you shall pardon me; 
 
 'T is not our English use to be degraded. 
 If you will visit me, and take your ven- 
 ture. 
 You shall have pleasure for your prop- 
 erties. 
 
 And so, sweetheart 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Mir. Let her go, and the devil go with her ! 
 
 We have never better luck with these pre- 
 
 ludiums. 
 Come, be not daunted ; think she is but a 
 
 woman, 
 And, let her have the devil's wit, we'll 
 reach her! 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. A public walk. 
 
 Enter Bosalura and Lugier. 
 
 Bos. You have now redeem'd my good 
 opinion, tutor. 
 And ye stand fair again. 
 Lug. I can but labor, 
 
 And sweat in your affairs. I am sure 
 
 Belleur 
 Will be here instantly, and use his anger. 
 His wonted harshness. 
 Ros. I hope he will not beat me. 
 
 Lug. No, sure, he has more manners. Be 
 
 you ready. 
 Bos. Yes, yes, I am; and am resolv'd to 
 fit him. 
 With patience to outdo all he can offer. 
 But how does Oriana? 
 Lug. Worse and worse still ; 
 
 There is a sad house for her; °* she is 
 
 now, 
 Poor lady, utterly distracted. 
 Bos. Pity, 
 
 Infinite pity! 'tis a handsome lady: 
 
 SB her household is sad about her. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 371 
 
 That Mirabel's a beast, worse than a 
 
 monster, 
 If this affliction work not. 
 
 Enter Lillia Bianea. 
 Lil. Are you ready 1 
 
 Belleur is coming on here, hard behind 
 
 me: 
 I have no leisure to relate my fortune; 
 Only I wish you may come off as hand- 
 somely. 
 Upon the sign, you know what. 
 Bos. Well, well; leave me. 
 
 Exeunt Lillia Bianea and Lugier. 
 Enter Belleur. 
 
 Bel. How now? 
 Bos. Ye are welcome, sir. 
 
 Bel. 'T is well ye have manners. 
 
 That court'sy again, and hold your coun- 
 tenance staidly. 
 That look 's too light ; take heed : so ; sit 
 
 ye down now; 
 And, to confirm me that your gall is gone, 
 Your bitterness dispers'd (for so I '11 
 
 have it). 
 Look on me steadfastly, and, whatsoe'er 
 
 I say to ye, 
 Move not, nor alter in your face; ye are 
 
 gone then; 
 For, if you do express the least distaste, 
 Or show an angry wrinkle, (mark me, 
 
 woman ! 
 We are now alone,) I will so conjure 
 
 thee, 
 The third part of my execution 
 Cannot be spoke. 
 Bos. I am at your dispose, sir. 
 
 Bel. Now rise, and woo me a little ; let me 
 hear that faculty: 
 But touch me not; nor do not lie, I 
 
 charge ye. 
 Begin now. 
 Bos. ' If so mean and poor a beauty 
 
 May ever hope the grace 
 
 Bel. Ye cog,'' ye flatter ; 
 
 Like a lewd thing, ye lie: "May hope 
 
 that grace!" 
 Why, what grace canst thou hope for? 
 
 Answer not; 
 For, if thou dost, and liest again, I'll 
 
 swinge thee. 
 Do not I know thee for a pestilent 
 
 woman? 
 A proud at both ends? Be not angry. 
 Nor stir not, o' your life. 
 Bos. I am eounsel'd, sir. 
 
 Bel. Art thou not now (confess, for I '11 
 have the truth out) 
 
 99 cheat. 
 
 As much unworthy of a man of merit, 
 Or any of ye all, nay, of mere man, 
 Though he were crooked, cold, all wants 
 
 upon him. 
 Nay, of any dishonest thing that bears 
 
 that figure. 
 As devils are of mercy? 
 Bos. We are unworthy. 
 
 Bel. Stick to that truth, and it may 
 chance to save thee. 
 And is it not our bounty that we take ye? 
 That we are troubled, vex'd, or tortur'd 
 
 with ye. 
 Our mere and special bounty ? 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 Bel. Our pity. 
 
 That for your wickedness we swinge ye 
 
 soundly; 
 Your stubbornness and stout hearts, we 
 
 belabor ye? 
 Answer to that ! 
 Bos. I do confess your pity. 
 
 Bel. And dost not thou deserve in thine 
 own person, 
 Thou impudent, thou pert — Do not 
 change countenance. 
 Eos. I dare not, sir. 
 
 Bel. For, if ye do 
 
 Ros, I am settled. 
 
 Bel. Thou wagtail, peacock, puppy, look 
 on me: 
 I am a gentleman. 
 Bos. It seems no less, sir, 
 
 Bel. And dar'st thou in thy surque- 
 
 dry 
 
 Bos. I beseech ye! — 
 
 It was my weakness, sir, I did not view 
 
 ye, 
 
 I took not notice of your noble parts. 
 
 Nor eall'd your person nor your fashion 
 proper.^ 
 Bel. This is some amends yet. 
 Bos. I shall mend, sir, daily. 
 
 And study to deserve. 
 Bel. Come a little nearer: 
 
 Canst thou repent thy villainy? 
 Bos. Most seriously. 
 
 Bel. And be asham'd? 
 Bos. I am asham'd. 
 
 Bel. Cry. 
 
 Bos. It wiU be hard to do, sir. 
 Bel. Cry now instantly; 
 
 Cry monstrously, that all the town may 
 hear thee ; 
 
 Cry seriously, as if thou hadst lost thy 
 monkey ; 
 
 And, as I like thy tears 
 
 Bos. Now ! 
 
 1 handsome ; original reading proper faehion. 
 
372 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Enter Lillia Bianea, and four Women, 
 laughing. 
 
 Bel. How! how! Do ye jeer mel 
 
 Have ye broke your bounds again, dame? 
 
 Bos. Yes, and laugh at ye, 
 
 And laugh most heartily. 
 Bel. What are these 1 whirlwinds 'S 
 
 Is hell broke loose, and all the Furies 
 
 flutter'd? 
 Am I greased ^ once again? 
 Bos. Yes, indeed are ye ; 
 
 And once again ye shall be, if ye quar- 
 rel: 
 Do you come to vent your fury on a 
 
 virgin 1 
 Is this your manhood, sir? 
 
 1 Worn. Let him do his best ; 
 Let 's see the utmost of his indignation ; 
 I long to see him angry. — Come, proceed, 
 
 sir. — 
 Hang him, he dares not stir; a man of 
 timber ! 
 
 2 Worn. Come hither to fright maids with 
 
 thy bull-faces! 
 To threaten gentlewomen ! Thou a man ! 
 
 A Maypole, 
 A great dry pudding.* 
 
 3 Worn. Come, come, do your worst, sir; 
 Be angry, if thou dar'st. 
 
 Bel. The Lord deliver me ! 
 
 4 Worn. Do but look scurvily upon this 
 
 lady. 
 Or give us one foul word! — ^We are all 
 
 mistaken ; 
 This is some mighty dairy-maid in man's 
 clothes. 
 Lil. I am of that mind too. 
 Bel. (Aside.) What will they do to 
 
 me? 
 Lil. And hired to come and abuse us. — ^A 
 man has manners; 
 A gentleman, civility and breeding : — 
 Some tinker's trull, with a beard glu'd 
 on. 
 1 Worn. Let 's search him. 
 
 And, as we find him 
 
 Bel. Let me but depart from ye, 
 
 Sweet Christian women ! 
 Lil. Hear the thing speak, neighbors. 
 
 Bel. 'T is but a small request : if e'er I 
 trouble ye. 
 If e'er I talk again of beating women. 
 Or beating any thing that can but turn 
 
 to me; 
 Of ever thinking of a handsome lady 
 But virtuously and well; of ever speak- 
 ing 
 
 But to her honor, — this I'll promise 
 
 ye, 
 
 I win take rhubarb,, and purge choler 
 
 mainly,* 
 Abundantly I 'U purge. 
 Lil. I '11 send ye broths, sir. 
 
 Bel. I wiU be laugh'd at, and endure it 
 patiently ; 
 I will do any thing. 
 Bos. I '11 be your bail, then. 
 
 When ye come next to woo, pray come 
 
 not boisterously, 
 And f urnish'd like a bear-ward.^ 
 Bel. No, in truth, forsooth. 
 
 Bos. I scented ye long since. 
 Bel. I was to blame, sure : 
 
 I will appear a gentleman. 
 Bos. 'T is the best for ye, 
 
 For a true noble gentleman's a brave 
 
 thing. 
 Upon that hope, we quit ye. You fear 
 seriously ? 
 Bel. Yes, truly do I; I confess I fear 
 
 ye, 
 
 And honor ye, and any thing. 
 Bos. Farewell, then. 
 
 Worn. And, when ye come to woo next, 
 bring more mercy. 
 
 Exeunt all except Belleur. 
 Enter two Gentlemen. 
 
 Bel. A dairy-maid! A tinker's trull! 
 Heaven bless me ! 
 
 Sure, if I had provok'd 'em, they had 
 quarter'd me. 
 
 I am a most ridiculous ass, now I per- 
 ceive it; 
 
 A coward, and a knave too. 
 
 1 Gent. 'Tis the mad gentleman; 
 Let 's set our faces right. 
 
 Bel. No, no ; laugh at me. 
 
 And laugh aloud. 
 
 2 Gent. We are better manner'd, sir. 
 Bel. I do deserve it; call me patch ° and 
 
 puppy, 
 
 And beat me, if you please. 
 
 1 Gent. No, indeed; we know ye. 
 Bel. 'Death, do as I would have ye! 
 
 2 Gent. Ye are an ass, then, 
 A coxcomb, and a calf ! 
 
 Bel. I am a great calf. 
 
 Kick me a little now. Why, when! 
 
 {They kick him.) SufiReient. 
 Now laugh aloud, and scorn me. So 
 
 good b' ye! 
 And ever, when ye meet me, laugh. 
 Gentlemen. We will, sir. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 2 fooled. 
 
 8 sausage. 
 
 i vigorously. 
 
 B bear-keeper. 
 
 e fool. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 373 
 
 Scene 3. A room in La Castre's house. 
 
 Enter Nantolet, La Castre, De Gard, 
 Lugier, and Mirabel, 
 
 Mir. Your patience, gentlemen; why do 
 
 ye bait me? 
 Nant. Is 't not a shame you are so stub- 
 bom-hearted, 
 So stony and so dull, to such a lady, 
 Of her perfections and her misery? 
 Lug. Does she not love ye? Does not her 
 distraction 
 For your sake only, her most pitied lu- 
 nacy 
 Of all but you, show ye? Does it not 
 compel ye? 
 Mir. Soft and fair, gentlemen; pray ye, 
 
 proceed temperately. 
 Lug. If ye have any feeling, any sense in 
 
 ye, 
 
 The least touch of a noble heart 
 
 La Cast. Let him alone: 
 
 It is his glory that he can kill beauty. — 
 
 Ye bear my stamp, but not my tender- 
 ness ; 
 
 Your wild unsavory courses let ' that in 
 ye! 
 
 For shame, be sorry, though ye cannot 
 cure her; 
 
 Show something of a man, of a fair na^ 
 ture. 
 Mir. Ye make me mad ! 
 Be Gard. Let me pronounce this to ye : 
 
 You take a strange felicity in slighting 
 
 And wronging women, which my poor 
 sister feels now; 
 
 Heaven's hand be gentle on her! Mark 
 me, sir; 
 
 That very hour' she dies (there 's small 
 hope otherwise) , 
 
 That minute, you and I must grapple for 
 it; 
 
 Either your life or mine. 
 jjfj>. Be not so hot, sir; 
 
 . I am not to be wrought on by these poli- 
 cies. 
 
 In truth, I am not; nor do I fear the 
 tricks, 
 
 Or the high-sounding threats, of a Sa- 
 voy an. 
 
 I glory not in cruelty, (ye wrong me,) 
 
 Nor grow up water'd with the tears of 
 women. 
 
 This let me tell ye, howsoe'er I show to 
 ye. 
 
 Wild, as you please to call it, or self- 
 will'd, 
 
 When I see cause, I can both do and 
 suffer. 
 
 Freely and feelingly, as a true gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Enter Bosalura and Lillia Bianca. 
 
 Bos. Oh, pity, pity! thousand, thousand 
 
 pities ! 
 Lil. Alas, poor soul, she will die ! She is 
 
 grown senseless; 
 She will not know nor speak now. 
 Bos. Die for love ! 
 
 And love of such a youth! I would die 
 
 for a dog first : 
 He that kills me, I'U give him leave to 
 
 eat me; 
 I '11 know men better, ere I sigh for any 
 
 of 'em. 
 Lil. You have done a worthy act, sir, a 
 
 most famous; 
 Ye have kill'd a maid the wrong way ; ye 
 
 are a conqueror. 
 Bos, A conqueror? A cobbler! Hang 
 
 him, sowter ! * — 
 Go hide thyself, for shame ! Go lose thy 
 
 memory ! 
 Live not 'mongst men; thou art a beast, 
 
 a monster, 
 A blatant beast ! 
 Lil. If ye have yet any honesty, 
 
 Or ever heard of any, take my counsel : 
 Off with your garters, and seek out a 
 
 bough, — 
 A handsome bough, for I would have ye 
 
 hang like a gentleman; 
 And write some doleful matter to the 
 
 world, 
 A warning to hard-hearted men. 
 Mir. Out, kitlings ! ' 
 
 What caterwauling 's here! What gib- 
 
 bing!" 
 Do you think my heart is soft'ned with a 
 
 black santis? " 
 Show me some reason. 
 
 Enter Oriana on a bed. 
 
 Bos, Here then, here is a reason. 
 
 Nant, Now, if ye be a man, let this sight 
 
 shake ye! 
 La Cast. Alas, poor gentlewoman! — Do 
 
 ye know me, lady? 
 Lug. How she looks up, and stares ! 
 Ori. I know ye very well; 
 
 You are my godfather : and that 's the 
 
 monsieur. 
 De Gard. And who am I? 
 Ori. You are Amadis de Gaul, sir. — 
 
 ■/ prevent. 
 
 8 cobbler. 
 
 9 kittens. 
 
 10 Catlike behav- 
 ior (N. E. D.); 
 
 possibly misprint 
 for gibing. 
 
 11 I. e. 
 
 tUB, 
 
 black-sanc- 
 i burlesque 
 
 hymn accompan- 
 ied by discordant 
 noises. (Neilson.) 
 
374 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Oh, oh, my heart! — Were you never in 
 
 love, sweet lady? 
 And do you never dream of flowers and 
 
 gardens'? 
 I dream of walking fires: take heed; it 
 
 comes now. 
 Who 's that ? Pray, stand away. I have 
 
 seen that face, sure. — 
 How light my head is ! 
 Bos. Take some rest. 
 
 Ori. I cannot; 
 
 For I must be up to-morrow to go to 
 
 church. 
 And I must dress me, put my new gown 
 
 on, 
 And be as fine to meet my love ! Heigh- 
 ho! 
 Will you not tell me where my love lies 
 buried? 
 Mir. He is not dead. — (Aside.) Beshrew 
 
 my heart, she stirs me ! 
 Ori. He is dead to me. 
 Mir. {Aside.) Is 't possible my nature 
 Should be so damnable to let her suf- 
 fer?— 
 Give me your hand. 
 Ori. How soft you feel, how gentle! 
 
 I '11 tell you your fortune, friend. 
 Mir. How she stares on me! 
 
 Ori. You have a flattering face, but 'tis a 
 fine one; 
 I warrant you may have a hundred sweet- 
 hearts. 
 Will ye pray for me? I shall die to- 
 morrow ; 
 And will ye ring the bells? 
 Mir. I am most unworthy, 
 
 I do confess, unhappy. Do you know 
 me? 
 Ori. I would I did ! 
 
 Mir. Oh, fair tears, how ye take me! 
 
 Ori. Do you weep too? You have not 
 lost your lover? 
 You mock me : I '11 go home and pray. 
 Mir. Pray ye, pardon me; 
 
 Or, if it please ye to consider justly, 
 Scorn me, for I deserve it; scorn and 
 
 shame me. 
 Sweet Oriana ! 
 Lil. Let her alone ; she trembles : 
 
 Her fits will grow more strong, if ye pro- 
 voke her. 
 La Cast. Certain she knows ye not, yet 
 loves to see ye. 
 How she smiles now! 
 
 Enter Belleur. 
 
 Bel. Where are ye? Oh, why do not ye 
 laugh? Come, laugh at me : 
 
 Why a devil art thou sad, and such a 
 
 subject. 
 Such a ridiculous subject, as I am, 
 Before thy face? 
 Mir. Prithee, put off this lightness; 
 
 This is no time for mirth, nor place; I 
 
 have us'd too much on 't. 
 I have undone myself and a sweet lady 
 By being too indulgent to my foolery. 
 Which truly I repent. Look here. 
 Bel. What ails she? 
 
 Mir. Alas, she 's mad ! 
 Bel Mad! 
 
 Mir. Yes, too sure; for me too. 
 
 Bel. Dost thou wonder at that? By this 
 good light, they are all so ; 
 They are eoz'ning-mad, they are brawl- 
 
 ing-mad, they are proud-mad; 
 They are all, all mad. I came from a 
 
 world of mad women. 
 Mad as March hares. Get 'em in chains, 
 
 then deal with 'em. 
 There 's one that 's mad ; she seems well, 
 
 but she is dog-mad. 
 Is she dead, dost think? 
 Mir. Dead! Heaven forbid! 
 
 Bel. Heaven further it ! 
 
 For, till they be key-cold dead, there 's no 
 
 trusting of 'em : 
 Whate'er they seem, or howsoe'er they 
 
 carry it. 
 Till they be chap-fallen, and their 
 
 tongues at peace, 
 Nail'd in their eoflfins sure, I '11 ne'er be- 
 lieve 'em. 
 Shall I talk with her? 
 Mir. No, dear friend, be quiet. 
 
 And be at peace a while. 
 Bel. I'll walk aside, 
 
 And come again anon. But take heed to 
 
 her: 
 You say she is a woman? 
 Mir. Yes. 
 
 Bel. Take great heed; 
 
 For, if she do not cozen thee, then hang 
 
 me: 
 Let her be mad, or what she will, she'll 
 cheat thee ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Mir. Away, wild fool! — ^How vile this 
 shows in him now! — 
 Now take my faith (before ye all I speak 
 
 it). 
 And with it my repentant love. 
 La Cast. This seems well. 
 
 Mir. Were but this lady clear again, whose 
 sorrows 
 My very heart melts for, were she but 
 perfect. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 375 
 
 (For thus to marry her would be two 
 
 miseries), 
 Before the richest and the noblest beauty; 
 France or the world could show me, I 
 
 would take her. 
 As she is now, my tears and prayers shall 
 wed her. 
 De Gard. This makes some small amends. 
 Ros. She beckons to ye ; 
 
 To us, too, to go off. 
 
 Nant. Let 's draw aside all. 
 
 Exeunt all except Oriana and Mirabel. 
 
 On. Oh, my best friend ! I would fain — 
 
 Mir. (Aside. ) What ! she speaks well, 
 
 And with another voice. 
 Ori. But I am fearful, 
 
 And shame a little stops my tongue — 
 Mir. Speak boldly. 
 
 Ori. Tell ye, I am well. I am perfect well 
 (pray ye, mock not) ; 
 And that I did this to provoke your 
 
 nature ; 
 Out of my infinite and restless love. 
 To win your pity. Pardon me ! 
 Mir. Go forward : 
 
 AVho set ye on ? 
 Ori. None, as I live, no creature ; 
 
 Not any knew or ever dream'd what I 
 
 meant. 
 Will ye be mine ? 
 Mir. 'T is true, I pity ye ; 
 
 But, when I marry ye, ye must be wiser. 
 Nothing but tricks? devices'? 
 Ori. AVill ye shame me? 
 
 Mir. Yes, marry, will I. — Come near, come 
 near ! a miracle ! 
 The woman 's well; she was only mad for 
 
 marriage. 
 Stark mad to be ston'd to death : give her 
 
 good counsel. 
 Will this world never mend? — Are ye 
 ' caught, damsel? 
 
 Enter Belleur, Nantolet, La Castre, De 
 Gard, Lugier, Rosalura, and Lillia 
 Bianca. 
 
 Bel. How goes it now? 
 Mir. Thou art a kind of prophet ; 
 
 The woman 's well again, and would have 
 
 guU'd me ; 
 Well, excellent well, and not a taint upon 
 her. 
 Bel. Did not I tell ye? Let 'em be what 
 can be, 
 Saints, devils, any thing, they will abuse 
 
 us: 
 Thou wert an ass to believe her so long, 
 a coxcomb : 
 
 Give 'em a minute, they'll abuse whole 
 millions. 
 Mir. And am not I a rare physician, gen- 
 tlemen, 
 That can cure desperate mad minds? 
 Be Gard. Be not insolent. 
 
 Mir. Well, go thy ways : from this hour I 
 disclaim thee. 
 Unless thou hast a trick above this; then 
 
 I '11 love' thee. 
 Ye owe me for your cure. — Pray, have a 
 
 care of her. 
 For fear she fall into relapse. — Come, 
 
 Belleur ; 
 We '11 set up bills to cure diseased virgins. 
 Bel, Shall we be merry? 
 Mir. Yes. 
 
 Bel. But I '11 no more projects : 
 
 If we could make 'em mad, it were some 
 mastery. 
 
 Exeunt Mirabel and Belleur. 
 Lit. I am glad she is well again. 
 Ros. So am I, certain. — ■ 
 
 Be not ashamed. 
 Ori. I shall never see a man more. 
 
 De Gard. Come, j'e are a fool : had ye but 
 told me this trick. 
 He should not have gloried thus. 
 Lug. He shall not long, neither. 
 
 La Cast. Be rul'd, and be at peace. Ye 
 have my consent. 
 And what power I can work with. 
 Nant. Come, leave blushing; 
 
 We are your friends : an honest way com- 
 
 pell'd ye : 
 Heaven will not see so true a love unre- 
 
 eompens'd. 
 Come in, and slight him too. 
 Lug. The next shall hit him. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 Scene 1. A street. 
 
 Enter De Gard and Lugier. 
 
 De Gard. 'T will be diseover'd. 
 Lug. That 's the worst can happen : 
 
 If there be any way to reach, and work 
 
 upon him, 
 Upon his nature suddenly, and catch 
 
 him — That he loves, 
 Though he dissemble it, and would show 
 
 contrary, 
 And will at length relent, I '11 lay my for- 
 tune; 
 Nay, more, my life. 
 De Gard. Is she won ? 
 
376 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Tjug. Yes, and ready, 
 
 And my designments set. 
 Be Gard. They are now for travel ; 
 
 All for that game again; they have for- 
 got wooing. 
 Lug. Let 'em ; we '11 travel with 'em. 
 De Gard. Where 's his father 1 
 
 Lug. Within ; he knows my mind t6o, and 
 allows ^^ it, 
 Pities your sister's fortune most sin- 
 cerely, 
 And has appointed, for our more as- 
 sistance. 
 Some of his secret friends. 
 De Gard. Speed the plough ! 
 
 Lug. Well said ! 
 
 And be you serious too. 
 De Gard. I shall be diligent. 
 
 Lug. Let 's break the ice for one, the rest 
 will drink too 
 (Believe me, sir) of the same cup. My 
 
 young gentlewoman 
 Wait but who sets the game a-foot. 
 
 Though they seem stubborn, 
 Reserv'd, and proud now, yet I know 
 
 their hearts, 
 Their pulses how they beat, and for what 
 
 cause, sir, 
 And how they long to venture their 
 
 abilities 
 In a true quarrel. Husbands they must 
 
 and will have. 
 Or nunneries and thin collations 
 To cool their bloods. Let 's all about our 
 
 business, 
 And, if this fail, let nature work. 
 De Gard. Ye have arm'd me. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. A public walk. 
 
 Enter Mirabel, Nantolet, and La Castre. 
 
 La Cast. Will ye be wilful, then ■? 
 Mir. Pray, sir, your pardon ; 
 
 For I must travel. Lie lazy here. 
 Bound to a wife ! Chain'd to her subtle- 
 ties, 
 Her humors, and her wills, which are 
 
 mere fetters ! 
 To have her to-day pleas'd, to-morrow 
 
 peevish. 
 The third day mad, the fourth rebellious ! 
 You see before they are married, what 
 moriscoes,^* 
 
 What masques and mummeries they put 
 
 upon us: 
 To be tied here, and suffer their la- 
 voltas ! " 
 Nant. 'T is your own seeking. 
 Mir. Yes, to get my freedom. 
 
 Were they as I could wish 'em — 
 La Cast. Fools and meacocks,^° 
 
 To endure what you think fit to put upon 
 
 'em. 
 Come, change your mind. 
 Mir. Not before I have chang'd air, father. 
 When I know women worthy of my com- 
 
 I will return again, and wait upon 'em ; 
 Till then, dear sir, I'll amble aU the 
 
 world over. 
 And run all hazards, misery, and poverty, 
 
 Enter Pinac and Belleur. 
 
 So I escape the dangerous bay of matri- 
 mony. 
 Pin. Are ye resolv'd? 
 Mir. Yes, certain ; I will out again. 
 
 Pin. We are for ye, sir ; we are your serv- 
 ants once more; 
 
 Once more we '11 seek our fortune in 
 strange countries; 
 
 Ours is too scornful for us. 
 Bel. Is there ne'er a land 
 
 That you have read or heard of (for I 
 care not how far it be. 
 
 Nor under what pestiferous star it lies), 
 
 A happy kingdom, where there are no 
 women. 
 
 Nor have been ever, nor no mention 
 
 Of any such lewd things with lewder 
 qualities, 
 
 (For thither would I travel) where 'tis 
 felony 
 
 To confess he had a mother; a mistress, 
 treason ? 
 La Cast. Are you for travel too 7 
 Bel. For any thing, 
 
 For living in the moon, and stopping 
 hedges,^' 
 
 Ere I stay here to be abus'd and baffl'd.^' 
 Nant. Why did ye not break your minds 
 to me? They are my daughters; 
 
 And, sure, I think I should have that com- 
 mand over 'em. 
 
 To see 'em well bestow'd. I know ye are 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Men of fair parts and states; I know 
 your parents: 
 
 12 approves. 
 
 13 Morris-dances, in 
 which the per- 
 formers were fan- 
 tastically dressed. 
 
 14 high-bounding 
 dances. 
 
 15 cowards. 
 
 16 An allusion to the 
 popular idea of 
 
 the man in 
 moon, with 
 
 the 
 his 
 bundle of sticlcs, 
 which Belleur 
 
 supposes to be in- 
 
 tended for mend- 
 ing hedges with. 
 (Weber.) 
 17 disgraced : the 
 term was used of 
 
 the punishment 
 given a knight 
 for 'perjury, the 
 displaying of a 
 painting of him 
 upside down. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 377 
 
 And, had ye told me of your fair affec- 
 tions — 
 Make but one trial more, and let me sec- 
 ond ye. 
 Bel. No ; I '11 make hob-nails first, and 
 mend old kettles. 
 Can ye lend me an armor of high proof, 
 
 to appear in, 
 And two or three field-pieces to defend 
 
 me? 
 The king's guard are mere pigmies. 
 Nanf. They will not eat ye. 
 
 Bel. Yes, and you too, and twenty fatter 
 monsieurs, 
 If their high stomachs hold. They came 
 
 with ehopping-knives, 
 To cut me into rands ^^ and sirloins, and 
 
 so powder ^° me. — 
 Come, shall we go ? 
 Nant. You cannot be so discourteous, 
 
 If ye intend to go, as not to visit 'em, 
 And take your leaves. 
 Mir. That we dare do, and civilly, 
 
 And thank 'em too. 
 Pin. Yes, sir, we know that honesty. 
 
 Bel. I '11 come i' the rear, forty foot oft, 
 I '11 assure ye. 
 With a good gun in my hand. I '11 no 
 
 more Amazons, 
 I mean, no more of their frights. I'll 
 
 make my three legs,^" 
 Kiss my hand twice, and, if I smell no 
 
 danger, 
 If the interview be clear, may be I'll 
 
 speak to her ; 
 I 'II wear a privy coat ^^ too, and behind 
 
 me. 
 To make those parts secure, a bandog. 
 La Cast. You are a merry gentleman. 
 Bel. A wary gentleman, I do assure ye. 
 
 I have been warn'd; and must be arm'd. 
 
 ■La Cast. Well, son. 
 
 These are your hasty thoughts; when I 
 
 see you are bent to it. 
 Then I'll believe, and join with ye: so, 
 we '11 leave ye. — 
 {Aside.) 
 There 's a trick will make ye stay. 
 Nant. (Aside.) I hope so. 
 
 Exeunt La Castre and Nantolet. 
 Mir. We have won immortal fame now, if 
 
 we leave 'em. 
 Pin. You have ; but we have lost. 
 Mir. Pinac, thou art cozen'd. 
 
 I know they love ye; and to gain ye 
 
 handsomely, 
 Not to be thought to yield, they would 
 give millions. 
 
 IS pieces. i° salt. zo bows. 
 
 Their father's willingness, that must 
 needs show ye. 
 Pin. If I thought so — 
 Mir. Ye shall be hang'd, ye recreant ! 
 
 Would ye turn renegado now ? 
 Bel. No ; let 's away, boys. 
 
 Out of the air and tumult of their vil- 
 lainies. 
 Though I were married to that grass- 
 hopper. 
 And had her fast by th' legs, I should 
 think she would cozen me. 
 
 Enter a Young Man, disguised as a 
 Factor, 
 
 T.Man, Monsieur Mirabel, I take it? 
 Mir. Y' are i' th' right, sir. 
 
 Y. Man. I am come to seek ye, sir. I have 
 been at your father's, 
 And, understanding you were here — 
 Mir. Ye are welcome. 
 
 May I crave your name ? 
 Y. Man. Fosse, sir, and your servant. 
 
 That you may know me better, I am 
 
 factor 
 To your old merchant, Leverdure. 
 Mir. How does he? 
 
 Y. Man. Well, sir, I hope; he is now at 
 Orleans, . 
 About some business. 
 Mir. You are once more welcome. 
 
 Your master's a right honest man, and 
 
 one 
 I am much beholding to, and must very 
 
 shortly 
 Trouble his love again. 
 Y. Man. You may be bold, sir. 
 
 Mir. Your business, if you please now? 
 Y. Man. This it is, sir. 
 
 I know ye well remember in your travel 
 A Genoa merchant — 
 Mir. 1 remember many. 
 
 Y. Man. But this man, sir, particularly; 
 your own benefit 
 Must needs imprint him in ye; one Al- 
 berto, 
 A gentleman you sav'd from being mur- 
 
 der'd 
 A little from Bologna : 
 I was then myself in Italy, and supplied. 
 
 ye; 
 
 Though haply you have forgot me now.* 
 Mir. No, I remember ye. 
 
 And that Alberto too ; a noble gentleman : 
 
 More to remember were to thank myself, 
 sir. 
 
 What of that gentleman? 
 Y. Man. He is dead, 
 
 21 secret coat of mail. 
 
378 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Mir. I am sorry. 
 
 Y. Man. But on his death-bed, leaving to 
 his sister 
 All that he had, beside some certain 
 
 jewels, 
 Which, with a ceremony, he bequeath'd to 
 
 you 
 In gTateful memory, he commanded 
 
 strictly 
 His sister, as she lov'd him and his peace, 
 To see those jewels safe and true de- 
 
 liver'd. 
 And, with them, his last love. She, as 
 
 tender 
 To observe his will, not trusting friend 
 
 nor servant 
 With such a weight, is come herself to 
 
 Paris 
 And at my master's house. 
 Mir. You tell me a wonder. 
 
 Y. Man. 1 tell ye a truth, sir. She is 
 young and handsome, 
 And well attended; of much state and 
 
 riches ; 
 So loving and obedient to her brother, 
 That, on my conscience, if he had given 
 
 her also, 
 She would most willingly have made her 
 tender. 
 Mir. May not I see her? 
 Y. Man. She desires it heartily. 
 
 Mir. And presently? 
 Y. Man. She is now about some business. 
 Passing accounts of some few debts here 
 
 owing, 
 And buying jewels of a merchant. 
 Mir. Is she wealthy 7 
 
 Y. Man. I would ye had her, sir, at all ad- 
 venture ! 
 Her brother had a main state.^^ 
 Mir. And fair too? 
 
 Y. Man. The prime of all those parts of 
 Italy, 
 For beauty and for courtesy. 
 Mir. I must needs see her. 
 
 Y. Man. 'Tis all her business, sir. Ye 
 may now see her ; 
 But to-morrow will be fitter for your 
 
 visitation, 
 For she is not yet prepared. 
 Mir. Only her sight, sir ; 
 
 'And, when you shall think fit, for further 
 visit. 
 Y. Man. Sir, ye may see her, and I '11 wait 
 
 your coming. 
 Mir. And I '11 be with ye instantly ; I know 
 the house; — 
 Meantime, my love and thanks, sir. 
 
 22 greBt estate. 2S confined, like a hawk in a mews. 
 
 T. Man. 
 
 Your poor servant. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Pin. Thou hast the strangest luck ! What 
 
 was that Alberto ? 
 Mir. An honest noble merchant 'twas my 
 chance 
 To rescue from some rogues had almost 
 
 slain him; 
 And he in kindness to remember this ! 
 Bel. Now we shall have you 
 
 For all your protestations and your for- 
 wardness. 
 Find out strange fortunes in this. lady's 
 
 eyes, 
 And new enticements to put off your jour- 
 ney; 
 And who shall have honor then ? 
 Mir. No, no, never fear it : 
 
 I must needs see her to receive my legacy. 
 Bel. If it be tied up in her smock. Heaven 
 help thee ! 
 May not we see too? 
 Mir. Yes, afore we go : 
 
 I must be known myself, ere I be able 
 To make thee welcome. Wouldst thou see 
 
 more women? 
 I thought you had been out of love with 
 all. 
 Bel. I may be 
 
 (I find that), with the least encourage- 
 ment; 
 Yet I desire to see whether all coun- 
 tries 
 Are naturally possess'd with the same 
 
 spirits, 
 For, if they be, I '11 take a monastery. 
 And never travel: for I had rather be a 
 
 friar, 
 And live mew'd ^^ up, than be a fool, and 
 flouted. 
 Mir. Well, well, I'll meet ye anon, then 
 tell you more, boys ; 
 However, stand prepared, prest ^* for our 
 
 journey; 
 For certain we shall go, I think, when I 
 
 have seen her. 
 And view'd her well. 
 Pin. Go, go, and we '11 wait for ye; 
 
 Your fortune directs ours. 
 Bel. You shall find us i' th' tavern, 
 
 Lamenting in sack and sugar for our 
 
 losses. 
 If she be right Italian, and want serv- 
 
 ants,2» 
 You may prefer the properest man. 
 
 How I could 
 Worry a woman now ! 
 Pin. Come, come, leave prating: 
 
 24 ready. 25 lovers. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 379 
 
 Ye may have enough to do, without this 
 boasting. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ScEKE 3. A room in Nantolet's house. 
 
 Enter Lugier, De Gard, Bosalura, and 
 Lillia Bianca. 
 
 Lug. This is the last adventure. 
 
 De Gard. And the happiest, 
 
 As we hope, too. 
 Bos. "We should be glad to find it. 
 
 Lil. Who shall conduct us thither? 
 Lug. Your man is ready, 
 
 For I must not be seen ; no, nor this gen- 
 tleman ; 
 That may beget suspicion ; all the rest 
 Are people of no doubt. I would have 
 
 ye, ladies. 
 Keep your old liberties, and as we in- 
 struct ye. 
 Come, look not pale; you shall not lose 
 
 your wishes. 
 Nor beg 'em neither; but be yourselves 
 and happy. 
 Bos. I tell you true, I cannot hold off 
 longer. 
 Nor give no more hard language. 
 De Gard. You shall not need. 
 
 Bos. I love the gentleman, and must now 
 show it : 
 Shall I beat a proper man out of heart 1 
 Lug. There 's none advises ye. 
 
 Lil. Faith, I repent me too. 
 Lug. Repent and spoil all; 
 
 Tell what ye know, ye had best ! 
 Lil. I '11 tell what I think; 
 
 For, if he ask me now if I can love him, 
 I 'U tell him, yes, I can. The man 's a 
 
 kind man. 
 And out of his true honesty affects me. 
 Although he play'd the fool, which I re- 
 quited, 
 Must I still hold him at the staff's end? 
 Lug. You are two strange women. 
 
 Bos. We may be, if we fool still. 
 Lug. Dare ye believe me? 
 
 Follow but this advice I have set you in 
 
 now. 
 And if ye lose — Would ye yield now so 
 
 basely? 
 Give up without your honors sav'd 1 
 De Gard. Fie, ladies ! 
 
 Preserve your freedom still. 
 Lil. Well, well, for this time. 
 
 Lug. And carry that full state — 
 Bos. That 's as the wind stands; 
 
 If it begin to chop about, and scant ^' us, 
 
 20 fail. 
 
 Hang me, but I know what I'll do! 
 
 Come, direct us ; 
 I make no doubt we shall do handsomely. 
 De Gard. Some part o' th' way we '11 wait 
 upon ye, ladies; 
 The rest your man supplies. 
 Lug. Do well, I '11 honor ye. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 4. A room in a neighboring house, 
 with a gallery. 
 
 Oriana disguised as an Italian lady, and 
 two persons disguised as Merchants dis- 
 covered above. Enter, below, the Young 
 Man disguised as a Factor, and Mirabel. 
 
 T. Man. Look ye, sir, there she is ; you see 
 how busy. 
 Methinks you are infinitely bound to her 
 for her journey. 
 Mir. How gloriously she shows ! She is a 
 
 tall woman. 
 T. Man. Of a fair size, sir. My master 
 not being at home, 
 I have been so out of my wits to get her 
 
 company ! 
 I mean, sir, of her own fair sex and 
 fashion — 
 Mir. Afar off, she is most fair too. 
 T. Man. Near, most excellent. — 
 
 At length, I have entreated two fair ladies 
 (And happily you know 'em), the young 
 daughters 
 ■ Of Monsieur Nantolet. 
 Mir. I know 'em well, sir. 
 
 What are those? Jewels? 
 T. Man. All. 
 
 Mir. They make a rich show. 
 
 T. Man. There is a matter of ten thousand 
 pounds, too, 
 Was owing here. You see those mer- 
 chants with her ; 
 They have brought it in now. 
 Mir. How hand- 
 
 somely her shape shows ! 
 Y. Man. Those are still neat ; your Italians 
 are most curious.^^ 
 Now she looks this way. 
 Mir. She has a goodly presence ; 
 
 How full of courtesy! — Well, sir, I'll 
 
 leave ye ; 
 And, if I may be bold to bring a friend 
 
 or two. 
 Good noble gentlemen — 
 Y. Man. No doubt, ye may, sir; 
 
 For you have most command. 
 
 27 fastidious. 
 
380 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Mir. I have seen a wonder ! 
 
 Exit. 
 Ori. Is he gonel 
 r. Man. Yes. 
 
 Ori. How? 
 
 r. Man. , Taken to the utmost : 
 
 A wonder dwells about him. 
 Ori. He did not guess at me? 
 
 Y. Man. No, be secure; ye show another 
 woman. 
 
 He is gone to fetch his friends. 
 Ori. Where are the gentlewomen? 
 
 T. Man. Here, here: now they are come, 
 
 Sit still, and let them see ye. 
 
 Enter, below, Bosalura, Lillia Bianca, and 
 Servant. 
 
 Bos. Pray ye, where 's my friend, sir? 
 r. Man. She is within, ladies ; but here 's 
 another gentlewoman, 
 A stranger to this town : so please you 
 visit her, 
 'T wiU be weU taken. 
 Lil. Where is she? 
 
 T. Man. There, above, ladies. 
 
 Serv, Bless me, what thing is this? Two 
 pinnacles 
 Upon her pate ! Is 't not a glode ^' to 
 catch woodcocks? 
 Bos. Peace, ye rude knave ! 
 Serv. What a bouncing bum she has too ! 
 
 There 's saU enough for a carrack.^' 
 Bos. What is this lady ? 
 
 For, as I live, she is a goodly woman. 
 Y. Man. Guess, guess. 
 Lil. I I have not seen a nobler presence. 
 
 Serv. 'T is a lusty wench : now could I 
 spend my forty-pence. 
 With all my heart, to have but one fling 
 
 at her. 
 To give her but a swashing blow. 
 Lil. Ye rascal ! 
 
 Serv. Aye, that 's all a man has for 's good 
 will. 'T will be long enough 
 Before ye cry, "Come, Anthony, and kiss 
 me." 
 Lil. I '11 have ye whipt. 
 Bos. Has my friend seen this lady? 
 
 Y. Man. Yes, yes, and is well known to 
 
 her. 
 Bos. I much admire her presence. 
 Lil. So do I too ; 
 
 For, I protest, she is the handsomest. 
 The rarest, and the newest to mine eye, 
 That ever I saw yet. 
 Bos. I long to know her ; 
 
 My friend shall do that kindness. 
 
 28 glade, an open- Ine birds. (N. E 
 ing in a wood D.) 
 utilized for snar- 2» galleon. 
 
 Ori. So she shall, ladies ; 
 
 Come, pray ye, come up. 
 Bos. Oh me ! 
 
 Lil. Hang me, if I knew her ! — 
 
 Were I a man myself, I should now love 
 
 ye; 
 
 Nay, I should dote. 
 Bos. I dare not trust mine eyes; 
 
 For, as I live, ye are the strangest 
 
 alter'd ! 
 I must come up to know the truth. 
 Serv. So must I, lady : 
 
 For I 'm a kind of unbeliever too. 
 Lil. Get ye gone, sirrah ; 
 
 And what ye have seen be secret in; you 
 
 are paid else! 
 No more of your long tongue. 
 Y. Man. Will ye go in, ladies. 
 
 And talk with her? These venturers will 
 
 come straight. 
 Away with this fellow. 
 Lil. There, sirrah ; go, disport ye. 
 
 Serv. I would the trunk-hos'd ^° woman 
 would go with me. Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 5. The street, before the same 
 house. 
 
 Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 
 
 Pin. Is she so glorious handsome ? 
 Mir. You would wonder ; 
 
 Our women look like gipsies, like gills '' 
 
 to her; 
 Their clothes and fashions beggarly and 
 
 bankrupt. 
 Base, old, and scurvy. 
 Bel. How looks her face? 
 
 Mir. Most heavenly; 
 
 And the becoming motion of her body 
 So sets her off ! 
 Bel. Why then, we shall stay. 
 
 Mir. Pardon me. 
 
 That's more than I know. If she be 
 
 that woman 
 She appears to be — 
 Bel. As 't is impossible. 
 
 Mir. I shall then tell ye more. 
 Pin. Did ye speak to her? 
 
 Mir. No, no, I only saw her ; she was busy. 
 Now I go for that end; and mark her, 
 
 gentlemen. 
 If she appear not to ye one of the sweet- 
 est. 
 The handsomest, the fairest in behavior! 
 We shall meet the two wenches there too ; 
 they come to visit her. 
 
 80 Trunk hose were 
 large, loose 
 
 breeches ; evi- 
 
 dently Oriana 
 was attired in the 
 manner of an 
 
 Oriental woman. 
 81 common 
 wenches. 
 
THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE 
 
 381 
 
 To wonder, as we do. 
 Pin. Then we shall meet 'em. 
 
 Bel. I had rather meet two bears. 
 Mir. There you may take your leaves, de- 
 spatch that business. 
 
 And, as ye find their humors — 
 Pin. Is your love there too 1 
 
 Mir. No, certain; she has no great heart 
 to set out again. 
 
 This is the house ; I '11 usher ye. 
 Bel. I 'II bless me, 
 
 And take a good heart, if I can. 
 Mir. Come, nobly. Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 6. A room in, the same house. 
 
 Enter the Toung Man disguised as a Fac- 
 tor, Bosalura, Lillia Bianca, and Oriana 
 disguised as before. 
 
 Y. Man. They are come in. Sit you two 
 off, as strangers. — 
 There, lady.— Wliere 's the boy? 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Be ready, sirrah. 
 And clear your pipes.^^ — The music now ; 
 they enter. 
 
 {Music.) 
 'Enter Mirabel, Pinac, and Belleur. 
 
 Pin. What a state she keeps! How far 
 off they sit from her ! 
 How' rich she is ! Aye, marry, this shows 
 bravely ! 
 Bel. She is a lusty wench, and may allure 
 a good man ; 
 But, if she have a tongue, I'll not give 
 
 twopence for her. 
 There sits my Fury ; howl shake to see her ! 
 r. Man. Madam, this is the gentleman. 
 Mir. How sweet she kisses! 
 
 She has a spring dwells on her lips, a 
 
 paradise ! 
 This is the legacy? 
 (Song by the Boy, while he presents a cas- 
 ket to Mirabel.) 
 
 From the honor'd dead I bring 
 Thus his love and last off'ring. 
 Take it nobly, 'tia your due. 
 From a friendship ever true; 
 From a faith, &c. 
 
 Ori. Most noble sir, 
 
 This from my now-dead brother, as his 
 
 love, 
 And grateful memory of yiour great bene- 
 fit; 
 
 From me my thanks, my wishes, and my 
 
 service. 
 Till I am more acquainted, I am silent ; 
 Only I dare say this, — you are truly 
 noble. 
 Mir. What should I think? 
 Pin. Think ye have a handsome fortune :_ 
 
 Would I had such another! 
 Bos. Ye are all well met, gentlemen ; 
 
 We hear ye are for travel. 
 Pin. You hear true, lady ; 
 
 And come to take our leaves. 
 Lil. We '11 along with ye : 
 
 We see you are grown so witty by your 
 
 journey, 
 We cannot choose but step out too. This 
 
 lady 
 We mean to wait upon as far as Italy. 
 Bel. I 'II travel into Wales, amongst the 
 mountains, 
 In hope they cannot find me. 
 Bos. If you go further, 
 
 So good and free society we hold ye. 
 We '11 jog along too. 
 Pin. Are you so valiant, lady? 
 
 Lil. And we '11 be merry, sir, and laugh. 
 Pin. It may be 
 
 We '11 go by sea. 
 Lil. Why, 'tis the only voyage! 
 
 I love a sea-voyage, and a blust'ring tem- 
 pest; 
 And let all split! 
 Pin. This is a dainty damosel ! — 
 
 I think 't will tame ye. Can ye ride post ? 
 Lil. Oh, excellently! I am never weary 
 that way : 
 A hundred mile a day is nothing with me. 
 Bel. I '11 travel under ground. Do you 
 hear, sweet lady? 
 I find it will be dangerous for a woman. 
 Bos. No danger, sir, I warrant; I love to 
 
 be under. 
 Bel. I see she will abuse me all the world 
 ' over. — 
 But say we pass through Germany, and 
 drink hard? 
 Bos. We'll learn to drink, and swagger 
 
 too. 
 Bel. She '11 beat me !— 
 
 Lady, I '11 live at home. 
 Bos. And I'll live with thee; 
 
 And we '11 keep house together. 
 Bel. I '11 keep hounds first : 
 
 And those I hate right heartily. 
 Pin. I go for Turkey; 
 
 And so, it may be, up into Persia. 
 Lil. We cannot know too much ; I '11 travel 
 with ye. 
 
 32 throat. 
 
382 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Pin. And you'll abuse me? 
 Lil. Like enough. 
 
 Pin. 'T is dainty! 
 
 Bel. I will live in a bawdy-house. 
 Ros. I dare come to ye. 
 
 Bel. Say I am dispos'd to hang myself? 
 Bos. There I '11 leave ye. 
 
 Bel. I am glad I know how to avoid ye. 
 Mir. May I speak yet ? 
 
 Y. Man. She beckons to ye. 
 Mir. Lady, I could wish I knew to recom- 
 pense, 
 Even with the service of my life, those 
 
 pains. 
 And those high favors you have thrown 
 
 upon me : 
 Till I be more desertf ul in your eye, 
 And till my duty shall make known I 
 
 honor ye, 
 Noblest of women, do me but this favor, 
 To accept this back again as a poor testi- 
 mony. 
 
 (Offering the casket.) 
 Ori. I must have you too with 'em; else 
 the wiU, 
 That says they must rest with ye, is in- 
 
 fring'd, sir; 
 Which, pardon me, I dare not do. 
 Mir. Take me then, 
 
 And take me with the truest love. 
 Ori. 'T is certain 
 
 My brother lov'd ye dearly, and I ought 
 As dearly to preserve that love : but, sir, 
 Though I were willing, these are but your 
 ceremonies. 
 Mir. As I have life, I speak my soul! 
 Ori. I like ye : 
 
 But how you can like me, without I have 
 
 testimony, 
 A stranger to ye — 
 Mir. I'll marry ye immediately; 
 
 A fair state I dare promise ye. 
 Bel. Yet she '11 cozen thee. 
 
 Ori. Would some fair gentleman durst 
 
 promise for ye ! 
 Mir. By all that 's good — 
 
 Enter La Castre, Nantolet, Lugier, and 
 Be Gard. 
 
 La Cast., Nant., d;c. And we'll make up 
 
 the rest, lady. 
 Ori. Then Oriana takes ye ! Nay, she has 
 caught ye; 
 If ye start now, let all the world cry 
 
 shame on ye? 
 I have out-travell'd ye. 
 Bel. Did not I say she would cheat thee? 
 
 Mir. I thank ye : I am pleas' d ye have de- 
 ceiv'd me. 
 And willingly I swallow it, and joy in 't ; 
 And yet, perhaps, I knew ye. Whose 
 plot was this? 
 Lug. He is not asham'd that cast ^' it; he 
 that executed, 
 FoUow'd your father's will. 
 Mir. What a world 's this ! 
 
 Nothing but craft and cozenage ! 
 Ori. Who begun, sir? 
 
 Mir. Well ; I do take thee upon mere com- 
 passion ; 
 And I do think I shall love thee. As a 
 
 testimony, 
 I '11 bum my book, and turn a new leaf 
 
 over. 
 But these fine clothes you shall wear still. 
 Ori. I obey you, sir, in all. 
 
 Nant. And how, how, daughters? What 
 say you to these gentlemen? — 
 What say ye, gentlemen, to the girls? 
 Pin. By my troth — ^if she can love me — 
 Lil. How long? 
 
 Pin. Nay, if once ye love — 
 
 Lil. Then take me. 
 
 And take your chance. 
 Pin. Most willingly : ye are mine, lady ; 
 
 And, if I use ye not that ye may love me— 
 Lil. A match, i' faith. 
 Pin. Why, now ye travel with me. 
 
 Bos. How that thing stands ! 
 Bel. It will, if ye urge it : 
 
 Bless your five wits ! 
 Ros. Nay, prithee, stay; I'll have thee. 
 Bel. You must ask me leave first. 
 Ros. Wilt thou use me kindly. 
 
 And beat me but once a week? 
 Bel. If you deserve no more. 
 
 Ros. And wilt thou get me with child? 
 Bel. Dost thou ask me seriously? 
 Ros. Yes, indeed, do I. 
 Bel. Yes, I will get thee with child. 
 Come, presently, 
 An 't be but in revenge, I '11 do thee that 
 
 courtesy. 
 Well, if thou wilt fear God and me, have 
 at thee ! 
 Ros. I '11 love ye, and I '11 honor ye 
 Bel. I am pleas'd, then. 
 
 Mir. This Wild-Goose Chase is done; we 
 have won o' both sides. 
 Brother, your love : and now to church of 
 
 all hands ; 
 Let 's lose no time. 
 Pin. Our travelling lay by. 
 
 Bel. No more for Italy ; for the Low Coun- 
 tries, I. Exeunt. 
 
 S3 contrived. 
 
MIDDLBTON AND ROWLEY 
 
 THE CHANGELING 
 
 Thomas Middleton (1570?-1627), with a 
 Cambridge and Gray'a Inn education behind 
 him, was by 1612 writing for Henslowe, and 
 about 1604 began the series of realistic 
 comedies of London life which established his 
 reputation. He also wrote a considerable 
 number of masques and Lord Mayor's 
 pageants, and held the post of City Chron- 
 ologer from 1620 till his death. The most 
 striking incident of his career was connected 
 with his play The Oame at Chess, satirizing 
 the proposed marriage of Prince Charles with 
 a, Spanish princess, which roused the anger 
 of the Spanish ambassador and led to a war- 
 rant for the arrest of the players and author. 
 
 William Rowley (1585?-post 1637), an 
 actor and playwright of whose life we know 
 nothing, did most of his work in collaboia- 
 tion, with Fletcher, Dekker, Heywood, and 
 others. The year 1614, when the Prince's 
 Company, for whom Rowley was writing, and 
 the Lady Elizabeth's men, who had been act- 
 ing Middleton's plays, were united, is the date 
 assigned for the beginning of the collabora- 
 tion which, next to that of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, was most fruitful of good work. 
 
 Whatever the circumstances that brought 
 Middleton and Rowley together, the partner- 
 ship was a fortunate one, for it produced two 
 plavs of the first water, A Fair Quarrel 
 (1016) and The Changeling (1623). By 
 1614 Middleton had written most of the 
 ■ comedies which stamp him as the chief realist 
 of his time. A Mad World My Masters, A 
 Chaste Maid in Cheapside, A Trick to Catch 
 the Old One, Yo Wit No Help like a 
 Woman's, racy, bustling plays of intrigue, 
 the plot centering in the pursuit of a rich 
 widow by a young scapegrace, or the fooling 
 of a miserly father or greedy usurer, intro- 
 ducing just the sort of figures that would 
 come under the observation of a young lawyer 
 with a keen eye for the comidie humaine, 
 prodigal sons beset by creditors, country 
 gentlemen swindled by sharpers, widows with 
 more money than prudence, old men over- 
 reaching themselves in craft, knaves and 
 swaggerers of every sort, constables and police 
 magistrates, once an Amazon in doublet and 
 hose, courtesans masquerading as fine ladies 
 — all the seething underworld of London set 
 forth with the veracity of first-hand ac 
 
 383 
 
 quaintance — plays of this kind are Middle- 
 ton's contribution to the comedy of manners. 
 Not a pleasant world, my masters, and de- 
 picted without a touch of romance, without 
 moral ideality, without a breath of the fresh 
 air that blows through The Shoemakers' Holi- 
 day. The plotting is deft, the action is brisk, 
 the characters are firmly drawn, the dialogue, 
 shifting easily from verse to prose and back, 
 is clear and fluent. Rowley, on the other 
 hand, both in style and structure offers a 
 striking contrast. His plotting is slovenly; 
 the conception may be good, for the man had 
 dramatic instinct, but the execution is fre- 
 quently marred by a huddling of incident and 
 violent straining for theatrical efi'ect. The 
 verse exhibits the same faults; it is often 
 rugged to uncouthness, shambling in meter, 
 exaggerated in its effort for distinction of 
 phrase. Rowley's humor is characteristic: 
 genuine, but tending to buffoonery, rough and 
 ready, and all too commonly depending on 
 mere horseplay and on violent attempts at 
 verbal cleverness, for Rowley was an inveter- 
 ate bad punster. Yet with all his faults 
 Rowley displays an honesty and human sym- 
 pathy, a capacity for imagination of the 
 higher, Idealizing sort, not felt in Middleton's 
 more artistic product. 
 
 An ill-assorted pair this, we should be 
 tempted to say, with no promise of the sym- 
 pathy of taste and poetic gift which made the 
 union of Beaumont and Fletcher so happy. 
 Yet something in each man seemed to call 
 forth the best in the other, and in their first 
 united work there comes an indescribable lift, 
 a nobility of conception and a power to in- 
 terpret life and express it in terms of poetry, 
 utterly unheralded by the previous work of 
 either man. A Fair Quarrel, with its prob- 
 lem of the attitude of a finely grained youth 
 toward a mother whose dishonor herself has 
 admitted (though untruthfully, in order to 
 prevent the boy from fighting a duel), and 
 toward her accuser, strikes the reader as sur- 
 prisingly modern in idea, and in execution 
 the plot is not unworthy of the theme. But 
 it is in the romantic tragedy. The Changeling, 
 of the same class as Beaumont and Fletcher's 
 The Maid's Tragedy and Webster's The 
 Duchess of Malfi, that Middleton and Rowley 
 reach their highest achievement and produce 
 one of the greatest plays of the period. 
 
384 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD'. 
 
 The Changeling ia an illustration of the 
 dual-plot construction common at the time 
 in Elizabethan plays, in A Woman Killed 
 vjith Kindness, for instance. A superbly con- 
 ceived main-plot is disfigured by a trashy 
 comic sub-plot, of which the best thing to 
 be said is that it soon fades from memory. 
 The mad-house scenes are by all critics as- 
 signed to Rowley. Worthless in themselves, 
 revolting to modern taste, exhibiting Row- 
 ley's coarse and clumsy humor at its worst, 
 they are united to the main plot in the flim- 
 siest fashion ; the only connection between the 
 two actions is that Antonio and Franeiscus 
 are for a time suspected of Piracquo's mur- 
 der, and that the final scene ia almost ruined 
 by the intrusion of these buffoons. The atory 
 of De Flores and Beatrice-Joanna is taken 
 from God's Revenge against Murder (1621) 
 by John Reynolds, a collection of gory mur- 
 der stories, while the Diaphanta episode is 
 borrowed from an old French fabliau. In its 
 cheap sensationalism and offensive tone this 
 latter shows the evil influence of the Fletch- 
 erian romantic work in the decadence of the 
 drama. There are notable differences be- 
 tween Reynolds'a narrative and the play, 
 among them being a very decided change in 
 the relationa of De Flores and Beatrice, of 
 which more hereafter, and a skilful compres- 
 sion of the ending. In the story, Alsemero 
 kills his wife and her paramour and slays 
 Tomaao Piracquo by treachery. On being 
 arreated and tried for the latter crime he re- 
 veala the facts of Alonzo Piracquo'a death, 
 whereupon he is beheaded, and the bodiea of 
 De Flores and Beatrice exhumed and burned. 
 The new ending not only ennobles Alsemero, 
 but raises the sordid end of the paramours to 
 the dignity of a tragic catastrophe by mak- 
 ing the chief mover in the villainy the in- 
 strument of just retribution. 
 
 It is the characters that make the play 
 great, and it is Rowley who introduces them. 
 The first scene is undoubtedly his. The set- 
 ting aside by a lady of a suitor favored by 
 her father is used several times by Rowley; 
 the bad punning is in his fashion; and 
 Beatrice's action in throwing her glove at De 
 Flores is of a piece with the violent behavior 
 of other Rowley heroines. The verse, more- 
 over, betrays metrical differences from Mid- 
 dleton's: it has fewer feminine endings, more 
 run-on lines, is less smooth and colloquial in 
 effect. But coming to the more important 
 question of the conception of the charac- 
 ters aa they appear in thia scene, it is unwise 
 to give to Rowley the entire credit for a 
 masterly exposition. In a fundamental mat- 
 ter like characterization there must have been 
 discussion and agreement between the col- 
 laborators as to the lines along which the 
 people should be developed. De Flores and 
 Beatrice are done with extreme care. The 
 relations between them are so improbable 
 that the exposition must be unusually thor- 
 
 ough. Now almost the entire first scene is 
 given to portraying the actual physical re- 
 pulsion inspired in Beatrice by De Flores. 
 The mere sight of the man fills her with loath- 
 ing, expressed in her reception of his message, 
 enforced in the following conversation with 
 Alsemero, and driven sharply home by the 
 glove incident. This antipathy, so dramatic 
 in its conflict of wills, so provocative of curi- 
 osity as to what it will lead to, is a stroke 
 of genius on the part of the dramatists. 
 There is no hint of it in the source, for there 
 De Flores is " a gallant young gentleman," to 
 whose advances Beatrice makes no resistance. 
 In the handling of De Flores there is a note- 
 worthy restrained power. He appears, is re- 
 pulsed, retires, and is kept at the back of the 
 stage until the end of the scene. Exposition 
 is managed, by the very lack of action, the 
 situation made clear by Beatrice's scorn and 
 studied neglect. With act II Middleton 
 takes up the pen, and is mainly responsible 
 for the conduct of the story till the final 
 acene. The verse becomes more fluent and 
 yet more pointed, and an even excellence of 
 dialogue is maintained of which ' Rowley 
 seemed incapable. Between the first scene 
 of the act, wherein the hatred of Beatrice for 
 De Flores is emphasized, and the- second, in 
 which she accepts him as her tool for murder, 
 the contrast ia striking. The second scene in 
 particular is masterly in ita latent power, aa 
 Beatrice, confident that she ia miatreaa of 
 the aituationi thinka she is playing upon De 
 Flores by her seeming reluctance to divulge 
 the service she requires, while he accepts the 
 task open-eyed, in full assurance of its pos- 
 sibilities. Effective too is the laconic brevity 
 of his reply to her promise of reward — " Aye, 
 aye ; we '11 talk of that hereafter " ; Beatrice 
 disregards it, but its full significance ap- 
 peara in the finest scene of the play. III. iv. 
 Here is Beatrice, rejoicing that Piracquo ia 
 out of her way, and thinking only of ridding 
 herself at once and forever of De Flores; and 
 here is De Flores, gloating over the fact that 
 she is completely in his power. How subtly 
 he weaves the web of complicity about her,' 
 how slowly she awakens to the fearful con- 
 sciousness that he ia her master! How 
 simple the dialogue ia, but how it cuts! Not 
 even when she at last understands his demand 
 can she comprehend that there is no ea- 
 cape: 
 
 Why, 't is impossible thou canst be so wicked, 
 
 Or shelter such a cunning cruelty 
 
 To make his death the murderer of my honor I " 
 
 The cold logic whereby he convinces her that 
 she has become " the deed's creature," and 
 one with him in crime and reward is unan- 
 swerable indeed. When Lamb was making 
 his excerpts for his Specimens of the English 
 Dramatic Poets he, oddly enough, omitted 
 The Changeling, and it was left for Leigh 
 Hunt to say of De Flores' conduct in this 
 
THE CHANGELINa 
 
 385 
 
 scene that for "' effect at once tragical, prob- 
 able, and poetical it surpasses anything . . . 
 in the drama of domestic life." It is inter- 
 esting that a somewhat similar situation ap- 
 pears in our day in Sir A. W. Pinero's Iris. 
 
 There is, almost inevitably, a distinct let- 
 ting down with the Diaphanta episode of the 
 fourth and fifth acts. The chemical test of 
 virtiie and the method by whicli Diaphanta is 
 disposed of, strike us as excessively curious. 
 The whole episode, indeed, is so far below the 
 level of the preceding'scenes that it can be 
 justified only on the ground that it exhibits 
 the swift degradation of Beatrice's character 
 under the influence of De Flores. In V. i, 
 we see how absolutely she accepts him as her 
 equal. The introduction of Alonzo's ghost is 
 a cheap device, but it calls forth a superb 
 speech from De Flores : 
 
 Ha ! what art thou that tak'st away the light 
 Betwixt that star and me! I dread thee not; 
 'T was but a mist of conscience ; all 's clear again. 
 
 In the last scene " rough Rowley's Esau 
 hand," in Swinburne's fine phrase, is dis- 
 
 cernible in the more labored movement of the 
 verse, the overcharged language, and the 
 physical violence. We do not object to the 
 deaths of Beatrice and De Flores — only in a 
 scene of terror could such a story end. But 
 it is undeniable that the solution of the 
 action is inferior to the complication. 
 
 The play stands comparison with the vcork 
 of Webster and of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 vpith all but the very greatest of its time. 
 Not even Webster, indeed, gave us such a 
 masterly piece of character-drawing as De 
 Flores; Bosola is faltering in comparison. 
 Nor, though the Duchess of Malfi and Vittoria 
 Corombona are magnificent in fortitude of 
 virtue and of crime respectively, is Web- 
 ster's analysis of his women so profound, his 
 understanding of them so thorough, as Mid- 
 dleton's of Beatrice. Had the last two acts 
 been written with the restraint and poetic 
 beauty of the first three, it would not be with 
 Webster's tragedy that we should be forced 
 to compare The Changeling, but with Lear 
 and Macieth and Hamlet. 
 
 THE CHANGELING 
 
 By THOMAS MIDDLETON and WILLIAM ROWLEY 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHAEACTEES 
 
 VeemANDEEO, governor of the castle of AU- 
 
 cant, father to Beatrice. 
 ToMASo De Pikacquo, a noble lord. 
 Alonzo De Pibacquo, his brother, suitor to 
 
 Beatrice. " 
 
 Alsemeko, a nobleman, afterwards married to 
 
 Beatrice. 
 Jasperino, Ms friend. 
 Alibius, a jealous doctor. 
 LOLLIO, his man. 
 Pedbo, friend to Antonio. 
 
 Antonio, the changeling. 
 
 Feanciscus, a counterfeit madman. 
 
 De Flobes, servant to Vermandero. 
 
 Madmen. 
 
 Servants. 
 
 Beateice-Joanna, daughter to Vermandero. 
 
 Diaphanta, her waiting-woman. 
 
 Isabella, mfe of Alibius. 
 
 Scene. — Alicant. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene 1. A street. 
 
 Enter Alsemero. 
 
 Als. 'T was in the temple where I first be- 
 held her, 
 And now again the same : what omen yet 
 Follows of that? None but imaginary. 
 Why should my hopes or fate be timor- 
 ous? 
 The place is holy, so is my intent : 
 I love her beauties to the holy purpose ; 
 And that, methinks, admits comparison 
 With man's first creation, the place 
 blessed, 
 
 And is his right home back, if he achieve 
 
 it. 
 The church hath first begun our interview, 
 And that's the place must join us into 
 
 one,; 
 So there 's beginning and perfection too. 
 
 Enter Jasperino. 
 
 Jas. sir, are you here? Come, the 
 wind 's fair with you ; 
 You 're like to have a swift and pleasant 
 passage 
 Als. Sure, you're deceived, friend, 'tis 
 contrary. 
 In my-best judgment. 
 i J 09, What, for Malta? 
 
386 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 If you could buy a gale amongst the 
 witches, 
 
 They could not serve you such a lucky 
 penny-worth 
 
 As comes a' God's name. 
 Als. Even now I observ'd 
 
 The temple's vane to turn full in my face; 
 
 I know it is against me. 
 Jas. Against you ? 
 
 Then you know not where you are. 
 Als. Not well, indeed. 
 
 Jas. Are you not well, sir? 
 Als. Yes, Jasperino, 
 
 Unless there be some hidden malady 
 
 Within me, that I understand not. 
 Jas. And that 
 
 I began to doubt,^ sir. I never knew 
 
 Your inclinations to travels at a pause 
 
 With any cause to hinder it, till now. 
 
 Ashore you were wont to call your serv- 
 ants up, 
 
 And help to trap your horses for the 
 speed ; 
 
 At sea I 've seen you weigh the anchor 
 with 'em, 
 
 Hoist sails for fear to lose the foremost 
 breath. 
 
 Be in continual prayers for fair winds; 
 
 And have you chang'd your orisons'? 
 Als. No, friend; 
 
 I keep the same church, same devotion. 
 Jas. Lover I 'm sure you 're none ; the stoic 
 was 
 
 Found in you long ago ; your mother nor 
 
 Best friends, who have set snares of 
 beauty, aye. 
 
 And choice ones too, could never trap you 
 fhat way. 
 
 What might be the cause? 
 Als. Lord, how violent 
 
 Thou art ! I was but meditating of 
 
 Somewhat I heard within the temple. 
 Jas. Is this 
 
 Violence 1 'T is but idleness compar'd 
 
 With your haste yesterday. 
 Als. I 'm all this while 
 
 A-going, man. 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Jas. Backwards, I think, sir. Look, 
 
 Your servants. 
 
 1 Ser. The seamen call; shall we board 
 
 your trunks? 
 Als. No, not to-day. 
 Jas. 'T is the critical day, it seems, and 
 
 the sign in Aquarius. 
 
 2 Serv. We must not to sea to-day; this 
 
 smoke will bring forth fire." 
 
 Als. Keep all on shore; I do not know the 
 
 end, 
 Which needs I must do, of an affair in 
 
 hand 
 Ere I can go to sea. 
 
 1 Serv. Well, your pleasure. 
 
 2 Serv. Let him e'en take his leisure too; 
 
 we are safer on land. 
 
 Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Enter Beatrice, Biaphanta, and Servants. 
 Alsemero accosts Beatrice and then kisses 
 her. 
 
 Jas. {Aside.) How now? The laws of 
 the Medes are chang'd sure; salute a 
 woman! He kisses too; wonderful! 
 Where learnt he this? and does it per- 
 fectly too. In my conscience, he ne'er 
 rehearst it before. Nay, go on ; this will 
 be stranger and better news at Valencia 
 than if he had ransom'd half Greece from 
 the Turk. 
 Beat. You are a scholar, sir? 
 A Is. A weak one, lady. 
 
 Beat. Which of the sciences is this love 
 
 you speak of? 
 Als. From your tongue I take it to be 
 
 music. 
 Beat. You 're skilful in it, can sing at first 
 
 sight. 
 Als. And I have show'd you all my skill at 
 once; 
 I want more words to express me further. 
 And must be forc'd to repetition; 
 I love you dearly. 
 Beat. Be better advis'd, sir; 
 
 Our eyes are sentinels unto our judg- 
 ments, 
 And should give certain judgment what 
 
 they see; 
 But they are rash sometimes, and tell us 
 
 wonders 
 Of common things, which when our judg- 
 ments find. 
 They can then check the eyes, and call 
 them blind. 
 Als. But I am further, lady; yesterday 
 Was mine eyes' employment, and hither 
 
 now 
 They brought my judgment, where are 
 
 both agreed. 
 Both houses then consenting, 't is agreed ; 
 Only there wants the confirmation 
 By the hand royal ; that 's your part, 
 lady. 
 Beat. Oh, there's one above me, sir. — 
 {Aside.) For five days past 
 
 1 suspect. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 387 
 
 To be reeall'd ! Sure mine eyes were mis- 
 taken ; 
 
 This was the man was meant me. That 
 he should come 
 
 So near his time, and miss it ! 
 Jas. We might have come by the carriers 
 
 from Valencia, I see, and sav'd all our 
 
 sea-provision; we are at farthest sure. 
 
 Methinks I should do something too ; 
 
 I meant to be a venturer in this voyage. 
 
 Yonder 's another vessel, I '11 board her ; 
 
 If she be lawful prize, down goes her 
 topsail. 
 
 (Accosts Diaphanta.) 
 Enter Be Flores. 
 
 Be F. Lady, your father — 
 
 Beat. Is in health, I hope. 
 
 Be F. Your eye shall instantly instruct 
 
 you, lady; 
 He 's coming hitherward. 
 Beat. What needed then 
 
 Your duteous preface? I had rather 
 He had come unexpected ; you must stall ^ 
 A good presence with unnecessary blab- 
 bing; 
 And how welcome for your part you are, 
 I 'm sure you know. 
 Be F. (Aside.) Will 't never mend, 
 
 this scorn. 
 One side nor other? Must I be enjoin'd 
 To follow still whilst she flies from me? 
 
 Well, 
 Fates, do your worst, I '11 please myself 
 
 with sight 
 Of her at all opportunities, 
 If but to spite her anger. I know she 
 
 had 
 Rather see me dead than living; and yet 
 She knows no cause for't but a peevish 
 
 will. 
 Als. You seem'd displeased, lady, on the 
 
 sudden. 
 Beat. Your pardon, sir, 't is my infirmity ; 
 Nor can I other reason render you 
 Than his or hers, of some particular thing 
 They must abandon as a deadly poison. 
 Which to a thousand other tastes were 
 
 wholesome ; 
 Such to mine eyes is that same fellow 
 
 there, 
 The same that report speaks of the 
 
 basilisk.^ 
 Als. This is a frequent frailty in our na- 
 ture; 
 There 's scarce a man amongst a thousand 
 
 found 
 But hath his imperfection : one distastes 
 
 The scent of roses, which to infinites 
 Most pleasing is and odoriferous; 
 One oil, the enemy of poison; 
 Another wine, the cheerer of the heart 
 And lively refresher of the countenance. 
 Indeed this fault, if so it be, is general; 
 There 's scarce a thing but is both lov'd 
 
 and loalh'd : 
 Myself, I must confess, have the same 
 • frailty. 
 
 Beat. And what may be your poison, sir? 
 I 'm bold with you. 
 
 Als. What might be your desire, perhaps ; 
 a cherry. 
 
 Beat. I am no enemy to any creature 
 My memory has, but yon gentleman. 
 
 Als. He does ill to tempt your sight, if he 
 knew it. 
 
 Beat. He cannot be ignorant of that, sir, 
 I have not spar'd to- tell him so ; and I 
 
 want 
 To help myself, since he 's a gentleman 
 In good respect with my father, and fol- 
 lows him. 
 
 Ak. He 's out of his place then now. 
 (They talk apart.) 
 
 Jas. I am a mad wag, wench. 
 
 Bia. So methinks; but for your comfort, 
 I can tell you, we have a doctor in the 
 city that undertakes the cure of such. 
 
 Jas. Tush, I know what physic is best for 
 the state of mine own body. 
 
 Bia. 'T is scarce a well-govern'd state, I 
 believe. 
 
 Jas. I could show thee such a thing with 
 an ingredient that we two would "com- 
 pound together, and if it did not tame the 
 maddest blood i' th' town for two hours 
 after, I '11 ne'er profess * physic again. 
 
 Bia. A little poppy, sir, were good to 
 cause you sleep. 
 
 Jas. Poppy? I'll give thee a pop i' th' 
 lips for that first, and begin there. 
 Poppy is one simple ^ indeed, and cuckoo 
 (what-you-eall't) another. I'll discover 
 no more now ; another time I '11 show thee 
 all. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Vermandero and Servants. 
 
 Beat. My father, sir. 
 
 Ver. Joanna, I came to meet thee. 
 
 Your devotion 's ended ? 
 Beat. For this time, sir. — 
 
 (Aside.) I shall change my saint, I fear 
 me; I find 
 
 A giddy turning in me. — Sir, this while 
 
 I am beholding to this gentleman. 
 
 2 forestall. 
 
 3 a fabled snake whose mere glance was fatal. 
 
 4 claim skill in. 
 
 n medicinal herb. 
 
THE ELtZABETSAN PERIOD 
 
 Who left his own way to keep me com- 
 pany, 
 And in discourse I find him much desir- 
 ous 
 To see your castle. He hath deserv'd it, 
 
 sir, 
 If ye please to grant it. 
 Ver. With all my heart, sir. 
 
 Yet there's an article between; I nmgt 
 
 know 
 Your country; we use not to give sur- 
 vey 
 Of our chief strengths to strangers; our 
 
 citadels 
 Are plac'd conspicuous to outward view. 
 On promonts' * tops, but within our 
 secrets. 
 Als. A Valencian, sir. 
 Ver. A Valencian? 
 
 That 's native, sir. Of what name, I be- 
 seech you? 
 Als. Alsemero, sir. 
 Ver. Alsemero ? Not the son 
 
 Of John de Alsemero? 
 Als. The same, sir. 
 
 Ver. My best love bids you welcome. 
 Beat. He was wont 
 
 To call me so, and then he speaks a most 
 Unfeign'd truth. 
 Ver. sir, I knew your father ; 
 
 We two were in acquaintance long ago. 
 Before our chins were worth iulan ^ 
 
 down, 
 And so continued till the stamp of time 
 Had coin'd us into silver. Well, he 's 
 
 gone; 
 A good soldier went with him. 
 Als. You went together in that, sir. 
 Ver. No, by Saint Jacques, I came behind 
 hira; 
 Yet I 've done somewhat too : an unhappy 
 
 day 
 Swallowed him at last at Gibraltar, 
 In fight with those rebellious Hollanders. 
 Was it not so? 
 Als. Whose death I had reveng'd, 
 
 Or followed him in fate, had not the late 
 
 league 
 Prevented me. 
 Ver. Aye, aye, 't was time to breathe. — 
 
 Joanna, I should ha' told thee news ; 
 
 1 saw Piraequo lately. 
 
 Beat. (Aside.) That 's ill news. 
 
 Ver. He's hot preparing for this day of 
 triumph : 
 Thou must be a bride within this seven- 
 night. 
 
 Als. {Aside.) Ha! 
 
 Beat. Nay, good sir, be not so violent; 
 with speed 
 I cannot render satisfaction 
 Unto the dear companion of my soul. 
 Virginity, whom I thus long have liv'd 
 
 with, 
 And part with it so rude and suddenly. 
 Can such friends divide, never to meet 
 
 again. 
 Without a solemn farewell? 
 Ver. Tush, tush ! there 's a toy.' 
 
 Als. {Aside.) I must now part, and never 
 meet again 
 With any joy on earth. — Sir, your par- 
 don; 
 My affairs call on me. 
 Ver. How, sir? By no means: 
 
 Not ehang'd so soon, I hope? You must 
 
 see my castle, 
 And her best entertainment, e'er we part ; 
 I shall think myself unkindly us'd else. 
 Come, come, let's on; I had good hope 
 
 your stay 
 Had been a while with us in Alicant ; 
 I might have bid you to my daughter's 
 wedding. 
 Als. {Aside.) He means to feast me, and 
 poisons me beforehand. — 
 I should be dearly glad to be there, sir, 
 Did my occasions suit as I could wish. 
 Beat. I shall be sorry if you be not there 
 When it is done, sir; but not so sud- 
 denly. 
 Ver. I tell you, sir, the gentleman 's com- 
 plete, 
 A courtier and a gallant, enricht 
 With many fair and noble ornaments; 
 I would not change him for a son-in- 
 law 
 For any he in Spain, the proudest he, 
 And we have great ones, that you know. 
 Als. He 's much 
 
 Bound to you, sir. 
 Ver. He shall be bound to me 
 
 As fast as this tie can hold him ; I '11 want 
 My will else. 
 Beat. {Aside.) I shall want mine, if you 
 
 do it. 
 Ver. But come, by the way I'll tell you 
 
 more of him. 
 Als. {Aside.) How shall I dare to ven- 
 ture in his castle. 
 When he discharges murderers ' at the 
 
 gate? 
 But I must on, for back I cannot go. 
 Beat. {Aside.) Not this serpent gone 
 
 yet? 
 
 {Drops a glove.) 
 
 6 promontories'. 
 
 7 Of the first growth of the beard. (N.E.D.) s whim. 
 
 9 smay cannon. 
 
THE CttANGELlNa 
 
 S8d 
 
 Ver. Look, girl, thy glove 's fallen. 
 
 Stay, stay ; De Flores, help a little. 
 Exeunt Vermandero, Alsemero, and 
 Servants. 
 De F. Here, lady. 
 
 (Offers her the glove.) 
 Beat. Mischief on your oflSeious forward- 
 ness; 
 Who bade you stoop? They touch my 
 
 hand no more: 
 There! For t' other's sake I part with 
 this: 
 (Takes off and throws down the other 
 glove.) 
 Take 'em, and draw thine own skin off 
 with 'em! 
 
 Exit with Biaphanta and Servants. 
 De F. Here 's a favor come with a mis- 
 chief now ! I know 
 She had rather wear my pelt tann'd in a 
 
 pair 
 Of dancing pumps, than I should thrust 
 
 my fingers 
 Into her sockets here. I know she hates 
 
 me, 
 Yet cannot choose but love her. No mat- 
 ter. 
 If but to vex her, I will haunt her still; 
 Though I get nothing else, I '11 have my 
 will. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. A room in the house of Alihius. 
 
 Enter Alibius and Lollio. 
 
 Alib. Lollio, I must trust thee with a 
 secret, 
 But thou must keep it. 
 Lol. I was ever close to a secret, sir. 
 Alib. The diligence that I have found in 
 thee. 
 The care and industry already past. 
 Assures me of thy good continuance. 
 Lollio, I have a wife. 
 Lol. Fie, sir, 't is too late to keep her se- 
 cret; she's known to be married all the 
 town and country over. 
 Alib. Thou goest too fast, my Lollio. 
 That knowledge 
 I allow no man can be barr'd it ; 
 But there is a knowledge which is nearer, 
 Deeper, and sweeter, Lollio. 
 Lol. Well, sir, let us handle that between 
 
 you and I. 
 Alib. 'Tis that I go about, man. Lollio, 
 
 My wife is young. 
 Lol. So much the worse- to be kept secret, 
 sir. 
 
 Alib. Why, now thou meet'st the substance 
 of the point; 
 I am old, Lollio. 
 Lol. No, sir, 'tis^I am old Lollio. 
 Alib. Yet why may not this concord and 
 sympathize 1 
 Old trees and young plants often grow 
 
 together. 
 Well enough agreeing. 
 Lol. Aye, sir, but the old trees raise them- 
 selves higher and broader than the young 
 plants. 
 Alib, Shrewd application! There's the 
 fear, man; 
 I would wear my ring on my own finger; 
 Whilst it is borrowed, it is none of mine. 
 But his that useth it. 
 Lol. You must keep it on still then; if it 
 but lie by, one or other will be thrusting 
 into 't. 
 Alib. Thou eoneeiv'st me, Lollio; here thy 
 watchful eye 
 Must have employment; I cannot always 
 
 be 
 At home. 
 Lol. I dare swear you cannot. 
 Alib. I must look out. 
 Lol. I know't, you must look out; 'tis 
 
 every man's case. 
 Alib. Here, I do say, must thy employ- 
 ment be; 
 To watch her treadings, and in my ab- 
 sence 
 Supply my place. 
 Lol. I '11 do my best, sir ;• yet surely I can- 
 not see who you should have cause to be 
 jealous of. 
 Alib. Thy reason for that, Lollio? It is 
 
 A comfortable question. 
 Lol. We have but two sorts of people in 
 the house, and both under the whip, 
 that 's fools ^° and madmen ; the one has 
 not wit enough to be knaves, and the 
 other not knavery enough to be fools. 
 Alib. Aye, those are all my patients, 
 Lollio ; 
 I do profess the cure of either sort ; 
 My trade, my living 't is ; I thrive by it ; 
 But here's the care that mixes with my 
 
 thrift : 
 The daily visitants, that come to see 
 My brain-sick patients, I would not have 
 To see my wife. Gallants I do observe 
 Of quick enticing eyes, rich in habits. 
 Of stature and proportion very comely: 
 These are most shrewd temptations, 
 Lollio. 
 Lol. They may be easily answered, sir; if 
 
 10 idiots. 
 
390 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 they come to see the fools and madmen, 
 you and I may serve the turn, and let 
 my mistress alone ; she 's of neither sort. 
 Alib. 'Tis a good ward;'^ indeed, come 
 they to see 
 Our madmen or our fools, let 'em see no" 
 
 more 
 Than what they come for ; by that conse- 
 quent 
 They must not see her; I'm sure she's 
 no fool. 
 Lol. And I 'm sure she 's no madman. 
 Alib. Hold that buckler fast; LoUio, my 
 trust 
 Is on thee, and I account it firm and 
 
 strong. 
 What hour is't, LoUio? 
 Lol. Towards belly-hour, sir. 
 
 Alib. Dinner-time? Thou mean'st twelve 
 
 o'clock? 
 Lol. Yes, sir, for every part has his hour : 
 we wake at six and look abo.ut us, that 's 
 eye hour; at seven we should pray, 
 that's knee-hour: at eight walk, that's 
 leg-hour; at nine gather flowers and 
 pluck a rose, that 's nose-hour ; at ten we 
 drink, that's mouth-hour; at eleven lay 
 about us for victuals, that's hand-hour; 
 at twelve go to dinner, that 's belly-hour. 
 Alib. Profoundly, Lollio ! It will be long 
 Ere all thy scholars learn this lesson, and 
 I did look to have a new one ent'red; — 
 
 stay, 
 I think my expectation is come home. 
 
 Enter Pedro, and Antonio disguised as an 
 idiot. 
 
 Fed. Save you, sir; my business speaks 
 itself : 
 This sight takes off the labor of my 
 tongue. 
 
 Alib. Aye, aye, sir, it is plain enough, you 
 mean 
 Him for my patient. 
 
 Fed. And if your pains prove but com- 
 modious, to give but some little strength 
 to his sick and weak part of nature in 
 him, these are {Gives him money.) but 
 patterns to show you of the whole pieces 
 that will follow to you, beside the charge 
 of diet, washing, and other necessaries, 
 fully defrayed. 
 
 Alib. Believe it, sir, there shall no care 
 be wanting. 
 
 Lol. Sir, an officer in this place may de- 
 serve something. The trouble will pass 
 through my hands. 
 
 Fed. 'Tis fit something should come to 
 your hands then, sir. 
 
 {Gives him money.) 
 
 Lol. Yes, sir, 'tis I must keep him sweet, 
 and read to him: what is his name? 
 
 Fed. His name is Antonio; marry, we use 
 but half to him, only Tony. 
 
 Lol. Tony, Tony, 'tis enough, and a very 
 good name for a fool. — What's your 
 name, Tony? 
 
 Ant. He, he, he! well, I thank you, cou- 
 sin; he, he, he! 
 
 Lol. Good boy! hold up your head. — ^He 
 can laugh; I perceive by that he is no 
 beast. 
 
 Fed. Well, sir. 
 
 If you can raise him but to any height. 
 Any degree of wit; might he attain. 
 As I might say, to creep on but aU four 
 Towards the chair of wit, or walk on 
 
 crutches, 
 'T would add an honor to your worthy 
 
 pains. 
 And a great family might pray for you. 
 To which he should be heir, had he dis- 
 cretion 
 To claim and guide his own. Assure 
 
 you, sir. 
 He is a gentleman. 
 
 Lol. Nay, there 's nobody doubted that ; at 
 first sight I knew him for a gentleman, 
 he looks no other yet. 
 
 Fed. Let him have good attendance and 
 sweet lodging. 
 
 Lol. As good as my mistress lies in, sir; 
 and as you allow us time and means, we 
 can raise him to the higher degree of dis- 
 cretion. 
 
 Fed. Nay, there shall no cost want, sir. 
 
 Lol. He will hardly be stretcht up to the 
 wit of a magniflco. 
 
 Fed. no, that 's not to be expected ; far 
 shorter will be enough. 
 
 Lol. I '11 warrant you I '11 make him fit to 
 bear office in five weeks; I'll undertake 
 to wind him up to the wit of constable. 
 
 Fed. If it be lower than that, it might 
 serve turn; 
 
 Lol. No, fie; to level him with a head- 
 borough,^^ beadle, or watchman, were but 
 little better than he is. Constable I'll 
 able^* him; if he do come to be a jus- 
 tice afterwards, let him thank the keeper : 
 or I'll go further with you; say I do 
 bring him up to my own pitch, say I 
 make him as wise as myself. 
 
 Fed. Why, there I would have it. 
 
 Lol. Well, go to ; either I '11 be as arrant a 
 
 11 guard (in fencing) . 
 
 12 constable. 
 
 18 fit him for. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 391 
 
 fool asihe, or he shall be as wise as I, and 
 
 then I think 't will serve his turn. 
 Fed. Nay, I do like thy wit passing well. 
 Lol. Yes, you may; yet if I had not been 
 
 a fool, I had had more wit than I have 
 
 too. Remember what state you found 
 
 me in. 
 Fed. I will, and so leave you. Your best 
 
 cares, I beseech you. 
 
 Exit Fedro. 
 Alib. Take you none with you, leave 'em 
 
 all with us. 
 Ant. 0, my cousin 's gone ! cousin, cousin, 
 
 0! 
 Lol. Peace, peace, Tony; you must not 
 
 cry, child, you must be whipt if you do; 
 
 your cousin is here still; I am your cou- 
 sin, Tony. 
 Ant. He, he! then I'll not cry, if thou 
 
 be'st my cousin; he, he, he! 
 Lol. I were best try his wit a little, that I 
 
 may know what form ^* to place him in. 
 Alib. Aye, do, LoUio, do. 
 Lol. I must ask him easy questions at 
 
 first. — Tony, how many true ^^ fingers 
 
 has a tailor on his right hand? 
 Ant, As many as on his left, cousin. 
 Lol. Good: and how many on both? 
 Ant. Two less than a deuce, cousin. 
 Lol. Very well answered. I come to you 
 
 again, cousin Tony; how many fools goes 
 
 to a wise man? 
 Ant. Forty in a day sometimes, cousin. 
 Lol. Forty in a day? How prove you 
 
 that? 
 Ant. All that fall out amongst themselves, 
 
 and go to a lawyer to be made friends. 
 Lol. A parlous fool! he must sit in the 
 
 fourth form at least. I perceive that. — 
 
 I come again, Tony; how many knaves 
 
 make an honest man ? 
 Ant. I know not that, cousin. > 
 
 Lol. No, the question is too hard for you. 
 
 I 'II tell you, cousin ; there 's three knaves 
 
 may make an honest man, — a sergeant, a 
 
 jailor, and a beadle ; the sergeant catches 
 
 him, the jailor holds him, and the beadle 
 
 lashes him; and if he be not honest then, 
 
 the hangman must cure him. 
 Ant. Ha, ha, ha ! that 's fine sport, cousin. 
 Alib. This was too deep a question for the 
 
 fool, LoUio. 
 Lol. Yes, this might have serv'd yourself, 
 
 though I say 't. — Once more and you 
 
 shall go play, Tony. 
 Ant. Aye, play at push-pin,'° cousin; ha, 
 
 he! 
 
 Lol. So thou shalt: say how many fools 
 are here 
 
 Ant. Two, cousin ; thou and I. 
 
 Lol. Nay, you 're too forward there, Tony. 
 Mark my question; how many fools and 
 knaves are here; a fool before a knave, 
 a fool behind a knave, between every two 
 fools a knave; how many fools, how 
 many knaves? 
 
 Ant. I never learnt so far, cousin. 
 
 Alib. Thou puttest too hard questions to 
 him, LoUio. 
 
 Lol. I '11 make him understand it easily. — 
 Cousin, stand there. 
 
 Ant. Aye, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Master, stand you next the fool. 
 
 Alib. Well, LoUio. 
 
 Lol. Here's my place. Mark now, Tony, 
 there 's a fool before a knave. 
 
 Ant. That's I, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Here 's a fool behind a knave, that's 
 I; and between us two fools there is a 
 knave, that 's my master, 't is but we 
 three, that's all. 
 
 Ant. We three, we three, cousin. 
 
 1 Mad. (Within.) Put's head i' th' pil- 
 lory, the bread 's too little. 
 
 2 Mad. (Within.) Fly, fly, and he 
 catches the swallow. 
 
 3 Mad. (Within.) Give her more onion, 
 or the devil put the rope about her crag.'^^ 
 
 Lol. You may hear what time of day it is, 
 
 the chimes of Bedlam goes. 
 Alib. Peace, peace, or the wire ^' comes ! 
 3 Mad. (Within.) Cat whore, cat whore ! 
 
 her permasant, her permasant ! ^' 
 Alib. Peace, I say! — Their hour's come, 
 
 they must be fed, LoUio. 
 Lol. There 's no hope of recovery of that 
 
 Welsh.madman ; was undone by a mouse 
 
 that spoil'd him a permasant; lost his 
 
 wits for't. 
 Alib. Go to your charge, LoUio; I'll to 
 
 mine. 
 Lol. Go you to your madmen's ward, let 
 
 me alone with your fools. 
 Alib. And remember my last charge, Lol- 
 
 lio. V 
 
 Exit. 
 Lol. Of which your patients do you think 
 
 I am? Come, Tony, you must amongst 
 
 your school-fellows now ; there 's pretty 
 
 scholars amongst 'em, I can tell you; 
 
 there 's some of 'em at stultus, stulta, 
 
 stultum. 
 Ant. I would see the madmen, cousin, if 
 
 they would not bite me. 
 
 14 class. 
 
 15 honest. 
 
 16 a child's game. 
 
 17 neck. 
 
 IS whip made of wire. 
 
 19 Parmesan cheese. 
 
m 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD' 
 
 Lol. No, they shall not bite thee, Tony. 
 
 Ant. They bite when they are at dinner, 
 do they not, eoz? 
 
 Lol. They bite at dinner, indeed, Tony. 
 Well, I hope to get credit by thee; I like 
 thee the best of all the scholars that ever 
 I brought up, and thou shalt prove a wise 
 man, or I '11 prove a fool myself. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. An apartment in the Castle. 
 Enter Beatrice and Jasperino severally. 
 
 Beat. sir, I 'm ready now for that fair 
 
 service 
 Which makes the name of friend sit 
 
 glorious on you! 
 Good angels and this conduct be your 
 
 guide ! 
 
 {Giving a paper.) 
 Fitness of time and place is there set 
 
 downj sir. 
 Jas. The joy I shall return rewards my 
 
 service. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Beat. How wise is Alsemero in his friend ! 
 
 It is a sign he makes his choice with 
 
 judgment ; 
 Then I appear in nothing more approv'd 
 Than making choice of him; for 'tis a 
 
 principle. 
 He that can choose 
 That bosom , well who of his thoughts 
 
 partakes. 
 Proves most discreet in every choice he 
 
 makes. 
 Methinks I love now with the eyes of 
 
 judgment. 
 And see the way to merit, clearly see it. 
 A true deserver like a diamond sparkles; 
 In darkness you may see him, that 's in 
 
 absence, 
 Which is the greatest darkness falls on 
 
 love; 
 Yet is he best diseern'd then 
 With intellectual eyesight. What's Pi- 
 
 racquo. 
 My father spends his breath for? And 
 
 his blessing 
 Is only mine as I regard his name, 
 Else it goes from me, and turns head 
 
 against me, 
 Transform'd into a curse. Some speedy 
 
 way 
 
 Must be rememb'red. He's so forward 
 too, 
 
 20 tUn-bearded. 
 
 So urgent that way, scarce allows me 
 
 breath 
 To speak to my new comforts. 
 
 Enter Be Flores. 
 
 De F. {Aside.) Yonder 's she; 
 
 Whatever ails me, now a-late especially, 
 
 I can as well be hang'd as refrain seeing 
 her; 
 
 Some twenty times a day, nay, not so 
 little. 
 
 Do I force errands, frame ways and ex- 
 cuses, 
 
 To come into her sight; and I've small 
 reason for't. 
 
 And less encouragement, for she baits me 
 stiU 
 
 Every time worse than other; does pro- 
 fess herself 
 
 The cruellest enemy to my face in town ; 
 
 At no hand can abide the sight of me, 
 
 As if danger or ill-luck hung in my 
 looks. 
 
 I must confess my face is bad enough. 
 
 But I know far worse has better for- 
 tune, 
 
 And not endur'd alone, but doted on; 
 
 And yet such piek-hair'd ^^ faces, chins 
 like witches'. 
 
 Here and there five hairs whispering in a 
 corner, 
 
 As if they grew in fear one of another. 
 
 Wrinkles like troughs, where swine-de- 
 formity swills 
 
 The tears of perjury, that lie there like 
 wash 
 
 Fallen from the slimy and dishonest 
 eye,— 
 
 Yet such a one plucks sweets without re- 
 straint, 
 
 And has the grace of beauty to his sweet. 
 
 Though my hard fate has thrust me out 
 to servitude, 
 
 I tumbled into th' world a gentleman. 
 
 She turns her blessed eye upon me now, 
 
 And I '11 endure all storms before I part 
 with 't. 
 Beat. {Aside.) Again? 
 
 This ominous ill-fac'd fellow more dis- 
 turbs me 
 
 Than all my other passions. 
 De F. {Aside.) Now't begins again; 
 
 I'll stand this storm of hail, though the 
 stones pelt me. 
 Beat. Thy business? What's thy busi- 
 ness? 
 De F. {Aside.) Soft and fair! 
 
 I cannot part so soon now. 
 
THE CHANGELING- 
 
 393 
 
 "Beat. {Aside.) The villain 's flxt. — 
 
 Thou standing toad-pool 
 
 Be F. {Aside.) The shower falls amain 
 
 now. 
 Beat. Who sent thee? What's thy er- 
 rand 1 Leave my sight ! ^ 
 De F. My lord your father charg'd me 
 to deliver 
 A message to you. 
 Beat. What, another since ? 
 
 Do't, and be hang'd then; let me be rid 
 of thee. 
 De F. True service merits mercy. 
 Beat. What 's thy message ? 
 
 Be F. Let beauty settle but in patience, 
 
 You shall hear all. 
 Beat. A dallying, trifling torment! 
 
 Be F. Signor Alcnzo de Piracquo, lady, 
 
 Sole brother to Tomaso de Piracquo 
 
 Beat. Slave, when wilt make an end? 
 Be F. Too soon I shall. 
 
 Beat. What all this while of him? 
 Be F. The said Alonzo, 
 
 With the foresaid Tomaso 
 
 Beat. Yet again? 
 
 Be F. Is new alighted. 
 Beat. Vengeance strike the news! 
 
 Thou thing most loath'd, what cause was 
 
 there in this 
 To bring thee to my sight? 
 Be F. My lord your father 
 
 Charg'd me to seek you out. 
 Beat. Is there no other 
 
 To send his errand by? 
 Be F. It seems 't is my luck 
 
 To be i' th' way still. 
 Beat. Get thee from me! 
 
 Be F. So.— 
 
 {Aside.) Why, am not I an ass to de- 
 vise ways 
 Thus to be rail'd at? I must see her 
 
 still! 
 I shall have a mad qualm within this 
 
 hour again, 
 I know 't ; and, like a common Garden- 
 
 buU," 
 I do but take breath to be lugg'd ^^ again. 
 What this may bode I know not ; I '11 de- 
 spair the less, 
 Because there's daily precedents of bad 
 
 faces 
 Belov'd beyond all reason. These foul 
 
 chops 
 May come into favor one day 'raongst 
 
 their fellows. 
 Wrangling has prov'd the mistress of 
 good pastime; 
 
 21 The sport of bull-baiting was carried on in Paris Garden on the Bankside. 22 dragged by the ear. 
 
 As children cry themselves asleep, I ha' 
 
 seen 
 Women have chid themselves a-bed to 
 
 men. 
 
 Exit. 
 Beat. I never see this fellow but I think 
 Of some harm towards me; danger's in 
 
 my mind still; 
 I scarce leave trembling of an hour after. 
 The next good mood I find my father in, 
 I 'II get him quite discarded. 0, I was 
 Lost in this small disturbance, and forgot 
 Affliction's fiercer torrent that now comes 
 To bear down all my comforts ! 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Alonzo, and Tomaso. 
 
 Ver. You 're both welcome. 
 
 But an especial one belongs to you, sir, 
 To whose most noble name our love pre- 
 sents 
 Th' addition of a son, our son Alonzo. 
 Alan. The treasury of honor cannot bring 
 forth 
 A title I should more rejoice in, sir. 
 Ver. You have improv'd it well. — Daugh- 
 ter, prepare; 
 The day will steal upon thee suddenly. 
 Beat. {Aside.) Howe'er, J will be sure 
 to keep the night, 
 If it should come so near me. 
 {Beatrice and Vermandero talk apart.) 
 Tom. Alonzo ? 
 
 Alon. Brother? 
 
 Tom. In troth I see small welcome in her 
 
 eye. 
 Alon. Fie, you are too severe a censurer 
 Of love in all points, there 's no bringing 
 
 on you. 
 If lovers should mark everything a fault. 
 Affection would be like an ill-set book. 
 Whose faults might prove as big as half 
 the volume. 
 Beat. That 's all I do entreat. 
 Ver. It is but reasonable ; 
 
 I'll see what my son says to't. — Son 
 
 Alonzo, 
 Here is a motion made but to reprieve 
 A maidenhead three days longer; the re- 
 quest 
 Is not far out of reason, for indeed 
 The former time is pinching. 
 Alon. Though my joys 
 
 Be set back so much time as I could wish 
 They had been forward, yet since she de- 
 sires it. 
 The time is set as pleasing as before, 
 I find no gladness wanting. 
 
394 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Ver. May I ever 
 
 Meet it in that point still ! You 're nobly 
 welcome, sirs. 
 
 Exit loith Beatrice. 
 Tom. So ; did you mark the dulness of her 
 
 parting now? 
 Alon. What dulness? Thou art so excep- 
 tions still! 
 Tom. Why, let it go then ; I am but a fool 
 
 To mark your harms so heedf ully. 
 Alon. Where 's the oversight ? 
 
 Tom. Come, your faith 's cozened in her, 
 strongly cozened. 
 Unsettle your affection with all speed 
 Wisdom .can bring it to ; your peace is 
 
 ruin'd else. 
 Think what a torment 'tis to marry one 
 Whose heart is leapt into another's 
 
 bosom : 
 If ever pleasure she receive from thee, 
 It comes not in thy name, or of thy gift ; 
 She lies but with another in thine arms, 
 He the half-father unto all thy children 
 In the conception; if he get 'em not, 
 She helps to get 'em for him; and how 
 
 dangerous 
 And shameful her restraint may go ir 
 
 time to. 
 It is not to be thought on without suffer- 
 ings. 
 Alon. You speak as if she lov'd some 
 
 other, then. 
 Tom. Do you apprehend so slowly? 
 Alon. Nay, an that 
 
 Be your fear only, I am safe enough. 
 Preserve your friendship and your coun- 
 sel, brother, 
 For times of more distress ; I should de- 
 part 
 An enemy, a dangerous, deadly one, 
 To any but thyself, that should but think 
 She knew the meaning of inconstancy. 
 Much less the use and practice : yet we 're 
 
 friends. 
 Pray, let no more be urg'd ; I can endure 
 Much, till I meet an injury to her. 
 Then I am not myself. Farewell, sweet 
 
 brother; 
 How much we 're bound to Heaven to 
 depart lovingly. Exit. 
 
 Tom. Why, here is love's tame madness; 
 thus a man 
 Quickly steals into his vexation. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. Another apartment in the 
 
 Castle. 
 
 Enter Diaphanta and Alsemero. 
 
 Dia. The place is my charge; you have 
 kept your hour, 
 And the reward of a just meeting bless 
 
 you! 
 I hear my lady coming. Complete gen- 
 tleman, 
 I dare not be too busy with my praises, 
 They 're dangerous things to deal with. 
 
 Exit. 
 Als. This goes well ; 
 
 These women are the ladies' cabinets. 
 Things of most precious trust are lockt 
 into "'em. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. I have within mine eye aU my de- 
 sires. 
 
 Requests that holy prayers ascend 
 Heaven for. 
 
 And brings 'em down to furnish our de- 
 fects, 
 
 Come not more sweet to our necessities 
 
 Than thou unto my wishes. 
 Als. We're so like 
 
 In our expressions, lady, that unless I 
 borrow 
 
 The same words, I shall never find their 
 equals. 
 Beat. How happy were this meeting, this 
 embrace, 
 
 If it were free from envy! This poor 
 kiss 
 
 It has an enemy, a hateful one. 
 
 That wishes poison to 't. How well were 
 I now, 
 
 If there \yere none such name known as 
 Piracquo, 
 
 Nor no such tie as the command of par- 
 ents! 
 
 I should be but too much bless'd. 
 Als. One good service 
 
 Would strike off both your fears, and 
 I'll go near't too, 
 
 Since you are so distrest. Remove the 
 cause, 
 
 The command ceases; so there's two 
 fears blown out 
 
 With one and the same blast. 
 Beat. Pray, let me find you,-" sir: 
 
 What might that service be, so strangely 
 happy? 
 Als. The honorablest piece about man, 
 valor : 
 
 I '11 send a challenge to Piracquo in- 
 stantly. 
 Beat. How? Call you that extinguishing 
 of fear. 
 
 23 get your meaning. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 395 
 
 When 't is the only way to keep it flam- 
 ing? 
 Are not you ventured in the action, 
 That 's ail my joys and comforts? Pray, 
 
 no more, sir. 
 Say you prevail'd, you're danger's and 
 
 not mine then; 
 The law would claim you from me, or 
 
 obscurity 
 Be made the grave to bury you alive. 
 I 'm glad these thoughts come forth ; 0, 
 
 keep not one 
 Of this condition, sir! Here was a 
 
 course 
 Found to bring sorrow on her way to 
 
 death ; 
 The tears would ne'er ha' dried, tiU dust 
 
 had chok'd 'em. 
 Blood-gTiiltiness becomes a fouler vis- 
 age;— 
 (Aside.) And now I think on one; I 
 
 was to blame, 
 I ha' marr'd so good a market with my 
 
 scorn ; 
 'T had been done questionless : the ugliest 
 
 creature 
 Creation f ram'd for some use : yet to see 
 I could not mark so much where it should 
 
 be! 
 
 Als. Lady 
 
 Beat. (Aside.) Why, men of art make 
 
 much of poison, 
 Keep one to expel another. Where was 
 
 my art? 
 Als. Lady, you hear not me. 
 Beat. I do especially, sir. 
 
 The present times are not so sure of our 
 
 side 
 As those hereafter may be ; we must use 
 
 'em then ' 
 As thrifty folks their wealth, sparingly 
 
 now. 
 Till the time opens. 
 Als. You teach wisdom, lady. 
 
 Beat. Within there! Diaphanta! 
 
 Be-enter Diaphanta. 
 
 Bia. Do you call, madam? 
 
 Beat. Perfect your service, and conduct 
 this gentleman 
 The private way you brought him. 
 Dia. I shall, madam. 
 
 Als. My love 's as firm as love e'er built 
 upon. 
 
 Exit with Diaphanta. 
 Enter D'e Flores. 
 De F. (Aside.) I've watcht this meet- 
 ing, and do wonder much 
 
 24 preened, trimmed. 
 
 What shall become of t'other; I'm sure 
 
 both 
 Cannot be serv'd unless she transgress; 
 
 haply 
 Then I '11 put in for one ; for if a woman 
 Fly from one point, from him she makes 
 
 a husband, 
 She spreads and mounts then like arith- 
 metic ; 
 One, ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten 
 
 thousand, 
 Proves in time sutler to an army royal. 
 Now do I look to be most richly rail'd at. 
 Yet I must see her. 
 Beat. (Aside.) Why, put case I 
 
 loath'd him 
 As much as youth and beauty hates a 
 
 sepulchre, 
 Must I needs show it? Cannot I keep 
 
 that secret, 
 And serve my turn upon him ? See, he 's 
 
 here. — 
 De Flores. 
 De F. (Aside.) Ha, I shall run mad 
 with joy! 
 She call'd me fairly by my name De 
 
 Flores, 
 And neither rogue nor rascal. 
 Beat. What ha' you done 
 
 To your face a' late? You've met with 
 
 some good physician; 
 You've prun'd^* yourself, methinks: 
 
 you were not wont 
 To look so amorously. 
 De F. Not I;— 
 
 (Aside.) 'Tis the same physnomy, to a 
 
 hair and pimple. 
 Which she caUed scurvy scarce an hour 
 
 ago: 
 How is this? 
 Beat. Come hither; nearer, man. 
 
 De F. (Aside.) 1 'm up to the chin in 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Beat. Turn, let me see ; 
 
 Faugh, 't is but the heat of the liver, I 
 
 perceive 't ; 
 I thought it had been worse. 
 De F. (Aside.) Her fingers toucht me! 
 
 She ^ells all amber.^^ 
 Beat. I '11 make a water for you shall 
 cleanse this 
 Within a fortnight. 
 De F. With your own hands, lady? 
 
 Beat. Yes, mine own, sir; in a work of 
 . cure 
 I '11 trust no other. 
 De F. (Aside.) 'T is half an act of 
 pleasure 
 
 25 ambergris. 
 
396 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 To hear her talk thus to me. 
 Beat. When we 're us'd 
 
 To a hard face, it is not so unpleasing : 
 
 It mends still in opinion, hourly mends; 
 
 I see it by experience. 
 De F. (Aside.) I was blest 
 
 To light upon this minute ; I '11 make use 
 on't. 
 Beat. Hardness becomes the visage of a 
 man well; 
 
 It argues service, resolution, manhood. 
 
 If cause were of employment. 
 De F. "I would be soon seen 
 
 If e'er your ladyship had cause to use it ; 
 
 I would but wish the honor of a service 
 
 So happy as that mounts to. 
 Beat. "We shall try you. — 
 
 my De Flores ! 
 
 De F. (Aside.) How's that? She 
 
 calls me hers 
 Already! My De Mores! — ^You were 
 
 about 
 To sigh out somewhat, madam? 
 Beat. No, was 1? 
 
 1 forgot, — ! 
 
 De F. There 'tis again, the very fellow 
 
 on't. 
 Beat. You are too quick, sir. 
 De F. There's no excuse for't now; I 
 heard it twice, madam; 
 That sigh would fain have utterance: 
 
 take pity on 't, 
 And lend it a free word. 'Las, how it 
 
 labors 
 For liberty ! I hear the murmur yet 
 Beat at your bosom. 
 
 Beat. Would creation 
 
 De F. Aye, well said, that is it. 
 Beat. Had f orm'd me mem ! 
 
 De F. Nay, that's not it. 
 Beat. 0, 't is the soul of freedom ! 
 
 I should not then be fore'd to marry 
 
 one 
 I hate beyond all depths; I should have 
 
 power 
 Then to oppose my loathings, nay, re- 
 move 'em 
 For ever from my sight. 
 
 De F. (Aside.) blest occasion! 
 
 Without change to your sex yftu have 
 
 your wishes; 
 Claim so much man in me. 
 Beat. In thee, De Flores? 
 
 There is small cause for that. 
 De F. Put it not from me, 
 
 It is a service that I kneel for to you. 
 (Kneels.) 
 Beat. You are too violent to mean faith- 
 fully. 
 
 There 's horror in my service, blood, and 
 
 danger ; 
 Can those be things to sue for? 
 De F. If you knew 
 
 How sweet it were to me to be employed 
 In any act of yours, you Would say then 
 I fail'd, and us'd not reverence enough 
 When I receive [d] the charge on't. 
 Beat. (Aside.) This is much, 
 
 Methinks; belike his wants are greedy; 
 
 and 
 To such gold tastes like angel's food. 
 Rise. 
 De F. I '11 have the work first. 
 Beat. (Aside.) Possible his need 
 
 Is strong upon him. — There's to en- 
 courage thee; 
 
 (Gives money.) 
 As thou art forward, and thy service 
 
 dangerous, 
 Thy reward shall be precious. 
 De F. That I 've thought on; 
 
 I have assur'd myself of that before' 
 
 hand. 
 And know it will be precious; the 
 thought ravishes! 
 Beat. Then take him to thy fury! 
 De F. I thirst for him. 
 
 Beat. Alonzo de Piracquo. 
 De F. (Rising.) His end's upon him; 
 
 He shall be seen no more. 
 Beat. How lovely now 
 
 Dost thou appear to me! Never w^s 
 
 man 
 Dearlier rewarded. 
 De F. I do think of that. 
 
 Beat. Be wondrous careful in the execu- 
 tion. 
 De F. Why, are not both our lives upon 
 
 the cast? 
 Beat. Then I throw all my fears upon thy 
 
 service. 
 De F. They ne'er shall rise to hurt you. 
 Beat. When the deed 's done, 
 
 I 'U furnish thee with all things for thy 
 
 flight; 
 Thou may'st live bravely in another 
 country. 
 De F. Aye, aye; 
 
 We '11 talk of that hereafter. 
 Beat. (Aside.) I shall rid myself 
 
 Of two inveterate loathings at one time, 
 Piracquo, and his dog-face. 
 
 Exit. 
 De F. my blood ! 
 
 Methinks I feel her in mine anns al- 
 ready ; 
 Her wanton fingers combing out tMs 
 beard, 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 397 
 
 And, being pleased, praising this bad 
 
 face. 
 Hunger and pleasure, they'll commend 
 
 sometimes 
 Slovenly dishes, and feed heartily on 
 
 'em. 
 Nay, which is stranger, refuse daintier 
 
 for 'em: 
 Some women are odd feeders. — I am too 
 
 loud. 
 Here comes the man goes supperless to 
 
 bed. 
 Yet shall not rise to-morrow to his din- 
 ner. 
 
 Enter Alomo. 
 
 Alon. De Flores. 
 
 De F. My kind, honorable lord'? 
 
 Alon. I 'm glad I ha' met with thee. 
 
 De F. Sir? 
 
 Alon. Thou canst show me 
 
 The full strength of the castle? 
 De F. That I can, sir. 
 
 Alon. I much desire it. 
 De F. And if the ways and straits 
 
 Of some of the passages be not too tedi- 
 ous for you, 
 I'U assure you, worth your time and 
 sight, my lord. 
 Alon. Pooh, that shall be no hindrance. 
 De F. I 'm your servant, then. 
 
 'T is now near dinner-time ; 'gainst your 
 
 lordship's rising 
 I '11 have the keys about me. 
 Alon. Thanks, kind De Flores. 
 
 De F. {Aside. ) He 's safely thrust upon 
 me beyond hopes. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT ni. 
 
 Scene 1. A narrow passage in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Alonzo and De Flores. In the 
 act-time ^^ De Flores hides a naked 
 rapier. 
 
 De Flores. Yes, here are all the keys; I 
 was afraid, my lord, 
 I 'd wanted for the postern, this is it. 
 I've all, I've all, my lord: this for the 
 sconce.^^ 
 Alon. 'Tis a most spacious and impreg- 
 nable fort. 
 De F. You '11 tell me more, my lord. 
 This descent 
 Is somewhat narrow, we shall never pass 
 Well with our weapons, they '11 but trou- 
 ble us. 
 
 se between the acts. 
 
 Alon. Thou sayest true. 
 De F. Pray, let me help your lordship. 
 Alon. 'T is done : thanks, kind De Flores. 
 De F. Here are hooks, my lord, 
 
 To hang such things on purpose. 
 (Hanging up Ms own sword and that of 
 
 Alomo.) 
 Alon. Lead, I '11 follow thee. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. A vault. 
 
 Enter Alonzo and De Flores. 
 
 De F. All this is nothing; you shall see 
 anon 
 A place you little dream on. 
 Alon. I am glad 
 
 I have this leisure; all your master's 
 
 house 
 Imagine I ha' taken a gondola. 
 De F. All but myself, sir, — {Aside.) 
 which makes up my safety. 
 My lord, I'll place you at a easement 
 
 here 
 Will show you the full strength of all the 
 
 castle. 
 Look, spend your eye awhile upon that 
 object. 
 Alon. Here 's rich variety, De Flores. 
 De F. Yes, sir. 
 
 Alon. Goodly munition. 
 De F. Aye, there 's ordnance, sir. 
 
 No bastard metal, will ring you a peal 
 
 like bells 
 At great men's funerals. Keep your eye 
 
 straight, my lord; 
 Take special notice of that sconce before 
 
 you, 
 There you may dwell awhile. 
 {Takes the rapier which he had hid behind 
 
 the , door.) 
 Alon. I am upon 't. 
 
 De F. And so am I. 
 
 {Stabs him.) 
 Alon. De Flores! De Flores! 
 
 Whose malice hast thou put on? 
 De F. Do you question 
 
 A work of secrecy? I must silence you. 
 {Stabs him.) 
 Alon-. 0, 0, 0! 
 
 De F. I must silence you. 
 
 {Stabs him.) 
 So here's an undertaking well accom- 
 
 plish'd. 
 This vault serves to good use now: ha, 
 
 what's that 
 Threw sparkles in my eye? 0, 'tis a 
 diamond 
 
 27 email fort. 
 
398 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 He wears upon his finger; 'twas well 
 
 found ; 
 This will approve the work.^' What, so 
 
 fast on? 
 Not part in death? I'll take a speedy 
 
 course then. 
 Finger and all shall off. (Cuts off the 
 
 finger.) So, now, I'll clear 
 The passages from all suspect or fear. 
 
 Exit with body. 
 
 Scene 3. An apartment in the house of 
 Alibius. 
 
 Enter Isabella and Lollio. 
 
 Isa. Why, sirrah, whence have you com- 
 mission 
 
 To fetter the doors against me? 
 
 If you keep me in a cage, pray, whistle 
 to me, 
 
 Let me be doing something. 
 Lol. You shall be doing, if it please you; 
 
 I '11 whistle to you, if you '11 pipe after. 
 Isa. Is it your master's pleasure, or your 
 own, 
 
 To keep me in this pinfold? ^^ 
 Lol. 'T is for my master's pleasure, lest 
 
 being taken in another man's corn, you 
 
 might be pounded ^^ in another place. 
 Isa. 'T is very well, and he '11 prove very 
 
 wise. 
 Lol. He says you have company enough 
 
 in the house, if you please to be sociable, 
 
 of all sorts of people. 
 Isa. Of all sorts? Why, here's none but 
 
 fools and madmen. 
 Lol. Very well: and where will you find 
 
 any other, if you should go abroad? 
 
 There 's my master and I to boot too. 
 Isa. Of either sort one, a madman and a 
 • fool. 
 Lol. I would ev'n participate of both then 
 
 if I were as you; I know you're half 
 
 mad already, be half foolish too. 
 Isa. You're a brave saucy rascal! Come 
 on, sir. 
 
 Afford me then the pleasure of your bed- 
 lam. 
 
 You were commending onee to-day to me 
 
 Your last-eome lunatic ; what a proper '^ 
 
 Body there was without brains to guide 
 
 it. 
 And what a pitiful delight appear'd 
 
 In that defect, as if your wisdom had 
 
 found 
 A mirth in madness; pray, sir, let me 
 
 partake. 
 If there be such a pleasure. 
 
 Lol. If I do not show you the handsomest, 
 discreetest madman, one that I may call 
 the understanding madman, then say I 
 am a fool. 
 
 Isa. Well, a match, I will say so. 
 
 Lol. When you have had a taste of the 
 madman, you shall, if you please, see 
 Fool's College, o' th' other side. I sel- 
 dom lock there ; 't is but shooting a bolt 
 or two, and you are amongst 'em. (Exit. 
 Enter presently.) — Come on, sir; let me 
 see how handsomely you '11 behave your- 
 self now. 
 
 Enter Franeiscus. 
 
 Fran. How sweetly she looks! 0, but 
 there 's a wrinkle in her brow as deep as 
 philosophy. Anacreon, drink to my mis- 
 tress' health, I 'II pledge it. Stay, stay, 
 there 's a spider in the cup ! No, 't is but 
 a grape-stone; swallow it, fear nothing, 
 poet; so, so, lift higher. 
 
 Isa. Alack, alack, it is too full of pity 
 To be laught at! How fell he mad? 
 Canst thou tell? 
 
 Lol. For love, mistress. He was a pretty 
 poet, too, and that set him forwards 
 first ; the muses then forsook him ; he ran 
 mad for a chambermaid, yet she was but 
 a dwarf neither. 
 
 Fran. Hail, bright Titania ! 
 
 Why stand'st thou idle on these flow'ry 
 
 banks? 
 Oberon is dancing with his Dryades; 
 I '11 gather daisies, primrose, violets. 
 And bind them in a verse of poesy. 
 
 Lol. {Holding up a whip.) Not too 
 near! You see your danger. 
 
 Fran, 0, hold thy hand, great Diomede ! 
 Thou feed'st thy horses well, they shall 
 
 obey thee : 
 Get up, Bucephalus kneels. 
 (Kneels.) 
 
 Lol. You see how I awe my flock; a shep- 
 herd has not his dog at more obedience. 
 
 Isa. His conscience is unquiet; sure that 
 was 
 The cause of this : a proper gentleman ! 
 
 Fran. Come hither, .Slsculapius ; hide the 
 poison. 
 
 Lol. Well, 't is hid. 
 
 (Hides the whip.) 
 
 Fran. Didst thou ne'er hear of one 
 Tiresias, 
 A famous poet? 
 
 Lol. Yes, that kept tame wild geese. 
 
 Fran. That 's he ; I am the man. 
 
 8 prove that the 
 work has been 
 
 done. (Bullen.) fining stray nBt- 80 confined 
 29 a pound for con- tie. pound. 
 
 in a 31 handsome. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 399 
 
 Lol. No? 
 
 Fran. Yes ; but make no words on 't. I 
 was. a man 
 ■ Seven years ago. 
 Lol. A stripling, I think, you might. 
 
 Fran. Now I 'm a woman, all feminine. 
 Lol. I would I might see that ! 
 Fran. Juno struck me blind. 
 Lol. I'll ne'er believe that; for a woman, 
 
 they say, has an eye more than a man. 
 Fran. I say she struck me blind. 
 Lol. And Luna made you mad : you have 
 
 two trades to beg with. 
 Fran. Luna is now big-bellied, and there 's 
 room 
 For both of us to ride with Hecate ;• 
 I '11 drag thee up into her silver sphere, 
 And there we '11 kick the dog — and beat 
 
 the bvish ^^ — 
 That barks against the witches of the 
 
 night; 
 The swift lycanthropi ^^ that walks the 
 
 round, 
 We'll tear their wolvish skins, and save 
 the sheep. 
 {Attempts to seize Lollio.) 
 Lol. Is't come to this? Nay, then, my 
 poison comes forth again. {Showing the 
 whip.) Mad slave, indeed, abuse your 
 keeper ! 
 Isa. I prithee, hence with him, now he 
 
 grows dangerous. 
 Fran. {Sings.) 
 
 Sweet love, pity me, 
 Give me leave to lie with thee. 
 Lol. No, I '11 see you wiser first. To your 
 
 own kennel ! 
 Fran. No noise, she sleeps; draw all the 
 curtains round. 
 Let no soft sound molest the pretty soul 
 But love, and love creeps in at a mouse- 
 hole. 
 Lol. I would you would get into your 
 hole! {Exit Franciscus.) — Now, mis- 
 tress, I will bring you another sort; you 
 shall be f ool'd another while. {Exit, and 
 brings in Antonio.) — Tony,. come hither, 
 Tony: look who's yonder, Tony. 
 Ant. Cousin, is it not my aunf?"* 
 Lol. Yes, 't is one of 'em, Tony. 
 Ant. He, he! how do you, uncle? 
 Lol. Fear him not, mistress, 't is a gentle 
 nigget ; ^^ you may play with him, as 
 safely with him as with his bauble. 
 Isa. How long hast thou been a fool? 
 Ant. Ever since I came hither, cousin. 
 Isa. Cousin? I'm none of thy cousins, 
 fool. 
 
 Lol. 0, mistress, fools have always so 
 much wit as to claim their kindred. 
 
 Madman. {Within.) Bounce, bounce! he 
 falls, he falls ! 
 
 Isa. Hark you, your scholars in the upper 
 room 
 Are out of order. 
 
 Lol. Must I come amongst you there? — 
 Keep you the fool, mistress ; I '11 go up 
 and play left-handed Orlando amongst 
 the madmen. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Isa. Well, sir. 
 
 Ant. 'T is opportuneful now, sweet lady ! 
 nay. 
 Cast no amazing eye upon this change. 
 Isa. Ha ! 
 
 Ant. This shape of folly shrouds your 
 dearest love, 
 The truest servant to your powerful 
 
 beauties. 
 Whose magic had this force thus to trans- 
 form me. 
 Isa. You 're a fine fool indeed ! 
 Ant. 0, 't is not strange I 
 
 Love has an intellect that runs through 
 
 all 
 The scrutinous ^' sciences ; and, like a 
 
 cunning poet. 
 Catches a quantity of every knowledge. 
 Yet brings all home into one mystery, 
 Into one secret that he proceeds in. 
 Isa. You're a parlous fool. 
 Ant. No danger in me; I bring nought 
 but love 
 And his soft-wounding shafts to strike 
 
 you with. 
 Try but one arrow; if it hurt you, I 
 Will stand you twenty back in recom- 
 pense. 
 
 {Kisses her.) 
 Isa. A forward fool too ! 
 Ant. This was love's teaching: 
 
 A thousand ways he fashion'd out my 
 
 way, 
 And this I found the safest and the 
 
 nearest. 
 To tread the galaxia to my star. 
 Isa. Profound withal! certain you 
 dream'd of this. 
 Love never taught it waking. 
 Ant. Take no acquaintance 
 
 Of these outward follies, there 's within 
 A gentleman that loves you. 
 Isa. When I see him, 
 
 I '11 speak with him ; so, in the meantime, 
 keep 
 
 32 the dog and the 
 thorn bush be- 
 longing to the 
 
 man in the moon. 
 
 33 aiHicted with ly- 
 
 canthropia, or 
 
 wolf-madness. Cf. 
 Duchess of Mdlfi, 
 V. ii. 
 
 34 bawd. 
 
 35 idiot. 
 30 exact. 
 
400 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Your habit, it becomes you well enough. 
 
 As you 're a gentleman, I '11 not discover 
 you; 
 
 That's all the favor that you must ex- 
 pect. 
 
 When you are weary, you may leave the 
 school, 
 
 For all this while you have but play'd 
 the fool. 
 
 Be-enter Lollio, 
 
 Ant. And must again. — He, he! I thank 
 you, cousin; 
 I'll be your valentine to-morrow morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Lol. How do you like the fool, mistress? 
 
 Isa. Passing well, sir. 
 
 Lol. Is he not witty, pretty well, for a 
 fool? 
 
 Isa. If he holds on as he begins, be 's like 
 To come to something. 
 
 Lol. Aye, thank a good tutor. You may 
 put him to 't ; he begins to answer pretty 
 hard questions. — Tony, how many is five 
 times six? 
 
 Ant. Five times sis is six times five. 
 
 Lol. What arithmetician could have an- 
 swer'd better? How many is one hun- 
 dred and seven? 
 
 Ant. One hundred and seven is seven hun- 
 dred and one, cousin. 
 
 Lol. This is no wit to speak on ! — ^Will 
 you be rid of the fool now? 
 
 Isa. By no means; let him stay a little. 
 
 Madman. {WitMn.) Catch there, catch 
 the last couple in hell ! ^^ 
 
 Lol. Again! must I come amongst you? 
 Would my master were come home! I 
 am not able to govern both these wards 
 together. Exit. 
 
 Ant. Why should a minute of love's hour 
 be lost? 
 
 Isa. Fie, out again! I had rather you 
 kept 
 Your other posture ; you become not your 
 
 tongue 
 When you speak from '* your clothes. 
 
 Ant. How can he freeze 
 
 Lives near so sweet a warmth? Shall I 
 
 alone 
 Walk through the orchard of th' Hes- 
 
 perides, 
 And, cowardly, not dare to pull an 
 apple ? 
 
 Enter Lollio above. 
 
 This with the red cheeks I must venture 
 for. 
 
 {Attempts to kiss her.) 
 Isa. Take heed, there 's giants keep 'em. 
 Lol. (Aside.) How now, fool, are you 
 good at that? Have you read Lipsius? ^' 
 He 's past Ars Amandi; I believe I must 
 put harder questions to him, I perceive 
 that. 
 Isa. You're bold without fear too. 
 Ant. What should I fear, 
 
 Having all joys about me? Do you 
 
 smUe, 
 And love shall play the wanton on your 
 
 . lip. 
 Meet and retire, retire and meet again; 
 Look you but cheerfully, and in your 
 
 eyes 
 I shall behold mine own deformity, 
 And dress myself up fairer. I know this 
 
 shape 
 Becomes me not, but in those bright nair- 
 
 rors 
 I shall array me handsomely. 
 (Cries of madmen are heard within, some 
 
 as birds, others as beasts.) 
 Lol. Cuckoo, cuckoo! 
 
 Exit, above. 
 
 Ant. What are these? 
 
 Isa. Of fear enough to part us; 
 
 Yet are they but our schools of lunatics. 
 
 That act their fantasies in any shapes. 
 
 Suiting their present thoughts: if sad, 
 
 they cry; 
 If mirth be their conceit, they laugh 
 
 again : 
 Sometimes they imitate the beasts and 
 
 birds. 
 Singing or howling, braying, barking; 
 
 air 
 
 As their wild fancies prompt 'em. 
 Enter Lollio. 
 
 Ant. These are no fears. 
 
 Isa. But here 's a large one, my man. 
 
 Ant. Ha, he! that's fine sport, indeed, 
 cousin. 
 
 Lol. I would my master were come home ! 
 'T is too much for one shepherd to gov- 
 ern two of these flocks; nor can I be- 
 lieve that one churchman can instruct 
 two benefices at once ; there will be some 
 incurable mad of the one side, and very 
 fools on the other. — Come, Tony. 
 
 Ant. Prithee, cousin, let me stay here still. 
 
 87 An allusion to the 
 game of barley- 
 break, the ground 
 for which was di- 
 
 vided into three 
 compartments, of 
 which the middle 
 one was termed 
 
 "hell." (Ellis.) 
 
 33 foreign to, 
 
 30 A Flemish schol- 
 ar of the six- 
 
 teenth century ; 
 introduced only 
 for the pun on 
 lip. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 401 
 
 Lol. No, you must to your book now; you 
 
 have play'd suflSciently. 
 Isa. Your fool has grown wondrous witty. 
 Lol. Well, I'll say nothing: but I do not 
 think but he will put you down one of 
 these days. 
 
 Exit with Antonio. 
 Isa. Here the restrained current might 
 make breach. 
 Spite of the watchful bankers. Would a 
 
 woman stray, 
 She need not gad abroad to seek her sin, 
 It would be brought home one way or 
 
 another : 
 The needle's point will to the fixed north ; 
 Such drawing arctics women's beauties 
 are. 
 
 Be-enter Lollio. 
 
 Lol. How dost thou, sweet rogue? 
 
 Isa. How now? 
 
 Lol. Come, there are degrees; one fool 
 
 may be better than another. 
 Isa. What's the matter? 
 Lol. Nay, if thou giv'st thy mind to fool's 
 
 flesh, have at thee! 
 Isa. You bold slave, you! 
 Lol. I could follow now as t' other fool 
 did: 
 
 "What should I fear. 
 Having all joys about me? Do you but 
 
 smile, 
 And love shall play the wanton on your 
 
 lip, 
 Meet and retire, retire and meet again ; 
 Look you but cheerfully, and in your 
 
 eyes 
 I shall behold my own deformity, 
 And dress myself up fairer. I know 
 
 this shape 
 Becomes me not — " 
 
 And so as it follows : but is not this the 
 most foolish way? Come, sweet rogue; 
 kiss me, my little Lacedaemonian ; let me 
 feel how thy pulses beat. Thou hast a 
 thing about thee would do a man pleas- 
 ure, I '11 lay my hand on 't. 
 Isa. Sirrah, no more ! I see you have dis- 
 covered 
 This love's knight errant, who hath made 
 
 adventure 
 For purchase*" of my love: be silent, 
 
 mute, 
 Mute as a statue, or his injunction 
 For me enjoying, shall be to cut thy 
 
 throat ; 
 I'll do it, though for no other purpose; 
 and 
 
 Be sure he '11 not refuse it. 
 Lot My share, that's all; 
 
 I '11 have my fool's part with you. 
 Isa. No more ! Your master. 
 
 Enter AUMus. 
 
 Alib. Sweet, how dost thou? 
 
 Isa. Your bounden servant, sir. 
 
 Alib. Fie, fle,' sweetheart, no more of that. 
 
 Isa. You were best lock me up. 
 
 Alib. In my arms and bosom, my sweet 
 
 Isabella, 
 I '11 lock thee up most nearly. — Lollio, ^ 
 We have employment, we have task in 
 
 hand. 
 At noble Vermandero's, our castle's cap- 
 tain. 
 There is a nuptial to be solemniz'd — 
 Beatrice-Joanna, his fair daughter, 
 
 bride, — 
 For which the gentleman hath bespoke 
 
 our pains, 
 A mixture of our madmen and our fools, 
 To finish, as it were, and make the fag ^^ 
 Of all the revels, the third night from 
 
 the first; 
 Only an unexpected passage over, 
 To make a frightful pleasure, that is all. 
 But not the all I aim at. Could we so 
 
 act it, 
 To teach it in a wild distracted measure. 
 Though out of form and figure, breaking 
 
 time's head, 
 It were no matter, 'twould be heal'd 
 
 again 
 In one age or other, if not in this : 
 This, this, Lollio, there's a good reward 
 
 begun. 
 And will beget a bounty, be it known. 
 Lol. This is easy, sir, I'll warrant you: 
 you have about you fools and madmen 
 that can dance very well; and 'tis no 
 wonder, your best dancers are not the 
 wisest men; the reason is, with often 
 jumping they jolt their brains down into 
 their feet, that their wits lie more in 
 their heels than in their heads. 
 Alib. Honest Lollio, thou giv'st me a 
 
 good reason. 
 And a comfort in it. 
 Isa. You 've a fine trade on 't. 
 
 Madmen and fools are a staple commod- 
 
 ity. 
 Alib. wife, we must eat, wear clothes, 
 
 and live. 
 Just at the lawyer's haven we arrive, • 
 By madmen and by fools we both do 
 
 thrive. Exeunt. 
 
 40 winning. 
 
 41 end. 
 
402 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Scene 4. An apartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Beatrice, Alsemero, 
 and Jasperino. 
 
 Ver. Valencia speaks so nobly of you, sir, 
 
 I wish I had a daughter now for you. 
 Als. The fellow of this creature were a 
 partner 
 For a king's love. 
 Ver. I had her fellow once, sir. 
 
 But Heaven has married her to joys 
 
 eternal ; 
 'T were sin to wish her in this vale again. 
 Come, sir, your friend and you shall see 
 
 the pleasures 
 Which my health chiefly joys in. 
 Als. I hear 
 
 The beauty of this seat largely com- 
 mended. 
 Ver. It falls much short of that. 
 
 Exit with Alsemero and Jasperino. 
 
 Beat. So, here 's one step 
 
 Into my father's favor; time wiU fix him ; 
 
 I've got him now the liberty of the 
 
 house. 
 So wisdom, by degrees, works out her 
 
 freedom ; 
 And if that eye be dark'ned that offends 
 
 me, — 
 I wait but that eclipse, — this gentleman 
 Shall soon shine glorious in my father's 
 
 liking, 
 Through the refulgent virtue of my love. 
 
 Enter Be Flores. 
 
 De F. {Aside.) My thoughts are at a 
 banquet; for the deed, 
 I feel no weight in 't ; 't is but light and 
 
 cheap 
 For the sweet recompense that I set down 
 for't. 
 Beat. De Flores? 
 De F. Lady? 
 
 Beat. Thy looks promise cheerfully. 
 
 De F. All things are answerable, time, cir- 
 cumstance. 
 Your wishes, and my service. 
 Beat. Is it done, then? 
 
 De F. Piraequo is no more. 
 Beat. My joys start at mine eyes; our 
 sweet'st delights 
 Are evermore bom weeping. 
 De F. I 've a token for you. 
 
 Beat. Forme? 
 
 De F. But it was sent somewhat unwill- 
 ingly; 
 I could not get the nng without the 
 finger. 
 
 ii casket. 
 
 {Produces the finger and ring.) 
 Beat. Bless me, what hast thou done? 
 De F. Why, is that more 
 
 Than killing the whole man? I cut his 
 
 heart-strings ; 
 A greedy hand thrust in a dish at court, 
 In a mistake hath had as much as this. 
 Beat. 'T is the first token my father made 
 
 me send him. 
 De F. And I have made him send it back 
 again 
 For his last token. I was loth to leave it. 
 And I 'm sure dead men have no use of 
 
 jewels ; 
 He was as loth to part with 't, for it 
 
 stuck 
 As if the fiesh and it were both one sub- 
 stance. 
 Beat. At the stag's fall, the keeper has his 
 fees; 
 'T is soon appli'd, all dead men's fees are 
 
 yours, sir. 
 I pray, bury the finger, but the stone 
 You may make use on shortly; the true 
 
 value. 
 Take 't of my truth, is near three hundred 
 ducats. 
 De F. 'T will hardly buy a capcase *^ for 
 one's conscience though, 
 To keep it from the worm, as fine as 't is. 
 Well, being my fees, I 'II take it ; 
 Great men have taught me that, or else 
 
 my merit 
 Would scorn the way on 't. 
 Beat. It might justly, sir. 
 
 Why, thou mistak'st, De Flores ; 't is not 
 
 given 
 In state *^ of recompense. 
 De F. No, I hope so, lady; 
 
 You should soon witness my contempt 
 to 't then. 
 Beat. Prithee, — thou look'st as if thou 
 
 wert offended. 
 De F. That were strange, lady.; 'tis not 
 possible 
 My service should draw such a cause from 
 
 you. 
 Offended! Could you think so? That 
 
 were much 
 For one of my performance, and so warm 
 Yet in my service. 
 Beat. 'T were misery in me to give you 
 
 cause, sir. 
 De F. I know so much, it were so ; misery 
 
 In her most sharp condition. 
 Beat. _ 'T is resolv'd then: 
 
 Look you, sir, here's three thousand 
 golden florins ; 
 
 is instead of. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 403 
 
 I have not meanly thought upon thy 
 merit. 
 BeF. What! salary? Now you move me. 
 Beat. How, De Flores? 
 
 Be F. Do you place me in the rank of ver- 
 minous fellows, 
 To destroy things for wages 1 Offer gold 
 For the life-blood of man? Is anything 
 Valued too precious for my recompense? 
 Beat. I understand thee not. 
 De F. I could ha' hir'd 
 
 A journeyman in murder at this rate, 
 And mine own conscience might have 
 
 [slept at ease],** 
 And have had the work brought home. 
 Beat. {Aside.} I 'm in a labyrinth ; 
 
 What will content him ? I 'd fain be rid 
 
 of him. — 
 I '11 double the sum, sir. 
 Be F. You take a course 
 
 To double my vexation, that's the good 
 you do. 
 Beat. (Aside.) Bless me, I 'm now in 
 worse plight. than I was; 
 I know not what will please him. — For 
 
 my fear's sake, 
 I prithee, make away with all speed pos- 
 sible ; 
 And if thou be'st so modest not to 
 
 name 
 The sum that will content thee, paper 
 
 blushes not. 
 Send thy demand in writing, it shall fol- 
 low thee; 
 But, prithee, take thy flight. 
 Be F. You must fly too, then. 
 
 Beat. I? 
 
 Be F. I '11 not stir a foot else. 
 Beat. What's your meaning? 
 
 Be F. Why, are not you as guilty? In, 
 I 'm sure. 
 As deep as I; and we should stick to- 
 gether. 
 Come, your fears counsel you but ill ; my 
 
 absence 
 Would draw suspect upon you instantly; 
 There were no rescue for you. 
 Beat. (Aside. ) He speaks home ! 
 
 Be F. Nor is it fit we two, engag'd so 
 jointly. 
 Should part and live asunder. 
 Beat. How now, sir? 
 
 This shows not well. 
 BeF. What makes your lip so strange? 
 
 This must not be 'twixt us. 
 Beat. The man talks wildly ! 
 
 Be F. Come, kiss me with a zeal now. 
 Beat. (Aside.") Heaven, I doubt him ! 
 
 i* Added in an edition of 1816. 
 
 Be F. I will not stand so long to beg 'em 
 
 shortly. 
 Beat. Take heed, De Flores, of forgetful- 
 
 ness, 
 'T will soon betray us. 
 Be F. Take you heed first; 
 
 Faith, you're gxown much forgetful, 
 
 you 're to blame in 't. 
 Beat. (Aside.) He's bold, and I am 
 
 blam'd for't. 
 Be F. 1 have eas'd you 
 
 Of your trouble, think on it; I am in 
 
 pain, 
 And must be eas'd of*^ you; 'tis a 
 
 charity : 
 Justice invites your blood to understand 
 
 me. 
 Beat. I dare not. 
 Be F. Quickly ! 
 
 Beat. 0, I never shall! 
 
 Speak it yet further off, that I may lose 
 What has been spoken, and no sound re- 
 main on 't ; 
 I would not hear so much offence again 
 For such another deed. 
 Be F. _ Soft, lady, soft ! 
 
 The last is not yet paid for. 0, this act 
 Has put me into spirit; I was as greedy 
 
 on't 
 As the parcht earth of moisture, when the 
 
 clouds weep. 
 Did you not mark, I wrought myself 
 
 into 't. 
 Nay, su'd and kneel'd for 't ? Why was 
 
 all that pains took? 
 You see I 've thrown contempt upon your 
 
 gold; 
 Not that I want it not, for I do piteously, 
 In order I '11 come unto 't, and make use 
 
 on 't. 
 But 't was not held so precious to begin 
 
 with. 
 For I place wealth after the heels of 
 
 pleasure ; 
 And were not I resolv'd in my belief 
 That thy virginity were perfect in thee, 
 I should but take my recompense with 
 
 grudging, 
 As if I had but half my hopes I agreed 
 
 for. 
 Beat. Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be 
 
 so wicked. 
 Or shelter such a cunning cruelty, 
 To make his death the murderer of my 
 
 honor ! 
 Thy language is so bold and vicious, 
 I cannot see which way I can forgive it 
 With any modesty. 
 
 15 by. 
 
404 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Be F. Pish ! you forget yourself ; 
 
 A woman dipt in blood, and talk of mod- 
 esty! 
 Beat. misery of sin! would I'd been 
 
 bound 
 Perpetually unto my living hate 
 In that Piracquo, than to hear these 
 
 words ! 
 Think but upon the distance that creation 
 Set 'twixt thy blood and mine, and keep 
 
 thee there. 
 De F. Look but into your conscience, read 
 
 me there ; 
 'T is a true book, you '11 find me there 
 
 your equal. 
 Pish ! fly not to your birth, but settle you 
 In what the act has made you ; you 're no 
 
 more now. 
 You must forget your parentage to me; 
 You 're the deed's creature ; by that name 
 You lost your first condition, and I chal- 
 lenge you. 
 As peace and innocency has tum'd you 
 
 out. 
 And made you one with me. 
 Beat. With thee, foul villain ! 
 
 De F. Yes, my fair murd'ress. Do you 
 
 urge me, 
 Though thou writ'st maid, thou whore in 
 
 thy affection'? 
 'Twas chang'd from thy first love, and 
 
 that 's a kind 
 Of whoredom in thy heart; and he's 
 
 chang'd now 
 To bring thy second on, thy Alsemero, 
 Whom, by all sweets that ever darkness 
 
 tasted. 
 
 If I enjoy thee not, thou ne'er enjoy'st ! 
 
 I '11 blast the hopes and joys of marriage, 
 
 I '11 confess all ; my life I rate at nothing. 
 
 Beat. De Flores ! 
 
 De F. I shall rest from all love's 
 
 plagues then; 
 I live in pain now; that shooting eye 
 Will bum my heart to cinders. 
 Beat. sir, hear me ! 
 
 De F. She that in life and love refuses 
 
 me. 
 In death and shame my partner she shall 
 
 be. 
 Beat. (Kneeling.) Stay, hear me once for 
 
 all ; I make thee master 
 Of all the wealth I have in gold and 
 
 jewels ; 
 Let me go poor unto my bed with honor. 
 And I am rich in all things ! 
 De F. Let this silence thee : 
 
 The wealth of all Valencia shall not buy 
 My pleasure from me ; 
 
 Can you weep Fate from its determin'd 
 purpose? 
 
 So soon may you weep me. 
 Beat. ^ Vengeance begins ; 
 
 Murder, I see, is followed by more sins. 
 
 Was my creation in the womb so curst. 
 
 It must engender with a viper first? 
 De F. (Raising her.) Come, rise and 
 shroud your blushes in my bosom; 
 
 Silence is one of pleasure's best receipts: 
 
 Thy peace is wrought for ever in this 
 yielding. 
 
 'Las ! how the turtle pants ! Thou 'It love 
 anon 
 
 What thou so fear'st and faint'st to ven- 
 ture on. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Dumb Show. 
 Enter Gentlemen, Vermandero meeting 
 them, with action of wonderment at the 
 flight of Piracquo. Enter Alsemero with 
 Jasperino and gallants: Vermandero 
 points to him, the gentlemen seeming to 
 applaud the choice. Alsemero, , Jaspgr- 
 ino, and Gentlemen; Beatrice the bride 
 following in great state, accompanied 
 with Diaphanta, Isabella, and other gen- 
 tlewomen; De Flores after all, smiling at 
 the accident: Alamo's ghost appears to 
 De Flores in the midst of his smile, 
 startles him, showing him the hand whose 
 finger he had cut off. They pass over in 
 great solemnity. 
 
 Scene 1. Alsemero's apartment in the 
 Castle. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. This fellow has undone me end- 
 lessly ; 
 Never was bride so fearfully distrest. 
 The more I think upon th' ensuing night, 
 And whom I am to cope with in embraces, 
 One who's ennobled both in blood and 
 
 mind, 
 So clear in understanding, — that's my 
 
 plague now — 
 Before whose judgment will my fault 
 
 appear 
 Like malefactors' crimes before tribunals. 
 There is no hiding on 't, the more I dive 
 Into my own distress. How a wise man 
 Stands for a great calamity! There's 
 
 no venturing 
 Into his bed, what course spe'er I light 
 upon. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 405 
 
 Without my shame, which may grow up 
 
 to danger. 
 He cannot but in justice strangle me 
 As I lie by him ; as a cheater use me ; 
 'T is a precious craft to play with a false 
 
 die 
 Before a cunning gamester. Here's his 
 
 closet ; 
 The key left in't, and he abroad i' th' 
 
 park! 
 Sure 't was forgot ; I '11 be so bold as look 
 
 in't. 
 
 (Opens closet.) 
 Bless me! a right physician's closet 'tis, 
 Set round with vials; every one her 
 
 mark too. 
 Sure he does practise physic for his own 
 
 use, 
 Which may be safely eall'd your great 
 
 man's wisdom. 
 What manuscript lies here? "The Book 
 
 of Experiment, 
 CaU'd Secrets in Nature." So 'tis: 'tis 
 
 so. 
 
 (Reads.) 
 "How to know whether a woman be with 
 
 child or no." 
 I hope I am not yet; if he should try 
 
 though ! 
 Let me see (reads) "folio forty-five," 
 
 here 't is, 
 The leaf tuekt down upon't, the place 
 
 suspicious. 
 
 (Beads.) 
 "If you would know whether a woman be 
 with child or not, give her two spoonfuls 
 of the white water in glass C — " 
 Where 's that glass C ? O yonder, I see 't 
 now: — (reads) "and if she be with child, 
 she sleeps full twelve hours after; if not, 
 not:" 
 
 None of that water comes into my belly ; 
 I '11 know you from a hundred ; I could 
 
 break you now. 
 Or turn you into milk, and so begfuile 
 The master of the mystery; but I'll look 
 
 to you. 
 Ha ! that which is next is ten times worse : 
 
 (Beads.) 
 "How to know whether a woman be a 
 maid or not :" 
 
 If that should be appli'd, what would be- 
 come of me? 
 Belike he has a strong faith of my purity. 
 That never yet made proof; but this he 
 
 calls 
 
 (Beads.) 
 "A merry slight,*^ but true experiment; 
 
 46 trick. 
 
 the author Antonius Mizaldus. Give the 
 party you suspect the quantity of a 
 spoonful of the water in the glass M, 
 which, upon her that is a maid, makes 
 three several effects; 'twill make her in- 
 continently *'' gape, then fall into a sud- 
 den sneezing, last into a violent laughing; ^ 
 else, dull, heavy, and lumpish." 
 Where had I been ? 
 I fear it, yet 't is seven hours to bed-time. 
 
 Enter Biaphanta. 
 
 Dia. Cuds, madam, are you here ? 
 Beat. Seeing that wench now, 
 
 A trick comes in my mind; 'tis a nice 
 
 piece 
 Gold cannot purchase. (Aside.) — I come 
 
 hither, wench. 
 To look my lord. 
 Dia. Would I had such a cause 
 
 To look him too ! — ^Why, he 's i' th' park, 
 madam. 
 Beat. There let him be. 
 Dia. Aye, madam, let him compass 
 
 Whole parks and forests, as great rangers 
 
 do, 
 At roosting-time a little lodge can hold 
 
 'em. 
 Earth-conquering Alexander, that 
 
 thought the world 
 Too narrow for him, in th' end had but 
 his pit-hole. 
 Beat. I fear thou art not modest, Dia- 
 
 phanta. 
 Dia. Your thoughts are so unwilling to be 
 known, madam. 
 'T is ever the bride's fashion, toward bed- 
 time, 
 To set light by her joys, as if she ow'd 
 'em not. 
 Beat. Her joys? Her fears thou wouldst 
 
 say. 
 Dia. Fear of what? 
 
 Beat. Art thou a maid, and talk'st so to a 
 maid? ' 
 Tou leave a blushing business behind; 
 Beshrew your heart for 't ! 
 Dia. Do you mean good sooth, madam ? 
 Beat. Well, if I 'd thought upon the fear 
 at first, 
 Man should have been unknown. 
 Dia. Is't possible? 
 
 Beat. I'd give a thousand ducats to that 
 woman 
 Would try what my fear were, and tell 
 
 me true 
 To-morrow, when she gets from 't ; as she 
 likes, 
 
 47 immediately. 
 
406 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 I might perhaps be drawn to 't. 
 Did. Are you in earnest ? 
 
 Beat. Do you get the woman, then chal- 
 lenge me, 
 And see if I'll fly from't; but I must 
 
 tell you 
 This by the way, she must be a true maid ; 
 Else there 's no trial, my fears are not 
 her's else. 
 Dia. Nay, she that I would put into your 
 hands, madam, 
 Shall be a maid. 
 Beat. You know I should be sham'd else, 
 
 Because she lies for me. 
 Dia. 'T is a strange humor! 
 
 But are you serious still? Would you 
 
 resign 
 Your first nighty's pleasure, and give 
 money too ? 
 Beat. As willingly as live. — {Aside.) 
 Alas, the gold 
 Is but a by-bet to wedge in the honor! 
 Dia. I do not know how the world goes 
 abroad 
 For faith or honesty ; there 's both re- 
 
 quir'd in this. 
 Madam, what say you to me, and stray 
 
 no further? 
 I 've a good mind, in troth, to earn your 
 money. 
 Beat. You are too quick, I fear, to be a 
 
 maid. 
 Dia. How ? Not a maid ? Nay, then you 
 urge me, madam ; 
 Your honorable self is not a truer. 
 With all your fears upon you — 
 Beat. (Aside.) Bad enough then. 
 
 Dia. Then I with all my lightsome joys 
 
 about me. 
 Beat. I 'm glad to hear 't. Then you dare 
 put your honesty *^ 
 Upon an easy trial. 
 Dia. Easy? Anything. 
 
 Beat. I '11 come to you straight. 
 {Goes to the closet.) 
 Dia. She will not search me, will she, 
 
 Like the forewoman of a female jury? 
 Beat. Glass M: aye, this is it. {Brings 
 vial.) Look, Diaphanta, 
 You take no worse than I do. 
 {Drinks.) 
 Dia. And in so doing, 
 
 I will not question what it is, but take it. 
 {Drinks.) 
 Beat. (Aside.) Now if th' experiment be 
 true, 't will praise itself, 
 And give me noble ease : begins already ; 
 (Diaphanta gapes.) 
 
 48 chastity. '» symptom. 
 
 There's the first symptom; and what 
 
 haste it makes 
 To fall into the second, there by this 
 time! 
 
 (Diaphanta sneezes.) 
 Most admirable secret! on the contrary. 
 It stirs not me a whit, which most con- 
 cerns it. 
 Dia. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Beat. (Aside.) Just in all things, and in 
 order 
 As if 'twere circumscrib'd ; one acci- 
 dent *» 
 Gives way unto another. 
 Dia. Ha, ha, ha! 
 Beat. How now, wench? 
 Dia. Ha, ha, ha ! I 'm so — so light 
 
 At heart — ha, ha, ha ! — so pleasurable ! 
 But one swig more, sweet madam. 
 Beat. Aye, to-morrow. 
 
 We shall have time to sit by 't. 
 Dia. Now I 'm sad ^° again. 
 
 Beat. (Aside.) It lays itself so gently 
 too ! — Come, wench. 
 Most honest Diaphanta I dare call thee 
 now. 
 Dia. Pray, tell me, madam, what trick call 
 
 you this? 
 Beat. I'll tell thee all hereafter; we must 
 study 
 The carriage of this business. 
 Dia. I shall carry 't well. 
 
 Because I love the burthen. 
 Beat. About midnight 
 
 You must not fail to steal forth gently. 
 That I may use the place. 
 Dia. 0, fear not, madam, 
 
 I shall be cool by that time. The"bride's 
 
 place. 
 And with a thousand ducats ! I 'm for a 
 
 justice now, 
 I bring a portion ''^ with me; I scorn 
 small fools. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Scene 2. Another apartment in the 
 Castle. 
 
 Enter Vermandero and Servant. 
 
 Ver. I tell thee, knave, mine honor is in 
 question, 
 A thing till now free from suspicion, 
 Nor ever was there cause. Who of my 
 
 gentlemen 
 Are absent? Tell me, and truly, how 
 many and who? 
 Ser. ' Antonio, sir, and Franeiscus. 
 Ver. When did they leave the castle? 
 
 EO serious. 
 
 SI t. e. marriage portion. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 407 
 
 Ser. Some ten days since, sir; the one in- 
 tending to 
 
 Briamata, tli' other for Valencia. 
 Ver. The time accuses 'em; a charge of 
 murder 
 
 Is brought within my castle-gate, Pirac- 
 quo's murd«r; 
 
 I dare not answer ^^ faithfully their ab- 
 sence. 
 
 A strict command of apprehension ''' 
 
 Shall pursue 'em suddenly, and either 
 wipe 
 
 The stain off clear, or openly discover "* 
 it. 
 
 Provide me winged warrants for the pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Exit Servant. 
 
 See, I am set on again. 
 
 Enter Totnaso. 
 
 Tom. I claim a brother of you. 
 
 Ver. You're too hot; 
 
 Seek him not here. 
 TorrK Yes, 'mongst your dearest bloods. 
 If my peace find no fairer satisfaction. 
 This is the place must yield account for 
 
 him, 
 For here I left him ; and the hasty tie 
 Of this snatcht marriage gives strong 
 
 testimony 
 Of his most certain ruin. 
 Ver. Certain falsehood! 
 
 This is the place indeed; his breach of 
 
 faith 
 Has too much marr'd both my abused 
 
 love, 
 The honorable love I reserv'd for him, 
 And mockt my daughter's joy; the pre- 
 
 par'd morning 
 Blusht at his infidelity; he left 
 Contempt and scorn to throw upon those 
 
 friends 
 Whose belief hurt 'em. 0, 't was most 
 
 ignoble 
 To take his flight so unexpectedly. 
 And throw' such public wrongs on those 
 
 that lov'd him ! 
 Tom. Then this is all your answer? 
 Yer. "I is too fair 
 
 For one of his alliance; and I warn you 
 That this place no more see you. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Enter Be Flares. 
 
 Tom. , The best is. 
 
 There is more ground to meet a man's re- 
 venge on. — 
 Honest De Flores? 
 
 De F. That 's my name indeed. 
 
 Saw you the bride? Good sweet sir, 
 which way took she? 
 Tom. I 've blest mine eyes from seeing 
 
 such a false one. 
 Be F. {Aside.) I'd fain get off, this 
 man 's not for my company; 
 I smell his brother's blood when I come 
 near him. 
 Tom. Come hither, kind and true one; I 
 remember 
 My brother lov'd thee well. 
 Be F. 0, purely, dear sir ! — 
 
 {Aside.) Methinks I'm now again 
 
 a-killing on him. 
 He brings it so fresh to me. 
 Tom. Thou canst guess, sirrah — 
 
 An honest friend has an instinct of jeal- 
 ousy — 
 At some foul guilty person. 
 Be F. Alas ! sir, 
 
 I am so charitable, I think none 
 Worse than myself ! You did not see the 
 bride then? 
 Tom. I prithee, name her not : 'is she not 
 
 wicked ? 
 Be F. No, no ; a pretty, easy, round-packt 
 sinner. 
 As your most ladies are, else you might 
 
 think 
 I flattered her; but, sir, at no hand 
 
 wicked. 
 Till they 're so old their chins and noses °' 
 
 meet. 
 And they salute witches. I 'm call'd, I 
 
 think, sir. — 
 {Aside.) His company "ev'n overlays my 
 conscience. 
 
 Exit. 
 Tom. That De Flores has a wondrous hon- 
 est heart ! 
 He '11 bring it out in time, I 'm assur'd 
 
 on't. 
 0, here 's the glorious master of the day's 
 
 joy! 
 'Twill' not be long till he and I do 
 reckon. — 
 
 B! account for, 
 63 arrest. 
 
 64 reveal. 
 
 Enter Alsemero. 
 
 Sir. 
 Als. You 're most welcome. 
 Tom. You may call that word back ; 
 
 I do not think I am, nor wish to be. 
 Als. 'T is strange you found the way to 
 
 this house, then. 
 Tom, Would I 'd ne'er known the cause I 
 I 'm none of those, sir, 
 
 BB Dyce's correction for the quarto reading ami ond viceSi 
 
408 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 That come to give you joy, and swill 
 
 your wine; 
 'T is a more precious liquor that must lay 
 The fiery thirst I bring. 
 Als. Your words and you 
 
 Appear to me great strangers. 
 Tom. Time and our swords 
 
 May make us more acquainted. This the 
 
 business : 
 I should have had a brother in your 
 
 place; 
 How treachery and malice have dispos'd 
 
 of him, 
 I 'm bound to inquire of him which holds 
 
 his right, 
 Which never could come fairly. 
 Ak. You must look 
 
 To answer for that word, sir. 
 Tom. Fear you not, 
 
 I '11 have it ready drawn at our next meet- 
 ing. 
 Keep your day solemn; farewell, I dis- 
 turb it not ; 
 I '11 bear the smart with patience for a 
 time. 
 
 Exit. 
 Als. 'T is somewhat ominous this ; a quar- 
 rel ent'red 
 Upon this day ; my innocence relieves me. 
 
 Enter Jasperino. 
 
 I should be wondrous sad else. — Jasper- 
 ino, 
 I 've news to tell thee, strange news. 
 Jas. . I ha' some too 
 
 I think as strange as yours. Would I 
 
 might keep 
 Mine, so my faith and friendship might 
 
 be kept in 't ! 
 Faith, sir, disp3nse a little with my zeal, 
 And let it cool in this. 
 Als. This puts me on. 
 
 And blames thee for thy slowness. 
 Jas. All may prove nothing, 
 
 Only a friendly fear that leapt from me, 
 sir. 
 Als. No question, 't may prove nothing; 
 
 let 's partake it though. 
 Jas. 'T was Diaphanta's chance — for to 
 that wench 
 I pretend '^ honest love, and she deserves 
 
 it— 
 To leave me in a back part of the house, 
 A place we chose for private conference. 
 She was no sooner gone, but instantly 
 I heard your bride's voice in the next 
 room to me; 
 
 And lending more attention, found De 
 
 Flores 
 Louder than she. 
 Als. De Flores! Thou art out now. 
 
 Jas. You 'U tell me more anon. 
 Als. Still I '11 prevent " thee. 
 
 The very sight of him is poison to her. 
 Jas. That made me stagger too; but Dia- 
 phanta 
 At her return conflrm'd it. 
 Als. Diaphanta ! 
 
 Jas. Then fell we both to listen, and words 
 past 
 Like those that challenge interest in a 
 woman. 
 Als. Peace: quench thy zeal, 'tis danger- 
 ous to thy bosom. 
 Jas. Then truth is full of peril. 
 Als. Such truths are. 
 
 0, were she the sole glory of the earth. 
 Had eyes that could shoot fire into king's 
 
 breasts. 
 And toucht,^' she sleeps not here ! Yet I 
 
 have time, 
 Though night be near, to be resolv'd 
 
 hereof ; 
 And, prithee, do not weigh me by my 
 passions. 
 Jas. I never weigh'd friend so. 
 Als. Done charitably! 
 
 That key will lead thee to a pretty secret, 
 
 (Giving key.) 
 By a Chaldean taught me, and I have 
 My study upon some. Bring from my 
 
 closet 
 A glass inscrib'd there with the letter M, 
 And question not my purpose. 
 Jas. It shall be done, sir. 
 
 Exit. 
 Als. How can this hang together? Not 
 an hour since 
 Her woman came pleading her lady's 
 
 fears, 
 Deliver'd her for the most timorous vir- 
 gin 
 That ever shrunk at man's name, and so 
 
 modest, 
 She charg'd her weep out her request t& 
 
 me, 
 That she might come obscurely to my 
 bosom. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. (Aside.) All things go well; my 
 woman's preparing yonder 
 For her sweet voyage, which grieves me 
 
 to lose; 
 Necessity compels it ; I lose all, else. 
 
 66 profess. 
 
 E7 anticipate. 
 
 S8 polluted. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 409 
 
 Als. (Aside.) Pish! modesty's shrine is 
 set in yonder forehead : 
 I cannot be too sure though. — My Jo- 
 anna! 
 Beat. Sir, I was bold to weep a message to 
 you; 
 Pardon my modest fears. 
 Als. The dove's not meeker; 
 
 (Aside.) She 's abus'd, questionless. 
 
 Be-enter Jasperino with, vial. 
 
 0, are you come, sir? 
 Beat. (Aside.) The glass, upon my life ! 
 
 I see the letter. 
 Jas. Sir, this is M. (Giving vial.) 
 
 Ah. 'T is it. 
 
 Beat. (Aside.) I am suspected. 
 
 Als. How fitly our bride comes to partake 
 
 with us ! 
 Beat. What is 't, my lord? 
 Als. No hurt. 
 
 Beat. Sir, pardon me, 
 
 I Seldom taste of any composition. 
 Als. But this, upon my warrant, you shall 
 
 venture on. 
 Beat. I fear 't will make me ill. 
 Als. Heaven forbid that. 
 
 Beat. (Aside.) I 'm put now to my cun- 
 ning : th' effects I know. 
 If I can now but feign 'em handsomely. 
 (Drinks.) 
 Als. It has that secret virtue, it ne'er mist, 
 sir, 
 Upon a virgin. 
 Jas. Treble-qualitied? 
 
 (Beatrice gapes and sneezes.) 
 Als. By all that 's virtuous it takes there ! 
 
 proceeds ! 
 Jas. This is the strangest trick to know a 
 
 maid by. 
 Beat. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 You have given me joy of heart to drink, 
 my lord. 
 Als. No, thou hast given me such joy of 
 heart. 
 That never can be blasted. 
 Beat. What's the matter, sir? 
 
 Als. (Aside.) See now 'tis settled in a 
 melancholy ; 
 Keeps both the time and method. — My 
 
 Joanna, 
 Chaste as the breath of Heaven, or morn- 
 ing's womb. 
 That brings the day forth ! thus my love 
 encloses thee. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ScENK 3. A room in the house of Alibius. 
 Enter Isabella and LolUo. 
 
 Isa. Heaven! is this the waning moon? 
 Does love turn fool, run mad, and all at 
 
 once? 
 Sirrah, here 's a madman, akin to the fool 
 
 too, 
 A lunatic lover. 
 
 Lol. No, no, not he I brought the letter 
 from? 
 
 Isa. Compare his inside, with his out, and 
 tell me. 
 
 Lol. The out's mad, I'm sure of that; I 
 had a taste on 't. (Beads letter.) "To 
 the bright Andromeda, chief chambermaid 
 to the Knight of the Sun, at the sign of 
 Scorpio, in the middle region, sent by the 
 bellows-mender of ^olus. Pay the 
 post." This is stark madness I 
 
 Isa. Now mark the inside. (Takes the let- 
 ter and reads.) "Sweet lady, having now 
 cast off this counterfeit cover of a mad- 
 man, I appear to your best judgment a 
 true and faithful lover of your beauty." 
 
 Lol. He is mad still. 
 
 Isa. _ (Beads.) "If any fault you find, 
 chide those perfections in you which have 
 made me imperfect; 'tis the same sun 
 that causeth to grow and enforceth to 
 wither — " 
 
 Lol. rogue ! 
 
 Isa. (Beads.) "Shapes and transhapes, 
 destroys and builds again. I come in 
 winter to you, dismantled of my proper 
 ornaments ; by the sweet splendor of your 
 cheerful smiles, I spring and live a 
 lover." 
 
 Lol. Mad rascal still! 
 
 Isa. (Beads.) "Tread him not under 
 foot, that shall appear an honor to your 
 bounties. I remain — mad till I speak 
 with you, from whom I expect my cure, 
 yours all, or one beside himself, Tran- 
 ciscus." 
 
 Lol. You are like to have a fine time on 't. 
 My master and I may give over our pro- 
 fessions ; I do not think but you can cure 
 fools and madmen faster than we, with 
 little pains too. 
 
 Isa. Very likely. 
 
 Lol. 'One thing I must tell you, mistress: 
 you perceive that I am privy to your 
 skill; if I find you minister once, and set 
 up the trade, I put in for my thirds; I 
 shall be mad or fool else. 
 
 Isa. The first place is thine, believe it, 
 Lollio, 
 If I do fall. 
 
410 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 IjoI. I fall upon you. 
 
 Isa. So. 
 
 Lol. Well, I stand to my venture. 
 
 Isa. But thy counsel now; how shall I deal 
 with 'em? 
 
 Lol. Why, do you mean to deal with 'em? 
 
 Isa. Nay, the fair understanding,"" how 
 to use 'em. 
 
 Lol. Abuse "^ 'em! That's the way to 
 mad the fool, and make a fool of the 
 madman, and then you use 'em kindly. 
 
 la. 'Tis easy, I'll practise; do thou ob- 
 serve it. 
 The key of thy wardrobe. 
 
 Lol. There {Gives key.) ; fit yourself for 
 'em, and I '11 fit 'em both for you. 
 
 Isa. Take thou no further notice than the 
 outside. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Lol. Not an inch ; I '11 put you to the in- 
 side. 
 
 Enter Alibius. 
 
 Alib. LoUio, art there? Will all be per- 
 fect, think'st thou? 
 To-morrow night, as if to close up the 
 Solemnity, Vermandero expects us. 
 Lol. I mistrust the madmen most; the 
 fools will do well enough; I have taken 
 pains with them. 
 Alib. Tush! they cannot miss; the more 
 absurdity. 
 The more commends it, so no rough be- 
 haviors 
 Affright the ladies ; they 're nice '"^ things, 
 thou know'st. 
 Lol. You need not fear, sir; so long as we 
 are there with our commanding pizzles,'^ 
 they'll be as tame as the ladies them- 
 selves. 
 Alib. 1 '11 see them once more rehearse be- 
 fore they go. 
 Lol. I was about if>, sir: look you to the 
 madmen's morris, and let me alone with 
 the other. There is one or two that I mis- 
 trust their fooling; I'll instruct them, 
 and then they shall rehearse the whole 
 measure. 
 Alib. Do so; I'll see the music prepar'd: 
 but, LoUio, 
 By the way, how does my wife brook her 
 
 restraint ? 
 Does she not grudge at it? 
 Lol. So, so ; she takes some pleasure in the 
 house, she would abroad else. You must 
 allow her a little more length, she 's kept 
 too short. 
 
 59 take the words in. their modest sense. 
 
 Alib. She shall along to Vermandero's 
 with us. 
 That will serve her for a month's liberty. 
 Lol. What's that on your face, sir? 
 Alib. Where, Lollio? I see nothing. 
 Lol. Cry you mercy,"' sir, 'tis your nose; 
 it show'd like the trunk of a young ele- 
 phant. 
 Alib. Away, rascal! I'll prepare the 
 music, Lollio. 
 
 Exit. 
 Lol. Do, sir, and I'll dance the whilst. — 
 Tony, where art thou, Tony? 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Ant. Here, cousin; where art thou? 
 
 Lol. Come, Tony, the footmanship I 
 taught you. 
 
 Ant. I had rather ride, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Aye, a whip take you ! but I '11 keep 
 you out; vault in : look you, Tony; fa, la, 
 la, la, la. 
 
 (Dances.) 
 
 Ant. Fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 (Sings and dances.) 
 
 Lol. There, an honor."* 
 
 Ant. Is thi^ an honor, coz ? 
 
 Lol. Yes, an it please your worship. 
 
 Ant. Does honor bend in the hams, coz? 
 
 Lol. Marry does it, as low as worship, 
 squireship, nay, yeomanry itself some- 
 times, from whence it first stiffened: 
 there rise, a caper. 
 
 Ant. Caper after an honor, coz? 
 
 Lol. Very proper, for honor is but a caper, 
 rises as fast and high, has a knee or two, 
 and falls to th' ground again. You can 
 remember your figure, Tony ? 
 
 Ant. Yes, cousin ; when I see thy figure, I 
 can remember mine. 
 
 Exit Lollio. 
 
 Be-enter Isabella dressed as a madwoman. 
 
 Isa. Hey, how he treads the air ! Shough, 
 shough, t' other way ! he burns his wings 
 else. Here 's wax enough below, Icarus, 
 more than will be cancelled these eighteen 
 moons. He 's down, he 's down ! what a 
 terrible fall he had ! Stand up, thou son 
 of Cretan Daedalus, 
 And let us tread the lower labyrinth ; 
 I '11 bring thee to the clue. 
 
 Ant. Prithee, coz, let me alone. 
 
 Isa. Art thou not drown'd? 
 
 About thy head I saw a heap of clouds 
 Wrapt like a Turkish turban ; on thy back 
 A erookt chameleon-color'd rainbow hung 
 Like a tiara down unto thy hams. 
 
 60 deceive, 
 ei delicate. 
 
 62 whips. 
 
 03 beg^ pardon. 
 
 64 bow. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 411 
 
 Let me suck out those billows in thy 
 
 belly; 
 Hark, how they roar and rumble in the 
 
 straits ! °^ 
 Bless thee from the pirates ! 
 Ant. Pox upon you, let me alone ! 
 Isa. Why shouldst thou mount so high 
 as Mercury, 
 Unless thou hadst reversion of his place 9 
 Stay in the moon with me, Endymion, 
 And we will rule these wild rebellious- 
 
 waves. 
 That would have drown'd my love. 
 Ant. . I '11 kick thee, if 
 
 Again thou touch me, thou wild unshapen 
 
 antic ; 
 I am no fool, you bedlam ! 
 Isa. But you are, as sure as I am, mad. 
 Have I put on this habit of a frantic. 
 With love as f uU of fury, to beguile 
 The nimble eye of watchful jealousy, 
 And am I thus rewarded? 
 Ant. Ha! dearest beauty! 
 
 Isa. No, I have no beauty now, 
 Nor ever had but what was in my gar- 
 ments. 
 You a quick-sighted lover! Come not 
 
 near me: 
 Keep your caparisons, you 're aptly clad ; 
 I came a feigner, to return stark mad. 
 
 Exit. 
 Ant. Stay, or I shall change condition. 
 And become as you are. 
 
 He-enter LolUo. 
 
 Lol. Why, Tony, whither nowl Why 
 
 fool- 
 Are*. Whose fool, usher of idiots? You 
 coxcomb ! 
 I have f ool'd too much. 
 Lol. You were best be mad another while 
 
 then. 
 Ant. So I am, stark mad; I have cause 
 enough ; 
 And I could throw the full effects on thee, 
 And beat thee like a fury. 
 Lol. Do not, do not; I shall not forbear 
 the gentleman under the fool, if you do. 
 Alas! I saw through your fox-skin be- 
 fore now! Come, I can give you com- 
 fort; my mistress loves you; and there 
 is as arrant a madman i' th' house as you 
 are a fool, your rival, whom she loves 
 not. If after the masque we can rid her 
 of him, you earn her love, she says, and 
 the fool shall ride her. 
 Ant. May I believe thee? 
 
 Lol. Yes, or you may choose whether you 
 
 will or no. 
 Ant. She's eas'd of him; I've a good 
 
 quarrel on't. 
 Lol. Well, keep your old station yet, and 
 
 be quiet. 
 Ant. Tell her I will deserve her love. 
 
 Exit. 
 Lol. And you are like to have your desert. 
 
 Enter Franciscus. 
 
 Fran, (sings.) "Down, down, down, a-down 
 a-down," — and then with a horse- 
 trick 
 To kick Latona's forehead, and break her 
 bow-string. 
 
 Lol. This is t' other counterfeit ; I '11 put 
 him out of his humor. (Aside. Takes 
 out a letter and reads.) "Sweet lady, 
 having now cast this counterfeit cover of 
 a madman, I appear to your best judg- 
 ment a true and faithful lover of your 
 beauty." This is pretty well for a mad- 
 man. 
 
 Fran. Ha ! what 's that ? 
 
 Lol. (rea^s) "Chide those perfections in you 
 which have made me imperfect." 
 
 Fran. I am discover'd to the fool. 
 
 Lol. I hope to discover the fool in you ere 
 I have done with you. (Beads.) 
 "Yours all, or one beside himself, Fran- 
 ciscus." This madman will mend sure. 
 
 Fran. What do you read, sirrah? 
 
 Lol. Your destiny, sir; you'll be hang'd 
 for this trick, and another that I know. 
 
 Fran. Art thou of counsel with thy mis- 
 tress? 
 
 Lol. Next her apron-strings. 
 
 Fran. Give me thy hand. 
 
 Lol. Stay, let me put yours in my pocket 
 first. (Putting 'letter into his pocket.) 
 Your hand is true,*" is it not? It will not 
 pick? "^ I partly fear it, because I think 
 it does lie. 
 
 Fran. Not in a syllable. 
 
 Lol. So if you love my mistress so well as 
 you have handled the matter here, you 
 are like to be cur'd of your madness. 
 
 Fran. And none but she can cure it. 
 
 Lol. Well, I '11 give you over then, and she 
 shall cast your water next. 
 
 Fran. Take for thy pains past. 
 (Gives him money.) 
 
 Lol. I shall deserve more, sir, I hope. My 
 mistress loves you, but must have some 
 proof of your love to her. 
 
 Fran. There I meet my wishes. 
 
 66 Q. street). 
 
 66 honest. 
 
 67 steal. 
 
412 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Lol. That will not serve, you must meet 
 her enemy and yours. 
 
 Fran. He 's dead already. 
 
 Lol. Will you tell me that, and I parted 
 but now with him? 
 
 Fran. Show me the man. 
 
 Lol. Aye, that 's a right course now ; see 
 him before you kill him, in any ease ; and 
 yet it needs not go so far neither. 'T is 
 but a fool that haunts the house and my 
 mistress in the shape of an idiot ; bang 
 but his fool's coat well-favoredly, and 
 'tis well. 
 
 Fran. Soundly, soundly! 
 
 Lol. Only reserve him till the masque be 
 past ; and if you find him not now in the 
 dance yourself, I'll show you. In, in! 
 my master! 
 
 Fran. He handles him like a feather. 
 Hey! 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Alibius. 
 
 Alib. Well said: in a readiness, LoUio? 
 Lol. Yes, sir. 
 
 Alib. Away then, and guide them in, Lol- 
 lio: 
 Entreat your mistress to see this sight. 
 Hark, is there not one incurable fool 
 That might be begg'd? '* I 've friends. 
 Lol. I have him for you, 
 
 One that shall deserve it too. 
 Alib. Good boy, LoUio! 
 
 (The madmen and fools dance.) 
 'T is perfect : well, fit but once these 
 
 strains, 
 We shall have coin and credit for our 
 pains. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. A gallery in the Castle. 
 Enter Beatrice: a clock strikes one. 
 
 Beat. One struck, and yet she lies by 't ! 
 
 my fears ! 
 
 This strumpet serves her own ends, 'tis 
 apparent now, 
 
 Devours the pleasure with a greedy appe- 
 tite. 
 
 And never minds my honor or my peace, 
 
 Makes havoc of my right. But she pays 
 dearly for't; 
 
 No trusting of her life with such a se- 
 cret 
 
 That cannot rule her blood to keep her 
 promise ; 
 
 88 for the suke of the income from his estate. 
 
 Beside, I 've some suspicion of her faith 
 
 to me, 
 Because I was suspected of my lord. 
 And it must come from her. {^Strikes 
 
 two.) Hark! by my horrors. 
 Another clock strikes two ! 
 
 Enter Be Flores. 
 
 De F. Pist! where are you? 
 
 Beat. De Flores? 
 
 De F. Aye. Is she not come from him 
 
 yet? 
 
 Beat. As I 'm a living soul, not ! 
 De F. Sure the devil 
 
 Hath sow'd his itch within her. Who 
 
 would trust 
 A waiting-woman? 
 Beat. I must trust somebody. 
 
 De F. Pish ! they 're termagants ; 
 
 Especially when they fall upon their 
 
 masters 
 And have their ladies' first fruits ; they 're 
 
 mad whelps 
 You cannot stave 'em off from game 
 
 royal: then 
 You are so rash and hardy, ask no coun- 
 sel; 
 And I could have helpt you to a 'pothe- 
 
 cary's daughter 
 Would have fall'n off before eleven, and 
 thankt you too. 
 Bea/t. me, not yet; this whore forgets 
 
 herself. 
 De F. The rascal fares so well: look, 
 you 're undone ; 
 The day-star, by this hand! see Phos- 
 phorus plain yonder. 
 Beat. Advise me now to fall upon some 
 ruin; 
 There is no counsel safe else. 
 De F. Peace! I ha't now. 
 
 For we must force a rising, there 's no 
 remedy. 
 Beat. How ? take heed of that. 
 De F. Tush! be you quiet, or else give 
 
 over all. 
 Beat. Prithee, I ha' done then. 
 De F. This is my reach : *' I '11 set 
 
 Some part a-fire of Diaphanta's chamber. 
 Beat. How? Fire, sir? That may en- 
 danger the whole house. 
 De F. You talk of danger when your 
 
 fame's on fire? 
 Beat. That 's true ; do what thou wilt now. 
 De F. Pish ! I aim 
 
 At a most rich success strikes all dead 
 sure. 
 
 69 device. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 413 
 
 The chimney being a-flre, and some light 
 parcels 
 
 Of the least danger in her chamber only, 
 
 If Diaphanta should be met by chance 
 then 
 
 Far from her lodging, which is now sus- 
 picious, 
 
 It would be thought her fears and af- 
 frights then 
 
 Drove her to seek for succor ; if not seen 
 
 Or met at all, as that 's the likeliest, 
 
 For her own.shame she '11 hasten towards 
 her lodging; 
 
 I will be ready with a piece '''' high- 
 charg'd, 
 
 As 'twere to cleanse the chimney, there 
 't is proper now 
 
 But she shall be the mark. 
 Beat. I 'm forc'd to love thee now, 
 
 'Cause thou provid'st so carefuUy for my 
 honor. 
 Be F. 'Slid, it concerns the safety of us 
 both, 
 
 Our pleasure and continuance. 
 Beat. One word now, 
 
 Prithee; how for the servants'? 
 Be F. I '11 despatch them. 
 
 Some one way, some another in the hurry, 
 
 For buckets, hooks, ladders ; fear not you, 
 
 The deed shall find its time; and I've 
 thought since 
 
 Upon a safe conveyance for the body too : 
 
 How this fire purifies wit! Watch you 
 your minute. , 
 
 Beat. Fear keeps my soul upon't, I can- 
 not stray from't. 
 
 Enter Alamo's Ghost. 
 
 Be F. Ha ! what art thou that tak'st away 
 
 the light 
 Betwixt that star and me? I dread thee 
 
 not. — 
 'Twas but a mist of conscience; all's 
 
 clear again. 
 
 Exit. 
 Beat. Who's that, De Flores'? Bless rbe, 
 
 it slides by! 
 
 Exit Ghost. 
 Some ill thing haunts the house; 't has 
 
 left behind it 
 A shivering sweat upon me; I'm afraid 
 
 now. 
 This night hath been so tedious ! this 
 
 strumpet ! 
 Had she a thousand lives, he should not 
 
 leave her 
 Till he had destroy'd the last. List ! 
 
 my terrors! 
 
 70 gun. 
 
 {Clock strikes three.) 
 Three struck by St. Sebastian's! 
 Within. Fire, fire, fire ! 
 Beat. Already? How rare is that man's 
 speed ! 
 How heartily he serves me! his face 
 
 loathes one; 
 But look upon his care, who would not 
 
 love him ? 
 The east is not more beauteous than his 
 service. 
 Within. Fire, fire, fire! 
 
 Be-enter Be Flores: Servants pass over: 
 bell rings. 
 
 Be F. Away, despatch! hooks, buckets, 
 ladders ! that 's well said.'"^ 
 The fire-bell rings; the chimney works, 
 
 my charge; 
 The piece is ready. 
 
 Exit. 
 Beat. Here 's a man worth loving ! 
 
 Enter Biaphanta. 
 
 you 're a jewel ! 
 
 Bia. Pardon frailty, madam; 
 
 In troth, I was so well, I ev'n forgot my- 
 self. 
 Beat. You 've made trim work ! 
 Bia. What? 
 
 Beat. Hie quickly to your chamber; 
 
 Your reward follows you. 
 Bia. I never made 
 
 So sweet a bargain. 
 
 Exit. 
 Enter Alsemero. 
 
 Als. my dear Joanna, 
 
 Alas ! art thou risen too ? I was coming. 
 My absolute treasure! 
 
 Beat. When I mist you, 
 
 1 could not choose but follow. 
 
 Als. Thou 'rt all sweetness : 
 
 The fire is not so dangerous. 
 Beat. Think you so, sir? 
 
 Als. I prithee, tremble not; believe me, 
 'tis not. 
 
 Enter Vermandero and Jasperino. 
 
 Ver. bless my house and me! 
 
 Als. My lord your father. 
 
 Be-enter Be Flores with a gun. 
 
 Ver. Knave, whither goes that piece? 
 Be F. To scour the chimney. 
 
 Exit. 
 Ver. 0, well said, well said ! 
 That fellow 's good on all occasions. 
 
 ffi well done. 
 
414 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Beat. A wondrous necessary man, my lord. 
 Ver. He hath a ready wit ; he 's worth 'em 
 all, sir; 
 Dog at a house of fire; I ha' seen him 
 singed ere now. — 
 
 (The piece goes of.) 
 Ha, there he goes ! 
 Beat. 'T is done ! 
 
 Als. Come, sweet, to bed now ; 
 
 Alas ! thou wilt get cold. 
 Beat. Alas ! the fear keeps that out ! 
 
 My heart will find no quiet till I hear 
 How Diaphanta, my poor woman, fares; 
 It is her chamber, sir, her lodging cham- 
 ber. 
 Ver. How should the fire come there? 
 Beat. As good a soul as ever lady coun- 
 tenanc'd, 
 But in her chamber negligent and heavy : 
 She scapt a mine twice. 
 Ver. Twice? 
 
 Beat. Strangely twice, sir. 
 
 Ver. Those sleepy sluts are dangerous in 
 a house. 
 An they be ne'er so good. 
 
 Re-enter De Flores, with the body of 
 Diaphanta. 
 
 De F. poor virginity. 
 
 Thou hast paid dearly for 't ! 
 Ver. Bless us, what's that? 
 
 De F. A thing you all knew once, Dia- 
 phanta 's burnt. 
 Beat. My woman! O my woman! 
 De F. Now the flames 
 
 Are greedy of her; burnt, burnt, burnt 
 to death, sir! 
 Beat. my presaging soul! 
 Als. Not a tear more ! 
 
 I charge you by the last embrace I gave 
 you 
 
 In bed, before this rais'd us. 
 Beat. Now you tie me ; 
 
 Were it my sister, now she gets no more. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ver. How now? 
 
 Ser. All danger 's past; you may now take 
 
 Your rests, my lords; the fire is 
 throughly quencht. 
 
 Ah, poor gentlewoman, how soon was she 
 stifled ! 
 Beat. De Elores, what is left of her inter, 
 
 And we as mourners all will follow her. 
 
 I will entreat that honor to my servant 
 
 Ev'n of my lord himself. 
 Als. Command it, sweetness. 
 
 Beoet. "Which of you spied the fire first? 
 De F. 'Twas I, madam. 
 
 Beat. And took such pains in't too? A 
 double goodness ! 
 'T were well he were rewarded. 
 Ver. He shall be. — 
 
 De Flores, call upon me. 
 
 Als. And upon me, sir. 
 
 Exeunt all except De Flores. 
 
 De F. Rewarded? Precious! here's a 
 
 trick beyond me. 
 
 I see in all bouts, both of sport and wit. 
 
 Always a woman strives for the last hit. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. Another apartment in the Castle. 
 Enter Tomaso. 
 
 Tom. I cannot taste the benefits of life 
 
 With the same relish I was wont to do. 
 
 Man I grow weary of, and hold his fel- 
 lowship 
 
 A treacherous bloody friendship ; and be- 
 cause 
 
 I'm ignorant in whom my wrath shoujd 
 settle, 
 
 I must think all men villains, and the next 
 
 I meet, whoe'er he be, the murderer 
 
 Of my most worthy brother. Ha ! what 's 
 he? 
 (De Flores passes over the stage.) 
 
 0, the fellow that some call honest De 
 Flores ; 
 
 But methinks honesty was hard bestead 
 
 To come there for a lodging; as if a 
 queen 
 
 Should make her palace of a pest-house. 
 
 I find a contrariety in nature 
 
 Betwixt that face and me ; the least occa- 
 sion 
 
 Would give me game upon him ; yet he 's 
 so foul 
 
 One would scarce touch him with a sword 
 he lov'd 
 
 And made account of; so most deadly 
 venomous. 
 
 He would go near to poison any weapon 
 
 That should draw blood on him; one 
 must resolve 
 
 Never to use that sword again in fight 
 
 In way of honest manhood that strikes 
 him; 
 
 Some river must devour it; 'twere not 
 fit 
 
 That any man should find it. What, 
 again ? 
 
 Re-enter De Flores. 
 
 He walks a' purpose by, sure, to choke 
 
 me up, 
 T' infect my blood. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 415 
 
 He F. My worthy noble lord ! 
 
 Tom. Dost offer to come near and breathe 
 upon me? 
 
 (Strikes him.) 
 Be F. A blow! 
 
 (Draws.) 
 Tom. Yea, are you so prepar'd? 
 
 I '11 rather like a soldier die by th' sword, 
 Than like a politician by thy poison. 
 (Draws.) 
 De F. Hold, my lord, as you are honor- 
 able! 
 Tom. All slaves that kill by poison are 
 
 still cowards. 
 De F. (Aside.) I cannot strike; I see 
 his brother's wounds 
 Trash bleeding in his eye, as in a crys- 
 tal.— 
 I will not question this, I know you're 
 
 noble ; 
 I take my injury with thanks given, sir. 
 Like a wise lawyer, and as a favor 
 Will wear it for the worthy hand that 
 
 gave it. — 
 (Aside.) Why this from him that yes- 
 terday appear'd ' 
 So strangely loving to me? 
 0, but instinct is of a subtler strain! 
 Guilt must not walk so near his lodge 
 
 again ; 
 He came near me now. 
 
 Exit. 
 Tom. All league with mankind I renounce 
 for ever, 
 Till I find this murderer; not so much 
 As common courtesy but I '11 lock up ; 
 For in the state of ignorance I live in, 
 A brother may salute his brother's mur- 
 derer. 
 And wish good speed to th' villain in a 
 greeting. 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Alibius, and Isabella. 
 
 Ver. Noble Piracquo! 
 
 Tom. Pray, keep on your way, sir; 
 
 I 've nothing to say to you. 
 Ver. Comforts bless you, sir; 
 
 Tom. I've forsworn compliment, in troth 
 I have, sir ; 
 As you are merely man, I have not left 
 A good wish for you, nor for any here. 
 Ver. Unless yon be so far in love with 
 grief. 
 You will not part from't upon any 
 
 terms. 
 We bring that news will make a welcome 
 for us. 
 Tom. What news can that be? 
 
 Ver. Throw no scornful smile 
 
 Upon the zeal I bring you, 'tis worth 
 
 more, sir. 
 Two of the chiefest men I kept about me 
 I hide not from the law of your just 
 vengeance. 
 Tom. Ha ! 
 
 Ver. To give your peace more ample sat- 
 isfaction. 
 Thank these discoverers. 
 Tom. If you bring that calm, 
 
 Name but the manner I shall ask forgive- 
 ness in 
 For that contemptuous smile [I threw] 
 
 upon you ; 
 I '11 perfect it with reverence that be- 
 longs 
 Unto a sacred altar. 
 
 (Kneels.) 
 Ver. (Raising Mm.) Good sir, rise; 
 Why, now you overdo as much a' this 
 
 hand 
 As you fell short a' t' other. — Speak, 
 Alibius. 
 Alib. 'T was my wife's fortune, as she is 
 most lucky 
 At a discovery, to find out lately. 
 Within our hospital of fools and mad- 
 men. 
 Two counterfeits slipt into these dis- 
 guises, 
 Their names Franciscus and Antonio. 
 Ver. Both mine, sir, and I ask no favor 
 
 for 'em. 
 Alib. Now that which draws suspicion to 
 their habits. 
 The time of their disguisings agrees 
 
 justly 
 With the day of the murder. 
 Tom. . blest revelation! 
 
 Ver. Nay, more, nay, more, sir — I '11 not 
 spare mine own 
 In way of justice — ^they both feign'd a 
 
 journey 
 To Briamata, and so wrought out their 
 
 leaves ; '" 
 My love was so abus'd in 't. 
 Tom. Time 's too precious 
 
 To run in waste now; you have brought 
 
 a peace 
 The riches of five kingdoms could not 
 
 purchase. 
 Be my most happy conduct; I thirst for 
 
 'em: 
 Like subtle lightning will I wind about 
 
 'em, 
 And melt their marrow in 'em. 
 
 Exeunt, 
 
 T<! 9l9tain«d perwission to leave. 
 
416 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD 
 
 Scene 3. Alsemero's apartment in the 
 Castle. 
 
 Enter Alsemero and Jasperino. 
 
 Jas. Your confidence, I 'm sure, is now of 
 proof; 
 The prospect from the garden has show'd 
 Enough for deep suspicion. 
 Als. ' The black mask 
 
 That so continually was worn upon 't 
 Condemns the face for ugly ere 't be seen, 
 Her despite to him, and so seeming bot- 
 tomless. 
 Jas. Touch it home then ; 't is not a shal- 
 low probe 
 Can search this ulcer soundly; I fear 
 
 you '11 find it 
 Full of corruption. 'T is fit I leave you. 
 She meets you opportunely from that 
 
 walk; 
 She took the back door at his parting 
 with her. 
 
 Exit. 
 Als. Did my fate wait for this unhappy 
 stroke 
 At my first sight of woman? She is 
 here. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. Alsemero ! 
 Als. How do you? 
 
 Beat. How do I? 
 
 Alas, sir! how do you? You look not 
 
 well. 
 Als. You read me well enough; I am not 
 
 well. 
 Beat. Not well, sir? Is 't in my power to 
 
 better you? 
 Als. Yes. 
 
 Beat. Nay, then you 're eur'd again. 
 Als. Pray, resolve ''^ me one question, 
 
 lady. 
 Beat. If I can. 
 
 Als. None can so sure: are you honest? 
 Beat. Ha, ha, ha ! that 's a broad question, 
 
 my lord. 
 Als. But that 's not a modest answer, my 
 
 lady. 
 Do you laugh? My doubts are strong 
 
 upon me. 
 Beat. 'T is innocence that smiles, and no 
 
 rough brow 
 Can take away the dimple in her cheek. 
 Say I should strain a tear to fill the vault, 
 Which would you give the better faith 
 
 to? 
 Als. 'Twere but hypocrisy of a sadder 
 
 color. 
 
 But the same stuff; neither your smiles 
 
 nor tears 
 Shall move or flatter me from my belief ; 
 You are a whore ! 
 Beat. What a horrid sound it hath ! 
 
 It blasts a beauty to deformity ; 
 Upon what face soever that breath falls, 
 It strikes it ugly. 0, you have ruin'd 
 What you can ne'er repair again? 
 Als. I '11 all 
 
 Demolish, and seek out truth within you, 
 If there be any left; let your sweet 
 
 tongue 
 Prevent your heart's rifling; there I'll 
 
 ransack 
 And tear out my suspicion. 
 Beat. You may, sir; 
 
 It is an easy passage ; yet, if you please. 
 Show me the ground whereon you lost 
 
 your love; 
 My spotless virtue may but tread on 
 
 that 
 Before I perish. 
 Als. Unanswerable ; 
 
 A ground you cannot stand on; you fall 
 
 down 
 Beneath all grace and goodness when you 
 
 set 
 Your ticklish heel on't. There was a 
 
 visor 
 Over that cunning face, and that became 
 
 you; 
 Now Impudence in triumph rides upon 't. 
 How comes this tender reconcilement 
 
 else 
 'Twixt you and your despite, your ran- 
 corous loathing, 
 De riores? he that your eye was sore at 
 
 sight of. 
 He 's now become your arm's supporter, 
 
 your 
 Lip's saint ! 
 Beat. Is there the cause? 
 
 Als. Worse, your lust's devil. 
 
 Your adultery! 
 Beat. Would any but yourself say that, 
 
 'T would turn him to a villain ! 
 
 Als. It was witnest 
 
 By the counsel of your bosom, Diaphanta. 
 
 Beat. Is your witness dead then? 
 
 Als. 'T is to be fear'd 
 
 It was the wages of her knowledge ; poor 
 
 soul, 
 She liv'd not long after the discovery. 
 Beat. Then hear a story of not much less 
 
 horror 
 Than this your false suspicion is beguii'd 
 
 with; 
 
 73 answer. 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 417 
 
 To your bed's scandal I stand up inno- 
 cence, 
 Which even the guilt of one black other 
 
 deed 
 Will stand for proof of; your love has 
 
 made me 
 A cruel murd'ress. 
 ATs. Ha! 
 
 Beat. A bloody one ; 
 
 I have kist poison for it, strokt a ser- 
 pent: 
 That thing of hate, worthy in my esteem 
 Of no better employment, and him most 
 
 worthy 
 To be so employ'd, I caus'd to murder 
 That innocent Piracquo, having no 
 Better means than that worst to assure 
 Yourself to me. 
 Als. O, the place itself e'er since 
 
 Has erjdng been for vengeance! The 
 
 temple, 
 Where blood and beauty first unlawfully 
 Fir'd their devotion and quencht the 
 
 right one ; 
 'T was in my fears at first, 't will have it 
 
 now: 
 0, thou art all def orm'd ! 
 Beat. Forget not, sir, 
 
 It for your sake was done. Shall greater 
 
 dangers 
 Make the less welcome? 
 Als. 0, thou should'st have gone 
 
 A thousand leagues about to have avoided 
 This dangerous bridge of blood! Here 
 
 we are lost. 
 Beat. Remember, I am true unto your bed. 
 Als. The bed itself 's a chamel, the sheets 
 
 shrouds 
 For murdered carcasses. It must ask 
 
 pause 
 What I must do in this; meantime you 
 
 shall 
 Be my prisoner only : enter my closet ; 
 
 Exit Beatrice. 
 I '11 be your keeper yet. 0, in what part 
 Of this sad story shall I first begin 9 
 
 Ha! 
 This same fellow has put me in.'^* — De 
 
 Flores ! 
 
 Enter De Flores. 
 
 De Ft Noble Alsemero ! 
 Als. I can tell you 
 
 News, sir; my wife has her commended 
 
 to you. 
 De F. That's news indeed, my lord; I 
 
 think she would 
 
 74 given me my cue. 
 
 Commend me to the gallows if she could, 
 She ever lov'd me so well ; I thank her. 
 Als. What 's this blood upon your band, 
 
 De Flores? 
 De F. Blood ! no, sure 't was washt since. 
 Als. Since when, man? 
 
 De F. Since 't other day I got a knock 
 In a sword-and-dagger school; I think 
 't is out. 
 Als. Yes, 'tis almost out, but 'tis per- 
 eeiv'd though. 
 I had forgot my message ; this it is. 
 What price goes murder? 
 De F. How, sir? 
 
 Als. I ask you, sir; 
 
 My wife 's behindhand with you, she tells 
 
 me, 
 For a brave bloody blow you gave for her 
 
 sake 
 Upon Piracquo. 
 De F. Upon ? 'T was quite through him 
 sure: 
 Has she confest it? 
 Als. As sure as death to both of you ; 
 
 And much more than that. 
 De F. It could not be much more; 
 
 'T was but one thing, and that — she is a 
 whore. 
 Als. It could not choose but follow. 
 cunning devils! 
 How should blind men know you from 
 fair-fac'd saints? 
 Beat. (Within.) He lies! the villain does 
 
 belie me ! 
 De F. Let me go to her, sir. 
 Als. Nay, you shall to her. — 
 
 Peace, cr3dng crocodile, your sounds are 
 
 heard ; 
 Take your prey to you; — get you into 
 her, sir: 
 
 Exit De Flores. 
 I '11 be your pander now ; rehearse again 
 Your scene of lust, that you may be per- 
 fect 
 When you shall come to act it to the 
 
 black audience, 
 Where howls and gnashings shall be 
 
 music to you. 
 Clip '" your adulteress freely, 't is the 
 
 pilot 
 Will guide you to the mare mortuum, 
 Where you shall sink to fathoms bottom- 
 less. 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Tomaso, Alibius, Isa- 
 bella, Franciscus, and Antonio. 
 
 Ver. Alsemero! I've a wonder for 
 you. 
 
 76 hug. 
 
418 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN PEEIOD 
 
 Als. No, sir, 'tis I, I have a wonder for 
 
 you. 
 Ver. I have suspicion near as proof itself 
 
 For Piraequo's murder. 
 Als. Sir, I have proof 
 
 Beyond suspicion of Piraequo's murder. 
 Ver. Beseech you, hear me ; these who have 
 been disguis'd 
 E'er since the deed was done. 
 Als. I have two other 
 
 That were more close disguis'd than your 
 
 two could be 
 E'er since the deed was done. 
 Ver. You '11 hear me — these mine own 
 
 servants 
 
 Als. Hear me — those nearer than your 
 servants 
 That shall acquit them, and prove them 
 guiltless. 
 Fran. That may be done with easy truth, 
 
 sir. 
 Tom. How is my cause bandied through 
 your delays! 
 'T is urgent in my blood and calls for 
 
 haste. 
 Give me a brother or alive or dead; 
 Alive, a wife with him ; if dead, for both 
 A recompense for murder and adultery. 
 Beat. {Within.) 0,0,0! 
 Als. Hark ! 't is coming to you. 
 
 De F. (Within.) Nay, I'll along for 
 
 company. 
 Beat. (Within.) 0, 0! 
 Ver. What horrid sounds are these? 
 Als. Come forth, you twins 
 
 Of mischief ! 
 
 Be-enter De Flores, bringing in Beatrice 
 wounded. 
 
 De F. Here we are ; if you have any 
 
 more 
 To say to us, speak quickly, I shall not 
 Give you the hearing else; I am so stout 
 
 yet, 
 
 And so, I think, that broken rib of man- 
 kind. 
 Ver. A host of enemies ent'red my citadel 
 
 Could not amaze like this: Joanna! 
 Beatrice- Joanna ! 
 Beat. 0, come not near me, sir, I shall 
 defile you! 
 
 I that was of your blood was taken from 
 you, 
 
 For your better health; look no more 
 upon 't. 
 
 But cast it to the ground regardlessly. 
 
 Let the common sewer take it from dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 T« Of, n. 
 
 Beneath the stars, upon yon meteor 
 
 (Pointing to De Flores.) 
 Ever hung my fate 'mongst things cor- 
 ruptible ; 
 I ne'er could pluck it from him; my 
 
 loathing 
 Was prophet to the rest, but ne'er be- 
 
 liev'd. 
 Mine honor fell with him, and now my 
 
 life.- 
 Alsemero, I 'm a stranger to your bed ; 
 Your bed was coz'ned on the nuptial 
 
 night,— 
 For which your false bride died. 
 Als. Diaphanta? 
 
 De F. Yes, and the while I coupled with 
 your mate 
 At barley-break; now we are left in 
 hell.''« 
 Ver. We are all there, it circumscribes us 
 
 here. 
 De F. I lov'd this woman in spite of her 
 heart : 
 Her love I earn'd out of Piraequo's mur- 
 der. 
 Tom. Ha! my brother's murderer? 
 De F. Yes, and her honor's prize 
 
 Was my reward ; I thank life for nothing 
 But that pleasure ; it was so sweet to me, 
 That I have drunk up all, left none be- 
 hind 
 For any man to pledge me. 
 Ver. Horrid villain! 
 
 Keep life in him for future tortures. 
 De F. No! 
 
 I can prevent you ; here 's my pen-knife 
 
 still; 
 It is but one thread more (Stabbing him- 
 self), and now 'tis cut. — 
 Make haste, Joanna, by that token to 
 
 thee. 
 Canst not forget, so lately put in mind; 
 I would not go to leave thee far behind. 
 (Dies.) 
 Beat. Forgive me, Alsemero, all forgive! 
 'T is time to die when 't is a shame to live. 
 (Dies.) 
 Ver. 0, my name's ent'red now in that 
 record 
 Where till this fatal hour 'twas never 
 read. 
 Als. Let it be blotted out; let your heart 
 lose it. 
 And it can never look you in the face. 
 Nor tell a tale behind the back of life 
 To your dishonor. Justice hath so right 
 The guilty hit, that innocence is quit 
 By proclamation, and may joy again,— 
 
 37, p. 400, 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 419 
 
 Sir, you are sensible of what truth hath 
 
 done; 
 'T is the best comfort that your grief can 
 find. 
 Tom. Sir, I am satisfied ; my injuries 
 Lie dead before me ; I can exact no more, 
 Unless my soul were loose, and could o'er- 
 
 t»ke 
 Those black fugitives that are fled from 
 
 hence, 
 To take a second vengeance; but there 
 
 are wraths 
 Deeper than mine, 't is to be fear'd, about 
 'em. 
 Als. What an opacous body had that 
 moon 
 That last chang'd on us ! Here is beauty 
 
 ehang'd 
 To ugly whoredom; here servant-obedi- 
 ence 
 To a master-sin, imperious murder; 
 I, a suppos'd husband, chang'd embraces 
 With wantonness, — but that was paid be- 
 fore. — 
 Your change is come too, from an igno- 
 rant wrath 
 To knowing friendship. — ^Are there any 
 more on's? 
 Ant. Yes, sir, I was chang'd too from a 
 little ass as I was to a great fool as I 
 am; and had like to ha' been chang'd to 
 the gallows, but that you know my inno- 
 cence '''' always excuses me. 
 
 Fran. I was chang'd from a little wit to 
 
 be stark mad, 
 Almost for the same purpose. 
 Isa. Your change is still behind, 
 
 But deserve best your transformation : 
 You are a jealous coxcomb, keep schools 
 
 of folly, 
 And teach your scholars how to break 
 
 your own head. 
 Alih. I see all apparent, wife, and will 
 
 change now 
 Into a better husband, and ne'er keep 
 Scholars that shall be wiser than myself. 
 Als. Sir, you have yet a son's duty living, 
 Please you, accept it; let that your sor- 
 row. 
 As it goes from your eye, go- from your 
 
 heart, 
 Man and his sorrow at the grave must 
 
 part. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 Als. All we can do to comfort one another. 
 To stay a brother's sorrow for a brother, 
 To dry a child from the kind father's 
 
 eyes, 
 Is to no purpose, it rather multiplies: 
 Your only smiles have power to cause 
 
 re-live 
 The dead again, or in their rooms to give 
 Brother a new brother, father a child; 
 If these appear, all griefs are reconeil'd. 
 Exeunt omnes. 
 
 77 simple-mindedness. 
 
in. THE RESTORATION 
 
 JOHN DEYDEN 
 
 ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE. OR THE CON 
 QUEST OF GRANADA 
 
 John Dryden (1631-1700) was the leading 
 literary man of the last quarter of the sev- 
 enteenth century. He came of a Puritan 
 family, and graduated at Cambridge. After 
 the Restoration he transferred his loyalty 
 from Oliver Cromwell's wealc son Richard to 
 Charles II, and at the accession of James 11 
 he became a Roman Catholic. In such 
 changes there was probably not so much 
 time-serving as » desire to support a strong 
 autocratic governmental system. It is cer- 
 tain that he was interested in politics, and 
 liked to be on the winning side. In his liter- 
 ary work he was remarkable for his versa- 
 tility; besides nearly thirty tragedies and 
 comedies, he excelled in prose criticism, trans- 
 lation, and satirical, lyric, and narrative 
 poetry. For many years he exercised a con- 
 trolling influence on literature, and is gener- 
 ally recognized as the first great leader in 
 the era of classicism. 
 
 Since poetry expresses both the ideals and 
 the realities of the age which produces it, 
 we should expect a strong contrast between 
 the drama of the Elizabethan period and that • 
 of so dilferent an age as the forty years oi 
 so of the Restoration period. The earlier 
 form in large measure survived, since a 
 dramatic form is too complex to be often 
 renewed, but the spirit is greatly altered. 
 In 1642 the Puritan parliament, always op- 
 posed to the stage, took advantage of the be- 
 ginnings of the Civil War to close the thea- 
 ters, and for eighteen years such perform- 
 ances as were given were rude and clandes- 
 tine. Many other innocent amusements 
 were proscribed, and the sober and ascetic 
 spirit of Puritanism was at least theoreti- 
 cally supreme in the land. The era of the 
 Puritan Revolution saw England's great ex- 
 periment in a moral idealism compulsor.y for 
 all. It produced a far-reaching effect, for 
 to it more than to any other cause are due 
 the differences which every one feels be- 
 tween English (and partly American) life 
 and that of the whole of continental Europe. 
 But on the whole it failed, and the violence 
 of the reaction when Charles II's return re- 
 leased the tense spring is nowhere more ap- 
 parent than in the drama. That of the Res- 
 
 toration lacked the fine, steady, normal, 
 masculine spirit of the greater Elizabethan 
 dramatists — their universality and depth 
 of insight; it became contracted lengthwise 
 and crosswise, became superficial and nar- 
 rower. _ It was aristocratic rather than 
 democratic, met the taste of a smaller part 
 of the community; it exhibited the irre- 
 sponsible life they led, and when it expressed 
 moral ideality, this was sometimes an insin- 
 cere, weak, and unnatural ideality. With all 
 these limitations as to spirit and matter, 
 technically and as to literary style the drama 
 was never more brilliant. It does not fail in 
 what it sets out to do, and from the point 
 of view of moral and social history is unusu- 
 ally significant. All this is vividly shown in 
 the comedy, but the serious plays, if under- 
 stood, are quite as characteristic. 
 
 Dryden's Conquest of Granada, his great- 
 est popular success (first performed in 1670, 
 printed 1672), is the best example of a type 
 of serious drama differing from tragedy in 
 having a happy ending — the " heroic play." 
 Though a relation can be seen to some of the 
 Elizabethan dramas, and though he expressed 
 obligation to D'Avenant's Siege of Rhodes, 
 Dryden is regarded as the originator of the 
 type. There is a certain amount of resem- 
 blance to the French classical drama of 
 Corneille and Racine; and as in them the 
 three " classical " unities ( see page 46 
 above) were observed. But these plays were 
 largely an attempt to bring into the drama 
 the supposed manner and spirit of Greek and 
 Italian epic, and especially of the prose 
 romances of seventeenth-century France, such 
 as those of la Calprenfede, Gomberville, and 
 Mile, de Scud^ry. Three romances by the 
 last-named underlie respectively the three 
 parts of the plot in The Conquest of Qranada; 
 which is also founded on a Spanish history 
 of Granada. For this, like other " heroic 
 plays," has a historical background, which 
 was felt to impart a weighty dignity. The 
 locality is always remote, classical, among 
 the Aztecs or Peruvians, or as with this play 
 among the orientals. This too, was felt to 
 give a romantic dignity, and made less no- 
 ticeable certain departures from nature and 
 
 420 
 
JOHN DEYDEN 
 
 421 
 
 probability. There , is little attempt at 
 " local color " ; the Moors invoke the saints, 
 observe knightly usages, and even sing of 
 " Phyllis." 
 
 The plot is apt to be loose and episodic, 
 with no prolonged suspense (opportunities 
 for it are rejected), not working up to a 
 crisis, not intimately growing out of the per- 
 sonalities, but accidental and successive, and 
 made up of commonplace elements. Dryden 
 was far from being a born dramatist. In all 
 these plays the general formula for plot is 
 the conflict between love and honor. In this 
 play the plot is of three parts, well inter- 
 woven, dealing with the loves of Almanzor, 
 Almahide, and Boabdelin, with those of Ab- 
 dalla, Lyndaraxa, and Abdelmelech, and with 
 those of Ozmyn and Benzayda. The Second 
 Part is equally intricate, ending in the cap- 
 ture of Granada by the Spaniards, the death 
 of Boabdelin, the prospective union of his 
 widow Almahide with Almanzor, and the 
 wholly unprepared-lor recognition of the lat- 
 ter as the long-lost son of the Duke of Arcos. 
 The commonplacehess of the plot is some- 
 what concealed by the incessant bustling 
 action, and the amorous framework by the 
 constant drums and tramplings of conquests, 
 the alarums and excursions of domestic 
 malice and foreign levies. As a critic has 
 well said, the play combines French artificial 
 gallantry with the English love of sound and 
 fury. The noisy motion was doubtless one 
 reason for its popularity on the stage. There 
 being no one point of deep interest, the- 
 focus of attention is constantly shifted. The 
 outline of the play is narrative, epic, rather 
 than dramatib. 
 
 This point bears equally on the most char- 
 acteristic feature of the heroic play, its 
 treatment of personality. Here too its na- 
 ture and origin is rather epic than dramatic. 
 As in the epic, the characters are of the high- 
 est rank. Dryden stated that his originals 
 for Almanzor were Homer's Achilles and 
 Tasso's Rinaldo. Almanzor, however, did not 
 perfectly please contemporary critics. To us 
 it seems more odd to censure him as "no 
 perfect pattern of heroic virtue," a " con- 
 temner of kings," who changes sides, than to 
 carp at him for performing impossibilities 
 — he falls short of, and exceeds, the conven- 
 tional notion of his kind. Dryden makes the 
 defence that heroic plays are not subject to 
 the laws of probability, and that, being a 
 foreigner, Almanzor was bound to neither of 
 the Moorish factions. The hero's very first 
 words, as he goes to aid one of them, are 
 
 I cannot stay to ask which cause is best: 
 But this is so to me because opprest; 
 
 and later he declares, 
 
 True, I would wish my friend the juster side ; 
 But, in the unjust, my kindness more is tried. 
 
 Thus from the first he declares his indiffer- 
 ence to ordinary rules of conduct. With his 
 
 frantic self-assertion and megalomania, " a 
 confidence of himself, almost approaching to 
 an arrogance," Dryden moderately says, Al- 
 manzor and his fellow-heroes are the com- 
 pletest example in English of the Superman- 
 type, of " the will to power." Almanzor's 
 biggest talk does no more than justice to his 
 deeds, he faces kings, armies and ghosts 
 (Part II.) with like equanimity. 
 
 What, in another, vanity would seem, 
 Appears but noble conndence in him. 
 
 But heroic arrogance is not exhibited merely 
 for its own sake. Almanzor's chief virtues 
 Dryden meant to be " a frank and open noble- 
 ness of nature, an easiness to forgive his con- 
 quered enemies, and to protect them in dis- 
 tress; and, above all, an inviolable faith in 
 his affection." He towers above the world 
 of men that his subjection to woman and love 
 may be more flattering and delightful. Love 
 is the giant's only weakness ; . what a tribute 
 to Jove! Love is at first sight, but as con- 
 stant as it is sudden. An etiquette controls 
 it, even if repented of. Almahide, though lov- 
 ing Almanzor, feels as much bound by her be- 
 trothal to the weak Boabdelin as by her 
 marriage-vow, and must be faithful not only 
 to his person but to his memory; at the end 
 of Part II she dedicates a year's widowhood 
 to leg convenances. What a tribute to the 
 virtue of constancy and loyalty, when even 
 the almighty Almanzor is kept waiting! 
 But if love and honor hopelessly conflict, 
 usually honor goes to the wall. Boabdelin 
 prefers his love to his crown. 
 
 Hardly less important than the characters, 
 in the mind of Dryden and his auditors, were 
 the " sentiments," the views and ideals dis- 
 coursed upon. Some of these plays devote 
 much space to arguments and controversies 
 among the characters, as here in the second 
 act. The ideals are mainly of love and honor; 
 " betwixt their love and virtue they are 
 tost; " honor being partly glory and partly 
 a rigid sense of propriety. In each case the 
 ideal is a thoroughly individualistic one ; the 
 love is passion, and the honor is largely 
 selfish virtue. Though occasionally a per- 
 sonage is so Quixotic as to contemplate kill- 
 ing himself to spare another the guilt of kill- 
 ing him, of patriotism there is , scarcely a 
 hint. " Honor is what myself and friends I 
 owe," Almanzor announces. " L'4tat c'est 
 moi " is the principle of all of them. With 
 an empire of eight hundred years nearing its 
 fall the Moors think only of private revenge, 
 private ambition, and private passion. Here 
 as elsewhere Dryden sacrificed nature and 
 breadth to intensity. Yet insight is not 
 wholly wanting ; a passage in Part II has 
 often been quoted: 
 
 A blush remains in a forgiven face: 
 
 It wears the silent tokens of disgrace. 
 
 Forgiveness to the injur'd does belong; 
 
 But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong. 
 
42p 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Such passages, and even rhodomontade 
 and commonplaee, gain impressiveness by 
 Dryden's matchless style. Not always great 
 as an imaginative poet, or as a dramatist, 
 he was a master of dramatic rhetoric, un- 
 subtle, bold. His verse sweeps one along like 
 a wave on its rhythmic rise and fall, with 
 endless nerve and verve and never a sign of 
 faltering; it reads aloud superbly. The form 
 of verse is, as regularly in the heroic plays, 
 the ten-syllable couplet, the " heroic couplet," 
 treated with some variety, such as occasional 
 short lines. His lyric gift enabled him also 
 to introduce charming songs, which contrast 
 with the masculine march of the other verse, 
 and also sometimes with its high moral tone. 
 
 An artificial idealism, in a word, is what 
 this play embodies. There is plenty of ideal- 
 ism in Shakespeare, but it comes from a 
 heightening of human nature as it is ; his peo- 
 ple are merely more fully and intensely what 
 they are than they would be in life. Liry- 
 den's are not imitated from life, but from the 
 vague ideals of the unideal, artificial aristo- 
 
 crats for whom he wrote. The reality <rf 
 these people appears in the comedy of the 
 age. Sexual morality and personal honor 
 were at a low ebb; in these plays they are 
 lauded in an vmreal and exaggerated manner. 
 Because such people cared little for ideals, 
 these serious plays are artificial. They are 
 the somewhat perfunctory homage which Res- 
 toration vice paid to virtue. Their arti- 
 ficiality links them closely to another highly 
 artificial dramatic type, which grew up about 
 the same time and from much the same origin 
 — the opera. Both were felt to be independ- 
 ent of nature and probability, both were re- 
 mote and aristocratic, both were simple and 
 conventional in their elements, both dealt 
 largely with the heroic and with love. The 
 sonorous lyric verse which is the accompani- 
 ment of Dryden's plays in a sense takes the 
 place of the music which is that of the opera. 
 The spirit of The Conquest of Granada there- 
 fore still survives on the boards of the opera- 
 house. 
 
 ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR THE 
 CONQUEST OF GRANADA 
 
 PART I 
 
 Major rerum mihi nascitur ordoj 
 Majus opus moveo. 
 
 ViEGiL, Mneid, vii, 44, 45. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO PART I 
 
 Spoken by Mrs. Ellen Gwyn, in a Broad- 
 brimmed Hat, and Waist-helt, 
 
 This jest^ was first of t' other house's 
 
 making, 
 And five times tried, has never failed of 
 
 taking; 
 For 't were a shame a poet should be killed 
 Under the shelter of so broad a shield. 
 This is that hat, whose very sight did win 
 
 ye 
 
 To laugh and clap as though the devil were 
 in ye. 
 
 As then, for Nokes, so now I hope you '11 be 
 
 So dull, to laugh once more for love of me. 
 
 "I'll write a play," says one, "for I have 
 got 
 
 A broad-brimmed hat, and waist-belt, to- 
 wards a plot." 
 
 Says t'other, "I have one more large than 
 that." 
 
 Thus they out- write each other with a hat! 
 
 The brims still grew with every play they 
 writ; 
 
 And grew so large, they covered all the wit. 
 
 Hat was the play; 'twas language, wit, and 
 tale: 
 
 Like them that find meat, drink, and cloth 
 in ale. 
 
 What dulness do these mongrel wits con- 
 fess. 
 
 When all their hope is acting of a dress ! 
 
 Thus, two the best comedians of the age 
 
 Must be worn out, with being blocks o' the 
 stage ; 
 
 Like a young girl, who better things has 
 known, 
 
 Beneath their poet's impotence they groan. 
 
 See now what charity it was to save ! 
 
 They thought you liked, what only you for- 
 gave; 
 
 And brought you more dull sense, dull sense 
 much worse 
 
 Than brisk gay nonsense, and the heavier 
 curse. 
 
 They bring old iron, and glass upon the 
 stage. 
 
 To barter with the Indians of our age. 
 
 1 Nokes, an actor at a rival theater, is said to liave caricatured French styles in the above-mentioned costume. 
 
ALMANZOR AKD ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 423 
 
 Still they write ou, and like great authors 
 
 show; 
 But 't is as rollers in wet gardens grow 
 Heavy with dirt, and gathering as they go. 
 May none, who have so little understood, 
 ^ To like such trash, presume to praise 
 
 what 's good ! 
 And may those drudges of the stage, whose 
 
 fate 
 Is damn'd dull farce more dully to tifans- 
 
 late. 
 Fall under that excise the state thinks fit 
 To set on all French wares, whose worst is 
 
 wit. 
 
 French farce, worn out at home, is sent 
 
 abroad ; 
 And, patched up here, is made our English 
 
 mode. 
 Henceforth, let poets, ere allowed to write. 
 Be searched, like duellists before they 
 
 fight, 
 For wheel-broad hats, dull humor, all that 
 
 chaff, 
 Which makes you mourn, and makes the 
 
 vulgar laugh : 
 For these, in plays, are as unlawful 
 
 arms 
 As, in a combat, coats of mail, and charms. 
 
 NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED 3 
 
 MEN 
 
 Dtjke of Abcos, his General. 
 
 Don Alonzo d'Aguilab, a Spanish Captain. 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Mahomet Boabdelin, the last king of Gra- 
 nada. 
 
 Pkince Abdalla, his hrother. 
 
 Abdelmelech, chief of the Abencerrages.* 
 
 Ztjlema, chief of the Zegrys.* 
 
 Abenamab, an old Abencerrago. 
 
 Selin, an old Zegry. 
 
 OzMYN, a brave young Abencerrago, son to 
 Abenamar. 
 
 Hamet, brother to Zulema, a Zegry. 
 
 Gomel, o Zegry. 
 
 Almanzob. 
 
 Feedinand, King of Spa/in. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 {Boabdelin, Abenamar, Abdelmelech, 
 Guards.) 
 
 Boah. Thus, in the triumphs of soft peace, 
 I reign; 
 
 And, from my walls, defy the powers of 
 Spain; 
 
 With pomp and sports my love I cele- 
 brate, 
 
 While they keep distance, and attend my 
 state. — 
 
 {To Aben.) 
 
 Parent to her, whose eyes my soul en- 
 thral. 
 
 Whom I, in hope, already father call, 
 
 Abenamar, thy youth these sports has 
 known. 
 
 Of which thy age is now spectator 
 grown; 
 
 Judge-like thou sit'st, to praise, or to ar- 
 raign 
 
 The flying skirmish of the darted cane : " 
 
 2 as to like. * Tribes or parties &fflong the Moors, whose enmities hastened the fall of Granada. 
 t Some of these personages appear only in Part 11. 
 
 Almahide, queen of Granada. 
 Lyndabaxa, sister of Zulema, a Zegry lady. 
 Benzayda, daughter to Selin. 
 EspEEANZA, slave to the queen. 
 Halyma, slave to Lyndaraaoa. 
 ISABEiXA, Queen of Spain. 
 Messengers, Gnards, Attendants, Men, and 
 Women. 
 
 The Scene in Granada, and the Christian 
 Camp besieging it. 
 
 But, when fierce bulls run loose upon the 
 
 place, 
 And our bold Moors their loves with dan- 
 ger grace, 
 Then heat new-bends thy slackened 
 
 nerves again, 
 And a short youth runs warm through 
 
 every vein. 
 Aben. I must confess the encounters of 
 
 this day 
 Warmed me indeed, but quite another 
 
 way: 
 Not with the fire of youth; but generous 
 
 rage. 
 To see the glories of my youthful age 
 So far out-done. 
 Abdelm^ Castile could never boast, in all 
 
 its pride, 
 A pomp so splendid, when the lists, set 
 
 wide. 
 Gave room to the fierce bulls, which 
 
 wildly ran 
 In Sierra Ronda, ere the war began; 
 Who, with high nostrils snuffing up the 
 
 wind. 
 
424 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Now stood the champions of the savage 
 
 kind. 
 Just opposite, within the circled place, 
 Ten of our bold Abencerrages' race 
 (Each brandishing his bull-spear in his 
 
 hand) 
 Did their proud jennets gracefully com- 
 mand. 
 On their steeled heads their demi-lances 
 
 wore 
 Small pennons, which their ladies' colors 
 
 bore. 
 Before this troop did warlike Ozmyn go ; 
 Each lady, as he rode, saluting low ; 
 At the chief stands, with reverence more 
 
 profound, 
 His well-taught courser, kneeling, 
 
 touched the ground; 
 Thence raised, he sidelong bore his rider 
 
 on. 
 Still facing, till he out of sight was gone. 
 Boab. You praise him like a friend; and 
 
 I confess. 
 His brave deportment merited no less. 
 Abdelm. Nine bulls were launched by his 
 
 victorious arm, 
 Whose wary jennet, shunning still the 
 
 harm. 
 Seemed to attend the shock, and then 
 
 leaped wide: 
 Meanwhile, his dext'rous rider, when he 
 
 spied 
 The beast just stooping, 'twixt the neck 
 
 and head 
 His lance, with never-erring fury, sped. 
 Aben. My son did well, and so did Hamet 
 
 too; 
 Yet did no more than we were wont to 
 
 do; 
 But what the stranger did was more than 
 
 man. 
 Abdelm. He finished all those triumphs we 
 
 began. 
 One bull, with curled black head, beyond 
 
 the rest, 
 And dew-laps hanging from his brawny 
 
 chest, 
 With nodding front a while did daring 
 
 stand, 
 And with his jetty hoof spumed back the 
 
 sand; 
 Then, leaping forth, he bellowed out 
 
 aloud : 
 The amazed assistants back each other 
 
 crowd, 
 While monarch-like he ranged the listed 
 
 field; 
 
 Some tossed, some gored, some trampling 
 down he killed. 
 
 The iguobler Moors from far his rage 
 provoke 
 
 With woods of darts, which from his 
 sides he shook. 
 
 Meantime your valiant son, who had be- 
 fore 
 
 Gained fame, rode round to every mira- 
 dor;« 
 
 Beneath each lady's stand a stop he 
 made. 
 
 And, bowing, took the applauses which 
 they paid. 
 
 Just in that point of time, the brave un- 
 known 
 
 Approached the lists. 
 Boab. "I marked him, when alone 
 
 (Observed by all, himself observing 
 none) 
 
 He entered first, and with a graceful 
 pride 
 
 His fiery Arab dext'rously did guide, 
 
 Who while his rider every stand sur- 
 veyed. 
 
 Sprung loose, and flew into an esca- 
 pade ; ' 
 
 Not moving forward, yet, with every 
 bound. 
 
 Pressing, and seeming still to quit his 
 ground : 
 
 What after passed 
 
 Wag far from the ventanna * where I 
 sate. 
 
 But you were near, and can the truth 
 relate. 
 
 {To Abdelm.) 
 Abdelm. Thus while he stood, the bull, 
 who saw this foe, 
 
 His easier conquests proudly did fore- 
 go; 
 
 And, making at him, with a furious 
 bound. 
 
 From his bent forehead aimed a double 
 wound. 
 
 A rising murmur ran through all the 
 field. 
 
 And every Jady's blood with fear was 
 chilled : 
 
 Some shrieked, while others, with more 
 helpful care, 
 
 Cried out aloud, "Beware, brave youth, 
 beware !" 
 
 At this he turned, and, as the bull drew 
 near. 
 
 Shunned and received him on his pointed 
 spear : 
 
 B javelin. r Uncontrolled prancing,' bounding or running (French technical^ term in horsemanship). 
 6 gallery or balcony for spectators. ' window. 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 425 
 
 The lance broke short, the beast then bel- 
 lowed loud 
 And his strong neck to a new onset 
 
 bowed. 
 The undaunted youth 
 Then drew ; and from his saddle bending 
 
 low, 
 Just where the neck did to the shoulders 
 
 grow. 
 With his full force discharged a deadly 
 
 blow. 
 Not heads of poppies (when they reap 
 
 the grain) 
 Fall with more ease before the laboring 
 
 swain, 
 Thau fell this head: 
 
 It fell so quick, it did even death pre- 
 vent,* 
 And made imperfect bellowings as it 
 
 went. 
 Then all the trumpets victory did sound, 
 And yet their clangors in our shouts were 
 
 drown'd. 
 (A confused noise within.) 
 Boab. The alarm-bell rings from our Al- 
 
 hambra walls, 
 And from the streets sound drums and 
 
 atabals.io 
 (WitTiin, a hell, drums, and trumpets.) 
 
 (To them a Messenger.) 
 How now? from whence proceed these 
 
 new alarms? 
 Mess. The two fierce factions are again 
 
 in arms; 
 And, changing into blood the day's de- 
 
 ligljt. 
 The Zegrys with the Abencerrages fight ; 
 On each side their allies and friends ap- 
 pear; 
 The Ma§as here, the Alabezes there : 
 The Gazuls with the Bencerrages join, 
 And, with the Zegrys, all great Gomel's 
 
 line. 
 Bocib. Draw up behind the Vivarambla 
 
 place ; 
 Double my guards, — these factions I will 
 
 face; 
 And try if all the fury they can bring, _ 
 Be proof against the presence of their 
 
 king. 
 
 {Exit Boab.) 
 (The Factions appear: At the head of the 
 Abencerrages, Ozmyn; at the head of the 
 Zegrys, Zulema, Hamet, Gomel, and 
 Seiin: Abenamar and Abdelmelech joined 
 with the Abencerrages.) 
 Zul. The faint Abencerrages quit their 
 
 ground ; 
 
 9 anticipate, get ahead of. 
 
 Press 'em; put home your thrusts to 
 every wound. 
 Ahdelm. Zegry, on manly force our line 
 relies ; 
 
 Thine poorly takes the advantage of sur- 
 prise : 
 
 Unarmed and much out-numbered we re- 
 treat ; 
 
 You gain no fame, when basely you de- 
 feat. 
 
 If thou art brave, seek nobler victory; 
 
 Save Moorish blood; and, while our 
 bands stand by. 
 
 Let two to two an equal combat try. 
 Ham. 'T is not for fear the combat we 
 refuse. 
 
 But we our gained advantage will not 
 lose. 
 Zul. In combating, but two of you will 
 fall; 
 
 And we resolve we will despatch you all. 
 Ozm. We '11 double yet the exchange be- 
 fore we die. 
 
 And each of ours two lives of yours shall 
 buy. 
 
 (Almamor enters betwixt them, as they 
 stand ready to engage.) 
 
 Aim. I cannot stay to ask which cause is 
 best; 
 
 But this is so to me, because oppress'd. 
 
 (Goes to the Abencerrages.) 
 
 (To them Boabdelin and his Guards, going 
 
 betwixt them.) 
 Boab. On your allegiance, I command you 
 stay; 
 
 Who passes here, through me must make 
 his way; 
 
 My life 's the Isthmus ; through this nar- 
 row line 
 
 You first must cut, before those seas can 
 join. 
 
 What fury, Zegrys, has possessed your 
 minds? 
 
 What rage the brave Abencerrages 
 blinds? 
 
 If of your courage you new proofs would 
 show. 
 
 Without much travel you may find a foe. 
 
 Those foes are neither so remote nor few, 
 
 That you should need each other to pur- 
 sue. 
 
 Lean times and foreign wars should 
 minds unite; 
 
 When poor, men mutter, but they seldom 
 fight. 
 
 holy Allah! that I live to see 
 
 Thy Granadines assist their enemy! 
 
 10 kettle-drums or tabors. 
 
426 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 You flght the Christians' battles: every 
 
 life 
 You lavish thus, in this intestine strife, 
 Does from our weak foundations take 
 
 one prop 
 Which helped to hold our sinking coun- 
 try up. 
 Ozm. 'T is fit our private enmity should 
 
 cease ; 
 Though injured first, yet I will first seek 
 
 peace. 
 Zul. No, murderer, no; I never will be 
 
 won 
 To peace with him, whose hand has slain 
 
 my son. 
 Ozm. Our prophet's curse 
 
 On me, and all the Abencerrages light, 
 If, unprovoked, I with your son did 
 
 fight. 
 Abdelm. A band of Zegrys ran within the 
 
 place, 
 Matched with a troop of thirty of our 
 
 race. 
 Your son and Ozmyn the first squadrons 
 
 led, 
 Which, ten by ten, like Parthians, 
 
 charged and fled; 
 The ground was strowed with canes 
 
 where we did meet. 
 Which crackled underneath our coursers' 
 
 feet: 
 When Tarifa (I saw hinj ride apart) 
 Changed his blunt cane for a steel- 
 pointed dart, 
 And, meeting Ozmyn next, — 
 Who wanted time for treason to pro- 
 vide, — 
 He basely threw it at him, undefied. 
 Ozm. {Showing his arm.) Witness this 
 
 blood — ^which when by treason 
 
 sought, 
 That followed, sir, which to myself I 
 
 ought.'^'^ 
 Zul. His hate to thee was grounded on a 
 
 grudge, 
 Which all our generous Zegrys just did 
 
 judge: 
 Thy villain-blood thou openly didst place 
 Above the purple of our kingly race. 
 Bodb. Prom equal stems their blood both 
 
 houses draw. 
 They from Morocco, you from Cordova. 
 HctM- Their mongrel race is mixed with 
 
 Christian breed; 
 Hence 't is that they those dogs in prisons 
 
 feed. 
 Abdelm. Our holy prophet wills, that 
 
 charity 
 
 11 owed. 
 
 Should even to birds and beasts extended 
 
 be: 
 None knows what fate is for himself de- 
 signed ; 
 The thought of human chance should 
 make us kind. 
 Gom. We waste that time we to revenge 
 should give: 
 Fall on: let no Abeneerrago live. 
 (Advancing before the rest of his party. 
 Almannor, advancing on the other side, 
 and describing a line with his sword.) 
 Almanz. Upon thy life pass not this mid- 
 dle space; 
 Sure death stands guarding the forbidden 
 place. 
 Gom. To dare that death, I will approach 
 yet nigher; 
 Thus, — ^wert thou compassed in with 
 circling fire. 
 
 {They fight.) 
 Bodb. Disarm 'em both ; if they resist you, 
 
 kill. 
 {Ahnanzor, in the midst of the Guards, 
 
 kills Gomel, and then is disarmed.) 
 Almanz. Now you have but the leavings of 
 
 my wiU. 
 Boab. Kill him! this insolent unknown 
 Shall fall. 
 And be the victim to atone ^^ you all. 
 Ozm. If he must die, not one of us will 
 live: 
 That life he gave for us, for him we give. 
 Boab. It was a traitor's voice that spoke 
 those words; 
 So are you all, who do not sheathe your 
 swords. 
 Zul. Outrage unpunished, when a prince 
 is by, 
 Forfeits to scorn the rights of majesty: 
 No subject his protection can expect. 
 Who what he owes himself does first 
 neglect. 
 Aben. This stranger, sir, is he. 
 Who lately in the Vivarambla place 
 Did, with so loud applause, your tri- 
 umphs grace. 
 Boab. The word which I have given, I'll 
 not revoke; 
 If he be brave, he 's ready for the stroke. 
 Almanz. No man has more contempt than 
 I of breath, 
 But whence hast thou the right to give 
 
 me death? 
 Obeyed as sovereign by thy subjects be, 
 But know, that I alone am king of me. 
 I am as free as nature first made man. 
 Ere the base laws of servitude began, 
 
 12 reconcile. 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 427 
 
 When wild in woods the noble savage 
 ran. 
 Boab. Since, then, no power above your 
 own you know, 
 
 Mankind should use you .like a common 
 foe; 
 
 You should be hunted like a beast of 
 prey: 
 
 By your own law I take your life away. 
 Almam. My laws are made but only for 
 my sake; 
 
 No king against himself a law can make. 
 
 If thou pretend'st to be a prince like 
 me. 
 
 Blame not an act, which should thy pat- 
 tern be. 
 
 I saw the oppressed, and thought it did 
 belong 
 
 To a king's ofiBce to redress the wrong: 
 
 I brought that succor, which thou 
 ought'st -to bring. 
 
 And so, in nature, am thy subjects' king. 
 Boab. I do not want your counsel to di- 
 rect, 
 
 Or aid to help me punish or protect. 
 Almam. Thou want'st 'em both, or better 
 thou wouldst know, 
 
 Than to let factions in thy kingdom grow. 
 
 Divided interests, while thou think'st to 
 sway, 
 
 Draw, like two brooks, thy middle stream 
 away: 
 
 For though they band and jar, yet both 
 combine 
 
 To make their greatness by the fall of 
 thine. 
 
 Thus, like a buckler, thou art held in 
 sight. 
 
 While they behind thee with each other 
 fight. 
 Boab. Away, and execute him instantly! 
 
 {To his Guards.) 
 
 Almanz. Stand off; I have not leisure yet 
 
 to die. 
 
 (To them Abdalla, hastily.) 
 
 Abdal. Hold, sir! for heaven sake hold! 
 
 Defer this noble stranger's punishment. 
 
 Or your rash orders you will soon repent. 
 Boab. Brother, you know not yet his inso- 
 lence. 
 Abdal. Upon yourself you punish his of- 
 fence : 
 
 If we treat gallant strangers in this sort. 
 
 Mankind will shun the inhospitable court ; 
 
 And who, henceforth, to our defence will 
 come. 
 
 If death must be the brave Almanzor's 
 doom? 
 
 13 capricious, self-willed. 
 
 From Africa I drew him to your aid, 
 And for his succor have his life betrayed. 
 Boab. Is this the Almanzor whom at Fez 
 you knew. 
 When first their swords the Xeriff broth- 
 ers drew? 
 Abdal. This, sir, is he, who for the elder 
 fought, 
 And to the juster cause the conquest 
 
 brought ; 
 Till the proud Santo, seated in the 
 
 throne, 
 Disdained the service, he had done, to 
 
 own: 
 Then to the vanquished part his fate he 
 
 led: 
 The vanquished triumphed, and the vic- 
 tor fled. 
 Vast is his courage, boundless is his mind, 
 Rough as a storm, and humorous ^^ as 
 
 wind: 
 Honor 's the only idol of his eyes ; 
 The charms of beauty like a pest he 
 
 flies; 
 And, raised by valor from a birth un- 
 known. 
 Acknowledges no power above his own. 
 (Boabdelin coming to Almanzor.) 
 Boab. Impute your danger to our igno- 
 rance ; 
 The bravest men are subject most to 
 
 chance : 
 Granada much does to your kindness 
 
 owe; 
 But towns, expecting sieges, cannot show 
 More honor, than to invite you to a foe. 
 Almanz. I do not doubt but I have been 
 to blame: 
 But, to pursue the end for which I came. 
 Unite your subjects first; then let us go. 
 And pour their common rage upon the 
 foe. 
 Boab. (To the Factions.) Lay down your 
 arms, and let me bieg you cease 
 Your enmities. 
 Zul. We will not hear of peace. 
 
 Till we by force have first revenged our 
 slain. 
 Abdelm. The action we have done we will 
 
 maintain. 
 Selin. Then let the king depart, and we 
 will try 
 Our cause by arms. 
 Zul. For us and victory ! 
 Boab. A king entreats you. 
 Almanz. What subjects will precarious ** 
 kings regard? 
 A beggar speaks too softly to be heard ; 
 
 J4 suppliant, 
 
428 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Lay down your arms! 'tis I command 
 
 you now. 
 Do it — or, by our prophet's soul I vow, 
 My hands shall right your king on him 
 
 I seize. 
 Now let me see whose look but disobeys ! 
 Omnes. Long live king Mahomet Boab- 
 
 delin! 
 Ahnanz. No more; but hushed as mid- 
 night silence go: 
 He will not have your acclamations now 
 Hence, you unthinking crowd ! — 
 (The common people go off on both 
 
 parties.) 
 Empire, thou poor and despicable thing, 
 When such as these unmake or make a 
 king! 
 Abdal. How much of virtue lies in one 
 gTeat soul, 
 
 (Embracing him.) 
 Whose single force can multitudes con- 
 trol! 
 
 (A trumpet within.) 
 (Enter a Messenger.) 
 Mess. The Duke of Arcos, sir, 
 
 Does with a trumpet from the foe appear. 
 Boab. Attend him; he shall have his au- 
 dience here. 
 
 (Enter the Duke of Aroos.) 
 
 D. Arcos. The monarchs of Castile and 
 Aragon 
 
 Have sent me to you, to demand this 
 town, 
 
 To which their just and rightful claim is 
 known. 
 Boab. Tell Ferdinand, my right to it ap- 
 pears 
 
 By long possession of eight hundred 
 years : 
 
 When first my ancestors from Afrie 
 sailed, 
 
 In Rodrique's death your Gothic title 
 failed. 
 D. Arcos. The successors of Rodrique 
 still remain. 
 
 And ever since have held some part of 
 Spain : 
 
 Even in the midst of your victorious pow- 
 ers. 
 
 The Asturias, and all Portugal, were 
 ours. 
 
 You have no right, except you force al- 
 low; 
 
 And if yours then was just, so ours is 
 now. 
 Boab. 'Tis true from force the noblest 
 title springs; 
 
 I therefore hold from that, which first 
 
 made kings. 
 D, Arcos. Since then by force you prove 
 
 your title true. 
 Ours must be .just, because we claim from 
 
 you. 
 When with your father you did jointly 
 
 reign. 
 Invading with your Moors the south of 
 
 Spain, 
 I, who that day the Christians did com- 
 mand, 
 Then took, and brought you bound to 
 
 Ferdinand. 
 Boab. I 'II hear no more ; defer what you 
 
 would say: 
 In private we'll discourse some other 
 
 day. 
 D. Arcos. Sir, you shall hear, however 
 
 you are loth. 
 That, like a perjured prince, you broke 
 
 your oath : 
 To gain your freedom you a contract 
 
 signed. 
 By which your crown you to my king re- 
 signed. 
 From thenceforth as his vassal holding it, 
 And paying tribute such as he thought 
 
 fit; 
 Contracting, when your father -came to 
 
 die. 
 To lay aside all marks of royalty. 
 And at Purehena privately to live. 
 Which, in exchange, king Ferdinand did 
 
 give. 
 Boab. The force used on me made that 
 
 contract void. 
 D. Arcos. Why have you then its benefits 
 
 enjoyed? 
 By it you had not only freedom then. 
 But, since, had aid of money and of men ; 
 And, when Granada for your uncle held, 
 You were by us restored, and he expelled. 
 Since that, in peace we let you reap your 
 
 grain. 
 Recalled our troops, that used to beat 
 
 your plain; 
 
 And more 
 
 Almanz. Yes, yes, you did with wondrous 
 
 care, 
 Against his rebels prosecute the war, 
 While he secure in your protection slept ; 
 For him you took, but for yourselves you 
 
 kept. 
 Thus, as some fawning usurer does feed. 
 With present sums, the unwary unthrift's 
 
 need, 
 You sold your kindness at a boundless 
 
 rate. 
 
ALMANZOE AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST Or GRANADA 429 
 
 And then o'erpaid the debt from his es- 
 tate j 
 Which, mouldering piecemeal, in your 
 
 hands did fall 
 Till now at last you came to swoop it all. 
 D. Arcos, The wrong you do my king I 
 cannot bear; 
 Whose kindness you would odiously com- 
 pare. 
 The estate was his; which yet, since you 
 
 deny, 
 He's now content, in his own wrong, to 
 buy. 
 Almanz. And he shall buy it dear what 
 his he calls — 
 We will not give one stone from out 
 these walls. 
 Boob. Take this for answer, then, — 
 Whate'er your arms have conquered of 
 
 my land, 
 I will, for peace, resign to Ferdinand. 
 To harder terms my mind I cannot bring; 
 But, as I still have lived, will die a king. 
 B. Arcos. Since thus you have resolved, 
 henceforth prepare 
 For all the last extremities of war : 
 My king his hope from heaven's assist- 
 ance draws. 
 Almanz. The Moors have heaven, and me, 
 t' assist their cause. 
 
 (Exit Arcos.) 
 {Enter Esperanza.) 
 
 Esper. Fair Almahide, 
 
 (Who did with weeping eyes these dis- 
 cords see. 
 And fears the omen may unlucky be,) 
 Prepares a zambra^" to be danced this 
 
 night. 
 In hope soft pleasures may your minds 
 unite. 
 Bodb. My mistress gently chides the fault 
 I made: 
 But tedious business has my love de- 
 layed, — 
 Business, which dares the joys of kings 
 invade. 
 Alnianz. First let us sally out, and meet 
 
 the foe. 
 Abdal. Led on by you, we on to triumph 
 
 go. 
 Boab. Then with the day let war and tu- 
 mult cease ; 
 The night be sacred to our love and 
 
 peace: 
 'Tis just some joys on weary kings 
 
 should wait; 
 'T is all we gain by being slaves of state. 
 (Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 15 Festivity of dancing and music. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 (Abdalla, Abdelmelech, Ozmyn, Zulema, 
 Hamet, as returning from the sally.) 
 
 Abdal. This happy day does to Granada 
 bring 
 
 A lasting peace, and triumphs to the 
 king: 
 
 The two fierce factions will no longer jar. 
 
 Since they have now been brothers in the 
 war. 
 
 Those who, apart, in emulation fought. 
 
 The common danger to one body brought ; 
 
 And, to his cost, the proud Castilian 
 finds 
 
 Our Moorish courage in united minds. 
 Abdelm. Since to each other's aid our 
 lives we owe. 
 
 Lose we* the name of faction, and of foe ; 
 
 Which I to Zulema can bear no more. 
 
 Since Lyndaraxa's beauty I adore. 
 Zul. I am obliged to Lyndaraxa's charms, 
 
 Which gain the conquest I should lose by 
 arms; 
 
 And wish my sister may continue fair, 
 
 That I may keep a good. 
 
 Of whose possession I should else de- 
 spair. 
 Ozm. While we indulge our common hap- 
 piness. 
 
 He is forgot, by whom we all possess ; 
 
 The brave Almarizor, to whose arms we 
 owe 
 
 All that we did, and all that we shall do ; 
 
 Who, like a tempest, that outrides the 
 wind. 
 
 Made a just battle ere the bodies joined. 
 Abdelm. His victories we scarce could 
 keep in view. 
 
 Or polish 'em so fast as he rough-drew. 
 Abdal. Fate, after him, below with pain 
 did move. 
 
 And victory could scarce keep pace 
 above : 
 
 Death did at length so many slain forget, 
 
 And lost the tale, and took 'em by the 
 great.'^' 
 (To them Almanzor with the Duke of Ar- 
 cos, prisoner.) 
 Hamet. See, here he comes, 
 
 And leads in triumph him who did com- 
 mand 
 
 The vanquished army of king Ferdinand. 
 Almanz. (To the Duke of Arcos.) Thus 
 far your master's arms a fortune 
 find 
 
 Below the swelled ambition of his mind ; 
 
 And Allah shuts a misbeliever's reign 
 
 16 Lost connt and took wholesale. 
 
430 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 rrom out the best and goodliest part of 
 
 Spain. 
 Let Ferdinand Calabrian conquests make, 
 And from the French contested Milan 
 
 take; 
 Let him new worlds discover to the old, 
 And break up shining mountains, big 
 
 with gold; 
 Yet he shall find this small domestic foe, 
 Still sharp and pointed, to his bosom 
 
 grow. 
 D. Arcos. Of small advantages too much 
 
 you boast; 
 You beat the out-guards of my master's 
 
 host: 
 This little loss, in our vast body, shows 
 So small, that half have never heard the 
 
 news. 
 Fame's out of breath, ere she. can fly so 
 
 far, 
 To tell 'em all that you have e'er made 
 
 war. 
 AVmanz. It pleases me your army is so 
 
 great; 
 For now I know there 's more to conquer 
 
 yet. 
 By heaven, I '11 see what troops you have 
 
 behind : 
 I '11 face this storm, that thickens in the 
 
 wind; 
 And, with bent forehead, full against it 
 
 go, 
 
 Till I have found the last and utmost foe. 
 D. Arcos. Believe, you shall not long at- 
 tend in vain : 
 
 To-morrow's dawn shall cover all your 
 plain ; 
 
 Bright arms shall flash upon you from 
 afar, 
 
 A wood' of lances, and a moving war. 
 
 But I, unhappy, in my bands must yet 
 
 Be only pleased to hear of your defeat. 
 
 And with a slave's inglorious ease re- 
 main. 
 
 Till conquering Ferdinand has broke my 
 chain. 
 Almanz. Vain man, thy hopes of Ferdi- 
 nand, are weak! 
 
 I hold thy chain too fast for him to 
 break. 
 
 But since thou threaten'st us, I '11 set thee 
 free. 
 
 That I again may fight, and conquer 
 thee. 
 B. Arcos. Old as I am, I take thee at thy 
 word. 
 
 And will to-morrow thank thee with my 
 sword, 
 
 17 Troul?"" by 
 
 Almanjs. I'll go, and instantly acquaint 
 the king. 
 And sudden orders for thy freedom 
 
 bring; 
 Thou canst not be so pleased at liberty 
 As I shall be to find thou dar'st be free. 
 (Exeunt Almanzor, Arcos, and the rest, ex- 
 cepting only Abdalla and Zulema.) 
 Abdal. Of all those Christians who in- 
 fest '^^ this town, 
 This Duke of Arcos is of most renown. 
 Zul. Oft have I heard, that in your fa- 
 ther's reign, 
 His bold adventurers beat the neighbor- 
 ing plain ; 
 Then under Ponce Leon's name he fought. 
 And from our triumphs many prizes 
 
 brought; 
 Till in disgrace from Spain at length he 
 
 went, 
 And since continued long in banishment. 
 Abdal. But see, your beauteous sister does 
 appear. 
 
 (To them Lyndaraxa.) 
 Zul. By my desire she came to find me 
 
 here. 
 (Zulema and Lyndaraxa whisper; then 
 Zulema goes out, and -Lyndaraxa is going 
 after.) 
 Abdal. Why, fairest Lyndaraxa, do you 
 
 fly 
 
 (Staying her.) 
 A prince, who at your feet is proud to 
 die? 
 Lyndar. Sir, I should blush to own so 
 rude a thing, 
 
 (Staying.) 
 As 't is to shun the brother of my Mng. 
 Abdal. In my hard fortune I some ease 
 should find, 
 Did your disdain extend to all mankind. 
 But give me leave to grieve, and to com- 
 plain, 
 That you give others what I beg in vain. 
 Lyndar. Take my esteem, if you on that 
 can live; 
 For, frankly, sir, 't is all I have to give : 
 If from my heart you ask or hope for 
 
 more, 
 I grieve the place is taken up before. 
 Abdal. My rival merits you. — 
 To Abdelmelech I will justice do; 
 For he wants worth, who dares not praise 
 a foe. 
 Lyndar. That for his virtue, sir, you make 
 defence. 
 Shows in your own a noble confidence. 
 But him defending, and excusing me, 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OP GRANADA 431 
 
 I know not what can your advantage be. 
 Abdal. I fain would ask, ere I proceed in 
 this. 
 If, as by choice, you are by promise his? 
 Lyndar. The engagement only in my love 
 does lie, 
 But that 's a knot which you can ne'er 
 untie. 
 Abdal. When cities are besieged, and treat 
 to yield, 
 If there appear relievers from the field. 
 The flag of parley may be taken down, 
 Till the success of those without be 
 known. 
 Lyndar. Though Abdelmelech has not yet 
 possess'd. 
 Yet I have sealed the treaty for my 
 breast. 
 Ahddl. Your treaty has not tied you to a 
 day; 
 Some chance might break it, would you 
 
 but delay. 
 If I can judge the secrets of your heart, 
 Ambition in it has the greatest part; 
 And wisdom, then, will show some differ- 
 ence 
 Betwixt a private person and a prince. 
 Lyndar. Princes are subjects still, — 
 Subject and subject can small difference 
 
 bring: 
 The diff'renee is 'twixt subjects and a 
 
 king. 
 And since, sir, you are none, your hopes 
 
 remove ; 
 For less than empire I '11 not change my 
 love. 
 Abdal. Had I a crown, all I should prize 
 in it, 
 Should be the power to lay it at your 
 feet. 
 Lyndar. Had you that crown which you 
 but wish, not hope. 
 Then I, perhaps, might stoop and take it 
 
 up. 
 But till your wishes and your hopes 
 
 agree, 
 You shall be still a private man with 
 me. 
 Abdal. If I am king, and if my brother 
 
 die, 
 
 Lyndar. Two if's scarce make one possi- 
 bility. 
 Abdal. The rule of happiness by reason 
 scan; 
 You may be happy with a private man. 
 Lyndar. That happiness I may enjoy, 't is 
 true; 
 But then that private man must not be 
 you. 
 
 Where'er I love, I'm happy in my 
 
 choice ; 
 If I make you so, you shall pay my price. 
 Abdal. Why would you be so great? 
 Lyndar. Because I 've seen. 
 
 This day, what 't is to hope to be a queen. 
 Heaven, how you all watched each mo- 
 tion of her eye! 
 None could be seen while Almahide was 
 
 by, 
 
 Because she is to be Her Majesty J — 
 Why would I be a queen? Because my 
 
 face 
 Would wear the title with a better grace. 
 If I became it not, yet it would be 
 Part of your duty, then, to flatter me. 
 These are not half the charms of being 
 
 great ; 
 I would be somewhat — ^that I know not 
 
 yet: 
 Yes ! I avow the ambition of my soul, 
 To be that one, to live without control ! 
 And that 's another happiness to me, 
 To be so happy as but one can be. 
 Abdal. Madam, — because I would all 
 
 doubts remove, — 
 Would you, were I a king, accept my 
 
 love? 
 Lyndar. I would accept it; and, to show 
 
 'tis true. 
 From any other man as soon as you. 
 Abdal. Your sharp replies make me not 
 
 love you less; 
 But make me seek new paths to happi- 
 ness. 
 What I design, by time will best be seen : 
 You may be mine, and yet may be a 
 
 queen. 
 When you are so, your word your love 
 
 assures. 
 Lyndar. Perhaps not love you, — ^but I will 
 
 be yours. — 
 (He offers to take her hand, and kiss it.) 
 Stay, sir, that grace I cannot yet allow, 
 Before yoii set the crown upon my 
 
 brow.-^ 
 That favor which you seek. 
 Or Abdelmelech, or a king, must have ; 
 When you are so, then you may be my 
 
 slave. 
 (Exit; but looks smiling back on him.) 
 Abdal. Howe'er imperious in her words 
 
 she were, 
 Her parting looks had nothing of severe ; 
 A glancing smile allured me to command, 
 And her soft flngers gently pressed my 
 
 hand: 
 I felt the pleasure glide through every 
 
 part; 
 
432 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Her hand went through me to my very 
 
 heart. 
 For such another pleasure, did he live, 
 I could my father of a crown deprive. 
 What did I say?— 
 Father? — That impious thought has 
 
 shocked my mind : 
 How bold our passions are, and yet how 
 
 blind!— 
 She's gone; and now, 
 Methinks there is less glory in a crown: 
 My boiling passions settle, and go down. 
 Like amber chafed, when she is near, she 
 
 acts; 
 When farther off, inclines, but not at- 
 tracts. 
 
 {To Mm Zulema.) 
 Assist me, Zulema, if thou wouldst be 
 That friend thou seem'st, assist me 
 
 against me. 
 Betwixt my love and virtue I am tossed; 
 This must be forfeited, or that be lost. 
 I could do much to merit thy applause; 
 Help me to fortify the better cause. 
 My honor is not wholly put to flight. 
 But would, if seconded, renew the. fight. 
 Zul. I met my sister, but I do not see 
 What difficulty in your choice can be : 
 She told me all ; and 't is so plain a case, 
 You need not ask what counsel to em- 
 brace. 
 Abdal. I stand reproved, that I did doubt 
 
 at all; 
 My waiting viTtue stayed but for thy 
 
 call: 
 'T is plain that she, who for a kingdom 
 
 now 
 Would sacrifice her love, and break her 
 
 vow, 
 Not out of love, but interest, acts alone. 
 And would, even in my arms, lie thinking 
 
 of a throne. 
 Zul. Add to the rest this one reflection 
 
 more: 
 When she is married, and you still adore. 
 Think then — and think what comfort it 
 
 will bring — 
 She had been mine, 
 Had I but only dared to be a king ! 
 Abdal. I hope you only would my honor 
 
 try; 
 I 'm loth to think you virtue's enemy. 
 Zul. If, when a crown and mistress are 
 
 in place, 
 Virtue intrudes, with her lean holy face. 
 Virtue's then mine, and not I virtue's 
 
 foe. 
 Why does she come where she has nought 
 
 to do? 
 
 Let her with anchorites, not with lovers, 
 
 lie; 
 Statesmen and they keep better company. 
 Abdal. Reason was given to curb our 
 
 headstrong wilL- 
 Zul. Reason but shows a weak physician's 
 
 skill; 
 Gives nothing, while the raging fit does 
 
 last, 
 But stays to cure it, when the worst is 
 
 past. 
 Reason 's a staff for age, when nature 's 
 
 gone; 
 But youth is strong enough to walk 
 
 alone. 
 Abdal. In eurs'd ambition I no rest should 
 
 find, 
 But must for ever lose my peace of mind. 
 Zul. Methinks that peace of mind were 
 
 bravely lost. 
 A crown, whate'er we give, is worth the 
 
 cost. 
 Abdal. Justice distributes to each man his 
 
 right; 
 But what she gives not, should I take by 
 
 might? 
 Zul. If justice will take all, and nothing 
 
 give. 
 Justice, methinks, is not distributive. 
 Abdai. Had fate so pleased, I had been 
 
 eldest bom, 
 And then, without a crime, the crown 
 
 had worn. 
 Zul. Would you so please, fate yet a way 
 
 would find; 
 Man makes his fate according to his 
 
 mind. 
 ■ The weak low spirit fortune makes hei' 
 
 slave ; 
 But she 's a drudge when hectored by the 
 
 brave : 
 If fate weaves common thread, he'll 
 
 change the doom. 
 And with new purple spread a nobler 
 
 loom. 
 Abdai. No more! — I wOl usurp the royal 
 
 seat; 
 Thou, who hast made me wicked, make 
 
 me great. 
 Zul. Your way is plain: the death of 
 
 Tarifa 
 Does on the king our Zegrys' hatred 
 
 draw; 
 Though with our enemies in show we 
 
 close, 
 'T is but while we to purpose can be foes. 
 Selin, who heads us, would revenge his 
 
 son; 
 But favor hinders justice to be ddne. 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 433 
 
 Proud Ozniyn with the king his power 
 maintains, 
 
 And in him each Abeneerrago reigns. 
 Abdal. What face of any title can I 
 
 bring 1 
 Zul. . The right an eldest son has to be 
 king. 
 
 Your father was at first a private man, 
 
 And got your brother ere his reign be- 
 gan: 
 
 When, by his valor, he the crown had 
 won, 
 
 Then you were bom, a monarch's eldest 
 son. 
 Abdal. To sharp-eyed reason this would 
 seem untrue; 
 
 But reason I through love's false optics 
 view. 
 Zul. Love's mighty power has led me cap- 
 tive too; 
 
 I am in it unfortunate as you. 
 Abdal. Our loves and fortunes shall to- 
 gether go ; 
 
 Thou shalt be happy, when I first am so. 
 Zul. The Zegrys at old Selin's house are 
 met. 
 
 Where, in close council, for revenge they 
 sit: 
 
 There we our common interest will unite ; 
 
 You their revenge shall own, and they 
 your right. 
 
 One thing I had forgot which may im- 
 port: 
 
 I met Almanzor coming back from court, 
 
 But with a discomposed and speedy pace, 
 
 A fiery color kindling all his face: 
 
 The king his prisoner's freedom has de- 
 nied. 
 
 And that refusal has provoked his pride. 
 Abdal. Would he were ours! — 
 
 I '11 try to gild the injustice of the cause, 
 
 And court his valor with a vast applause. 
 Zul. The bold are but the instruments o' 
 the wise ; 
 
 They undertake the dangers we advise : 
 
 And, while our fabric with their pains we 
 raise. 
 
 We take the profit, and pay them with 
 praise. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 (Almanzor and Abdalla.) 
 
 Almanz. That he should dare to do me 
 this disgrace ! — 
 Is fool or coward writ upon my face? 
 
 Refuse my prisoner! — I such means will 
 
 use, 
 He shall not have a prisoner to refuse. 
 Abdal. He said you were not by your 
 
 promise tied; 
 That he absolved your word, when he de- 
 nied. 
 Almanz. He break ray promise and ab- 
 solve my vow ! 
 'T is more than Mahomet himself can do ! 
 The word which I have given shall stand 
 
 like fate; 
 Not like the king's, that weathercock of 
 
 state. 
 He stands so high, with so imfixed a 
 
 mind. 
 Two factions turn him with each blast of 
 
 wind: 
 But now, he shall not veer ! My word is 
 
 passed ; 
 I '11 take his heart by the roots, and hold 
 
 it fast. 
 Abdal. You have your vengeance in your 
 
 hand this hour; 
 Make me the humble creature of your 
 
 power : 
 The Granadins will gladly me obey 
 Tired with so base and impotent a sway; 
 And, when I show my title, you shall see 
 I have a better right to reign than he. 
 Almanz. It is sufficient that you make the 
 
 claim ; 
 You wrong our friendship when your 
 
 right you name. 
 When for myself I fight, I weigh the 
 
 cause, 
 But friendship will admit of no such 
 
 laws : 
 That weighs by the lump ; and, when the 
 
 cause is light, 
 Puts kindness in to set the balance right. 
 True, I would wish my friend the juster 
 
 side; 
 But, in the unjust, my kindness more is 
 
 tried : 
 And all the opposition I can bring, 
 Is that I fear to make you such a king. 
 Abdal. The majesty of kings we should 
 
 not blame. 
 When royal minds adorn the royal name ; 
 The vulgar, greatness too much idolize, 
 But haughty subjects it too much despise, 
 Almanz. I only speak of him. 
 
 Whom pomp and greatness sit so loose 
 
 about. 
 That he wants majesty to fill 'em out. 
 Abdal. Haste, then, and lose no time! — 
 The business must be enterprised this 
 
 pight : 
 
434 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 We must surprise the court in its delight. 
 Almanz. For you to will, for me 'tis to 
 obey : 
 But I would give a crown in open day ; 
 And, when the Spaniards their assault 
 
 begin. 
 At once beat those without, and these 
 within. 
 
 {Exit Almanzor.) 
 {Enter Abdelmeleeh.) 
 
 Abdelm. Abdalla, hold! — There's some- 
 what I intend 
 To speak, not as your rival, but your 
 
 friend. 
 Abdal. If as a friend, I am obliged to 
 
 hear; 
 And what a rival says I cannot fear. 
 Abdelm. Think, brave Abdalla, what it is 
 
 you do: 
 Your quiet, honor, and our friendship 
 
 too, 
 All for a fickle beauty you forego. 
 Think, and turn back, before it be too 
 
 late. 
 Behold in me the example of your fate: 
 I am your sea-mark ; ^° and, though 
 
 wracked and lost, 
 My ruins stand to warn you from the 
 
 coast. 
 Abdal. Your counsels, noble Abdelmelech, 
 
 move 
 My reason to accept 'em, not my love. 
 Ah, why did heaven leave man so weak 
 
 defence. 
 To trust frail reason with the rule of 
 
 sense ! ^' 
 'Tis overpoised and kicked up in the 
 
 air. 
 While sense weighs down the scale, and 
 
 keeps it there; 
 Or, like a captive king, 'tis borne 
 
 away. 
 And forced to countenance its own 
 
 rebel's sway. 
 Abdelm. No, no; our reason was not 
 
 vainly lent; 
 Nor is a slave, but by its own consent : 
 If reason on his subject's triumph wait, 
 An easy king deserves no better fate. 
 Abdal. You speak too late ; my empire 's 
 
 lost too far: 
 I cannot flght. 
 Abdelm. Then make a flying war; 
 
 Dislodge betimes before you are beset. 
 Abdal. Her tears, her smiles, her every 
 
 look 's a net. 
 Her voice is like a Siren's of the land ; 
 
 18 beacon 
 
 And bloody hearts lie panting in her 
 
 hand. 
 Abdelm. This do you know, and tempt the 
 
 danger still? 
 Abdal. Love, like a lethargy, has seized 
 
 my will. 
 I'm not myself, since from her sight I 
 
 went; 
 I lean my trunk that way, and there 
 
 stand bent. 
 As one who, in some frightful dream, 
 
 would shun 
 His pressing foe, labors in vain to run; 
 And his own slowness in his sleep be- 
 moans, 
 With thick short sighs, weak cries, and 
 
 tender groans, 
 Sol— 
 Abdelm. Some friend, in charity, should 
 
 shake. 
 And rouse, and call you loudly till you 
 
 wake. 
 Too well I know her blandishments to 
 
 gain. 
 Usurper-like, till settled in her reign; 
 Then proudly she insults, and gives you 
 
 cares 
 And jealousies, short hopes and long de- 
 spairs. 
 To this hard yoke you must hereafter 
 
 bow, 
 Howe'er she shines all golden to you now. 
 Abdal. Like him, who on the ice 
 
 Slides swiftly on, and sees the water 
 
 near. 
 Yet cannot stop himself in his career, 
 So am I carried. This enchanted place, 
 Like Circe's isle, is peopled with a race 
 Of dogs and swine; yet, though their fate 
 
 I know, 
 I look with pleasure, and am turning too. 
 {Lyndaraxa passes over the stage.) 
 Abdelm, Fly, fly, before the allurements 
 
 of her face. 
 Ere she return with some resistless grace. 
 And with new magic covers all the place. 
 Abdal. I cannot, will not, — ^nay, I would 
 
 not fly: 
 I '11 love, be blind, be cozened till I die ; 
 And you, who bid me wiser counsel take, 
 I '11 hate, and, if I can, I '11 kill you for 
 
 her sake. 
 Abdelm. Even I, that counselled you, that 
 
 choice approve : 
 I '11 hate you blindly, and her blindly love. 
 Prudence, that stemmed the stream, is out 
 
 'of breath; 
 And to go down it is the easier death. 
 
 18 sensuous desire. 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OE, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 435 
 
 {Lyndaraxa re-enters, and smiles on 
 Abdalla.) 
 {Exit Abdalla.) 
 Abdelm. That smile on Prince Abdalla 
 seems to say, 
 You are not in your killing mood to-day : 
 Men brand, indeed, your sex with cruelty, 
 But you're too good to see poor lovers 
 
 die. 
 This godlike pity in you I extol ; 
 And more, because, like heaven's, 'tis 
 general. 
 Lyndar. My smile implies not that I grant 
 his suit : 
 'T was but a bare return of his salute. 
 Abdelm. It said, you were engaged, and I 
 .in place ; ^° 
 But, to please both, you would divide the 
 grace. 
 Lyndar. You 've cause to be contented 
 with your part, 
 When he has but the look, and you the 
 heart. 
 Abdelm. In giving but that look, you give 
 what 's mine : 
 I '11 not one corner of a glance resign. 
 All's mine; and I am covetous of my 
 
 store : 
 I have not love enough ; I '11 tax you 
 more. 
 Lyndar. I gave not love; 'twas but civil- 
 ity: 
 He is a prince ; that 's due to his degree. 
 Abdelm. That prince you smiled on is my 
 rival still. 
 And should, if me you loved, be treated 
 ill. 
 Lyndar. I know not how to show so rude 
 
 a spite. 
 Abdelm. That is, you know not how to 
 love aright; 
 Or, if you did, you would more difference 
 
 see 
 Betwixt our souls, than 'twixt our quality. 
 Mark, if his birth makes any difference. 
 If to his words it adds one grain of sense. 
 That duty which his birth can make his 
 
 due 
 I '11 pay, but it shall not be paid by you : 
 For, if a prince courts her whom I adore. 
 He is my rival, and a prince no more. 
 Lyndar. And when did I my power so far 
 resign. 
 That you should regulate each look of 
 mine? 
 Abdelm. Then, when you gave your love, 
 
 you gave that power. 
 Lyndar. 'Twas during pleasure, 'tis re- 
 voked this hour. 
 
 Now call me false, and rail on woman- 
 kind, — 
 
 'T is all the remedy you 're like to find. 
 Abdelm. Yes, there 's one more; 
 
 I '11 hate you, and this visit is my last. 
 Lyndar. Do 't if you can ; you know I hold 
 you fast: 
 
 Yet, for your quiet, would you could re- 
 sign 
 
 Your love, as easily as I do mine. 
 Abdelm. Furies and hell, how unconcerned 
 she speaks ! 
 
 With what indifference all her vows she 
 breaks ! 
 
 Curse on me, but she smiles! 
 Lyndar. That smile's a part of love, and 
 all 's your due : 
 
 I take it from the prince, and give it you. 
 Abdelm. Just heaven, must my poor heart 
 your May-game prove. 
 
 To bandy, and make children's play in 
 love? 
 
 {B.alf crying.) 
 
 Ah ! how have I this cruelty deserved 1 
 
 I, who so truly and so long have served ! 
 
 And left so easily ! oh, cruel maid ! 
 
 So easily ! 'T was too unkindly said. 
 
 That heart which could so easily remove 
 
 Was never fixed, nor rooted deep in 
 love. 
 Lyndar. You lodged it so uneasy in your 
 breast, 
 
 I thought you had been weary of the 
 guest. 
 
 First, I was treated like a stranger there ; 
 
 But, when a household friend I did ap- 
 pear. 
 
 You thought, it seems, I could not live 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Then, by degrees, your feigned respect 
 withdrew ; 
 
 You marked my actions, and my guardian 
 grew. 
 
 But I am not concerned your acts to 
 blame : 
 
 My heart to yours but upon liking came ; 
 
 And, like a bird whom prying boys 
 molest. 
 
 Stays not to breed where she had built her 
 nest. 
 Abdelm. I have done ill, 
 
 And dare not ask you to be less dis- 
 pleased ; 
 
 Be but more angry, and my pain is eased. 
 Lyndar. If I should be so kind a fool, to 
 take 
 
 This little satisfaction which you make, 
 
 I know you would presume some other 
 time 
 
 20 in the way (a meaning not noticed by the Oxf. Diet.) 
 
436 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Upon my goodness, and repeat your 
 crime. 
 Abdelm. Oh never, never, upon no pre- 
 tence ; 
 My life 's too short to expiate this offence. 
 Lyndar. No, now I think on 't, 't is in vain 
 to try; 
 'T is in your nature, and past remedy. 
 You '11 still disquiet my too loving heart : 
 Now we are friends, 'tis best for both 
 to part. 
 Abdelm. [taking her hand.) By this — ^will 
 
 you not give me leave to swear? 
 Lyndar. You would be perjured if you 
 should, I fear: 
 And, when I talk with Prince Abdalla 
 
 next, 
 I with your fond ^^ suspicions shall be 
 vexed. 
 Abdelm. I caimot say I'll conquer jeal- 
 ousy, 
 But, if you '11 freely pardon me, I '11 try. 
 Lyndar. And, till you that submissive 
 servant prove, 
 I never can conclude you truly love. 
 (To them the King, Almahide, Abenamar, 
 
 Esperanza, Guards, Attendants.) 
 Boab. Approach, my Almahide, my charm- 
 ing fair, 
 Blessing of peace, and recompense of 
 
 war. 
 This night is yours; and may your life 
 
 stiU be 
 The same in joy, though not solemnity. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Beneath a myrtle shade. 
 Which love for none but happy lovers 
 
 made, 
 I slept; and straight my love before me 
 
 brought 
 Phyllis, the object of my waking thought. 
 Undressed she came my flames to meet. 
 While love strowed flowers beneath her 
 
 feet; 
 Flowers which, so pressed by her, became 
 
 more sweet. 
 
 II 
 
 From the bright vision's head 
 A careless veil of lawn was loosely spread : 
 From her white temples fell her shaded 
 
 hair. 
 Like cloudy sunshine, not too brown nor 
 
 fair; 
 Her hands, her lips, did love inspire ; 
 
 Her every grace my heart did. Are; 
 But most her eyes, which languished with 
 desire. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Ah, charming fair," said I, 
 "How long can you my bliss and yours 
 
 deny? 
 By nature and by love this lonely shade 
 Was for revenge of suffering lovers made. 
 Silence and shades with love agree; 
 Both shelter you and favor me : 
 You cannot blush, because I cannot see." 
 
 IV 
 
 "No, let me die," she said, 
 "Rather than lose the spotless name of 
 
 maid !" 
 Faintly, methought, she spoke; for all the 
 
 while 
 She bid me not believe her, with a smile. 
 "Then die," said I : she still denied ; 
 "And is it thus, thus, thus," she cried, 
 "You use a harmless maid?" — and so she 
 
 died! 
 
 I waked, and straight I knew, 
 I loved so well, it made my dream prove 
 
 true: 
 Fancy, the kinder mistress of the two. 
 Fancy had done what Phyllis would not do ! 
 Ah, cruel nymph, cease your disdain ; 
 While I can dream, you scorn in vain, — 
 Asleep or waking, you must ease my pain. 
 
 (The Zambra Dance.) 
 
 (After the dance, a tumultuous noise of 
 
 drums and trumpets.) 
 
 (To them Ozmyn; his sword drawn.) 
 
 Oznh Arm, quickly, arm; yet all, I fear, 
 
 too late; 
 
 The enemy 's already at the gate. 
 
 Boab. The Christians are dislodged; what 
 
 foe is near? 
 Ozm. The Zegrys are in arms, and almost 
 here: 
 The streets with torches shine, with shout- 
 ings ring, 
 And Prince Abdalla is proclaimed the 
 
 king. 
 What man could do, I have already done. 
 But bold Almanzor fiercely leads 'em on. 
 Aben. The Alhambra yet is safe in my 
 command ; 
 
 (To the King.) 
 Retreat you thither, while their shock we 
 stand. 
 
 21 foolish. 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 437 
 
 Boab. I cannot ibeanly for my life pro- 
 vide; 
 I '11 either perish in 't, or stem this tide. 
 To guard the palace, Ozmyn, be your 
 
 care : 
 If they o'ercome, no sword will hurt the 
 
 fair. 
 Ozm. I '11 either die, or I '11 make good the 
 
 place. 
 Abdelm. And I with these will bold Al- 
 
 manzor face. 
 {Exeunt all but the Ladies. An alarm 
 within.) 
 Almah. What dismal planet did my tri- 
 umphs light ! 
 Discord the day, and death does rule the 
 
 night : 
 The noise my soul does through my senses 
 
 woimd. 
 Lyndar. Methinks it is a noble, sprightly 
 
 sound, 
 The trumpet's clangor, and the clash of 
 
 arms! 
 This noise may chill your blood, but mine 
 
 it warms. 
 (Shouting and clashing of swords within.) 
 We have already passed the Rubicon ; 
 The dice are mine; now, fortune, for a 
 
 throne ! 
 (A shout within, and clashing of swords 
 afar of.) 
 The sound goes farther off, and faintly 
 
 dies; 
 Curse of this going back, these ebbing 
 
 cries! 
 Ye winds, waft hither sounds more strong 
 
 and quick; 
 Beat faster^ drums, and mingle deaths 
 
 more thick. 
 I '11 to the turrets of the palace go. 
 And add new fire to those that fight be- 
 low: 
 Thence, Hero-like,^^ with torches by my 
 
 side 
 (Far be the omen, though) my love I'll 
 
 g:uide. 
 No; like his better fortune I'll appear. 
 With open arms, loose veil, and flowing 
 
 hair, 
 Just flying forward from my rolling 
 
 sphere : 
 My smiles shall make Abdalla more than 
 
 man; 
 Let him look up, and perish if he can. 
 (Exit.) 
 (An alarm nearer: then enter Almamor 
 and Selin at the head of the Zegrys; 
 Ozmyn, prisoner.) 
 
 22 Hero eet a light to guide ber lover 
 
 Almanz. We have not fought enough ; they 
 fly too soon ; 
 And I am grieved the noble sport is done. 
 This only man, of all whom chance did 
 bring 
 
 (Pointing to Ozmyn.) 
 To meet my arms, was worth the conquer- 
 ing. 
 His brave resistance did my fortune 
 
 grace; 
 So slow, so threatening forward, he gave 
 
 place. 
 His chains be easy, and his usage fair. 
 Selin. I beg you would commit him to my 
 
 care. 
 Almanz. Next, the brave Spaniard free 
 without delay; 
 And with a convoy s^nd him safe away. 
 (Exit a Guard.) 
 (To them Hamet and others.) 
 Hamet. The king by me salutes you ; and, 
 to show 
 That to your valor he his crown does 
 
 owe, 
 Would from your mouth I should the 
 
 word receive. 
 And that to these you would your orders 
 give. 
 Almanz. He much o'errates the little I 
 
 have done. 
 (Almanzor goes to the door, and there seems 
 to give out orders by sending people 
 several ways.) 
 Selin (to Ozmyn). Now, to revenge the 
 murder of my son, 
 To-morrow for thy certain death pre- 
 pare ; 
 This night I only leave thee to despair. 
 Ozmyn. Thy idle menaces I do not fear: 
 My business was to die or conquer here. 
 Sister, for you I grieve I could no more : 
 My present state betrays my want of 
 
 power ; 
 But, when true courage is of force bereft, 
 Patience, the noblest fortitude, is left. 
 (Exit cum Selin.) 
 Almah. Ah, Esperanza, what for me re- 
 mains 
 But death, or, worse than death, inglori- 
 ous chains! 
 Esper. Madam, you must not to despair 
 give place; 
 Heaven never meant misfortune to that 
 
 face. 
 Suppose there were no justice in your 
 
 cause. 
 Beauty's a bribe that gives her judges 
 laws. 
 
 Leaiid«r in Bwimming tbe Hellespont. 
 
438 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 That you are brought to this deplored 
 
 estate, 
 Is but the ingenious flattery of your fate ; 
 Fate fears her succor like an alms to 
 
 give; 
 And would you, God-like, from yourself 
 should live. 
 Almah. Mark but how terrible his eyes 
 appear ! 
 And yet there 's something roughly noble 
 
 there, 
 Which, in unfashioned nature, looks di- 
 vine. 
 And, like a gem, does in the quarry shine. 
 (Almamor returns; she falls at his feet, 
 
 being veiled.) 
 Almah. Turn, mighty conqueror, turn 
 your face this way, 
 Do not refuse to hear the wretched pray ! 
 Almanz. What business can this woman 
 
 have with me? 
 Almah. That of the afflicted to the Deity. 
 So may your arms success in battles find ; 
 So may the mistress of your vows be 
 
 kind, 
 If you have any; or, if you have none, 
 So may your liberty be still your own ! 
 Almam. Yes, I will turn my face, but not 
 my mind : 
 You bane and soft destruction of man- 
 kind, 
 What would you have with me? 
 Almah, I beg the grace 
 
 (Unveiling.) 
 You would lay by those terrors of your 
 
 face. 
 Till calmness to your eyes you first re- 
 store, 
 I am afraid, and I can beg no more. 
 Almanz. (looking fixedly on her). Well; 
 my fierce visage shall not murder 
 you. 
 Speak quickly, woman; I have much to 
 do. 
 Almah. Where should I find the heart to 
 speak one word? 
 Your voice, sir, is as killing as your 
 
 sword. 
 As you have left the lightning of your 
 
 eye, 
 So would you please to lay your thunder 
 
 by. 
 
 Almang. I'm pleased and pained, since 
 first her eyes I saw, 
 As I were stung with some tarantula. 
 Arms, and the dusty field, I less admire, 
 And soften strangely in some new desire ; 
 Honor bums in me not so fiercely bright, 
 
 But pale as fires when mastered by the 
 Ught: 
 
 Even while I speak and look, I change 
 yet more. 
 
 And now am nothing that I was before. 
 
 I 'm numbed, and fixed, and scarce my 
 eyeballs move ; 
 
 I fear it is the lethargy of love ! 
 
 'T is he; I feel him now in every part: 
 
 Like a new lord he vaunts about my 
 heart ; 
 
 Surveys, in state, each comer of my 
 breast, 
 
 While poor fierce I, that was, am dispos- 
 sessed. 
 
 I'm bound; but I wiU rouse my rage 
 again ; 
 
 And, though no hope of liberty remain, 
 
 I'll fright my keeper when I shake my 
 chain. 
 
 You are 
 
 (Angrily.) 
 Almah. I know I am your captive, sir. 
 Almanz. You are — You shall — And I can 
 
 scarce forbear 
 
 Almah. Alas ! 
 
 Almanz. 'T is all in vain; it will not do: 
 (Aside.) 
 
 I cannot now a seeming anger show : 
 
 My tongue against my heart no aid af- 
 fords ; 
 
 For love still rises up, and chokes my 
 words. 
 Almah. In half this time a tempest would 
 
 be still. 
 Almanz. 'Tis you have raised that tem- 
 pest in my will. 
 
 I wonnot^' love you; give me back my 
 heart ; 
 
 But give it, as you had it, fierce and 
 brave. 
 
 It was not made to be a woman's slave: 
 
 But, lion-like, has been in deserts bred. 
 
 And, used to range, will ne'er be tamely 
 led. 
 
 Restore its freedom to my fettered will. 
 
 And then I shall have power to use you 
 
 Almah. My sad condition may your pity 
 move; 
 But look not on me with the eyes of 
 
 love. — 
 I must be brief, though I have much to 
 say. 
 Almam. No, speak; for I can hear you 
 now all day. 
 
 (Softly.) 
 Her sumg soothes me with a secret pride : 
 
 23 Wol (will) not, won't, a line seema to be lost just before this, 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 439 
 
 A suppliant beauty cannot be denied : 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Even while I frown, her charms and fur- 
 rows seize ; 
 And I'm corrupted with the power to 
 please. 
 Almah. Though in your worth no cause of 
 •fear I see, 
 I fear the insolence of victory ; 
 As you are noble, sir, protect me then 
 From the rude outrage of insulting men. 
 Almanz. Who dares touch her I love? 
 I 'm all o'er love : 
 Nay, I am Love; Love shot, and shot so 
 
 fast, 
 He shot himself into my breast at last. 
 Almtth, You see before you her who should 
 be queen, 
 Since she is promised to Boabdelin. 
 AlmaHn. Are you beloved by him? 
 wretched fate, 
 First, that I love at all; then, love too 
 
 late! 
 Yet, I must love ! 
 Almah. Alas, it is in vain; 
 
 Fate for each other did not us ordain. 
 The chances of this day too clearly show 
 That heaven took care that it should not 
 be so. 
 Almanz. Would heaven had quite forgot 
 me this one day! 
 
 But fate's yet hot 
 
 I '11 make it take a bent another way. 
 {He walks swiftly and discomposedly, 
 
 studying.) 
 I bring a claim which does his right re- 
 move; 
 You 're his by promise, but you 're mine 
 
 by love. 
 'T is all but ceremony which is past ; 
 The knot's to tie which is to make you 
 
 fast. 
 Fate gave not to Boabdelin that power ; 
 He wooed you but as my ambassador. 
 Almah. Our souls are tied by holy vows 
 
 above. 
 •Almanz. He signed but his; but I will 
 seal my love. 
 I love you better, with more zeal than he. 
 Almah. This day 
 
 I gave my faith 'to him, he his to me. 
 Almanz. Good heaven, thy book of fate 
 before me lay, 
 But to tear out the journal of this day 4 
 Or, if the order of the world below 
 Will not the gap of one whole day allow, 
 Give me that minute when she made her 
 vow! 
 
 "That minute, ev'n the happy from their 
 bliss might give; 
 
 "And those, who live in grief, a shorter 
 time would live.^* 
 
 So small a link, if broke, the eternal chain 
 
 Would, like divided waters, join again. — 
 
 It wonnot be ; the fugitive is gone. 
 
 Pressed by the crowd of following min- 
 utes on : 
 
 That precious moment's out of nature 
 fled. 
 
 And in the heap of common rubbish laid. 
 
 Of things that once have been, and are 
 decayed. 
 Almah. Your passion, like a fright, sus- 
 pends my pain ; 
 
 It meets, o'erpowers, and bears mine back 
 again : 
 
 But as, when tides against the current 
 flow,- 
 
 The native stream runs its own course be- 
 low, 
 
 So, though your griefs possess the upper 
 part, 
 
 My own have deeper channels in my 
 heart. 
 Almanz. Forgive that fury which my soul 
 does move; 
 
 'T is the essay- of an untaught first love : 
 
 Yet rude, unfashioned truth it does ex- 
 press ; 
 
 'T is love just peeping in a hasty dress. 
 
 Retire, fair creature, to your needful 
 rest; 
 
 There 's something noble laboring in my 
 breast : 
 
 This raging Are which through the mass 
 does move 
 
 Shall purge my dross, and shall refine my 
 love. 
 (Exeunt Almdhide and Esperanza.) 
 
 She goes, and I like my own ghost ap- 
 pear; 
 
 It is not living when she is not here. 
 (To him Abdalla as King, attended.) 
 Abdal. My first acknowledgments to 
 heaven are due; 
 
 My next, Almanzor, let me pay to you. 
 Almanz. A poor surprise, and on a naked 
 foe, 
 
 Whatever you confess, is all you owe ; 
 
 And I no merit own, or understand 
 
 That fortune did you justice by my hand : 
 
 Yet, if you will that little service pay 
 
 With a great favor, I can show the way. 
 Abdal. I have a favor to demand of you; 
 
 That is,' to take the thing for which you 
 sue. 
 
 2i The quotation marks seem to be for emphasis, or ability for quotation, not to indicate a borrower, 
 
 (Koyes). 
 
440 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Almam. Then, briefly, thus: when I the 
 Albayzin won, 
 I found the beauteous Almahide alone, 
 Whose sad condition did my pity move; 
 And that compassion did produce my 
 love. 
 Ahdal. This needs no suit; in justice, I 
 declare, 
 She is your captive by the right of war. 
 Almaiiz. She is no captive then ; I set her 
 free ; 
 And, rather than I will her jailer be, 
 I 'II nobly lose her in her liberty. 
 Abdal. Your generosity I much approve; 
 But your excess of that shows want of 
 love. 
 Almanz. No, 't is the excess of love which 
 mounts so high 
 That, seen far ofE, it lessens to the eye. 
 Had I not loved her, and had set her free, 
 That, sir, had been my generosity; 
 But 't is exalted passion, when I show 
 I dare be wretched, not to make her so : 
 And, while another passion fills her 
 
 breast, 
 I '11 be all wretched rather than half blest. 
 Abdal. May your heroic act so prosperous 
 be. 
 That Almahide may sigh you set her free. 
 
 {Enter Zulema.) 
 
 Zul. Of five tall towers which fortify this 
 
 town. 
 All but the Alhambra your dominion 
 
 own: 
 Now, therefore, boldly I confess a flame, 
 Which is excused in Almahida's name. 
 If you the merit of this night regard. 
 In her possession I have my reward. 
 Almanz. She your reward ! why, she 's a 
 
 gift so great. 
 That I myself have not deserved her yet ; 
 And therefore, though I won her with my 
 
 sword, 
 I have, with awe, my sacrilege restored. 
 Zul. What you deserve 
 
 I 'II not dispute because I do not know ; 
 This only I will say, she shall not go. 
 AVmam. Thou, single, art not worth my 
 
 answering : 
 But take what friends, what armies thou 
 
 canst bring; 
 What worlds; and, when you are united 
 
 all, 
 Then I will thunder in your ears : "She 
 
 Shall!" 
 Zul. I'll not one tittle of my right re- 
 sign. 
 
 Sir, your implicit promise made her 
 
 mine; 
 When I in general terms my love did 
 
 show, 
 You swore our fortunes should together 
 
 go. 
 Abdal. The merits of the cause I '11 not 
 
 decide, 
 But, like my love, I would my gift di- 
 vide. 
 Your equal titles, then, no longer plead; 
 But one of you, for love of me, recede. 
 Almanz. I have receded to the utmost 
 
 line. 
 When, by my free consent, she is not 
 
 mine: 
 Then let him equally recede with me. 
 And both of us will join to set her free. 
 Zul. If you will free your part of her, 
 
 you may; 
 But, sir, I love not your romantic way. 
 Dream on, enjoy her soul, and set that 
 
 free; 
 I 'm pleased her person should be left for 
 
 me. 
 Almanz. Thou shalt not wish her thine; 
 
 thou shalt not dare 
 To be so impudent as to despair. 
 Zul. The ^egrys, sir, are aU concerned to 
 
 see 
 How much their merit you neglect in me. 
 Eamet. Your slighting Zulema this very 
 
 hour 
 Will take ten thousand subjects from 
 
 your power. 
 Almanz. What are ten thousand subjects 
 
 such as they? 
 If I am scorned — ^I 'II take myself away. 
 Abdal. Since both cannot possess what 
 
 both pursue, 
 I grieve, my friend, the chance should fall 
 
 on you ; 
 But when you hear what reasons I can 
 
 urge 
 
 Almanz. None, none that your ingratitude 
 
 can purge. 
 Reason 's a trick, when it no grant af- 
 fords ; 
 It stamps the face of majesty on words. 
 Abdal. Your boldness to your services I 
 
 give: 
 Now take it, as your f uU reward — to live. 
 Almanz. To live ! 
 If from thy hands alone my death can be, 
 I am immortal, and a god, to thee. 
 If I would kill thee now, thy fate 's so 
 
 low, 
 That I must stoop ere I can give the 
 
 blow; 
 
ALMANZOE AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 441 
 
 But mine is fixed so far above thy crown, 
 
 That all thy men, 
 
 Piled on thy back, can never pull it down. 
 
 But at my ease thy destiny I send, 
 
 By ceasing from this hour to be thy 
 
 friend, 
 lake heaven, I need but only to stand 
 
 still. 
 And, not concurring to thy Ufe, I kill. 
 Thou canst no title to_my duty bring; 
 I'm not thy subject, and my soul's thy 
 
 king. 
 Farewell. When I am gone, 
 There 's not a star of thine dare stay with 
 
 thee: 
 I'll whistle thy tame fortune after me; 
 And whirl fate with me wheresoe'er I fly, 
 As winds drive storms before 'em in the 
 
 sky. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Zul. Let not this insolent unpunished go ; 
 Give your commands; your justice is too 
 
 slow. 
 (Zulema, Hatnet, and others are going 
 
 after him.) 
 Abdal. Stay, and what part he pleases let 
 
 him take : 
 I know my throne 's too strong for him 
 
 to shake. 
 But my fair mistress I too long forget ; 
 The crown I promised is not offered yet. 
 Without her presence all my joys are 
 
 vain, 
 Empire a curse, and life itself a pain. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene 1. 
 (Boabdelin, Abenamar, Guards.) 
 
 Boab. Advise, or aid, but do not pity me : 
 
 No monarch born can fall to that degree. 
 
 Pity descends from kings to all below ; 
 
 But can, no more than fountains, upward 
 flow. 
 
 Witness, just heaven, my greatest grief 
 has been, 
 
 I could not make your Almahide a queen. 
 Aben. I have too long the effects of for- 
 tune known. 
 
 Either to trust her smiles, or fear her 
 frown. 
 
 Since in their first attempt you were not 
 slain. 
 
 Tour safety bodes you yet a second reign. 
 
 The people like a headlong torrent go, 
 
 And every dam they break, or overflow; 
 
 But^ unopposed, they either lose their 
 
 ' force. 
 Or wind in volumes to their former 
 
 course. 
 Boab. In walls we meanly must our hopes 
 
 enclose. 
 To wait our friends, and weary out our 
 
 foes: 
 While Almahide 
 
 To lawless rebels is exposed a prey, 
 And forced the lustful victor to obey. 
 Aben. One of my blood, in rules of virtue 
 
 bred! 
 Think better of her, and believe she's 
 
 dead. 
 
 (To them Almanzor.) 
 Boab, We are betrayed, the enemy is here; 
 We have no farther room to hope or fear. 
 Almanz. It is indeed Almanzor whom you 
 
 see. 
 But he no longer is your enemy. 
 You were ungrateful, but your foes were 
 
 more; 
 What your injustice lost you, theirs re- 
 store. I 
 Make profit of my vengeance while you 
 
 may; 
 My two-edged sword can cut the other 
 
 way.— 
 I am your fortune, but am swift like her, 
 And turn my hairy front if you defer : 
 That hour when you deliberate, is too 
 
 late; 
 I point you the white moment of your 
 
 fate. 
 Aben. Believe him sent as prince Abdalla's 
 
 spy; 
 
 He would betray us to the enemy. 
 Almam. Were I, like thee, in cheats of 
 
 state grown old 
 (Those public markets, where for foreign 
 
 gold 
 The poorer prince is to the richer sold), 
 Then thou mightst think me fit for that 
 
 low part; 
 But I am yet to learn the statesman's art. 
 My kindness and my hate unmasked I 
 
 ' wear; 
 For friends to trust, and enemies to fear. 
 My heart 's so plain 
 That men on every passing thought may 
 
 look. 
 Like fishes gliding in a crystal brook; 
 When troubled most, it does the bottom 
 
 show; 
 'T is weedless all above, and reckless all 
 
 below. 
 Aben. Ere he be trusted, let him first be 
 
 tried; 
 
442 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 He may be false, who once has changed 
 his side. 
 Almanz. In that you more accuse your- 
 selves than me ; 
 
 None who are injured can unconstant be. 
 
 You were unconstant, you, who did the 
 wrong ; 
 
 To do me justice does to me belong. 
 
 Great souls by kindness only can be tied ; 
 
 Injured again, again I '11 leave your side. 
 
 Honor is what myself, and friends, I owe ; 
 
 And none can lose it who forsake a foe. 
 
 Since, then, your foes now happen to be 
 mine, 
 
 Though not in friendship, we '11 in inter- 
 est join : 
 
 So while my loved revenge is full and 
 high, 
 
 I'll give you back your kingdom by the 
 
 by. 
 
 Boab. (Embracing him.) That I so long 
 delayed what you desire. 
 
 Was not to doubt your worth, but to 
 admire. 
 Almanz. This counsellor an old man's cau- 
 tion shows, 
 
 Who fears that little he has left to lose : 
 
 Age sets to ^* fortune ; while youth boldly 
 throws. 
 
 But let us first your drooping soldiers 
 cheer ; 
 
 Then seek out danger, ere it dare appear : 
 
 This hour I fix your crown upon your 
 brow; 
 
 Next hour fate gives it, but I give it now. 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 SCENK 2. 
 
 (Lyndaraxa alone.) 
 
 Lyndar. 0, could I read the dark decrees 
 
 of fate. 
 That I might once know whom to love, or 
 
 hate! 
 For I myself scarce my own thoughts can 
 
 guess, _ ' 
 
 So much I find 'em varied by success. 
 As in some weather-glass, my love I hold ; 
 Which falls or rises with the heat or cold. 
 I will be constant yet, if Fortune can ; 
 I love the king, — ^let her but name the 
 
 man. 
 
 {To her Halyma.) 
 Hal. Madam, a gentleman, to me unknown. 
 Desires that he may speak with you 
 
 alone. 
 
 Lyndar. Some message from the king. 
 
 Let him appear. 
 {To her Abdelmelechj who entering throws 
 
 off his disguise. She starts.) 
 Abdelm. I see you are amazed that I am 
 here: 
 But let at once your fear and wonder 
 
 end. 
 In the usurper's guard I found a friend, 
 Who led me to you safe in this disguise. 
 Lyndar. Your danger brings this trouble 
 in my eyes. 
 But what affair this venturous visit 
 drew? 
 Abdelm. The greatest in the world, — ^the 
 
 seeing you. 
 Lyndar. The courage of your love I so 
 admire 
 That, to preserve you, you shall straight 
 retire. 
 {She leads him to the door.) 
 Go, dear! each minute does new dangers 
 
 bring; 
 You will be taken ; I expect the king. 
 Abdelm. The king! — the poor usurper of 
 an hour : 
 His empire's but a dream of kingly 
 
 power. — 
 I warn you, as a lover and a friend, 
 To leave him ere his short dominion end: 
 The soldier I suborned will wait at night, 
 And shall alone be conscious of your 
 flight. 
 Lyndar. I thank you that you so much 
 care bestow; 
 But, if his reign be short, I need not go. 
 For why should I expose my life and 
 
 yours' 
 For what, you say, a little time assures? 
 Abdelm. My danger in the attempt is very 
 small ; 
 And, if he loves you, yours is none at all. 
 But, though his ruin be as sure as fate, 
 Your proof of love to me would come too 
 
 late. 
 This trial I in kindness would allow; 
 'T is easy ; if you love me, show it now. 
 Lyndar. It is because I love you, I refuse ; 
 For all the world my conduct would ac- 
 cuse, 
 If I should go with him I love away : 
 And, therefore, in strict virtue I will stay. 
 Abdelm. You would in vain dissemble love 
 • to me; 
 Through that thin veil your artifice I see. 
 You would expect the event, and then de- 
 clare ; 
 But do not, do not drive me to despair: 
 
 24 "Gambles (mBthodically) against" (!) (Noyes.) 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OK, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 443 
 
 For, if you now" refuse with me to fly, 
 Rather than love you after this, I '11 die ; 
 And therefore weigh it well before you 
 
 speak ; 
 My king is safe, his force within not 
 weak. 
 Lyndar. The counsel you have given me 
 may be wise ; 
 But, since the affair is great, I will advise. 
 Abdelm. Then that delay I for denial take. 
 
 (Is going.) 
 Lyndar. Stay ; you too swift an exposition 
 make. 
 If I should go, since Zulema will stay, 
 I should my brother to the king betray. 
 Abdelm. There is no fear; but, if there 
 were, I see 
 You value still your brother more than 
 
 me. 
 Farewell! some ease I in your falsehood 
 
 find; 
 It lets a beam in that will clear my mind : 
 My former weakness I with shame con- 
 fess. 
 And, when I see you next, shall love you 
 less. 
 
 {Is going again.) 
 Lyndar. Your faithless dealing you may 
 blush to teU; 
 
 {Weeping.) 
 This is a maid's reward, who loves too 
 weU. — 
 
 {Be looks back.) 
 Remember that I drew my latest breath 
 In charging your unkindness with my 
 death. 
 Abdelm. {coming back). Have I not an- 
 swered all you can invent. 
 Even the least shadow of an argument? 
 Lyndar. You want not cunning what you 
 please to prove. 
 But my poor heart knows only how to 
 
 love; 
 And, finding this, you tyrannize the more : 
 'T is plain, some other mistress you 
 
 adore ; 
 And now, with studied tricks of subtilty. 
 You come prepared to lay the fault on 
 me. 
 
 {Wringing her hands.) 
 But, 0, that I should love so false a man ! 
 Abdelm. Hear me, and then disprove it, 
 
 if you can. 
 Lyndar. I 'II hear no more ; your breach of 
 faith is plain : 
 You would with wit your want of love 
 
 maintain. 
 But, by my own experience, I can tell, 
 They who love truly cannot argue well. — 
 
 Go, faithless man ! 
 
 Leave me alone to mourn my misery; 
 I cannot cease to love you, but I '11 die. 
 {Leans her head on his arm.) 
 Abdelm. What man but I so long un- 
 moved could hear 
 
 ( Weeping. ) 
 Such tender passion, and refuse a tear! 
 But do not talk of dying any more. 
 Unless you mean that I should die before. 
 Lyndar. 1 fear your feigned repentance 
 comes too late ; 
 I die, to see you still thus obstinate : 
 But yet, in death my truth of love to 
 
 show. 
 Lead me ; if I have strength enough, I '11 
 go. 
 Abdelm. By heaven, you shall not go! I 
 will not be 
 O'ercome in love or generosity. 
 All I desire, to end the unlucky strife. 
 Is but a vow that you will be my wife. 
 Lyndar. To tie me to you by a vow is 
 hard; 
 It shows my love you as no tie regard. 
 Name anything but that, and I '11 agree. 
 Abdelm. Swear, then, you never will my 
 
 rival's be. 
 Lyndar. Nay, pr'ythee, this is harder than 
 before. 
 Name anything, good dear, but that thing 
 more. 
 Abdelm. Now I too late perceive I am 
 undone ; 
 Living and seeing, to my death I run. 
 I know you false, yet in your snares I 
 
 fall; 
 You grant me nothing, and I grant ypu 
 all. 
 Lyndar. I would grant all; but I must 
 curb my will. 
 Because I love to keep you jealous still. 
 In your suspicion I your passion find ; 
 But I will take a time to cure your 
 mind. 
 Halyma. 0, madam, the new king is draw- 
 ing near! 
 Lyndar. Haste quickly hence, lest he 
 
 should find you here ! 
 Abdelm. How much more wretched than I 
 came, I go ! 
 I more my weakness and your falsehood 
 
 know; 
 And now must leave you with my great- 
 est foe ! 
 
 {Exit Abdelm.) 
 Lyndar. Go! — How I love thee, heaven 
 can only tell: 
 And yet I love thee, for a subject, well. — 
 
444 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Yet, whatsoever charms a crown can 
 
 bring, 
 A subject 's greater than a little king. 
 I will attend till time this throne secure; 
 And, when I climb, my footing shall be 
 
 sure. — 
 
 (Music without.) 
 Music! and, I believe, addressed to me. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Wherever I am, and whatever I do, 
 My Phyllis is still in my mind; 
 
 When angry, I ihean not to Phyllis to go. 
 My feet, of themselves, the way find; 
 
 Unknown to myself I am just at her door, 
 
 And, when I would rail, I can bring out no 
 more. 
 Than, "Phyllis too fair and unkind !" 
 
 II 
 
 When Phyllis I see, my heart bounds in my 
 breast, 
 And the love I would stifle is shown ; 
 But asleep, or awake, I am never at rest, 
 
 When from my eyes Phyllis is gone. 
 Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad 
 
 mind; 
 But, alas! when I wake, and no Phyllis I 
 find. 
 How I sigh to myself all alone ! 
 
 m 
 
 Should a king be my rival in her I adore, 
 He should offer his treasure in vain. 
 
 0, let me alone to be happy and poor. 
 And give me my Phyllis again ! 
 
 Let Phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind, 
 
 I could to a desert with her be confined, 
 And envy no monarch his reign. 
 
 IV 
 
 Alas ! I discover too much of my love, 
 
 And she too well knows her own power! 
 She makes me each day a new martyrdom 
 prove, 
 And makes me grow jealous each hour: 
 But let her each minute torment my poor 
 
 mind, 
 I had rather love Phyllis, both false and un- 
 kind, 
 Than ever be freed from her power. 
 
 (Abdalla enters, with Guards.) 
 
 Abdal. Now, madam, at your feet a king 
 you see; 
 
 Or, rather, if you please, a sceptred 
 
 slave : 
 'T is just you should possess the power 
 
 you gave. 
 Had love not made me yours, I yet had 
 
 been 
 But the first subject to Boabdelin. 
 Thus heaven declares the crown I bring 
 
 your due; 
 And had forgot my title, but for you. 
 Lyndar. Heaven to your merits will, I 
 
 hope, be kind; 
 But, sir, it has not yet declared its mind. 
 'T is true, it holds the crown above your 
 
 head; 
 But does not fix it till your brother's 
 
 dead. 
 Abdal. All but the Alhambra is within 
 
 my power; 
 And that my forces go to take this hour. 
 Lyndar. When, with its keys, your broth- 
 er's head you bring, 
 I shall believe you are indeed a king. 
 Abdal. But since the events of all things 
 
 doubtful are, 
 And, of events, most doubtful those of 
 
 war; 
 I beg to know before, if fortune frown. 
 Must I then lost, your favor with my 
 
 crown ? 
 Lyndar. You'll soon return a conqueror 
 
 again ; 
 And, therefore, sir, your question is in 
 
 vain. 
 Abdal. I think to certain victory I move; 
 But you may more assure it by your 
 
 love, 
 That grant will make my arms invincible. 
 Lyndar. My prayers and wishes your suc- 
 cess foretell. — 
 Go then, and fight, and think you fight for 
 
 me; 
 I wait but to reward your victory. 
 Abdal. But if I lose it, must I lose you 
 
 too? 
 Lyndar. You are too curious, if you more 
 
 would know. 
 I know not what my future thoughts will 
 
 be: 
 Poor women's thoughts are all extempore. 
 Wise men, indeed. 
 
 Beforehand a long chain of thoughts pro- 
 duce; 
 But ours are only for our present use. 
 Abdal. Those thoughts, you will not know, 
 
 too well declare 
 You mean to wait the final doom of war. 
 Lyndar. I find you come to quarrel with 
 
 me now; 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OP GRANADA 445 
 
 Would you know more of me than !• 
 
 allow? 
 Whence are you grown that great divinity 
 That with such ease into my thoughts can 
 
 pry? 
 Indulgence does not with some tempers 
 
 suit; 
 I see I must become more absolute. 
 Abdal. I must submit, 
 
 On what hard terms soe'er my peace be 
 bought. 
 Lyndar. Submit ! — you speak as you were 
 not in fault. 
 'T is evident the injury is mine ; 
 For why should you my secret thoughts 
 divine? 
 Abdal. Yet if we might be judged by rea- 
 son's laws ! — 
 Lyndar. Then you would have your reason 
 judge my cause ! — 
 Either confess your fault, or hold your 
 
 tongue ; 
 For I am sure I 'm never in the wrong. 
 Abdal. Then I acknowledge it. 
 Lyndar. Then I forgive. 
 
 Abdal. Under how hard a law poor lovers 
 live! 
 Who, like the vanquished, must their 
 
 right release. 
 And with the loss of reason buy their 
 peace. — 
 
 {Aside.) 
 Madam, to show that you my power com- 
 mand, 
 I put my life and safety in your hand. 
 Dispose of the Albayzin as you please. 
 To your fair hands I here resign the keys. 
 Lyndar. I take your gift, because your 
 love it shows, 
 And faithful Selin for Alcalde ^° choose. 
 Abdal. Selin, from her alone your orders 
 take. 
 This one request, yet, madam, let me 
 
 make. 
 That from those turrets you the assault 
 
 will see ; 
 And crown, onee more, my arms with vic- 
 tory. 
 
 (Leads her out.) 
 (Selin remains with Gazul and Heduan, Ms 
 
 servants.) 
 Selin. Gazul, go tell my daughter that I 
 wait. 
 You, Reduan, bring the prisoner to his 
 fate. 
 
 (Exeunt Gan. and Red.) 
 Efe of my charge I will possession take, 
 A bloody sacrifice I mean to make : 
 
 26 magistrate (three syllables). 
 
 The manes ^^ of my son shall smile this 
 
 day. 
 While I, in blood, my vows of vengeance 
 
 pay- 
 
 (Enter at one door Bennayda, with Gazul; 
 at the other, Ozmyn bound, with Beduan.) 
 
 Selin. I sent, Benzayda, to glad your eyes : 
 These rites we owe your brother's obse- 
 quies. — 
 You two (to Gaz. and Bed.) the accurst 
 
 Abencerrago bind : 
 You need no more to instruct you in my 
 mind. 
 (They bind him to one corner of the stage.) 
 Benz. In what sad object am I called to 
 share? 
 Tell me, what is it, sir, you here prepare ? 
 Selin, 'T is what your djdng brother did 
 bequeath : 
 A scene of vengeance, and a pomp of 
 death ! 
 Benz. The horrid spectacle my soul does 
 fright ; 
 ^I want the heart to see the dismal sight. 
 Selin. You are my principal invited guest. 
 Whose eyes I would not only feed, but 
 
 feast : 
 You are to smile at his last groaning 
 
 breath. 
 And laugh to see his eyeballs roll in 
 
 death ; 
 To judge the lingering soul's convulsive 
 
 strife. 
 When thick short breath catches at part- 
 ing life. 
 Benz. And of what marble do you think 
 
 me made? 
 Selin. What! can you be of just revenge 
 
 afraid? 
 Benz. He killed my brother in his own 
 defence. 
 Pity his youth, and spare his innocence. 
 Selin. Art thou so soon to pardon murder 
 won? 
 Can he be innocent, who killed my son? 
 Abenamar shall mourn as well as I ; 
 His Ozmyn, for my Tarifa, shall die. 
 But since thou plead'st so boldly, I will 
 
 see 
 That justice thou wouldst hinder done by 
 thee. 
 
 (Gives her his sword.) 
 Here — take the sword, and do a sister's 
 
 part: 
 Pierce his, fond girl, or I will pierce thy 
 heart. 
 
 26 ghost. 
 
446 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Ozm. To his commands I join my own re- 
 quest ; 
 All wounds from you are welcome to my 
 
 breast : 
 Think only, when your hand this act has 
 
 done, 
 It has but finished what your eyes begun. 
 I thought with silence to have scorned my 
 
 doom ; 
 But now your noble pity has o'ercome ; 
 Which I acknowledge with my latest 
 
 breath, — 
 The first whoe'er began a love in death. 
 Bern, {to Selin). Alas, what aid can my 
 weak hand afford? 
 You see I tremble when I touch a sword : 
 The brightness dazzles me, and turns my 
 
 sight; 
 Or, if I look, 't is but to aim less right. 
 Ozm. I'll guide the hand which must my 
 death convey; 
 My leaping heart shall meet it half the 
 way. 
 Selin {to Bens:.). Waste not the precious 
 
 time in idle breath. 
 Bern. Let me resign this instrument of 
 
 death. 
 {Giving the sword to her father, and then 
 pulUng it back.) 
 Ah, no ! I was too hasty to resign : 
 'T is in your hand more mortal than in 
 mine. 
 
 {To them Hamet.) 
 Hamet. The king is from the Alhambra 
 beaten back, 
 And now preparing for a new attack; 
 To favor which, he wills that instantly 
 You reinforce him with a new supply. 
 Selin {to Bern.). Think not, although my 
 duty calls me hence, 
 That with the breach of yours I will dis- 
 pense. 
 Ere my return see my commands you do : 
 Let me find Ozmyn dead, and killed by 
 
 you.— 
 Gazul and Reduan, attend her still ; 
 And, if she dares to fail, perform my 
 will. 
 {Exeunt Selin and Hamet.) 
 {Bemayda looks languishing on him, with 
 her sword down; Gazul and Beduan 
 standing with drawn swords by her.) 
 Ozm. Defer not, fair Benzayda, my death : 
 Looking for you, 
 
 I should but live to sigh away my breath. 
 My eyes have done the work they had to 
 
 do: 
 I take your image with me, which they 
 drew; 
 
 ■ And, when they close, I shall die full of 
 
 you. 
 Bern. When parents their commands un- 
 justly lay, 
 Children are privileged to disobey; 
 Yet from that breach of duty I am clear, 
 Since I submit the penalty to bear. 
 To die, or kill you, is the alternative ; 
 Rather than take your life, I will not live. 
 Ozm. This shows the excess of generosity ; 
 But, madam, you have no pretence to die. 
 I should defame the Abencerrages' race. 
 To let a lady suffer in my place. 
 But neither could that life you would be- 
 stow. 
 Save mine; nor do you so much pity owe 
 To me, a stranger, and your house's foe. 
 Beng. Prom whencesoe'er their hate our 
 houses drew, 
 I blush to tell you, I have none for you. 
 'Tis a confession which I should not 
 
 make, 
 Had I more time to give, or you to take : 
 But, since death 's near, and nms with so 
 
 much force. 
 We must meet first, and intercept his 
 course. 
 Ozm. 0, how unkind a comfort do you 
 give! 
 Now I fear death again, and wish to live. 
 Life were worth taking, could I have it 
 
 now; 
 But 't is more good than heaven can e'er 
 
 allow 
 To one man's portion, to have life and 
 you. 
 Benz. Sure, at our births, 
 
 Death with our meeting planets danced 
 
 above, 
 Or we were wounded by a mourning love ! 
 {Shouts within.) 
 Bed. The noise returns, and doubles from 
 behind ; 
 It seems as if two adverse armies 
 
 joined. — 
 Time presses us. 
 Gaz. If longer you delay, 
 
 We must, though loth, your father's will 
 obey. 
 Ozm. Haste, madam, to fulfil his hard 
 commands, 
 And rescue me from their ignoble hands. 
 Let me kiss yours, when you my wound 
 
 begin, 
 Then easy death will slide with pleasure 
 in. 
 Benz. Ah, gentle soldiers, some short time 
 allow ! 
 
 (To Gaz. and Bed.) 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 447 
 
 My father has repented him ere now; 
 Or will repent him, when he finds me 
 
 dead. 
 My clue of life is twined with Ozmyn's 
 thread. 
 Red. "I is fatal to refuse her, or obey. 
 But where is our excuse? what can we 
 say? 
 Bern. Say anything — 
 
 Say that to kill the guiltless you were 
 
 loth; 
 Or if you did, say I would kill you 
 both. 
 Gaz. To disobey our orders is to die. — 
 
 I '11 do 't : who dare oppose it ? 
 Red. That dare I. 
 
 (Reduan stands before Ozmyn, and fights 
 with Gazul. Benzayda unbinds Ozmyn, 
 and gives hi/m her sword.) 
 Bene. Stay not to see the issue of the 
 fight; 
 
 {Red. kills Gaz.) 
 But haste to save yourself by speedy 
 flight. 
 Ozm. (kneeling to kiss her hand) Did all 
 mankind against my life conspire, 
 Without this blessing I would not retire. 
 But, madam, can I go and leave you 
 
 here? 
 Your father's anger now for you I fear : 
 Consider, you have done too much to 
 stay. 
 Benz. Think not of me, but fly yourself 
 
 away. 
 Red. Haste quickly hence ; the enemies are 
 nigh! 
 From every part I see our soldiers fly. 
 The foes not only our assailants beat, 
 But fiercely saUy out on their retreat, 
 And, like a sea broke loose, come on 
 amain. 
 (To them Abenamar, and a party with their 
 swords drawn, driving in some of the 
 enemies.) 
 Aben. Traitors, you hope to save your- 
 selves in vain ! 
 Your forfeit lives shall for your treason 
 
 pay; 
 And Ozmyn's blood shall be revenged this 
 day. 
 Ozm. {kneeling to his father). No, sir, 
 your Ozmyn lives;, and lives to own 
 A father's piety to free his son. 
 Aben. {embracing him). My Ozmyn! — 0, 
 thou blessing of my age ! 
 And art thou safe from their deluded 
 
 rage ! — 
 Whom must I praise for thy deliverance? 
 Was it thy valor, or the work of chance? 
 
 Ozm. Nor chance, nor valor, could deliver 
 me; 
 
 But 't was a noble pity set me free. 
 
 My liberty, and life. 
 
 And what your happiness you 're pleased 
 to call, 
 
 We to this charming beauty owe it all. 
 Aben. {to her). Instruct me, visible divin- 
 ity! 
 
 Instruct me by what name to worship 
 thee! 
 
 For to thy virtue I would altars raise. 
 
 Since thou art much above all human 
 praise. 
 
 But see 
 
 {Enter Almanzor, his sword bloody, leading 
 in Almahide, attended by Esperanza.) 
 
 My other blessing, Almahide, is here ! 
 I '11 to the king, and tell him she is near : 
 You, Ozmyn, on your fair deliverer wait, 
 And with your private joys the public 
 
 celebrate. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 Almanz. The work is done; now, madam, 
 
 you are free; 
 At least, if I can give you liberty: 
 But you have chains which you yourself 
 
 have chose; 
 And, 0, that I could free you too from 
 
 those ! 
 But you are free from force, and have 
 
 full power 
 To go, and kill my hopes and me, this 
 
 hour. 
 I see, then, you will go ; but yet .my toil 
 May be rewarded with a looking-while. 
 Almdh. Almanzor can from every subject 
 
 raise 
 New matter for our wonder and his 
 
 praise. 
 You bound and freed me ; but the differ- 
 ence is, 
 That showed your valor; but your virtue 
 
 this. 
 Almanz. Madam, you praise a funeral 
 
 victory. 
 At whose sad pomp the conqueror must , 
 
 die. 
 Almah. Conquest attends Almanzor ev- 
 erywhere ; 
 I am too small a foe for him to fear: 
 But heroes still must be opposed by some, 
 Or they would want occasion to o'ereome. 
 Almanz. Madam, I cannot on bare praises 
 
 live; 
 Those who abound in praises seldom give. 
 Almah. While I to all the world your 
 
 worth make known. 
 
448 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 May heaven reward the pity you have 
 
 shown ! 
 Almanz. My love is languishing, and 
 
 starved to death ; 
 And would you give me charity — in 
 
 breath? 
 Prayers are the alms of churchmen to the 
 
 poor: 
 They send to heaven's, but drive us from 
 
 their door. 
 Almah. Cease, cease a suit 
 
 So vain to you, and troublesome to me. 
 If you will have me think that I am free. 
 If I am yet a slave, my bonds I '11 bear ; 
 But what I cannot grant, I will not hear. 
 Almanz. You wonnot hear! You must 
 
 both hear and grant ; 
 For, madam, there's an impudence in 
 
 want. 
 Almah. Your way is somewhat strange to 
 
 ask relief J 
 You ask with threatening, like a begging 
 
 thief. 
 Once more, Almanzor, tell me, am I free ? 
 Almanz. Madam, you are, from all the 
 
 world, — ^but me! 
 But as a pirate, when he frees the prize 
 He took from friends, sees the rich mer- 
 chandise, 
 And, after he has freed it, justly buys ; 
 So, when I have restored your liberty — 
 But then, alas, I am too poor to buy! 
 Almah. Nay, now you use me just as 
 
 pirates do : 
 You free me ; but expect a ransom too. 
 Almanz. You've all the freedom that a 
 
 prince can have; 
 But greatness cannot be without a slave. 
 A monarch never can in private move, 
 But still is haunted with officious love. 
 So small an inconvenience you may bear ; 
 'T is all the fine Fate sets upon the fair. 
 Almah. Yet princes may retire whene'er 
 
 they please. 
 And breathe free air from out^' their 
 
 palaces : 
 They go sometimes unknown, to shun 
 
 their state; 
 And then 'tis manners not to know or 
 
 wait. 
 Almanz. If not a subject, then a ghost 
 
 I'll be; 
 And from a ghost, you know, no place is 
 
 free. 
 Asleep, awake, I '11 haunt you every- 
 where ; 
 From my white shroud groan love into 
 
 your ear: 
 
 When in your lover's arms you sleep at 
 
 night, 
 I'll glide in cold betwixt, and seize my 
 
 right: 
 And is 't not better, in your nuptial bed. 
 To have a living lover than a dead ? 
 Almah. I can no longer bear to be ac- 
 cused. 
 As if, what I could grant you, I refused. 
 My father's choice I never will dispute; 
 And he has chosen ere you moved your 
 
 suit. 
 You know my case ; if equal you can be. 
 Plead for yourself, and answer it for 
 
 me. 
 Almanz. Then, madam, in that hope you 
 
 bid me live; 
 I ask no more than you may justly give : 
 But in strict justice there may favor be. 
 And may I hope that you have that for 
 
 me? 
 Almah. Why do you thus my secret 
 
 thoughts pursue, 
 Which, known, hurt me, and cannot profit 
 
 you? 
 Your knowledge but new troubles does 
 
 prepare. 
 Like theirs who curious in their fortunes 
 
 are. 
 To say, - 1 could with more content be 
 
 yours. 
 Tempts you to hope; but not that hope 
 
 assures. 
 For since the king has right, 
 And favored by my father in his suit. 
 It is a blossom which can bear no fruit. 
 Yet, if you dare attempt so hard a task. 
 May you succeed; you have my leave to 
 
 ask. 
 Almanz. I can with courage now my 
 
 hopes pursue. 
 Since I no longer have to combat you. 
 That did the greatest difficulty bring; 
 The rest are small, a father and a king! 
 Almah. Great souls discern not when the 
 
 leap 's too wide. 
 Because they only view the farther side. 
 Whatever you desire, you think is near; 
 But, with more reason, the event I fear. 
 Almanz. No ; there is a necessity in fate. 
 Why still the brave bold man is fortu- 
 nate: 
 He keeps his object ever full in sight. 
 And that assurance holds him firm and 
 
 right. 
 True, 'tis a narrow path that leads to 
 
 bliss, 
 But right before there is no precipice : 
 
 27 outside of. 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 449 
 
 Fear makes men look aside, and then 
 their footing miss. 
 Almah. I do your merit all the right I 
 can; 
 
 Admiring virtue in a private man; 
 
 I only wish the king may grateful be, 
 
 And that my father with my eyes may 
 see. 
 
 Might I not make it as my last request, — 
 
 Since humble carriage suits a suppliant 
 best, — 
 
 That you would somewhat of your fierce- 
 ness hide — 
 
 That inborn fire — I do not call it pride? 
 Almanz. Born, as I am, still to command, 
 not sue, 
 
 Yet you shall see that I can beg for you ; 
 
 And if your father will require a crown, 
 
 Let him but name the kingdom, 'tis his 
 own. 
 
 I am, but while I please, a private man; 
 
 I have that soul which empires first be- 
 gan. 
 
 From the dull crowd, which every king 
 does lead, 
 
 I will pick out whom I will choose to 
 head: 
 
 The best and bravest souls I can select. 
 
 And on their conquered necks my throne 
 erect. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 (Abdalla alone, under the walls of the 
 Albayein.) 
 
 Abdal. While she is mine, I have not yet 
 lost all, 
 But in her arms shall have a gentle fall : 
 Blest in my love, although in war o'er- 
 
 come, 
 I fly, like Antony from Actium, 
 To meet a better Cleopatra here. — 
 You of the watch! you of the watch! 
 appear. 
 Sold. (Above.) Who calls below? 
 
 WTiat 's your demand 1 
 Abdal. 'Tis I: 
 
 Open the gate with speed ; the foe is nigh. 
 Sold. What orders for admittance do you 
 
 bring? 
 Abdal. Slave, my own orders: look, and 
 
 know the king. 
 Sold. I know you; but ray charge is so 
 severe 
 That none, without exception, enter here. 
 
 Abdal. Traitor, and rebel! thou shalt 
 shortly see 
 Thy orders are not to extend to me. 
 Lyndar. (Above.) What sauey slave so 
 rudely does exclaim. 
 And brands my subject with a rebel's 
 name? 
 Abdal. Dear Lyndaraxa, haste; the foes 
 
 pursue. 
 Lyndar. My. lord, the Prince Abdalla, is 
 it you? 
 I scarcely can believe the words I hear; 
 Could you so coarsely treat my ofiicer? 
 Abdal. He forced me; but the danger 
 nearer draws : 
 When I am entered, ypu shall know the 
 cause. 
 Lyndar. Entered! Why, have you any 
 
 business here? 
 Abdal. I am pursued, the enemy is near. 
 Lyndar. Are you pursued, and do you* 
 thus delay 
 To save yourself? Make haste, my lord, 
 away. 
 Abdal. Give me not cause to think you 
 mock my grief: 
 What place have I, but this, for my re- 
 lief? 
 Lyndar. This favor does your handmaid 
 much oblige. 
 But we are not provided for a siege : 
 My subjects few; and their provision 
 
 thin; 
 The foe is strong without, we weak 
 
 within. 
 This to my noble lord may seem un- 
 kind, 
 But he will weigh it in his princely mind ; 
 And pardon her, who does assurance 
 
 want 
 So much, she blushes when she cannot 
 grant. 
 Abdal. Yes, you may blush ; and you have 
 cause to weep. 
 Is this the faith you promised me to 
 
 keep? 
 Ah yet, if to a lover you will bring 
 No succor, give your succor to a king. 
 Lyndar. A king is he, whom nothing can 
 withstand ; 
 Who men and money can with ease com- 
 mand. 
 A king is he, whom fortune still does 
 
 bless ; 
 He is a king, who does a crown possess. 
 If you would have me think that you are 
 
 he. 
 Produce to view your marks of sover- 
 eignty; • 
 
'450 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 But if yourself alone for proof you 
 
 bring, 
 You 're but a single person, not a king. 
 Abdal. Ingi-ateful maid, did I for this 
 rebel? 
 I say no more ; but I have loved too well. 
 Lyndar. Who but yourself did that re- 
 bellion move? 
 Did I e'er promise to receive your love? 
 Is it my fault you are not- fortunate ? 
 I love a king, but a poor rebel hate. 
 Abdal. Who follow fortune, still are in 
 the right; 
 But let me be protected here this night. 
 Lyndar. The place to-morrow will be cir- 
 cled rounds 
 And then no way will for your flight be 
 found. 
 Abdal. I hear ray enemies just coming on ; 
 
 {Trampling within.) 
 ■ Protect me but one hour, till they are 
 
 gone. 
 Lyndar. They '11 know you have been here ; 
 it cannot be; 
 That very hour you stay, will ruin me : 
 For if the foe behold our interview, 
 I shall be thought a rebel too, like you. 
 Haste hence; and that your flight may 
 
 prosperous prove, 
 I '11 recommend you to the powers above. 
 (Exit Lynd. from above.) 
 Abdal. She 's gone ! Ah, faithless and in- 
 grateful maid! 
 I hear some tread; and fear I am be- 
 trayed. 
 I'll to the Spanish king; and try if he. 
 To countenance his own right, will succor 
 
 me: 
 There is more faith in Christian dogs, 
 than thee. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 (Ozmyn, Benzayda, Aberiamar.) 
 
 Bern. I wish 
 
 (To merit all these thanks) I could have 
 
 said. 
 My pity only did his virtue aid; 
 'Tv/as pity, but 'twas of a love-sick 
 
 maid. 
 His manly suffering my esteem did move ; 
 That bred compassion, and compassion 
 love. 
 Ozm. blessing sold me at too cheap a 
 rate! 
 
 {To his father.) 
 My danger was the benefit of fate. 
 
 But that you may my fair deliverer 
 know, 
 
 She was not only born our house's foe, 
 
 But to my death by powerful reasons 
 led; 
 
 At least, in justice, she might wish me 
 dead. 
 Aben. But why thus long do you her name 
 
 conceal? 
 Ozm. To gain belief for what I now re- 
 veal: 
 
 Even thus prepared, you scarce can think 
 it true. 
 
 The saver of my life from Selin drew 
 
 Her birth; and was his sister whom I 
 slew. 
 Aben. No more; it cannot, was not, must 
 not be: 
 
 Upon my blessing, say not it was she. 
 
 The daughter of the only man I hate!- 
 
 Two contradictions twisted in a fate! 
 Ozm. The mutual hate, which you and 
 Selin bore. 
 
 Does but exalt her generous pity more. 
 
 Could she a brother's death forgive to 
 me, 
 
 And cannot you forget her family? 
 
 Can you so ill requite the life I. owe, 
 
 To reckon her, who gave it-, still your 
 foe? 
 
 It lends too great a lustre to her line, 
 
 To let her virtue ours so much outshine. 
 Aben. Thou giv'st her line the advantage 
 which they have, 
 
 By meanly taking of the life they gave. 
 
 Grant that it did in her a pity show; 
 
 But would my son be pitied by a foe? 
 
 She has the glory of thy act defaced : 
 
 Thou killedst her brother; but she tri- 
 umphs last : 
 
 Poorly for us our enmity would cease; 
 
 When we are beaten, we receive a peace. 
 Benz. If that be all in which you dis- 
 agree, 
 
 I must confess 'twas Ozmyn conquered 
 me. 
 
 Had I beheld him basely beg his life, 
 
 I should not now submit to be his wife; 
 
 But when I saw his courage death con- 
 trol, 
 
 I paid a secret homage to his soul; 
 
 And thought my cruel father much to 
 blame, 
 
 Since Ozrayn's virtue his revenge did 
 shame. 
 Aben. . What constancy canst thou e'er 
 hbpe to find 
 
 In that unstable, and soon conquered 
 mind? 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 451 
 
 What piety canst thou expect from her, 
 
 Who could forgive a brother's murderer? 
 
 Or, what obedience hop'st thou to be 
 paid, 
 
 From one who first her father disobeyed 1 
 Ozm. Nature, that bids us parents to obey, 
 
 Bids parents their commands by reason 
 weigh ; 
 
 And you her virtue by your praise did 
 own, 
 
 Before you knew by whom the act was 
 done. 
 Aben. Your reasons speak too much of in- 
 solence ; 
 
 Her birth '§ a crime past pardon or de- 
 fence. 
 
 Know, that as Selin was not won by thee, 
 
 Neither wiU I by SeUn's daughter be. 
 
 Leave her, or cease henceforth to be my 
 son: 
 
 This is my will ; and this I will have done. 
 {Exit Aben.) 
 Ozm. It is a murdering will. 
 
 That whirls along with an impetuous 
 sway. 
 
 And, like chain-shot, sweeps all things in 
 its way. 
 
 He does my honor want of duty call ; 
 
 To that, and love, he has no right at all. 
 Benz. No, -Ozmjm, no; it is a much less 
 iU 
 
 To leave me, than dispute a father's will : 
 
 If I had any title to your love. 
 
 Tour father's greater right does mine re- 
 move: 
 
 Tour vows and faith I give you back 
 again. 
 
 Since neither can be kept without a sin. 
 Ozm. Nothing but death my vows can give 
 me back : 
 
 They are not yours to give, nor mine to 
 take. 
 Bern. Nay, think not, though I could your 
 vows resign. 
 
 My love or virtue could dispense with 
 mine. 
 
 I would extinguish your unlucky fire, 
 
 To make you happy in some new desire : 
 
 I can preserve enough for me and you. 
 
 And love, and be unfortunate, for two. 
 Ozm. In all that 's' good and great 
 
 Tou vanquish me so fast, that in the end 
 
 I shall have nothing left me to defend. 
 
 From every post you force me to remove ; 
 
 But let me keep my last retrenchment, 
 love. 
 Benz. Love then, my Ozmyn; I will be 
 content 
 
 (Givvng her hand.) 
 
 To make you wretched by your own con- 
 sent: 
 
 Live poor, despised, and banished for my 
 sake. 
 
 And all the burden of my sorrows take; 
 
 For, as for me, in whatsoe'er estate. 
 
 While I have you, I must be fortunate. 
 Ozm, Thus then, secured of what we hold 
 most dear, 
 
 (Each other's love) we '11 go — I know not 
 where. 
 
 For where, alas, should we our flight be- 
 gin? 
 
 The foe's without; our parents are 
 within. 
 Benz. I'll fly to you, and you shall fly 
 to me; 
 
 Our flight but to each other's arms shall 
 be. 
 
 To providence and chance permit the 
 rest; 
 
 Let us but love enough, and we are blest. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 [Enter Boabdelin, Abenamar, Abdelmelech, 
 Guard: Zulema and Hamet, prisoners.) 
 
 AbdeVm. They 're Lyndaraxa's brothers ; 
 for her sake. 
 Their lives and pardon my request I 
 make. 
 Boob, Then, Zulema and Hamet, live; but 
 know, 
 Tour lives to Abdelmelech's suit you owe. 
 Zul. The grace received so much my hope 
 exceeds 
 That words come weak and short to an- 
 swer deeds. 
 Tou've made a venture, sir, and time 
 
 must show 
 If this great mercy you did well bestow. 
 Boab. Tou, Abdelmelech, haste before 't is 
 night. 
 And close pursue my brother in his flight. 
 (Exeunt Abdelmelech, Zulema, Hamet. 
 Enter Almanzor, Almahide, and 
 Esperanza.) 
 
 But see, with Almahide 
 
 The brave Almanzor comes, whose con- 
 quering sword 
 
 The crown, it once took from me, has 
 restored. 
 
 How can I recompense so great desert ! 
 Almanz. I bring you,, sir, performed in 
 every part. 
 
 My promise made; your foes are fled or 
 slain; 
 
452 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Without a rival, absolute you reign. 
 
 Yet though, in justice, this enough may 
 be, 
 
 It is too little to be done by me : 
 
 I beg to go, 
 
 Where my own courage and your fortune 
 calls, 
 
 To chase these misbelievers from our 
 walls. 
 
 I cannot breathe within this narrow 
 space ; 
 
 My heart's too big, and swells beyond 
 the place. 
 Boob. You can perform, brave warrior, 
 what you please; 
 
 Fate listens to your voice, and then de- 
 crees. 
 
 Now I no longer fear the Spanish pow- 
 ers; 
 
 Already we are free, and conquerors. 
 Almanz. Accept, great king, to-morrow, 
 from my hand, 
 
 The captive head of conquered Ferdi- 
 nand. 
 
 You shall not only what you lost regain, 
 
 But o'er the Biscayn mountains to the 
 main, 
 
 Extend your sway, where never Moor did 
 reign. 
 Aben. What, in another, vanity would 
 seem. 
 
 Appears but noble confidence in him ; 
 
 No haughty boasting, but a manly pride ; 
 
 A soul too fiery, and too great to guide : 
 
 He moves eccentric, like a wandering 
 star, 
 
 Whose motion's just, though 'tis not 
 regular. 
 Boat. It is for you, brave man, and only 
 
 you, 
 
 Greatly to speak, and yet more greatly 
 do. 
 
 But, if your benefits too far extend, 
 
 I must be left ungrateful in the end: 
 
 Yet somewhat I would pay. 
 
 Before my debts above all reckoning 
 grow, 
 
 To keep me from the shame of what I 
 owe. 
 
 But you 
 
 Are conscious to yourself of such de- 
 sert, 
 
 That of your gift I fear to oifer part. 
 Almans. When I shall have declared my 
 high request, 
 
 So much presumption there will be con- 
 
 That you will find your gifts I do not 
 shun. 
 
 But rather much o'er-rate the service 
 done. 
 Boab. Give wing to your desires, and let 
 'em fiy. 
 Secure they cannot mount a pitch too 
 
 high. 
 So bless -me, Allah, both in peace and 
 
 war. 
 As I accord whate'er your wishes are. 
 Almam. Emboldened by the promise of a 
 prince, 
 [Putting one knee on the ground.) 
 I ask this lady now with confidence. 
 Boab. You ask the only thing I cannot 
 
 grant. 
 {The King and Abenamar look amazedly 
 on each other.) 
 But, as a stranger, you are ignorant 
 Of what by public fame my subjects 
 
 know; 
 She is my mistress. 
 Ah en. — ^And my daughter too. 
 
 Almanz. Believe, old man, that I her fa- 
 ther knew : 
 What else should make Almanzor kneel 
 
 to you? 
 Nor doubt, sir, but your right to her was 
 
 known : 
 For had you had no claim but love alone, 
 I could produce a better of "my own. 
 Almah. {Softly to Mm.) Almanzor, you 
 forget my last request: 
 Your words have too much haughtiness 
 
 expressed. 
 Is this the humble way you were to 
 move? 
 Almam. {To her.) I was too far trans- 
 ported by my love. 
 Forgive me ; for I had not learned to sue 
 To anything before, but heaven and 
 
 you,— 
 Sir, at your feet, I make it my request — 
 {To the King.) 
 {First line kneeling: second, rising, and 
 boldly.) 
 Though, without boasting, I deserve her 
 
 best ; 
 For you her love with gaudy titles 
 
 sought, 
 But I her heart with blood and dangers 
 bought. 
 Boab. The blood which you have shed in 
 her defence 
 Shall have in time a fitting recompence: 
 Or, if you think your services delayed, 
 Name but your price, and you shall soon 
 be paid. 
 Almanz. My price! Why, king, you do 
 not think you deal • 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 453 
 
 With one who sets his services to sale? 
 Reserve your gifts for those who gifts 
 
 regard ; 
 And know, I think myself above reward. 
 Boab. Then sure you are some godhead; 
 
 and our care 
 Must be to come with incense and with 
 
 prayer. 
 Almanz. As little as you think yourself 
 
 obliged, 
 You wovild be glad to do 't, when next 
 
 besieged. 
 But I am pleased there should be noth- 
 ing due; 
 Tor what I did was for myself, not you. 
 Boab, You with contempt on meaner gifts 
 
 look down; 
 And, aiming at my queen, disdain my 
 
 crown. 
 That crown, restored, deserves no recom^ 
 
 pense. 
 Since you would rob the fairest jewel 
 
 thence. 
 Dare not henceforth ungrateful me to 
 
 call; 
 Whate'er I owed you, this has cancelled 
 
 aU. 
 Almanz. I '11 call thee thankless, king, and 
 
 perjured both: 
 Thou swor'st by Allah, and hast broke 
 
 thy oath. 
 But thou dost well ; thou tak'st the cheap- 
 est way; 
 Not to own services thou canst not pay. 
 Boab. My patience more than pays thy 
 
 service past; 
 But know this insolence shall be thy last. 
 Hence from my sight! and take it as a 
 
 grace. 
 Thou liv'st, and art but banished from 
 
 the place. 
 Almanz. Where'er I go, there can no exile 
 
 be; 
 But from Almanzor's sight 1 banish thee : 
 I will not now, if thou wouldst beg me, 
 
 stay; 
 But I will take my Almahide away. 
 Stay thou with all thy subjects here ; but 
 
 know. 
 We leave thy city empty when we go. 
 {Takes Almahide' s hand.) 
 Boab. Fall on; take; kill the traitor. 
 {The Guards fall on him; he makes at the 
 King through the midst of them, and 
 falls upon him; they disarm him, and 
 rescue the King.) 
 Almanz. — ^Base and poor. 
 
 Blush that thou art Almanzor's con- 
 queror. 
 
 {Almahide wrings her hands, then turns 
 and veils her face.) 
 Farewell, my Almahide! 
 Life of itself will go, now thou art 
 
 gone. 
 Like flies in winter, when they lose the 
 sun. 
 {Ahermmar whispers the King a little, then 
 
 speaks aloud.) 
 Aben. Revenge, and taken so secure a. 
 way, 
 Are blessings which heaven sends not 
 every day. 
 Boab. I will at leisure now revenge my 
 wrong; 
 And, traitor, thou shalt feel my venge- 
 ance long: 
 Thou shalt not die just at thy own de- 
 sire, 
 But see my nuptials, and with rage ex- 
 pire. 
 Almanz. Thou darest not marry her while 
 I'm in sight: 
 With a bent brow thy priest and thee I '11 
 
 fright ; 
 And in that scene 
 Which all thy hopes and wishes should 
 
 content. 
 The thought of me shall make thee im- 
 potent. 
 
 {He is led off by Guards.) 
 Boab. {To Almah.) As some fair tulip, 
 by a storm oppressed. 
 Shrinks up, and folds its silken arms to 
 
 rest; 
 And, bending to the blast, all pale and 
 
 dead, 
 Hears from within the wind sing round 
 
 its head; 
 So, shrouded up, your beauty disap- 
 pears : 
 Unveil, my love, and lay aside your 
 
 fears. 
 The storm" that caused your fright is 
 passed and done. 
 (Almahide unveiling, and looking round 
 
 for Almanzor.) 
 Almah. So flowers peep out too soon, and 
 miss the sun. 
 
 {Turning from him.) 
 Boab, What mystery in this strange be- 
 havior lies? 
 Almah. Let me for ever hide these guilty 
 eyes 
 Which lighted my Almanzor to his tomb ; 
 Or, let 'em blaze, to show me there a 
 room. 
 Boab, Heaven lent their lustre for a 
 nobler end; 
 
454 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 A thousand torches must their light at- 
 tend, 
 
 To lead you to a temple and a crown. 
 
 Why does my fairest Almahida frown? 
 
 Am I less pleasing than I was before, 
 
 Or is the insolent Almanzor more? 
 Almah. I justly own that I some pity 
 have, 
 
 Not for the insolent, but for the brave. 
 Aben. Though to your king your duty 
 you neglect, 
 
 EJiow, Almahide, I look for more re- 
 spect : 
 
 And, if a parent's charge your mind can 
 move. 
 
 Receive the blessing of a monarch's love. 
 Almah. Did he my freedom to his life 
 prefer, 
 
 And shall I wed Almanzor's murderer? 
 
 No, sir; I cannot to your will submit; 
 
 Your way's too rugged for my tender 
 feet. 
 Aben. You must be driven where you re- 
 fuse to go; 
 
 And taught, by force, your happiness to 
 know. 
 Almah. {Smiling scornfully.) To force 
 me, sir, is much unworthy you. 
 
 And, when you would, impossible to do. 
 
 If force could bend me, you might think, 
 with shame. 
 
 That I debased the blood from whence I 
 came. 
 
 My soul is soft, which you may gently 
 lay 
 
 In your loose palm; but, when 'tis 
 pressed to stay. 
 
 Like water, it deludes your grasp and 
 slips away. 
 Boab. I find I must revoke what I de- 
 creed : 
 
 Almanzor's death my nuptials must pre- 
 cede. 
 
 Love is a magic which the lover ties ; 
 
 But charms still end when the magician 
 dies. 
 
 Go; let me hear my hated rival's dead; 
 (To his Guards.) 
 
 And, to convince my eyes, bring back his 
 bead. 
 Almah. Go on: I wish no other way to 
 prove 
 
 That I am worthy of Almanzor's love. 
 
 We will in death, at least, united be: 
 
 I '11 show you T can die as well as he. 
 Boab. What should I do! when equally I 
 dread 
 
 Almanzor living and Almanzor dead! — 
 
 Yet, by your promise, you are mine alone. 
 
 Almah. How dare you claim my faith, 
 
 and break your own? 
 Aben. This for your virtue is a weak de- 
 fence : 
 No second vows can with your first dis- 
 
 • pense. 
 Yet, since the king did to Almanzor 
 
 swear. 
 And in his death ingrateful may appear. 
 He ought, in justice, first to spare his 
 
 Ufe, 
 And then to claim your promise as his 
 wife. 
 Almah. Whate'er my secret inclinations 
 
 To this, since honor ties me, I agree: 
 Yet I declare, and to the world wilt own, 
 That, far from seeking, I would shun the 
 
 throne. 
 And with Almanzor lead a humble life: 
 There is a private greatness in his wife. 
 Boab. That little love I have, I hardly 
 buy; 
 You give my rival all, while you deny : 
 Yet, Almahide, to let you see your power, 
 Your loved Almanzor shall be free this 
 
 hour. 
 You are obeyed ; but 't is so great a grace. 
 That I could wish me in my rival's place. 
 (Exeunt King and Abenamar.) 
 Almah. How blest was I before this fatal 
 day. 
 When all I knew of love, was to obey ! 
 'Twas life becalmed, without a gentle 
 
 breath ; 
 Though not so cold, yet motionless as 
 
 death. 
 A heavy, quiet state; but love, all strife. 
 All rapid, is the hurricane of life. 
 Had love not shown me, I had never 
 
 seen 
 An excellence beyond Boabdelin. 
 I had not, aiming higher, lost my rest ; 
 But with a vulgar good been dully blest : 
 But, in Almanzor, having seen what's 
 
 rare. 
 Now I have learnt too sharply to com- 
 pare; 
 And, like a favorite quickly in disgrace, 
 Just know the value ere I lose the place. 
 (To her Almanzor, bound and guarded.) 
 Almanz. I see the end for which I 'm 
 hither sent, 
 
 (Looking down.) 
 To double, by your sight, my punish- 
 ment. 
 There is a shame in bonds T cannot bear; 
 Far more than death, to meet your eyes 
 I fear. 
 
ALMANZOK AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 455 
 
 Almah. {Unbinding him.) That shame of 
 
 long continuance shall not be: 
 
 The king, at my entreaty, sets you free. 
 
 Almanz. The king! my wonder's greater 
 
 than before; 
 How did he dare my freedom to restore? 
 He like some captive lion uses me; 
 He runs away before he sets me free, 
 And takes a sanctuary in his court: 
 I'll rather lose my life than thank him 
 
 for't. 
 Almah. If any subject for your thanks 
 
 there be, 
 The king expects 'em not; you owe 'em 
 
 me. 
 Our freedoms through each other's hands 
 
 have passed; 
 You give me my revenge in winning last. 
 Almam. Then fate commodiously for me 
 
 has done; 
 To lose mine there where I would have it 
 
 won. 
 Almah. Almanzor, you too soon will un- 
 derstand, 
 That what I win is on another's hand. 
 The king (who doomed you to a cruel 
 
 fate) 
 Gave to my prayers both his revenge and 
 
 hate; 
 But at no other price would rate your 
 
 life, 
 Than my consent and oath to be his wife. 
 Almam. Would you, to save my life, my 
 
 love betray? 
 Here; take me; bind me; carry me away; 
 Kill me! I'll kill you if you disobey. 
 (To the Guards.) 
 Almah. That absolute command your love 
 
 does give, 
 I take, and charge you by that power to 
 
 live. 
 Almanz. When death, the last of com- 
 forts, you refuse. 
 Your power, like heaven upon the 
 
 damned, you use; 
 You force me in my being to remain, 
 To make me last, and keep me fresh for 
 
 pain. 
 When all my joys are gone. 
 What cause can I for living longer give. 
 But a dull, lazy habitude to live? 
 Almah. Rash men, like you, and impotent 
 
 of will. 
 Give Chance no time to turn, but urge 
 
 her still ; 
 She would repent; you push the quarrel 
 
 on, 
 And once because she went, she must be 
 
 gone. 
 
 Almanz. She shall not turn; what is it she 
 can do, 
 
 To recompense me for the loss of you? 
 Almah. Heaven will reward your worth 
 some better way: 
 
 At least, for me, you have but lost one 
 day. 
 
 Nor is 't a real loss which you deplore ; 
 
 You sought a heart that was engaged be- 
 fore. 
 
 'T was a swift love which took you in his 
 way; 
 
 Flew only through your heart, but made 
 no stay: 
 
 'T was but a dream, where truth had not 
 a place; 
 
 A scene of fancy, moved so swift a pace. 
 
 And shifted, that you can but think it 
 was; 
 
 Let, then, the short vexatious vision pass. 
 Almam. My joys, indeed, are dreams ; but 
 , not my pain : 
 
 'T was a swift ruin, but the marks re- 
 main. 
 
 When some fierce fire lays goodly build- 
 ings waste. 
 
 Would you conclude 
 
 There had been none, because the burn- 
 ing 's past? 
 Almah. It was your fault that fire seized 
 all your breast; 
 
 You should have blown up some to save 
 the rest : 
 
 But 't is, at worst, but so consumed by 
 fire. 
 
 As cities are, that by their falls rise 
 higher. 
 
 Build love a nobler temple in my place ; 
 
 You '11 find the fire has but enlarged 
 your space. 
 Almanz. Love has undone me; Jr am 
 grown so poor, 
 
 I sadly view the ground I had before, 
 
 But want a stock, and ne'er can build it 
 more. 
 Almah. Then say what charity I can al- 
 low; 
 
 I would contribute if I knew but how. 
 
 Take friendship; or, if that too small 
 appear, 
 
 Take love which sisters may to brothers 
 bear. 
 Almam. A sister's love! that is so palled 
 a thing, 
 
 What pleasure can it to a lover bring? 
 
 'T is like thin food to men in fevers 
 spent; 
 
 Just keeps alive, but gives no nourish- 
 ment. 
 
456 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 What hopes, what fears, what transports 
 
 can it move? 
 'T is but the ghost of a departed love. 
 Ahndh. You, like some greedy cormorant, 
 
 devour 
 All my whole life can give you, in an 
 
 hour. 
 What more I can do for you is to die, 
 And that must follow, if you this deny. 
 Since I gave up my love, that you might 
 
 live, 
 You, in refusing life, my sentence give. 
 Almanz. Far from my breast be such an 
 
 impious thought ! 
 Your death would lose the quiet mine had 
 
 sought. 
 I '11 live for you, in spite of misery ; 
 But you shall grant that I had rather 
 
 die. 
 I'll be so wretched, filled with such de- 
 spair. 
 That you shall see to live was more to 
 
 dare. 
 Almdh. Adieu, then, O my soul's far bet- 
 ter part! 
 Your image sticks so close, 
 That the blood follows from my rending 
 
 heart. 
 A last farewell! 
 For, since a last must come, the rest are 
 
 vain. 
 Like gasps in death, which but prolong 
 
 our pain. 
 But, since the king is now a part of me, 
 Cease from henceforth to be his enemy. 
 Go now, for pity go ! for, if you stay, 
 I fear I shall have something still to say. 
 Thus — I for ever shut you from my 
 
 sight. 
 
 {Veils.) 
 Almanz. Like one thrust out in a cold 
 
 winter's night, 
 Yet shivering underneath your gate I 
 
 stay; 
 One look — I cannot go before 't is day. — 
 
 (She beckons Mm to he gone.) 
 Not one — Farewell: Whate'er my suf- 
 ferings be 
 Within, I '11 speak farewell as loud as 
 
 she: 
 I will not be outdone in constancy. — 
 
 {She turns her back.) 
 Then like a dying conqueror I go; 
 At least I have looked last upon my 
 
 foe. 
 I go — ^but if too heavily I move, 
 I walk encumbered with a weight of love. 
 Fain I would leave the thought of you 
 
 behind, 
 
 But still, the more I cast you from my 
 
 mind. 
 You dash, like water, back, when thrown 
 against the wind. 
 (Exit.) 
 {As he goes off, the King meets him with 
 Abenamar; they stare at each other with- 
 out saluting.) 
 Boab. With him go all my fears. A 
 guard there wait. 
 And see him safe without the city gate. 
 
 {To them Abdelmelech.) 
 Now, Abdelmelech, is my brother dead? 
 Abdelm. The usurper to the Christian 
 camp is fled; 
 Whom as Granada's lawful king they 
 
 own, 
 And vow, by force, to seat him in the 
 
 throne. 
 Meantime the rebels in the Albayzin rest ; 
 Which is in Lyndaraxa's name possessed. 
 Boab. Haste and reduce it instantly by 
 
 force. 
 Abdelm. First give me leave to prove a 
 milder course. 
 She will, perhaps, on summons yield the 
 place. 
 Boab. We cannot to your suit refuse her 
 grace. 
 
 {One enters hastily, and whispers Aben- 
 amar.) 
 
 Aben. How fortune persecutes this hoary 
 head! 
 
 My Ozmyn is with Selin's daughter fled. 
 
 But he 's no more my son : 
 
 My hate shall like a Zegry him pursue, 
 
 Till I take back what blood from me he 
 drew. 
 Boab. Let war and vengeance be to-mor- 
 row's care; 
 
 But let us to the temple now repair. 
 
 A thousand torches make the mosque 
 more bright : 
 
 This must be mine and Almahida's night. 
 
 Hence, ye importunate affairs of state, 
 
 You should not tsrrannize on love, but 
 wait. 
 
 Had life no love, none would for busi- 
 ness live; 
 
 Yet still from love the largest part we 
 give; 
 
 And must be forced, in empire's weary 
 toil. 
 
 To live long wretched, to be pleased a 
 while. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE, OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA 457 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 Success, which can no more than beauty 
 
 last, 
 Makes our sad poet mourn your favors 
 
 past: 
 For, since without desert he got a name, 
 He fears to lose it now with greater shame. 
 Fame, like a little mistress of the town, 
 Is gained with ease, but then she 's lost as 
 
 soon : 
 For, as those tawdry misses, soon or late, 
 Jilt such as keep 'em at the highest rate; 
 (And oft the lacquey, or the brawny clown, 
 Gets what is hid in the loose-bodied 
 
 gown),— 
 So, Fame is false to all that keep her long; 
 And turns up to the fop that's brisk and 
 
 young. 
 Some wiser poet now would leave Fame 
 
 first; 
 But elder wits are, like old lovers, cursed: 
 Who, when the vigor of their youth is 
 
 spent, 
 Still grow more fond, as they grow impo- 
 tent. 
 This, some years hence, our poet's ease may 
 
 prove : 
 But yet, he hopes, he 's young enough to 
 
 love. 
 When forty comes, if e'er he live to see 
 
 28 "This apparently alludes to the lapse of a year since the production of Drydeu's last play." (Noyes.) 
 Nell Givyn, who played Almahide, had borne a son to Oharles II in May, 1670. 
 
 That wretched, fumbling age of poetry, 
 
 'T will be high time to bid his Muse adieu : 
 
 Well he may please himself, but never you. 
 
 Till then, he'll do as well as he began, 
 
 And hopes you will not find him less a man. 
 
 Think him not duller for this year's de- 
 lay; ^s 
 
 He was prepared, the women were away; 
 
 And men, without their parts, can hardly 
 play. 
 
 If they, through sickness, seldom did ap- 
 pear, 
 
 Pity the virgins of each theatre : 
 
 For at both houses 'twas a sickly year! 
 
 And pity us, your servants, to whose cost. 
 
 In one such sickness, nine whole months 
 are lost. 
 
 Their stay, he fears, has ruined what he 
 writ: 
 
 Long waiting both disables love and wit. 
 
 They thought they gave him leisure to do 
 well; 
 
 But, when they forced him to attend, he 
 fell! 
 
 Yet, though he much has failed, he begs, 
 to-day. 
 
 You will excuse his unperforming play: 
 
 Weakness sometimes great passion does ex- 
 press ; 
 
 He had pleased better, had he loved you 
 less. 
 
THOMAS OTWAY 
 
 VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 Thomas Otway (1652-1685) led a chec- 
 quered and stormy life. Kejected by an act- 
 ress whom he long loved, he fought in the 
 Low Countries in 1678-9. After failing as 
 an actor, he had taken to writing plays with 
 remarkable fertility, at first in the manner of 
 Dryden and the seventeenth-century French 
 dramatists. His comedies are not h^hly 
 thought of; but two of his tragedies, The 
 Orphan (1680), and the present one (first 
 acted in 1682), rise to the highest excellence. 
 Venice Preserved is of a style less pe- 
 culiar to the Restoration period than The 
 Conquest of Granada, is a more normal and 
 to us more interesting play, and nearer the 
 regular line of dramatic development. It is 
 at once more Elizabethan and more modern. 
 The student can hardly overlook certain 
 Shakespearean reminiscences, or the influence 
 of Fletcher, especially on the characteriza- 
 tion and the verse. The chief sign that it 
 dates from the Restoration period is that the 
 dramatist observes the three unities, of 
 action, time, and place. Accordingly, the 
 action is single, admitting no side-issue or 
 " sub-plot," and takes place within twenty- 
 four hours, and within the limits of one city. 
 These rules were partly drawn from Aris- 
 totle's Poetics and from the practice of the 
 ancients, but were first laid down as a strict 
 law (as stated earlier) by Castelvetro in 
 1570. Founded on an error as to the na- 
 ture of dramatic illusion, they hampered the 
 drama for centuries, and exacted heavy sac- 
 rifices from freedom and naturalness. In 
 this play, however, as occasionally else- 
 where, there is no conspicuous loss in their 
 observance, and they may even be thought 
 to have heightened the intensity. 
 
 With this classical body, a body at least 
 which a classicist could hardly censure, the 
 spirit of the play is thoroughly romantic. 
 We have not only such imposing circum- 
 stances as the tolling bell, the rising ghosts, 
 the madness of Belvidera, the violent action 
 and bloodshed on the stage; the emotional 
 pitch of the play is soft, pathetic, and almost 
 sentimental. Except in the figure of Pierre, 
 there is nothing sturdy about it. It strives 
 to melt us. The sentimental tragedy for 
 which Otway is known has its analogues in 
 the Elizabethan drama (as in that of Fletcher 
 and Ford) ; it also looks forward to the senti- 
 mentalism of the eighteenth century, as in 
 the comedies of Steele and Cumberland. We 
 miss the strong, truer emotions of the greater 
 
 Elizabethans. In this soft emotionality we 
 may perhaps see something characteristic of 
 the age. This play, like The Conquest of 
 Granada, sets at nought the feeling of patri- 
 otism, and. reminds us that it was written in 
 an age when England was full of discord, 
 and when the very sovereign had sold himself 
 and was ready to sell his country to a foreign 
 prince. 
 
 The sentimentalism is not in what is said, 
 its vehicle in the later comedy, but is perhaps 
 only half conscious, springing from Otway's 
 own gentle soul, and appearing in the sort 
 of characters with whom he felt sympathy. 
 The characterization is at once a source of 
 strength and weakness in the play. Jafl'eir, 
 structurally the hero, excites pity abundantly, 
 but little respect and no admiration. A 
 private wrong, inflicted by an individual sena- 
 tor, makes him join a band of irresponsible 
 traitors, largely foreigners at that (we are 
 nowhere told that he was a foreigner). His 
 own trustful carelessness for his wife puts 
 him in a position where he betrays their se- 
 cret to her. And he makes haste to justify 
 the worst suspicions of the hateful Renault. 
 Another private wrong, threatened by an in- 
 dividual conspirator, and his first realization 
 of the horrors which would follow the suc- 
 cess of the plot, lead him to betray them to 
 the Council of Ten, with the childish ex- 
 pectation that their lives will be spared. 
 He is a lifelike but unattractive figure of a 
 weak emotional character at the mercy of 
 circumstance, of his own feelings, and even 
 of every last speaker, capable of instantaneous 
 but not of sustained courage and resolution. 
 He excites, not terror like a tragic hero, but 
 only pity, like a sentimental one. We toler- 
 ate him for the sake of his friend and his 
 wife. Pierre is admirably contrasted with 
 Jaffeir, a fine example of cheerful devil-may- 
 care generosity and loyalty. " Revenge ! " 
 cries Jaffeir, when he has joined the con- 
 spirators. 
 
 Pierre. And liberty! 
 
 Jaff. Revenge! revenge! [Exeunt. 
 
 Few heroines surpass Belvidera, unintellect- 
 ual, but courageous, tender, with an infinite 
 capacity for strong love, and a woman's con- 
 servatism and dread of sedition, privy con- 
 spiracy, and rebellion. Otway's women are 
 always better done than his men; with good 
 reason Collins in his Ode to Pity pays a 
 tribute to " gentlest Otway," who " sung the 
 female heart." It is notable, however, that 
 
THOMAS OTWAY 
 
 459 
 
 the emotional interest has no aid from the 
 uncertainties of a romantic love-affair; the 
 love is either married or bought love. 
 
 Well done as they are, Otway's strength is^ 
 less in his ch'aracters than in the situations^ 
 and the action. In this play the construc- 
 tion is admirable. Clear as crystal, simple 
 and single, with no assistance from a sub- 
 action to maintain the interest, and with no 
 cheap devices, the play holds the reader, still 
 more the spectator, without slackening. A 
 most notable means is the skillful use of sus- 
 pense. In the fourth act the conspiracy is 
 betrayed and the plotters all seized; no 
 visible hope remains for either it or them. 
 As in the fourth act of Jonson's Alchemist, 
 we wonder what can remain for a fifth. But 
 presently the only two senators whom we 
 know are won over to mercy, the one by Ma 
 daughter, the other by his self-sacrificing 
 mistress. In the following scene of poignant 
 pathos between the married lovers, broken in 
 upon by the gloomy tolling bell, we begin to 
 fear all is in vain, but are not sure of it till 
 the end. Even the silly and distasteful scenes 
 between the senator Antonio { a repulsive por- 
 trait of the Earl of Shaftsbury) and his 
 "Nacky," poorly done as they are, and in- 
 deed disproportionate and needless, have pre- 
 pared for this moment of hope. Nothing 
 could surpass the death-scene of Jaffeir and 
 Pierre, completely surprising yet completely 
 satisfying. 
 
 For all the intensity of interest in the play, 
 the power of holding us, and the compassion 
 we feel for the characters, there is a certain 
 aloofness in the emotion it excites. This is 
 because we cannot perfectly give our sym- 
 pathy to either side. On the one hand, our 
 human feelings are all for the conspirators. 
 Yet, unlovely as are the two officials whom 
 
 we see, Priuli with his cowardice and hard- 
 ness, Antonio with his impotent senility, our 
 indignation goes out against the attempt by 
 a gang of foreigners to wreck a great his- 
 toric state. The very title of the play be- 
 speaks our support for this side. At the mo- 
 ment when he is about to join the conspira- 
 tors. 
 
 Hell! hell! why sleepest thou? 
 
 cries the desperate Jaffeir, and then with 
 great dramatic effectiveness enters the uncon- 
 scious Pierre muttering. 
 
 Sure I have stayed too long! 
 
 The plotters have not been injured enough to 
 win even our temporary approval. There re- 
 sults a state of mind somewhat like that ex- 
 cited by Macbeth, in which we feel deeply for 
 persons who we know should and will be pun- 
 ished. With all our painful interest, we 
 look down with a certain intellectual 
 serenity. A tragedy of this sort has a fine 
 and unusual character of its own. 
 
 The play is founded on the Abb6 St. Real's 
 Conjuration des espagnols contre la Venise en 
 1618, probably through an English transla- 
 tion (1675). The groundwork therefore is 
 historical, but Otway has made great changes, 
 raising Jaffeir and Pierre to importance and 
 introducing the character of Belvidera. It 
 has been one of the most popular of post- 
 Elizabethaji tragedies, having been trans- 
 lated and acted in various European lan- 
 guages, and having held the English stage 
 until well into the nineteenth century (re- 
 vived in 1904), with the help of such actors 
 as Betterton, Garrick, J. P. Kemble, and 
 Macready, and of such actresses as Mrs. 
 Barry, Mrs. Siddons, and Miss O'Neill. 
 
 VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 A TKAGEDY 
 Bz THOMAS OTWAY 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 In these distracted times,^ when each man 
 
 dreads 
 The bloody stratagems of busy heads; 
 When we have feared tljree years we know 
 
 not what, 
 Till witnesses begin to die o' th' rot, 
 What made our poet meddle with a plot? 
 Was 't that he fancied, for the very sake 
 
 And name of plot, his trifling play might 
 take? 
 
 For there's not in't one inch-board evi- 
 dence,^ 
 
 But 't is, he says, to reason plain and sense,' 
 
 And that he thinks a plausible defence. 
 
 Were truth by sense and reason to be 
 tried, 
 
 Sure, all our swearers might be laid aside : 
 
 No, of such tools our author has no need, 
 
 1 Otway, a strong Popish plot of ous allusions to 2 imaginary evi- through a board 
 
 Tory, ridicules the 1678. The later contemporary in- dence (such as an inch thick). 
 
 Whig excitement part of the pro* cidenta and per- would be got by 3 perception, 
 
 over the supposed logue makes vari- sonages, pretending to see 
 
460 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 To make his plot, or [make] his play suc- 
 ceed; 
 He, of black bills, has no prodigious tales. 
 Or Spanish pilgrims cast ashore in Wales; 
 Here's not one murthered magistrate at 
 
 least. 
 Kept rank like ven'son for a city feast. 
 Grown four days stiff, the better to pre- 
 pare 
 And fit his pliant limbs to ride in chair : 
 Yet here's an army raised, though under 
 
 ground, 
 But no man seen, nor one commission 
 
 found ; 
 Here is a traitor too, that 's very old, 
 Turbulent, subtle, mischievous, and bold, 
 Bloody, revengeful, and to crown his 
 part. 
 
 Loves fumbling with a wench, with all his 
 
 heart ; 
 Till after having many changes passed. 
 In spite of age (thanks Heaven) is hanged 
 
 at last: 
 Next is a senator that keeps a whore,* 
 In Venice none a higher office bore; 
 To lewdness every night the lecher ran. 
 Show me, all London, such another man, 
 Match him at Mother Creswold's if you 
 
 can. 
 Poland, Poland ! had it been thy lot, 
 T' have heard in time of this Venetian 
 
 plot. 
 Thou surely chosen hadst one king from 
 
 thence, 
 And honored them, as thou hast England 
 
 since. 
 
 PERSONS DRAMATIS 
 
 Duke of Venice. 
 
 Pbiitli, Father to Belvidera, a Senator. 
 
 Antonio, a Fine Speaker in the Senate. 
 
 Jafteib, 
 
 PlEKEE, 
 
 Renault, 
 
 Bedamae, 
 
 Spinosa, 
 
 Theodobe, 
 
 Eliot, 
 
 Revuxido, yConspirators. 
 
 DUKAND, 
 
 Mezzana, 
 
 BBA[lN]VEn,, 
 
 Tehnon, 
 
 [Eeteosi] 
 
 Bbabe, 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 (Enter Priuli and Jaffeir.) 
 
 Priu. No more! I'll hear no more; be- 
 gone and leave. 
 Jaff. Not hear me! by my sufferings but 
 you shaU! 
 My lord, my lord! I'm not that abject 
 
 wretch 
 You think me : patience ! where 's the dis- 
 tance throws 
 Me back so far, but I may boldly speak 
 In right, though proud oppression will 
 not hear me! 
 Priu. Have you not wronged me? 
 
 Jaff. 
 
 Could my nature e'"!" 
 
 Belvideba. 
 
 Aquilina. 
 
 Two Women, Attendants on Belvidera. 
 
 Two Women, Servants to Aquilina. 
 
 The Council of Ten.s 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Guards. 
 
 Friar. 
 
 Executioner and Rabble. 
 
 Have brooked injustice or the doing 
 wrongs, 
 
 I need not now thus low have bent my- 
 self 
 
 To gain a hearing from a cruel father ! 
 
 Wronged you? 
 Priu. Yes! wronged me, in 
 
 the nicest point: 
 
 The honor of my house; you have done 
 me wrong; 
 
 You may remember (for I now wUl 
 speak, 
 
 And urge its baseness) : when you first 
 came home 
 
 From travel, with such hopes as made 
 you looked on 
 
 By all men's eyes, a youth of expecta- 
 tion; 
 
 4 Antonio is a fero- 
 cious portrait of 
 tbe dissolute eld- 
 erly Earl of 
 Shaftsbury, who 
 
 schemed to secure 
 the crown of Po- 
 land. 
 5 Prom the 14th 
 century a part of 
 
 the Venetian ma- 
 chinery of gov- 
 ernment ; origi- 
 nally executive, af- 
 terwards also ju- 
 
 dicial, and in the 
 17th century the 
 chief power in 
 the state. In IV, 
 ii, the poet seems 
 
 to err in making 
 the Doge a mem- 
 ber of it. 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 461 
 
 Pleased with your growing virtue, I re- 
 ceived you: 
 
 Courted, and sought to raise you to your 
 merits : » 
 
 My house, my table, nay my fortune too. 
 
 My very self, was yours ; you might have 
 used me 
 
 To your best service ; like an open friend, 
 
 I treated, trusted you, and thought you 
 mine; 
 
 When, in requital of my best endeavors, 
 
 You treacherously practised ® to undo 
 me. 
 
 Seduced the weakness of my age's 
 darling, 
 
 My only child, and stole her from my 
 bosom : 
 
 Oh Belvidera! 
 Jaff. 'T is to me you owe her, 
 
 Childless you had been else, and in the 
 grave 
 
 Tour name extinct, nor no more Priuli 
 heard of. 
 
 Tou may remember, scarce five years are 
 past, 
 
 Since in your brigandine you sailed to see 
 
 The Adriatic wedded by our Duke,^ 
 
 And I was with you : your unskilful pilot 
 
 Dashed us upon a rock; when to your 
 boat 
 
 Tou made for safety; entered first your- 
 self; 
 
 The affrighted Belvidera following next. 
 
 As she stood trembling on the vessel side. 
 
 Was by a wave washed off into the deep. 
 
 When instantly I plunged into the sea, 
 
 And buffeting the billows to her rescue, 
 
 Redeemed her life with half the loss of 
 mine; 
 
 Like a rich conquest in one hand I bore 
 her, 
 
 And with the other dashed the saucy 
 waves, 
 
 That thronged and pressed to rob me of 
 my prize: 
 
 I brought her, gave her to your despair- 
 ing arms: 
 
 Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler 
 gratitude 
 
 Rose in her soul : for from that hour she 
 loved me, 
 
 Till for her life she paid me with her- 
 self. 
 Priu. Tou stole her from me; like a thief 
 you stole her. 
 
 At dead of night; that cursed hour you 
 chose 
 
 To rifle me of all my heart held dear. 
 
 May all your joys in her prove false like 
 mine; 
 
 A sterile fortune, and a barren bed. 
 
 Attend you both; continual discord make 
 
 Tour days and nights bitter and griev- 
 ous: still 
 
 May the hard hand of a vexatious need 
 
 Oppress, and grind you; till at last you 
 find 
 
 The curse of disobedience all your por- 
 tion. 
 Jaf, Half of your curse you have be- 
 stowed ib vain; 
 
 Heaven has already crowned our faithful 
 loves 
 
 With a young boy, sweet as his mother's 
 beauty. 
 
 May he live to prove more gentle than 
 his grandsire. 
 
 And happier than his father ! 
 Priu. Rather live 
 
 To bait thee for his bread, and din your 
 ears 
 
 With hungry cries; whilst his unhappy 
 mother 
 
 Sits down and weeps in bitterness of 
 want. 
 Jaf. Tou talk as if it would please you. 
 Priu. 'T would, by Heaven. 
 
 Once she was dear indeed; the drops that 
 fell 
 
 From my sad heart, when she forgot her 
 duty, 
 
 The fountain of my life was not so pre- 
 cious : 
 
 But she is gone, and if I am a man 
 
 I will forget her. 
 Jaff. Would I were in my grave! 
 Priu. And she too with thee ; 
 
 For, living here, you're but my curst 
 remembrancers 
 
 I once was happy. 
 Jaff. Tou use me thus, because you know 
 my soul 
 
 Is fond of Belvidera: you perceive 
 
 My life feeds on her, therefore thus you 
 treat me; 
 
 Oh ! could my soul ever have known 
 satiety. 
 
 Were I that thief, the doer of such 
 wrongs 
 
 As you upbraid me with, what hinders 
 me, 
 
 But I might send her back to you with 
 contumely, 
 
 And court my fortune where she would 
 be kinder! 
 Priu. Tou dare not do 't 
 
 6 plotted. ' The Doge annually "wedded" the Adriatic by dropping » ring into it. in token oi dominion. 
 
462 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Jaff. Indeed, my lord, I dare not. 
 
 My heart that awes me is too much my 
 
 master : 
 Three years are past since first our vows 
 
 were plighted, 
 During which time, the world must bear 
 
 me witness, 
 I have treated Belvidera like your daugh- 
 ter, 
 The daughter of a senator of Venice ; 
 Distinction, place, attendance and observ- 
 ance, 
 Due to her birth, she always has com- 
 manded ; 
 Out of my little fortune I have done this ; 
 Because (though hopeless e'er to win 
 
 your nature) 
 The world might see, I loved her for her- 
 self, 
 
 Not as the heiress of the great Priuli 
 
 Priu. No more! 
 
 Jaf. Yes ! all, and then adieu for ever. 
 
 There 's not a wretch that lives on com- 
 mon charity 
 But's happier than me: for I have 
 
 known 
 The luscious sweets of plenty; every 
 
 night 
 Have slept with soft content about my 
 
 head, 
 And never waked but to a joyful morn- 
 ing; 
 Yet now must fall like a full ear of com, 
 Whose blossom scaped, yet 's withered in 
 the ripening. 
 Friu. Home and be humble, study to re- 
 trench ; 
 Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall. 
 Those pageants of thy folly. 
 Reduce the glittering trappings of thy 
 
 wife 
 To humble weeds, fit for thy little state; 
 Then to some suburb cottage both retire ; 
 Drudge, to feed loathsome life : get brats, 
 and starve — 
 
 Home, home, I say. 
 
 (Exit Priuli.) 
 Jaff. Yes, if my heart would let me — 
 
 This proud, this swelling heart: home I 
 
 would go, 
 But that my doors are hateful to my 
 
 eyes, 
 Filled and dammed up with gaping 
 
 creditors. 
 Watchful as fowlers when their game 
 
 will spring ; 
 I have now not fifty ducats in the world, 
 Yet still I am in love, and pleased with 
 ruin. 
 
 Belvidera! oh, she [i]s my wife — 
 And we will, bear our wayward fate to- 
 gether. 
 But ne'er know comfort more. 
 
 {Enter Pierre.) 
 
 Pierr. My friend, good morrow! 
 
 How fares the honest partner of my 
 
 heart ? 
 What, melancholy! not a word to spare 
 
 me? 
 Jaf. I'm thinkmg, Pierre, how that 
 
 damned starving quality, 
 Called honesty, got footing in the world. 
 Pierr. Why, powerful villainy first set it 
 
 up, 
 For its own ease and safety : honest men 
 Are the soft easy cushions on which 
 
 knaves 
 Repose and fatten. Were all mankind 
 
 villains, 
 They'd starve each other; lawyers would 
 
 want practice. 
 Cut-throats rewards ; each man would kill 
 
 his brother 
 Himself, none would be paid or hanged 
 
 for murder. 
 Honesty was a cheat invented first 
 To bind the hands of bold deserving 
 
 rogues. 
 That fools and cowards might sit safe in 
 
 power, 
 And lord it uncontrolled above their bet- 
 ters. 
 Jaf. Then honesty is but a notion. 
 Pierr. Nothing else. 
 
 Like wit, much talked of, not to be de- 
 fined: 
 He that pretends to most, too, has least 
 
 share in 't ; 
 'T is a ragged virtue : honesty ! no more 
 
 on't. 
 Jaff. Sure thou art honest? 
 Pierr. So indeed men think me ; 
 
 But they 're mistaken, Jaffeir : I am a 
 
 rogue 
 As well as they ; 
 A fine gay bold-faced villain, as thou 
 
 seest me; 
 'T is true, I pay my debts when they 're 
 
 contracted ; 
 I steal from no man; would not cut a 
 
 throat 
 To gain admission to a great man's 
 
 purse. 
 Or a whore's bed; I'd not betray my 
 
 friend, 
 To get his place or fortune: I scorn to 
 
 flatter 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 463 
 
 A blown-up fool above me, or crush the 
 wretch beneath me, 
 
 Yet, Jaffeir, for all this, I am a villain ! 
 
 Jaf. A villain 
 
 Pierr. Yes, a most notorious villain : 
 
 To see the suff'rings of my fellow-crea- 
 tures, 
 
 And own myself a man : to see our sena- 
 tors 
 
 Cheat the deluded people with a show 
 
 Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must 
 taste of; 
 
 They say, by them our hands are free 
 from fetters. 
 
 Yet whom they please they lay in basest 
 bonds ; 
 
 Bring whom they please to infamy and 
 sorrow ; 
 
 Drive us like wracks down the rough tide 
 of power. 
 
 Whilst no hold 's left to save us from 
 destruction ; 
 
 AU that bear this are villains ; and I one. 
 
 Not to rouse up at the great call of na- 
 ture, 
 
 And check the growth of these domestic 
 spoilers. 
 
 That makes us slaves and tells us 't is our 
 charter. 
 Jaff. O Aquilina! friend, to lose such 
 beauty, 
 
 The dearest purchase of thy noble labors ; 
 
 She was thy right by conquest, as by love. 
 Pierr. O Jaffeir ! I 'd so fixed my heart 
 upon her, 
 
 That wheresoe'er I framed a scheme of 
 life 
 
 For time to come, she was my only joy 
 
 With which I wished to sweeten future 
 cares ; 
 
 I fancied pleasures, none but one that 
 loves 
 
 And dotes as I did can imagine like 
 'em: 
 
 When in the extremity of all these hopes. 
 
 In the most charming hour of expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 Then when our eager wishes soar the 
 highest, 
 
 Ready to stoop and grasp the lovely 
 game, 
 
 A haggard owl, a worthless kite of prey. 
 
 With his foul wings sailed in and spoiled 
 my quarry. 
 Jaf. I know the wretch, and scorn him 
 
 as thou hat'st him. 
 Pierr. Curse on the common good that's 
 so protected - 
 
 Where every slave that heaps up wealth 
 
 enough 
 To do much wrong, becomes a lord of 
 
 right ! 
 I, who believed no ill could e'er come near 
 
 me. 
 Found in the embraces of my Aquilina 
 A wretched, old but itching senator; 
 A wealthy fool, that had bought out my 
 
 title, 
 A rogue, that uses beauty like a lambskin. 
 Barely to keep him warm: that filthy 
 
 cuckoo too 
 Was in my absence crept into my nest, 
 And spoiling all my brood of noble plea- 
 sure. 
 Jaff. Didst thou not chase him thence? 
 Pierr. I did ; and drove 
 
 The rank old bearded Hirco ^ stinking 
 
 home: 
 The matter was complained of in the 
 
 Senate, 
 I summoned to appear, and censured 
 
 basely. 
 For violating something they call privi- 
 lege — 
 This was the recompense of [all] my 
 
 service : 
 Would I 'd been rather beaten by a cow- 
 ard! 
 A soldier's mistress, Jaffeir, 's his re- 
 ligion ; 
 When that 's profaned, all other ties are 
 
 broken ; 
 That even dissolves all former bonds of 
 
 service. 
 And from that hour I think myself as 
 
 free 
 To he the foe as e'er the friend of 
 
 Venice. — 
 Nay, dear Revenge, whene'er thou call'st 
 
 I 'm ready. 
 Jaf. I think no safety can be here for 
 
 virtue, 
 And grieve, my friend, as much as thou 
 
 to live 
 In such a wretched state as this of 
 
 Venice ; 
 Where all agree to spoil the public 
 
 good. 
 And villains fatten with the brave man's 
 
 labors. 
 Pierr. We have neither safety, unity, nor 
 
 peace. 
 For the foundation 's lost of common 
 
 good; 
 Justice is lame as well as blind amongst 
 
 us; 
 
 Sgoat (Spanish, apparently; Lat. hircus). 
 
464 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 The laws (corrupted to their ends that 
 make 'em) 
 
 Serve but for instruments of some new 
 tyranny, 
 
 That every day starts up to enslave us 
 deeper : 
 
 Now could this glorious cause but find 
 out friends 
 
 To do it right ! Jaffeir ! then might'st 
 thou 
 
 Not wear these seals of woe upon thy 
 face, 
 
 The proud Priuli should be taught hu- 
 manity, 
 
 And learn to value such a son as thou art. 
 
 I dare not speak! But my heart bleeds 
 this moment! 
 Jaf. Curst be the cause, though I thy 
 friend be part on 't : 
 
 Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom, 
 
 For I am used to misery, and perhaps 
 
 May find a way to sweeten 't to thy spirit. 
 Pierr. Too soon it will reach thy knowl- 
 edge 
 
 Jaff. Then from thee 
 
 Let it proceed. There 's virtue in thy 
 friendship 
 
 Would make the saddest tale of sorrow 
 pleasing. 
 
 Strengthen my constancy, and welcome 
 ruin. 
 Pierr, Then thou art ruined ! 
 Jaff. That I long since knew, 
 
 I and ill-fortune have been long acquaint- 
 ance. 
 Pierr. I passed this very moment by thy 
 doors, 
 
 And found them guarded by a troop of 
 villains ; 
 
 The sons of public rapine were destroy- 
 ing: 
 
 They told me, by the sentence of the law 
 
 They had commission to seize all thy for- 
 tune. 
 
 Nay more, Priuli's cruel hand hath signed 
 it. 
 
 Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face 
 
 Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate. 
 
 Tumbled into a heap for public sale: 
 
 There was another making villainous 
 jests 
 
 At thy undoing; he had ta'en possession 
 
 Of all thy ancient most domestic orna- 
 ments, 
 
 Rich hangings, intermixed and wrought 
 with gold ; 
 
 The very bed, which on thy wedding- 
 night 
 
 Received thee to the arms of Belvidera, 
 
 The scene of all thy joys, was violated 
 By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon 
 
 villains, 
 And thrown amongst the common lumber. 
 
 Jaff. Now, thanks. Heaven 
 
 Pierr. Thank Heaven! for what? 
 
 Jaff. That I am not worth a ducat. 
 
 Pierr. Curse thy dull stars, and the worse 
 
 fate of Venice, 
 Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all 
 
 are false ; 
 Where there's no trust, no truth; where 
 
 innocence 
 Stoops under vile oppression, and vice 
 
 lords it. 
 Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how at last 
 Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch 
 That's doomed to banishment, came 
 
 weeping forth. 
 Shining through tears, like April suns in 
 
 showers 
 That labor to o'ereome the cloud that 
 
 loads 'em. 
 Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms 
 
 she leaned, 
 Kindly looked up, and at her grief grew 
 
 sad, 
 As if they catehed the sorrows that fell 
 
 from her ! 
 Even the lewd rabble that were gathered 
 
 round 
 To see the sight, stood mute when they 
 
 beheld her; 
 Governed their roaring throats and grum- 
 bled pity: 
 I could have hugged the greasy rogues; 
 
 they pleased me. 
 Jaff. "I thank thee for this story, from 
 
 my soul. 
 Since now I know the worst that can be- 
 fall me : 
 Ah, Pierre! I have a heart, that could 
 
 have borne 
 The roughest wrong my fortune could 
 
 have done me ; 
 But when I think what Belvidera feels. 
 The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, 
 I own myself a coward: bear my weak- 
 ness. 
 If throwing thus my arms about thy 
 
 neck, 
 I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom. 
 Oh ! I shall drown thee with my sorrows ! 
 Pierr. Burn ! 
 
 First bum, and level Venice to thy ruin. 
 What ! starve like beggars' brats in frosty 
 
 weather. 
 Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to 
 
 death ! 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 465 
 
 Thou, or thy cause, shall never want as- 
 sistance. 
 Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve 
 
 thee; 
 Command my heart : thou art every way 
 its master. 
 Jaff. No ; there 's a secret pride in bravely 
 
 dying. 
 Pierr. Rats die in holes and comers, dogs 
 run mad ; 
 Man knows a braver remedy for sor- 
 row: 
 Revenge! the attribute of gods, they 
 
 stamped it 
 With their great image on our natures; 
 
 die! 
 Consider well the cause that calls upon 
 
 thee. 
 And if thou'rt base enough, die then. 
 
 Remember 
 Thy Belvidera suffers ; Belvidera ! 
 Die ! — damn first ! — ^what ! be decently in- 
 terred 
 In a churchyard, and mingle thy brave 
 
 dust 
 With stinking rogues that rot in dirty 
 
 winding-sheets, 
 Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o' 
 th' soil. 
 Jaf. Oh! 
 Pierr. Well said, out with it, swear a 
 
 little 
 
 Jaff. Swear! 
 
 By sea and air! by earth, by heaven and 
 
 hell, 
 I will revenge my Belvidera's tears ! 
 Hark thee, my friend — ^Priuli — ^is — a sen- 
 ator! 
 Pierr. A dog! 
 Jaff. Agreed. 
 
 Pierr. Shoot him. 
 
 Jaff. With all my heart. 
 
 No more: where shall we meet at night? 
 Pierr. I 'U tell thee ; 
 
 On the Rialto ^ every night at twelve 
 I take my evening's walk of meditation. 
 There we two will meet, and talk of pre- 
 cious 
 
 Mischief '- 
 
 Jaf. Farewell. 
 Pierr. At twelve. 
 
 Jaf. At any hour, my plagues 
 
 Will keep me waking. 
 
 {Exit Pierre.) 
 Tell me why, good Heaven, 
 Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the 
 
 spirit, 
 Aspiring thoughts and elegant desires 
 
 a The celebrated bridge over the Grand Canal. 
 
 That fill the happiest man? Ah! rather 
 why 
 
 Didst thou not form me sordid as my 
 fate. 
 
 Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry bur- 
 dens? 
 
 Why have I sense ^° to know the curse 
 that's on me? 
 
 Is this just dealing. Nature ? Belvidera ! 
 {Enter Belvidera.) 
 
 Poor Belvidera! 
 Belv. Lead me, lead me, my virgins. 
 
 To that kind voice. My lord, my love, 
 my refuge ! 
 
 Happy my eyes, when they behold thy 
 face: 
 
 My heavy heart will leave its doleful beat- 
 ing 
 
 At sight of thee, and bound with spright- 
 ful joys. 
 
 smUe, as when our loves were in their 
 spring. 
 
 And cheer my fainting soul. 
 Jaf. As when our loves 
 
 Were in their spring? has then my for- 
 tune changed ? 
 
 Art thou not Belvidera, still the same. 
 
 Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first 
 found thee? 
 
 If thou art altered, where shall I have 
 harbor? 
 
 Where ease my loaded heart? Oh! 
 where complain ? 
 Belv. Does this appear like change, or 
 love decaying? 
 
 When thus I throw myself into thy 
 bosom. 
 
 With all the resolution of a strong truth : 
 
 Beats not my heart, as 'twould al[a]rum 
 thine 
 
 To a new charge of bliss? I joy more in 
 thee. 
 
 Than did thy mother when she hugged 
 thee first. 
 
 And blessed the gods for all her travail 
 past. 
 Jaf. Can there in women be such glori- 
 ous faith? 
 
 Sure all ill stories of thy sex are false ; 
 
 woman! lovely woman! Nature made 
 thee 
 
 To temper man : we had been brutes with- 
 out you ; 
 
 Angels are painted fair, to look like you ; 
 
 There's in you all that we believe of 
 heaven, 
 
 Amazing brightness, purity and truth, 
 
 Eternal joy, and everlasting love. 
 
 10 perception. 
 
466 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Belv. If love be treasure, we '11 be won- 
 drous rich; 
 
 I have so much, my heart will surely 
 break with 't ; 
 
 Vows cannot express it ; when I would de- 
 clare 
 
 How great 's my joy, I am dumb with the 
 big thought; 
 
 I swell, and sigh, and labor with my long- 
 ing. 
 
 lead me to some desert wide and wild. 
 Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul 
 May have its vent : where I may tell aloud 
 To the high heavens, and every listening 
 
 planet, 
 With what a boundless stock my bosom 's 
 
 fraught ; 
 Where I may throw my eager arms about 
 
 thee. 
 Give loose to love with kisses, kindling 
 
 joy? 
 
 And let off all the fire that 's in my 
 heart. 
 Jaff. Belvidera! double I am a beggar. 
 
 Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee; 
 
 Want ! worldly want ! that hungry meagre 
 fiend 
 
 Is at my heels, and chases me in view. 
 
 Canst thou bear cold and hunger? Can 
 these limbs. 
 
 Framed for the tender ofiices of love. 
 
 Endure the bitter gripes of smarting pov- 
 erty? 
 
 When banished by our miseries abroad 
 
 (As suddenly we shall be), to seek out 
 
 (In some far climate where our names 
 are strangers) 
 
 Tor charitable succor; wilt thou then, 
 
 When in a bed of straw we shrink to- 
 gether. 
 
 And the bleak winds shall whistle round 
 our heads. 
 
 Wilt thou then talk thus to me? Wilt 
 thou then 
 
 Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with 
 love? 
 Belv. 0, I will love thee; even in mad- 
 ness love thee. 
 
 Though my distracted senses should for- 
 sake me, 
 
 1 'd find some intervals, when my poor 
 
 heart 
 
 Should suage itself and be let loose to 
 thine. 
 
 Though the bare earth be all our resting- 
 place. 
 
 Its roots our food, some clift our habita- 
 tion, 
 
 I '11 make this arm a pillow for thy head ; 
 
 And as thou sighing liest, and swelled 
 with sorrow. 
 
 Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of 
 love 
 
 Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest; 
 
 Then praise our God, and watch thee till 
 the morning. 
 Jaff. Hear this, you Heavens, and wonder 
 how you made her ! 
 
 Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the 
 world, 
 
 Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know 
 
 Tranquility and happiness like mine ; 
 
 Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows 
 faU 
 
 And rise again, to Uf t you in your pride ; 
 
 They wait but for a storm and then de- 
 vour you: 
 
 I, in my private bark, already wrecked. 
 
 Like a poor merchant driven on unknown 
 land, 
 
 That had by chance packed up his choic- 
 est treasure 
 
 In one dear casket, and saved only that. 
 
 Since I must wander further on the shore, 
 
 Thus hug my little, but my precious 
 store ; 
 
 Resolved to scorn, and trust my fate no 
 more. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene 1. 
 (Enter Pierre and Aquilina.) 
 
 Aquil. By all thy wrongs, thou'rt dearer 
 
 to my arms 
 Than all the wealth of Venice: prithee 
 
 stay, 
 And let us love to-night. 
 Pierr. No : there 's fool. 
 
 There 's fool about thee : when a woman 
 
 sells 
 Her flesh to fools, her beauty's lost to 
 
 me; 
 They leave a taint, a sully where they 've 
 
 past. 
 There 's such a baneful quality about 'em. 
 Even spoils complexions with their own 
 
 nauseousness. 
 They infect all they touch ; I cannot think 
 Of tasting anything a fool has palled. 
 Aquil. I loathe and scorn that fool thou 
 
 mean'st, as much 
 Or more than thou canst; but the beast 
 
 has gold 
 That makes him necessary ; power too, 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 467 
 
 To qualify my character, and poise me 
 Equal with peevish " virtue, that beholds 
 My liberty with envy ; in their hearts 
 Are loose as I am ; but an ugly power 
 Sits in their faces, and frights pleasures 
 
 from 'em; 
 Pierr. Much good may 't do you, madam, 
 
 with your senator. 
 Aquil. My senator! why, canst thou think 
 
 that wretch 
 E'er filled thy Aquilina's arms with pleas- 
 ure? 
 Think'st thou, because I sometimes give 
 
 him leave 
 To foil himself at what he is unfit for ; 
 Because I force myself to endure and 
 
 suffer him, 
 Think'st thou I love him? No, by all the 
 
 joys 
 Thou ever gav'st me, his presence is my 
 
 penance ; 
 The worst thing an old man can he's a 
 
 lover, 
 A mere memento mori to poor woman. 
 I never lay by his decrepit side. 
 But all that night I pondered on my 
 
 grave. 
 Pierr. Would he were well sent thither ! 
 Aquil. That 's my wish too : 
 
 For then, my Pierre, I might have cause 
 
 with pleasure 
 To play the hypocrite. Oh ! how I could 
 
 weep 
 Over the dying dotard, and kiss him 
 
 too, 
 In hopes to smother him quite; then, 
 
 when the time 
 Was come to pay my sorrows at his 
 
 funeral. 
 For he has already made me heir to 
 
 treasures. 
 Would make me out-act a real widow's 
 
 whining : 
 How could I frame my face to fit my 
 
 mourning ! 
 With wringing hands attend him to his 
 
 grave. 
 Fall swooning on his hearse : ^^ take mad 
 
 possession 
 Even of the dismal vault where he lay 
 
 buried ; 
 There like the Ephesian matron " dwell, 
 
 till thou, 
 My lovely soldier, com'st to my deliver- 
 ance; 
 
 11 ill-humored. 
 
 12 Framework sup- 
 porting lights, 
 p-te.. on which a 
 coffin rested be- 
 
 Then throwing up my veil, with open 
 
 arms 
 And laughing eyes, run to new dawning 
 
 joy- 
 
 Pierr. No more! I have friends to meet 
 me here to-night, 
 And must be private. As you prize my 
 
 friendship. 
 Keep up your coxcomb:''' let him not 
 
 pry nor listen 
 Nor flsk '^ about the house as I have seen 
 
 him, 
 Like a tame mumping '* squirrel with a 
 
 bell on; 
 Curs will be abroad to bite him if you do. 
 Aquil. What friends to meet? may I not 
 
 be of your council? 
 Pierr. How! a woman ask questions out 
 of bed? 
 Go to your senator, ask him what passes 
 Amongst his brethren, he '11 hide nothing 
 
 from you 
 But pump not me for politics. No more ! 
 Give order that whoever in my name 
 Comes here, receive admittance : so good- 
 night. 
 Aquil. Must we ne'er meet again! Em- 
 brace no more ! 
 Is love so soon and utterly forgotten! 
 Pierr. As you henceforward treat your 
 
 fool, I '11 think on 't. 
 Aquil. Curst be all fools, and doubly curst 
 myself, 
 The worst of fools — I die if he forsakes 
 
 me; 
 And now to keep him, heaven or hell in- 
 struct me. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. The Rialto. 
 (Enter Jaffeir.) 
 
 Jaff. I am here, and thus, the shades of 
 
 night around me, 
 I look as if all hell were in my heart. 
 And I in hell. Nay, surely 't is so with 
 
 me; — 
 For every step I tread, methinks some 
 
 fiend 
 Knocks at my breast, and bids it not be 
 
 quiet : 
 I've heard, how desperate wretches, like 
 
 myself, 
 Have wandered out at this dead time of 
 
 night 
 
 fore burial 
 
 Ephesus, who in- 
 
 even mutilated 
 
 10 munching, 
 
 nib 
 
 13 The allusion i» 
 
 trigued with the 
 
 the corpse. 
 
 bling (!); 
 
 grim 
 
 to the widespread 
 
 soldier set to 
 
 14 restrain your 
 
 acing (?). 
 
 
 cvnical story of 
 
 watch her dead 
 
 fool. 
 
 
 
 the Widow of 
 
 husband, and 
 
 15 scamper, whisk. 
 
 
 
468 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 To meet the foe of mankind in his walk : 
 Sure I'm so curst, that, tho' of Heaven 
 
 forsaken, 
 No minister of darkness cares to tempt 
 
 me. 
 Hell! hell! why sleepest thou? 
 
 {Enter Pierre.) 
 
 Pierr. Sure I have stayed too long : 
 
 The clock has struck, and I may lose my 
 
 proselyte. 
 Speak, who goes there? 
 Jaf. A dog, that comes to howl 
 
 At yonder moon : what 's he that asks the 
 question ? 
 Pierr. A friend of dogs, for they are hon- 
 est creatures 
 And ne'er betray their masters; never 
 
 fawn 
 On any that they love not. Well met, 
 
 friend : 
 Jaffeir ! 
 Jaf. The same. Pierre ! thou art come 
 in season, 
 I was just going to pray. 
 Pierr. Ah, that 's mechanic, 
 
 Priests make a trade on 't, and yet starve 
 
 by it too: 
 No praying, it spoils business, and time 's 
 
 precious; 
 Where 's Belvidera ? 
 Jajf. For a day or two 
 
 I 've lodged her privately till I see farther 
 What fortune wiU do with me. Prithee, 
 
 friend. 
 If thou wouldst have me fit to hear good 
 
 counsel. 
 Speak not of Belvidera — ^ 
 Pierr. Speak not of her? 
 
 Jaf. Oh no ! 
 Pierr. Nor name her? May be I 
 
 wish her well. 
 Jaff. Who well? 
 
 Pierr. Thy wife, thy lovely Belvidera ; 
 
 I hope a man may wish his friend's wife 
 
 well. 
 And no harm done ! 
 Jaf. Y' are merry, Pierre ! 
 
 Pierr. I am so: 
 
 Thou shalt smile too, and Belvidera 
 
 smile; 
 We'll all rejoice; here's something to 
 
 buy pins. 
 Marriage is chargeable. 
 Jaf. I but half wished 
 
 To see the Devil, and he 's here already. 
 Well! 
 
 What must this buy, rebellion, murder, 
 treason? 
 
 Tell me which way I must be damned for 
 this. 
 Pierr. When last we parted, we had no 
 qualms like these. 
 But entertained each other's thoughts like 
 
 men 
 Whose souls were well acquainted. Is 
 
 the world 
 Reformed since our last meeting? What 
 
 new miracles 
 Have happened? Has Priuli's heart re- 
 lented? 
 Can he be honest? 
 Jaf. Kind Heaven ! let heavy curses 
 
 ■Gall his old age; cramps, aches, rack his 
 
 bones; 
 And bitterest disquiet wring his heart ; 
 Oh, let him live till life become his bur- 
 den! 
 Let him groan under 't long, linger an 
 
 age 
 In the worst agonies and pangs of death. 
 And find its ease but late ! 
 Pierr. Nay, couldst thou not 
 
 As well, my friend, have stretched the 
 
 curse to all 
 The Senate round, as to one single vil- 
 lain? 
 Jaf. But curses stick not: could I kill 
 with cursing. 
 By' Heaven, I know not thirty heads in 
 
 Venice 
 Should not be blasted; senators should 
 
 rot 
 Like dogs on dunghills; but their wives 
 
 and daughters 
 Die of their own diseases. Oh, for a 
 
 curse 
 To kill with! 
 Pierr. Daggers, daggers, are much better ! 
 Jaf. Ha! 
 Pierr. Daggers. 
 
 Jaf. But where are they ? 
 
 Pierr. Oh, a thousand 
 
 May be disposed in honest hands in 
 Venice. 
 Jaf. Thou talk'st in clouds. 
 Pierr. But yet a heart half wronged 
 
 As thine has been, would find the mean- 
 ing, Jaffeir. 
 Jaf. A thousand daggers, all in honest 
 * hands; 
 And have not I a friend will stick one 
 here? 
 Pierr. Yes, if I thought thou wert not to 
 be cherished 
 To a nobler purpose, I 'd be that friend. 
 But thou hast better friends, friends, 
 whom thy wrongs 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OB, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 469 
 
 Have made thy friends; friends worthy 
 to be called so ; 
 
 I '11 trust thee with a secret : there are 
 spirits 
 
 This hour at work. But as thou art a 
 man, 
 
 Whom I have picked and chosen from 
 the world," 
 
 Swear, that thou wilt be true to what I 
 utter, 
 
 And when I have told thee, that which 
 only gods 
 
 And men like gods are privy to, then 
 swear, 
 
 No chance or change shall wrest it from 
 thy bosom. 
 Jaf. When thou wouldst bind me, is there 
 need of oaths'? 
 
 (Greensickness ^^ girls lose maidenheads 
 with such counters) 
 
 For thou'rt so near my heart, that thou 
 mayst see 
 
 Its bottom, sound its strength, and firm- 
 ness to thee : 
 
 Is coward, fool, or villain, in my face? 
 
 If I seem none of these, I dare believe 
 
 Thou wouldst not use me in a little cause, 
 
 For I am fit for honor's toughest task ; 
 
 Nor ever yet found fooling was my prov- 
 ince; 
 
 And for a villainous inglorious enterprise, 
 
 I know thy heart so well, I dare lay mine 
 
 Before thee, set it to what point thou 
 wilt. 
 Pierr. Nay, it 's a cause thou wilt be fond 
 of, Jaffeir. 
 
 For it is founded on the noblest basis, 
 
 Our liberties, our natural inheritance ; 
 
 There 's no religion, no hypocrisy in 't; 
 
 We '11 do the business, and ne'er fast and 
 pray for 't : 
 
 Openly act a deed, the world shall gaze 
 
 With wonder at, and envy when it is done. 
 Jaff. For liberty ! 
 Pierr. For liberty, my friend ! 
 
 Thou shalt be freed from base Priuli's 
 tyranny. 
 
 And thy sequestered fortunes healed 
 again. 
 
 I shall be freed from opprobrious wrongs. 
 
 That press me now, and bend my spirit 
 downward : 
 
 All Venice free, and every growing merit 
 
 Succeed to its just right; fools shall be 
 pulled 
 
 From wisdom's seat; those baleful un- 
 clean birds, 
 
 Those lazy owls, who (perched near For- 
 tune's top) 
 
 Sit only watchful with their heavy wings 
 To cuff down new-fledged virtues, that 
 
 would rise 
 To nobler heights, and make the grove 
 
 harmonious. 
 Jaf. What can I do? 
 Pierr, Canst thou not kill a senator? 
 
 Jaf. Were there one wise or honest, I 
 
 could kill him 
 For herding with that nest of fools and 
 
 knaves. 
 By all my wrongs, thou talk'st as if re- 
 venge 
 Were to be had, and the brave story 
 
 warms me. 
 Pierr. Swear, then! 
 
 Jaff. I do, by all those glittering stars 
 
 And yond great ruling planet of the 
 
 night ! 
 By all good powers above, and ill below ! 
 Sy love and friendship, dearer than my 
 
 life! 
 No power or death shall make me false 
 
 to thee. 
 Pierr. Here we embrace, and I '11 unlock 
 
 my heart. 
 A council 's held hard by, where the de- 
 struction 
 Of this great empire 's hatching : there 
 
 I '11 lead thee! 
 But be a man, for thou art to mix with 
 
 men 
 Fit to disturb the peace of all the world, 
 
 And rule it when it 's wildest 
 
 Jaff. I give thee thanks 
 
 For this kind warning: yes, I will be a 
 
 man, 
 And charge thee, Pierre, whene'er thou 
 
 seest my fears 
 Betray me less, to rip this heart of mine 
 Out of my breast, and show it for a 
 
 coward's. 
 Come, let 's begone, for from this hour I 
 
 chase 
 All little thoughts, all tender humane 
 
 follies 
 Out of my bosom: vengeance shall have 
 
 room: 
 Revenge ! 
 Pierr. And liberty ! 
 
 Jaf. Revenge ! revenge ! 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. The Scene changes to Aquilina's 
 house, the Greek Courtesan. 
 
 {Enter 'Renault.) 
 
 17 anaemic. 
 
470 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Benault. Why was my choice ambition, 
 the first ground 
 
 A wretch can build on? It's indeed at 
 distance 
 
 A good prospect, tempting to the view. 
 
 The height delights us, and the mountain 
 top 
 
 Looks beautiful, because it's nigh to 
 heaven, 
 
 But we ne'er think how sandy 's the foun- 
 dation, 
 
 What storm will batter, and what tempest 
 shake us ! 
 
 Wlio's there? 
 
 {Enter Spinosa.) 
 
 Spin. Renault, good morrow ! for by 
 
 this time 
 I think the scale of night has turned the 
 
 balance, 
 And weighs up morning: has the clock 
 
 struck twelve? 
 Ren. Yes, clocks will go as they are set. 
 
 But man, 
 Irregular man 's ne'er constant, never 
 
 certain : 
 I 've spent at least three precious hours 
 
 of darkness 
 In waiting dull attendance ; 't is the curse 
 Of diligent virtue to be mixed like mine, 
 With giddy tempers, souls but half re- 
 solved. 
 Spin. Hell seize that soul amongst us it 
 
 can frighten! 
 Ren. What 's then the cause that I am here 
 
 alone ? 
 Why are we not together? 
 
 (Enter Eliot.) 
 
 sir, welcome! 
 You are an Englishman : when treason 's 
 
 hatching 
 One might have thought you'd not have 
 
 been behindhand. 
 In what whore's lap have you been loll- 
 ing? 
 Give but an Englishman his whore and 
 
 ease, 
 Beef and a sea-coal fire, he's yours for 
 ever. 
 Eliot. Frenchman, you are saucy. 
 Ren. How ! 
 
 (Enter Bedamar the Ambassador, Theodore, 
 Brainveil, Durand, Brabe, Rev[i]llido, 
 Mezzana, Ternon, Retroai, Conspirators.) 
 
 Beda. At difference, fie! 
 
 Is this a time for quarrels? Thieves and 
 rogues 
 
 Fall out and brawl: should men of your 
 
 . high calling. 
 Men separated by the choice of Provi- 
 dence 
 From the gross heap of mankind, and set 
 
 here 
 In this great assembly, as in one great 
 
 jewel. 
 To adorn the bravest purpose it e'er 
 
 smiled on, — 
 
 Should you like boys wrangle for trifles? 
 
 Ben. Boys ! 
 
 Beda. Renault, thy hand ! 
 
 Ren. I thought I 'd given my heart 
 
 Long since to every man that mingles 
 
 here; 
 But grieve to find it trusted with such 
 
 tempers, 
 That can't forgive my froward age its 
 
 weakness. 
 Beda. Eliot, thou once hadst virtue; I 
 
 have seen 
 Thy stubborn temper bend with godhke 
 
 goodness. 
 Not half thus courted : 't is thy nation's \ 
 
 glory, i 
 
 To hug the foe that offers brave alliance. 
 Once more embrace, my friends — we'll 
 
 all embrace — 
 United thus, we are the mighty engine 
 Must twist this rooted empire from its ; 
 
 basis ! 
 Totters it not already? 
 Eliot. Would it were tumbUng ! 
 
 Beda. Nay, it shall down: this night we 
 
 seal its ruin. 
 
 (Enter Pierre.) 
 
 Pierre ! thou art welcome ! 
 
 Come to my breast, for by its hopes thou 
 
 look'st 
 Lovelily dreadful, and the fate of Venice 
 Seems on thy sword already. my 
 
 Mars! 
 The poets that first feigned a god of war 
 Sure prophesied of thee. s 
 
 Pierr. Friends! was not Brutus, I 
 
 (I mean that BrutuS who in open senate 
 Stabbed the first Caesar that usurped the 
 
 world) 
 A gallant man? 
 Ren. . Yes, and Catiline too; 
 
 Though story wrong his fame ; for he con- ' 
 
 spired 
 To prop the reeling glory of his country; 
 His cause was good. 
 Beda. And ours as much above it, 
 
 As, Renault, thou art superior to Cethe- 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 471 
 
 Or Pierre to Cassius. 
 Pierr. Then to what we aim at, 
 
 When do we start? or must we talk for 
 ever? 
 Beda. No, Pierre, the deed's near birth: 
 fate seems to have set 
 
 The business up, and given it to our care ; 
 
 I hope there 's not a heart nor hand 
 amongst us 
 
 But is firm and ready. 
 All. All! "We '11 die with Bedamar. 
 
 Beda. men, 
 
 Matchless, as will your glory be here- 
 after ! 
 
 The game is for a matchless prize, if won ; 
 
 If lost, disgraceful ruin. 
 Ren. What can lose it? 
 
 The public stock's a beggar; one Vene- 
 tian 
 
 Trusts not another. Look into their 
 stores 
 
 Of general safety ; empty magazines, 
 
 A tattered fleet, a murmuring unpaid 
 army, 
 
 Bankrupt nobility, a harassed common- 
 ally, 
 
 A factious, giddy, and divided Senate, 
 
 Is all the strength of Venice. Let 's de- 
 stroy it; 
 
 Let 's fill their magazines with arms to 
 awe them, 
 
 Man out their fleet, and make their trade 
 maintain it; 
 
 Let loose the murmuring army on their 
 masters. 
 
 To pay themselves with plunder; lop 
 their nobles 
 
 To the' base roots, whence most of 'em 
 first sprung; 
 
 Enslave the rout, whom smarting will 
 make humble; 
 
 Turn out their droning Senate, and pos- 
 sess 
 
 That seat of empire which our souls were 
 framed for. 
 Pierr. Ten thousand men are armed at 
 your nod, 
 
 Commanded all by leaders fit to guide 
 
 A battle for the freedom of the world ; 
 
 This wretched state has starved them in 
 its service, 
 
 And by your bounty quickened, they're 
 resolved 
 
 To serve your glory, and revenge their 
 own! 
 
 Th' have all their different quarters in 
 this city. 
 
 Watch for the alarm, and grumble 't is so 
 tardy. 
 
 Beda. I doubt not, friend, but thy un- 
 wearied diligence 
 
 Has still kept waking, and it shall have 
 ease. 
 
 After this night it is resolved we meet 
 
 No more, till Venice own us for her lords. 
 Pierr. How love[li]ly the Adriatic whore. 
 
 Dressed in her flames, will shine ! devour- 
 ing flames ! 
 
 Such as shall burn her to the watery bot- 
 tom 
 
 And hiss in her foundation. 
 Beda. Now if any 
 
 Amongst us that owns this glorious cause 
 
 Have friends or interest he'd wish to 
 save. 
 
 Let it be told; the general doom is sealed; 
 
 But i 'd forego the hopes of a world's em- 
 pire. 
 
 Rather than wound the bowels of my 
 friend. 
 Pierr. I must confess, you there have 
 touched my weakness, 
 
 I have a friend ; hear it, such a friend ! 
 
 My heart was ne'er shut to him : nay, I '11 
 tell you. 
 
 He knows the very business of this hour; 
 
 But he rejoices in the cause, and loves it ; 
 
 We 've changed a vow to live and die to- 
 gether. 
 
 And he 's at hand to ratify it here. 
 Ben. How! all betrayed? 
 
 Pierr. No — I 've dealt nobly with you ; 
 
 I 've brought my all into the public stock; 
 
 I had but one friend, and him I '11 share 
 amongst you ! 
 
 Receive and cherish him : or if, when seen 
 
 And searched, you find him worthless, as 
 my tongue 
 
 Has lodged this secret in his faithful 
 breast. 
 
 To ease your fears I wear a dagger here 
 
 Shall rip it out again, and give you rest. 
 
 Come forth, thou only good I e'er could 
 boast of. 
 
 (Enter Jaffeir with a dagger.) 
 Beda. His presence bears the show of 
 
 manly virtue. 
 Jaf. I know you '11 wonder all, that thus 
 uncalled, 
 
 I dare approach this place of fatal coun- 
 sels; 
 
 But I 'm amongst you, and by Heaven it 
 glads me. 
 
 To see so many virtues thus united. 
 
 To restore justice Tind dethrone oppres- 
 sion. 
 
 Command this sword, if you would have 
 it quiet, 
 
472 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Into this breast; but if you think it 
 
 worthy 
 To cut the throats of reverend rogues in 
 
 robes, 
 Send me into the curst assembled Senate ; 
 It shrinks not, though I meet a father 
 
 there. 
 Would you behold this city flaming? 
 
 Here 's 
 A hand shall bear a lighted torch at 
 
 noon 
 To the arsenal, and set its gates on fire. 
 Rep. You talk this well, sir. 
 Jaf. Nay — by Heaven I '11 do this. 
 
 Come, come, I read distrust in all your 
 
 faces; 
 Tou fear me a villain, and indeed it's 
 
 odd 
 To hear a stranger talk thus at first meet- 
 ing, 
 Of matters, that have been so well de- 
 bated ; 
 But I come ripe with wrongs as you with 
 
 counsels, 
 I hate this Senate, am a foe to Venice; 
 A friend to none, but men resolved like 
 
 me, 
 To push on mischief; oh, did you but 
 
 know me, 
 I need not talk thus ! 
 Beda. Pierre ! I must embrace him. 
 
 My heart beats to this man as if it knew 
 
 him. 
 Ben. I never loved these buggers. 
 Jaf. Still I see 
 
 The cause delights me not. Your friends 
 
 survey me. 
 As I were dangerous — ^but I come armed 
 Against all doubts, and to your trust will 
 
 give 
 A pledge, worth more than all the world 
 
 can pay for. 
 My Belvidera! Ho! My Belvidera! 
 Bed,a. What wonder next 1 
 Jaff. Let me entreat you. 
 
 As I have henceforth hopes to call ye 
 
 friends. 
 That all but the ambassador, [and] this 
 Grave guide of councils, with my friend 
 
 that owns me, 
 Withdraw a while to spare a woman's 
 
 blushes. 
 {Exeunt all but Bedamar, Benault, Jaffeir, 
 
 Pierre.) 
 Beda. Pierre, whither will this ceremony 
 
 lead us? 
 Jaff. My Belvidera ! Belvidera ! 
 
 {Enter Belvidera.) 
 
 Belv. Who? 
 
 Who calls so loud at this late peaceful 
 
 hour? 
 That voice was wont to come in gentler 
 
 whispers. 
 And fill my ears with the soft breath of 
 
 love: 
 Thou hourly image of my thoughts, where 
 
 art thou? 
 Jaff. Indeed, 'tis late. 
 Belv. Oh ! I have slept and dreamt, 
 
 And dreamt again. Where hast thou 
 
 been, thou loiterer? 
 Though my eyes closed, my arms have 
 
 still been opened; 
 Stretched every way betwixt my broken 
 
 slumbers, 
 To search if thou wert come to crown my 
 
 rest; 
 There 's no repose without thee. Oh, the 
 
 day 
 Too soon will break, and wake us to our 
 
 sorrow; 
 Come, come to bed, and bid thy cares 
 
 good-night. 
 Jaf. Belvidera! we must change the 
 
 scene 
 In which the past delights of life were 
 
 tasted : 
 The poor sleep little, we must learn to 
 
 watch 
 Our labors late, and early every morn- 
 ing, 
 Midst winter frosts, thin clad and fed 
 
 with sparing. 
 Rise to our toils, and drudge away the 
 
 day. 
 Belv. Alas ! where am I ? whither is 't you 
 
 lead me? 
 Methinks I read distraction in your face, 
 Something less gentle than the fate you 
 
 tell me : 
 You shake and tremble too! your blood 
 
 runs cold! 
 Heavens guard my love, and bless his 
 
 heart with patience ! 
 Jaf. That I have patience, let our fate 
 
 bear witness. 
 Who has ordained it so, that thou and I, 
 (Thou the divinest good man e'er pos- 
 sessed. 
 And I the wretched'st of the race of 
 
 man) 
 This very hour, without one tear, must 
 
 part. 
 Belv. Part ! must we part? ! am I then 
 
 forsaken ? 
 Will my love cast me off? have my mis- 
 fortunes 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 473 
 
 Offended him so highly, that he '11 leave 
 me? 
 
 "Why drag you from me ; whither are you 
 going? 
 
 My dear ! my life ! my love ! 
 Jaf. Oh friends! 
 
 Belv. Speak to me. 
 Jaff. Take her from my heart; 
 
 She'U gain such hold else, I shall ne'er 
 get loose. 
 
 I charge thee take her, but with tenderest 
 care 
 
 Relieve her troubles and assuage her sor- 
 rows. 
 Ben. Rise, madam ! and command amongst 
 
 your sei'vants! 
 Jaff. To you, sirs, and your honors, I be- 
 queath her, 
 
 And with her this, when I prove un- 
 worthy — 
 
 {Gives a dagger.) 
 
 You know the rest — ^then strike it to her 
 heart; 
 
 And tell her, he, who three whole happy 
 years 
 
 Lay in her arms, and each kind night re- 
 peated 
 
 The passionate vows of still-increasing 
 love, 
 
 Sent that reward for all her truth and 
 sufferings. 
 Belv. Nay, take my life, since he has sold 
 it cheaply; 
 
 Or send me to some distant clime your 
 slave, 
 
 But let it be far off, lest my complain- 
 ings 
 
 Should reach his guilty ears, and shake 
 his peace. 
 Jaff. No, Belvidera, I've contrived thy 
 honor. 
 
 Trust to my faith, and be but fortune 
 kind 
 
 To me, as I'll preserve that faith un- 
 broken. 
 
 When next we meet, I'll lift thee to a 
 height. 
 
 Shall gather all the gazing world about 
 thee, 
 
 To wonder what strange virtue placed 
 thee there. 
 
 But if we ne'er meet more 
 
 Belv. thou unkind one, 
 
 Never meet more? have I deserved this 
 from you? 
 
 Look on me, tell me, tell me, speak, thou 
 dear deceiver, 
 
 Why am I separated from thy love? 
 
 If I am false; accuse me; but if true. 
 
 Don't, prithee, don't in poverty forsake 
 
 me. 
 But pity the sad heart, that 's torn with 
 parting. 
 
 Yet hear me ! yet recall me 
 
 {Exeunt Renault, Bedamar, and Belvidera.) 
 
 Jaff. my eyes ! 
 
 Look not that way, but turn yourselves 
 
 awhile 
 Into my heart, and be weaned all to- 
 gether. 
 My friend, where art thou ? 
 Pierr. Here, my honor's brother. 
 
 Jaff. Is Belvidera gone? 
 Pierr. Renault has led her 
 
 Back to her own apartment; but, by 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Thou must not see her more till our 
 work 's over. 
 Jaff. No? 
 
 Pierr. Not for your life. 
 Jaff. O Pierre, wert thou but she, 
 
 How I could pull thee down into my 
 
 heart, 
 Gaze on thee till my eye-strings cracked 
 
 with love, 
 Till all my sinews with its fire extended 
 Fixed me upon the rack of ardent long- 
 ing; 
 Then swelling, sighiAg, raging to be blest. 
 Come like a panting turtle to thy breast. 
 On thy soft bosom, hovering, bill and 
 
 play. 
 Confess the cause why last I fled away; 
 Own 'twas a fault, but swear to give it 
 
 o'er 
 And never follow false ambition more. 
 {Exeunt ambo.) 
 
 ACT III 
 
 SCKNE 1. 
 
 {Enter Aquilina and her Maid.) 
 
 Aquil. Tell him I am gone to bed : tell him 
 I am not at home ; tell him I 've better 
 company with me, or any thing; tell him, 
 in short, I will not see him, the eternal, 
 troublesome, vexatious fool: he's worse 
 company than an ignorant physician — 
 I 'II not be disturbed at these unseason- 
 able hours. 
 
 Maid. But madam! He's here already, 
 just entered the doors. 
 
 Aquil. Turn him out again, you unneces- 
 sary, useless, giddy-brained ass ! If he 
 will not be gone, set the house a-fire and 
 burn us both ; I had rather meet a toad in 
 
474 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 my dish than that old hideous animal in 
 my chamber to-night. 
 
 {Enter Antonio.) 
 
 Anto. Naeky, Nacky, Nacky — how dost do, 
 Nacky? Hurry durry. I am come, lit- 
 tle Nacky; past eleven o'clock, a late 
 hour; time in all conscience to go to bed, 
 Naeky — Naeky, did I say? Ay Nacky; 
 Aquilina, Una, lina, quilina, quilina, qui- 
 lina, Aquilina, Naquilina, Naquilina, 
 Aeky, Acky, Nacky, Nacky, Queen Nacky 
 — come let 's to bed — ^you f ubbs, you pugg 
 you — you little puss — purree tuzzey — I 
 am a senator. 
 
 Aquil. You are a fool, I am sure. 
 
 Anto. May be so too, sweetheart. Never 
 the worse senator for all that. Come 
 Nacky, Nacky, let's have a game at 
 rump, Nacky. 
 
 Aquil. You would do well, signior, to be 
 troublesome here no longer, but leave me 
 to myself; be sober and go home, sir. 
 
 Anto. Home, Madonna! 
 
 Aquil. Ay, home, sir. Who am I? 
 
 Anto. Madonna, as I take it, you are my 
 ^-you are — thou art my little Nicky 
 Nacky — that's all! 
 
 Aquil. I find you are resolved to be 
 troublesome, and so to make short of the 
 matter in few words, I hate you, detest 
 you, loathe you, I am weary of you, sick 
 of you — hang you, you are an old, silly, 
 impertinent, impotent, solicitous coxcomb, 
 crazy in your head, and lazy in your body, 
 love to be meddling with everything, and 
 if you had not money, you are good for 
 nothing. 
 
 Anto. "Good for nothing !" HuiTy durry, 
 I '11 try that presently. Sixty-one years 
 old, and good for nothing : that 's brave ! 
 (To the Maid.) Come, come, come. Mis- 
 tress Fiddle-faddle, turn you out for a 
 season; go turn out, I say, it is our will 
 and pleasure to be private some moments 
 — out, out when you are bid to — (Puts 
 her out and locks the door.) "Good for 
 nothing," you say. 
 
 Aquil. Why, what are you good for? 
 
 Anto. In the first place, madam, I am old, 
 and consequently very wise, very wise, 
 Madonna, d'ye mark that? in the second 
 place, take notice, if you please, that I am 
 a senator, and when I think fit can make 
 speeches. Madonna. Hurry durry, I can 
 make a speech in the Senate-house now 
 and then — would make your hair stand on 
 end, Madonna. 
 
 Aquil. What care I for your speeches in 
 
 the Senate-house? If you would be si- 
 lent here, I should thank you. 
 
 Anto. Why, I can make speeches to thee 
 too, my lovely Madonna; for example — 
 my cruel fair one, (takes out a purse of 
 gold and at every pause shakes it), since 
 it is my fate, that you should with your 
 servant angry prove ; tho' late at night — 
 I hope 't is not too late with this to gain 
 reception for my love — there 's for thee, 
 my little Nicky Nacky — take it, here take 
 it — I say take it, or I '11 throw it at your 
 head — how now, rebel! 
 
 Aquil: Truly, my illustrious Senator, I 
 must confess your honor is at present 
 most profoundly eloquent indeed. 
 
 Anto. Very well ; come, now let 's sit down 
 and think upon 't a little — come sit I say 
 — sit down by me a little, my Nicky 
 Nacky, ha! — (Sits down.) Hurry durry 
 "good for nothing!" 
 
 Aquil. No, sir, if you please, I can know 
 my distance and stand. 
 
 Anto. Stand: how? Nacky up and I 
 down! Nay, then, let me exclaim with 
 the poet. 
 
 Show me a case more pitiful who can, 
 A standing woman, and a falling man. 
 Hurry durry — not sit down — see this, ye 
 gods — You won't sit down ? 
 
 Aquil. No, sir. 
 
 Anto. Then look yon now, suppose me a 
 bull, a Basan-bull, the bull of bulls, or 
 any bull. Thus up I get and with my 
 brows thus bent — I broo, I say I broo, I 
 broo, I broo. You won't sit down, will 
 you? — I broo 
 
 (Bellows like a bull, and drives her about.) 
 
 Aquil. Well, sir, I must endure this. (She 
 sits down. ) Now your honor has been a 
 bull, pray what beast will your worship 
 please to be next? 
 
 Anto. Now I'll be a senator again, and 
 thy lover, little Nicky Nacky! (Ee sits 
 by her.) Ah toad, toad, toad, toad! spit 
 in my face, a little, Nacky — spit in my 
 face prithee, spit 'in my face, never so 
 little : spit but a little bit— spit, spit, spit, 
 spit, when you are bid, I say; do prithee 
 spit — now, now, now, spit: what, you 
 won't spit, will you? Then I '11 be a dog. 
 
 Aquil. A dog, my lord? 
 
 Anto. Ay, a dog — and I '11 give thee this 
 t'other purse to let me be a dog — and to 
 use me like a dog a little. Hurry durry — 
 I will — here 't is. 
 
 (Gives the purse.) 
 
 Aquil. Well, with all ray heart. But let 
 me beseech your dogship to play your 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 475 
 
 tricks over as fast as you can, that you 
 may come to stinking the sooner, and be 
 turned out of doors as you deserve. 
 
 Anto. Ay, ay — no matter for that — that — 
 (He gets under the table.) — shan't move 
 
 me Now, bow wow, wow, bow 
 
 wow . . . 
 
 {Barks like a dog.) 
 
 Aquil. Hold, hold, hold, sir, I beseech you : 
 what is't you do? If curs bite, they 
 must be kicked, sir. Do you see, kicked 
 thus? 
 
 Anto. Ay, with all my heart : do kick, kick 
 on, now I am under the table, kick again 
 — kick harder — harder yet, bow wow 
 wow, wow, bow — 'od, I '11 have a snap at 
 thy shins — bow wow wow, wow, bow — 
 'od, she kicks bravely. 
 
 Aquil. Nay, then I'll go another way to 
 work with you ; and I think here 's an in- 
 strument fit for the purpose. (Fetches a 
 whip and bell.) What, bite your mis- 
 tress, sirrah! out, out of doors, you dog, 
 to kennel and be hanged — ^bite your mis- 
 tress by the legs, you rogue 
 
 (She whips him.) 
 
 Anto. Nay, prithee, Naeky, now thou art 
 too loving: hurry durry, 'od I'll be a 
 dog no longer. 
 
 Aquil. Nay, none of your fawning and 
 grinning : but be gone, or here 's the disci- 
 pline : what, bite your mistress by the 
 legs, you mongrel? out of doors — hout, 
 hout, to kennel, sirrah! go. 
 
 Anto. This is very barbarous usage, 
 Nacky, very barbarous : look you, I will 
 not go — I will not stir from the door, that 
 I resolve — ^hurry durry, what, shut me 
 out? 
 
 (She whips him out.) 
 
 Aquil. Ay, and if you come here any more 
 to-night I '11 have my footman lug you, 
 you cur: what, bite your poor mistress 
 Naeky, sirrah! 
 
 (Enter Maid.) 
 
 Maid. Heavens, madam! What's the 
 matter? 
 
 (He howls at the door like a dog.) 
 
 Aquil. Call my footmen hither presently. 
 (Enter two Footmen.) 
 
 Maid. They are here already, madam, the 
 house is all alarmed with a strange noise, 
 that nobody knows what to make of. 
 
 Aquil. Go all of you and turn that trouble- 
 some beast in the next room out of my 
 house — if I ever see him within these 
 walls again, without my leave for his ad- 
 mittance, you sneaking rogues, I '11 have 
 
 you poisoned all, poisoned like rats ; every 
 corner of the house shall stink of one of 
 you; go, and learn hereafter to know my 
 pleasure. So now for my Pierre: 
 Thus when godlike lover was displeased. 
 We sacrifice our fool and he 's appeased. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 (Enter Belvidera.) 
 
 Belv. I'm sacrificed! I am sold! be- 
 trayed to shame! 
 Inevitable ruin has inclosed me! 
 No sooner was I to my bed repaired 
 To weigh, and (weeping) ponder my con- 
 dition. 
 But the old hoary wretch, to whose false 
 
 care 
 My peace and honor was entrusted, came 
 (Like Tarquin) ghastly with infernal 
 lust. 
 
 thou, Roman Luereee! Thou eouldst 
 
 find friends 
 To vindicate thy wrong; 
 
 1 never had but one, and he 's proved 
 
 false ; 
 
 He that should guard my virtue has be- 
 trayed it; 
 
 Left me! undone me! that I could 
 hate him! 
 
 Where shall I go? whither, whither 
 wander? 
 
 (Enter Jaffeir.) 
 
 Jaff. Can Belvidera want a resting place, 
 When these poor arms are open to re- 
 ceive her? 
 Oh, 't is in vain to struggle with desires 
 Strong as my love to thee; for every mo- 
 ment 
 I am from thy sight, the heart within my 
 
 bosom 
 Moans like a tender infant in its cradle 
 Whose nurse has left i't; come, and with 
 
 the songs 
 Of gentle love persuade it to its peace. 
 Belv. I fear the stubborn wanderer will 
 not own me, 
 'T is grown a rebel to be ruled no longer, 
 Scorns the indulgent bosom that first 
 
 lulled it, 
 And like a disobedient child disdains 
 The soft authority of Belvidera. 
 
 Jaff. There was a time 
 
 Belv. Yes, yes, there was a time 
 
 When Belvidera's tears, her cries, and 
 sorrows. 
 
476 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Were not despised; when if she chanced 
 
 to sigh, 
 Or look but sad — there was indeed a time 
 When JafEeir would have ta'en her in his 
 
 arms, 
 Eased her declining head upon his breast, 
 And never left her till he found the cause. 
 But let her now weep seas, 
 Cry, till she rend the earth; sigh till she 
 
 burst 
 Her heart asunder; still he bears it all; 
 Deaf as the wind, and as the rocks un- 
 shaken. 
 Jaff. Have I been deaf? am I that rock 
 
 unmoved. 
 Against whose root tears beat and sighs 
 
 are sent? 
 ' In vain have I beheld thy sorrows calmly ! 
 Witness against me, Heavens, have I 
 
 done this? 
 Then bear me in a whirlwind back again, 
 And let that angry dear one ne'er forgive 
 
 me! 
 
 thou too rashly eensurest of my love ! 
 Couldst thou but think how I have spent 
 
 this night. 
 
 Dark and alone, no pillow to my head, 
 
 Rest in my eyes, nor quiet in my heart, 
 
 Thou wouldst not, Belvidera, sure thou 
 wouldst not 
 
 Talk to me thus, but like a pitying an- 
 gel. 
 
 Spreading thy wings, come settle on my 
 breast, 
 
 And hatch warm comfort there, ere sor- 
 rows freeze it. 
 Belv. Why, then, poor mourner, in what 
 baleful comer 
 
 Hast thou been talking with that witch 
 tbe Night? 
 
 On what cold stone hast thou been 
 stretched along, 
 
 Gathering the grumbling winds about thy 
 head. 
 
 To mix with theirs the accents of thy 
 woes! 
 
 Oh, now I find the cause my love for- 
 sakes me ! 
 
 1 am no longer fit to bear a share 
 
 In his concernments: my weak female 
 
 virtue 
 Must not be trusted; 'tis too frail and 
 
 tender. 
 Jaff. Portia! Portia! what a soul was 
 
 thine ! 
 Beh). That Portia was a woman, and when 
 
 Brutus, 
 Big with the fate of Rome (Heaven 
 
 guard thy safety!). 
 
 Concealed from her the labors of his 
 mind. 
 
 She let him see her blood was great as 
 his. 
 
 Flowed from a spring as noble, and a 
 heart 
 
 Fit to partake his troubles, as his love. 
 
 Fetch, fetch that dagger back, the dread- 
 ful dower 
 
 Thou gavest last night in parting with 
 me; strike it 
 
 Here to my heart ; and as the blood flows 
 from it. 
 
 Judge if it run not pure as Cato's daugh- 
 ter's. 
 Jaff. Thou art too good, and I indeed un- 
 worthy, 
 
 Unworthy so much virtue : teach me how 
 
 I may deserve such matchless love as 
 thine. 
 
 And see with what attention I 'U obey 
 thee. 
 Belv. Do not despise me : that 's the all 
 I ask. 
 
 Jaff. Despise thee! Hear me 
 
 Belv. Oh, thy charming tongue 
 
 Is but too well acquainted with my weak- 
 
 Knows, let it name but love, my melting 
 
 heart 
 Dissolves within my breast; till with 
 
 closed eyes 
 I reel into thy arms, and all 's forgotten. 
 Jaff. What shall I do? 
 Belv. . Tell me ! be just, and tell me 
 
 Why dwells that busy cloud upon thy 
 
 face? 
 Why am I made a stranger? why that 
 
 sigh. 
 And I not know the cause? Why, when 
 
 the world 
 Is wrapt in rest, why chooses then my 
 
 love 
 To wander up and down in horrid dark- 
 ness. 
 Loathing his bed, and these desiring 
 
 arms? 
 Why are these eyes bloodshot with tedi- 
 ous watching? 
 Why starts he now? and looks as if he 
 
 wished 
 His fate were finished? Tell me, ease 
 
 my fears; 
 Lest, when we next time meet, I want the 
 
 power 
 To search into the sickness of thy mind, 
 But talk as wildly then as thou look'st 
 
 now. 
 Jaff. Belvidera! 
 
- VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 477 
 
 Belv. Why was I last night delivered to a 
 
 villain? 
 Jaff. Ha, a villain ! 
 
 Belv. Yes ! to a villain ! Why at such an 
 hour. 
 
 Meets that assembly all made up of 
 wretches 
 
 That look as hell had drawn 'em into 
 league? 
 
 Why, I in this hand, and in that a dag- 
 ger. 
 
 Was I delivered with such dreadful cere- 
 monies ? 
 
 ■"'To you, sirs, and to your honor I be- 
 queath her, 
 
 And with her this : whene'er I prove un- 
 worthy — 
 
 You know the rest, — then strike it to her 
 heart?" 
 
 Oh! why's that rest concealed from me? 
 Must I 
 
 Be made the hostage of a hellish trust? 
 
 For such I know I am; that's all my 
 value ! 
 
 But by the love and loyalty I owe thee, 
 
 I 'U free thee from the bondage of these 
 slaves ; 
 
 Straight to the Senate, tell 'em all I know, 
 
 All that I think, all that my fears inform 
 me! 
 Jaff. Is this the Roman virtue! this the 
 blood 
 
 That boasts its purity with Cato's daugh- 
 ter! 
 
 Would she have e'er betrayed her Brutus ? 
 Belv. No : 
 
 For Brutus trusted her: wert thou so 
 kind. 
 
 What would not Belvidera suffer for 
 thee? 
 Jaf. I shall undo myself, and tell thee all. 
 Belv. Look not upon me, as I am a woman, 
 
 But as a bone,^« thy wife, thy friend, 
 who long 
 
 Has had admission to thy heart, and there 
 
 Studied the virtues of thy gallant na- 
 ture; 
 
 Thy constancy, thy courage and thy 
 truth. 
 
 Have been my daily lesson : I have learnt 
 them. 
 
 Am bold as thou, can suffer or despise 
 
 The worst of fates for thee, and with 
 thee share them. 
 Jaff. Oh you divinest powers! look down 
 and hear 
 
 My prayers! instruct me to reward this 
 virtue! 
 
 Yet think a little ere thou tempt me fur- 
 ther: 
 
 Think I have a tale to tell, will shake thy 
 nature. 
 
 Melt all this boasted constancy thou 
 talk'st of 
 
 Into vile tears and despicable sorrows : 
 
 Then if thou shouldst betray me ! 
 Belv. Shall I swear? 
 
 Jaff. No: do not swear: I would not vio- 
 late 
 
 Thy tender nature with so rude a bond : 
 
 But as thou.hopest to see me live my 
 days. 
 
 And love thee long, lock this within thy 
 breast ; 
 
 I've bound myself by all the strictest 
 sacraments 
 
 Divine and human 
 
 Belv. Speak ! ■• 
 
 Jaff. To kill thy father 
 
 Belv. My father! 
 
 Jaff. Nay, the throats of the whole Senate 
 
 Shall bleed, my Belvidera : he amongst us 
 
 That spares his father, brother, or his 
 friend. 
 
 Is damned. How rich and- beauteous 
 will the face 
 
 Of ruin look, when these wide streets run 
 blood ; 
 
 I and the glorious partners of my for- 
 tune 
 
 Shouting, and striding o'er the prostrate 
 dead. 
 
 Still to new waste; whilst thou, far off 
 in safety 
 
 Smiling, shalt see the wonders of our 
 daring ; 
 
 And when night comes, with praise and 
 love receive me! 
 Belv. Oh! , 
 
 Jaff. Have a care, and shrink not even 
 in thought! 
 
 For if thou dost 
 
 Belv. I know it, thou wilt kiU me. 
 
 Do, strike thy sword into this bosom: 
 lay me 
 
 Dead on the earth, and then thou wilt be 
 
 Murder my father! though his cruel na- 
 ture 
 
 Has persecuted me to my undoing, 
 
 Driven me to basest wants, can I behold 
 him. 
 
 With smiles of vengeance, butchered in 
 his age? 
 
 The sacred fountain of my life de- 
 stroyed? 
 
 X8 i. e. "bone of thy bone, flesh of thy flesh." 
 
478 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 And canst thou shed the blood that gave 
 
 me being? 
 Nay, be a traitor too, and sell thy coun- 
 try? 
 Can thy great heart descend so vilely 
 
 low, 
 Mix with hired slaves, bravos, and com- 
 mon stabbers, 
 Nose-slitters, alley-lurking villains? join 
 With such a crew and take a rufi&an's 
 
 wages 
 To. cut the throats of wretches as they 
 
 sleep ? 
 Jaff. Thou wrong'st me, Belvidera ! I 've 
 
 engaged 
 With men of souls, fit to reform the 
 
 ills 
 Of all mankind : there 's not a heart 
 
 amongst them, 
 But 's stout as death, , yet honest as the 
 
 nature 
 Of man first made, ere fraud and vice 
 
 were fashions. 
 Belv. What 's he, to whose curst hands 
 
 last night thou gav'st me? 
 Was that well done! Oh! I could tell a 
 
 story 
 Would rouse thy lion-heart out of its 
 
 den. 
 
 And make it rage, with terrifying fury. 
 
 Jaff. Speak on, I charge thee! 
 
 Belv. my love! if e'er 
 
 Thy Belvidera's peace deserved thy care. 
 
 Remove me from this place: last night, 
 
 last night 
 
 Jaff. Distract me not, but give me all the 
 
 truth. 
 Belv. No sooner wert thou gone, and I 
 
 alone. 
 Left in the power of that old son of mis- 
 chief; 
 No sooner was I lain on my sad bed, 
 But that vile wretch approached me, 
 
 loose, unbuttoned, 
 Ready for violation: then my heart 
 Throbbed with its fears : oh, how I wept 
 
 and sighed 
 And shrunk and trembled; wished in 
 
 vain for him 
 That should protect me. Thou, alas J 
 
 wert gone! 
 Jaff.' Patience, sweet Heaven, till I make 
 
 vengeance sure! 
 Belv. He drew the hideous dagger forth 
 
 thou gav'st him. 
 And with upbraiding smiles, he said, 
 
 "Behold it; 
 This is the pledge of a false husband's 
 
 love :" 
 
 And in my arms then pressed, and would 
 
 have clasped me; 
 But with my cries I scared his coward 
 
 heart, N 
 Till he withdrew, and muttered vows to 
 
 hell. 
 These are thy friends! with these thy 
 
 life, thy honor, 
 Thy love, all 's staked, and all will go to 
 
 ruin. 
 Jaff. No more: I charge thee keep this 
 
 secret close; 
 Clear up thy sorrows, look as if thy 
 
 wrongs 
 Were all forgot, and treat him like a 
 
 friend. 
 As no complaint were made. No more; 
 
 retire. 
 Retire, my life, and doubt not of my 
 
 honor; 
 I '11 heal its failings, and deserve thy 
 
 love. 
 Behi. Oh, should I part with thee, I fear 
 
 thou wilt 
 In anger leave me, and return no 
 
 more. 
 Jaff. Return no more! I would not live 
 
 without thee 
 
 Another night, to purchase the creation. 
 
 Belv. When shall we meet again? 
 
 Jaff. Anon at twelve! 
 
 I '11 steal myself to thy expecting arms. 
 
 Come like a travelled dove and bring 
 
 thee peace. 
 Belv. Indeed ! 
 Jaff. By all our loves ! 
 
 Belv. 'T is hard to part : 
 
 But sure no falsehood e[v]er looked so 
 
 fairly. 
 Farewell — ^remember twelve. 
 {Exit Belvidera.) 
 Jaff. Let Heaven forget me 
 
 When I remember not thy truth, thy 
 
 love. 
 How curst is my condition! tossed and 
 
 justled 
 From every comer; fortune's common 
 
 fool. 
 The jest of rogues, an instrumental ass 
 For villains to lay loads of shame 
 
 upon, 
 And drive about just for their ease and 
 
 scorn. 
 
 {Enter Pierre.) 
 
 Pierr. Jafifeir ! 
 
 Jaff. Who calls? 
 
 Pierr. A friend, that could have wished 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 479 
 
 To have found thee otherwise employed: 
 
 what, hunt 
 A wife on the dull foil ! ^° sure a staunch 
 
 husband 
 Of all hounds is the dullest! Wilt thou 
 
 never, 
 Never be weaned from caudles and con- 
 fections ? 
 What feminine tale hast thou been lis- 
 tening to, 
 Of unaired shirts; catarrhs and tooth- 
 ache got 
 By thin-soled shoes? Damnation! that 
 
 a fellow 
 Chosen to be sharer in the destruction 
 Of a whole people, should sneak thus in 
 
 corners 
 To ease his fulsome lusts, and fool his 
 
 mind! 
 Jaff. May not a man then trifle out an 
 
 hour 
 With a kind woman and not wrong his 
 
 calling? 
 Pierr. Not in a cause like ours. 
 Jaff. Then, friend, our cause 
 
 Is in a damned condition: for I'll tell 
 
 thee, 
 That canker-worm called lechery has 
 
 touched it; 
 'Tis tainted vilely: wouldst thou think 
 
 it, Renault 
 (That mortified, old, withered, winter 
 
 rogue) 
 Loves simple fornication like a priest; 
 I found him out for watering at my 
 
 wife: 
 He visited her last night like a kind 
 
 guardian : 
 Faith, she has some temptations, that's 
 
 the truth on 't. 
 Pierr. He durst not wrong his trust ! 
 Jaff.. 'Twas something late, though. 
 
 To take the freedom of a lady's chamber. 
 Pierr. Was she in bed? 
 Jaff. Yes, faith, in virgin sheets 
 
 White as her bosom, Pierre, dished 
 
 neatly up, 
 Might tempt a weaker appetite to taste. 
 Oh, how the old fox stunk, I warrant 
 
 thee. 
 When the rank fit was on him! 
 Pierr. Patience guide me! 
 
 He used no violence? 
 Jaff. No, no ! out on 't, violence ! 
 
 Played with her neck, brushed her with 
 
 his grey-beard. 
 Struggled and towzed, tickled her till she 
 
 squeaked a little, 
 
 19 The track of a hunted animal. 
 
 May be, or so — but not a jot of vio- 
 lence r 
 
 Pierr. Damn him! 
 
 Jaff. Ay, so say I: but hush, no more 
 on't; 
 All hitherto is well, and I believe 
 Myself no monster ^ yet : though no man 
 
 What fate he's bom to: sure 'tis near 
 
 the hour 
 We all should meet for our concluding 
 
 orders : 
 Will the ambassador be here in person? 
 Pierr. No; he has sent commission to that 
 villain, 
 Renault, to give the executing charge. 
 I 'd have thee be a man, if possible. 
 And keep thy temper; for a brave re- 
 venge 
 Ne'er comes too late. 
 Jaff. Fear not, I 'm cool as patience : 
 
 Had he completed my dishonor, rather 
 Than hazard the success our hopes are 
 
 ripe for, 
 I 'd bear it all with mortifying virtue. 
 Pierr. He 's yonder coming this way 
 through the hall; 
 Plis thoughts seem full. 
 Jaff. Prithee retire, and leave me 
 
 With him alone : I '11 put him to some 
 
 trial. 
 See how his rotten part will bear the 
 touching. 
 Pierr. Be careful, then. 
 
 (Exit Pierre.) 
 Jaff. Nay, never doubt, but trust me. 
 
 What, be a devil! take a danming oath 
 For shedding native blood! can there be 
 
 a sin 
 In merciful repentance? this villain! 
 
 (Enter Renault.) 
 
 Ren. Perverse ! and peevish ! what a slave 
 is man! 
 To let his itching flesh thus get the better 
 
 of him ! 
 Despatch the tool her husband — that 
 
 were well. 
 Who's there! 
 Jaff. A man. 
 
 Ren. My friend, my near ally! 
 
 The hostage of your faith, my beau- 
 teous charge, 
 Is very well. 
 Jaff. Sir, are you sure of that? 
 
 Stands she in perfect health? beats her 
 
 pulse even? 
 Neither too hot nor cold? 
 
 20 I.e. A cuckold (supposed to wear horns). 
 
480 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Ren. What means that question? 
 
 Jaff. Oh, -women have fantastic consti- 
 tutions, 
 Inconstant as their 'wishes, always 
 
 wavering, 
 And ne'er fixed; was it not boldly done 
 Even at first sight to trust the thing 
 
 I loved 
 (A tempting treasure too.!) with youth 
 
 so fierce 
 And vigorous as thine? but thou art 
 honest. 
 Ren. Who dares accuse me? 
 Jaff. Curst be him that doubts 
 
 Thy virtue: I have tried it, and declare, 
 Were I to choose a guardian of my 
 
 honor, 
 I 'd put it into thy keeping ; for I know 
 thee. 
 Ren. Know me ! 
 
 Jaff. Ay, know thee : there 's 
 
 no falsehood in thee. 
 Thou look'st just as thou art: let us 
 
 embrace. 
 Now wouldst thou cut my throat or I 
 cut thine? 
 Ren. You dare not do 't. 
 Jaff. You lie, sir. 
 
 Ren. How ! 
 
 Jaff. No more. 
 
 'T is a base world, and must reform, 
 that 's aU. 
 
 (Enter Spinosa, Theodore, Eliot, Revillido, 
 Durand, Brainveil, and the rest of the 
 Conspirators.) 
 
 Ren. Spinosa, Theodore ! 
 
 Spin. The same. 
 
 Ren. You are welcome! 
 
 Spin. You are trembling, sir. 
 
 Ren. 'T is a cold night indeed, I am aged, 
 
 Full of decay and natural infirmities; 
 
 We shaU be warm, my friend, I hope, 
 to-morrow. 
 
 (Pierre re-enters.) 
 
 Pierr. (aside). 'T was not well done, 
 thou shouldst have stroked him 
 And not. have galled him. 
 Jaff. (aside). Damn him, let 
 
 him chew on 't. 
 Heaven! where am I? beset with cursed 
 
 fiends. 
 That wait to damn me: what a devil's 
 man, 
 
 21 A French spell- 
 ing ■ (derived 
 from the French 
 source) for Zee- 
 
 When he forgets his nature — ^hush, my 
 heart. 
 Ren. My friends, 't is late : are we as- 
 sembled all? 
 Where's Theodore? 
 Theo. At hand. 
 
 Ren. Spinosa. 
 
 Spin. Here. 
 
 Ren. Bra [in] veil. 
 Brain. I 'm ready. 
 Ren. Durand and Brabe. 
 
 Dur. Command us. 
 
 We are both prepared! 
 Ren. Mezzana, Revillido, 
 
 Ternon, Retrosi; oh, you are men, I find, 
 Fit to behold your fate, and meet her 
 
 summons. 
 To-morrow's rising sun must see you all 
 Decked in your honors! Are the sol- 
 diers ready? 
 Omn. All,' all. 
 
 Ren. You, Durand, with your thousand 
 must possess 
 St. Mark's; you, captain, know your 
 
 charge already: 
 'Tis to secure the Ducal Palace: you, 
 Brabe, with a hundred more must gain 
 
 the Seeque.^^ 
 With the like number Brainveil to the 
 
 Procuralle.^^ 
 Be all this done with the least tumult 
 
 possible, 
 Till in each place you post sufficient 
 
 guards : 
 Then sheathe your swords in every 
 breast you meet. 
 Jaff. (aside). reverend cruelty! damned 
 
 bloody villain! 
 Ren. During this execution, Durand, you 
 Must in the midst keep your battalia 
 
 fast. 
 And, Theodore, be sure to plant the can- 
 non 
 That may command the streets; whilst 
 
 Revillido, 
 Mezzana, Temon, and Retrosi, guard 
 
 you. 
 This done, we '11 give the general alarm. 
 Apply petards, and force the arsenal 
 
 gates ; 
 Then fire the city round in several places, 
 Or with our cannon, if it dare resist. 
 Batter it to ruin. But above all I 
 
 charge you 
 Shed blood enough, spare neither sex 
 nor age, 
 
 center," once the 
 residences of the 
 nine procurators, 
 financial otScers. 
 
 ca ; the mint, just 22 This is a mis- on the Piazza of 
 ofC the Piazza of print for Proeur- St. Mark, the 
 St, Mark. atie, two palaces Venetian "civic 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 481 
 
 Name nor condition; if there live a sen- 
 ator 
 
 After to-morrow, though the dullest 
 rogue 
 
 That e'er said nothing, we have lost our 
 ends; 
 
 If possible, let 's kill the very name 
 
 Of senator, and bury it in blood. 
 Jaff. {aside). Merciless, horrid slave! — 
 Ay, blood enough! 
 
 Shed blood enough, old Renault: how 
 thou charm'st me ! 
 Ren. But one thing more, and then fare- 
 well tiU fate 
 
 Join us again^ or separate us ever: 
 
 First, let 's embrace. Heaven knows 
 who next shall thus 
 
 Wing ye together: but let's all remem- 
 ber 
 
 We wear no common cause upon our 
 swords ; 
 
 Let each man think that on his single 
 virtue 
 
 Depends the good and fame of all the 
 rest, 
 
 Eternal honor or perpetual infamy. 
 
 Let 's remember through what dreadful 
 hazards 
 
 Propitious fortune hitherto has led us. 
 
 How often on the brink of some dis- 
 covery 
 
 Have we stood tottering, and yet still 
 kept our ground 
 
 So well, the busiest searchers ne'er could 
 follow 
 
 Those subtle tracks which puzzled all 
 suspicion : 
 
 You droop, sir. 
 Jafi No; with a most profound atten- 
 tion 
 
 I've heard it all, and wonder at thy 
 virtue. 
 Ren. Though there be yet few hours 
 'twixt them and ruin, , 
 
 Are not the Senate lulled in full security, 
 
 Quiet and satisfied, as fools are always! 
 
 Never did so profound repose forerun 
 
 Calamity so great: nay, our good for- 
 tune 
 
 Has blinded the most piercing of man- 
 kind; 
 
 Strengthened the fearful'st, charmed the 
 most suspectful, 
 
 Confounded the most subtle; for we 
 live, 
 
 We live, my friends, and quickly shall 
 our life 
 
 Prove fatal to these tyrants: let's con- 
 sider 
 
 That we destroy oppression, avarice, 
 A people nursed up equally with vices 
 And loathsome lusts, which nature most 
 
 abhors. 
 And such as without shame she cannot 
 
 suffer. 
 Jaff. (aside). Belvidera, take me to thy 
 
 arms 
 And show me where 's my peace, for I 
 
 have lost it. 
 
 {Exit Jaffeir.) 
 Ren. Without the least remorse then let 's 
 
 resolve 
 With fire and sword to exterminate these 
 
 tyrants. 
 And when we shall behold those curst 
 
 tribunals. 
 Stained by the tears and sufferings of 
 
 the innocent, 
 Burning with flames rather from Heaven 
 
 than ours. 
 The raging, furious and unpitying sol- 
 dier 
 Pulling his reeking dagger from the 
 
 bosoms 
 Of gasping wretches; death in every 
 
 quarter, 
 With all that sad disorder can pro- 
 duce, 
 To make a spectacle of horror: then. 
 Then let 's caU to mind, my dearest 
 
 friends. 
 That there is nothing pure upon the 
 
 earth. 
 That the most valued things have most 
 
 allays. 
 And that in change of all those vile 
 
 enormities, 
 Under whose weight this wretched coun- 
 try labors. 
 The means are only in our hands to 
 
 crown them. 
 Pierr. And may those powers above that 
 
 are propitious 
 To gallant minds record this cause, and 
 
 bless it. 
 Ren. Thus happy, thus secure of all wr 
 
 wish for. 
 Should there, my friends, be found 
 
 amongst us one 
 False to this glorious enterprise, what 
 
 fate. 
 What vengeance were enough for such 
 
 a villain? 
 Eliot. Death here without repentance, 
 
 hell hereafter. 
 Ren. Let that be my lot, if as here I 
 
 stand 
 Listed by fate amongst her darling sons, 
 
482 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Though I had one only brother, dear by 
 
 all 
 The strictest ties of nature; though one 
 
 hour 
 Had given us birth, one fortune fed our 
 
 wants. 
 One only love, and that but of each other. 
 Still filled our minds : could I have such 
 
 a friend 
 Joined in this cause, and had but ground 
 
 to fear 
 Meant foul play; may this right hand 
 
 drop from me. 
 If I 'd not hazard all my future peace, 
 And stab him to the heart before you. 
 
 "Who 
 Would not do less? Wouldst not thou, 
 
 Pierre, the same? 
 Pierr. You've singled me, sir, out for 
 
 this hard question. 
 As if 'twere started only for my sake! 
 Am I the thing you fear? Here, here's 
 
 my bosom. 
 Search it with all your swords! Am I 
 
 a traitor? 
 Ben. No : but I fear your late commended 
 
 friend 
 Is little less. Come, sirs, 'tis now no 
 
 time 
 To trifle with our safety. Where 's this 
 
 Jaffeir? 
 Spin. He left the room just now in 
 
 strange disorder. 
 Ren. Nay, there is danger in him: I ob- 
 served him, 
 During the time I took for explanation, 
 He was transported from most deep at-' 
 
 tention, 
 To a confusion which he could not 
 
 smother. 
 His looks grew full of sadness and sur- 
 prise. 
 All which betrayed a wavering spirit 
 
 in him. 
 That labored with reluetancy and sor- 
 row. 
 What's requisite for safety must be 
 
 done 
 With speedy execution : he remains 
 Yet in our power: I for my own part 
 
 wear 
 A dagger. 
 Pierr. Well. 
 
 Ren. And I could wish it 
 
 Pierr. Where? 
 
 Ren. Buried in his heart. 
 Pierr. Away ! we 're yet all friends ; 
 
 No more of this, 'twill breed ill blood 
 
 amongst us. 
 
 Spin. Let us all draw our swords, and 
 search the house, 
 Pull him from the dark hole where he 
 
 sits brooding 
 O'er his cold fears, and each man kill his 
 share of him. 
 Pierr. Who talks of killing? Who's 
 he '11 shed the blood 
 That's dear to me! Is't you? or you? 
 
 or you, sir? 
 What, not one speak? how you stand 
 
 gaping all 
 On your grave oracle, your wooden god 
 
 there ; 
 Yet not a word: (to Renault) then, sir, 
 
 I '11 tell you a secret. 
 Suspicion's but at best a coward's vir- 
 tue! 
 
 Ren. A coward 
 
 {Handles Ms sword.) 
 Pierr. Put, put up the sword, old man, 
 Thy hand shakes ^t it; come, let's heal 
 
 this breach, 
 I am too hot; we yet may live [as] 
 friends. 
 Spin. Till we are safe, our friendship 
 
 cannot be so. 
 Pierr. Again: who's that? 
 Spin. 'Twas I. 
 
 Theo. And I. 
 
 Revill. . And I. 
 
 Eliot. And all. 
 
 Ren. Who are on my side? 
 Spin. Every honest sword; 
 
 Let's die like men and not be sold like 
 
 Pierr. One such word more, by Heaven, 
 
 I '11 to the Senate 
 And hang ye all, like dogs in clusters. 
 Why peep your coward swords half out 
 
 their shells? 
 Why do you not all brandish them like 
 
 mine? 
 Yqu fear to die, and yet dare talk of 
 
 killing? 
 Ren. Go to the Senate and betray us, 
 
 hasten. 
 Secure thy wretched life, we fear to die 
 Less than thou dar'st be honest. 
 Pierr. That 's rank falsehood. 
 
 Fear'st not thou death? fie, there's a 
 
 knavish itch 
 In that salt blood, an utter foe to smart- 
 ing. 
 Had Jaffeir's wife proved kind, he had 
 
 still been true. 
 Fob — ^how that stinks! 
 Thou die! thou kill my friend, or thou, 
 
 or thoUn 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 483 
 
 Or thou, with that lean, withered, 
 
 wretched face! 
 Away! disperse all to your several 
 
 charges, 
 And meet to-morrow where your honor 
 
 calls you; 
 I '11 bring that man, whose blood you so 
 
 much thirst for, 
 And you shall see him venture for you 
 
 fairly — 
 Hence, hence, I say. 
 
 (Eidt Renault angrily.) 
 Spin. I fear we 've been to blame : 
 
 And done too much. 
 Theo. 'T was too far urged against the 
 
 man you loved. 
 Revill. Here, take our swords and crush 
 
 'em with your feet. 
 Spin. Forgive us, gallant friend. 
 Pierr. Nay, now you 've found 
 
 The way to melt and cast me as you 
 
 will: 
 I '11 fetch this friend and give him to 
 
 your mercy: 
 Nay, he shall die if you will take him 
 
 from me; 
 For your repose I '11 quit my heart's 
 
 jewel, 
 But would not have him torn away by 
 
 villains 
 And spiteful villainy. 
 Spin. No; may you both 
 
 For ever live and fill the world with 
 
 fame! 
 Pierr. Now you are too kind. Whence 
 
 rose all this discord? 
 Oh, what a dangerous precipice have 
 
 we scaped! 
 How near a fall was all we had long 
 
 been building! 
 What an eternal blot had stained our 
 
 glories. 
 If one, the bravest and the best of 
 
 men, 
 Had fallen a sacrifice to rash suspicion. 
 Butchered by those whose cause he came 
 
 to cherish! 
 Oh, could you know him all as I have 
 
 known him, 
 How good he is, how just, how true, how 
 
 brave, 
 You would not leave this place till you 
 
 had seen him; 
 Humbled yourselves before him, kissed 
 
 his feet, 
 And gained remission for the worst of 
 
 follies ; 
 Come but to-morrow, all your doubts 
 shall end, 
 
 And to your loves me better recom- 
 mend. 
 That I 've preserved your fame, and 
 saved my friend. 
 
 {Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 [A Public Place.] 
 
 {Enter Jaffeir and Belvidera.) 
 
 Jaff. Where dost thou lead me? Every 
 step I move, 
 
 Methinks I tread upon some mangled 
 limb 
 
 Of a racked friend. O my dear charm- 
 ing ruin! 
 
 Where are we wandering? 
 Belv. To eternal honor; 
 
 To do a deed shall chronicle thy name. 
 
 Among the glorious legends of those few 
 
 That have saved sinking nations : thy re- 
 nown 
 
 Shall be the future song of all the vir- 
 gins, 
 
 Who by thy piety have been preserved 
 
 From horrid violation : every street 
 
 Shall be adorned with statues to thy 
 honor. 
 
 And at thy feet this great inscription 
 written, 
 
 Bemember Mm that propped the fall of 
 Venice. 
 Jaff. Rather, remember him who after all 
 
 The sacred bonds of oaths and holier 
 friendship. 
 
 In fond compassion to a woman's tears 
 
 Forgot his manhood, virtue, truth and 
 , honor. 
 
 To sacrifice the bosom that relieved him. 
 
 Why wilt thou damn me? 
 Belv. inconstant man! 
 
 How will you promise? how will you de- 
 ceive? 
 
 Do, return back, replace me in my bond- 
 age, 
 
 Tell all thy friends how dangerously 
 thou lov'st me. 
 
 And let thy dagger do its bloody office; 
 
 that kind dagger, JafEeir, how 'twill 
 look 
 
 Stuck through my heart, drenched in 
 my blood to the hilts ! 
 
 Whilst these poor dying eyes shall with 
 their tears 
 
 No more torment thee, then thou wilt be 
 free: 
 
484 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Or if thou think'st it nobler, let me 
 live 
 
 Till I 'm a victim to the hateful lust 
 
 Of that infernal devil, that old fiend 
 
 That's damned himself and -would undo 
 mankind : 
 
 Last night, my love! 
 Jaff. Name, name it not again, 
 
 It shows a beastly image to my fancy, 
 
 Will wake me into madness. Oh, the 
 villain ! 
 
 That durst approach such purity as 
 thine 
 
 On terms so vile: destruction, swift de- 
 struction 
 
 Fall on my coward-head, and make my 
 name 
 
 The common scorn of fools if I forgive 
 him; 
 
 If I forgive him, if I not revenge 
 
 With utmost rage and most unstaying 
 fury, 
 
 Thy sufferings, thou dear darling of my 
 life, love ! 
 Belv. Delay no longer, then, but to the 
 Senate ; 
 
 And tell the dismal'st story e'er was ut- 
 tered, 
 
 Tell them what bloodshed, rapines, deso- 
 lations, 
 
 Have been prepared, how near 's the 
 fatal hour! 
 
 Save thy poor country, save ttie reverend 
 blood 
 
 Of all its nobles, which to-morrow's 
 dawn 
 
 Must else see shed: save the poor ten- 
 der lives 
 
 Of all those little infants which the 
 swords 
 
 Of murtherers are whetting for thjs mo- 
 ment : 
 
 Think thou already hear'st their dying 
 screams, 
 
 Think that thou seest their sad distracted 
 mothers 
 
 Kneeling before thy feet, and begging 
 
 pity 
 
 With torn dishevell'd hair and streaming 
 eyes, 
 
 Their naked mangled breasts besmeared 
 with blood. 
 
 And even the milk with which their fon- 
 dled babes. 
 
 Softly they hushed, dropping in anguish 
 from 'em. 
 
 Think thou seest this, aiid then consult 
 thy heart. 
 Jaff. Oh! 
 
 Belv. Think too, if thou lose this present 
 
 minute, 
 What miseries the next day bring [s] 
 
 upon thee. 
 Imagine all the horrors of that night. 
 Murder and rapine, waste and desola- 
 tion, 
 Confusedly ranging. Think what then 
 
 may prove 
 My lot! the ravisher may then come 
 
 safe. 
 And midst the terror of the public 
 
 ruin 
 Do a damned deed; perhaps to lay a 
 
 train 
 May catch thy life; then where will be 
 
 revenge, 
 The dear revenge that's due to such a 
 
 wrong? 
 Jaff. By all Heaven's powers, prophetic 
 
 truth dwells in thee, 
 For every word thou speak'st strikes 
 
 through my heart 
 Like a new light, and shows it how't 
 
 has wandered; 
 Just what th' hast made me, take me, 
 
 Belvidera, 
 And lead me to the place where I 'm to 
 
 say 
 This bitter lesson, where I must betray 
 My truth, my virtue, constancy and 
 
 friends : 
 Must I betray my friends? Ah, take 
 
 me quickly. 
 Secure me well before that thought's 
 
 renewed ; 
 If I relapse once more, all's lost for 
 
 ever. 
 Belv. Hast thou a friend more dear than 
 
 Belvidera? 
 Jaff. No, thou'rt my soul itself; wealth, 
 
 friendship, honor, 
 All present joys, and earnest of all fu- 
 ture, 
 Are summed in thee: methinks when in 
 
 thy arms 
 Thus leaning on thy breast, one min- 
 ute 's more 
 Than a long thousand years of vulgar 
 
 hours. 
 Why was such happiness not given me 
 
 pure? 
 Why dashed with cruel wrongs, and bit- 
 ter wantings? 
 Come, lead me forward now like a tame 
 
 lamb 
 To sacrifice, thus in his fatal garlands, 
 Decked fine and pleased, the wanton 
 
 skips and plays, 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 485 
 
 Trots by the enticing flattering 
 priestess' side, 
 
 And much transported with his little 
 pride, 
 
 Forgets his dear companions of the 
 plain 
 
 Till, by her bound, he's on the altar 
 lain, 
 
 Yet then too hardly bleats, such pleas- 
 ure 's in the pain. 
 
 {Enter Officer and six Guards.) 
 
 Offic. Stand; who goes there? 
 Belv. Friends. 
 
 Jaff. Friends, Belvidera! hide me from 
 my friends: 
 By Heaven, I 'd rather see the face of 
 
 heU, 
 Than meet the man I love. 
 Offlc. But what friends are you? 
 
 Belv. Friends to the Senate and the state 
 
 of Venice. 
 Offlc. My orders are to seize on all I find 
 At this late hour, and bring 'em to the 
 
 Council, 
 Who now are sitting. 
 Jaff. Sir, you shall be obeyed. 
 
 Hold, brutes, stand off, none of your 
 
 paws upon me. 
 Now the lot's cast, and fate, do what 
 thou wilt! 
 
 (Exeunt guarded.) 
 
 Scene 2. The Senate-house. 
 
 (Where appear sitting, the Duke of Ven- 
 ice, Priuli, Antonio, and eight other 
 Senators.) 
 
 Duke. Antony, Priuli, senators of Ven- 
 ice, 
 
 Speak; why are we assembled here this 
 night? 
 
 What have you to inform us of, con- 
 cerns 
 
 The state of Venice, honor, or its safety ? 
 Priu. Could words express the story I 
 have to tell you, 
 
 Fatheig, these tears were useless, these 
 sad tears 
 
 That fall from my old eyes; but there 
 is cause 
 
 We all should weep ; tear off these pur- 
 ple robes. 
 
 And wrap ourselves in sackcloth, sitting 
 down 
 
 On the sad earth, and cry aloud to 
 Heaven. 
 
 Heaven knows if yet there be an hour 
 to come 
 
 Ere Venice be no more. 
 All Senators. Howl 
 
 Priu. Nay, we stand 
 
 Upon the very brink of gaping ruin. 
 
 Within this city's formed a dark con- 
 spiracy. 
 
 To massacre us all, our wives and chil- 
 dren, 
 
 Kindred and friends, our palaces and 
 temples 
 
 To lay in ashes: nay, the hour, too, 
 fixed; 
 
 The swords, for aught I know, drawn 
 e'en this moment, 
 
 And the wild waste begun: from un- 
 known hands 
 
 I had this warning: but if we are men, 
 
 Let!s not be tamely butchered, but do 
 something 
 
 That may inform the world in after 
 
 Our virtue was not ruined though we 
 were. 
 
 (A noise without.) 
 Room, room, make room for some pris- 
 oners 
 
 Second Senator. Let's raise the city. 
 
 (Enter Officer and Guard.) 
 
 Priu. Speak there, what disturbance? 
 
 Offic. Two prisoners have the guard 
 seized in the streets, 
 Who say they come to inform this rev- 
 erend Senate 
 About the present danger. 
 (Enter Jaffeir and Belvidera gua/rded.) 
 
 All. Give 'em entrance 
 
 Well, who are you? 
 Jaff. A villain. 
 
 Anto. Short and pithy. 
 
 The man speaks well. 
 Jaff. Would every man that hears me 
 
 Would deal so honestly, and own his 
 title. 
 Duke. 'T is rumored that a plot has been 
 contrived 
 Against this state; that .you have a 
 
 share in 't too. 
 If you 're a villain, to redeem your honor. 
 Unfold the truth and be restored with 
 mercy. 
 Jaff. Think not that I to save my life 
 come hither, 
 I know its value better; but in pity 
 To all those wretches whose unhappy 
 dooms 
 
486 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Are fixed and sealed. You see me here 
 
 before you, 
 The sworn and covenanted foe of Ven- 
 ice; 
 But use me as my dealings may deserve 
 And I may prove a friend. 
 Buke. The slave capitulates; 
 
 Give him the tortures. 
 Jaff. That you dare not do, 
 
 Your fears won't let you, nor the long- 
 ing itch 
 To hear a story which you dread the 
 
 truth of. 
 Truth which the fear of smart shall ne'er 
 
 get from me. 
 Cowards are scared with threat'nings ; 
 
 boys are whipp'd 
 Into confessions: but a steady mind 
 Acts of itself, ne'er asks the body coun- 
 sel. 
 "Give him the tortures!" Name but 
 
 such a thing 
 Again, by Heaven I '11 shut these Ups 
 
 for ever. 
 Not all your racks, your engines^ or your 
 
 wheels 
 Shall force a groan away — ^that you may 
 guess at. 
 Anto. A bloody-minded fellow, I'U war- 
 rant; 
 A damned bloody-minded fellow. 
 Duke. Name your conditions. 
 Jaff. For myself full pardon. 
 
 Besides the lives of two and twenty 
 friends 
 
 {Delivers a list.) 
 Whose names are here enrolled: nay, let 
 
 their crimes 
 Be ne'er so monstrous, I must have the 
 
 oaths 
 And sacred promise of this reverend 
 
 council. 
 That in a full assembly of the Senate 
 The thing I ask be ratified. Swear this, 
 And I 'U unfold the secrets of your dan- 
 ger. 
 AU. We'll swear. 
 Duke. Propose the oath. 
 
 Jaff. By all the hopes 
 
 Ye have of peace and happiness here- 
 after. 
 Swear. 
 All. We all swear, 
 Jaff. To grant me what I 've asked. 
 
 Ye swear? 
 All. We swear. 
 
 Jaf. And as ye keep the oath. 
 
 May you and your posterity be blest 
 Or curst for ever. 
 
 All. Else be curst for ever. 
 
 Jaff. {Delivers another paper.) Then 
 here's the list, and with't the full 
 disclose 
 
 Of all that threatens you. 
 
 Now, fate, thou hast caught me. 
 Anto. Why, what a dreadful catalogue of 
 
 cut-throats is here ! I 'II warrant you, 
 
 not one of these fellows but has a face 
 
 like a lion. I dare not so much as read 
 
 their names over. 
 Duke. Give orders that all diligent search 
 be made 
 
 To seize these men, their characters are 
 public; 
 
 The paper intimates their rendezvous 
 
 To be at the house of a famed Grecian 
 courtesan 
 
 Called AquUina; see that place secured. 
 Ariito. 
 
 What, my Nicky Nacky, hurry durry, 
 
 Nicky Nacky in the plot — I '11 make a 
 speech. 
 
 Most noble Senators, 
 
 What headlong apprehension drives you 
 on, 
 
 Right noble, wise and truly solid sen- 
 ators, 
 
 To violate the laws and rights of na- 
 tions? 
 
 The lady is a lady of renown. 
 
 'T is true, she holds a house of fair re- 
 ception. 
 
 And though I say't myself, as many 
 more 
 
 Can say as well as I. 
 Second Senator. My lord, long speeches 
 
 Are frivolous here when dangers are so 
 near us; 
 
 We all know your interest in that lady. 
 
 The world talks loud on 't. 
 Anto. Verily, I have done, 
 
 I say no more. 
 Duke. But since he has declared 
 
 Himself concerned, pray, captain, take 
 great caution 
 
 To treat the fair one as becomes her 
 character, 
 
 And let her bed-chamber be searched 
 with decency. 
 
 You, Jaffeir, must with patience bear 
 till morning 
 
 To be our prisoner. 
 Jaff. Would the chains of death 
 
 Had bound me fast ere I had known this 
 minute. 
 
 I've done a deed will make my story 
 hereafter 
 
 Quoted in competition with all ill ones: 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 487 
 
 The history of my wickedness shall run 
 
 Down throiigh the low traditions of the 
 vulgar, 
 
 And boys be [taught] to tell the tale of 
 Jaffeir. 
 Buke. Captain, withdraw your prisoner. 
 Jaff. Sir, if possible. 
 
 Lead me where my own thoughts them- 
 selves may lose me, 
 
 Where I may doze out what I 've left of 
 life, 
 
 Forget myself and this day's guilt and 
 falsehood. 
 
 Cruel remembrance, how shall I appease 
 thee! 
 
 {Emt guarded.) 
 
 (Noise without.) 
 More traitors; room, room, make room 
 there. 
 Duke. How's this? guards'? 
 
 Where are our guards? Shut up the 
 
 gates, the treason 's 
 Already at our doors. 
 
 {Enter Officer.) 
 
 Offlc. My lords, more traitors: 
 
 Seized in the very act of consultation; 
 rnmished with arms and instruments of 
 
 mischief. 
 Bring in the prisoners. 
 
 (Enter Pierre, Benault, Theodore, Eliot, 
 BevOllido, and other conspirators, in fet- 
 ters, guarded.) 
 
 Pierr. You, my lords and fathers 
 
 (As you are pleased to call yourselves) 
 of Venice, 
 
 If you sit here to guide the course of 
 justice. 
 
 Why these disgraceful chains upon the 
 limbs 
 
 That have so often labored in your serv- 
 ice? 
 
 Are these the wreaths of triumph ye be- 
 stow 
 
 On those that bring you conquests home 
 and honors? 
 Duke. Go on: you shall be heard, sir. 
 Anto. And be hanged too, I hope. 
 Pierr. Are these the trophies I've de- 
 served for fighting 
 
 Your battles with confederated powers? 
 
 When winds and seas conspired to over- 
 throw you, 
 
 And brought the fleets of Spain to your 
 own harbors? 
 
 When you, great Duke, shrunk trembling 
 in your palace, 
 
 And saw your wife, the Adriatic, 
 
 ploughed 
 Like a lewd whore by bolder prows than 
 
 yours, 
 Stepped not I forth, and taught your 
 
 loose Venetians, 
 The task of honor and the way to great- 
 ness, 
 Rais'd you from your capitulating fears 
 To stipulate the terms of sued-for 
 
 peace? 
 And this my recompense? If I am a 
 
 traitor 
 Produce my charge; or show the wretch 
 
 that's base enough 
 And brave enough to tell me I am a 
 
 traitor. 
 Duke. Know you one Jaffeir? 
 
 (All the Conspirators murmur.) 
 Pierr. Yes, and know his virtue. 
 
 His justice, truth; his general worth and 
 
 sufferings 
 From a hard father taught me first to 
 
 love him. 
 
 (Enter Jaffeir.) 
 
 Duke. See him brought forth. 
 
 Pierr. My friend too bound ! nay then 
 
 Our fate has conquered us, and we must 
 fall. 
 
 Why droops the man whose welfare 's 
 so much mine 
 
 They're but one thing? These reverend 
 tjrrants, Jaffeir, 
 
 Call us all traitors: art thou one, my 
 brother? 
 Jaff. To thee I am the falsest, veriest 
 slave 
 
 That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting 
 friend, , 
 
 And gave up honor to be sure of ruin. 
 
 All our fair hopes which morning was to 
 have crowned 
 
 Has this curst tongue o'erthrown. 
 Pierr. So, then, all's over; 
 
 Venice has lost her freedom; I my life; 
 
 No more; farewell. 
 Duke. Say, will you make confession 
 
 Of your vile deeds and trust the Sen- 
 ate's mercy? 
 Pierr. Curst be your Senate; curst your 
 constitution ; 
 
 The curse of growing factions and divi- 
 sion 
 
 Still vex your councils, shake your pub- 
 lic safety. 
 
 And makes the robes of government you 
 wear, 
 
THE RESTORATION 
 
 Hateful to you, as these base chains to 
 me! 
 Duke. Pardon or death? 
 Pierr. Death, honorable death! 
 
 Ren. Death' s the best thing we ask or you 
 
 can give. 
 All Conspir. No shameful bonds, but 
 
 honorable death. 
 Duke. Break up the council : captain, 
 guard your prisoners. 
 Jaifeir, you are free, but these must 
 wait for judgment. 
 {Exeunt all the Senators.) 
 Pierr. Come, where 's my dungeon? lead 
 me to my straw: 
 It will not be the first time I've lodged 
 
 hard 
 To do your Senate service. 
 Jaff. Hold one moment. 
 
 Pierr. Who 's he disputes the judgment 
 of the Senate? 
 
 Presumptuous rebel — on 
 
 (Strikes Jaffeir.) 
 Jaff. By Heaven, you stir not. 
 
 I must be heard, I must have leave to 
 
 speak; 
 Thou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile 
 
 blow: 
 Had not a dagger done thee nobler jus- 
 tice? 
 But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not 
 
 wrong me. 
 Tor I am fallen beneath the basest in- 
 juries; 
 Yet look upon me with an eye of 
 
 mercy, 
 With pity and with charity behold me; 
 Shut not thy heart against a friend's 
 
 repentance. 
 But as there dwells a god-like nature in 
 
 thee 
 Listen with mildness to my supplications. 
 Pierr. What whining monk art thou? 
 what holy cheat. 
 That wouldst encroach upon my credu- 
 lous ears 
 And canst thus vilely? Hence. I know 
 
 thee not. 
 Dissemble and be nasty : leave me, hypo- 
 crite. 
 Jaff. Not know me, Pierre? 
 Pierr. No, I know thee not! 
 
 what art thou? 
 Jaff. Jaffeir, thy friend, thy once loved, 
 valued friend! 
 Though now deservedly scorned, and 
 used most hardly. 
 Pierr. Thou Jaffeir! Thou my once 
 loved valued friend? 
 
 By Heaven, thou liest; the man so-called, 
 
 my friend. 
 Was generous, honest, faithful, just and 
 
 valiant, 
 Noble in mind, and in his person lovely. 
 Dear to my eyes and tender to my heart ; 
 But thou a wretched, base, false, worth- 
 less coward. 
 Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy 
 
 aspect. 
 All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts 
 
 detest thee. 
 Prithee avoid, nor longer cUng thus 
 
 round me. 
 Like something baneful, that my na- 
 ture's chilled at. 
 Jaff. I have not wronged thee, by these 
 
 tears I have not. 
 But still am honest, true, and hope too, 
 
 valiant ; 
 My mind still full of thee, therefore still 
 
 noble; 
 Let not thy eyes then shun me, nor thy 
 
 heart 
 Detest me utterly: oh, look upon me. 
 Look back and see my sad, sincere sub- 
 mission ! 
 How my heart swells, as even 'twould 
 
 burst my bosom; 
 Fond of its goal, and laboring to be at 
 
 thee! 
 What shall I do? what say to make 
 
 thee hear me? 
 Pierr. Hast thou not wronged me? dar'st 
 
 thou call thyself 
 Jaffeir, that once loved, valued friend of 
 
 mine, 
 And swear thou hast not wronged me? 
 
 Whence these chains? 
 Whence the vile death which I may meet 
 
 this moment? 
 Whence this dishonor, but from thee, 
 
 thou false one? 
 Jaff. All 's true, yet grant one thing, and 
 
 I 've done asking. 
 Pierr. What's that? 
 Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions 
 The' Council have proposed: thou and 
 
 thy friends 
 May yet live long, and to be better 
 
 treated. 
 Pierr. Life! ask my life! confess! record 
 
 myself 
 A villain for the privilege to breath [e], 
 And carry up and down this cursed city 
 A discontented and repining spirit, 
 Burthensome to itself a few years longer, 
 To lose it, may be, at last in a lewd quar- 
 rel 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 489 
 
 For some new friend, treacherous and 
 
 false as thou art! 
 No, this vile world and I have long been 
 
 jangling, 
 And cannot part on better terms than 
 
 now, 
 When only men like thee are fit to live 
 in't. 
 
 Jaff. By all that's just 
 
 Pierr. Swear by some other powers, 
 
 For thou hast broke that sacred oath too 
 lately. 
 Jaff. Then hy that hell I merit,- 1 '11 not 
 leave thee. 
 Till to thyself at least thou'rt reconciled, 
 However thy resentments deal with me. 
 Pierr. Not leave me! 
 Jaff. No, thou shalt not 
 
 force me from thee. 
 Use me reproachfully, and like a slave. 
 Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on 
 
 wrongs 
 On my poor head ; I '11 bear it all with 
 
 patience. 
 Shall weary out thy most unfriendly 
 
 cruelty, 
 Lie at thy feet and kiss 'em, though they 
 
 spurn me, 
 Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou re- 
 lent, 
 And raise me to thy arms with dear for- 
 giveness. 
 
 Pierr. Art thou not 
 
 Jaff. What? 
 
 Pierr. A traitor? 
 
 Jaff. Yes. 
 
 Pierr. A villain? 
 
 Jaff. Granted. 
 
 Pierr. A coward, a most scan- 
 
 dalous coward, 
 Spiritless, void of honor, one who has 
 
 sold 
 Thy everlasting fame for shameless life? 
 Jaff. All, all, and more, much more: my 
 
 faults are numberless. 
 Pierr. And wouldst thou have me live on 
 terms like thine? 
 
 Base as thou art false 
 
 Jaff. No, 't is to me that 's granted. 
 
 The safety of thy life was all I aimed 
 
 at, 
 In recompense for faith and trust so 
 broken. 
 Pierr. I scorn it more because preserved 
 by thee. 
 And as when first my foolish heart took 
 
 pity 
 On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy 
 miseries, 
 
 Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from 
 
 thy state 
 Of wretchedness in which thy fate had 
 
 plunged thee, 
 To rank thee in my list of noble friends ; 
 All I received in surety for thy truth. 
 Were unregarded oaths; and this, this 
 
 dagger. 
 Given with a worthless pledge, thou 
 
 since hast stoln, 
 So I restore it back to thee again. 
 Swearing by all those powers which thou 
 
 hast violated. 
 Never from this curst hour to hold com- 
 munion, 
 Friendship or interest with thee, though 
 
 our years 
 Were to exceed those limited the world. 
 Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee 
 
 nothing. 
 Jaff. Say thou wilt live, then. 
 Pierr. For my life, dispose it 
 
 Just as thou wilt, because 't is what I 'm 
 
 tired with. 
 Jaff. Pierre! 
 Pierr. No more. 
 
 Jaff. My eyes won't 
 
 lose the sight of thee. 
 But languish after thine, and ache with 
 
 gazing. 
 Pierr. Leave me — nay, then^ thus, thus, I 
 
 throw thee from me. 
 And curses, great as is thy falsehood, 
 
 catch thee. 
 Jaff. Amen. — He 's gone, my father, 
 
 friend, preserver, 
 And here 's the portion he has left me. 
 
 (Holds the dagger up.) 
 This dagger, well remembered, with this 
 
 dagger 
 I gave a solemn vow of dire importance. 
 Parted with this and Belvidera together; 
 Have a care, memory, drive that thought 
 
 no farther; 
 No, I '11 esteem it as a friend's last leg- 
 
 Treasure it up within this wretched 
 
 bosom, 
 Where it may grow acquainted with my 
 
 heart. 
 That when they meet, they start not from 
 
 each other. 
 So; now for thinking: a blow, called 
 
 traitor, villain, 
 Coward, dishonorable coward, faugh! 
 for a long sound sleep, and so forget it ! 
 Down, busy devil — 
 
 {Enter Belvidera.) 
 
490 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Belv. Whither shall I fly? 
 
 Where hide me and my miseries to- 
 gether? 
 
 Where 's now the Roman constancy I 
 boasted? 
 
 Sunk into trembling fears and despera- 
 tion! 
 
 Not daring to look up to that dear face 
 
 Which used to smile even on my faults, 
 but down 
 
 Bending these miserable eyes to earth, 
 
 Must move in penance, and implore 
 much mercy. 
 Jaff. "Mercy," kind Heaven has surely 
 endless stores 
 
 Hoarded for thee of blessings yet un- 
 tasted; 
 
 Let wretches loaded hard with guilt as I 
 am. 
 
 Bow [with] the weight and groan be- 
 neath the burthen. 
 
 Creep with a remnant of that strength 
 th' have left. 
 
 Before the footstool of that Heaven 
 th' have injured. 
 
 Belvidera! I'm the wretched'st crea- 
 
 ture 
 E'er crawled on earth; now if thou hast 
 
 virtue, help me. 
 Take me into thy arms, and speak the 
 
 words of peace 
 To my divided soul, that wars within 
 
 me. 
 And raises every sense to my confusion; 
 By Heaven, I'm tottering on the very 
 
 brink 
 Of peace; and thou art all the hold I've 
 
 left. 
 Belv. Alas! I know thy sorrows are most 
 
 mighty; 
 
 1 know thou'st cause to mourn ; to mourn, 
 
 my JafEeir, 
 
 With endless cries, and never-ceasing 
 wailings, 
 
 Th' hast lost 
 
 Jaff. Oh, I have lost what 
 
 can't be counted; 
 
 My friend too, Belvidera, that dear 
 friend, 
 
 Who, next to thee, was all my health re- 
 joiced in. 
 
 Has used me like a slave; shamefully 
 used me; 
 
 'T would break thy pitying heart to hear 
 the story. 
 
 What shall I do? resentment, indigna- 
 tion, 
 
 Love, pity, fear and memory, how I 've 
 wronged him, 
 
 Distract my quiet with the very thought 
 on't. 
 
 And tear my heart to pieces in my bosom. 
 Belv. What has he done? 
 Jaff. Thou'dst hate me, should I tell thee. 
 Belv. Why? 
 
 Jaff. Oh, he has used me! yet, by 
 Heaven, I bear it: 
 
 He has used me, Belvidera, but first 
 swear 
 
 That when I've told thee, thou'lt not 
 loathe me utterly. 
 
 Though vilest blots and stains appear 
 upon me; 
 
 But stUl at least with charitable good- 
 ness, 
 
 Be near me in the pangs of my afflic- 
 tion. 
 
 Not scorn me, Belvidera, as he has 
 done. 
 Belv. Have I then e'er been false that 
 now I am doubted? 
 
 Speak, what 's the cause I am grown into 
 distrust. 
 
 Why thought unfit to hear my love's 
 complaining? 
 Jaff. Oh! 
 Belv. Tell me. 
 
 Jaff. Bear my failings, for they are 
 many. 
 
 my dear angel! in that friend I've 
 lost 
 
 All my soul's peace; for every thought 
 of him 
 
 Strikes my sense hard, and deads it in 
 r^y brains; 
 
 Wouldst thou believe it? 
 Belv. Speak, 
 
 Jaff. Before we parted. 
 
 Ere yet his guards had led him to his 
 prison, 
 
 Full of severest sorrows for his suffer- 
 ings. 
 
 With eyes o'erflowing and a bleeding 
 heart. 
 
 Humbling myself almost beneath my na- 
 ture. 
 
 As at his feet I kneeled, and sued for 
 mercy. 
 
 Forgetting all our friendship, all the 
 deamess. 
 
 In which w' have lived so many years to- 
 gether. 
 
 With a reproachful hand, he dashed a 
 blow, 
 
 He struck me, Belvidera, by Heaven, he 
 struck me. 
 
 Buffeted, called me traitor, villain, cow- 
 ard. 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 491 
 
 Am I a coward? am I a villain? tell me: 
 Thou'rt the best judge, and mad'st me, 
 
 if I am so. 
 Damnation; coward! 
 Belv. Oh! forgive him, JafEeir. 
 
 And if his sufferings wound thy heart al- 
 ready. 
 What will they do to-morrow? 
 Jaff. Hah! 
 
 Belv. To-morrow, 
 
 When thou shalt see him stretched in all 
 
 the agonies 
 Of a tormenting and a shameful death. 
 His bleeding bowels, and his broken 
 
 limbs. 
 Insulted o'er by a vile butchering vil- 
 lain; 
 What will thy heart do then? Oh, sure 
 
 'twill stream 
 Like my eyes now. 
 Jaff. What means thy dreadful story? 
 
 JDeath, and to-morrow! broken limbs and 
 
 bowels ! 
 Insulted o'er by a vile butchering vil- 
 lain! 
 By aU my fears I shall start out to mad- 
 ness. 
 With barely guessing, if the truth 's hid 
 - longer. 
 Belv. The faithless senators, 't is they 've 
 decreed it: 
 They say according to our friends' re- 
 quest. 
 They shall have death, and not ignoble 
 
 bondage : 
 Declare their promised mercy all as for- 
 feited. 
 False to their oaths, and deaf to inter- 
 cession ; 
 Warrants are passed for public death to- 
 morrow. 
 Jaff. Death! doomed to die! condemned 
 
 unheard! unpleaded! 
 Belv. Nay, cruell'st racks and torments 
 are preparing. 
 To force confessions from their dying 
 
 pangs. 
 Oh, do not look so terribly upon me. 
 How your lips shake, and all your face 
 
 disordered ! 
 What means my love? 
 Jaff. Leave me, I charge thee, leave me — 
 strong temptations 
 Wake in my heart. 
 BeVo. For what? 
 
 Jaff. No more, but leave me. 
 
 Belv. Why? 
 
 Jaff. Oh! by Heaven, I love thee with 
 that fondness 
 
 I would not have thee stay a moment 
 
 longer, 
 Near these curst hands; are they not 
 
 cold upon thee? 
 {Pulls the dagger half out of Ms bosom 
 
 and puts it back again.) 
 Belv. No, everlasting comfort's in thy 
 
 arms. 
 To lean thus on thy breast is softer 
 
 ease 
 Than downy pillows decked with leaves 
 
 of roses. 
 Jaff. Alas ! thou think'st not of the thorns 
 
 'tis filled with: 
 Fly ere they [g]all thee: there's a lurk- 
 ing serpent. 
 Ready to leap and sting thee to thy 
 
 heart; 
 Art thou not terrified? 
 Belv. No. 
 
 Jaff. Call to mind. 
 
 What thou hast done, and whither thou 
 
 hast brought me. 
 Belv. Hah ! 
 Jaff. Where 's my friend ? my friend, thou 
 
 smiling mischief? 
 Nay, shrink not, now 't is too late, thou 
 
 shouldst have fled 
 When thy guilt first had cause, for dire 
 
 revenge 
 Is up and raging for my friend. He 
 
 groans. 
 Hark how he groans, his screams are in 
 
 my ears 
 Already; see, th' have fixed him on the 
 
 wheel. 
 And now they tear him — Murther! per- 
 jured Senate! 
 Murther — Oh! hark thee, traitress, thou 
 
 hast done this: 
 Thanks to thy tears and false persuading 
 
 love. 
 (Fumbling for his dagger.) 
 How her eyes speak! O thou bewitch- 
 ing creature ! 
 Madness cannot hurt thee: come, thou 
 
 little trembler, 
 Creep even into my heart, and there lie 
 
 safe: 
 'T is thy own citadel — ha ! — ^yet stand 
 
 off. 
 Heaven must have justice, and my 
 
 broken vows 
 Will sink me else beneath its reaching 
 
 mercy ; 
 
 I '11 wink and then 't is done 
 
 Belv. What means the lord 
 
 Of me, my life and love? what's in thy 
 
 bosom, 
 
492 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Thou grasp'st at so? Nay, why am I 
 thus treated? 
 
 {Draws the dagger, offers to stab her.) 
 
 What -wilt thou do? Ah! do not kill me, 
 Jaffeir, 
 
 Pity these panting breasts, and trem- 
 bling limbs. 
 
 That used to clasp thee when thy looks 
 were milder. 
 
 That yet hang heavy on my unpurged 
 soul, 
 
 And plunge it not into eternal darkness. 
 Jaff. No, Belvidera, when we parted last, 
 
 I gave this dagger with thee as in trust 
 
 To be thy portion, if I e'er proved false. 
 
 On such condition was my truth be- 
 lieved : 
 
 But now 't is forfeited and must be paid 
 for. 
 (Offers to stab her again.) 
 Belv. (Kneeling.) Oh, mercy! 
 Jaff. Nay, no struggling. 
 
 Belv. Now, then, kill me. 
 
 (Leaps upon his neck and kisses him.) 
 
 While thus I cling about thy cruel neck. 
 
 Kiss thy revengeful lips and die in joys 
 
 Greater than any I can guess hereafter. 
 Jaff. I am, I am a coward; witness it. 
 Heaven, 
 
 Witness it, earth, and every being wit- 
 ness; 
 
 'T is but one blow ; yet, by immortal love, 
 
 I cannot longer bear a thought to harm 
 thee; 
 (He throws away the dagger and embraces 
 her.) 
 
 The seal of Providence is sure upon thee. 
 
 And thou wert born for yet unheard-of 
 wonders : 
 
 Oh, thou wert either bom to save or 
 damn me! 
 
 By all the power that's given thee o'er 
 my soul, 
 
 By thy resistless tears and conquering 
 smiles. 
 
 By the victorious love that stiU waits on 
 thee. 
 
 Fly to thy cruel father: save my friend. 
 
 Or all our future quiet 's lost for ever : 
 
 Fall at his feet, cling round his reverend 
 knees; 
 
 Speak to him with thy eyes, and with thy 
 tears 
 
 Melt his hard heart, and wake dead na- 
 ture in him; 
 
 Crush him in th' arms, and torture him 
 with thy softness : 
 
 Nor, till thy prayers are granted, set him 
 free, 
 
 But conquer him, as thou hast van- 
 quished me. 
 
 (Exeunt ambo.) 
 
 A.CT V. 
 
 Scene 1 
 
 (Enter Priuli, solus.) 
 
 Priu. Why, cruel Heaven, have my un- 
 happy days 
 
 Been lengthened to this sad one? Oh, 
 dishonor 
 
 And deathless infamy is fall'n upon me! 
 
 Was it my fault ? Am I a traitor? No. 
 
 But then, my only child, my daughter, 
 wedded ; 
 
 There my best blood runs foul, and a dis- 
 ease 
 
 Incurable has seized upon my memory. 
 
 To make it rot and stink to after ages. 
 
 Curst be the fatal piinute when I got 
 her; 
 
 Or would that I 'd been anything but 
 man. 
 
 And raised an issue which would ne'er 
 have wronged me. 
 
 The miserablest creatures (man .ex- 
 cepted) 
 
 Are not the less esteemed, though their 
 posterity 
 
 Degenerate from the virtues of their fa- 
 thers ; 
 
 The vilest beasts are happy in their ofE- 
 springs. 
 
 While only man gets traitors, whores 
 and villains. 
 
 Curst be the names, and some swift blow 
 from fate 
 
 Lay his head deep, where mine may be 
 forgotten. 
 
 (Enter Belvidera in a long mourning veil.) 
 
 Belv. He 's there, my father, my inhuman 
 father. 
 
 That, for three years, has left an only 
 child 
 
 Exposed to all the outrages of fate, 
 
 And cruel ruin — oh ! 
 
 Priu. What child of sorrow 
 
 Art thou that com'st thus wrapt in weeds 
 of sadness, 
 
 And mov'st as if thy steps were towards 
 a grave? 
 Belv. A wretch, who from the very top 
 of happiness 
 
 Am fallen into the lowest depths of mis- 
 ery. 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 493 
 
 And want your pitying hand to raise me 
 up again. 
 Priu. Indeed thou talk'st as thou hadst 
 tasted sorrows; 
 Would I could help thee ! 
 Belv. 'T is greatly in your power. 
 
 The world, too, speaks you charitable, 
 
 and I, 
 Who ne'er asked alms before, in that 
 
 dear hope 
 Am come a-begging to you, sir. 
 Priu. For what? 
 
 Belv. well regard me, is this voice a 
 strange one? 
 Consider, too, when beggars once pre- 
 tend 
 A case like mine, no little will content 
 'em. 
 Priu. What wouldst thou beg for? 
 Belv. Pity and forgiveness. 
 
 {Throws up her veil.) 
 By the kind tender names of child and 
 
 father, 
 Hear my complaints and take me to 
 your love. 
 Priu. My daughter? 
 
 Belv. Yes, your daughter, by a mother 
 Virtuous and noble, faithful to your 
 
 honor. 
 Obedient to your will, kind to your 
 
 wishes. 
 Dear to your arms: by all the joys she 
 
 gave you. 
 When in her blooming years she was 
 
 your treasure. 
 Look kindly on. me; in my face behold 
 The lineaments of hers you 've kissed so 
 
 often. 
 Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off 
 child. 
 Priu. Thou art my daughter. 
 Belv. Yes — and y' have oft told me, 
 
 With smiles of love and chaste paternal 
 
 kisses, 
 I 'd much resemblance of my mother. 
 Priu. Oh ! 
 
 Hadst thou inherited her matchless vir- 
 tues, 
 I 'd been too bless'd. 
 Belv. Nay, do not call to memory 
 
 My disobedience, but let pity enter 
 Into your heart, and quite deface the im- 
 pression ; 
 For could you think how mine's per- 
 plexed, what sadness. 
 Fears and despairs distract the peace 
 
 within me, 
 Oh, you would take me in your dear, 
 dear arms. 
 
 Hover with strong compassion o'er your 
 
 young one. 
 To shelter me with a protecting wing. 
 From the black gathered storm, that's 
 just, just breaking. 
 Priu. ' Don't talk thus. 
 Belv. Yes, I must, and you must hear too. 
 
 I have a husband. 
 Priu. Damn him! 
 
 Belv. Oh, do not curse him! 
 
 He would not speak so hard a word to- 
 wards you 
 On any terms, howe'er he deal with me. 
 Priu. Ha! what means my child ? 
 Belv. Oh, there 's but this short moment 
 'Twixt me and fate, yet send ■ me not 
 
 with curses 
 Down to my grave, afford me one kind 
 
 blessing 
 Before we part: just take me in your 
 
 arms. 
 And recommend me with a prayer to 
 
 Heaven, 
 That I may die in peace, and when I 'm 
 
 dead 
 
 Priu. How my soul's catehed! 
 Beh). Lay me, I beg you, lay me 
 
 By the dear ashes of my tender mother. 
 She would have pitied me, had fate yet 
 spared her. 
 Priu. By Heaven, my aching heart fore- 
 bodes much mischief; 
 Tell ■ me thy story, for I 'm stiU thy 
 father. 
 Belv. No, I 'm contented. 
 Priu. Speak. 
 
 Belv. No matter. 
 
 Priu. Tell me. 
 
 By yon blest Heaven, my heart runs o'er 
 with fondness. 
 Belv. Oh! 
 Priu. Utter it. 
 
 Belv. my husband, my dear 
 
 husband 
 Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom, 
 To pierce the heart of your poor Belvi- 
 
 Priu. Kill' thee? 
 
 Belv. Yes, kill me. When he passed his 
 faith 
 
 And covenant, against your state and 
 Senate, 
 
 He gave me up as hostage for his truth. 
 
 With me a dagger and a dire commis- 
 sion, 
 
 Whene'er he failed, to plunge it through 
 this bosom. 
 
 I learnt the danger, chose the hour of 
 love 
 
494 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 T' attempt liis heart, and bring it back 
 
 to honor. 
 Great love prevailed and blessed me with ' 
 
 success : 
 He came, confessed, betrayed his dear- 
 est friends 
 For promised mercy; now they're 
 
 doomed to suffer. 
 Galled with remembrance of what then 
 
 was sworn. 
 If they are lost, he vows t' appease the 
 
 gods 
 With this poor life, and make my blood 
 
 th' atonement. 
 Priu. Heavens ! 
 Belv. Think you saw what 
 
 passed at our last parting; 
 Think you beheld him like a raging lion, 
 Pacing the earth and tearing up his 
 
 Tate in his eyes, and roaring with the 
 pain 
 
 Of burning fury; think you saw his one 
 hand 
 
 Fixed on my throat, while the extended 
 other 
 
 Grasped a keen threatening dagger: oh, 
 'twas thus 
 
 We last embraced, when, trembling with 
 revenge, 
 
 He dragged me to the ground, and at 
 my bosoni 
 
 Presented horrid death, cried out: "My 
 friends. 
 
 Where are my friends?" swore, wept, 
 raged, threatened, loved, 
 
 For he yet loved, and that dear love pre- 
 served me. 
 
 To this last tnal of a father's pity. 
 
 I fear not death, but cannot bear a 
 thought 
 
 That that dear hand should do the un- 
 friendly office; 
 
 If I was ever then your care, now hear 
 me; 
 
 Fly to the Senate, save the promised 
 lives 
 
 Of his dear friends, ere mine be made 
 the sacrifice. 
 Priu. my heart's comfort! 
 Belv. Will you not, my father? 
 
 Weep not, -but answer me. 
 Prill. By Heaven, I will. 
 
 Not one of 'em but what shall be im- 
 mortal. 
 
 Canst thou forgive me all my follies 
 past, 
 
 I '11 henceforth be indeed a father; never. 
 
 Never more thus expose, but cherish thee. 
 
 Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my 
 
 life, 
 Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness 
 
 o'er thee. 
 Peace to thy heart. Farewell. 
 Belv. Go, and remember 
 
 'Tis Belvidera's life her father pleads 
 for. 
 
 {Exeunt severally.) 
 
 {Enter Antonio.) 
 
 Ante. Hum, hum, ha, Seignior Priuli, my 
 lord Priuli, my lord, my lord, my lord: 
 [h]ow we lords love to call one another 
 by our titles! My lord, my lord, my 
 lord — pox on him, I am a lord as well as 
 he ; and so let him fiddle — I '11 warrant 
 him he's gone to the Senate-house, and 
 I '11 be there too, soon enough for some- 
 body. 'Od, here's a tickling speech 
 about the plot, I '11 prove there 's a plot 
 with a vengeance — ^would I had it with- 
 out book; let me see 
 
 "Most reverend Senators, 
 That there is a plot, surely by this time 
 no man that hath eyes or understanding 
 in his head will presume to doubt, 't is as 
 plain as the light in the cowcumber" — ^no 
 — ^hpld there — cowcumber does not come 
 in yet — " 't is as plain as the light in the 
 sun, or as the man in the moon, even at 
 noon-day; it is indeed a pumpkin-plot, 
 which, just as it was mellow, we have 
 gathered, and now we have gathered it, 
 prepared and dressed it, shall we throw 
 it like a pickled cowcumber out at the 
 window? no : that it is not only a bloody, 
 horrid, execrable, damnable and auda- 
 cious plot, but it is, as I may so say, a 
 saucy plot: and we all know, most rev- 
 erend fathers, that what is sauce for a 
 goose is sauce for a gander: therefore, 
 I say, as those bloodthirsty ganders of 
 the conspiracy would have destroyed us 
 geese of the Senate, let us make haste to 
 destroy them, so I humbly move for 
 hanging" — ha ! hurry durry — ^I think this 
 will do; though I was something out, at 
 first, about the sun and the cowcumber. 
 
 {Enter Aquilina.) 
 
 Aquil. Good-morrow, senator. 
 
 Anto. Nacky, my dear Naeky, morrow, 
 Naeby, 'od, I am very brisk, very merry, 
 very pert, very jovial — ^ha-a-a-a-a — ^kiss 
 me, Nacky; how dost thou do, my little 
 Tory, rory strumpet, kiss me, I say, 
 hussy, kiss me. 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 495 
 
 Aquil. Kiss me, Nacky, hang you, sir, cox- 
 comb, hang you, sir. 
 
 Anto. Hayty, tayty, is it so indeed, with 
 all my heart, faith — hey then up go we, 
 faith — hey then up go we; dum dum de- 
 rum dump. 
 
 {Sings.) 
 
 Aquil. Seignior. 
 
 Anto. Madonna. 
 
 Aquil. Do you intend to die in your 
 bed? 
 
 Anto. About threescore years hence, much 
 may be done, my dear. 
 
 Aquil. You'll be hanged, seignior. 
 
 Anto. Hanged, sweetheart, prithee be 
 qUiet, hanged quotha, that 's a merry 
 conceit, with all my heart, why thou 
 jok'st, Nacky, thou art given to joking, 
 I '11 swear; well, I protest, Nacky, nay, I 
 must protest, and will protest that I love 
 . joking dearly, man. And I love thee for 
 joking, and I '11 kiss thee for joking, and 
 towse thee for joking, and 'od, I have a 
 devilish mind to take thee aside about 
 that business for joking too, 'od, I have, 
 and Hey then up go we, dum dum derum 
 dump. 
 
 (Sings.) 
 
 Aquil. (Draws a dagger.) See you this, 
 sir? 
 
 Anto. laud, a dagger! laud! it is 
 naturally my aversion, I cannot endure 
 the sight on 't, hide it for Heaven's sake, 
 I cannot look that way till it be gone — 
 hide it, hide it, oh, oh, hide it! 
 
 Aquil. Yes, in your heart I '11 hide it. 
 
 Anto. My heart; what, hide a dagger in 
 my heart's blood? 
 
 Aquil. Yes, in thy heart, thy throat, thou 
 pampered devil; 
 Thou hast helped to spoil my peace, and 
 
 I '11 have vengeance 
 On thy curst life, for all the bloody Sen- 
 ate, 
 The perjured faithless Senate: where 'a 
 
 my lord, 
 My happiness, my love, my god, my 
 
 hero. 
 Doomed by thy accursed tongue, amongst 
 
 the rest, 
 T' a shameful wrack? By all the rage 
 
 that 's in me 
 I '11 be whole years in murthering thee. 
 
 Anto. Why, Nacky, 
 
 wherefore so passionate? what have I 
 done? what's the matter, my dear 
 Nacky? am not I thy love, thy happi- 
 ness, thy lord, thy hero, thy senator, and 
 everything in the world, Nacky? 
 
 Aquil. Thou ! think'st thou, thou art fit to 
 meet my joys; 
 
 To bear the eager clasps of my em- 
 braces ? 
 
 Give me my Pierre, or 
 
 Anto. Why, he 's to be hanged, little 
 
 Nacky, trussed up for treason, and so 
 
 forth, child. 
 Aquil. Thou liest:' stop down thy throat 
 that hellish sentence. 
 
 Or 't is thy last : swear that my love shall 
 live. 
 
 Or thou art dead. 
 Anto. Ah-h-h-h. 
 
 Aquil. Swear to recall his doom, 
 
 Swear at my feet, and tremble at my 
 fury. 
 Anto. I do. Now if she would but kick 
 a little bit, one kick now. Ah-h-h-h. 
 
 Aquil. Swear, or 
 
 Anto. I do, by these dear fragrant foots 
 
 and little toes sweet as, e-e-e-e my Nacky, 
 
 Nacky, Nacky. 
 Aquil. How ! 
 Anto. Nothing but untie thy shoe-string 
 
 a little, faith and troth, that 's all, as I 
 
 hope to live, Naeky, that 's all. 
 
 Aquil. Nay, then 
 
 Anto. Hold, hold, thy love, thy lord, thy 
 
 hero shall be preserved and safe. 
 Aquil. Or may this poniard 
 
 Rust in thy heart. 
 Anto. With all my soul. 
 
 Aquil. Tarewell 
 
 (Exit Aquilina.) 
 Anto. Adieu. Why, what a bloody- 
 minded, inveterate, termagant strumpet 
 
 have I been plagued with! Oh-h-h yet 
 
 more! nay then I die, I die — I am dead 
 
 already. 
 
 (Stretches himself out.) 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 [A Street near Priuli's House.] 
 
 (Enter Jaffeir.) 
 
 Jaff. Final destruction seize on all the 
 world : 
 
 Bend down, ye Heavens, and shutting 
 round this earth. 
 
 Crush the vile globe into its first confu- 
 sion; 
 
 Scorch it with elemental flames, to one 
 curst cinder, 
 
 And all us little creepers in't, called 
 men. 
 
 Bum, bum to nothing: but let Venice 
 bum 
 
496 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Hotter than all the rest: here kindle hell 
 Ne'er to extinguish, and let souls here- 
 after 
 Groan here, in all those pains which 
 mine feels now! 
 
 {Enter Belvidera.) 
 
 Belv. (Meeting Mm.) My life- 
 
 Jaff. (Turning from Ker.) My plague 
 
 Belv. Nay then I see my ruin, 
 
 If I must die! 
 Jaf. No, Death 's this day too busy. 
 
 Thy father's ill-timed mercy came too 
 
 late. 
 I thank thee for thy labors though and 
 
 him too, 
 But all my poor betrayed unhappy 
 
 friends 
 Have summons to prepare for fate's 
 
 black hour; 
 And yet I live. 
 Belv. Then be the next my doom. 
 
 I see thou'st passed my sentence in thy 
 
 heart, 
 And I '11 no longer weep or plead against 
 
 it. 
 But with the humblest, most obedient pa- 
 tience 
 Meet thy dear hands, and kiss 'em when 
 
 they wound me; 
 Indeed I am willing, but I beg thee do it 
 With some remorse, and where thou 
 
 giv'st the blow. 
 View me with eyes of a relenting love. 
 And show me pity, for 'twill sweeten 
 
 justice. 
 Jaff. Show pity to thee? 
 Belv. Yes, and when thy hands, 
 
 Charged with my fate, come trembling 
 
 to the deed. 
 As thou hast done a thousand thousand 
 
 dear times. 
 To this poor breast, when kinder rage 
 
 has brought thee. 
 When our stinged hearts have leaped to 
 
 meet each other, 
 And melting kisses sealed our lips to- 
 gether, 
 When joys have left me gasping in thy 
 
 arms, 
 So let my death come now, and I '11 not 
 
 shrink from 't. 
 Jaff. Nay, Belvidera, do not fear my 
 
 cruelty. 
 Nor let the thoughts of death perplex 
 
 thy fancy. 
 But answer me to what I shall demand 
 With a firm temper and unshaken spirit. 
 Belv. I will when I 've done weeping 
 
 Jaff. Fie, no more on 't — 
 
 How long is 't since the miserable day 
 
 We wedded first 
 
 Belv. Oh-h-h! 
 
 Jaff. Nay, keep in thy tears 
 
 Lest they unman me too. 
 Belv. . Heaven knows I cannot; 
 
 The words you utter sound so very sadly 
 
 These streams will follow 
 
 Jaff. Come, I '11 kiss 'em dry, then. 
 
 Belv. But was't a miserable day? 
 Jaff. A curs'd one. 
 
 Belv, I thought it otherwise, and you've 
 oft sworn 
 In the transporting hours of warmest 
 
 love 
 When sure you spoke the truth, you've 
 sworn you blessed it. 
 Jaff. 'T was a rash oath. 
 Belv. Then why am I not curs'd too? 
 
 Jaff. No, Belvidera; by th' eternal truth, 
 
 I dote with too much fondness. 
 Belv. Still so kind? 
 
 StiU then do you love me? 
 Jaff. Nature, in her workings, 
 
 Inclines not with more ardor to creation. 
 Than I do now towards thee: man ne'er 
 
 was blessed, 
 Since the first pair first met, as I have 
 been. 
 Belv. Then sure you will not curse me. 
 Jaff. No, I '11 bless thee. 
 
 I came on purpose, Belvidera, to bless 
 
 thee. 
 'T is now, I think, three years we 've 
 lived together. 
 Belv. And may no fatal minute ever part 
 us, 
 Till, reverend grown, for age and love, 
 
 we go 
 Down to one grave, as our last bed to- 
 gether. 
 There sleep in peace till an eternal 
 morning. 
 Jaff. (Sighing.) When will that be? 
 Belv. I hope long ages hence. 
 
 Jaff. Have I not hitherto (I beg thee tell 
 me 
 Thy very fears) used thee with tenderest 
 
 love? 
 Did e'er my soul rise up in wrath against 
 
 thee? 
 Did I e'er frown when Belvidera smiled, 
 Or, by the least unfriendly word, betray 
 A bating passion? have I ever wronged 
 thee? 
 Belv. No. 
 
 Jaff. Has my heart, or have my eyes e'er 
 wandered 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 497 
 
 To any other woman ? 
 Belv. Never, never — 
 
 I were the worst of false ones should I 
 
 accuse thee; 
 I own I 've been too happy, blessed 
 
 above 
 My sex's charter. 
 Jaff. Did I not say I came to bless thee? 
 Belv. Yes. 
 
 Jaff. Then hear me, bounteous Eeaven ! 
 Pour down your blessings on this beau- 
 teous head, 
 Where -everlasting sweets are always 
 
 springing. 
 With a continual giving hand, let peace, 
 Honor, and safety always hover round 
 
 her: 
 Feed her with plenty, let her eyes ne'er 
 
 see 
 A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know 
 
 mourning : 
 Crown all her days with joy, her nights 
 
 with rest. 
 Harmless as her own thoughts, and prop 
 
 her virtue. 
 To bear the loss of one that too much 
 
 loved. 
 And comfort her with patience in our 
 parting. 
 Belv. How, parting! parting I 
 Jaff. Yes, for ever parting. 
 
 I have sworn, Belvidera, by yon Heaven, 
 That best can tell how much I lose to 
 
 leave thee. 
 We part this hour for ever. 
 Belv. Oh, call back 
 
 Your cruel blessings, stay with me and 
 curse me! 
 Jaff. No, 't is resolved. 
 Belv. Then hear me too, just Heaven ! 
 
 Pour down your curses on this wretched 
 
 head 
 With never-ceasing vengeance: let de- 
 spair, 
 Danger or infamy, nay, all surround me ; 
 Starve me with wantings; let my eyes 
 
 ne'er see 
 A sight of comfort, nor my heart know 
 
 peace. 
 But dash my days with sorroiw, nights 
 
 with horrors 
 Wild as my own thoughts now, and let 
 
 loose fury 
 To make me mad enough for what I 
 
 lose. 
 If I must lose him. If I must! I will 
 
 not. 
 turn and hear me! 
 Jaff. Now hold, heart, or never! 
 
 Belv. By all the tender days we've lived 
 together, 
 By all our charming nights, and joys 
 
 that crowned 'em: 
 Pity my sad condition, speak, but speak. 
 Jaff. Oh-h-h! 
 
 Belv. By these arms that now 
 
 cling round thy neck: 
 By this dear kiss and by ten thousand 
 more. 
 
 By these poor streaming eyes 
 
 Jaff. Murther! unhold me: 
 
 By the immortal destiny that doomed me 
 
 (Draws his dagger.) 
 To this curs'd minute, I'll not live one 
 longer. 
 
 Resolve to let me go or see me fall 
 
 Belv. Hold, sir, be patient. 
 
 (Passing bell tolls.) 
 Jaff. Hark, the dismal bell 
 
 Tolls out for death; I must attend its 
 
 call too, 
 For my poor friend, my dying Pierre 
 
 expects me: 
 He sent a message to require I 'd see him 
 Before he died, and take his last for- 
 giveness. 
 Farewell for ever. 
 Belv. Leave thy dagger with me. 
 
 Bequeath me something. — Not one kiss 
 at parting? 
 (Going out looks back at her.) 
 
 my poor heart, when wilt thou break? 
 Jaff. Yet stay. 
 
 We have a child, as yet a tender infant. 
 Be a kind mother to-him when I am gone : 
 Breed him in virtue and the paths of 
 
 honor. 
 But let him never know his father's 
 
 story : 
 
 1 charge thee guard him from the wrongs 
 
 my fate 
 May do his future fortune or his name. 
 Now — ^nearer yet — 
 
 (Approaching each other.) 
 
 that my arms were riveted 
 Thus round thee ever! But my friends, 
 my oath! 
 
 (Kisses her.) 
 This and no more. 
 Belv. Another, sure another. 
 
 For that poor little one you 've ta'en 
 
 care of, 
 I '11 give 't him truly. 
 Jaff. So, now farewell. 
 
 Belv. For ever? 
 
 Jaff. Heaven knows, for ever; all good 
 angels guard thee. 
 [Exit.] 
 
498 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Belv. All ill ones sure had charge of me 
 
 this moment. 
 Curst be my daj's, and doubly eurst my 
 
 nights, 
 Which I must now mourn out in wid- 
 owed tears; 
 Blasted be every herb and fruit and tree ; 
 Curst be the rain that falls upon the 
 
 earth. 
 And may the general curse reach man 
 
 and beast; 
 Oh, give me daggers, fire or water! 
 How I could bleed, how bum, how 
 
 drown, the waves 
 Huzzing and booming round my sinking 
 
 head, 
 Till I descended to the peaceful bottom! 
 Oh, there's all quiet, here all rage and 
 
 fury: 
 The air 's too thin, and pierces my weak 
 
 brain : 
 I long for thick substantial sleep: hell, 
 
 heU, 
 Burst from the centre, rage and roar 
 
 aloud. 
 If thou art half so hot, so mad as I am. 
 
 {Enter Priuli and Servants.) 
 
 Who's there? 
 Priu. Run, seize and bring her 
 
 safely home. 
 
 (They seize her.) 
 Guard her as you would life: alas, poor 
 creature ! 
 Betv. What? to my husband then conduct 
 me quickly. 
 Are all things ready? shall we die most 
 
 gloriously? 
 Say not a word of this to my old father. 
 Murmuring streams, soft shades, and 
 
 springing flowers. 
 Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of 
 amber. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 (Opening discovers a scaffold and a wheel 
 prepared for the executing of Pierre, 
 then enter Officers, Pierre and Guards, a 
 Friar, Executioner, and a great Babble.) 
 
 Officer. Room, room there — stand all by, 
 make room for the prisoner. 
 
 Pierr. My friend not come yet? 
 
 Father. Why are you so obstinate? 
 
 Pierr. Why you so troublesome, that a 
 poor wretch 
 
 Cannot die in peace? 
 
 But you, like ravens, will be croaking 
 round him — 
 
 Fath. Yet Heaven 
 
 Pierr. I tell thee Heaven 
 
 and I are friends. 
 
 I ne'er broke peace with 't yet, by cruel 
 murthers, 
 
 Rapine or perjury, or vile deceiving, 
 
 But lived in moral justice towards all 
 men, 
 
 Nor am a foe to the most strong be- 
 lievers, 
 
 Howe'er my own short-sighted faith con- 
 fine me. 
 
 Fath. But an all-seeing Judge 
 
 Pierr. You say my conscience 
 
 Must be mine accuser: I have searched 
 that conscience. 
 
 And find no records there of crimes that 
 scare me. 
 Fath. 'T is strange you should want faith. 
 Pierr. You want to lead 
 
 My reason blindfold, like a hampered 
 lion, 
 
 Cheeked of its nobler vigor; then, when 
 baited 
 
 Down to obedient tameness, make it 
 couch. 
 
 And show strange tricks, which you call 
 signs of faith. 
 
 So silly souls are gulled and you get 
 money. 
 
 Away, no more ! Captain, I would here- 
 after 
 
 This fellow write no lies of my conver- 
 sion, 
 
 Because he has crept upon my troubled 
 hours. 
 
 (Enter Jaffeir.) 
 
 Jaff. Hold: eyes, be dry! Heart, 
 strengthen me to bear 
 This hideous sight, and humble me, to 
 
 take 
 The last forgiveness of a dying friend, 
 Betrayed by my vile falsehood, to his 
 
 ruin. 
 Pierre! 
 Pierr. Yet nearer. 
 
 Jaff. Crawling on my knees. 
 
 And prostrate on the earth, let me ap- 
 proach thee. 
 How shall I look up to thy injured face, 
 That always used to smile with friend- 
 ship on me? 
 It darts an air of so much manly virtue. 
 That I, methinks, look little in thy sight, 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 
 
 And stripes are fitter for me than em- 
 braces. 
 Pierr. Dear to my arms, though thou hast 
 undone my fame, 
 I cannot forget to love thee: prithee, 
 
 Jafleir, 
 Forgive that filthy blow my passion dealt 
 
 thee; 
 I am now preparing for the land of 
 
 peace. 
 And fain would have the charitable 
 
 wishes 
 Of all good men, like thee, to bless my 
 journey. 
 Jaff. Good! I am the vilest creature; 
 worse than e'er 
 Suffered the shameful fate thou art going 
 
 to taste of. 
 Why was I sent for to be used thus 
 
 kindly? 
 Call, call me villain, as I am, describe 
 The foul complexion of my hateful deeds, 
 Lead me to the rack, and stretch me in 
 
 thy stead, 
 I've crimes enough to give it its full 
 
 load, 
 And do it credit. Thou wilt but spoil 
 
 the use on 't, 
 And honest men hereafter bear its fig- 
 ure 
 About 'em, as a charm from treacherous 
 friendship. 
 Offic. The time grows short, your friends 
 
 are dead already. 
 Jaff. Dead ! 
 
 Pierr. Yes, dead, Jaffeir; they've all died 
 like men too. 
 Worthy their character. 
 Jaff. And what must I do ? 
 
 Pierr. O Jaffeir! 
 
 Jaff. Speak aloud thy burthened soul 
 
 And tell thy troubles to thy tortured 
 friend. 
 Pierr. Friend ! 
 
 Couldst thou yet be a friend, a generous 
 
 friend, 
 I might hope comfort from thy noble 
 
 sorrows. 
 Heaven knows I want a friend. 
 Jaff. And I a kind one. 
 
 That would not thus scorn my repenting 
 
 virtue, 
 Or think when he is to die, my thoughts 
 are idle. 
 Pierr. No! live, I charge thee, Jaffeir. 
 Jaff. Yes, I will live. 
 
 But it shall be to see thy fall revenged 
 At such a rate, as Venice long shall 
 groan for. 
 
 Pierr. Wilt thou? 
 Jaff. I will, by Heav'n. 
 
 Pierr. Then still thou 'rt noble. 
 
 And I forgive thee, oh — yet — shall I 
 trust thee? 
 Jaff. No: I've been false already. 
 Pierr. Dost thou love me? 
 
 Jaff. Rip up my heart, and satisfy thy 
 
 doubtings. 
 Pierr. {he weeps). Curse on this weak- 
 ness. 
 Jaff. Tears! Amazement! Tears! 
 
 I never saw thee melted thus before. 
 And know there 's something laboring in 
 
 thy bosom 
 That must have vent : though I 'm a vil- 
 lain, tell me. 
 Pierr. (pointing to the wheel.) Seest thou 
 
 that engine? 
 Jaff. Why? 
 
 Pierr. Is 't fit a soldier, who has lived 
 with honor, 
 Fought nations' quarrels, and been 
 
 crowned with conquest. 
 Be exposed a common carcase on a 
 wheel? 
 Jaff. Ha! 
 
 Pierr. Speak! is't fitting? 
 Jaff. Fitting? 
 
 Pierr. Yes, is't fitting? 
 
 Jaff. What's to be done? 
 Pierr. I 'd have thee undertake 
 
 Something that 's noble, to preserve my 
 
 meniory 
 From the disgrace that's ready to at- 
 taint it. 
 Offic. The day grows late, sir. 
 Pierr. ., I '11 make haste ! Jaffeir, 
 
 Though thou 'st betrayed me, do me some 
 way justice. 
 Jaff. No more of that : thy wishes shall be 
 satisfied. 
 I have a wife, and she shall bleed, my 
 
 child too 
 Yield up his little throat, and all t' ap- 
 pease thee 
 
 Pierr. No — this — no more! 
 
 (He whispers Jaffeir.) 
 Jaff. Ha! is't then so? 
 
 Pierr. Most certainly. 
 
 (Going away, Pierre holds him.) 
 
 Jaff. I '11 do 't. 
 
 Pierr. Remember. 
 
 Offic. Sir. 
 
 Pierr. Come, now I 'm ready. 
 
 Captain, you should be a gentleman of 
 honor. 
 
 (He and Jaffeir ascend the scaffold.) 
 
500 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Keep off the rabble, that I may have 
 
 room 
 To entertain my fate and die with de- 
 cency. 
 Come! 
 (Takes off his gown. Executioner pre- 
 pares to bind him.) 
 Fath. Son ! 
 
 Pierr. Hence, tempter. 
 
 Offle. Stand off, priest. 
 
 Pierr. I thank you, sir. You'll think 
 on't. 
 
 {To Jaffeir.) 
 Jaff. 'T won't grow stale before to-mor- 
 row. 
 Pierr. Now, Jaffeir! now I am going. 
 Now; — 
 
 {Executioner having bound him.) 
 Jaff. Have at thee, 
 
 Thou honest heart, then — here — 
 
 {Stabs him.) 
 And this is well too. 
 
 {Then stabs himself.) 
 Fath. Damnable deed ! 
 
 Pierr. Now thou hast indeed been faith- 
 ful. 
 This was done nobly — ^we have deceived 
 the Senate. 
 Jaff. Bravely. 
 
 Pierr. Ha! ha! ha! — oh! oh! 
 
 {Dies.) 
 Jaff. Now, ye curs'd rulers. 
 
 Thus' of the blood y' have shed I make 
 
 libation. 
 And sprinkle 't mingling: may it rest 
 
 upon you. 
 And all your race: be henceforth peace 
 
 a straiiger 
 Within your walls; let plagues and 
 
 famine waste 
 Your generations — poor Belvidera! 
 Sir, I have a wife, bear this in safety 
 
 to her, — 
 A token that with my dying breath I 
 
 blessed her. 
 And the dear little infant left behind me. 
 
 I am sick — I 'm quiet 
 
 {Jaffeir dies.) 
 Offic. Bear this news to the Senate, 
 
 And guard their bodies till there's far- 
 ther order: 
 Heaven grant I die so well! 
 
 {Scene shuts upon them.) 
 
 Scene 4. [A Room in PriuU's House.] 
 
 {Soft music. Enter Belvidera distracted, 
 led by two of her Women, Priuli and 
 Servants.) 
 
 Priu. Strengthen her heart with patience, 
 
 pitying Heaven. 
 Belv. Come, come, come, come, come, nay, 
 
 come. to bed! 
 Prithee, my love. The winds! hark how 
 
 they whistle! 
 And the rain beats: oh, how the weather 
 
 shrinks me! 
 You are angry now, who cares? pish, no 
 
 indeed. 
 Choose then ; I say you shall not go, you 
 
 shall not; 
 Whip your ill nature; get you gone then! 
 
 oh, 
 
 {Jaffeir's Ghost rises.) 
 Are you retum'd? See, father, here 
 
 he 's come again ! 
 Am I to blame to love him? thou 
 
 dear one! 
 
 {Ghost sinks.) 
 Why do you fly me? Are you angry 
 
 still, then? 
 Jaffeir! where art thou? Father, why 
 
 do you do thus? 
 Stand off, don't hide him from me. 
 
 He 's here somewhere. 
 Stand off, I say! what, gone? remember 
 
 it, tyrant! 
 I may revenge myself for this trick one 
 
 day. 
 I '11 do 't^I '11 do 't ! Renault 's a nasty 
 
 fellow. 
 Hang him, hang him, hang him. 
 
 {Enter Officer and others.) 
 
 Priu. News, what news? 
 
 {Officer whispers Priuli.) 
 Offic. Most sad, sir. 
 
 Jaffeir, upon the scaffold, to prevent 
 A shameful death, stabbed Pierre, and 
 
 next himself: 
 Both fell together. 
 {The Ghosts of Jaffeir and Pierre rise to- 
 gether both bloody.) 
 Priu. Daughter. 
 
 Belv. Ha, look there! 
 
 My husband bloody, and his friend too! 
 
 Murther ! 
 Who has done this? Speak to me, thou 
 sad vision, 
 
 {Ghosts sink.) 
 On these poor trembling knees I beg it. 
 
 Vanished ! 
 Here they went down; oh, I'll dig, dig' 
 
 the den up. 
 You shan't delude me thus. Ho, Jaffeir, 
 
 Jaffeir, 
 Peep up and give me but a look. I have 
 him! 
 
VENICE PRESERVED, OR, A PLOT DISCOVERED 501 
 
 I 've got him, father : oh, now how I '11 
 
 And daily where he goes of late, he spies 
 
 smuggle ^^ him ! 
 
 The scowls of sullen and revengeful 
 
 My love! my dear! my blessing! help 
 
 eyes; 
 
 me, help me! 
 
 'T IS what he knows with much contempt 
 
 They have hold on me, and drag me to 
 
 to bear. 
 
 the bottom. 
 
 And serves a cause too good to let him 
 
 Nay — now they pull so hard — fare- 
 
 fear: 
 
 well 
 
 He fears no poison from an incensed 
 
 (She dies.) 
 
 drab. 
 
 Maid. She 's dead, 
 
 No rufl&an's five-foot sword, nor rascal's 
 
 Breathless and -dead. 
 
 stab; 
 
 Priu. Then guard me 
 
 Nor any other snares of mischief laid. 
 
 from the sight on 't ; 
 
 Not a Rose-alley 2* cudgel-ambuscade. 
 
 Lead me into some place that's fit for 
 
 From any private cause where malice 
 
 mourning ; 
 
 reigns. 
 
 Where the free air, light, and the cheer- 
 
 Or general pique all blockheads have to 
 
 ful sun 
 
 brains : 
 
 May never enter: hang it round with 
 
 Nothing shall daunt his pen when truth 
 
 black: 
 
 does call. 
 
 Set up one taper that may last a day 
 
 No, not the picture-mangier* at Guild- 
 
 As long as I 've to live : and there all 
 
 hall. 
 
 leave me. 
 
 The rebel tribe, of which that vermin 's 
 
 Sparing no tears when you this tale 
 
 one, 
 
 relate, 
 
 Have now set forward and their course 
 
 But bid aU cruel fathers dread my 
 
 begun; 
 
 fate. 
 
 And while that Prince's figure they de- 
 
 (Curtain falls. Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 face, 
 
 
 As they before had massacred his name, 
 
 
 Durst their base fears but look him in 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 the face, 
 They'd use Ms person as they've used 
 
 The text is done, and now for applica- 
 
 his fame; 
 
 tion, 
 
 A face, in which such lineaments they 
 
 And when that 's ended, pass your ap- 
 
 read 
 
 probation. 
 
 Of that great martyr's,^^ whose rich 
 
 Though the conspiracy 's prevented here. 
 
 blood they shed, 
 
 Methinks I see another hatching there; 
 
 That their rebellious hate they still re- 
 
 And 'there 's a certain faction fain would 
 
 tain. 
 
 sway. 
 
 And in his son would murther him again. 
 
 If they had strength enough, and damn 
 
 With indignation then, let each brave 
 
 this play. 
 
 heart 
 
 But this the author bade me boldly say: 
 
 Rouse and unite to take his injured part ; 
 
 If any take his plainness in ill part. 
 
 Till royal love and goodness call him 
 
 He's glad on't from the bottom of his 
 
 home, 
 
 heart; 
 
 And songs of triumph meet him as he 
 
 Poets in honor of the truth should write, 
 
 come; 
 
 With the same spirit brave men for it 
 
 Till Heaven his honor and our peace 
 
 fight; 
 
 restore. 
 
 And though againfit him causeless ha- 
 
 And Villains never wrong his virtue 
 
 treds rise. 
 
 more. 
 
 23 fondle. 
 
 24 Dryden, who was 
 friendly with Ot- 
 
 way, in 1679 was 
 
 heaten by hired 
 ruffians in Hose 
 St. 
 
 ' The Rascal that 
 cut the Duke of 
 Tork'e Picture, 
 
 [Not& in the orig- 
 inal. ] 
 
 25 Charles I., father 
 of James, Duke 
 of York. 
 
WILLIAM CONGEEVB 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 William Congreve (1670-1729), brought up 
 and highly educated in Ireland, passed his 
 early manhood in fashionable life in London, 
 where he held small government offices and 
 was made much of by the great; later he 
 lived more retired. His four comedies and 
 one tragedy were produced early in his life 
 — the first. The Old Bachelor, when he was 
 but twenty or so, and the last. The Way of 
 the World, when he was thirty. In spite of 
 his success as a dramatist, that of his last 
 play did not come up to his desires, and, his 
 health failing, he withdrew from the stage. 
 He also wrote a novel, criticism, and poems. 
 
 The Way of the World represents a large, 
 distinguished, and notorious body of drama, 
 Restoration comedy. The chief foreign in- 
 fluence under which it arose is that of 
 Molifere, though by no means all its traits 
 can be fathered on him. The type is well- 
 marked as to its characterization, its plot- 
 ting, its style, and its morals. The charac- 
 terization is broad and slight, typical rather 
 than individual. As Congreve says in the 
 epilogue to The Way of the World, in dis- 
 claiming satire of real persons, 
 
 as when painters form a matchless face, 
 They from each fair one catch some difEerent grace; 
 
 So poets oft do in one piece expose 
 
 Whole belleaasaemiliea of coquettes and beaux. 
 
 Occasionally distinctive traits (superficial 
 ones) are given the various persons, such as 
 Lady Wishfort's trick of asseverating " As 1 
 am a person," and occasional " low " lan- 
 guage spoken by the servants, like Mincing 
 "crips" (II, i) and "I vow, mem, I 
 thought once they would have fit" (III. i). 
 Usually, however, the very servants talk like 
 their betters and are almost as witty — per- 
 haps less so in this than in other Restoration 
 comedies; in striking contrast with the igno- 
 rant in Shakespeare's plays, who divert us 
 by their dialect and blunders. The contrast 
 strikingly illustrates the prevalence in the 
 romantic drama of humor and the character- 
 istic and individual, and in the " classical " 
 eighteenth-century drama of wit and the 
 typical. Sir Wilful Witwoud, the person who 
 most conspicuously stands out among the 
 others, with his downrightness and coarse- 
 ness, would have melted into his social back- 
 ground if he had joined it as early as his 
 half-brother did. Petulant, unlike Mirabel! 
 and Fainall, who are to the manner born, is 
 
 impertinent and ill-bred, and Witwoud is a 
 snob, but this is merely because they are still 
 climbing. We may know that one of the fe- 
 male characters, Millamant, differs from 
 the others in the important point of being 
 virtuous; in most of Congreve's plays there 
 is one such part, which he always wrote for 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle, many years his friend, a 
 charming actress who stood out equally 
 among actresses for her discretion. But 
 Millamant breathes the same atmosphere as 
 the others, and for the purposes of the play 
 really differs only in being a little more fasci- 
 nating. In The Way of the World it may al- 
 most be said that all the persons, men and 
 women, servants and all, under the same cir- 
 cumstances speak alike and act alike. The 
 play represents the life and especially the 
 standards of one of the most unified, limited, 
 conventional societies ever known. Under the 
 fascinating surface glitter, the people are all 
 alike hard and cold, and much as we delight 
 to hear them talk, Charles Lamb truly says 
 we care not a farthing for any one of them 
 (unless, like George Meredith, we cherish a 
 pious opinion that Millamant might grow 
 into a human being) , 
 
 The Way of the World is one of the most 
 brilliant examples in English of the " comedy 
 of manners," which gives an external picture 
 of social life, with all its activity, intrigues, 
 and foibles. In the Elizabethan drama the 
 picture is a much broader one, taking in 
 various social strata, the whole life of the 
 community with its bustle and enjoyment. 
 In some of Fletcher's and Shirley's comedies, 
 however, we find the same tendency to limit 
 the picture to " society " in the small sense ; 
 and this is the rule in the comedy of the Res- 
 toration period. In other words it is what 
 is now called high comedy. The matters at 
 issue are love and marriage (often rather, 
 love or marriage), and it is no accident that 
 in The Way of the World the dramatis per- 
 soncB are mostly women. The play may very 
 properly be called a picture of life, for the 
 main interest in it is in seeing how things 
 are, not in seeing what happens. True, it 
 is unjust to censure the play, as has been 
 done, for lacking plot. After the earlier 
 part the action is constant, with abundance 
 of suspense and surprise, and our interest 
 would be fairly maintained for the time be- 
 ing even if there were nothing else. But the 
 first two acts consist mostly of talk and of 
 very leisurely exposition. When the compli- 
 
 602 
 
WILLIAM CONGREVE 
 
 503 
 
 cated plot begins to unfold, it is not lifelike, 
 we do not feel that by itself it brings us 
 nearer the life of the time. It is fantastic 
 and borders on farce, turning on the all but 
 successful scheme to marry a dressed-up foot- 
 man to a fine lady, in order to blackmail 
 her into giving up her niece's fortune; it is 
 also hardly likely that Fainall and Mrs. 
 Marwood could squander her fortune between 
 them under the nose of the gossips without 
 arousing scandal. Gongreve's claim in the 
 prologue is barely true, — 
 
 Some plot we think he has, and some new thought; 
 Some humor too, no farce. 
 
 All that saves the plot from being farce is 
 that there are no farcical situations. But 
 any plot would have been brilliantly carried 
 off. Long after we have forgotten the story, 
 the impression of the whole play is almost 
 as sharp as ever, the impression of a gay 
 unscrupulous social life, and of unparalleled 
 mental agility and cleverness. 
 
 If Congreve is not the most brilliant Eng- 
 lish writer of dialogue certainly none is more 
 brilliant. His dialogue is a series of flashes so 
 close together that they impress one as a con- 
 tinuous radiance. Nothing can surpass the 
 combination of sheer inventive cleverness 
 with good breeding, restraint and literary 
 polish of style. Among the best passages are 
 that with Lady Wishfort at her toilet (III. 
 i), and above all Mrs. Marwood's picture of 
 the consequences of divulging the family 
 scandal (V. i). Nobody ever talked as well 
 as Gongreve's people; we have here a con- 
 versational idealism more genuine than the 
 moral idealism of The Conquest of Granada. 
 Vituperation has become a fine art. The 
 cleverness of the talk actually gives us some- 
 what the same heightened sense of the value 
 of life and the dignity of human nature that 
 we gain from the beauty and heroism in a 
 play of a different sort. 
 
 And all this in spite of the frivolous, 
 heartless, and vicious set of people who do 
 the talking. But the picture may easily be 
 misunderstood. The dramatist's purpose is 
 to show the surface and the surface only of 
 a fashionable society. " Good Mirabell," 
 says Mrs. Millamant, " don't let us be famil- 
 iar or fond, nor kiss before folks; but let us 
 be very strange and well-bred: let us be as 
 strange as if we had been married a great 
 while; and as well-bred as if we were not 
 married at all " ; to which he replies, " Your 
 demands are pretty reasonable." To conceal 
 deeper feeling, and to turn everything into 
 mirth, are two of the ten commandments of 
 8ucb a BPCiety, We must forgive, too, even 
 
 Millamant's malice for the sake of her high 
 spirits; and after all Mrs. Marwood is fair 
 game. Aside from the occasional license of 
 the language, which is that of its age, the 
 air of cynicism is inevitable; even Gongreve 
 could not have written five acts of incessant 
 splendor without an occasional joke at the 
 expense of virtue, or the pose that marriage 
 is bondage, or the like. Wit being his com- 
 modity, we have to pay for it. But we are 
 paying merely imitation money; we are sacri- 
 ficing no real convictions. In other words, 
 the cynical wit is no more to be taken seri- 
 ously than the cynical wit of a good talker in 
 a club. Whether there is anything worthy 
 under the attractive outside we are not sup- 
 posed to ask, either in the play or in the so- 
 ciety it represents. We are to eat such meat 
 as is set before us, asking no questions for 
 conscience' sake. 
 
 But if the moral issue will not stay down, 
 if we must allow the much-debated question 
 as to the moral effect of Restoration comedy 
 in general, what then? Few persons have 
 been able to accept Charles Lamb's theory 
 that the life represented in it is a purely 
 imaginary life with which morality has noth- 
 ing to do. In such plays as those of Wycher- 
 ley we are asked to follow with sympathetic 
 interest deep-laid plans to debauch ignorant 
 and innocent women. If a play has suf- 
 ficient reality to interest us aside from the 
 interest of its wit, it cannot escape the moral 
 question which is so important a part of 
 reality. The greater part of Restoration 
 comedy from this point of view is brutal and 
 repulsive; it surrounds us, in the words of 
 Macaulay, " with foreheads of bronze, hearts 
 like the nether millstone, and tongues set on 
 fire of hell." But even Voltaire esteemed 
 Congreve as more decent than his predecessors. 
 There is nothing brutal or repulsive in the 
 ethics of. The Way of the World, unless it be 
 so to scheme light-heartedly to outwit a 
 stingy and tyrannical old coquette, and to as- 
 sociate with' people who have been no better 
 than they should be. We are not asked to 
 give our sympathy or liking to anything or 
 anybody whatever ; nor even to watch with in- 
 terest anything which involves moral turpi- 
 tude. The play does not make vice attrac- 
 tive, though it grants that vicious people may 
 be. It does not sentimentalize over illicit 
 passion; there is no passion in it. No one 
 can carp at the morality of the ending. The 
 Way of the World is therefore in the fortu- 
 nate position of being one of the most char- 
 acteristic specimens of the type on its best 
 side, with but little of the qualities that hav? 
 made the type notorious. 
 
504 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 Audire est operas pretium, procedere recte 
 Qui moechos non vultis, [ut omni parte 
 laborent] . 
 
 — HoEAT. Lib. i. Sat. 2. [37-38]. 
 
 [HsBc] metuat, doti deprensa. — Ibid., Lib. 
 i. Sat. 2. [131]. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 Spoken by Mr. Betterton. 
 
 Of those few fools who with ill stars are 
 
 curst, 
 Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the 
 
 worst : 
 Tor they 're a sort of fools which Fortune 
 
 makes. 
 And after she has made 'em fools, for- 
 
 With Nature's oafs^ 'tis quite a different 
 case, 
 
 For Fortune favors aU her idiot-race. 
 
 In her own nest the cuckoo-eggs ^ we find. 
 
 O'er which she broods to hatch the change- 
 ling-kind. 
 
 No portion for her own she has to spare. 
 
 So much she dotes on her adopted care. 
 
 Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in. 
 
 Suffered at first some trifling stakes to 
 win; 
 
 But what unequal hazards do they run! 
 
 Each time they write they venture all 
 they 've won : 
 
 The squire that 's buttered still ^ is sure 
 to be undone. 
 
 This author heretofore has found your 
 favor; 
 
 But pleads no merit from his past be- 
 havior. 
 
 To build on that might prove a vain pre- 
 sumption. 
 
 Should grants, to poets made, admit re- 
 sumption : 
 
 And in Parnassus he must lose his seat. 
 
 If that be found a forfeited estate. 
 
 He owns with toil he wrought the fol- 
 lowing scenes; 
 
 But, if they're naught,* ne'er spare him 
 for his pains: 
 
 Damn him the more; have no commisera- 
 tion 
 
 For dullness on mature deliberation, 
 
 He swears he'll not resent one hissed-off 
 scene. 
 
 Nor, like those peevish wits, his play main- 
 tain. 
 
 Who, to assert their sense, your taste ar- 
 raign. 
 
 Some plot we think he has, and some new 
 thought ; 
 
 Some humor too, no farce; but that's a 
 fault. 
 
 Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect; 
 
 For so reformed a town who dares cor- 
 rect? 
 
 To please, this time, has been his sole pre- 
 tence, 
 
 He'll not instruct, lest it should give of- 
 fence. 
 
 Should he by chance a knave or fool expose. 
 
 That hurts none here, sure here are none of 
 those : 
 
 In short, our play shall (with your leave 
 to show it) 
 
 Give you one instance of a passive poet. 
 
 Who to your judgments yields all resigna- 
 tion; 
 
 So save or damn, after your own discre- 
 tion. 
 
 DRAMATIS PEKSONJB 
 
 Fainall, in love with Mrs. Maewood. 
 MiBABELL, in love with Mks. Miixamant. 
 
 WiTWOUD, \^oiioy,ers of Mks. Millamant. 
 
 Petiilant. J 
 
 Sib Wilfuxl Witwoud, Half-brother to Wit- 
 
 WOUD, and Nephew to Lady Wishfoet. 
 Waitwbix, Servant to Mibabell. 
 Coachmen, Dancers, Footmen, and Attendants. 
 liADT WisHFOBT, Enemy to Mibabell, for 
 
 having falsely pretended love to her. 
 
 Mbs.5 Millamant, a fine Lady, Niece to Ladt 
 
 WisHFOBi, and loves Mibabell. 
 Mks. Mabwood, Friend to Mb. Fainall, and 
 
 likes Mibabell. 
 Mbs. Fainall, Daughter to Lady Wishfobt, 
 
 and Wife to Fainall, formerly Friend to 
 
 Mibabell. 
 Foible, Woman to Lady Wishfobt. 
 Mincing, Woman to Mbs. Millamant. 
 [Betty, Waiting-maid at a Chocolate-house.] 
 [Peq, Maid to Lady Wishfobt.] 
 Scene. — London. 
 
 1 simpletons, 
 
 2 1, e., the eggs laid 
 by Nature in 
 Fortune's nest, as 
 
 cuckoos are sup- 
 posed to lay their 
 own eggs in other 
 birds' nests. 
 
 3 Constantly 
 
 tered. 
 
 4 No good. 
 
 flat- B Mistress, formerly 
 used with the 
 name of an un- 
 
 married as well 
 as a married 
 woman. 
 
THE WAY or THE WORLD 
 
 505 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. A Chocolate-house. 
 
 (Mirabell and Fainall, rising from cards, 
 Betty waiting.) 
 
 Mir. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fain- 
 aU! 
 
 Fain. Have we done? 
 
 Mir. What you please : I '11 play on to 
 entertain you. 
 
 Fain. No, I 'U give you your revenge an- 
 other time, when you are not so indif- 
 ferent; you are thinking of something 
 else now, and play too negligently; the 
 coldness of a losing gamester lessens the 
 pleasure of the winner. I 'd no more 
 play with a man that slighted his ill 
 fortune than I 'd make love to a woman 
 who undervalued the loss of her reputa- 
 tion. 
 
 Mir. You have a taste extremely delicate, 
 and are for refining on your pleasures. 
 
 Fain. Prithee, why so reserved? Some- 
 thing has put you out of humor. 
 
 Mir. Not at all : I happen to be grave to- 
 day, and you are gay; that's all. 
 
 Fain. Confess, Millament and you quar- 
 relled last night after I left you; my 
 fair cousin has some humors that would 
 tempt the patience of a Stoic. What, 
 some coxcomb came in, and was well re- 
 ceived by her, while you were by? 
 
 Mir. Witwoud and Petulant; and what 
 was worse, her aunt, your wife's mother, 
 my evil genius; or to sum up aU in her 
 own name, my old Lady Wishfort came 
 in. 
 
 Fain. O, there it is then ! She has a last- 
 ing passion for you, and with reason. — 
 What, then my wife was there? 
 
 Mir. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood, and three 
 or four more, whom I never saw before. 
 Seeing me, they all put on their grave 
 faces, whispered one another; then com- 
 plained aloud of the vapors,' and after 
 fell into a profound silence. 
 
 Fain. They had a mind to be rid of you. 
 
 Mir. For which reason I resolved not to 
 stir. At last the good old lady broke 
 through her painful taciturnity with an 
 invective against long visits. I would 
 not have understood her, but Millamant 
 joining in the argument, I rose, and, 
 with a constrained smile, told her I 
 
 thought nothing was so easy as to know 
 when a visit began to be troublesome. 
 She reddened, and I withdrew, without 
 expecting her reply. 
 
 Fain. You were to blame to resent what 
 she spoke only in compliance with her 
 aunt. 
 
 Mir. She is more mistress of herself than 
 to be under the necessity of such a resig- 
 nation. 
 
 Fain. What! though half her fortune de- 
 pends upon her marrying with my lady's 
 approbation ? 
 
 Mir. I was then in such a humor, that I 
 should. have been better pleased if she 
 had been less discreet. 
 
 Fain. Now I remember, I wonder not 
 they were weary of you; last night was 
 one of their cabal ^ nights; they have 
 'em three times a-week, and meet by 
 turns at one another's apartments, where 
 they come together like a coroner's in- 
 quest, to sit upon the murdered reputa- 
 tions of the week. You and I are ex- 
 cluded; and it was once proposed that 
 all the male sex should be excepted; but 
 somebody moved that, to avoid scandal, 
 there might be one man of the commun- 
 ity; upon which motion Witwoud and 
 Petulant were enrolled members. 
 
 Mir. And who may have been the foun- 
 dress of this sect? My Lady Wishfort, 
 I warrant, who publishes her detesta- 
 tion of mankind; and full of the vigor 
 of fifty-five, declares for a friend and 
 ratafia * ; and let posterity shift for it- 
 self, she '11 breed no more. 
 
 Fain. The discovery of your sham ad- 
 dresses to her, to conceal your love to 
 her niece, has provoked this separation; 
 had you dissembled better, things might 
 have continued in the state of nature. 
 
 Mir. I did as much as man could, with 
 any reasonable conscience; I proceeded 
 to the very last act of flattery with her, 
 and was guilty of a song in her com- 
 mendation. Nay, I got a friend to put 
 her into a lampoon, and compliment her 
 with the imputation of an affair with a 
 young fellow, which I carried so far, 
 that I told her the malicious town took 
 notice that she was grown fat of a sud- 
 den; and when she lay in of a dropsy, 
 persuaded her she was reported to be in 
 labor. The devil's in 't, if an old 
 woman is to be flattered further, unless 
 
 6 A fit of peevish- 
 neBs or "the 
 blues." 
 
 7 A small 
 clique. 
 
 private 
 
 s "A cordial or liqueur flavoured with certain fruits or tlioir 
 kernels" (Oxf. Diet.); pronounced "rataffia." 
 
506 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 a man should endeavor downright per- 
 sonally to debauch her; and that my vir- 
 tue forbade me. But for the discovery 
 
 of that amour I am indebted to your 
 
 friend, or your wife's friend, Mrs. Mar- 
 wood. 
 Fain. Wliat should provoke her to be 
 
 your enemy, without she has made you 
 
 advances which you have slighted? 
 
 Women do not easily forgive omissions 
 
 of that nature. 
 Mir. She was always civil to me till of 
 
 late. — I confess I am not one of those 
 
 coxcombs who are apt to interpret a 
 
 woman's good manners to her prejudice, 
 
 and think that she who does not refuse 
 
 'em everything, can refuse 'em nothing. 
 Fain. You are a gallant man, Mirabell; 
 
 and though you may have cruelty enough 
 
 not to satisfy a lady's longing, you have 
 
 too much generosity not to be tender 
 
 of her honor. Yet you speak with an 
 
 indifference which seems to be affected, 
 
 and confesses you are conscious of a 
 
 negligence. 
 Mir. You pursue the argument with a 
 
 distrust that seems to be unaffected, and 
 
 confesses you are conscious of a concern 
 
 for which the lady is more indebted to 
 
 you than is your wife. 
 Fain. Fy, fy, friend! if you grow censor- 
 ious I must leave you. — I '11 look upon 
 
 the gamesters in the next room. 
 Mir. Who are they? 
 Fain. Petulant and Witwoud. — {To 
 
 Betty.) Bring me some chocolate. 
 {Exit.) 
 Mir. Betty, what says your clock? 
 Bet. Turned of the last canonical hour," 
 
 sir. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Mir. How pertinently the jade answers 
 
 me! Ha! almost one o'clock! — {Look- 
 ing on his watch.) — Oh, y' are come! 
 
 {Enter a Servant.) 
 
 Well, is the grand affair over? You 
 have been something tedious. 
 Serv. Sir, there 's such coupling at Pan- 
 eras that they stand behind one another, 
 as 't were in a country dance. Ours 
 was the last couple to lead up; and no 
 hopes appearing of dispatch, besides the 
 parson growing hoarse, we were afraid 
 his lungs would have failed before it 
 Came to our turn; so we drove round 
 
 The latest hour (formerly noon) at which n marriage might be performed in 
 10 A traditional humorous name for a hen (or woman). 
 
 to Duke's-plaee ; and there they were 
 rivetted in a trice. 
 
 Mir. So, so, you are sure they are mar- 
 ried? 
 
 Serv. Married and bedded, sir; I am wit- 
 ness. 
 
 Mir. Have you the certificate? 
 
 Serv. Here it is, sir. 
 
 Mir. Has the tailor brought Waitwell's 
 clothes home, and the new liveries? 
 
 Serv. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mir. That 's well. Do you go home again, 
 d 'ye hear, and adjourn the consumma- 
 tion till farther orders. Bid Waitwell 
 shake his ears, and Dame Partlet^" rus- 
 tle up her feathers, and meet me at one 
 o'clock by Rosamond's Pond, that I may 
 see her before she returns to her lady; 
 and as you tender your ears be secret. 
 {Exit Servant.) 
 
 {Re-enter Fainall and Betty.) 
 
 Fain. Joy of your success, Mirabell; you 
 look pleased. 
 
 Mir. Aye ; I have been engaged in a mat- 
 ter of some sort of mirth, which is not 
 yet ripe for discovery. I am glad this 
 is not a cabal night. I wonder, Fainall, 
 that you who are married and of conse- 
 quence should be discreet, will suffer 
 your wife to be of such a party. 
 
 Fain. Faith, I am not jealous. Besides, 
 most who are engaged are women and 
 relations ; and for the men, they are of a 
 kind too contemptible to give scandal. 
 
 Mir. I am of another opinion. The 
 greater the coxcomb, always the more 
 the scandal: for a woman who is not a 
 fool can have but one reason for asso- 
 ciating with a man who is one. 
 
 Fain. Are you jealous as often as you see 
 Witwoud entertained by Millamant? 
 
 Mir. Of her understanding I am, if not 
 of her person. 
 
 Fain. You do her wrong; for, to give her 
 her due, she has wit. 
 
 Mir. She has beauty enough to make any 
 man think so; and complaisance enough 
 not to contradict him who shall tell her 
 so. 
 
 Fain. For a passionate lover, methinks 
 you are a man somewhat too discerning 
 in the failings of your mistress. 
 
 Mir. And for a discerning man, somewhat 
 too passionate a lover; for I like her 
 with all her faults; nay, like her for her 
 faults. Her follies are so natural, or 
 
 parish church. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 507 
 
 so artful, tliat they become her; and 
 those affectations which in another 
 woman would be odious, serve but to 
 make her more agreeable. I '11 tell thee, 
 Fainall, she once used me with that in- 
 solence, that in revenge I took her to 
 pieces ; sifted her, and separated her fail- 
 ings; I studied 'em, and got 'em by rote. 
 The catalogue was so large, that I was 
 not without hopes one day or other to 
 hate her heartily : to which end I so used 
 myself to think of 'em, that at length, 
 contrary to my design and expectation, 
 they gave me every hour less and less 
 disturbance; till in a few days it be- 
 came habitual to me to remember 'em 
 without being displeased. They are now 
 grown as familiar to me as my own 
 frailties; and in all probability, in a 
 little time longer, I shall like 'em as 
 well. 
 
 Fain. Marry her, marry her! Be half as 
 well acquainted with her charms, as you 
 are with her defects, and my life on 't, 
 you are your own man again. 
 
 Mir. Say you so? 
 
 Fain. Ay, ay, I have experience: I have 
 a wife, and so forth. 
 
 {Enter Messenger.) 
 
 Mes. Is one squire Witwoud here? 
 
 Bet. Yes, what's your business? 
 
 Mes. I have a letter for him, from his 
 brother Sir WilfuU, which I am charged 
 to deliver into his own hands. 
 
 Bet. He's in the next room, friend — 
 that way. 
 
 {Exit Messenger.) 
 
 Mir. What, is the chief of that noble fam- 
 ily in town, Sir WilfuU Witwoud? 
 
 Fain. He is expected to-day. Do you 
 know him ? 
 
 Mir. I have seen him. He promises to 
 be an extraordinary person; I think you 
 have the honor to be related to him. 
 
 Fain. Yes; he is half-brother to this Wit- 
 woud by a former wife, who was sister 
 to my Lady Wishfort, my wife's mother. 
 If you marry Millamant, you must call 
 cousins too. 
 
 Mir. I had rather be his relation than his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Fain. He comes to town in order to equip 
 himself for travel. 
 
 Mir. For travel! Why,_ the man that I 
 mean is above forty. 
 
 Fain. No matter for that ; 't is for the 
 honor of England, that all Europe should 
 know we have blockheads of all ages. 
 
 Mir. I wonder there is not an act of par- 
 liament to save the credit of the nation, 
 and prohibit the exportation of fools. 
 
 Fain. By no means ; 't is better as 't is. 
 'T is better to trade with a little loss, 
 than to be quite eaten up with being over- 
 stocked. 
 
 Mir. Pray, are the follies of this knight- 
 errant, and those of the squire his 
 brother, anything related? 
 
 Fain. Not at all; Witwoud grows by the 
 knight, like a medlar grafted on a crab.^^ 
 One will melt in your mouth, and t' other 
 set your teeth on edge; one is all pulp, 
 and the other all core. 
 
 Mir. So one will be rotten before he be 
 ripe, and the other will be rotten without 
 ever being ripe at all. 
 
 Fain. Sir Wilful! is an odd mixture of 
 bashfulness and obstinacy. — But when 
 he 's drunk he 's as loving as the monster 
 in The Tempest^'^ and much after the 
 same manner. To give t' other his due, 
 he has something of good nature, and 
 does not always want wit. 
 
 Mir. Not always : but as often as his mem- 
 ory fails him, and his commonplace ^^ of 
 comparisons. He is a fool with a good 
 memory, and some few scraps of other 
 folks' wit. He is one whose conversa- 
 tion can never be approved, yet it is now 
 and then to be endured. He has indeed 
 one good quality, he is not exceptions ^*; 
 for he so passionately affects the repu- 
 tation of understanding raillery, that he 
 will construe an affront into a jest; and 
 call downright rudeness and ill language, 
 satire and fire. 
 
 Fain. If you have a mind to finish his 
 picture, you have an opportunity to do 
 it at full length. Behold the original. 
 
 {Enter Witwoud.) 
 
 Wit. Afford me your compassion, my 
 dears! Pity me, Fainall! Mirabel, 
 pity me! 
 
 Mir. I do from my soul. 
 
 Fain. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Wit. No letters for me, Betty? 
 
 Bet. Did not the messenger bring you one 
 but now, sir? 
 
 Wit. Ay, but no other? 
 
 Bet. No, sir. 
 
 11 Crab-apple ; » 
 medlar is a small 
 fruit like an ap- 
 
 ple, eaten when 12 Caliban. who 13 A commonplace versation. 
 
 decayed to soft- made beastly book, or note book 14 captious, censorious. 
 
 ness. love to Miranda. of bits for con- 
 
508 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Wit. That's hard, that's very hard.— A 
 messenger! a mule, a beast of burden! be 
 has brought me a letter from the fool my 
 brother, as heavy as a panegyric in a 
 funeral sermon, or a copy of commend- 
 atory verses from one poet to another: 
 and what's worse, 'tis as sure a fore- 
 runner of the author, as an epistle dedi- 
 catory. 
 
 Mir. A fool, and your brother, Witwoud! 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, my half-brother. My half- 
 brother he is; no nearer, upon honor. 
 
 Mir. Then 'tis possible he may be but 
 half a fool. 
 
 Wit. Good, good, Mirabell, le drole!^^ 
 Good, good ; hang him, don't let 's talk of 
 him. — FainaU, how does your lady? 
 Gad, I say anything in the world to get 
 this fellow out of my head. I beg par- 
 don that I should ask a man of pleasure, 
 and the town, a question at once so for- 
 eign and domestic. But I talk like an 
 old maid at a marriage; I don't know 
 what I say: but she's the best woman 
 in the world. 
 
 Fain. 'T is well you don't know what you 
 say, or else your commendation would 
 go near to make me either vain or jeal- 
 ous. 
 
 Wit. No man in town lives well with a 
 wife bijt Tainall. — Your judgment, Mir- 
 abell. 
 
 Mir. You had better step and ask his 
 wife, if you would be credibly informed. 
 
 Wit. MirabeU? 
 
 Mir. Ay. 
 
 Wit. My dear, I ask ten thousand par- 
 dons; — gad, I have forgot what I was 
 going to say to you! 
 
 Mir. I thank you heartily, heartily. 
 
 Wit. No, but prithee excuse me: — ^my 
 memory is such a memory. 
 
 Mir.. Have a care of such apologies, Wit- 
 woud; for I never knew a fool but he 
 affected to complain, either of the 
 spleen^® or his memory. 
 
 Fain. What have you done with Petu- 
 lant? 
 
 Wit. He's reckoning his money — 
 my money it was. — I have no luck to- 
 day. 
 
 Fain. You may allow him to win of you 
 at play: for you are sure to be too hard 
 for him at repartee; since you monop- 
 olize the wit that is between you, the 
 fortune must be his of course. 
 
 Mir. I don't find that Petulant confesses 
 
 the superiority of wit to be your talent, 
 Witwoud. 
 
 Wit. Come, come, you are malicious now, 
 and would breed debates. — Petulant 's 
 my friend; and a very honest fellow, 
 and a very pretty " fellow, has a smat- 
 tering — faith and troth, a pretty deal of 
 an odd sort of a small wit : nay, I '11 do 
 him justice. I 'm his friend, I won't 
 wrong him, neither. — ^And if he had but 
 any judgment in the world, he would not 
 be altogether contemptible. Come, come, 
 don't detract from the merits of my 
 friend. 
 
 Fain. You don't take your friend to be 
 over-nicely bred? 
 
 Wit. No, no, hang him, the rogue has no 
 manners at all, that I must own: — ^no 
 more breeding than a bum-baily,^* that 
 I grant you: — 'tis pity; the fellow has 
 fire and life. 
 
 Mir. What, courage? 
 
 Wit. Hum, faith, I don't know as to that, 
 I can't say as to that. Yes, faith, in a 
 controversy, he '11 contradict anybody. 
 
 Mir. Though .'twere a man whom he 
 feared, or a woman whom he loved. 
 
 Wit. Well, well, he does not always think 
 before he speaks; — we have all our fail- 
 ings: you are too hard upon him, you 
 are, faith. Let me excuse him — I can 
 defend most of his faults, except one or 
 two: one he has, that's the truth on't; 
 if he were my brother, I could not acquit 
 him: — that, indeed, I could wish were 
 otherwise. 
 
 Mir. Ay, marry, what's that, Witwoud? 
 
 Wit. pardon me! — Expose the infirm- 
 ities of my friend! — No, my dear, ex- 
 cuse me there. 
 
 Fain. What, I warrant he 's unsincere, or 
 't is some such trifie. 
 
 Wit. No, no; what if he be? 'tis no mat- 
 ter for that, his wit will excuse that: a 
 wit should no more be sincere, than a 
 woman constant; one argues a decay of 
 parts, as t' other of beauty. 
 
 Mir. Maybe you think him too positive? 
 
 Wit. No, no, his being positive is an in- 
 centive to argument, and keeps up con- 
 versation. 
 
 Fain. Too illiterate? 
 
 Wit. That! that's his happiness: — ^his 
 want of learning gives him the more op- 
 portunities to show his natural parts. 
 
 Mir. He wants words? 
 
 Wit. Ay: but I like him for that now; 
 
 15 The funny fellow. 
 
 16 melancholy. 
 18 A contemptuous word for a bailiff who makes arrests. 
 
 17 "fine." 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 509 
 
 for his want of words gives me the pleas- 
 ure very often to explain his meaning. 
 
 Fain. He's impudent? 
 
 Wit. No, that's not it. 
 
 Mir. Vain? 
 
 Wit. No. 
 
 Mir. What! He speaks unseasonable 
 truths sometimes, because he has not wit 
 enough to invent an evasion? 
 
 Wit. Truths! ha! ha! ha! No, no; since 
 you will have it, — I mean, he never 
 speaks truth at all, — that 's all. He will 
 lie like a chambermaid, or a woman of 
 quality's porter. Now that is a fault. 
 
 {Enter Coachman.) 
 
 Coach. Is Master Petulant here, mistress? 
 
 Bet. Yes. 
 
 Coach. Three gentlewomen in a coach 
 would speak with him. 
 
 Fain. O brave Petulant! three! 
 
 Bet. I '11 teU him. 
 
 Coach. You must bring two dishes of 
 chocolate and a glass of cinnamon-water. 
 {Exeunt Betty and Coachman.) 
 
 Wit. That should be for two fasting 
 strumpets, and a bawd troubled with 
 wind. Now you may know what the 
 three are. 
 
 Mir. You are very free with your friend's 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, friendship without freedom 
 is as duU as love without enjoyment, or 
 wine without toasting. But to tell you 
 a secret, these are trulls that he allows 
 coach-hire, and something more, by the 
 week, to call on him once a day at pub- 
 lic places. 
 
 Mir. How ! 
 
 Wit. You shall see he won't go to 'em, 
 because there 's no more company here to 
 take notice of him. — Why, this is noth- 
 ing to what he used to do: — before he 
 found out this way, I have known him 
 to call for himself. 
 
 Fain. Call for himself! What dost thou 
 mean? 
 
 Wit. Mean! Why, he would slip you^' 
 out of this chocolate-house, just when 
 you had been talking to him — as soon as 
 your back was turned — whip he was 
 gone! — then trip to his lodging, clap on 
 a hood and scarf, and a mask, slap into 
 a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the 
 door again in a trice, where he would 
 send in for himself; that I mean, call 
 for himself, wait for himself; nay, and 
 
 what 's more, not finding himself, some- 
 times leave a letter for himself. 
 Mir. I confess this is something extraor- 
 dinary. — I believe he waits for himself 
 now, he is so long a-coming: Oh! I ask 
 his pardon. 
 
 {Enter Petulant and Betty.) 
 
 Bet. Sir, the coach stays. 
 
 Pet. Well, well; — I come. — 'Sbud, a man 
 had as good be a professed midwife as a 
 professed whoremaster, at this rate! to 
 be knocked up and raised at all hours, 
 and in all places! Pox on 'em, I won't 
 come ! — D' ye hear, tell 'em I won't come : 
 — let 'em snivel and cry their hearts out. 
 
 Fain. You are very cruel. Petulant. 
 
 Pet. All's one, let it pass: I have a 
 humor to be cruel. 
 
 Mir. I hope they are not persons of con- 
 dition that you use at this rate. 
 
 Pet. Condition ! condition 's a dried flg, if 
 I am not in humor! — By this hand, if 
 they were your — a — a — your what d 'ye- 
 call-'ems themselves, they must wait or 
 rub ofE, if I want appetite. 
 
 Mir. What d 'ye-call-'ems ! What are 
 they, Witwoud? 
 
 Wit. Empresses, my dear: — by your 
 what-d' ye-call-'ems he means sultana 
 queens. 
 
 Pet. Ay, Eoxalanas.^" 
 
 Mir. Cry you mercy! 
 
 Fain. Witwoud says they are — 
 
 Pet. What does he say th' are? 
 
 Wit. I? Fine ladies, I say. 
 
 Pet. Pass on, Witwoud. — Hark'ee, by this 
 light, his relations : — two co-heiresses his 
 cousins, and an old aunt, that loves 
 caterwauling better than a conventicle. 
 
 Wit. Ha! ha! ha! I had a mind to see 
 how the rogue would come off. — Ha ! ha ! 
 ha! Gad, I can't be angry with him, if 
 he said they were my mother and my 
 sisters. 
 
 Mir. No ! 
 
 Wit. No; the rogue's wit and readiness 
 of invention charm me. Dear Petulant! 
 
 Bet. They are gone, sir, in great anger. 
 
 Pet. Enough, let 'em trundle. Anger 
 helps complexion, saves paint. 
 
 Fain. This continence is all dissembled; 
 this is in order to have something to brag 
 of the next time he makes court to Mil- 
 lamant, and swear he has abandoned the 
 whole sex for her sake. 
 
 Mir. Have you not left off your impu- 
 
 19 A kind of "dative of interest," common in earlier Bnglish. 
 
 20 The Sultana in D'Avenant's Siege of Bhodet, 
 
510 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 dent pretensions there yet? I shall cut 
 your throat some time or other, Petulant, 
 about that business. 
 
 Pet. Ay, ay, let that pass — there are 
 other throate to be cut. 
 
 Mir. Meaning mine, 'sir? 
 
 Pet. Not I — I mean nobody — I know 
 nothing : — but there are uneles and neph- 
 ews in the world — and they may be 
 rivals — ^what, then! All's one for that. 
 
 Mir. How! hark'ee. Petulant, come 
 hither: — explain, or ! shall call your in- 
 terpreter. 
 
 Pet. Explain! I know nothing. Why, 
 you have an uncle, have you not, lately 
 come to town, and lodges by my Lady 
 Wishfort's? 
 
 Mir. True. 
 
 Pet. Why, that 's enough — you and he are 
 not friends; and if he should marry and 
 liave a child, you may be disinherited, 
 ha? 
 
 Mir. Where hast thou stumbled upon all 
 this truth? 
 
 Pet. All's one for that; why, then, say I 
 know something. 
 
 Mir, Come, thou art an honest fellow. 
 Petulant, and shalt make love to my mis- 
 tress, thou sha't, faith. What hast thou 
 heard of my uncle? 
 
 Pet. I? Nothing, I. If throats are to 
 be out, let swords clash ! snug 's the word, 
 1 shrug and am silent. 
 
 Mir. Oh, raillery, raillery T Come, I 
 know thou art in the women's secrets. — 
 What, you're a cabalist; I know you 
 stayed at Millamant's last night, after I 
 went. Was there any mention made of 
 my uncle or me? Tell me. If thou 
 hadst but good nature equal to thy wit, 
 Petulantj Tony Witwoud, who is now 
 thy competitor in fame, would show as 
 ^im by thee as a dead whiting's eye by 
 a pearl of orient j he would no more be 
 seen by thee, thaa Mercury is by the 
 sun. Canx% I 'm sure tliou wo't tell me. 
 
 Pet. If I do, will you grant me common 
 sense then for the future ? 
 
 Mir. Faith, I'll do what I can for thee, 
 and I 'U pray that Heaven may grant it 
 thee in the meantime. 
 
 Pet. Well, hark'ee. 
 
 Fain. Petulant and you both will find 
 Mirabel as warm a rival as a lover. 
 
 Wit.. Pshaw! pshaw! that she laughs at 
 Petulant is plain. And for my part, but 
 that it is almost a fashion to admire her. 
 
 21 tricked. 
 
 22 Capricious person^ 
 
 I should — ^hark'ee — to tell you a secret, 
 but let it go no further — between friends, 
 I shall never break my heart for her. 
 
 Fain. How ! 
 
 Wit. She 's handsome; but she 's a sort of 
 an uncertain woman. 
 
 Fain. I thought you had died for her. 
 
 Wit. Umh— no— 
 
 Fain. She has wit. 
 
 Wit. 'T is what she will hardly allow any- 
 body else: — now, demme, I should hate ■ 
 that, if she were as handsome as Cleo- 
 .patra. Mirabell is not so sure of her as 
 he thinks for. 
 
 Fain. Why do you think so? 
 
 Wit. We stayed pretty late there last 
 night, and heard something of an uncle 
 to Mirabell, wlio is lately come to town — 
 and is between liim and the best part of 
 his estate. Mirabell and he are at some 
 distance, as my Lady Wishfort has been 
 told; and you know she hates Mirabell 
 worse than a quaker hates a parrot, or 
 than a fishmonger hates a hard frost. 
 Whether this uncle has seen Mrs. Mil- 
 lamant or not, I cannot say, but there 
 were items of such a treaty being in 
 embryo; and if it should come to life, 
 poor Mirabell would be in some sort un- 
 fortunately fobbed,'^ i' faith. 
 
 Fain. 'T is impossible Millamant should 
 hearken to it. 
 
 Wit, Faith, my dear, I can't tell ; she 's a 
 woman, and a kind of a humorist.^^ 
 
 Mir. And this is the sum of what you 
 could collect last night? 
 
 Pet. The quintessence. Maybe Witwoud 
 knows more, he stayed longer: — besides, 
 they never mind him; they say anything 
 before him. 
 
 Mir. I thought you had been the greatest 
 favorite. 
 
 Pet. Ay, tSte-a-tete, but not in public, be- 
 cause I make remarks. 
 
 Mir. Do you? 
 
 Pet. Ay, ay ; pox, I 'm malicious, man ! 
 Now he 's soft you know ; they are not in 
 awe of him — the fellow 's well-bred ; he 's 
 what you call a — what-d' ye-call-'em, a 
 fine gentleman ; but he 's silly withal. 
 
 Mir. I thank you. I know as much as 
 my curiosity requires. — Fainall, are you 
 for the Mail? 23 
 
 Fain. Ay, I '11 take a turn before dinner. 
 
 Wit. Ay, we'll all walk in the Park; the 
 ladies talked of being there. 
 
 Mir. I thought you were obliged to watch 
 
 23 A promenade in St. James' Park, lashionable la 
 the 17th and 18th centuries. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 511 
 
 for your brother Sir WilfuU's arrival. 
 
 Wit, No, no; he comes to his aunt's, my 
 lady Wishfort. Pox on him! I shall 
 be troubled with him, too; what shall I 
 do with the fool? 
 
 Pet. Beg him for his estate, that I may 
 beg you afterwards : and so have but one 
 trouble with you both. 
 
 Wit. 0, rare Petulant! Thou art as 
 quick as a flre in a frosty morning : thou 
 shalt to the Mall with us, and we '11 be 
 very severe. 
 
 Pet. Enough, I 'm in a humor to be se- 
 vere. 
 
 Mir. Are you? Pray, then, walk by 
 yourselves: let us not be accessary to 
 your putting the ladies out of counten- 
 ance with your senseless ribaldry, which 
 you roar out aloud as often as they 
 pass by you ; and when you have made a 
 handsome woman blush, then you think 
 you have been severe. 
 
 Pet. What, what! Then let 'em either 
 show their innocence by not understand- 
 ing what they hear, or else show their 
 discretion by not hearing what they 
 would not be thought to understand. 
 
 Mir. But hast not thou then sense enough 
 to know that thou ought'st to be most 
 ashamed thyself, when thou hast put an- 
 other out of countenance? 
 
 Pet. Not I, by this hand! — I always take 
 blushing either for a sign of guilt, or ill 
 breeding. 
 
 Mir. I confess you ought to think so. 
 You are in the right, that you may plead 
 the error of your judgment in defence of 
 your practice. 
 Where modesty 's ill manners, 't is but 
 
 fit 
 That impudence and malice pass for 
 wit. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. St. James' Park. 
 
 (Mrs. Fainall and Mrs. Marwood.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, dear Marwood, if we 
 wiU be happy, we must find the means in 
 ourselves, and among ourselves. Men 
 are ever in extremes; either doting or 
 averse. While they are lovers, if they 
 have flre and sense, their jealousies are 
 insupportable; and when they cease to 
 love (we ought to think ai least) they 
 
 loathe; they look upon us with horror 
 and distaste ; they meet us like the ghosts 
 of what we were, and as such, fly from 
 us. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. True, 't is an unhappy circum- 
 stance of life, that love should ever die 
 before us; and that the man so often 
 should outlive the lover. But say what 
 you will, 't is better to be left than never 
 to have been loved. To pass our youth 
 in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets 
 of life because they once must leave us, 
 is as preposterous as to wish to have 
 been bom old, because we one day must 
 be old. For my part, my youth may 
 wear and waste, but it shall never rust 
 in my possession. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Then it seems you dissemble 
 an aversion to mankind, only in compli- 
 ance with my mother's humor? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Certainly. To be free; I have 
 no taste of those insipid dry discourses, 
 with which our sex of force must enter- 
 tain themselves, apart from men. We 
 may affect endearments to each other, 
 profess eternal friendships, and seem to 
 dote like lovers; but 'tis not in our na- 
 tures long to persevere. Love will re- 
 sume his empire in our breasts; and 
 every heart, or soon or late, receive and 
 re-admit him as its lawful tyrant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Bless me, how have I been 
 deceived! Why, you profess a liber- 
 tine. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You see my friendship by my 
 freedom. Come, be as sincere, acknowl- 
 edge that your sentiments agree with 
 mine. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Never! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You hate hankind? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Heartily, inveterately. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Your husband? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Most transcendently ; ay, 
 though I say it, meritoriously. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Give me your hand upon it. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. There. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I join with you; what I have 
 said has been to try you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Is it possible? Dost thou 
 hate those vipers, men? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I have done hating 'em, and 
 am now come to despise 'em; the next 
 thing I have to do, is eternally to forget 
 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. There spoke the spirit of an 
 Amazon, a Penthesilea! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. And yet I am thinking some- 
 times to carry my aversion further. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. How? 
 
512 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Faith, by marrying; if I cotdd 
 but find one that loved me very well, 
 and would be thoroughly sensible of ill 
 usage, I think I should do myself the 
 violence of undergoing the ceremony. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You would not make him a 
 cuckold? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No; but I'd make him believe 
 I did, and that 's as bad. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Why, had not you as good do 
 it? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Oh! if he should ever discover 
 it, he would then know the worst, and be 
 out of his pain; but I would have him 
 ever to continue upon the rack of fear 
 and jealousy. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ingenious mischief! would 
 thou wert married to Mirabell. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Would I were! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You change color. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Because I hate him. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So do I; but I can hear him 
 named. But what reason have you to 
 hate him in particular? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I never loved him; he is, and 
 always was, insufferably proud. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. By the reason you give for 
 your aversion, one would think it dis- 
 sembled; ^* for you have laid a fault to 
 his charge, of which his enemies must 
 acquit hrni. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Oh, then it seems you are one 
 of his favorable enemies! Methinks you 
 look a little pale, and now you flush 
 again. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Do I? I think I am a little 
 sick o' the sudden. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. What ails you? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. My husband. Don't you see 
 him? He turned short upon me un- 
 awares, and has almost overcome me. 
 {Enter Fainall and Mirabell.) 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Ha! ha! ha! He comes op- 
 portunely for you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. For you, for he has brought 
 Mirabell with him. 
 
 Fain. My dear! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. My soul! 
 
 Fain. You don't look well to-day, child. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. D' ye think so ? 
 
 Mir. He is the only man that does, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. The only man that would tell 
 me so at least; and the only man from 
 whom I could hear it without mortifica- 
 tion. 
 
 Fain. 0, my dear, I am satisfied of your 
 tenderness; I know you cannot resent 
 
 24 feigned. 
 
 anything from me; especially what is an 
 effect of my concern. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Mr. Mirabell, my mother in- 
 terrupted you in a pleasant relation ^^ 
 last night; I would fain hear it out. 
 
 Mir. The persons concerned in that af- 
 fair have yet a toelrable reputation. — 
 I am afraid Mr. Fainall will be censori- 
 ous. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. He has a humor more prevail- 
 ing than his curiosity, and will willingly 
 dispense with the hearing of one scan- 
 dalous story, to avoid giving an occasion 
 to make another by being seen to walk 
 with his wife. This way, Mr. Mirabell, 
 and I dare promise you will oblige us 
 both. 
 (Exeunt Mrs. Fainall and Mirabell.) 
 
 Fain. Excellent creature! Well, sure if 
 I should live to be rid of my wife, I 
 should be a miserable man. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Ay! 
 
 Fain. For having only that one hope, the 
 aecompKshment of it, of consequence, 
 must put an end to all my hopes; and 
 what a wretch is he who must survive 
 his hopes! Nothing remains when that 
 day comes, but to sit down and weep 
 like Alexander, when he wanted other 
 worlds to conquer. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Will you not follow 'em? 
 
 Fain. Faith, I think not. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Pray let us; I have a reason. 
 
 Fain. You are not jealous? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Of whom? 
 
 Fain. Of Mirabell. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. If I am, is it inconsistent with 
 my love to you that I am tender of your 
 honor? 
 
 Fain. You would intimate, then, as if 
 there were a fellow-feeling between my 
 wife and him? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I think she does not hate him 
 to that degree she would be thought. 
 
 Fain. But he, I fear, is too insensible. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. It may be you are deceived. 
 
 Fain. It may be so. I do not now begin 
 to apprehend it. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. What? 
 
 Fain. That I have been deceived, madam, 
 and you are false. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. That I am false ! What mean 
 you? 
 
 Fain. To let you know I see through all 
 your little arts. — Come, you both love 
 him; and both have equally dissembled 
 your aversion. Your mutual jealousies 
 of one another have made you clash till 
 
 25 Amusing story. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 613 
 
 you have both struck fire. I have seen 
 the warm confession reddening on your 
 cheeks, and sparkling from your eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You do me wrong. 
 
 Fain. I do not. 'T was for my ease to 
 oversee and wilfully neglect the gross ad- 
 vances made him by my wife; that by 
 permitting her to be engaged, I might 
 continue unsuspected in my pleasures; 
 and take you oftener to my arms in full 
 security. But could you think, because 
 the nodding husband would not wake, 
 that e'er the watchful lover slept? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. And wherewithal can you re- 
 proach me? 
 
 Fain. With infidelity, with loving another, 
 with love of Mirabell. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'Tis false! I challenge you 
 to show an instance that can confirm 
 your groundless accusation. I hate him. 
 
 Fain. And wherefore do you hate him? 
 He is insensible, and your resentment 
 follows his neglect. An instance! the 
 injuries you have done him are a proof: 
 your interposing in his love. What 
 cause had you to make discoveries of his 
 pretended passion? To undeceive the 
 credulous aunt, and be the officious ob- 
 stacle of his match with Millamantl 
 
 Mrs. Mar. My obligations to my lady 
 urged me; I had professed a friendship 
 to her; and could not see her easy nature 
 so abused by that dissembler. 
 
 Fain. What, was it conscience, then? 
 Professed a friendship ! 0, the pious 
 friendships of the female sex! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. More tender, more sincere, and 
 more enduring than all the vain and 
 empty vows of men, whether professing 
 love to us or mutual faith to one another. 
 
 Fain. Ha! ha! ha! You are my wife's 
 friend, too. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. ' Shame and ingratitude ! Do 
 you reproach me? You, you upbraid 
 me? Have I been false to her, through 
 strict fidelity to you, and sacrificed my 
 friendship to keep my love inviolate? 
 And have you the baseness to charge me 
 with the guilt, unmindful of the merit? 
 To you it should be meritorious, that I 
 have been vicious: and do you reflect 
 that guilt upon me, which should lie bur- 
 ied in your bosom? 
 
 Fain. You misinterpret my reproof. I 
 meant but to remind you of the slight 
 account you once could make of strictest 
 ties, when set in competition with your 
 love to me. 
 
 Mrs, Mar. 'Tis false, you urged it with 
 
 deliberate malice ! 't was spoken in scorn, 
 and I never will forgive it. 
 
 Fain. Your guilt, not your resentment, 
 begets your rage. If yet you loved, you 
 could forgive a jealousy: but you are 
 stung to find you are discovered. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. It shall be all discovered. You 
 too shall be discovered ; be sure you shall. 
 I can but be exposed. — If I do it myself 
 I shall prevent your baseness. 
 
 Fain. Why, what will you do? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Disclose it to your wife; own 
 what has passed between us. 
 
 Fain. Frenzy ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. By all my wrongs I '11 do 't ! — 
 I '11 publish to the world the injuries you 
 have done me, both in my fame and for- 
 tune! With both I trusted you, you 
 bankrupt in honor, as indigent of wealth. 
 
 Fain. Your fame I have preserved: your 
 fortune has been bestowed as the prodi- 
 gality of your love would have it, in 
 pleasures which we both have shared. 
 Yet, had not you been false, I had ere 
 this repaid it — ^'tis true — ^had you per- 
 mitted Mirabell with Millamant to have 
 stolen their marriage, my lady had been 
 incensed beyond all means of reconcile- 
 ment: Millamant had forfeited the 
 moiety of her fortune ; which then would 
 have descended to my wife; and where- 
 fore did I marry, but to make lawful 
 prize of a rich widow's wealth, and 
 squander it on love and you? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Deceit and frivolous pretence! 
 
 Fain. Death, am I not married ? What 's 
 pretence? Am I not imprisoned, fet- 
 tered? Have I not a wife? nay a wife 
 that was a widow, a young widow, a 
 handsome widow; and would be again a 
 widow, but that I have a Heart of proof, 
 and something of a constitution to bustle 
 through the ways of wedlock and this 
 world ! Will you yet be reconciled to 
 truth and me? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Impossible. Truth and you 
 are inconsistent: I hate you, and shall 
 for ever. 
 
 Fain. For loving you? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 1 loathe the name of love after 
 such usage; and next to the guilt with 
 which you would asperse me, I scorn you 
 most. Farewell ! 
 
 Fain. Nay, we must not part thus. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Let me go. 
 
 Fain. Come, I 'm sorry. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I care not — ^let me go — break 
 my hands, do — I'd leave 'em to get 
 loose. 
 
514 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Fain. I would not hurt you for the world. 
 
 Have I no other hold to keep you here? 
 Mrs. Mar. Well, I have deserved it all. 
 Fain. You know I love you. 
 Mrs. Mar. Poor dissembling! — Oh, that — 
 
 well, it is not yet — 
 Fain. What? Wliat is it not? What is 
 
 it not yet? It is not yet too late — 
 ilfrs. Mar. No, it is not yet too late; — I 
 
 have that comfort. 
 Fain. It is, to love another. 
 Mrs. Mar. But not to loathe, detest, ab- 
 hor mankind, myself, and the whole 
 
 treacherous world. 
 Fain. Nay, this is extravagance. — Come, I 
 
 ask your pardon — no tears — I was to 
 
 blame, I could not love you and be easy 
 
 in my doubts. Pray forbear — I believe 
 
 you; I'm convinced I've done you 
 
 wrong; and anyway, every way will make 
 
 amends. I '11 hate my wife yet more, 
 
 damn her! I'll part with her, rob her 
 
 of all she 's worth, and we '11 retire some- 
 where, anywhere, to another world. ■ I '11 
 
 many thee — be pacified. — 'Sdeath, they 
 
 come, hide your face, your tears; — you 
 
 have a mask, wear it a moment. This 
 
 way, this way — be persuaded. 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 {Enter Mirabell and Mrs. Faindtt.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. They are here yet. 
 
 Mir. They are turning into the other walk. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. While I only hated my hus- 
 band, I could bear to see him; but since 
 I have despised him, he 's too offensive. 
 
 Mir. 0, you should hate with prudence. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Yes, for I have loved with in- 
 discretion. 
 
 Mir. You should have just so much dis- 
 gust for your husband, as may be suffi- 
 cient to make you relish your lover. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You have been the cause that 
 I have loved without bounds, and would 
 you set limits to that aversion of which 
 you have been the occasion? Why did 
 you make me marry this man? 
 
 Mir. Why do we daily commit disagree- 
 able and dangerous actions? To save 
 that idol, reputation. If the familiari- 
 ties of our loves had produced that con- 
 sequence of which you were apprehen- 
 sive, where could you have fixed a fa- 
 ther's name with credit, but on a hus- 
 band? I knew Fainall to be a man 
 lavish of his morals, an interested and 
 professing friend, a false and a design- 
 
 28 Hold to the arrangement, refuse to give her up. Moscn, in .Tonson's Tolpone, or The Fox, played off his 
 
 dupes against each other. 
 
 ing lover; yet one whose wit and outward 
 fair behavior have gained a reputation 
 with the town enough to make' that 
 woman stand excused who has suffered 
 herself to be won by his addresses. A 
 better man ought not to have been sacri- 
 ficed to the occasion; a worse had not 
 answered to the purpose. When you are 
 weary of him, you know your remedy. 
 Mrs. Fain. I ought to stand in some de- 
 gree of credit with you, Mirabell. 
 Mir. In justice to you, I have made you 
 privy to my whole design, and put it in 
 your power to ruin or advance my for- 
 tune. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Whom have you instructed to 
 represent your pretended uncle? 
 
 Mir. Waitwell, my servant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. He is an humble servant to 
 Foible my mother's woman, and may 
 win her to your interest. 
 
 Mir. Care is taken for that — she is won 
 and worn by this time. They were mar- 
 ried this morning. 
 
 ilfrs. Fain. Who? 
 
 Mir. Waitwell and Foible. I would not 
 tempt my servant to betray me by trust- 
 ing him too far. If your mother, in 
 hopes to ruin me, should consent to marry 
 my pretended uncle, he might, like Mosca 
 in The Fox, stand upon terms; ^* so I 
 made him sure beforehand. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So if my poor mother is 
 caught in a contract, you will discover 
 the imposture betimes, and release her by 
 producing a certificate of her gallant's 
 former marriage? 
 
 Mir. Yes, upon condition she consent to 
 my marriage with her niece, and surren- 
 der the moiety of her fortune in her 
 possession. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. She talked last night of en- 
 deavoring at a match between Millamant 
 and your uncle. 
 
 Mir. 'That was by Foible's direction, and 
 my instruction, that she might seem to 
 carry it more privately. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Well, I have an opinion of 
 your success; for I believe my lady will 
 do anything to get a husband ; and when 
 she has this, which you have provided for 
 her, I suppose she will submit to any- 
 thing to get rid of him. 
 
 Mir. Yes, I think the good lady would 
 marry anj^thing that resembled a man, 
 though 't were no more than what a but- 
 ler could pinch out of a napkin. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 •515 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Female frailty! We must all 
 come to it, if we live to be old, and feel 
 the craving of a false appetite when the 
 true is decayed. 
 
 Mir. An old woman's appetite is depraved 
 like that of a girl — 'tis the green sick- 
 ness of a second childhood; and, like the 
 faint offer of a latter spring, serves but 
 to usher in the fall, and withers in an 
 affected bloom. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Here 's your mistress. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, and 
 Mincing. ) 
 
 Mir. Here she comes, i' faith, full sail, 
 with her fan spread and her streamers 
 out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, 
 no, I cry her mercy ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I see but one poor empty 
 sculler; and he tows her woman after 
 him. 
 
 Mir. You seem to be unattended, madam — 
 you used to have the beau monde throng 
 after you; and a flock of gay fine perukes 
 hovering round you. 
 
 Wit. Like moths about a candle. — I had 
 like to have lost my comparison for want 
 of breath. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. 0, I have denied myself airs 
 to-day, I have walked as fast through 
 the crowd — 
 
 Wit. As a favorite in disgrace; and with 
 as few followers. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce \n,th 
 your similitudes; for I'm as sick of 
 'em — 
 
 Wit. As a physician of a good air. — I 
 cannot help it, madam, though 't is 
 against myself. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Yet again! Mincing, stand be- 
 tween me and his wit. 
 
 Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen be- 
 fore a great fire. — I confess I do blaze 
 to-day; I am too bright. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. But, dear Millamant, why 
 were you so long? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Long! Lord, have I not made 
 violent haste? I have asked every living 
 thing I met for you; I have inquired 
 after you, as after a new fashion. 
 
 Wit. Madam, tmce with your similitudes. 
 — No, you met her husband, and did not 
 ask him for her. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. By your leave, Witwoud, that 
 were like inquiring after an old fashion, 
 to ask a husband for his wife. 
 
 Wit. Hum, a hit! a hit! a palpable hit! 
 I confess it. 
 
 27 Dressed, arranged (my hair). 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You were dressed before I 
 came abroad. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, that 's true.— 0, but then I 
 had — Mincing, what had I? Why was I 
 so long? 
 
 Min. mem, your la'ship stayed to pe- 
 ruse a Pecquet of letters. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. 0, ay, letters — I had letters — I 
 am persecuted with letters — I hate let- 
 ters. — Nobody knows how to write let- 
 ters,, and yet one has 'em, one does not 
 know why. They serve one to pin up 
 one's hair. 
 
 Wit. Is that the way? Pray, madam, do 
 you pin up your hair with all your let- 
 ters? I find I must keep copies. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Only with those in verse, Mr. 
 Witwoud; I never pin up my hair with 
 prose. I fancy one's hair would not curl 
 if it were pinned up with prose. — I think 
 I tried once. Mincing. 
 
 Min. mem, I shall never forget it. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, poor Mincing tift and 
 tift "'' all the morning. 
 
 Min. Till I had the cremp in my fingers, 
 I '11 vow, mem : and all to no purpose. 
 But when your la'ship pins it up with 
 poetry, it sits so pleasant the next day 
 as anything, and is so pure and so 
 erips.^^ 
 
 Wit. Indeed, so crips? 
 
 Min. You 're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud. 
 
 Mrs, Mil. Mirabell, did not you take ex- 
 ceptions last night? O, ay, and went 
 away. — Now I think on 't I 'm angry — 
 no, now I think on 't I 'm pleased — for 
 I believe I gave you some pain. 
 
 Mir. Does that please you? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Infinitely; I love to give pain. 
 
 Mir. You would affect a cruelty which is 
 not in your nature; your true vanity is 
 in the power of pleasing. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Oh, I ask your pardon for that 
 — one's cruelty is one's power ; and when 
 one parts with one's cruelty, one parts 
 with one's power; and when one has 
 parted with that, I fancy one's old and 
 ugly. 
 
 Mir. Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin 
 the object of your power, to destroy your 
 lover — and then how vain, how lost a 
 thing you'll be! Nay, 'tis true: you 
 are no longer handsome when you 've 
 lost your lover; your beauty dies upon 
 the instant; for beauty i^ the lover's 
 gift; *tis he bestows your charms — ^your 
 glass is all a cheat. The ugly and the 
 old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet 
 
 28 A dialectical form for "crisp." 
 
516 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 after commendation can be flattered by 
 it, and discover beauties in it; for that 
 reflects our praises, rather than your 
 face. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Oh, the vanity of these men ! — 
 Fainall, d' ye hear him? If they did not 
 commend us, we were' not handsome! 
 Now you must know they could not com- 
 mend one, if one was not handsome. 
 Beauty the lover's gift ! — Lord, what is 
 a lover, that it can give? Why, one 
 makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and 
 they live as long as one pleases, and tiey 
 die as soon as one pleases; and then, if 
 one pleases, one makes more. 
 
 Wit. Very pretty. Why, you make no 
 more of making of lovers, madam, than 
 of making so many card-matches. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. One no more owes one's beauty 
 to a lover, than one's wit to an echo. 
 They can but reflect what we look and 
 say; vain empty things if we are silent 
 or unseen, and want a being. 
 
 Mir. Yet to those two vain empty things 
 you owe two the greatest pleasures of 
 your life. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. How so? 
 
 Mir. To your lover you owe the pleasure 
 of hearing yourselves praised ; and to an 
 echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves 
 talk. 
 
 Wit. But I know a lady that loves talk- 
 ing so incessantly, she won't give an echo 
 fair play; she has that everlasting rota- 
 tion of tongue, that an echo must wait till 
 she dies, before it can catch her last 
 words. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Oh, fiction! — Fainall, let us 
 leave these men. 
 
 Mir. Draw off Witwoud. 
 
 {Aside to Mrs. Fainall.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Immediately. — I have a word 
 or two for Mr. Witwoud. 
 
 Mir. I would beg a little private audience 
 too. — {Exeunt Witwoud and Mrs. Fain- 
 all.) You had the tyranny to deny me 
 last night; though you knew I came to 
 impart a secret to you that concerned 
 •my love. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You saw I was engaged. 
 
 Mir. Unkind ! You had the leisure to en- 
 tertain a herd of fools; things who visit 
 you from their excessive idleness; be- 
 stowing on your easiness that time which 
 is the encumbrance of their lives. How 
 can you find delight in such society? It 
 is impossible they should admire you, 
 they are not capable : or if they were, it 
 should be to you as a mortification; for 
 
 sure to please a fool is some degxee of 
 folly. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I please myself : — besides, some- 
 times to converse with fools is for my 
 health. 
 
 Mir. Your health! Is there a worse dis- 
 ease than the conversation of fools ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Yes, the vapors; fools are 
 physic for it, next to assafcetida. 
 
 Mir. You are not in a course of fools? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Mirabell, if you persist in this 
 offensive freedom, you '11 displease me. — 
 I think I must resolve, after all, not to 
 have you; we shan't ag:ree. 
 
 Mir. Not in our physic, it may be. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. And yet our distemper, in all 
 likelihood, will be the same ; for we shall 
 be sick of one another. I shan't endure 
 to be reprimanded nor instructed: 'tis 
 so dull to act always by advice, and so 
 tedious to be told of one's faults — I can't 
 bear it. Well, I won't have you, Mira- 
 bell, — I 'm resolved — I think — ^you may 
 go. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! What would you 
 give, that you could help loving me? 
 
 Mir. 1 would give something that you did 
 not know I could not help it. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Come, don't look grave, then. 
 Well, what do you say to me? 
 
 Mir. I say that a man may as soon make 
 a friend by his wit, or a fortune by his 
 honesty, as win a woman with plain deal- 
 ing and sincerity. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Sententious Mirabell! — Prithee, 
 don't look with that violent and inflexi- 
 ble wise face, like Solomon at the divid- 
 ing of the child in an old tapestry hang- 
 ing. 
 
 Mir. You are merry, madam, but I would 
 persuade you for a moment to be serious. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. What, with that face? No, if 
 you keep your countenance, 'tis impos- 
 sible I should hold mine. Well, after 
 all, there is something very moving in a 
 love-sick face. Ha! ha! ha! — ^Well, T 
 won't laugh, don't be peevish— ^Heigho ! 
 now I '11 be melancholy, as melancholy as 
 a watch-light. Well, Mirabell, if ever 
 you will win me woo me now. — ^Nay, if 
 you are so tedious, fare you well; — 1 see 
 they are walking away. 
 
 Mir. Can you not find in the variety of 
 your disposition one moment — 
 
 Mrs. Mil. To hear you tell me. that Foi- 
 ble 's married, and your plot like to 
 speed — no. 
 
 Mir. But how you came to know it — 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Unless by the help of the devil, 
 you can't imagine; unless she should tell 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 517 
 
 me herself. Which of the two it may 
 have been I will leave you to consider; 
 and when you have done thinking of that, 
 think of me. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Mir. I have something more. — Gone! — 
 Think of you? To think of a whirlwind, 
 though 't were in a whirlwind, were a ease 
 of more steady contemplation; a very 
 tranquillity of mind and mansion. A fel- 
 low that lives in a windmill has not a 
 more whimsical dwelling than the heart 
 of a man that is lodged in a woman. 
 There is no point of the compass to which 
 they cannot turn, and by which they are 
 not turned; and by one as well as an- 
 other; for motion, not method, is their 
 occupation. To know this, and yet con- 
 tinue to be in love, is to be made wise 
 from the dictates of reason, and yet per- 
 severe to play the fool by the force of 
 instinct. — Oh, here come my pair of tur- 
 tles! — What, billing so sweetly! Is not 
 Valentine's Day over with you yet? 
 
 {Enter Waitwell and Foible.) 
 
 Sirrah, Waitwell, why sure you think you 
 were married for your own recreation, 
 and not for my convenieney. 
 
 Wait. Your pardon, sir. With submis- 
 sion, we have indeed been solacing in law- 
 ful delights ; but still with an eye to busi- 
 ness, sir. I have instructed her as well 
 as I could. If she can take your direc- 
 tions as readily as my instructions, sir, 
 your affairs are in a prosperous way. 
 
 Mir. Give you joy, Mrs. Toible. 
 
 Foib. Oh, 'las, sir, I 'm so ashamed ! — ^I 'm 
 afraid my lady has been in a thousand in- 
 quietudes for me. But I protest, sir, I 
 made as much haste as I could. 
 
 Wait. That she did indeed, sir. It was 
 my fault that she did not make more. 
 
 Mir. That I believe. 
 
 Foib. But I told my lady as you in- 
 structed me, sir, that I had a prospect of 
 seeing Sir Rowland your uncle ; and that 
 I would put her ladyship's picture in my 
 pocket to show him ; which I '11 be sure to 
 say has made him so enamored of her 
 beauty, that he bums with impatience to 
 lie at her ladyship's feet, and worship the 
 original. 
 
 Mir. Excellent Foible! Matrimony has 
 made you eloquent in love. 
 
 'Wadt. I think she has profited, sir, I think 
 
 so. 
 
 Foib. You have seen Madam Millamant, 
 sir? 
 
 Mir. Yes. 
 
 Foib. I told her, sir, because I did not 
 know that you might find an opportunity; 
 
 , she had so much company last night. 
 
 Mir. Your diligence will merit more — in 
 the meantime — 
 
 (Gives money.) 
 
 Foib. dear sir, your humble servant! 
 
 Wait, Spouse. 
 
 Mir. Stand off, sir, not a penny! — Go on 
 and prosper. Foible : — the lease shall be • 
 made good, and the farm stocked, if we 
 succeed. 
 
 Foib. I don't question your generosity, 
 sir: and you need not doubt of success. 
 If you have no more commands, sir, I '11 
 be. gone ; I 'm sure my lady is at her 
 toilet, and can't dress till I come. — 
 dear, I 'm sure that (Looking out) was 
 Mrs. Marwood that went by in a mask! 
 If she has seen me with you I 'm sure 
 she '11 tell my lady. I '11 make haste home 
 and prevent her. Your servant, sir. — 
 B'w'y,2» Waitwell. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Wait. Sir Rowland, if you please. — The 
 jade 's so pert upon her preferment she 
 forgets herself. 
 
 Mir. Come, sir, will you endeavor to for- 
 get yourself, and transform into Sir 
 Rowland? 
 
 Wait. Why, sir, it will be impossible I 
 should remember myself. — Married, 
 knighted, and attended all in one day! 
 't is enough to make any man forget him- 
 self. The difficulty will be how to re- 
 cover my acquaintance and familiarity 
 with my former self, and fall from my 
 transformation to a reformation into 
 Waitwell. Nay, I shan't be quite the 
 same Waitwell neither ; for now, I remem- 
 ber me, I 'm married, and can't be my 
 own man again. 
 
 Ay, there's the grief; that's the sad 
 
 change of life, 
 To lose my title, and yet keep my wife. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene 1. A Boom in Lady Wishfort's 
 House. 
 
 (Lady Wish fort at her toilet, Peg waiting.) 
 Lady Wish. Merciful! no news of Foible 
 yet? 
 
 29 [God-]be-wltli-you, good-bye. 
 
518 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Peg. No, madam. 
 
 Lack) Wish. I have no more patience. — If 
 I have not fretted myself till I am pale 
 again, there 's no veracity in me ! Fetch 
 me the red — the red, do you hear, sweet- 
 heart? — An ai'rant ash-color, as I am a 
 person ! Look you how this wench stirs ! 
 — Why dost thou not fetch me a little 
 red 1 Didst thou not hear me, Mopus 1 *" 
 
 Peg. The red ratafia, does your ladyship 
 mean, or the cherry-brandy? 
 
 Lady Wish. Ratafia, fool? No, fool. Not 
 the ratafia, fool — grant me patience ! — I 
 mean the Spanish paper, idiot — complex- 
 ion, darling. Paint, paint, paint, dost 
 thou understand that, changeling, dan- 
 gling thy hands like bobbins before thee? 
 Why dost thou not stir, puppet? Thou 
 wooden thing upon wires ! 
 
 Peg. Lord, madam, your ladyship is so 
 impatient! — I cannot come at the paint, 
 madam ; Mrs. Foible has locked it up, and 
 carried the key with her. 
 
 Lady Wish. A pox take you both ! — Fetch 
 me the cherry-brandy then. {Exit Peg.) 
 I 'm as pale and as faint, I look like Mrs. 
 Qualmsick, the curate's wife, that 's al- 
 ways breeding. — Wench, come, come, 
 wench, what art thou doing? sipping, 
 tasting? — Save thee, dost thou not know 
 the bottle? 
 
 {Be-enter Peg with a bottle and china cup.) 
 
 Peg. Madam, I v/as looking for a cup. 
 
 Lady Wish. A eup, save thee ! and what a 
 cup hast thou brought ! — Dost thou take 
 me for a fairy, to drink out of an acorn? 
 Why didst thou not bring thy thimble? 
 Hast thou ne'er a brass thimble clinking 
 in thy pocket with a bit of nutmeg? — I 
 warrant thee. Come, fill, fill! — So — 
 again — See who that is. — {One knocks.) 
 — Set down the bottle first — ^here, here, 
 under the table. — What, wouldst thou go 
 with the bottle in thy hand, like a tap- 
 ster? As I am a person, this wench has 
 lived in an inn upon the road, before she 
 came to me, like Maritomes the Asturian 
 in Don Quixote!— No Foible yet? 
 
 Peg. No, madam ; Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, Marwood; let her come 
 in. — Come in, good Marwood. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Marwood.) 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I 'm surprised to find^ your lady- 
 ship in dishabille at this time of day. 
 Lady Wish, Foible's a lost thing; has 
 
 been abroad since morning, and never 
 heard of since, 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I saw her but now, as I came 
 masked through the park, in conference 
 with Mirabell. 
 
 Lady Wish. With Mirabell ! — ^You call my 
 blood into my face, with mentioning that 
 traitor. She durst not have the confi- 
 dence ! I sent her to negotiate an affair, 
 in which, if I 'm detected, I 'm undone. 
 If that wheedling villain has wrought 
 upon Foible to detect me, I 'm ruined. 
 my dear friend, I 'm a wretch of wretches 
 if I 'ra detected. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. madam, you cannot suspect 
 Mrs. Foible's integrity ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, he carries poison in his 
 tongue that would corrupt integrity it- 
 self! If she has given him an oppor- 
 tunity, she has as good as put her integ- 
 rity into his hands. Ah, dear Marwood, 
 what's integrity to an opportunity? — 
 Hark? I hear her! — Go, you thing, and 
 send her in. (Exit Peg.) Dear friend, 
 retire into my closet,*"^ that I may ex- 
 amine her with more freedom. — You'll 
 pardon me, dear friend ; I can make bold 
 with you. — There are books over the chim- 
 ney — Quarles and Prynne, and The Short 
 View of the Stage,^' with Bunyan's 
 works, to entertain you. — 
 
 {Exit Mrs. Marwood.) 
 
 {Enter Foible.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Foible, where hast thou 
 been? What hast thou been doing? 
 
 Foib. Madam, I have seen the party. 
 
 Lady Wish. But what hast thou done? 
 
 Foib. Nay, 'tis your ladyship has done, 
 and are to do; I have only promised — 
 But a man so enamored — so transported ! 
 — Well, here it is, all that is left, all that 
 is not kissed away. Well, if worship- 
 ping of pictures be a sin — poor Sir Row- 
 land, I say. 
 
 Lady Wish. The miniature has been 
 counted like ; — but hast thou not betrayed 
 me. Foible? Hast thou not detected me 
 to that faithless Mirabell?— What hadst 
 thou to do with him in the Park? An- 
 swer me, has he got nothing out of thee? 
 
 Foib. {Aside.) So, the devil has been be- 
 forehand with me. What shall I say? — 
 {Aloud.) — Alas, madam, could I help it, 
 if I met that confident thing? Was I in 
 fault? If you had heard how he used 
 me, and all upon your ladyship's account,' 
 
 80 Mope, stupid 
 creature. 
 
 31 Small private 
 room. 
 
 82 Quarles was a re- 
 lisious writer. 
 Prynne's Biatri- 
 
 omaatix and Col- 
 lier's Short Tiew 
 were harsh at- 
 
 tacks 
 stage. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 619 
 
 I 'm sure you would not suspect my 
 fidelity. Nay, if that had been the worst, 
 1 could have borne ; but he had a fling at 
 your ladyship too; and then I could not 
 hold ; but i' faith I gave him his own. 
 
 Lady Wish. Me? What did the filthy fel- 
 low say? 
 
 Foib. madam ! 't is a shame to say what 
 he said — with his taunts and his fleers, 
 tossing up his nose. Humh! (says he) 
 what, you are a-hatching some plot (says 
 he), you are so early abroad, or catering 
 (says he), ferreting for some disbanded 
 officer, I warrant. — Half-pay is but thin 
 subsistence (says he) ; — ^well, what pen- 
 sion does your lady propose ? Let me see 
 (says he), what, she must come down 
 pretty deep now, she 's superannuated 
 (says he) and — 
 
 Lady Wish. Odds my life, I '11 have him, 
 I '11 have him murdered ! I '11 have him 
 poisoned! Where does he eat? — I'll 
 marry a drawer to have him poisoned in 
 his wine. I '11 send for Robin from 
 Locket's ^^ immediately. 
 
 Foib. Poison him! poisoning's too good 
 for him. Starve him, madam, starve 
 him: marry Sir Rowland, and get him 
 disinherited. Oh, you would bless your- 
 self to hear what he said ! 
 
 Lady Wish. A villain ! Superannuated ! 
 
 Foib. Humh (says he), I hear you are 
 laying designs against me too (says he) 
 and Mrs. Millamant is to marry my uncle 
 (he does not suspect a word of your lady- 
 ship) ; but (says he) I 'II fit you for that, 
 I warrant you (says he), I'll hamper 
 you for that (says he) ; you and your old 
 frippery ^* too (says he) ; I '11 handle 
 you— 
 
 Lady Wish. Audacious villain! Handle 
 me ! would he durst ! — Frippery ! old frip- 
 pery! Was there ever such a foul- 
 mouthed fellow? I'll be married to- 
 morrow, I '11 be contracted to-night. 
 
 Foib. The sooner the better, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. Will Sir Rowland be here, 
 sayest thou? when. Foible? 
 
 Foib. Incontinently, madam. No new 
 sheriff's wife expects the return of her 
 husband after knighthood with that im- 
 patience in which Sir Rowland bums for 
 the dear hour of kissing your ladyship's 
 hands after dinner. 
 
 Lady Wish. Frippery! superannuated 
 frippery ! I '11 frippery the villain ; I '11 
 
 reduce him to frippery and rags! a tat- 
 terdemalion ! I hope to see him hung 
 with tatters, like a Long-Lane pent- 
 house ^° or a gibbet thief. A slander- 
 mouthed railer! I warrant the spend- 
 thrift prodigal's in debt as much as the 
 million lottery, or the whole court upon 
 a birthday. I'll spoil his credit with 
 his tailor. Yes, he shall have my niece 
 with her fortune, he shall! 
 
 Foib. He! I hope to see him lodge in 
 Ludgate ^° first, and angle into Black- 
 friars for brass farthings with an old 
 mitten. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear Foible; thank thee 
 for that, dear Foible. He has put me out 
 of all patience. I shall never recompose 
 my features to receive Sir Rowland with 
 any economy of face. This wretch has 
 fretted me that I am absolutely decayed. 
 Look, Foible. 
 
 Foib. Your ladyship has frowned a little 
 too rashly, indeed, madam. There are 
 some cracks discernible in the white var- 
 nish. 
 
 Lady Wish. Let me see the glass. — Cracks, 
 say'st thou? — ^why, I am arrantly flayed 
 — I look like an old peeled wall. Thou 
 must repair me. Foible, before Sir Row- 
 land comes, or I shall never keep up to 
 my picture. 
 
 Foible. I warrant you, madam, a little art 
 once made your picture like you ; and now 
 a little of the same art must make you 
 like your picture. Your picture must 
 sit for you, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. But art thou sure Sir Row- 
 land will not fail to come? Or will 'a 
 not fail when he does come? Will he be 
 importunate. Foible, and push? For if 
 he should not be importunate, I shall 
 never break decorums: — I shall die with 
 confusion, if I am forced to advance. — 
 Oh, no, I can never advance! — I shall 
 swoon if he should expect 'advances. 
 No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred 
 than to put a lady to the necessity of 
 breaking her forms. I won't be too coy, 
 neither. — I won't give him despair — ^but 
 a little disdain is not amiss ; a little scorn 
 is alluring. 
 
 Foib. A little scorn becomes your lady- 
 ship. 
 
 Lady Wish. Yes, but tenderness becomes 
 rae best — a sort of a dyingness — ^j'ou see 
 that picture has a sort of a — ^ha, Foible! 
 
 33 A waiter from 
 Locket's Ordi- 
 nary, a well- 
 kuown taTsm. 
 
 34 "A stand or horse 35 A street in Smith- 
 for dresses" field, full of sec- 
 
 (Oxf. Diet.). ond-hand clothes 
 
 dealers' booths 
 ( 'Tapper). 
 30 There was a debt- 
 ors' prison here, 
 
 whose inmates 
 beersed from pass- 
 ers-by in the 
 street. 
 
520 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 a swimmingness in the eyes — yes, I'll 
 look so — my niece affects it; but she 
 wants features. Is Sir Rowland hand- 
 some ? Let my toilet be removed — I '11 
 dress above. I'll receive Sir Rowland 
 here. Is he handsome? Don't answer 
 me. I won't know ; I '11 be surprised, 
 I '11 be taken by surprise. 
 
 Foib. By storm, madam. Sir Rowland 's a 
 brisk man. 
 
 Lady Wish. Is he! 0, then he'll impor- 
 tune, if he 's a brisk man. I shall save 
 decorums if Sir Rowland importunes. I 
 have a mortal terror at the apprehension 
 of offending against decorums. Nothing 
 but importunity can surmount decorums. 
 0, I 'm glad he 's a brisk man. Let my 
 things be removed, good Foible. 
 (Exit.) 
 (Enter Mrs. Fainall.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Foible, I have been in a 
 fright, lest I should come too late ! That 
 devil Marwood saw you in the Park with 
 Mirabell, and I 'm afraid will discover it 
 to my lady. 
 
 Foib. Discover what, madam? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Nay, nay, put not on that 
 strange face, I am privy to the whole de- 
 sign, and know that Waitwell, to whom 
 thou wert this morning married, is to 
 personate Mirabell's uncle, and as such, 
 winning my lady, to involve her in those 
 difficulties from which Mirabell only must 
 release her, by his making his conditions 
 to have my cousin and her fortune left 
 to her own disposal. 
 
 Foib. dear madam, I beg your pardon. 
 It was not my confidence in your lady- 
 ship that was deficient ; but I thought the 
 former good correspondence between 
 your ladyship and Mr. Mirabell might 
 have hindered his communicating this 
 secret. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Dear Foible, forget that. 
 
 Foib. dear madam, Mr. Mirabell is such 
 a sweet, winning gentleman — ^but your 
 ladyship is the pattern of generosity.^' — 
 Sweet lady, to be so good ! Mr. Mirabell 
 cannot choose but be grateful. I find 
 your ladyship has his heart still. Now, 
 madam, I can safely tell your ladyship 
 our success; Mrs. Marwood had told my 
 lady; but I warrant I managed myself; 
 I turned it all for the better. I told my 
 lady that Mr. Mirabell railed at her; I 
 laid horrid things to his charge, I '11 vow ; 
 and my lady is so incensed that she '11 
 
 37 Of course Mrs. Fainall has just tipped her. 
 
 be contracted to Sir Rowland to-night, ■? 
 she says; I warrant I worked her up, ' 
 that he may have her for asking for, as 
 they say of a Welsh maidenhead. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. rare Foible! 
 
 Foib. Madam, I beg your ladyship to ac- 
 quaint Mr. Mirabell of his success. I 
 would be seen as little as possible to 
 speak to him: besides, I believe Madam 
 Marwood watches me. — She has a month's 
 mind'"; but I know Mr. Mirabell can't 
 abide her. — (Enter Footman.) John! — 
 remove my lady's toilet. — Madam, your 
 servant: my lady is so impatient, I fear 
 she '11 come for me if I stay. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I '11 go with you up the back- 
 stairs, lest I should meet her. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Marwood.) 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Indeed, Mrs. Engine, is-it thus 
 with you ? Are you become a go-between 
 of this importance'? Yes, I shall watch 
 you. Why this wench is the passe- 
 partout, a very master-key to everybody's 
 strong-box. My friend Fainall, have 
 you carried it so swimmingly ? I thought 
 there was something in it; but it seems 
 it 's over with you. Your loathing is not 
 from a want of appetite, then, but from 
 a surfeit. Else you could never be so 
 cool to fall from a principal to be an 
 assistant ; to procure for him ! A pattern 
 of generosity, that I confess. Well, Mr. 
 Fainall, you have met with your match. 
 — man, man! woman, woman, the 
 devil's an ass: if I were a painter, I 
 would draw him like an idiot, a driveller 
 with a bib and bells: man should have 
 his head and horns, and woman the rest 
 of him. Poor simple fiend! — "Madam '^ 
 Marwood has a month's mind, but he 
 can't abide her." — 'T were better for him 
 you had not been his confessor in that 
 affair, without you could have kept his 
 counsel closer, I shall not prove another 
 pattern of generosity, and stalk for him 
 till takes his stand to aim at a fortune: 
 he has not obliged me to that with those 
 excesses of -himself! and now I'll have 
 none of him. Here comes the good lady, 
 panting ripe; with a heart full of hope, 
 and a head full of care, like any chemist 
 upon the day of projection. 
 
 (Enter Lady Wish fort.) 
 
 Lady Wish. dear Marwood, what shall 
 
 ss A liking, a hankering. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 521 
 
 I say for this rude f orgetf ulness ? — but 
 my dear friend is all goodness. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No apologies, dear madam, I 
 have been very well entertained. 
 
 Lady Wish. As I'm a person, I am in a 
 very chaos to think I should so forget my- 
 self : but I have such an olio ^° of affairs, 
 really I know not what to do. — (Calls.) 
 Foible! — I expect my nephew, Sir Wil- 
 f ull, every moment too. — Why, Foible ! — 
 He means to travel for improvement. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Methinks Sir Wilfull should 
 rather think of marrying than travelling 
 at his years. I hear he is turned of forty. 
 
 Lady Wish. 0, he's in less danger of be- 
 ing spoiled by his travels — I am against 
 my nephew's marrying too young. It 
 will be time enough when he comes back, 
 and has acquired discretion to choose for 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Methinks Mrs. Millamant and 
 he would make a very fit match. He may 
 travel afterwards. 'T is a thing very 
 usual with young gentlemen. 
 
 Lady Wish. I promise you I have thought 
 on 't — and since 't is your judgment, I '11 
 think on 't again. I assure you I will ; I 
 value your judgment extremely. On my 
 word, I'll propose it. 
 
 (Enter Foible.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Come, come, Foible — I had 
 forgot my nephew will be here before 
 dinner — ^I must make haste. 
 
 Fain. Mr. Witwoud and Mr. Petulant are 
 come to dine with your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Wish. dear, I can't appear till 
 I 'm dressed. — Dear Marwood, shall I be 
 free with you again, and beg you to en- 
 tertain 'em? I'll make all imaginable 
 haste. ■ Dear friend, excuse me. 
 (Exeunt Lady Wish, and Foible.) 
 (Enter Mrs. Millamant and Mincing. ) 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Sure, never anything was so 
 
 unbred as that odious man! — Marwood, 
 
 your servant. 
 Mrs. Mar. You have a color ; what 's the 
 
 matter? 
 Mrs. Mil. That horrid fellow. Petulant, 
 
 has provoked me into a flame: I have 
 
 broke my fan. — Mincing, lend me yours; 
 
 is not all the powder out of my hair? 
 Mrs. Mar. No. What has he done? 
 Mrs. Mil. Nay, he has done nothing; he 
 
 has only talked — ^nay, he has said nothing 
 
 neither; but he has contradicted every- 
 thing that has been said. For my part, 
 I thought Witwoud and he would have 
 quarrelled. 
 
 Min. I vow, mem, I thought once they 
 would have fit. ' 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Well, 'tis a lamentable thing, 
 I'll swear, that one has not the liberty 
 of choosing one's acquaintance as one 
 does one's clothes. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. If we had that liberty, we 
 should be as weary of one set of ac- 
 quaintance, though never so good, as we 
 are of one suit, though never so fine. A 
 fool and a doily stuff*" would now and 
 then find days of grace, and be worn for 
 variety. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I could consent to wear 'em, if 
 they would wear alike; but fools never 
 wear out — ^they are such drap-du-Berri *''■ 
 things ! Without *^ one could give 'em 
 to one's chambermaid after a day or two. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'Twere better so indeed. Or 
 what think you of the playhouse ? A fine 
 gay glossy fool sliould be given there, like 
 a new masking habit, after the masquer- 
 ade is over, and we have done with the 
 disguise. For a fool's visit is always a 
 disguise ; and never admitted by a woman 
 of wit, but to blind her affair with a lover 
 of sense. If you would but appear bare- 
 faced now, and own Mirabell, you might 
 as easily put off Petulant and Witwoud 
 as your hood and scarf. And indeed, 't is 
 time, for the town has found it; the 
 secret is grown too big for the pretence. 
 'T is like Mrs. Primly's great belly ; she 
 may lace it down before, but it burnishes 
 on her hips. Indeed, Millamant, you can 
 no more conceal it than my Lady Stram- 
 mel can her face ; that goodly face, which 
 in defiance of her Rhenish wine tea, will 
 not be comprehended in a mask. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I'll take my death, Marwood, 
 you are more censorious than a decayed 
 beauty, or a discarded toast. — Mincing, 
 tell the men they may come up. — My aunt 
 is not dressing [here] ; their folly is less 
 provoking than your malice. The town 
 has found it! (Exit Mincing.) What 
 has it found ? That Mirabell loves me is 
 no more a secret than it is a secret that 
 you discovered it to my aunt, or than the 
 reason why you discovered it is a secret. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You are nettled. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You're mistaken. Ridiculous! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Indeed, my dear, you '11 tear 
 
 39 "Mix-up" (orig- 
 inally a stew of 
 meat and veg- 
 
 etables) . 
 40 A woolen mate- 
 rial, "at once 
 
 cheap and gen- 4i A kind of French 
 tee\" (Oxf. Diet.) . woolen cloth, ap- 
 
 parently very 
 durable. 
 42 unless. 
 
522 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 another fan, if you don't mitigate those 
 violent airs. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. 0, silly! ha! ha! ha! I could 
 laugh immoderately. Poor Mirabell! 
 His constancy to me has quite destroyed 
 his complaisance for all the world beside. 
 I swear, I never enjoined it him to be so 
 coy. — If I had the vanity to think he 
 would obey me, I would command him to 
 show more gallantry — 't is hardly well- 
 bred to be so particular on one hand, and 
 so insensible on the other. But I despair 
 to prevail, and so let him follow his own 
 way. Ha ! ha ! ha ! pardon me, dear 
 creature, I must laugh, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 though I grant you 'tis a little barbar- 
 ous, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. What pity 'tis so much fine 
 raillery, and delivered with so significant 
 gesture, should be so unhappily directed 
 to miscarry ! 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ha? dear creature, I ask your 
 pardon — I swear I did not mind you. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Mr. Mirabell and you both may 
 think it a thing impossible, when I shall 
 tell him by telling you — 
 
 Mrs. Mil. dear, what ? for it is the same 
 thing if I hear it — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. That I detest him, hate him, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. madam, why, so do I — and 
 yet the creature loves me, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 How can one forebear laughing to think 
 of it I — I am a sibyl if I am not amazed 
 to think what he can see in me. I '11 take 
 my death, I thinji you are handsomer — 
 and within a year or two as young — ^if 
 you could but stay for me, I should over- 
 take you — ^but that cannot be. — Well, that 
 thought makes me melancholic. — Now, 
 I '11 be sad. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Your merry note may be 
 changed sooner than you think. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. D'ye say so? Then I'm re- 
 solved I'll have a song to keep up my 
 spirits. 
 
 (Enter Mincing.) 
 
 Min. The gentlemen stay but to comb, 
 madam, and will wait on you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Desire Mrs. that is in the 
 
 next room to sing the song I would have 
 learned yesterday. — You shall hear it, 
 madam — ^not that there 's any great mat- 
 ter in it — ^but 'tis agreeable to my 
 humor. 
 
 (Set by Mr. John Eccles, and sung by 
 Mrs. Hodgson.) 
 
 SONG 
 
 Love 's but the fraUty of the mind, 
 
 When 'tis not with ambition joined; 
 A sickly flame, which, if not fed, expires. 
 And feeding, wastes in self -consuming fires. 
 
 'T is not to wound a wanton boy 
 
 Or amorous youth, that gives the joy; 
 But 't is the glory to have pierced a swain, 
 For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain. 
 
 Then I alone the conquest prize, 
 When I insult a rival's eyes: 
 If there 's delight in love, 't is when I see 
 That heart, which others bleed for, bleed 
 for me. 
 
 (Enter Petulant and Witwoud.) 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Is your animosity composed, 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 Wit. Raillery, raillery, madam; we have 
 no animosity — we hit off a little wit now 
 and then, but no animosity. — The.falUng- 
 out of wits is like the falling-out of lov- 
 ers: we agree in the main, like treble 
 and bass. — Ha, Petulant? 
 
 Pet. Ay, in the main — but when I have 
 a humor to contradict — 
 
 Wit. Ay, when he has a humor to contra- 
 dict, then I contradict too. What, I 
 know my cue. Then we contradict one 
 another like two battledores; for contra- 
 dictions beget one another like Jews. 
 
 Pet. If he says black 's black — if I have a 
 humor to say 'tis blue — ^let that pass — 
 all's one for that. If I have a humor 
 to prove it, it must be granted. 
 
 Wit. Not positively must — ^but it may — 
 it may. 
 
 Pet. Yes, it positively must, upon proof 
 positive. 
 
 Wit. Ay, upon proof positive it must ; but 
 upon proof presumptive it only may. — 
 That 's a logical distinction now, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I perceive your debates are of 
 importance, and very learnedly handled. 
 
 Pet. Importance is one thing, and learn- 
 ing 's another; but a debate's a debate, 
 that I assert. 
 
 Wit. Petulant 's an enemy to learning; he 
 relies altogether on his parts. 
 
 Pet. No, I'm no enemy to learning; it 
 hurts not me. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. That's a sign indeed it's no 
 enemy to you. 
 
 Pet. No, no, it 's no enemy to anybody but 
 them that have it. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Well, an illiterate man's my 
 
THE WAY or THE WORLD 
 
 523 
 
 aversion: I wonder at the impudence of 
 any illiterate man to offer to make love. 
 
 Wit. That I confess I wonder at too. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah! to many an ignorant that 
 can hardly read or write ! 
 
 Pet. Why should a man be ever further 
 from being married, though he can't read, 
 than he is from being hanged? The or- 
 dinary 's^*^ paid for setting the psalm, 
 and the parish priest for reading the 
 ceremony. And for the rest which is to 
 follow in both eases, a man may do it 
 without book — so all's one for that. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. D'ye hear the creature? — Lord, 
 here 's company, I '11 be gone. 
 
 (Exiunt Mrs. Mil. and Mincing.) 
 
 Wit. In the name of Bartlemew and his 
 fair,** what have we here 1 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'T is your brother, I fancy. 
 Don't you know him? 
 
 Wit. Not I.— Yes, I think it is he— I 've 
 almost forgot him; I have not seen him 
 since the Revolution." 
 
 (Enter Sir Wilfull Witwoud in a country 
 riding habit, and Servant to Lady Wish- 
 fort.) 
 
 Serv. Sir, my lady 's dressing. Here 's 
 company; if you please to walk in, in 
 the mean time. 
 
 Sir Wil. Dressing ! What, it 's but morn- 
 ing here, I warrant, with»you in London ; 
 we should count it towards afternoon in 
 our parts, down in Shropshire. — ^Why 
 then, belike, my aunt han't dined yet, ha, 
 friend? 
 
 Serv. Your aunt, sir? 
 
 Sir Wil. My aunt, sir ! Yes, my aunt, sir, 
 and your lady, sir ; your lady is my aunt, 
 sir. — Why, what, dost thou not know me, 
 friend? why then send somebody here 
 that does. How long hast thou lived with 
 thy lady, fellow, ha? 
 
 Serv. A week, sir; longer than anybody 
 in the house, except my lady's woman. 
 
 Sir Wil. AVhy then belike thou dost not 
 know thy lady, if thou seest her, ha, 
 friend? 
 
 Serv. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely 
 swear to her face in a morning, before 
 she is dressed. 'T is like I may give a 
 shrewd guess at her by this time. 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, prithee try what thou canst 
 do; if thou canst not guess, inquire her 
 out, dost hear, fellow? and tell her, her 
 
 43 The chaplain of beginning of the 
 
 a prison, who ap- 51st psalm) by 
 
 parently set the those who wished 
 
 passage to be to secure "benefit 
 
 read (usually the of clergy." 
 
 nephew. Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is in the 
 
 house. 
 Serv. I shall, sir. 
 Sir Wil. Hold ye, hear me, friend ; a word 
 
 with you in your ear; prithee who are 
 
 these gallants? 
 Serv. Really, sir, I can't tell; here come 
 
 so many here, 'tis hard to know 'em all. 
 (Exit.) 
 Sir Wil. Oons,*° this fellow knows less 
 
 than ja starling; I don't think 'a knows 
 
 his own name. 
 Mrs. Mar. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is 
 
 not behindhand in f orgetfulness — I fancy 
 
 he has forgot you too. 
 Wit. I hope so — the devil take him that. 
 
 remembers first, I say. 
 Sir Wil. Save you, gentlemen and lady! 
 Mrs. Mar. For shame, Mr. Witwoud ; why 
 
 won't you speak to him? — And you, 
 
 sir. 
 Wit. Petulant, speak. 
 Pet. And you, sir. 
 Sir Wil. No offence, I hope. 
 
 (Salutes Mrs. Marwood.) 
 Mrs. Mar. No, sure, sir. 
 Wit. This is a vile dog, I see that already. 
 
 No offence ! ha ! ha ! ha ! To him ; to 
 
 him, Petulant, smoke " him. 
 Pet. It seems as if you had come a jour- 
 ney, sir; hem, hem. 
 
 (Surveying him round.) 
 Sir Wil. Very likely, sir, that it may seem 
 
 so. 
 Pet. No offence, I hope, sir. 
 Wit. Smoke -the boots, the boots; Petu- 
 lant, the boots : ha I ha ! ha ! 
 Sir Wil. May be not, sir; thereafter, as 
 
 't is meant, sir. 
 Pet. Sir, I presume upon the information 
 
 of your boots. 
 Sir Wil. Why, 'tis like you may, sir: if 
 
 you are not satisfied with the information 
 
 of my boots, sir, if you will step to the 
 
 stable, you may inquire further of my 
 
 horse, sir. 
 Pet. Your horse, sir! your horse is an 
 
 ass, sir! 
 Sir Wil. Do you speak by way of offence, . 
 
 sir? 
 Mrs. Mar. The gentleman 's merry, that 's 
 
 all, sir.— (Aside.) S' life,*' we shall 
 
 have a quarrel betwixt an horse and an 
 
 ass before they find one another out. — 
 
 (Aloud.) You must not take anything 
 
 44 A fair was held 46 1688, when 4a Zounda, by God's 
 
 on St. Bartholo- .Tames II was de- wounds! 
 mew's Day in throned. 47 "Take him in," 
 
 Smithfield. "get on to him." 
 
 48 By Gtod's life 1 
 
524 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 amiss from your friends, sir. You are 
 among your friends here, though it may 
 be you don't know it. — If I am not mis- 
 taken, you are Sir Wilful! Witwoud. 
 
 Sir Wilfull. Right, lady ; I am Sir Wilf ull 
 Witwoud, so I write myself; no offence 
 to anybody, I hope; and nephew to the 
 Lady Wishfort of this mansion. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Don't you know this gentle- 
 man, sir? 
 
 Sir Wil. Hum! what, sure 'tis not — yea 
 by 'r Lady, but 't is — s' heart, I know not 
 whether 't is or no — ^yea, but 't is, by the 
 Wrekin ! *° Brother Anthony ! what, 
 Tony, i' faith ! what, dost thou not know 
 me ? By 'r Lady, nor I thee, thou art so 
 becravated, and beperiwigged. — S' heart, 
 why dost not speak? art thou o'erjoyed? 
 
 Wit. OdsD, brother, is it you? your serv- 
 ant, brother. 
 
 Sir Wil. Your servant! why yours, sir. 
 Your servant again — s 'heart, and your 
 friend and servant to that — and a {puff) 
 and a flap-dragon "* for your service, sir ! 
 and a hare's foot and a hare's scut °^ for 
 your service, sir! an you be so cold and 
 so courtly. 
 
 Wit. No offence, I hope, brother. 
 
 Sir Wil. S' heart, sir, but there is, and 
 much offence ! — A pox, is this your inns 
 o' court breeding, not to know your 
 friends and your relations, your elders 
 and your betters? 
 
 Wit. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop,^^ 
 you may be as short as a Shrewsbury- 
 cake, if you please. But I tell you 't is 
 not modish to know relations in town: 
 you think you 're in the country, where 
 great lubberly brothers slabber and kiss 
 one another when they meet, like a call 
 of Serjeants — 'tis not the fashion here; 
 't is not indeed, dear brother. 
 
 Sir Wil. The fashion 's a fool ; and you 're 
 a fop, dear brother. S' heart, I've sus- 
 pected this — by 'r Lady, I conjectured you 
 were a fop, since you began to change the 
 style of your letters, and write on a scrap 
 of paper gilt round the edges, no broader 
 than a suhpana. I might expect this 
 when you left off, "Honored brother"; 
 and "hoping you are in good health," and 
 so forth — to begin with a "Rat me, 
 knight, I 'm so sick of a last night's de- 
 bauch" — 'ods heart, and then tell a famil- 
 iar tale of a cock and a bull, and a whore 
 and a bottle, and so conclude. — You could 
 
 49 A hill in Shrop- BO A raisin burning 
 
 shire, Sir Wil- in brandy, swal- 
 
 full's native lowed as a sport; 
 
 county. hence something 
 
 valueless. 
 
 write news before you were out of your 
 time, when you lived with honest Pumple 
 Nose the attorney of Furnival's Inn '''— » 
 you could entreat to be remembered then 
 to your friends round the Wrekin. We 
 could have gazettes, then, and Dawks's 
 Letter, and the Weekly Bill," till of late 
 days. 
 
 Pet. S 'life, Witwoud, were you ever an 
 attorney's clerk? of the family of the 
 Furnivals? Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, but that was for a while : not 
 long, not long. Pshaw ! I was not in my 
 own power then ; an orphan, and this fel- 
 low was my guardian ; ay, ay, I was glad 
 to consent to that man, to come- to Lon- 
 don : he had the disposal of me then. If 
 I had not agreed to that, I might have 
 been bound 'prentice to a felt-maker in 
 Shrewsbury; this fellow would have 
 bound me to a maker of felts. 
 
 Sir Wil. S' heart, and better than to be 
 bound to a maker of fops; where, I sup- 
 pose, you have served your time ; and now 
 you may set up for yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You intend to travel, sir, as 
 I'm informed. 
 
 Sir Wil. Belike I may, madam. I may 
 chance to sail upon the salt seas, if my 
 mind hold. 
 
 Fet. And the wind serve. 
 
 Sir Wil. Serve.or not serve, I shan't ask 
 license of you, sir; nor the weathercock 
 your companion : I direct my discourse 
 to the lady, sir. — 'T is like my aunt may 
 have told you, madam — yes, I have set- 
 tled my concerns, I may say now, and am 
 minded to see foreign parts. If an how 
 that the peace holds, whereby that is, 
 taxes abate. 
 
 Mrs. Mir. I thought you had designed for 
 Trance at all adventures."" 
 
 Sir Wil. !• can't tell that ; 't is like I may, 
 and 't is like I may not. I am somewhat 
 dainty in making a resolution — because 
 
 - when I make it I keep it. I don't stand 
 shill I, shall I, then ; if I say 't, I '11 do 't; 
 but I have thoughts to tarry a small mat- 
 ter in town, to learn somewhat of your 
 lingo first, before I cross the seas. I 'd 
 gladly have a spice of your French as 
 they say, whereby to hold discourse in 
 foreign countries. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Here 's an academy in town for 
 that use. 
 
 Sir Wil. There is? 'T is like there may.' 
 
 51 tail; a natural 62 Shropshire, in BS One of the Inns 
 
 synonym for a which the chief of Chancery, 
 
 trifle, with a town is Shrews- 54 Pej:iodical8. 
 
 si>orting squire. bury. 60 in any case. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 525 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No doubt you will return very 
 
 much improved. 
 Wil. Yes, refined, like a Dutch skipper 
 
 from a whale-flshing. 
 
 (Enter Lady Wishfort and Fainall.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Nephew, you are welcome. 
 
 Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 
 
 Fain. Sir Wilf ull, your most faithful serv- 
 ant. 
 
 Sir Wil. Cousin Fainall, give me your 
 hand. 
 
 Lady Wish. Cousin Witwoud, your serv- 
 ant; Mr. Petulant, your servant — ^nephew, 
 you are welcome again. Will you drink 
 anything after your journey, nephew, be- 
 fore you eat? Dinner 's almost ready. 
 
 Sir Wil. I 'm very well, I thank you, aunt 
 — ^however, I thank you for your cour- 
 teous offer. S' heart, I was afraid you 
 would have been in the fashion too, and 
 have remembered to have forgot your re- 
 lations. Here's your cousin Tony, be- 
 like, I mayn't call him brother for fear 
 of offence. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, he's a rallier, nephew — 
 my cousin 's a wit : and your great wits 
 always rally their best friends to choose. 
 When you have been abroad, nephew, 
 you'll understand raillery better. 
 (Fainall and Mrs. Marwood talk apart.) 
 
 Sir Wil. Why then let hiin hold his tongue 
 in the mean time;- and rail when that day 
 comes. 
 
 (Enter Mincing.) 
 
 Min. Mem, I come to acquaint your 
 la' ship that dinner is impatient. 
 
 Sir Wil. Impatient! why then belike it 
 won't stay till I pull off my boots. — 
 Sweetheart, can you help me to a pair of 
 slippers? — My man's with his horses, I 
 warrant. 
 
 Lady Wish. ¥y, fy, nephew! you would 
 not pull off your boots here? — Go down 
 into the hall — dinner shall stay for you. 
 — My nephew 's a little unbred, you '11 
 pardon him, madam. — Gentlemen, will 
 you walk? — ^Marwood? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I '11 follow you, madam — before 
 Sir Wilfull is ready. 
 (Exeunt all but Mrs. Marwood and 
 Fainall. ) 
 
 Fain. Why then. Foible's a bawd, an er- 
 rant, rank, match-making bawd: and I, 
 it seems, am a husband, a rank husband ; 
 
 and my wife a very errant, rank wife — 
 all in the way of the world. 'S death, to 
 be an anticipated cuckold, a cuckold in 
 embryo! sure I was born with budding 
 antlers, like a young satyr, or a citizen's 
 child. S' death ! to be out-witted — ^to be 
 out-jilted — out-matrimony'd ! — If I had 
 kept my speed like a stag, 'twere some- 
 what, — but to crawl after, with my horns, 
 like a snail, and outstripped by my wife 
 — 't is scurvy wedlock. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Then shake it off; you have 
 often wished for an opportunity to part 
 — and now you have it. But first prevent 
 their plot — the half of Millamant's for- 
 tune is too considerable to be parted with 
 to a foe, to Mirabell. 
 
 Fain. Damn him ! that had been mine — 
 had you not made that fond discovery °' 
 — that had been forfeited, had they been 
 married. My wife had added lustre to 
 my horns by that increase of fortune; I 
 could have worn 'em tipped with gold, 
 though my forehead had been furnished 
 like a deputy-lieutenant's hall. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. They may prove a cap of main- 
 tenance ^' to you still, if you can away 
 with ^^ your wife. And she 's no worse 
 than when you had her — I dare swear 
 she had given up her game before she was 
 married. 
 
 Fain. Hum! that may be. She might 
 throw up her cards, but I '11 be hanged 
 if she did not put Pam ^° in her pocket. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You married her to keep you; 
 and if you can contrive to have her keep 
 you better than you expected, why should 
 you not keep her longer than you in- 
 tended? 
 
 Fain. The means, the means? 
 
 Mrs Mar. Discover to my lady your wife's 
 conduct; threaten to part with her! — 
 my lady loves her, and will come to any 
 composition to save her reputation. 
 Take the opportunity of breaking it, just 
 upon the discovery of this imposture. 
 My lady will be enraged beyond bounds, 
 and sacrifice niece, and fortune, and all, 
 at that conjuncture. And let me alone to 
 keep her warm ; if she should flag in her 
 part, I will not fail to prompt her. 
 
 Fain. Faith, this has an appearance. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I 'm sorry I hinted to my lady 
 to endeavor a match between Millamant 
 and Sir Wilfull ; that may be an obstacle. 
 
 Fain. Oh, for tliat matter, leave me to 
 manage him : I '11 disable him for that ; he 
 
 66 Foolish disclosure 
 (of Millamant's 
 and Mirabell's 
 
 love). 
 57 A cap with horns 
 pictured in ar- 
 
 morial 
 (ohviously 
 is a pun). 
 
 there 
 
 58 put up with. 
 
 59 The knave of 
 clubs, the highest 
 
 card in the game 
 of loo. 
 
526 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 will drink like a Dane; after dinner, I'll 
 set his hand in. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Well, how do you stand affected 
 towards your lady? 
 
 Fain. Why, faith, I'm thinking of it.— 
 Let me see — I am married already, so 
 that 's over : — my wife has played the 
 jade with me — well, that's over too: — I 
 never loved her, or if I had, why that 
 would have been over too by this time : — 
 jealous of her I cannot be for I am cer- 
 tain ; so there 's an end of jealousy : — 
 weary of her I am, and shall be — no, 
 there 's no end of that — no, no, that were 
 too much to hope. Thus far concerning 
 my repose; now for my reputation. As 
 to my own, I married not for it, so that 's 
 out of the question; — and as to my part 
 in my wife's — why, she had parted with 
 hers before; so bringing none to me, she 
 can take none from me; 'tis against aU 
 rule of play, that I should lose to one 
 who has not wherewithal to stake. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Besides, you forget, marriage 
 is honorable. 
 
 Fain. Hum, faith, and that 's well thought 
 on; marriage is honorable as you say; 
 and if so, wherefore should cuckoldom be 
 a discredit, being derived from so honor- 
 able a root? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Nay, I know not; if the root 
 be honorable, why not the branches? 
 
 Fain. So, so, why this point 's clear — well, 
 how do we proceed? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I will contrive a letter which 
 shall be delivered to my lady at the time 
 when that rascal who is to act Sir Row- 
 land is with her. It shall come as from 
 an unknown hand — for the less I appear 
 to know of the truth, the better I can play 
 the incendiary. Besides, I would not 
 have Foible provoked if I could help it 
 — because you know she knows some pas- 
 sages — nay, I expect all will come out — 
 but let the mine be sprung first, and then 
 I care not if I am discovered. 
 
 Fain. If the worst come ti the worst — I '11 
 turn my wife to grass — I have already a 
 deed of settlement of the best part of her 
 estate, which I wheedled out of her; and 
 that you shall partake at least. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I hope you are convinced that 
 I hate Mirabell; now you'll be no more 
 jealous. 
 
 Fain. Jealous! no — by this kiss — ^let hus- 
 bands be jealous; but let the lover still 
 believe ; or if he doubt, let it be only to 
 endear his pleasure, and prepare the joy 
 
 60 confident. 
 
 61 retinue, "establishment." 
 
 that follows, when he proves his mistress 
 true. But let husbands' doubts convert to 
 endless jealousy; or if they have belief, 
 let it corrupt to superstition and blind 
 credulity. I am single, and will herd no 
 more with 'em. True, I wear the -badge, 
 but I '11 disown the order. And since I 
 take my leave of 'em, I care not if I leave 
 'em a common motto to their common 
 crest : — 
 
 All husbands must or pain or shame en- 
 dure; 
 
 The wise too jealous are, fools too se- 
 cure.*" 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene 1. Scene continues. 
 
 (Enter Lady Wishfort and Foible.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Is Sir Rowland coming, say- 
 est thou, Foible? And are things in 
 order? 
 
 Feib. Yes, madam, I have put wax lights 
 in the sconces, and placed the footmen in 
 a row in the hall, in their best liveries, 
 with the coachman and postillion to fill 
 up the equipage.""^ 
 
 Lady Wish. Have you pulvilled*^ the 
 coachman and postillion, that they may 
 not stink of the stable when Sir Rowland 
 comes by? 
 
 Foib. Yes, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. And are the dancers and the 
 music ready, that he may be entertained 
 in all points with correspondence to his 
 passion ? 
 
 Foib. All is ready, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. And — ^well — and how do I 
 look, Foible? 
 
 Foib. Most killing well, maSam. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, and how shall I receive 
 him ? in what figure shall I give his heart 
 the first impression? there is a great deal 
 in the first impression. Shall I sit? — no, 
 I won't sit — I'll walk — ay, I'll walk 
 from the door upon his entrance; and 
 then turn full upon him — no, that will be 
 too sudden. I '11 lie, — ay, I '11 lie down — 
 I'll receive him in my little dressing- 
 room, there 's a couch — ^yes, yes, I '11 give 
 the first impression on a couch. — I won't 
 lie neither, but loll and lean upon one 
 elbow: with one foot a little dangling 
 
 62 perfumed with powder. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 527 
 
 off, jogging in a thoughtful way — yes — 
 and then as soon as he appears, start, ay, 
 start and be surprised, and rise to meet 
 him in a pretty disorder — ^yes, — 0, noth- 
 ing is more alluring than a levee from a 
 couch, in some confusion : — it shows the 
 foot to advantage, and furnishes with 
 blushes, and reeomposing airs beyond 
 comparison. Hark ! there 's a coach. 
 
 Foib, 'T is he, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, dear! — Has my nephew 
 made his addresses to Millamant? I 
 ordered him. 
 
 Foib. Sir WilfuU is set in to drinking, 
 madam, in the parlor. 
 
 Lady Wish. Odds my lif e,°' I '11 send him 
 to her. Call her down, Foible ; bring her 
 hither. I '11 send him as I go — ^when 
 they are together, then come to me). 
 Foible, that I may not be too long alone 
 with Sir Rowland. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Millamant and Mrs. Fainall.) 
 
 Foib. Madam, I stayed here, to tell your 
 ladyship that Mr. Mirabell ias waited 
 this half hour for an opportunity to talk 
 with you: though my lady's orders were 
 to leave you and Sir WilfuU together. 
 Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell that you are at 
 leisure ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. No, — what -would the dear man 
 have? I am thoughtful, and would 
 amuse myself — bid him come another 
 time. 
 
 "There never yet was woman made 
 Nor shall, but to be cursed." ^* 
 {Bepeating and walking about.) 
 That 'shard! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You are very fond of Sir John 
 Suckling to-day, Millamant, and the 
 poets. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. He? Ay, and filthy verses — so 
 I am. 
 
 Foib. Sir WilfuU is coming, madam. 
 Shall I send Mr. Mirabell away? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, if you please, Foible, send 
 him away — or send him hither — just as 
 you will, dear Foible. — I think I'll see 
 him — shall I? Ay, let the wretch come. 
 
 (Exit Foible.) 
 "Thyrsis, a youth of the inspir'd train." 
 
 (Bepeating.) 
 Dear Fainall, entertain Sir WilfuU — thou 
 hast philosophy to undergo a fool, thou 
 
 art mai-ried and hast patience — I would 
 confer with my own thoughts. 
 Mrs. Fain. I am obliged. to you, that you 
 would make me your proxy in this af- 
 fair; but I have business of my own. 
 
 (Enter Sir WilfuU.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Sir WilfuU, you are come at 
 the critical instant. There's your mis- 
 tress up to the ears in love and contem- 
 plation ; pursue your point now or never. 
 
 Sir Wil. Yes ; my aunt w^ould have it so — 
 I would gladly have been encouraged with 
 a bottle or two, because I'm somewhat 
 wary at first before I am acquainted. — 
 (This -while Millamant walks about re- 
 peating to herself.) — But I hope, after a 
 time, I shall break my mind — that is, 
 upon further acquaintance — so for the 
 present, cousin, I '11 take my leave — if so 
 be you '11 be so kind to make my excuse, 
 I '11 return to my company — 
 
 Mrs. Fain. 0, fy. Sir WilfuU! What, 
 you must not be daunted. 
 
 Sir Wil. Daunted ! no, that 's not it, it is 
 not so much for that — for if so be that I 
 set on't, I'll do't. But only for the 
 present, 'tis sufficient till further ac- 
 quaintance, that 's all — your servant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Nay, I '11 swear you shall 
 never lose so favorable an opportunity, if 
 I can help it. I '11 leave you together, 
 and lock the door. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nay, cousin — I have forgot 
 my gloves — what d'ye do? — S'heart, 
 a'has locked the door indeed, I think — 
 nay. Cousin Fainall, open the door — 
 pshaw, what a vixen trick is this? — Nay, 
 now a' has seen me too. — Cousin, I made 
 bold to pass through as it were — I think 
 this door 's enchanted I 
 
 Mrs. Mil. (Bepeating.) 
 
 "I prithee spare me, gentle boy, 
 Press me no more for that slight toy." 
 
 Sir Wil. Anan?*° Cousin, your servant. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. (Bepeating.) 
 
 "That foolish trifle of a heart." 
 Sir WilfuU I 
 
 Sir Wil. Yes — your servant. No offence, 
 I hope, cousin. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. (Bepeating.) 
 
 "I swear it will not do its part. 
 Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy 
 
 power and art." 
 Natural, easy Suckling. 
 
 63 A corrupted oath 
 or asseveration ; 
 perhaps "God 
 
 save my life I" 
 
 04 This and the later 
 bits of verse are 
 from Suckling 
 
 and Waller (mid- 
 17th century ly- 
 ric poets). 
 
 SB "I beg your par- 
 don. I (don't un- 
 derstand you" 
 
 (originally anon, 
 meaning immedi- 
 ately). 
 
528 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 SirWil. Anan? Suckling ! no such suck- 
 ling neither, cousin, nor stripling: I 
 thank Heaven,,! 'm no minor. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah, rustic, ruder than Gothic! 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, well, I shall understand 
 your lingo one of these days, cousin; in 
 the meanwhile I must answer in plain 
 English. 
 
 Mrs. Mil, Have you any business with 
 me. Sir WilfuU? 
 
 Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin — yes, I 
 make bold to see, to come and know if 
 that how you were disposed to fetch a 
 walk this evening, if so be that I might 
 not be troublesome, I would have sought 
 a walk with you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. A walk! what then? 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nothing — only for the 
 walk's sake, that's all. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I nauseate walking; 'tis a 
 country diversion ; I loathe the country, 
 and everything that relates to it. 
 
 Sir Wil. Indeed! ha! Look ye, look ye, 
 you do? Nay, 'tis like you may — ^here 
 are choice of pastimes here in town, as 
 plays and the like; that must be con- 
 fessed indeed. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah, Vetourdi!^^ I hate the 
 town too. 
 
 Sir Wil. Dear heart, that's much — ha! 
 that you should hate 'em both ! Ha ! 't is 
 like you may; there are some can't relish 
 the town, and others can't away with the 
 country — 'tis like you may be one of 
 those, cousin. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ha! ha! ha! yes, 'tis like I 
 may. — You have nothing further to say 
 to me? 
 
 Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin. — 'T is 
 like when I have an opportunity to be 
 more private — I may break my mind in 
 some measure — I conjecture you partly 
 g^ess — however, that 's as time shall try 
 — but spare to speak and spare to 
 speed,"^ as they say. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. If it is of no great importance, 
 Sir Wilfull, you will oblige me to leave 
 me ; I have just now a little business — 
 
 Sir Wil. Enough, enough, cousin: yes, 
 yes, all a ease — ^when you 're disposed, 
 when you 're disposed : now 's as well as 
 another time; and another time as well 
 as now. All 's one for that — yes, yes, 
 if your concerns call you, there's no 
 haste; it will keep cold, as they say. — 
 Cousin, your servant — I think this 
 door 's locked. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You may go this way, sir. 
 
 Sir Wil. Your servant; then with your 
 leave I '11 return to my company. 
 {Exit.) 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, ay; ha! ha! ha! 
 
 "Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous 
 boy." 
 
 {Enter Mirabell.) 
 
 Mir. "Like Daphne she, as lovely and as 
 coy." Do you lock yourself up from me, 
 to make my search more curious? or is 
 this pretty artifice contrived to signify 
 that here the chase must end, and my 
 pursuit be crowned? For you can fly no 
 further. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Vanity ! no— I '11 fly. and be 
 followed to the last moment. Though I 
 am upon the very verge of matrimony, I 
 expect you should solicit me as much as 
 if I were wavering at the grate of a 
 monastery, with one foot over the 
 threshold. I '11 be solicited to the very 
 last, nay, knA afterwards. 
 
 Mir. What, after the last? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Oh, I should think I was poor 
 and had nothing to bestow, if I were re- 
 duced to an inglorious ease, and freed 
 from the agreeable fatigues of solicita- 
 tion. 
 
 Mir. But do not you know, that when fa- 
 vors are conferred upon instant °* and 
 tedious solicitatioij, that they diminish in 
 their value, and that both the giver loses 
 the grace, and the receiver lessens his 
 pleasure? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. It may be in things of common 
 application ; but never sure in love. Oh, 
 I hate a lover than can dare to think he 
 draws a moment's air, independent on 
 the bounty of his mistress. There is not 
 so impudent a thing in nature, as the 
 saucy look of an assured man, confident 
 of success. The pedantic arrogance of a 
 very husband has not so pragmatical an 
 air. Ah! I'll never marry, unless I 
 am first made sure of my will and pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 Mir. Would you have 'em both before 
 marriage? or will you be contented with 
 the first now, and stay for the other till 
 after grace? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah! don't be impertinent. — ^My 
 dear liberty, shall I leave thee? my faith- 
 ful solitude, my darling contemplation, 
 must I bid you then adieu? Ay-h adieu 
 — my morning thoughts, agreeable wak- 
 ings, indolent slumbers, all ye douceurs, 
 ye sommeils du matin, adieu! — I can't 
 
 60 The giddy creature I (The title of a play by MoliSre.) 
 
 87 prosper. 
 
 68 insistent. 
 
THE WAY or THE WORLD 
 
 529 
 
 do 't, 't is more than impossible — posi- 
 tively, Mirabell, I '11 lie abed in a morn- 
 ing as long as I please. 
 
 Mir. Then I'll get up in a morning as 
 early as I please. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah! idle creature, get up when 
 you will — and d' ye hear, I won't be called 
 names after I 'm married ; positively I 
 won't be called names. 
 
 Mir. Names ! 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, as wife, spouse, my dear, 
 joy, jewel, love, sweetheart, and the rest 
 of that nauseous cant, in which men and 
 their wives are so fulsomely familiar — I 
 shall never bear that — good Mirabell, 
 don't let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss 
 before folks, Uke my Lady Fadler and 
 Sir Francis: nor go to Hyde Park to- 
 gether the first Sunday in a new chariot, 
 to provoke eyes and whispers, and then 
 never to be seen there together again ; as 
 if we were proud of one another the first 
 week, and ashamed of one another for 
 ever after. Let us never visit together, 
 nor go to a play together; but let us be 
 very strange and well-bred: let us be as 
 strange as if we had been married a 
 great while; and as well-bred as if we 
 were not married at all. 
 
 Mir. Have you any more conditions to 
 offer? Hitherto your demands are 
 pretty reasonable. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Trifles ! — As liberty to pay and 
 receive visits to and from whom I please ; 
 to write and receive letters, without in- 
 terrogatories or wry faces on your part ; 
 to wear what- I please; and choose con- 
 versation with regard only to my own 
 taste; to have no obligation upon me to 
 converse with wits that I don't like, be- 
 cause they are your acquaintance: or to 
 be intimate with fools, because they may 
 be your relations. Come to dinner when 
 I please; dine in my dressing-room when 
 I 'm out of humor, without giving a rea- 
 son. To have my closet inviolate; to be 
 sole empress of my tea-table, which you 
 must never presume to approach without 
 first asking leave. And lastly, wherever 
 I am, you shall always knock at the door 
 before you come in. These articles sub- 
 scribed, if I continue to endure you a lit- 
 tle longer, I may by degrees dwindle into 
 a wife. 
 
 Mir. Your bill of fare is something ad- 
 vanced in this latter account. — ^Well, have 
 I liberty to offer conditions — ^that when 
 you are dwindled into a wife, I may not 
 
 69 A kind of mask. 
 
 be beyond measure enlarged into a hus- 
 band? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You have free leave; propose 
 your utmost, speak and spare not. 
 
 Mir. I thank you. — Imprimis then, I cove- 
 nant, that your acquaintance be general; 
 that you admit no sworn confidant, or 
 intimate of your own sex; no she-friend 
 to screen her affairs under your counte- 
 nance, and tempt you to make trial of a 
 mutual secrecy. No decoy-duck to 
 wheedle you a fop-scrambling to the play 
 in a mask — then bring you home in a pre- 
 tended fright, when you think you shall 
 be found out — and rail at me for missing 
 the play, and disappointing the frolic 
 which you had to pick me up, and prove 
 my constancy. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Detestable imprimis! I go to 
 the play in a mask ! 
 
 Mir. Item, I article, that you continue to 
 like your own face, as long as I shall: 
 and while it passes current with me, that 
 you endeavor not to new-coin it. To 
 which end, together with all vizards ^' for 
 the day, I prohibit all masks for the 
 night, made of oiled-skins, and I know 
 not what — hogs' bones, hares' gall, pig- 
 water, and the marrow of a roasted cat. 
 In short, I forbid all commerce with the 
 gentlewoman in what-d'ye-eall-it court. 
 Item, I shut my doors against all bawds 
 ■^ith baskets, and pennyworths of mus- 
 lin, china, fans, atlases, ''" etc. — Item, 
 when you shall be breeding — 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah ! name it not. 
 
 Mir. Which may be presumed with a 
 blessing on our endeavors — 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Odious endeavors! 
 
 Mir. I denounce against all strait lacing, 
 squeezing for a shape, till you mould my 
 boy's head like a sugar-loaf, and instead 
 of a man-child, make me the father to a 
 crooked billet. Lastly, to the dominion 
 of the tea-table I submit — ^but with pro- 
 viso, that you exceed not in your prov- 
 ince; but restrain yourself to native and 
 simple tea-tp.ble drinks, as tea, chocolate, 
 and coffee: as likewise to genuine and 
 authorized tea-table talk — such as mend- 
 ing of fashions, spoiling reputations, rail- 
 ing at absent friends, and so forth — ^but 
 that on no account you encroach upon 
 the men's prerogative, and presume to 
 drink healths, or toast fellows; for pre- 
 vention of which I banish all foreign 
 forces, all auxiliaries to the tea-table, as 
 orange-brandy, all aniseed, cinnamon, 
 
 70 An oriental silk or satin. 
 
530 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 citron, and Barbadoes waters, together 
 ■with ratafia, and the most noble spirit of 
 clary " — but for cowslip wine, poppy 
 water, and all dormitives, those I allow. 
 — These provisos admitted, in other 
 things I may prove a tractable and com- 
 plying husband. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. horrid provisos ! filthy strong- 
 waters! I toast fellows! odious men! I 
 hate your odious provisos. 
 
 Mir. Then we are agreed! Shall I kiss' 
 your hand upon the contract? And here 
 comes one to be a witness to the sealing 
 of the deed. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Fainall.) 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Fainall, what shall I do? shall 
 I have him? I think I must have him. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, take him, take him, 
 what should you do? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Well then— I '11 take my death 
 I'm in a horrid fright — Fainall, I shall 
 never say it — ^well — ^I think — I'll endure 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Fy! fy! have him, have him, 
 and tell him so in plain terms : for I am 
 sure you have a mind to him. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Are you? I think I have — and 
 the horrid man looks as if he thought so 
 too — well, you ridiculous thing you, I 'II 
 have you — I won't be kissed, nor I won't 
 be thanked — here kiss my hand though. — 
 So, hold your tong^ue now, and don't say 
 a word. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Mirabell, there's a necessity 
 for your obedience ; you have neither time 
 to talk nor stay. My mother is coming;, 
 and in my conscience if she should see 
 you, would fall into fits, and maybe not 
 recover time enough to return to Sir 
 Rowland, who, as Foible tells me, is in a 
 fair way to succeed. Therefore spare 
 your ecstasies for another occasion, and 
 slip down the backstairs, where Foible 
 waits to consult you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, go, go. In the meantime 
 I suppose you have said something to 
 please me. 
 
 Mir. I am all obedience. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Yonder Sir WilfuU's drunk, 
 and so noisy that my mother has been 
 forced to leave Sir Rowland to appease 
 him; but he answers her only with sing- 
 ing and drinking — what they may have 
 done by this time I know not; but 
 Petulant and he were upon quarrelling as 
 I came by. 
 
 Mrs. Mil Well, if Mirabell should not 
 make a good husband, I am a lost thing, 
 for I find I love him violently. 
 
 Mrs. .Fain. So it seems, when you mind 
 not what 's said to you. — If you doubt 
 him, you had best take up with Sir Wil- 
 fuU. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. How can you name that super- 
 annuated lubber? fob!- 
 
 {Enter Witwoud from drinking.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So, is the fray made up, that 
 you have left 'em? 
 
 Wit. Left 'em? I could stay no longer — 
 I have laughed like ten christenings — I 
 am tipsy with laughing — ^if I had stayed 
 any longer I should have burst — I must 
 have been let out and pieced in the sides 
 like an unsized camlet.^^ — Yes, yes, the 
 fray is composed; my lady came in like 
 a noli prosequi,''^ and stopped their pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. What was the dispute? 
 
 Wit. That's the jest; there was no dis- 
 pute. They could neither of 'em speak 
 for rage, and so fell a sputtering at one 
 another like two roasting apples. 
 
 {Enter Petulant, drunk.) 
 
 Wit. Now, Petulant, all 's over, all 's well. 
 Gad, my head begins to whim it about — 
 why dost thou not speak? thou art both 
 as drunk and as mute as a fish. 
 
 Pet. Look you, Mrs. Millamant — ^if you 
 can love me, dear nymph — say it — and 
 that's the conclusion — pass on, or pass 
 off— that 's all. 
 
 Wit. Thou hast uttered volumes, folios, in 
 less than decimo sexto, my dear Lacede- 
 monian. Sirrah, Petulant, thou art an 
 epitomizer of words. 
 
 Pet. Witwoud — ^you are an annihilator of 
 sense. 
 
 Wit. Thou art a retailer of phrases; and 
 dost deal in remnants of remnants, like a 
 maker of pincushions — ^thou art in truth 
 (metaphorically speaking) a speaker of 
 shorthand. 
 
 Pet. Thou art (without a figure) just one- 
 half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder, thy 
 half-brother, is the rest. — A Gemini of 
 asses split would make just four of you. 
 
 Wit. Thou dost bite, my dear mustard 
 seed; kiss me for that. 
 
 Pet. Stand off! — I'll kiss no more males 
 — I have kissed your twin yonder in a 
 humor of reconciliation, till he {Hiccup) 
 
 71 Sweetened and 
 flavored wine. 
 
 72 A kind of woolen material ; unsized, unstiflEened. 
 
 73 A notice to stop 
 a prosecution. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 531 
 
 rises upon my stomach like a radish. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Eh? filthy creature! what was 
 the quarrel? 
 
 Pet. There was no quarrel — there might 
 have been a quarrel. 
 
 Wit. If there had been words enow be- 
 tween 'em to have expressed provocation, 
 they had gone together by the ears like a 
 pair of castanets. 
 
 Pet. You were the quarrel. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Me! 
 
 Pet. If I have a humor to quarrel, I can 
 make less matters conclude premises. — If 
 you are not handsome, what then, if I 
 have a humor to prove it? If I shall 
 have my reward, say so; if not, flght for 
 your face the next time yourself — I 'U go 
 sleep. 
 
 Wit. Do, wrap thyself up like a wood- 
 louse, and dream revenge — and hear me, 
 if thou canst learn to write by to-mor- 
 row morning, pen me a challenge. — I '11 
 carry it for thee. 
 
 Pet. Carry your mistress's monkey a 
 spider! — Go flea dogs, and read ro- 
 mances! — I'U go to bed to my maid. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain.. He's horribly drunk. — ^How 
 came you all in this pickle? 
 
 Wit. A plot! a plot! to get rid of the 
 night — ^your husband's advice; but he 
 sneaked off. 
 
 {Enter Lady Wishfort, and Sir Wilfull, 
 drunk.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Out upon 't, out upon 't ! At 
 years of discretion, and comport yourself 
 at this rantipole '* rate ! 
 Sir Wil. No offence, aunt. 
 Lady Wish. Offence! as I'm a person, 
 I 'm ashamed of you — f oh ! how you stink 
 of wine! D'ye think my niece will ever 
 endure such a Boraehio ! '° you 're an ab- 
 solute Borachio. 
 Sir Wil. Boraehio? 
 
 Lady Wish. At a time when you should 
 commence an amour, and put your best 
 foot foremost — 
 Sir Wit. S'heart, an you gruteh me your 
 liquor, make a bill — give me more drink, 
 and take my purse. — 
 {Sings.) 
 "Prithee fill me the glass, 
 Till it laugh in my face. 
 With ale that is potent and mellow ; 
 He that whines for a lasS, 
 Is an ignorant ass. 
 For a bumper has not its fellow." 
 
 But if you would have me marry my 
 cousin — say the word, and I '11 do 't — 
 Wilfull will do 't, that 's the word— Wil- 
 full will do 't, that 's my crest — ^my motto 
 I have forgot. 
 
 Lady Wish. My nephew's a little over- 
 taken, cousin — ^but 'tis with drinking 
 your health. — 0' my word you are obliged 
 to him. 
 
 Sir Wil. In vino Veritas, aunt. — If I 
 drunk your health to-day, cousin — I am a 
 Borachio. But if you have a mind to be 
 married, say the word, and send for the 
 piper; Wilfull will do't. If not, dust it 
 away, and let 's have t' other round. — 
 Tony ! — Odds heart, where 's Tony ! — 
 Tony's an honest fellow; but he spits, 
 after a bumper, and that 's a fault. — 
 {Sings.) 
 
 "We '11 drink, and we '11 never ha' done, 
 boys, 
 Put the glass then around with the sun, 
 boys, 
 
 Let Apollo's example invite us; 
 For he's drunk every night. 
 And that makes him so bright. 
 
 That he's able next morning to light us." 
 The sun's a good pimple,'® an honest 
 soaker; he has a cellar at your Antipo- 
 des. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your 
 Antipodes. — ^Your Antipodes are a good, 
 rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows : if I 
 had a bumper, I 'd stand upon my head 
 and drink a health to 'em. — ^A match or 
 no match, cousin with the hard name? — 
 Aunt, Wilfull will do 't. If she has her 
 maidenhead, let her look to 't ; if she has 
 not, let her keep her own counsel in the 
 meantime, and cry out at the nine 
 months' end. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Your pardon, madam, I can 
 stay no longer — Sir Wilfull grows very 
 powerful. Eh! how he smells! I shall 
 be overcome, if I stay. — Come, cousin. 
 
 {Exeunt Mrs. Millamant and Mrs. Fainall.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Smells! He would poison a 
 tallow-chandler and his family! Beastly 
 creature, I know not what to do with 
 him! — Travel, quotha! ay, travel, 'travel, 
 get thee gone, get thee gone, get thee but 
 far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tar- 
 tars, or the Turks! — for thou art not fit 
 to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou 
 beastly pagan ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Turks, no ; no Turks, aunt : your 
 Turks are infidels, and believe not in the 
 grape. Your Mahometan, your Mussul- 
 man, is a dry stinkard — no offence, aunt. 
 
 74 disorderly. 
 
 75 Wine-bag used in Spain; hence a drunkard. 
 
 76 boon companion. 
 
532 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 My map says that your Turk is not so 
 honest a man as your Christian. I can- 
 not find by the map that your Mufti is 
 orthodox — ^whereby it is a plain case, that 
 orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and (Hic- 
 cup) Greek for claret. — 
 (Sings.) 
 
 "To drink is a Christian diversion, 
 
 Unknown to the Turk and the Persian: 
 Let Mahometan fools 
 Live by heathenish rules. 
 
 And be damned over tea-cups and coffee. 
 But let British lads sing, 
 Crown a health to the king. 
 
 And a fig for your sultan and sophy !" " 
 Ah, Tony ! 
 
 (Enter Foible, and whispers Lady Wish- 
 fort.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Sir Rowland impatient? 
 Good lack! what shall I do with this 
 beastly tumbril?'* Go lie down and 
 sleep, you sot ! — or, as I 'm a person, I '11 
 have you bastinadoed with broomsticks. — 
 Call up the wenches. 
 
 (Exit Foible.) 
 
 Sir Wil. Ahey! wenches, where are the 
 wenches ? 
 
 Lady Wish. Dear Cousin Witwoud, get 
 him away, and you wUl bind me to you 
 inviolably. I have an affair of moment 
 that invades me with some precipita- 
 tion — you will oblige me to all futur- 
 ity. 
 
 Wit. Come, knight. — Pox on him, I don't 
 know what to say to him. — Will you go 
 to a cock-match? 
 
 Sir Wil. With a wench, Tony! Is she a 
 shakebag,'* sirrah? Let me bite your 
 cheek for that. 
 
 Wit. Horrible ! he has a breath like a bag- 
 pipe ! — ^Ay, ay; come, will you march, my 
 Salopian ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Lead on, little Tony— I '11 fol- 
 low thee, my Anthony, my Tantony, 
 sirrah, thou sha't be my Tantony,*" and 
 I '11 be thy pig. 
 
 "And a fig for your sultan and sophy." 
 (Exeunt singing with Witwoud.) 
 
 Lady Wish. This will never do. It will 
 never make a match — at least before he 
 has been abroad. 
 
 (Enter Waitwell, disguised as Sir Bow- 
 land.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Dear Sir Rowland, I am con- 
 founded with confusion at the retrospec- 
 
 77 Shah. 01- hoat for carry- so St. Anthony, pa- 
 
 rs Drunken fellow Ing a heavy load) . iron saint of pigs, 
 (originally a cart 78 A fighting-cook. si Frame for 
 
 tion of my own rudeness! — I have more 
 pardons to ask than the pope distributes 
 in the year of jubilee. But I hope, 
 where there is likely to be so near an al- 
 liance, we may unbend the severity of de- 
 corums, and dispense with a little cere- 
 mony. 
 
 Wait. My impatience, madam, is the ef- 
 fect of my transport; and till I have the 
 possession of your adorable person, I am 
 tantalized on a rack; and do but hang, 
 madam, on the tenter ^^ of expectation. 
 
 Lady Wish. You have excess of gallantry. 
 Sir Rowland, and press things to a con- 
 elusion with a most prevailing vehemence. 
 — But a day or two for decency of mar- 
 riage — 
 
 Wait. For decency of funeral, madam! 
 The delay will break my heart — or, if 
 that should fail, I shall be poisoned. My 
 nephew will get an inkling of my de- 
 signs, and poison me — and I would will- 
 ingly starve him before I die — I would 
 gladly go out of the world with that satis- 
 faction. — That would be some comfort to 
 me, if I could but live so long as to be 
 revenged on that unnatural viper! 
 
 Lady Wish. Is he so unnatural, say you? 
 Truly I would contribute much both to 
 the saving of your life, and the accom- 
 plishment of your revenge. — ^Not that I 
 respect myself, though he has been a per- 
 fidious wretch to me. 
 
 Wait. Perfidious to you! 
 
 Lady Wish. Sir Rowland, the hours 
 that he has died away at my feet, the 
 tears that he has shed, the oaths that he 
 has sworn, the palpitations that he has 
 felt, the trances and the tremblings, the 
 ardors and the ecstasies, the kneelings 
 and the risings, the heart-heavings and 
 the handgripings, the pangs and the pa- 
 thetic regards of his protesting eyes! — 
 Oh, no memory can register! 
 
 Wait. What, my rival! is the rebel my 
 rival? — a' dies. 
 
 Lady Wish. No, don't kill him at once, 
 Sir Rowland, starve him gradually, inch 
 by inch. 
 
 Wait. I'll do't. In three weeks he shall 
 be barefoot ; in a month out at knees with 
 begging an alms. — He shall starve up- 
 ward and upward, till he has nothing liv- 
 ing but his head, and then go out in a 
 stink like a candle's end upon a save- 
 all.«= 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, Sir Rowland, you have 
 
 atretrhing cloth. 
 82 Oandlestick which 
 allows the candle 
 
 to burn to the 
 end. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 533 
 
 the way — you are no novice in the laby- 
 rinth of love — you have the clue. — But as 
 I am a person, Sir Rowland, you must 
 not attribute my yielding to any sinister 
 appetite, or indigestion of widowhood; 
 nor impute my complacency to any leth- 
 argy of continence — I hope you do not 
 think me prone to any iteration of nup- 
 tials — 
 
 Wait. Tar be it from me — 
 
 Lady Wish. If you do, I protest I must 
 recede — or think that I have made a pros- 
 titution of decorums; but in the vehe- 
 mence of compassion, and to save the life 
 of a person of so much importance — 
 
 Wait. I esteem it so. 
 
 Lady Wish. Or else you wrong my con- 
 descension. 
 
 Wait. I do not, I do not! 
 
 Lady Wish. Indeed you do. 
 
 Wait. I do not, fair shrine of virtue! 
 
 Lady Wish. If you think the least scruple 
 of carnality was an ingredient, — 
 
 Wait. Dear madam, no. You are all cam- 
 phor and frankincense, all chastity and 
 odor. 
 
 Lady Wish. Or that — 
 
 {Enter Foible.) 
 
 Foib. Madam, the dancers are ready; and 
 there's one with a letter, who must de- 
 liver it into your own hands. 
 
 Lady Wish. Sir Rowland, will you give 
 me leave? Think favorably, judge can- 
 didly, and conclude you have found a 
 person who would suffer racks in honor's 
 cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait 
 on you incessantly. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Wait. Fy, fy! — ^What a slavery have I 
 undergone! Spouse, hast thou any cor- 
 dial? I want spirits. 
 
 Foib. What a washy ^^ rogue art thou, to 
 pant thus for a quarter of an hour's lying 
 and swearing to a fine lady ! 
 
 Wait. Oh, she is the antidote to desire! 
 Spouse, thou wilt fare the worst for't — 
 I shall have no appetite to iteration of 
 nuptials this eight-and-forty hours. — ^By 
 this hand I 'd rather be a chairman '* in 
 the dog-days — than act Sir Rowland till 
 this time to-morrow! 
 
 {Enter Lady Wishfort, with a letter.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Call in the dancers.— Sir 
 Rowland, we '11 sit, if you please, and see 
 
 83 feeble. 
 
 the entertainment. (Dance.) Now, with 
 your permission. Sir Rowland, I will pe- 
 ruse my letter. — I would open it in your 
 presence, because I would not make you 
 uneasy. If it should make you uneasy, I 
 would burn it. — Speak, if it does — ^but 
 you may see the superscription is like a 
 woman's hand. 
 
 Foib. By Heaven! Mrs. Marwood's, I 
 know it. — My heart aches — get it from, 
 her. 
 
 (To Mm.) 
 
 Wait. A woman's hand I no, madam, that 's 
 no woman's hand, I see that already. 
 That's somebody whose throat must be 
 cut. 
 
 Lady Wish. Nay, Sir Rowland, since you 
 give me a proof of your passion by your 
 jealousy, I promise you I '11 make a re- 
 turn, by a frank communication. — ^You 
 shall see it — we '11 open it together — look 
 you here. — (Beads.) — "Madam, though 
 unknown to you" — Look you there, 't is 
 from nobody that I know — "1 have that 
 honor for your character, that I think 
 myself obliged to let you know you are 
 abused. He who pretends to be Sir 
 Rowland, is a cheat and a rascal." — Oh, 
 Heavens ! what 's this ? 
 
 Foib. (Aside.) Unfortunate ! all 's ruined ! 
 
 Wait. How, how, let me see, let me see ! — 
 (Beading.) "A rascal, and disguised 
 and suborned for that imposture," — 
 villainy ! O villainy ! — "by the contrivance 
 of—" 
 
 Lady Wish. I shall faint, I shall die, I 
 shall die; oh! 
 
 Foib. Say 't is your nephew's hand — 
 quickly, his plot, swear, swear it! 
 (To him.) 
 
 Wait. Here's a villain! Madam, don't 
 you perceive it, don't you see it? 
 
 Lady Wish. Too well, too well! I have 
 seen too much. 
 
 Wait. I told you at first I knew the hand. 
 — A woman's hand ! The rascal writes a 
 sort of a large hand ; your Roman hand — 
 I saw there was a throat to be cut pres- 
 ently. If he were my son, as he is my 
 nephew, I 'd pistol him ! 
 
 Foib. treachery ! — But are you sure. Sir 
 Rowland, it is his writing? 
 
 Wait. Sure! am I here? Do I live? Do 
 I love this pearl of India? I have 
 twenty letters in my pocket from him in 
 the same character. 
 
 Lady Wish. How! 
 
 Foib. Oh, what luck it is, Sir Rowland, 
 
 81 A caiiieT of a eedan-chair. 
 
534 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 that you were present at this juncture ! — 
 This was the business that brought Mr. 
 Mirabell disguised to Madam Millamant 
 this afternoon. I thought something was 
 contriving, when he stole by me and 
 would have hid his face. 
 
 Lady Wish. How, how ! — I heard the vil- 
 lain was in the house indeed; and now I 
 remember, my niece went away abruptly, 
 when Sir WilfuU was to have made his 
 addresses. 
 
 Foib. Then, then, madam, Mr. Mirabell 
 waited for her in her chamber! but I 
 would not tell your ladyship to discom- 
 pose you when you were to receive Sir 
 Rowland. 
 
 Wait. Enough, his date is short. 
 
 Foib. No, good Sir Rowland, don't incur 
 the law. 
 
 Wait. Law ! I care not for law. I can 
 but die, and 't is in a good cause. — My 
 lady shall be satisfied of my truth 
 and innocence, though it cost me my 
 life. 
 
 Lady Wish. No, dear Sir Rowland, don't 
 fight; if you should be killed I must never 
 show my face; or hanged — 0, consider 
 my reputation, Sir Rowland! — No, you 
 shan't fight — I '11 go in and examine my 
 niece ; I '11 make her confess. I conjure 
 you. Sir Rowland, by all your love, not 
 to fight. 
 
 Wait. I am charmed, madam, I obey. 
 But some proof you must let me give 
 you; I'll go for a black box, which 
 contains the writings of my whole 
 estate, and deliver that into your 
 hands. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear Sir Rowland, that 
 will be some comfort, bring the black 
 box. 
 
 Wait. And may I presume to bring a con- 
 tract to be signed this night ? may I hope 
 so far? 
 
 Lady Wish. Bring what you will; but 
 come alive, pray come alive. Oh, this is 
 a happy discovery! 
 
 Wait. Dead or alive I '11 come — and mar- 
 ried we will be in spite of treachery; ay, 
 and get an heir that shall defeat the last 
 remaining glimpse of hope in my aban- 
 doned nephew. Come, my buxom 
 widow : 
 
 Ere long yon shall substantial proofs re- 
 ceive. 
 That I 'm an arrant *° knight — 
 Foib. {Aside.) Or arrant knave. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. Scene continues. 
 (Lady Wishfort and Foible.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Out of my house, out of my 
 house, thou viper! thou serpent, that I 
 have fostered ! thou bosom traitress, that 
 I raised from nothing ! — ^Begone ! begone ! 
 begone! — ^go! go! — That I took from 
 washing of old gauze and weaving of 
 dead hair, with a bleak blue nose over a 
 chafing-dish of starved embers, and din- 
 ing behind a traverse rag, in a shop no 
 bigger than a bird-cage ! — Go, go ! starve 
 again, do, do! 
 
 Foib. Dear madam, I '11 beg pardon on my 
 knees. 
 
 Lady Wish. Away ! out ! out ! — Go, set up 
 for yourself again ! — Do, drive a trade, 
 do, with your three-pennyworth of small 
 ware, flaunting upon a packthread, under 
 a brandy-seller's bulk, or against a dead 
 wall by a ballad-monger! Go, hang out 
 an old Frisoneer gorget, with a yard of 
 yellow eolbertine again! Do; an old 
 gnawed mask, two rows of pins, and a 
 child's fiddle; a glass necklace with the 
 beads broken, and a quilted night-cap 
 with one ear! Go, go, drive a trade! — 
 These were your commodities, you treach- 
 erous trull! this was your merchandise 
 you dealt in when I took you into my 
 house, placed you next myself, and made 
 you governante of my whole family! 
 You have forgot this, have you, now you 
 have feathered your nest? 
 
 Foib. No, no, dear madam. Do but hear 
 me, have but a moment's patience, I'll 
 confess all. Mr. Mirabell seduced me; I 
 am not the first that he has wheedled with 
 his dissembling tongue; your ladyship's 
 own wisdom has been deluded by him; 
 then how should I, a poor ignorant, de- 
 fend myself? madam, if you knew 
 but what he promised me, and how he 
 assured me your ladyship should come to 
 no damage! — Or else the wealth of the 
 Indies should not have bribed me to con- 
 spire against so good, so sweet, so kind 
 a lady as you have been to me. 
 
 Lady Wish. No damage! What, to be- 
 tray me, to marry me to a east serving- 
 man ! to make me a receptacle, an hos- 
 pital for a decayed pimp! No damage! 
 thou frontless impudence, more than a 
 big-bellied actress! 
 
 Foib. Pray, do but hear me, madam; he 
 
 85 i.e., errant. 
 
THE WAY or THE WORLD 
 
 635 
 
 could not marry your ladyship, madam. 
 — No, indeed, his marriage was to have 
 been void in law, I'or he was married to 
 me first, to secure your ladyship. He 
 could not have bedded your ladyship ; for 
 if he had consummated with your lady- 
 ship, he must have run the risk of the 
 law, and been put upon his clergy.*" — 
 Yes, indeed, I inquired of the law in that 
 case before I would meddle or make. 
 
 Lady Wish. What, then, I have been your 
 property, have I? I have been conven- 
 ient to you, it seems! — While you were 
 catering for Mirabell, I have been broker 
 for you ! What, have you made a pas- 
 sive bawd of mel — This exceeds all prece- 
 dent; I am brought to fine uses, to be- 
 come a botcher of second-hand marriages 
 between Abigails and Andrews ! *' — \ '11 
 couple you! — Yes, I'll baste you to- 
 gether, you and your Philander! I'll 
 Duke's-place you, as I 'm a person ! 
 Your turtle is in custody already: you 
 shall coo in the same cage, if there be 
 constable or warrant in the parish. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Foib. Oh, that ever I was bom ! Oh, that 
 I was ever married ! — A bride ! — ay, I 
 shall be a Bridewell-bride. — Oh! 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Fainall.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Poor Foible, what 's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Foib. madam, my lady's gone for a 
 constable. I shall be had to a justice, 
 and put to Bridewell to beat hemp. Poor 
 Waitwell 's gone to prison already. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Have a good heart, ^ Foible; 
 MirabeU 's gone to give security for him. 
 This is all Marwood's and my husband's 
 doing. 
 
 Foib. Yes, yes; I know it, madam: she 
 was in my lady's closet, and overheard 
 all that you said to me before Hinner. 
 She sent the letter to my lady; and that 
 missing effect, Mr. Fainall laid this plot 
 to arrest Waitwell, when he pretended to 
 go for the papers; and in the meantime 
 Mrs. Marwood declared all to my lady. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Was there no mention made of 
 me in the letter? My mother does not 
 suspect my being in the confederacy? I 
 fancy Marwood has not told her, though 
 she has told my husband. 
 
 Foib. Yes,,madam; but my lady did not 
 see that part ; we stifled the letter before 
 she read so far. — Has that mischievous 
 
 set. e., have been arraigned (had to claim benefit of clergy). 
 
 devil told Mr. Fainall of your ladyship, 
 then? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ay, all's out — my affair with 
 Mirabell — everything discovered. This is 
 the last day of our living together, that 's 
 my comfort. 
 
 Foib. Indeed, madam; and so 'tis a com- 
 fort if you knew all; — he has been even 
 with your ladyship, which I could have 
 told you long enough since, but I love to 
 keep peace and quietness by my good- 
 will. I had rather bring friends to- 
 gether, than set 'em at distance: but 
 Mrs. Marwood and he are nearer related 
 than ever their parents thought for. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Sayest thou so, Foible? 
 Canst thou prove this? 
 
 Foih. I can take my oath of it, madam; 
 so can Mrs. Mincing. We have had 
 many a fair word from Madam Mar- 
 wood, to conceal something that passed 
 in our chamber one evening when you 
 were at Hyde Park; and we were thought 
 to have gone a-walking, but we went up 
 unawares; — ^though we were sworn to se- 
 crecy, too. Madam Marwood took a 
 book and swore us upon it, but it was 
 but a book of verses and poems. So 
 long as it was not a bible-oath, we may 
 break it with a safe conscience. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. This discovery is the most op- 
 portune thing I could wish. — ^Now, Minc- 
 ing! 
 
 {Enter Mincing.) 
 
 Min. My lady would speak with Mrs. Foi- 
 ble, mem. Mr. Mirabell is with her; he 
 has set your spouse at liberty, Mrs. Foi- 
 ble, and would have you hide yourself 
 in my lady's closet till my old lady's 
 anger is abated. Oh, my old lady is in a 
 perilous passion at something Mr. Fain- 
 all has said; he swears, and my old lady 
 cries. There 's a fearful hurricane, I 
 vow. He says, mem, how that he '11 have 
 my lady's fortune made over to him, or 
 he '11 be divorced. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Does your lady and Mirabell 
 know that? 
 
 Min. Yes, mem; they have sent me to see 
 if Sir Wilfull be sober, and to bring him 
 to them. My lady is resolved to have 
 him, I think, rather than lose such a vast 
 sum as six thousand pound. — Oh, come, 
 Mrs. Foible, I hear my old lady. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Foible, you must tell Mincing 
 that she must prepare to vouch when I 
 call her. 
 
 87 Maids and valets. 
 
536 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 Foib. Yes, yes, madam. 
 Min. Oh, yes, mem, I'll vouch anything 
 for your ladyship's service, be what it 
 will. 
 
 {Exeunt Mincing and Foible.) 
 (Enter Lady Wishfort, and Mrs. Mar- 
 wood.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, my dear friend, how can 
 I enumerate the benefits that I have re- 
 ceived from your goodness! To you I 
 owe the timely discovery of the false 
 vows of Mirabell ; to you the detection of 
 the impostor Sir Rowland. And now 
 you are become an intercessor with my 
 son-in-law, to save the honor of my 
 house, and compound for the frailties of 
 my daughter. Well, friend, you are 
 enough to reconcile me to the bad world, 
 or else I would retire to deserts and soli- 
 tudes, and feed harmless sheep by groves 
 and purling streams. Dear Marwood, let 
 us leave the world, and retire by our- 
 selves and be shepherdesses. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Let us first dispatch the affair 
 in hand, madam. We shall have leisure 
 to think of retirement afterwards. Here 
 is one who is concerned in the treaty. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, daughter, daughter! is it 
 possible thou shouldst be my child, bone 
 of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, and, 
 as I may say, another me, and yet trans- 
 gress the most minute particle of severe 
 virtue? Is it possible you should lean 
 'aside to iniquity, who have been cast in 
 the direct mould of virtue? I have not 
 only been a mould but a pattern for you, 
 and a model for you, after you were 
 brought into the world. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. 1 don't understand your lady- 
 ship. 
 
 Lady Wish. Not understand ! Why, have 
 you not been naught?** have you not 
 been sophisticated? Not understand! 
 here I am ruined to compound for your 
 caprices and your cuckoldoms. I must 
 pawn my plate and my jewels, and ruin 
 my niece, and all little enough — 
 
 Mrs. Fain. 1 am wronged and abused, and 
 so are you. 'T is a false accusation, as 
 false as hell, as false as your friend 
 there, ay, or your friend's friend, my 
 false husband. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. My friend, Mrs. Fainall! your 
 husband my friend! what do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I know what I mean, madam, 
 and so do you ; and so shall the world at 
 a time convenient. 
 
 88 Frail, no better than you should be. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I am sorry to see you so pas- 
 sionate, madam. More temper*^ would 
 look more Ijke innocence. But I have 
 done. I am sorry my zeal to serve your 
 ladyship and family should admit of mis- 
 construction, or make me liable to af- 
 fronts. You will pardon me, madam, if 
 I meddle no more with an affair in which 
 I am not personally concerned. 
 
 Lady Wish. dear friend, I am so 
 a^amed that you should meet with such 
 returns ! — ( To Mrs. Fainall. ) You ought 
 to ask pardon on your knees, ungrateful 
 creature! she deserves more from you 
 than all your life can accomplish. — {To 
 Mrs. Marwood.) Oh, don't leave me des- 
 titute in this perplexity! — no, stick to 
 me, my good genius. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I tell you, madam, you're 
 abused. — Stick to you; ay, like a leech, 
 to suck your best blood — she'll drop off 
 when she 's full. Madam, you sha'not 
 pawn a bodkin, nor part with a brass 
 counter, in composition for me. I defy 
 'em all. Let 'em prove their aspersions; 
 I know my own innocence, and dare 
 stand a trial. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Why, if she should be inno- 
 cent, if she should be wronged after all, 
 ha? — I don't know what to think; — and 
 I promise you her education has been un- 
 exceptionable — I may say it; for I 
 chiefly made it my own care to initiate 
 her very infancy in the rudiments of vir- 
 tue, and to impress upon her tender years 
 a young odium and aversion to the very 
 sight of men : ay, friend, she would ha' 
 shrieked if she had but seen a man, till 
 she was in her teens. As I'm a person 
 't is true ; — she was never suffered to play 
 with a male child, though but in coats; 
 nay, her very babies ^° were of the femi- 
 nine gender. Oh, she never looked a man 
 in the face but her own father, or the 
 chaplain, and him we made a shift to put 
 upon her for a woman, by the help of 
 his long garments, and his sleek face, till 
 she was going in her fifteen. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'T was much she should be de- 
 ceived so long. 
 
 Lady Wish. I warrant you, or she would 
 never have borne to have been catechized 
 by him ; and have heard his long lectures 
 against singing and dancing, and such 
 debaucheries; and going to^lthy plays, 
 and profane music-meetings, where the 
 lewd trebles squeak nothing but bawdy, 
 
 89 composure. 
 
 90 dolls. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 637 
 
 and the basses roar blasphemy. Oh, she 
 would have swooned at the sight or name 
 of an obscene play-book! — and can I 
 think, after all this, that my daughter 
 can be naught? What, a whore? and 
 thought it excommunication to set her 
 foot within the door of a playhouse ! 
 dear friend, I can't believe it, no, no! 
 As she says, let him prove it, let him 
 prove it. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Prove it, madam! What, and 
 have your name prostituted in a public 
 court ! Yours and your daughter's repu- 
 tation worried at the bar by a pack of 
 bawling lawyers ! To be ushered in with 
 an Tez ^^ of scandal ; and have your 
 ease opened by an old fumbling lecher in 
 a quoif '^ like a man-midwife ; to bring 
 your daughter's infamy to light; to be a 
 theme for legal punsters and quibblers 
 by the statute; and become a jest against 
 a rule of court, where there is no prece- 
 dent for a jest in any record — not even 
 in doomsday-book; "^ to discompose the 
 gravity of the bench, and provoke 
 naughty interrogatories in more naughty 
 law Latin; while the good judge, tickled 
 with the proceeding, simpers under a 
 grey beard, and fldges "* off and on his 
 cushion as if he had swallowed canthari- 
 des, or sat upon cow-itch I — 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, 't is very hard ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. And then to have my young 
 revellers of the Temple take notes, like 
 'prentices at a conventicle ; and after talk 
 it over again in commons, or before 
 drawers in an eating-house. 
 
 Lady Wish. Worse and worse! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Nay, this is nothing; if it 
 would end here 'twere well. But it 
 must, after this, be consigned by the 
 shorthand writers to the public press; 
 and from thence be transferred to the 
 hands, nay into the throats and lungs of 
 hawkers, with voices more licentious than 
 the loud flounder-man's or the woman 
 that cries grey-pease; and this you must 
 hear till you are stunned; nay, you must 
 hear nothing else for some days. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, 't is insupportable ! No, 
 no, dear friend, make it up, make it up ; 
 ay, ay, I '11 compound. I '11 give up all, 
 myself and my all, ray niece and her all 
 — anything, everything for composition. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Nay, madam, I advise nothing, 
 I only lay before you, as a friend, the in- 
 
 conveniences which perhaps you have 
 overseen. Here comes Mr. Painall; if he 
 will be satisfied to huddle up all in si- 
 lence, I shall be glad. You must think I 
 would rather congratulate than condole 
 with you. 
 
 (Enter Fainall.) 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, I do not doubt it, 
 dear Marwood ; no, no, I do not doubt it. 
 
 Fain. Well, madam; I have suffered my- 
 self to be overcome by the importunity of 
 this lady your friend; and am content 
 you shall enjoy your own proper estate 
 during life, on condition you oblige your- 
 self never to marry, under such penalty 
 as I think convenient. 
 
 Lady Wish. Never to marry ! 
 
 Fain. No more Sir Rowlands ; the next im- 
 posture may not be so timely detected. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. That condition, I dare answer, 
 my lady will consent to without diffi- 
 culty; she has already but too much ex- 
 perienced the perfidiousness of men. — 
 Besides, madam, when we retire to our 
 pastoral solitude we shall bid adieu to 
 all other thoughts. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, that's true; but in case 
 of necessity, as of health, or some such 
 emergency — 
 
 Fain. Oh, if you are prescribed marriage, 
 you shall be considered; I will only re- 
 serve to myself the power to choose for 
 you. If your physic be wholesome, it 
 matters not who is your apothecary. 
 Next, my wife shall settle on me the re- 
 mainder of her fortune, not made over 
 already; and for her maintenance de- 
 pend entirely on my discretion. 
 
 Lady Wish. This is most inhumanly sav- 
 age ; exceeding the barbarity of a Musco- 
 vite husband. 
 
 Fain. I learned it from his Czarish maj- 
 esty's retinue, in a winter evening's con- 
 ference over brandy and pepper, amongst 
 other secrets of matrimony and policy, as 
 they are at present practised in the 
 northern hemisphere. But this must be 
 agreed unto, and that positively. Lastly, 
 I will be endowed, in right of my wife, 
 with that six thousand pound, which is 
 the moiety of Mrs. Millamant's fortune 
 in your possession; and which she has 
 forfeited (as will appear by the last will 
 and testament of your deceased husband. 
 Sir Jonathan Wishfort) by her disobedi- 
 
 81 Oyei (French, 
 hear ye), used to 
 proclaim silence 
 
 at the opening of 
 court. 
 92 A white cap for- 
 
 hy 
 
 merly worn 
 lawyers. 
 i A record of land 
 
 dating from the 
 reign of William 
 the Conqueror ; 
 
 an unlikely place 
 for a jest. 
 94 Fidge, to move 
 restlessly, fidget. 
 
538 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 ence in contracting herself against your 
 consent or knowledge; and by refusing 
 the offered match with Sir WilfuU Wit- 
 woud, which you, like a careful aunt, had 
 provided for her. 
 
 Jjudy Wish. My nephew was non com- 
 pos/'^ and could not make his addresses. 
 
 Fain. I come to make demands — I '11 hear 
 no objections. 
 
 Lady Wish. You will grant me time to 
 consider? 
 
 Fain. Yes, while the instrument is draw- 
 ing, to which you must set your hand till 
 more sufficient deeds can be perfected : 
 which I will take care shall be done with 
 all possible speed. In the meanwhile I 
 will go for the said instrument, and till 
 my return you may balance this matter 
 in your own discretion. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Lady Wish. This insolence is beyond all 
 precedent, all parallel: must I be sub- 
 ject to this merciless villain? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'T is severe indeed, madam, 
 that you should smart for your daugh- 
 ter's wantonness. 
 
 Lady Wish. 'T was against my consent 
 that she married this barbarian, but she 
 would have him, though her year was not 
 out. — Ah ! her first husband, my son Lan- 
 guish, would not have carried it thus. 
 Well, that was my choice, this is hers: 
 she is matched now with a witness. — I 
 shall be mad, dear friend, is there no 
 comfort for me ? must I live to be confis- 
 cated at this rebel-rate? — Here come two 
 more of my Egyptian plagues too. 
 
 (Enter MiUamant and Sir WilfuU.) 
 
 Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 
 
 Lady Wish. Out, caterpillar, call not me 
 aunt! I know thee not! 
 
 Sir Wil. I confess I have been a little in 
 disguise, as they say. — S'heart ! and I 'm 
 sorry for't. What would you have? I 
 hope I committed no offence, aunt — and 
 if I did I am willing to make satisfac- 
 tion; and what can a man say fairer? 
 If I have broke anything I '11 pay for 't, 
 an it cost a pound. And so let that con- 
 tent for what's past, and make no more 
 words. For what 's to come, to pleasure 
 yon I 'm willing to inarry my cousin. So 
 pray let's all be friends; she and I are 
 agreed upon the matter before a witness. 
 
 Lady Wish. How's this, dear niece? 
 Have I any comfort? Can this be true? 
 
 05 Not himself (not sober). 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I am content to be a sacrifice 
 to your repose, madam; and to convince 
 you that I had no hand in the plot, as 
 you were misinformed, I have laid my 
 commands on Mirabell to come in person, 
 and be a witness that I give my hand to 
 this flower of knighthood: and for the 
 contract that passed between Mirabell 
 and me, I have obliged him to make a 
 resignation of it in your ladyship's pres- 
 ence; — ^he is without, and waits your 
 leave for admittance. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, I'll swear I am some- 
 thing revived at this testimony of your 
 obedience: but I cannot admit that trai- 
 tor. — ^I fear I cannot fortify myself to 
 support his appearance. He is as terri- 
 ble to me as a gorgon ; if I see him I fear 
 I shall turn to stone, and petrify inces- 
 santly. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. If you disoblige him, he may 
 resent your refusal, and insist upon the 
 contract still. Then 't is the last time he 
 will be offensive to you. 
 
 Lady Wish. Are you sure it will be the 
 last time? — If I were sure of that — shall 
 I never see him again? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Sir WilfuU, you and he are to 
 travel together, are you not ? 
 
 Sir. Wil. S'heart, the gentleman's a civil 
 gentleman, aunt, let him come in; why, 
 we are sworn brothers and fellow-trav- 
 ellers. — We are to be Pylades and Ores- 
 tes, he and I. — He is to be my inter- 
 preter in foreign parts. He has been 
 over-seas once already; and vdth proviso 
 that I marry my cousin, will cross. 'em 
 once again, only to bear me company.— 
 S'heart, I '11 call him in, — an I set on 't 
 once, he shall come in;, and see who'll 
 hinder him. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. Mar. This is precious fooling, if it 
 would pass ; but I '11 know the bottom of 
 it. 
 
 Lady Wish. dear Marwood, you are not 
 going? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Not far, madam; I'll return 
 immediately. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 (Be-enter Sir WilfuU and Mirabell.) 
 
 Sir Wil. Look up, man, I'll stand by 
 you; 'sbudj'^ an she do frown, she can't 
 kill you; besides — harkee, she dare not 
 frown desperately, because her face is 
 none of her own. S'heart, an she should, 
 her forehead would wrinkle like the coat 
 
 90 A corrupted oatb. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 539 
 
 of a eream-cheese ; but mum for that, 
 fellow-traveller. 
 
 Mir. If a deep sense of the many injuries 
 I have offered to so good a lady, with a 
 sincere remorse, and a hearty contrition, 
 can but obtain the least glance of com- 
 passion, I am too happy. — Ah, madam, 
 there was a time! — but let it be forgot- 
 ten — I confess I have deservedly for- 
 feited the high place I once held of sigh- 
 ing at your feet. Nay, kill me not, by 
 turning from me in disdain. — I come not 
 to plead for favor; nay, not for pardon; 
 I am a suppliant only for your pity — I 
 am going where I never shall behold you 
 more — ■ 
 
 Sir Wil. How, fellow-traveller! you shall 
 go by yourself then. 
 
 Mir. Let me be pitied first, and after- 
 wards forgotten. — I ask no more. 
 
 Sir Wil. By'r Lady, a very reasonable re- 
 quest, and will cost you nothing, aunt! 
 Come, come, forgive and forget, aunt. 
 Why, you must, an you are a Christian. 
 
 Mir. Consider, madam, in reality, you 
 could not receive much prejudice; it was 
 an innocent device; though I confess it 
 had a face of guiltiness, — it was at most 
 an artifice which love .contrived; and 
 errors which love produces have ever 
 been accounted venial. At least think it 
 is punishment enough, that I have lost 
 what in my heart I hold most dear, that 
 to your cruel indignation I have offered 
 up this beauty, and with her my peace 
 and quiet; nay, all my hopes of future 
 comfort. 
 
 Sir Wil. An he does not move me, would 
 I may never be o' the quorum ! ^^ — an. it 
 were not as good a deed as to drink, to 
 give her to him again, I would I might 
 never take shipping I — Aunt, if you don't 
 forgive quickly, I shall melt, I can tell 
 you that. My contract went no farther 
 than a little mouth glue, and that 's 
 hardly dry ; — one doleful sigh more from 
 my fellow-traveller, and 't is dissolved. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, nephew, upon your ac- 
 count — ^Ah, he has a false insinuating 
 tongue! — ^Well, sir, I will stifle my just 
 resentment at my nephew's request. — I 
 will endeavor what I can to forget, but 
 on proviso that you resign the contract 
 with my niece immediately. 
 
 Mir. It is in writing, and with papers of 
 concern ; but I have sent my servant for 
 it, and will deliver it to you, with all 
 
 acknowledgments for your transcendent 
 goodness. 
 Lady Wish. Oh, he has witchcraft in his 
 eyes and tongue! — When 1 did not see 
 him, I could have bribed a villain to his 
 assassination; but his appearance rakes 
 the embers which have so long lain 
 smothered in my breast. 
 
 (Apart.) 
 
 (Enter Fainall and Mrs. Marwood.) 
 
 Fain, Your date of deliberation, madam, 
 is expired. Here is the instrument; are 
 you prepared to sign? 
 
 Lady Wish. If I were prepared, I am not 
 impowered. My niece exerts a lawful 
 claim, having matched herself by my di- 
 rection to Sir Wilfull. 
 
 Fain. That sham is too gross to pass on 
 me — though 't is imposed on you, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Sir, I have given my consent. 
 
 Mir. And, sir, I have resigned my pre- 
 tensions. 
 
 Sir Wil. And, sir, I assert my right : and 
 will maintain it in defiance of you, sir, 
 and of your instrument. S'heart, an you 
 talk of an instrument, sir, I have an old 
 fox °* by my thigh that shall hack your 
 instrument of ram vellum to shreds, sir! 
 It shall not be sufficient for a mittimus °° 
 or a tailor's measure. Therefore with- 
 draw your instrument, sir, or by'r Lady, 
 I shall draw mine. 
 
 Lady Wish. Hold, nephew, hold! 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Good Sir Wilfull, respite your 
 valor. 
 
 Fain. Indeed ! Are you provided of your 
 guard, with your single beef-eater there? 
 but I 'm prepared for you, and insist 
 upon my first proposal. You shall sub- 
 mit your own estate to my management, 
 ■ and absolutely make over my wife's to 
 my sole use. As pursuant to the purport 
 and tenor of this other covenant, I sup- 
 pose, madam, your consent is not requi- 
 site in this case; nor, Mr. Mirabell, your 
 resignation; nor, Sir Wilfull, your right. 
 — You may draw your fox if you please, 
 sir, and make a bear-garden flourish 
 somewhere else : for here it will not avail. 
 This, my Lady Wishfort, must be sub- 
 scribed, or your darling daughter 's 
 turned adrift, like a leaky hulk, to sink 
 or swim, as she and the current of this 
 lewd town can agree. 
 
 Lady Wish. Is there no means, no rem- 
 
 87 Sit as one of the justices of the peace. 98 sword. 
 
 99 Order for some one's imprisonment, addressed to the keeper of a prison. 
 
540 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 edy to stop my ruin'! Ungrateful 
 wretch ! dost thou not owe thy being, thy 
 subsistence, to my daughter's fortune? 
 
 Fain. I '11 answer you when I have the 
 rest of it in my possession. 
 
 Mir. But that you would not accept of a 
 remedy from my hands — I own I have 
 not deserved you should owe any obli- 
 gation to me ; or else perhaps I could ad- 
 vise — 
 
 Lady Wish. 0, what? what? To save me 
 and my child from ruin, from want, I '11 
 forgive all that 's past ; nay, I 'U consent 
 to anything to come, to be delivered from 
 this tyranny. 
 
 Mir. Ay, madam ; but that is too late, my 
 reward is intercepted. You have dis- 
 posed of her who only could have made 
 me a compensation for all my services; 
 but be it as it may, I am resolved I '11 
 serve you! you shall not be wronged in 
 this savage manner. 
 
 Lady Wish. How ! dear Mr. Mirabell, can 
 you be so generous at last ! But it is not 
 possible. Harkee, I '11 break my neph- 
 ew's match; you shall have my niece yet, 
 and all her fortune, if you can but save 
 me from this imminent danger. 
 
 Mir. Will you? I take yo'u at your word, 
 I ask no more. I must have leave for 
 two criminals to appear. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, anybody, anybody! 
 
 Mir. Foible is one, and a penitent. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Fainall, Foible, and Mincing.) 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Oh, my shame! {Mirahell and 
 
 Lady Wishfort go to Mrs. Fainall and 
 
 Foible.) These corrupt things are 
 
 bought and brought hither to expose me. 
 
 {To Fainall.) 
 
 Fain. If it must all come out, why let 'em 
 know it ; 't is but the way of the world. 
 That shall not urge me to relinquish or 
 abate one tittle of my terms; no, I will 
 insist the more. 
 
 Foib. Yes, indeed,, madam, I'll take my 
 bible-oath of it. 
 
 Min. And so will I, mem. 
 
 Lady Wish. Marwood, Marwood, art 
 thou false? my friend deceive me! hast 
 thou been a wicked accomplice with that 
 profligate man? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Have you so much ingratitude 
 and injustice to give credit against your 
 friend, to the aspersions of two such 
 mercenary trulls? 
 
 Min. Mercenary, mem? I scorn your 
 words. 'T is true we found you and Mr. 
 
 Fainall in the blue garret; by the same 
 token, you swore us to secrecy upon 
 Messalinas's ''- poems. Mercenary ! No, 
 if we would have been mercenary, we 
 should have held our tongues; you would 
 have bribed us sufl&ciently. 
 
 Fain. Go, you are an insignificant thing! 
 — Well, what are you the better for this; 
 is this Mr. Mirabell's expedient? I '11 be 
 put off no longer. — You thing, that was a 
 wife, shall smart for this ! I will not leave 
 thee wherewithal to hide thy shame ; your 
 body shall be as naked as your reputation. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I despise you, and defy your 
 malice! — ^you have aspersed me wrong- 
 fully — I have proved your falsehood — 
 go, you and your treacherous — I wUl not 
 name it, but starve together — ^perish! 
 
 Fain. Not while you are worth a groat, 
 indeed, my dear. — Madam, I '11 be fooled 
 no longer. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ah, Mr. Mirabell, this is small 
 comfort, the detection of this affair. 
 
 Mir. Oh, in good time — ^your leave for the 
 other offender and penitent to appear, 
 madam. 
 
 {Enter Waitwell with a box of writings.) 
 
 Lady Wish, Sir Rowland! — Well, ras- 
 cal! 
 
 Wait. What your ladyship pleases. I 
 have brought the black box at last, 
 madam. 
 
 Mir. Give it me. — Madam, you remember 
 your promise. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear sir. 
 
 Mir. Where are the gentlemen? 
 
 Wait. At hand, sir, rubbing their eyes — 
 jjust risen from sleep. 
 
 Fain. 'Sdeath, what's this to me? I'll 
 not wait your private concerns. 
 
 {Enter Petulant and Witwoud.) 
 
 Pet. How now? What's the matter? 
 Whose band's out? 
 
 Wit. Heyday! what, are you all got to- 
 gether, like players at the end of the last 
 act? 
 
 Mir. You may remember, gentlemen, I 
 once requested your hands at witnesses to 
 a certain parchment. 
 
 Wit. Ay, I do, my hand I ■remembei>— 
 Petulant set his mark. 
 
 Mir. You wrong him, his name is fairly 
 written, as shall appear. — ^You do not 
 remember, gentlemen, anything of what 
 that parchment contained? — 
 {Undoing the box.) 
 
 1 Of course Messalina the wife of the Emperor Claudius, left no 
 poems; hut Congreves joke is that she was a very vicious woman. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 541 
 
 Wit. No. 
 
 Pet. Not I; I writ, I read nothing. 
 
 Mir. Very well, now you shall know. — 
 Madam, your promise. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, sir, upon my honor. 
 
 Mir. Mr. Fainall, it is now time that you 
 should know that your lady, while she 
 was at her own disposal, and before you 
 had by your insinuations, wheedled her 
 out of a pretended settlement of the 
 greatest part of her fortur.e — 
 
 Fain. Sir! pretended! 
 
 Mir. Yes, sir. I say that this lady while 
 a widow, having it seems received some 
 cautions respecting your inconstancy and 
 tyranny of temper, which from her own 
 partial opinion and fondness of you she 
 could never have suspected — she did, I 
 say, by the wholesome advice of friends, 
 and of sages learned in the laws of this 
 land, deliver this same as her act and 
 deed to me in trust, and to the uses 
 within mentioned. You may read if you 
 please — {Holding out the parchment) 
 though perhaps what is inscribed on the 
 back may serve your occasions. 
 
 Fain, Very likely, sir. What's here? — 
 Damnation! (Reads.) A deed of con- 
 veyance of the whole estate real of Ara- 
 bella Languish, widow, in trust to Ed- 
 ward Mirdbell. — Confusion! 
 
 Mir. Even so, sir; 'tis the way of the 
 world, sir, of the widows of the world. I 
 suppose this deed may bear an elder date 
 than what you have obtained from your 
 lady. 
 
 Fain. Perfidious fiend! then thus I'll be 
 revenged. 
 
 {Offers to run at Mrs. Fainall.) , 
 
 Sir Wil. Hold, sir! Now you may make 
 your bear-garden flourish somewhere else, 
 sir. 
 
 Fain. Mirabell, you shall hear of this, sir, 
 
 be sure you shall. — Let me pass, oaf ! " 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Madam, you seem to stifle 
 your resentment; you had better give it 
 vent. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Yes, it shall have vent — and 
 to your confusion; or I'll perish in the 
 attempt. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Lady Wish. daughter, daughter! 'T is 
 plain thou hast inherited thy mother's 
 prudence. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Thank Mr. Mirabell, a cau- 
 tious friend, to whose advice all is owing. 
 
 LaSk/ Wish. Well, Mr. Mirabell, you have 
 
 2 dolt, tooby. 
 
 kept your promise — and I must perform 
 mine. — First, I pardon, for your sake. 
 Sir Rowland there, and Foible; the next 
 thing is to break the matter to my 
 nephew — and how to do that — 
 
 Mir. For that, madam, give yourself no 
 trouble; let me have your consent. Sir 
 Wilf uU is my friend ; he has had compas- 
 sion upon lovers, and generously engaged 
 a volunteer in this action, for our service ; 
 and now designs to prosecute his travels. 
 
 Sir Wil. S' heart, aunt, I have no mind to 
 marry. My cousin 's a fine lady, and the 
 gentleman loves her, and she loves him, 
 and they deserve one another; my reso- 
 lution is to see foreign parts — I have set 
 on 't — and when I 'm set on 't I must 
 do 't. And if these two gentlemen would 
 travel too, I think they may be spared. 
 
 Pet. For my part, I say little — I think 
 things are best off or on.* 
 
 Wit. I'gad, I understand nothing of the 
 matter ; I 'm in a maze yet, like a dog in 
 a dancing-school. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, sir, take her, and with 
 her all the joy I can give. you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Why does not the man take me ? 
 Would you have me give myself to you 
 over again? 
 
 Mir. Ay, and over and over again; for 
 {Kisses her hand) I would have you as 
 often as possibly I can. Well, Heaven 
 grant I love you not too well, that 's all 
 my fear. 
 
 Sir Wil. S' heart, you '11 have him time 
 enough to toy after you 're married ; or 
 if you will toy now, let us have a dance 
 in the meantime, that we who are not 
 lovers may have some other employment 
 besides looking on. 
 
 Mir. With all my heart, dear Sir WilfuU. 
 What shall we do for music"? 
 
 Foib. Oh, sir, some that were provided 
 for Sir Rowland's entertainment are yet 
 within call. 
 
 {A dance.) 
 
 Lady Wish. As I am a person, I can hold 
 out no longer; I have wasted my spirits 
 so to-day already, that I am ready to 
 sink under the fatigue ; and I cannot but 
 have some fears upon me yet, that my 
 son Fainall will pursue some desperate 
 course. 
 
 Mir. Madam, disquiet not yourself on that 
 account; to my knowledge his circum- 
 stances are such he must of force comply. 
 For my part, I will contribute all that 
 in me lies to a reunion ; in the meantime, 
 
 3 Eitber one 'way or the other. 
 
542 
 
 THE RESTORATION 
 
 madam, let me — {To Mrs. Fainall) be- 
 fore these witnesses restore to you this 
 deed of trust: it may be a means, well- 
 managed, to make you live easily to- 
 gether. 
 From hence let those be warned, who 
 
 mean to wed; 
 Lest mutual falsehood stain the bridal 
 
 bed; 
 For each deceiver to his cost may find 
 That marriage-frauds too oft are paid in 
 
 kind. 
 
 {Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle. 
 
 After our Epilogue this crowd dismisses, 
 I'm thinking how this play '11 be pulled 
 
 to pieces. 
 But pray consider, ere you doom its fall. 
 How hard a thing 'twould be to please 
 
 you all. 
 There are some critics so with spleen dis- 
 eased. 
 They scarcely come inclining to be 
 
 pleased : 
 And sure he must have more than mortal 
 
 skill, 
 Who pleases any one against his will. 
 Then all bad poets we are sure are foes, 
 And how their number's swelled, the 
 
 town well knows: 
 In shoals I 've marked 'em judging in the 
 
 pit; 
 Though they're, on no pretence, for 
 
 judgment fit, 
 But that they have been damned for want 
 
 of wit. 
 
 Since when, they by their own offences 
 taught, 
 
 Set up for spies on plays, and finding 
 fault. 
 
 Others there are whose malice we 'd pre- 
 vent; 
 
 Such who watch plays with scurrilous in- 
 tent 
 
 To mark out who by characters are 
 ■ meant. 
 
 And though no perfect likeness they can 
 trace, 
 
 Yet each pretends to know the copied 
 face. 
 
 These with false glosses feed their own 
 ill nature, 
 
 And turn to libel what was meant a 
 satire. 
 
 May such malicious fops this fortune 
 find. 
 
 To think themselves alone the fools de- 
 signed : 
 
 If any are so an-ogantly vain. 
 
 To think they singly can support a scene. 
 
 And furnish fool enough to entertain. 
 
 For well the learn'd and the judicious 
 know 
 
 That satire scorns to stoop so meanly 
 low. 
 
 As any one abstracted fop to show. 
 
 For, as when painters form a matchless 
 face, 
 
 They from each fair one catch some dif- 
 ferent grace ; 
 
 And shining features in one portrait 
 blend, 
 
 To which no single beauty must pretend ; 
 
 So poets oft do in one piece expose 
 
 Whole belles-assemblees of coquettes and 
 beaux. 
 
IV. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 CATO 
 
 Joseph Addison (1672-1719), distinguished 
 himself at Oxford for " elegant scholarship,'" 
 knowledge of Latin poetry, and slcill in com- 
 posing it. He first rose to prominence 
 through his poem. The Campaign (1704), 
 ■which celebrated Marlborougli's victory at 
 Blenheim, and for which the Whigs gave him 
 a government office. He was in Parliament 
 from 1708 till his death, and became a Secre- 
 tary of State. In a literary way he is best 
 known, of course, for his essays, of a some- 
 what fresh type, the short familiar essay, 
 contributed especially to The Tatler and The 
 Spectator (1709-12). 
 
 The eighteenth century, though not highly 
 distinguished in drama, was notably an era 
 of comedy. Its best work followed the ex- 
 ample less of the Elizabethan than of the Res- 
 toration comic writers, but raised their moral 
 tone. The chief new feature in comedy was 
 the taste for the superficially ethical and 
 emotional, generally linown as sentimental- 
 ism. In tragedy the age did not excel. 
 Addison's Cato is the most celebrated 
 tragedy, and as representative as any. 
 
 Cato, mostly written as early as 1703, was 
 finished, performed in London twenty times 
 and published in eight editions, in 1713. As 
 a curious illustration of the lack of historical 
 knowledge and imagination in that day. It is 
 interesting to know tliat (in Macaulay's 
 words ) " Juba's waistcoat blazed with gold 
 lace; Mareia's hoop was wortliy of a Duchess 
 on the birthday, and Cato wore a wig wortli 
 fifty guineas." The play was based on Plu- 
 tarch's life of Cato, and perhaps on reminis- 
 cences of a poor tragedy which Addison had 
 seen in Venice. Its great success with 
 both spectators and readers was partly due 
 to Addison's prestige and the loyalty of his 
 friends, partly to its merits, partly to cir- 
 cumstances. Though he disclaimed partizan 
 intentions, the play was timely. The end of 
 Queen Anne's reign was approaching (she 
 died in 1714), there was no direct heir, and 
 the prospective coming of the Hanoverian 
 dynasty involved danger to English liberty 
 through insurrections in favor of the tyran- 
 nical Stuarts, such as actually followed in 
 1715. A play exciting sympathy for old 
 Roman liberty was sure of attention. Tha 
 Whigs, Dr. Johnson said, applauded all refer- 
 ences to freedom, and the Tories applauded 
 just as loudly lest they should be thought 
 
 543 
 
 less zealous in its behalf. The Duke of Marl- 
 borough's attempt to gain the office of Cap- 
 tain General for life was felt to give point 
 to Cato's denunciation of Caesar the military 
 dictator. Tliough .some critics felt the play, 
 as we do, to be undramatic, its success at the 
 time passed into permanent appreciation; 
 Voltaire praised it as the first regular Eng- 
 lish tragedy, because it followed French rules 
 (an outward and visible sign of which is its 
 observance of the French practice of begin- 
 ning a new scene on an important exit or en- 
 trance) ; and its popularity in the past is 
 shown by numerous bits which have become 
 proverbial, such as 
 
 The Tv-oman that deliberates is lost, 
 and 
 
 Plato, thou reasou'st well. 
 
 But taste has changed; the play in our time 
 would be impossible to put on the stage, and 
 is read chiefly because Addison wrote it. 
 
 Addison was looked up to in his own age as 
 a man of high character, perfect taste, and 
 highly developed sense of propriety, " but 
 lacked the spontaneity and warmth for the 
 love of which some men will readily forgive 
 lapses from propriety, taste, and even virtue. 
 It would excite an unfair prejudice against 
 him to compare him to a Pliarisee or the 
 Prodigal Son's elder brother, for his caution 
 and moderation were due to his modesty and 
 diffidence, and all testify to .his personal 
 charm; but he was more akin to them than 
 to the Publican or the Prodigal himself. He 
 had another side, which expressed itself in 
 tlie grace, the gentle irony, the human nature, 
 of his essays. But he was well fitted to de- 
 termine and express the more ambitious liter- 
 ary orthodoxy of the age of Queen Anne, a 
 classicism Latin and critical rather than 
 Greek and original, uninterested in feeling, 
 restrained, dignified. The more formal liter- 
 ary ideals of the .age, and the personality of 
 Addison, are not unfairly represented by 
 Cato. 
 
 No criticism of it has oftener been made 
 than that it is emotionally frigid, and the 
 charge is true. None of the characters ex- 
 cites vivid interest, none except Cato excites 
 much sympathy. Hardest of all is for us to 
 give ourselves up to the love-episodes. A 
 man whose first known love-att'air was at the 
 age of forty-four with an elderly widowed 
 
544 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 peeress was perhaps not likely to excel in 
 portraying passion. When Sempronius, Juba, 
 and Mareia, Fortius, Marcus, and Lucia talk, 
 and even when they rant, we have to take 
 their word for it that they are in love. There 
 is not one of those simple natural phrases 
 which show a poet's insight, not one syllable 
 which speaks the language of the heart. The 
 language of emotion in poetry of course is not 
 always necessarily that of emotion in real 
 life; Romeo speaks not as a lover would, but 
 as a romantic lover would if he could. But 
 no lover would wish to speak as Addison's 
 do. The polished style, faultily faultless 
 some call it, indirect and highly literary, 
 heightens the sense of coolness, but the feel- 
 ing throughout is one of detachment. 
 
 The composition of the play is what we 
 might expect of the early eighteenth century, 
 and of Addison. More than at any other 
 time men felt then that literary art might 
 be produced by rule rather than by inspira- 
 tion. Addison had no innate dramatic gift, 
 and little dramatic experience. The creator 
 of Sir Roger de Coverley might have done 
 well in comedy, especially in a delicate and 
 subtle kind such as was scarcely written in 
 the eighteenth century. His literary convic- 
 tions, rather than his genius, drew him to 
 tragedy. Even in his day the play was cen- 
 sured as not well constructed. The love- 
 stories have little to do with the main action, 
 yet most of what suspense and surprise ex- 
 ists is in them. The strict observance of the 
 unities of time and place leads to an arti- 
 ficiality. Yet throughout we can see con- 
 scientious and well-informed workmanship, 
 according' to classical taste. The characters 
 may not be vividly human or individual, but 
 still they are clearly and broadly distin- 
 guished from each other. Fortius is cool and 
 reflective, Marcus is emotional. Juba the 
 Numidian has the fiery impulsiveness com- 
 monly associated with the south. The treach- 
 ery of Sempronius and Syphax are well moti- 
 vated. Addison follows the convention of 
 giving his various characters confidantes, by 
 conversation with whom their feelings are dis- 
 closed to the audience without excessive use 
 of the artificial soliloquy. He also complied 
 in this play with the preference of the mod- 
 ern classicists for dealing out strict poetic 
 justice, so that all shall end as nearly as pos- 
 sible in complete satisfaction. This they 
 esteemed more than the crash of ruin, involv- 
 ing guilty and innocent alike, with which 
 
 Elizabethan tragedy ends, and from which the 
 spectator almost feels that he himself has 
 barely escaped, alive but shaken. In Cato 
 the traitors meet their deserved harsh end, 
 which we relish the more for Sempronius be- 
 cause of his carelessness and stupidity. The 
 good Marcus by a heroic death escapes the 
 pain he could not have avoided receiving and 
 giving, had he lived to learn that his brother 
 was his favored rival. Cato's willing death 
 was his only way out of a situation impos- 
 sible for him. Nothing better than this play 
 could illustrate the fundamental optimism 
 of the eighteenth century, the most optimistic 
 because the most theoretical period in his- 
 tory. 
 
 One truth is clear, Whatever is, is light, 
 
 announced its greatest English poet; and 
 people expected literary art to support their 
 faith that this was a truth. 
 
 The most permanently valuable thing in 
 the play, which enables us still to read it 
 with esteem if not with admiration, is the 
 stately pathos of the central situation — the 
 grand old man of Rome at the end of the 
 strait and narrow path whence he had never 
 deviated, and finding an impassable wall; 
 and his calm acceptance of the only way out; 
 though Addison makes a concession to Chris- 
 tian morals at the end, where Cato regrets 
 his suicide when it is too late, and there is a 
 tragic irony in the summons to him as he is 
 dying to lead the forces of Fompey against 
 Caesar. In portraying Cato Addison had not 
 to make the efl'ort which he could not conceal 
 in the love-scenes. And here his calm style 
 is not out of place. Cato is hardly a dra- 
 matic hero, for he has no struggle, and the 
 emotions he excites are hardly those that 
 warm; the average playgoer is unfortunately 
 but little stirred by " inward greatness, unaf- 
 fected wisdom, and sanctity of manners." 
 But Addison's tribute is no less sincere and 
 worthy than Dante's. In the Purgatorio the 
 greatest of Christian poets, who has just 
 witnessed the pains of suicides and pagans in 
 hell, places this pagan suicide as the director 
 of righteous souls upon the path of complete 
 purification; this he did because he regarded 
 Cato as the type of perfect freedom of the 
 will, which Dante exalts throughout his poem. 
 Addison's Cato, though the world and the 
 future may be against him, is firm in his con- 
 victions. As a late Roman poet says, 
 Victrix causa dels placuit, sed victa Catoni. 
 
CATO 
 
 545 
 
 CATO 
 
 A Tragedy 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 By Mr. Pope. 
 
 To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
 To raise the genius and to mend the heart, 
 To make mankind in conscious virtue bold. 
 Live o'er each scene, and be what they be- 
 hold;— 
 For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, 
 Commanding tears to stream through every 
 
 age; 
 Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
 And foes to virtue wondered how they wept. 
 Our author shuns by vulgar springs to 
 
 move 
 The hero's glory, or the virgin's love, 
 In pitying love, we but our weakness show, 
 And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
 Here tears shall flow from a more generous 
 
 cause. 
 Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws. 
 He bids your breasts with ancient ardor 
 
 rise. 
 And calls forth Roman drops from British 
 
 eyes. 
 Virtue confessed in human shape he dra-ws, 
 What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 
 No common object to your sight displays, 
 But, what with pleasure heaven itself sur- 
 veys, 
 A brave man struggling in the storms of 
 
 fate. 
 And greatly falling with a falling state ! 
 While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
 What bosom beats not in his country's 
 cause? 
 
 Who sees him a^et, but envies every deed? 
 Who hears him groan, and does not wish to 
 
 bleed? 
 Ev'n when proud Csesar, 'midst triumphal 
 
 cars, 
 The spoils of nations, and the pomp of 
 
 wars, 
 Ignobly vain, and impotently great. 
 Showed Rome her Cato's figure drawn in 
 
 state ; 
 As her dead father's reverend image past. 
 The pomp was darkened, and the day o'er- 
 
 east. 
 The triumph ceased — tears gushed from 
 
 every eye, 
 The world's great victor passed unheeded 
 
 by; . 
 
 Her last good man dejected Rome adored, 
 And honored Caesar's less than Cato's 
 
 sword. 
 Britons, attend: be worth like this ap- 
 proved. 
 And show you have the virtue to be moved. 
 With honest scorn the first famed Cato 
 
 viewed 
 Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she 
 
 subdued. 
 Our scene, precariously subsists too long 
 On French translation, and Italian song: 
 Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the 
 
 stage. 
 Be justly warmed with your own native 
 
 rage. 
 Such plays alone should please a British 
 
 ear. 
 As Cato's self had not disdained to hear. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 MEN 
 
 Cato. 
 
 Lucirrs, a Senator. 
 
 Sempkonitjs, a Senator. 
 
 JTTBA, Prvnoe of Numidia. 
 
 Syphax, General of the Numid/iane. 
 
 PoETitrs, 
 
 Makctjs, 
 
 s. J 
 
 Sons of Cato, 
 
 DECms, Ambassador from Ocesar. 
 Mutineers, Guards, etc. 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Marcia, Daughter to Cato. 
 Lucia, Daughter to Lucius 
 
 Scene. — A Large Hall in the Governor's 
 Palace of Utica. 
 
546 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 {Fortius, Marcus.) 
 
 For. The dawn is overcast, the morning 
 
 lowers, 
 And heavily in clouds brings on the day, 
 The great, the important day, big with 
 
 the fate 
 Of Cato and of Rome. Our father's 
 
 death 
 Would fill up all the guilt of civil war, 
 And close the scene of blood. Already 
 
 Caesar 
 Has ravaged more than half the globe, 
 
 and sees 
 Mankind grown 'thin by his destructive 
 
 sword : 
 Should he go further, numbers would be 
 
 wanting 
 To form new battles,^ and support his 
 
 crimes. 
 Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make 
 Among your works! 
 Mar. Thy steady temper, Fortius, 
 
 Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and 
 
 CsBsar, 
 In the calm lights of mild philosophy; 
 I'm tortured ev'n to madness, when I 
 
 think 
 On the •proud victor: every time he's 
 
 named 
 Pharsalia rises to my view ! — I see 
 The insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the 
 
 field 
 Strowed with Rome's citizens, and 
 
 drenched in slaughter. 
 His horse's hoofs wet with patrician 
 
 blood. 
 Oh, Fortius! is there not some chosen 
 
 curse, 
 Some hidden thunder in the stores of 
 
 heaven. 
 Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the 
 
 man 
 Who owes his greatness to his country's 
 
 ruin? 
 For. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious 
 
 greatness, 
 And mixed with too much horror to be 
 
 envied. 
 How does the luster of our father's ac- 
 tions. 
 Through the dark cloud of ills that cover 
 
 him, 
 Break out, and bum with more tri- 
 umphant brightness! 
 
 His sufferings shine, and spread a glory 
 around him; 
 
 Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause 
 
 Of honor, virtue, liberty, and Rome. 
 
 His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty 
 hejid; 
 
 Oppression, tyranny, and power usurped. 
 
 Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 
 'em. 
 Mar. Who knows not this? But what 
 can Cato do 
 
 Against a world, a base, degenerate 
 world. 
 
 That courts the yoke, and bows the neck 
 to Caesar? 
 
 Pent up in Utica he vainly forms 
 
 A poor epitome of Roman greatness. 
 
 And, covered with Numidian guards, di- 
 rects 
 
 A feeble army, and an empty senate, 
 
 Remnants of mighty battles fought in 
 vain. 
 
 By heavens, such virtues, joined with 
 such success. 
 
 Distract my very soul: our father's for- 
 tune 
 
 Would almost tempt us to renounce his 
 precepts. 
 For. Remember what our father oft has 
 told us: 
 
 The ways of heaven are dark and intri- 
 cate, 
 
 Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with 
 errors ; 
 
 Our understanding traces 'em in vain, 
 
 Lost and bewildered in the fruitless 
 search ; 
 
 Nor sees with how much art the wind- 
 ings run. 
 
 Nor where the regular confusion ends. 
 Mar. These are suggestions of a mind at 
 ease : 
 
 Oh, Fortius ! didst thou taste but half the 
 griefs 
 
 That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk 
 thus coldly. 
 
 Passion unpitied, and successless love, 
 
 Plant daggers in my heart, and aggra- 
 vate ■ 
 
 My other griefs. Were but my Lucia 
 kind !— 
 For. Thou seest not that thy brother is 
 thy rival; 
 
 But I must hide it, for I know thy tem- 
 per. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the 
 proof : 
 
 1 Battalions. 
 
CATO 
 
 547 
 
 Put forth tjiy utmost strength, work 
 every nerve, 
 
 And call up all thy father in thy soul : 
 
 To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy 
 heart 
 
 On this weak side, where most our nature 
 fails. 
 
 Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. 
 Mar. Fortius, the counsel which I can- 
 not take, 
 
 Instead of healing, but upbraids my 
 weakness. 
 
 Bid me for honor plunge into a war 
 
 Of thickest foes, and rush on certain 
 death. 
 
 Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not 
 slow 
 
 To follow glory, and confess his father. 
 
 Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost 
 
 In high ambition, and a thirst of great- 
 ness ; 
 
 'T is second life, it grows into the soul, 
 
 Warms every vein, and beats in every 
 pulse, 
 
 I feel it here : my resolution' melts — 
 For. Behold young Juba, the Numidian 
 
 prince 
 
 With how much care he forms himself to 
 
 glory, 
 And breaks the fierceness of his native 
 
 temper 
 To copy out our father's bright example. 
 He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves' 
 
 her, 
 His eyes, his looks, his actions all betray 
 
 it: 
 But still the smothered fondness burns 
 
 within him. 
 When most it swells, and labors for a 
 
 vent, 
 The sense of honor and desire of fame 
 Drive the big passion back into his heart. 
 What! shall an African, shall Juba's 
 
 heir, 
 Reproach great Cato's son, and show the 
 
 world 
 A virtue wanting in a Roman soull 
 Mar. Fortius, no more ! your words leave 
 
 stings behind 'em. 
 Whene'er did Juba, or did Fortius, show 
 A virtue that has cast me at a distance, 
 And thrown me out in the pursuits of 
 
 honor ? 
 For. Marcus, I know thy generous tem- 
 per well; 
 Fling but the appearance of dishonor on 
 
 it, 
 It straight takes fire, and mounts into 
 
 a blaze. 
 
 Mar. A brother's sufferings claim a 
 
 brother's pity. 
 For. Heaven knows I pity thee: behold 
 my eyes 
 Even whilst I speak. — Do they not swim 
 
 in tears'? 
 Were but my heart as naked to thy view, 
 Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf. 
 Mar. Why then dost treat me with re- 
 bukes, instead 
 Of kind, condoling cares and friendly 
 sorrow 1 
 For. Marcus! did I know the way to 
 ease 
 Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy 
 
 pains, 
 Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it. 
 Mar. Thou best of brothers, and thou best 
 of friends! 
 Fardon a weak, distempered soul, that 
 
 swells 
 With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in 
 
 calms, 
 The sport of passions — but Sempronius 
 
 comes : 
 He must not find this softness hanging 
 on me. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 (Sempronius, Fortius.) 
 
 Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be 
 formed 
 
 Than executed. What means Fortius 
 here? 
 
 I like not that cold youth. I must dis- 
 semble. 
 
 And speak a language foreign to my 
 heart. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Good-morrow, Fortius! let us once em- 
 brace. 
 
 Once more embrace; whilst yet we both 
 are free. 
 
 To-morrow should we thus express our 
 friendship. 
 
 Each might receive a slave into his arms : 
 
 This sun, perhaps, this morning sun 's the 
 last. 
 
 That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty. 
 For. My father has this morning called 
 together 
 
 To this poor hall his little Roman senate, 
 
 (The leavings of Fharsalia) to consult 
 
 If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent 
 
 That bears down Rome, and all her gods, 
 before it. 
 
548 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Or must at length give up the world to 
 Caesar. 
 Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of 
 Rome 
 
 Can raise her senate more than Cato's 
 presence. 
 
 His virtues render our assembly awful, 
 
 They strike with something like religious 
 fear, 
 
 And make ev'n Caesar tremble at the head 
 
 Of armies flushed with conquest: my 
 Fortius, 
 
 Could I but call that wondrous man my 
 father, 
 
 Would but thy sister Marcia be propi- 
 tious 
 
 To thy friend's vows, I might be blessed 
 indeed ! 
 For. Alas ! Sempronius, wouldst thou' talk 
 of love 
 
 To Mareia, whilst her father's life's in 
 danger? 
 
 Thou might 'st as well court the pale 
 trembling vestal, 
 
 When she beholds the holy flame expir- 
 ing. 
 Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy 
 race, 
 
 The more I 'm charmed. Thou must take 
 heed, my Fortius! 
 
 The world has all its eyes on Cato's son. 
 
 Thy father's merit sets thee up to view, 
 
 And .shows thee in the fairest point of 
 light. 
 
 To make thy virtues or thy faults con- 
 spicuous. 
 For. Well dost thou seem to check iny 
 lingering here 
 
 On this important hour! — I'll straight 
 away, 
 
 And while the fathers of the senate meet 
 
 In close debate to weigh the events of 
 war, 
 
 I'll animate the soldiers' drooping cour- 
 age, 
 
 With love of freedom, and contempt of 
 life. 
 
 I '11 thunder in their ears their coun- 
 try's cause. 
 
 And try to rouse up all that 's Roman in 
 'em. 
 
 'Tis not in mortals to command suc- 
 cess. 
 
 But we '11 do more, Sempronius ; we '11 
 deserve it. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Sem., soIms. Curse on the stripling! how 
 he apes his sire! 
 
 Ambitiously sententious! — ^but I wonder 
 
 Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian 
 
 genius 
 Is well disposed to mischief, were he 
 
 prompl 
 And eager on it ; but he must be spurred, 
 And every moment quickened to the 
 
 course. 
 Cato has used me ill : he has refused 
 His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. 
 Besides, his bafSed arms and ruined cause 
 Are bars to my ambition. Caesar's favor, 
 That showers down greatness on his 
 
 friends, will raise me 
 To Rome's first honors. If I give up 
 
 Cato, 
 I claim in my reward his captive daugh- 
 ter. 
 But Syphax comes ! — 
 
 Scene 3. 
 {Syphax, Sempronius.) 
 
 Syph. Sempronius, all is ready; 
 
 I've sounded my Numidians, man by 
 man, 
 
 And find 'em ripe for a revolt: they all 
 
 Complain aloud of Cato's discipline. 
 
 And wait but the command to change 
 their master. 
 Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there 's' no time 
 to waste; 
 
 Even whilst we speak, our conqueror 
 comes on. 
 
 And gathers ground upon us every mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Alas! thou know'st not Caesar's active 
 soul. 
 
 With what a dreadful course he rushes 
 on 
 
 From war to war: in vain has nature 
 formed 
 
 Mountains and oceans to oppose his pas- 
 sage; 
 
 He bounds o'er all, victorious in his 
 march, 
 
 The Alps and Pyreneans sink before 
 him; 
 
 Through winds and waves and storms he 
 works his way, 
 
 Impatient for the battle : one day more 
 
 Will set the victor thundering at our 
 
 But' tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er 
 
 young Juba? 
 That still would recommend thee more to 
 
 CsBsar, 
 And challenge better terms. 
 Syph. Alas, he 's lost, 
 
CATO 
 
 549 
 
 He's lost, Sempionius; all his thoughts 
 
 are full 
 Of Cato's virtues : — but I '11 try once 
 
 more 
 (For every instant I expect him here) 
 If yet I can subdue those stubborn prin- 
 ciples 
 Of faith, of honor, and I know not what, 
 That have corrupted his Numidian tem- 
 
 And struck the infection into all his 
 
 soul. 
 Sem. Be sure to press upon him every 
 
 motive. 
 Juba's surrender, since his father's death. 
 Would give up Af ric into Caesar's hands, 
 And make him lord of half the burning 
 
 zone. 
 Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that 
 
 your senate 
 Is called together? Gods! thou must be 
 
 cautious ! 
 Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern 
 Our frauds, unless they 're covered thick 
 
 with art. 
 Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax, I '11 
 
 conceal 
 My thoughts in passion ('tis the surest 
 
 way); 
 I '11 bellow out for Rome and for my 
 
 country. 
 And mouth at Caesar till I shake the sen- 
 ate. 
 Your cold hypocrisy 's a stale device, 
 A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be 
 
 thought in earnest? 
 Clothe thy feigned zeal in rage, in fire, 
 
 in fury! 
 Syph. In troth, thou 'rt able to instruct 
 
 grey hairs. 
 And teach the wily African deceit ! 
 Sem. Once more, be sure to try thy skill 
 
 on Juba. 
 Meanwhile I '11 hasten to my Roman sol- 
 diers, 
 Inflame the mutiny, and underhand 
 Blow up their discontents, till they break 
 
 out 
 Unlooked for, and discharge themselves 
 
 on Cato. 
 Remember, Syphax, we must work in 
 
 haste : 
 Oh think what anxious moments pass be- 
 tween 
 The birth of plots and their last fatal 
 
 periods. 
 Oh ! 't is a dreadful interval of time, • 
 Filled up with horror all, and big with 
 
 death ! 
 
 Destruction hangs on every word we 
 speak, 
 
 On every thought, till the concluding 
 stroke 
 
 Determines all, and closes our design. 
 {Exit.) 
 Syph., solus. I '11 try if yet I can reduce 
 to reason 
 
 This headstrong youth, and make him 
 spurn at Cato. 
 
 The time is short, Caesar comes rushing 
 on US — 
 
 But hold ! young Juba sees me, and ap- 
 proaches. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 (Juba, Syphax.) 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus 
 alone. 
 
 I have observed of late thy looks are fal- 
 len, 
 
 O'ercast with gloomy cares and discon- 
 tent; 
 
 Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, 
 tell me, 
 
 What are the thoughts that knit thy 
 brow in frowns, 
 
 And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy 
 prince % 
 Syph. 'T is not my talent to conceal my 
 thoughts, 
 
 Or carry smiles and sunshine in my 
 face. 
 
 When discontent sits heavy at my heart. 
 
 I have not yet so much the Roman in me. 
 Juba. Why dost thou cast out such un- 
 generous terms 
 
 Against the lords and- sovereigns of the 
 world? 
 
 Dost thou not see mankind fall down be- 
 fore them. 
 
 And own the force of their superior vir- 
 tue? 
 
 Is there a nation in the wilds of Afrie, 
 
 Amidst our barren rocks and burning 
 sands, 
 
 That does not tremble at the Roman 
 name? 
 Syph. Crods ! where 's the worth that sets 
 this people up 
 
 Above your own Numidia's tawny sons ! 
 
 Do they with tougher sinews bend the 
 bow? 
 
 Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark. 
 
 Launched from the vigor of a Roman 
 arm? 
 
 Who like our active African instructs 
 
550 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 The fiery steed, and trains him to his 
 
 His rigid virtue will accept of none. 
 
 hand? 
 
 Syph. Beheve me, prince, there's not an 
 
 Or guides in troops the embattled ele- 
 
 African 
 
 phant, 
 
 That traverses our vast Numidian des- 
 
 Loaden with war? these, these are arts. 
 
 erts 
 
 my prince, 
 
 In quest of prey, and lives upon his 
 
 In which your Zama does not stoop to 
 
 bow. 
 
 Rome. 
 
 But better practises these boasted vir- 
 
 Juha. These all are virtues of a meaner 
 
 tues. 
 
 rank, 
 
 Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the 
 
 Perfections that are placed in bones and 
 
 chase. 
 
 nerves. 
 
 Amidst the running stream he slakes his 
 
 A Roman soul is bent on higher views : 
 
 thirst, 
 
 To civilize the rude, unpolished world. 
 
 Toils all the day, and at the approach of 
 
 And lay it under the restraint of laws ; 
 
 night 
 
 To make man mild and sociable to man ; 
 
 On the first friendly bank he throws 
 
 To cultivate the wild, licentious savage 
 
 him down. 
 
 With wisdom, discipline, and liberal 
 
 Or rests his head upon a rock till mom : 
 
 arts — 
 
 Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted 
 
 The embellishments of life; virtues like 
 
 game. 
 
 these 
 
 And if the following day he chance to 
 
 Make human nature shine, reform the 
 
 find 
 
 soul, 
 
 A new repast, or an untasted spring. 
 
 And break our fierce barbarians into 
 
 Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury. 
 
 men. 
 
 Juba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't dis- 
 
 Syph. Patience, kind heavens! — excuse an 
 
 cern 
 
 old man's warmth. 
 
 What virtues grow from ignorance and 
 
 What are these wondrous civilizing arts. 
 
 choice. 
 
 This Roman polish, and this smooth be- 
 
 Nor how the hero dif5Eers from the brute. 
 
 havior, 
 
 But grant that others could with equal 
 
 That render man thus tractable and 
 
 glory 
 
 tame? 
 
 Look down on pleasures, and the baits of 
 
 Are they not only to disguise our pas- 
 
 sense; 
 
 sions, 
 
 Where shall we find the man that bears 
 
 To set our looks at variance with our 
 
 affliction. 
 
 thoughts. 
 
 Great and majestic in his griefs, like 
 
 To check the starts and sallies of the 
 
 Cato? 
 
 soul, 
 
 Heavens, with what strength, what stead- 
 
 And break off all its commerce with the 
 
 iness of mind, 
 
 tongue; 
 
 He triumphs in the midst of all his suf- 
 
 In short, to change us into other crea- 
 
 ferings ! 
 
 tures 
 
 How does he rise against a load of 
 
 Than what our nature and the gods de- 
 
 woes. 
 
 signed us? 
 
 And thank the gods that throw the 
 
 Juha. To strike thee dumb, turn up thy 
 
 weight upon him! 
 
 eyes to Cato! 
 
 Syph. 'T is pride, rank pride, and haugh- 
 
 There may'st thou see to what a godlike 
 
 tiness of soul: 
 
 height 
 
 I think the Romans call it stoicism. 
 
 The Roman virtues lift up mortal man. 
 
 Had not your royal father thought so 
 
 While good, and just, and anxious for 
 
 highly 
 
 his friends. 
 
 Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause. 
 
 He's still severely bent against himself; 
 
 He had not fallen by a slave's hand, in- 
 
 Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food. 
 
 glorious ; 
 
 and ease. 
 
 Nor would his slaughtered army now 
 
 He strives with thirst and hunger, toil 
 
 have lain 
 
 and heat; 
 
 On Afric's sands, disfigured with their 
 
 And when his fortune sets before him all 
 
 wounds. 
 
 The pomps and pleasures that his soul 
 
 To gorge the wolves and vultures of 
 
 can wish, 
 
 Numidia. 
 
CATO 
 
 551 
 
 Juba. Why dost thou call my sorrows up 
 afresh? 
 
 My father's name brings tears into my 
 eyes. 
 Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your 
 
 father's illsl 
 Juba. What wouldst thou have me do? 
 Syph. Abandon Cato. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I should be more than 
 twice an orphan 
 
 By such a loss. 
 Syph. Ay, there 's the tie that binds you ! 
 
 You long to call him father. Mareia's 
 charms 
 
 Work in your heart unseen, and plead 
 for Cato. 
 
 No wonder you are deaf to all I say. 
 Juba. Syphax, your zeal becomes im- 
 portunate ; 
 
 I 've hitherto permitted it to rave, 
 
 And talk at large; but learn to keep it 
 in, 
 
 Lest it should take more freedom than 
 I'll give it. 
 Syph. Sir, your great father never used 
 me thus. 
 
 Alas! he's dead! but can you e'er for- 
 get 
 
 The tender sorrows, and the pangs of 
 nature. 
 
 The fond embraces, and repeated bless- 
 ings. 
 
 Which you drew from him in your last 
 farewell? 
 
 Still must I cherish the dear, sad remem- 
 brance. 
 
 At once to torture and to please my soul. 
 
 The good old king at parting wrung my 
 hand, 
 
 (His eyes brimful of tears) then sighing 
 cried. 
 
 Prithee, be careful of my son! — his 
 grief 
 
 Swelled up so high, he could not utter 
 more. 
 Juba. Alas, thy story melts away my 
 soul. 
 
 That best of fathers! how shall I dis- 
 charge 
 
 The gratitude and duty which I owe him ! 
 Syph. By laying up his counsels in your 
 
 heart. 
 Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy 
 directions : 
 
 Then, Syphax, chide me in severest 
 terms, 
 
 Vent all thy passion, and I'll stand its 
 shock, 
 
 Calm and unruffled as a summer sea, 
 
 When not a breath of wind flies o'er its 
 surface. 
 Syph. Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to 
 
 your safety. 
 Juba. I do believe thou wouldst: but tell 
 
 me how? 
 Syph. Fly from the fate that follows 
 
 Caesar's foes. 
 Juba. My father scorned to do it. 
 Syph. And therefore died. 
 
 Juba. Better to die ten thousand thou- 
 sand deaths, 
 
 Than wound my honor. 
 Syph. Eather say, your love. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I've promised to preserve 
 my temper. 
 
 Why wilt thou urge me to confess a 
 flame 
 
 I long have stifled, and would fain con- 
 ceal? 
 Syph. Believe me, prince, though hard to 
 conquer love, 
 
 ■'T is easy to divert and break its force: 
 
 Absence might cure it, or a second mis- 
 tress 
 
 Light up another flame, and put out 
 this. 
 
 The glowing dames of Zama's royal court 
 
 Have faces flushed with more exalted 
 charms. 
 
 The sun, that rolls his chariot o'er their 
 heads. 
 
 Works up more fire and color in their 
 cheeks : 
 
 Were you with these, my prince, you'd 
 soon, forget 
 
 The pale, unripened beauties of the 
 north. 
 Juba. 'T is not a set of features, or com- 
 plexion. 
 
 The tincture of a skin, that I admire. 
 
 Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, 
 
 Fades in his eye, and palls upon the 
 sense. 
 
 The virtuous Marcia towers above her 
 sex: 
 
 True, she is fair (oh, how divinely fair!). 
 
 But still the lovely maid improves her 
 charms 
 
 With inward greatness, unaffected wis- 
 dom, 
 
 And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul 
 
 Shines out in everything she acts or 
 speaks. 
 
 While winning mildness and attractive 
 smiles 
 
 Dwell in her looks, and with becoming 
 grace 
 
 Soften the rigor of her father's virtues. 
 
552 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Syph. How does your tongue grow wan- 
 ton in her praise! 
 But on my knees I beg you would con- 
 sider — 
 Juha. Hah! Syphax, is't not she? — she 
 moves this way : 
 And with her Lueia, Luoius's fair daugh- 
 ter. 
 My heart beats thick — I prithee, Syphax, 
 leave me. 
 Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on 'em 
 both! 
 Now will this woman, with a single 
 
 glance, 
 Undo what I've been laboring all this 
 while. 
 
 (^Exit.) 
 
 Scene 5. 
 {Juba, Marcia, Lucia.) 
 
 Juha. Hail, charming maid! How does 
 
 thy beauty smooth 
 The face of war, and make even horror 
 
 smile ! 
 At sight of thee my heart shakes off its 
 
 sorrows ; 
 I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me, 
 And for a while forget the approach of 
 
 Caesar. j, 
 
 Mar. I should be grieved, young prince, 
 
 to think my presence 
 Unbent your thoughts, and slackened 'em 
 
 to arms. 
 While, warm with slaughter, our vic- 
 torious foe 
 Threatens aloud, and calls you to the 
 
 field. 
 Juba. Marcia, let me hope thy kind 
 
 concerns 
 And gentle wishes follow me to battle ! 
 The thought will give new vigor to my 
 
 arm, 
 And strength and weight to my descend- 
 ing sword. 
 And drive it in a tempest on the foe. 
 Mar. My prayers and wishes always shall 
 
 attend 
 The friends of Rome, the glorious cause 
 
 . of virtue. 
 And men approved of by the gods and 
 
 Cato. 
 Juba. That Juba may deserve thy pious 
 
 cares, 
 I '11 gaze forever on thy godlike father. 
 Transplanting, one by one, into ray life. 
 His bright jierfections, till I shine like 
 
 him. 
 
 Mar. My father never, at a time like this, 
 Would lay out his great soul in words, 
 
 and waste 
 Such precious moments. 
 Juba. Thy reproofs are just. 
 
 Thou virtuous maid; I'll hasten to my 
 
 troops. 
 And Are their la&guid souls with Gate's 
 
 virtue ; 
 If e'er I lead them to the field, when all 
 The war shaU stand ranged in its just 
 
 array, 
 And dreadful pomp; then will I think 
 
 on thee ! 
 
 lovely maid, then will I think on thee ! 
 And, in the shock of charging hosts, re- 
 member 
 
 What glorious deeds should grace the 
 
 man who hopes 
 For Marcia's love. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene 6. 
 {Lucia, Marcia.) 
 
 Luc. Marcia, you 're too severe : 
 
 How could you chide the young good- 
 natured prince. 
 
 And drive him from you with so stem an 
 air, 
 
 A prince that loves and "dotes on you to 
 death? 
 Mar. 'T is therefore, Lucia, that I chide 
 him from me. 
 
 His air, his voice, his looks, and honest 
 soul 
 
 Speak aU so movingly in his behalf. 
 
 1 dare not trust myself to hear him talk. 
 Luc. Why will you fight against so sweet 
 
 a passion, 
 And steel your heart to such a world of 
 
 charms ? 
 Mar. How, Lucia, wouldst thou have me 
 
 sink away 
 In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in 
 
 love, 
 When every moment Cato's life 's at 
 
 stake? 
 CaBsar comes armed with terror and re- 
 venge, 
 And aims his thunder at my father's 
 
 head. 
 Should not the sad occasion swallow up 
 My other cares, and draw them all into 
 
 it? 
 Luc. Why have not I this constancy of 
 
 miiid. 
 Who have so many griefs to try its 
 
 force? 
 
CATO 
 
 553 
 
 Sure, nature formed me of her softest 
 
 mould, 
 Enfeebled all my soul with tender pas- 
 sions, 
 And sunk me ev'n below my own weak 
 
 sex: 
 Pity and love, by turns, oppress my 
 
 heart. 
 Mar. Lucia, disburthen all thy cares on me, 
 And let me share thy most retired dis- 
 tress; ■ 
 Tell me who raises up this conflict in 
 
 theel 
 Luc. I need not blush to name them, 
 
 when I tell thee 
 They 're Mareia's brothers, and the sons 
 
 of Cato. 
 Mar. They both behold thee with their 
 
 sister's eyes. 
 And often have revealed their passion to 
 
 me. 
 But tell me whose address thou favorest 
 
 most; 
 I long to know, and yet I dread to hear 
 
 it. 
 Luc. Which is it Marcia wishes for? 
 Mar. For neither — 
 
 And yet for both ; — the youths have equal 
 
 share 
 In Mareia's wishes, and divide their sis- 
 ter: 
 But tell me, which of them is Lucia's 
 
 choice? 
 Luc. Marcia, they both are high in my 
 
 esteem. 
 But in my love — ^why wilt thou make me 
 
 name him? 
 Thou know'st it is a blind and foolish 
 
 passion, 
 Pleased and disgusted, with it knows not 
 
 what — 
 Mar. O Lucia, I 'm perplexed, oh tell me 
 
 which 
 I must hereafter call my happy brother. 
 Luc. Suppose 'twere Portius, could you 
 
 blame my choice? 
 Portius, thou hast stolen away my 
 
 soul! 
 With what a graceful tenderness he 
 
 loves ! 
 And breathes the softest, the sincerest 
 
 vows! 
 Complacency," and truth, and manly 
 
 sweetness 
 Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his 
 
 thoughts. 
 Marcus is over-warm, his fond com- 
 plaints 
 
 2 Desire 
 
 Have so much earnestness and passion in 
 
 them, 
 I hear him with a secret kind of horror. 
 And tremble at his vehemence of temper. 
 Mar. Alas, poor youth I how canst thou 
 
 throw him from thee? 
 Lucia, thou know'st not half the love he 
 
 bears thee; 
 Whene'er he speaks of thee, his heart 's 
 
 in flames. 
 He sends out all his soul in every word. 
 And thinks, and talks, and looks like one 
 
 transported. 
 Unhappy youth! how will thy coldness 
 
 raise 
 Tempests and storms in his afflicted 
 
 bosom ! 
 I dread the consequence. 
 Luc. You seem to plead 
 
 Against your brother Portius. 
 Mar. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover, 
 The same compassion would have fallen 
 
 on him. 
 Luc. Was ever virgin love distressed like 
 
 mine ! 
 Portius himself oft falls in tears before 
 
 me. 
 As if he mourned his rival's ill success, 
 Then bids me hide the motions of my 
 
 heart, 
 Nor show which way it turns. So much 
 
 he fears 
 The sad effects that it would have on 
 
 Marcus. 
 Mar. He knows too well how easUy he's 
 
 flred. 
 And would not plunge his brother in de- 
 spair. 
 But waits for happier times, and kinder 
 
 moments. 
 Luc. Alas I too late I find myself involved 
 In endless griefs, and labjrrinths of woe. 
 Bom to afflict my Mareia's family. 
 And sow dissension in the hearts of 
 
 brothers. . ' 
 Tormenting thought! it cuts into my 
 
 soul. 
 Mar. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sor- 
 
 sows. 
 But to the gods permit the event of 
 
 things. 
 Our lives, discolored with our present 
 
 woes. 
 May still grow white, and smile with hap- 
 pier hours. 
 So the pure limpid stream, when foul 
 
 with stains 
 
 to please. 
 
554 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Of rushing torrents and descending rains, 
 
 Works itself clear, and as it runs, re- 
 fines; 
 
 Till, by degrees, the floating mirror 
 shines, 
 
 Keflects each flower that «n the border 
 grows, 
 
 And a new heaven in its fair bosom 
 shows. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 Scene 1. The Senate. 
 
 Sem. Rome still survives in this assem- 
 bled senate ! 
 Let us remember we are Cato's friends. 
 And act like men who claim that glorious 
 title. 
 Luc. Cato will soon be here, and open to 
 us 
 The occasion of our meeting. Hark ! he 
 comes ! 
 
 {A sound of trumpets.) 
 May all the guardian gods of Rome di- 
 rect him! 
 
 {Enter Cato.) 
 
 Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in 
 council. 
 
 Caesar's approach has summoned us to- 
 gether. 
 
 And Rome attends her fate from our re- 
 solves : 
 
 How shall we treat this bold, aspiring 
 man? 
 
 Success still follows him and backs his 
 crimes ; 
 
 Pharsalia gave him Rome; Egypt has 
 since 
 
 Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is 
 Caesar's. 
 
 Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, 
 
 And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning 
 sands 
 
 Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we 
 should decree 
 
 What course to take. Our foe advances 
 on us, 
 
 And envies us even Libya's sultry des- 
 erts. 
 
 Fathers, pronounce your thoughts, are 
 they still fixed 
 
 To hold it out, and fight it to the last? 
 
 Or are your hearts subdued at length, 
 and wrought 
 
 By time and ill success to a submission? 
 
 Sempronius, speak. 
 
 Sem. My voice is still for war. 
 
 Gods, can a Roman senate long debate 
 Which of the two to choose, slavery or 
 
 death ! 
 No, let us rise at once, gird on our 
 
 swords. 
 And, at the head of our remaining 
 
 troops. 
 Attack the foe, break through the thick 
 
 array 
 Of his thronged legions, and charge home 
 
 upon him. 
 Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the 
 
 rest. 
 May reach his heart, and free the world 
 
 from bondage. 
 Rise, fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands 
 
 your help! 
 Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citi- 
 zens, 
 Or share their fate ! the corps of half her 
 
 senate 
 Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
 Sit here, deliberating in cold debates, 
 If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, 
 Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 
 Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of 
 
 Pharsalia 
 Point at their wounds, and cry aloud — 
 
 To battle! 
 Great Pompey's shade complains that we 
 
 are slow. 
 And Scipio's ghost walks nnrevenged 
 
 amongst us! 
 Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal 
 Transport thee thus beyond the bounds 
 
 of reason : 
 True fortitude is seen in great exploits. 
 That justice warrants, and that wisdom 
 
 guides. 
 All else is towering frenzy and distrac- 
 tion. 
 Are not the lives of those who draw the 
 
 sword 
 In Rome's defence intrusted to our care ? 
 Should we thus lead them to a field of 
 
 slaughter. 
 Might not the impartial world with rea- 
 son say 
 We lavished at our deaths the blood of 
 
 thousands, 
 To grace our fall, and make our ruin 
 ^ glorious? 
 
 Lucius, we next would know what 's your 
 
 opinion. 
 Luc. My thoughts, I must confess, are 
 
 turned on peace. 
 Already have our quarrels filled the 
 
 world 
 
CATO 
 
 655 
 
 With widows and with, orphans : Scythia 
 mourns 
 
 Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest re- 
 gions 
 
 Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of 
 Rome: 
 
 'T is time to sheathe the sword, and spare 
 mankind. 
 
 It is not Csesar, but the gods, my fathers. 
 
 The gods declare against us, and repel 
 
 Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to 
 battle, 
 
 (Prompted by blind revenge and wild 
 despair) 
 
 Were to refuse the awards of Providence, 
 
 And not to rest in heaven's determina- 
 tion. 
 
 Already have we shown our love to 
 Rome, 
 
 Now let us show submission to the gods, 
 
 We took up arms, not to revenge our- 
 selves. 
 
 But free the commonwealth; when this 
 end fails. 
 
 Arms have no further use: our coun- 
 try's cause. 
 
 That drew our swords, now wrests 'em 
 from our hands, 
 
 And bids us not delight in Roman blood, 
 
 Unprofitably shed; what men could do 
 
 Is done already: heaven and earth will 
 witness. 
 
 If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 
 Sem. This smooth discourse and mild be- 
 havior oft 
 
 Conceal a traitor — something whispers 
 me 
 
 All is not right — Cato, beware of Lucius. 
 {Aside to Cato.) 
 Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor difll- 
 dent: 
 
 Immoderate valor swells into a fault. 
 
 And fear, admitted into public councils, 
 
 Betrays like treason. Let us shun 'em 
 both. 
 
 Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs 
 
 Are grown thus desperate. We have 
 bulwarks round us; 
 
 Within our walls are troops inured to 
 . toil 
 
 In Afric's heats, and seasoned to the 
 sun; 
 
 Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind 
 us, 
 
 Ready to rise at its young prince's call. 
 
 While there is hope, do not distrust the 
 gods; 
 
 But wait at least till Csesar's near ap- 
 proach 
 
 Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too 
 
 late 
 To siie for chains and own a conqueror. 
 Why should Rome fall a moment ere her 
 
 time? 
 No, let us draw her term of freedom Qut 
 In its full length, and spin it to the last. 
 So shall we gain still one day's liberty; 
 And let me perish, but in Cato's judg- 
 ment, 
 A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty 
 Is worth a whole eternity in bondage. 
 
 (Enter Marcus.) 
 
 Mar. Fathers, this moment, as I watched 
 
 the gates. 
 Lodged on my post, a herald is arrived 
 From Csesar's camp, and with him comes 
 
 old Decius, 
 The Roman knight; he carries in his 
 
 looks 
 Impatience, and demands to speak with 
 
 Cato. 
 Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid 
 
 him enter. 
 
 (Exit Marcus.) 
 Decius was once my friend, but other 
 
 prospects 
 Have loosed those ties, and bound him 
 
 fast to CsBsar. 
 His message may determine our resolves. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 (Decius, Cato, £c.) 
 
 Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato. — 
 Cato. Could he send it 
 
 To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would 
 
 be welcome. 
 Are not your orders to address the sen- 
 ate? 
 Dec. My business is with Cato: Csesar 
 sees 
 The straits to which you 're driven ;. and, 
 
 as he knows 
 Cato's high worth, is anxious for your 
 life. 
 Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of 
 Rome: 
 Would he save Cato, bid him spare his 
 
 country. 
 Tell your dictator this: and tell him, 
 
 Cato 
 Disdains a life which he has power to 
 offer. 
 Dec. Rome and her senators submit to 
 Caesar; 
 Her generals and her consuls are no 
 more. 
 
556 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Who checked his conquests, and denied 
 
 his triumphs. 
 Why will not Cato be this Caesar's 
 friend? 
 Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged 
 
 forbid it. 
 Bee. Cato, I 've orders to expostulate 
 And reason with you, as from friend to 
 
 friend : 
 Think on the storm that gathers o'er 
 
 your head. 
 And threatens every hour to burst upon 
 
 it; ■ 
 Still may you stand high in your coun- 
 try's honors. 
 Do but comply, and make 'your peace 
 
 with Caesar. 
 Rome will rejoice, and east its eyes on 
 
 Cato, 
 As on the second of mankind. 
 Cato. No more! 
 
 I must not think of life on such condi- 
 tions. 
 Bee. Csesar is well acquainted with your 
 virtues. 
 And therefore sets this value on your 
 
 life: 
 Let him but know the price of Cato's 
 
 friendship, 
 And name your terms. 
 Cato. Bid him disband his legions; 
 
 Restore the commonwealth to liberty, 
 Submit his actions to the public cen- 
 sure, 
 And stand the judgment of a Roman 
 
 senate : 
 Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. 
 Bee. Cato, the world talks loudly of your 
 
 wisdom — 
 Cato. Nay more, though Cato's voice was 
 ne'er employed 
 To clear the guilty, and to varnish 
 
 crimes, 
 Myself will mount the rostrum in his 
 
 favor. 
 And strive to gain his pardon from the 
 people. 
 Bee. A style like this becomes a con- 
 queror. 
 Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a 
 
 Roman. 
 Bee. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's 
 
 foe? 
 Cato. Greater than Caesar, he's a friend 
 
 to virtue. 
 Bee. Consider, Cato, you 're in Utiea, 
 And at the head of your own little sen- 
 ate; 
 You don't now thunder in the Capitol, 
 
 With all the mouths of Rome to second 
 you. 
 Cato. Let him consider that who drives us 
 hither : 
 
 'T is Caesar's sword has made Rome's 
 senate little, 
 
 And thinned its ranks. Alas! thy daz- 
 zled eye 
 
 Beholds this man in a false glaring light. 
 
 Which conquest and success have thrown 
 upon him; 
 
 Didst thou but view him right, thou 'dst 
 see him black 
 
 With murder, treason, sacrilege, and 
 crimes 
 
 That strike my soul with horror but to 
 name 'em. 
 
 I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch 
 
 Beset with ills, and covered with mis- 
 fortunes ; 
 
 But, by the gods I swear, millions of 
 worlds 
 
 Should never buy me to be like that 
 Caesar. 
 Bee. Does Cato send this answer back to 
 Caesar, 
 
 For all his generous cares, and proffered 
 friendship ? 
 
 Cato. His cares for me are insolent and 
 vain: 
 
 Presumptuous man! the gods take care 
 of Cato. 
 
 Would Caesar show the greatness of his 
 soul. 
 
 Bid him employ his care for these my 
 friends. 
 
 And make good use of his ill-gotten 
 power, 
 
 By sheltering men much better than him- 
 self. 
 Bee. Your high unconquered heart makes 
 you forget 
 
 You are a man. You rush on your de- 
 struction — 
 
 But I have done. When I relate here- 
 after 
 
 The tale of this unhappy embassy, 
 
 All Rome will be in tears. 
 {Exit Becius.) 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 {Sempronius, Lucius, Cato, (6c.) 
 
 Sem. Cato, we thank thee. 
 
 The mighty genius of immortal Rome 
 Speaks in thy voice, thy soul breathes 
 
 liberty : 
 Ca9sar will shrink to hear the words* 
 
 thou utterest. 
 
CATO 557 
 
 And shudder in the midst of all his con- 
 
 Lue. The senate owns its gratitude to 
 Cato, 
 Who with so great a soul consults its 
 
 safety, 
 And guards our lives, while he neglects 
 his own. 
 Sem. Sempronius gives no thanks on this 
 account. 
 Lucius seems fond of life; but what is 
 
 life? 
 'T is not to stalk about, and draw fresh 
 
 air 
 From time to time, or gaze upon the sun ; 
 'Tis to be free. When liberty is gone, 
 Life grows insipid, and has lost its 
 
 relish. 
 Oh, could my dying hand but lodge a 
 
 sword 
 In Caesar's bosom, and revenge my coun- 
 try, 
 By heavens, I could enjoy the pangs of 
 
 death. 
 And smile in agony. 
 Luc. Others perhaps 
 
 May serve their country with as warm 
 
 a zeal. 
 Though 'tis not kindled into so much 
 rage. 
 Sem. This sober conduct is a mighty vir- 
 tue 
 In lukewarm patriots. 
 Cato. Come! no more, Sempronius, 
 
 All here are friends to Rome, and to 
 
 each other. 
 Let us not weaken still the weaker side 
 By our divisions. 
 Sem. Cato, my resentments 
 
 Are sacrificed to Rome — I stand re- 
 proved. 
 Cato. Fathers, 'tis time you come to a 
 
 resolve. 
 Luc. Cato, we all go into your opinion, 
 Caesar's behavior has convinced the sen- 
 ate 
 We ought to hold it out till terms arrive. 
 Sem. We ought to hold it out till death; 
 but, Cato, 
 My private voice is drowned amid the 
 senate's. 
 Cato. Then let us rise, my friends, and 
 strive to fill 
 This little interval, this pause of life, 
 (While yet our liberty and fates are 
 
 doubtful) 
 With resolution, friendship, Roman 
 
 bravery, 
 And all the virtues we can crowd into it ; 
 
 That heaven may say, it ought to be pro- 
 longed. 
 
 Fathers, farewell — The young Numidian 
 prince 
 
 Comes forward, and expects to know our 
 counsels. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 {Cato, Juba.) 
 
 Cato. Juba, the Roman Senate has re- 
 solved. 
 
 Till time give better prospects, still to 
 keep 
 
 The sword unsheathed, and turn its edge 
 on CaBsar. 
 Juba. The resolution fits a Roman senate. 
 
 But, Cato, lend me for a while thy pa- 
 tience. 
 
 And condescend to hear a young man 
 speak. 
 
 My father, when some days before his 
 death 
 
 He ordered me to march for Utica, 
 
 (Alas! I thought not then his death so 
 near) 
 
 Wept o'er me, pressed me in his aged 
 arms, 
 
 And, as his griefs gave way, "My son," 
 said he, 
 
 "Whatever fortune shall befall thy fa- 
 ther. 
 
 Be Cato's friend ; he '11 train thee up to 
 great 
 
 And virtuous deeds: do but observe him 
 well, 
 
 Thou 'It shun misfortunes, or thou 'It 
 learn to bear 'em." 
 Cato. Juba, thy father was a worthy 
 prince. 
 
 And merited, alas! a better fate; 
 
 But heaven thought otherwise. 
 Juha. My father's fate, 
 
 In spite of all th« fortitude that shines 
 
 Before my face, in Cato's great example, 
 
 Subdues my soul, and fills my eyes with 
 tears. 
 Cato. It is an honest sorrow, and becomes 
 
 thee. 
 Juba. My father drew respect from for- 
 eign climes: 
 
 The kings of Afric sought him for their 
 friend ; 
 
 Kings far remote, that rule, as fame re- 
 ports, 
 
 Behind the hidden sources of the Nile, 
 
 In distant worlds, on t' other side the 
 sun: 
 
558 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Oft have their black ambassadors ap- 
 peared, 
 
 Loaden with gifts, and filled the courts 
 of Zama. 
 Cato. I am no stranger to thy father's 
 
 greatness. 
 Juha. I would not boast the greatness of 
 my father, 
 
 But point out new alliances to Cato. 
 
 Had we not better leave this Utica, 
 
 To arm Numidia in our cause, and court 
 
 The assistance of my father's powerful 
 friends ? 
 
 Did they know Cato, our remotest kings 
 
 Would pour embattled multitudes about 
 him; 
 
 Their swarthy hosts would darken all 
 our plains. 
 
 Doubling the native horror of the war. 
 
 And making death more grim. 
 Cato. And canst thou think 
 
 Cato will fly before the sword of Caesar? 
 
 Reduced, like Hannibal, to seek relief 
 
 From court to court, and wander up and 
 down, 
 
 A vagabond in Af ric ! 
 Juha. Cato, perhaps 
 
 I 'm too officious, but my forward cares 
 
 Would fain preserve a life of so much 
 value. 
 
 My heart is wounded, when I see such 
 virtue 
 
 Afflicted by the weight of such misfor- 
 tunes. 
 Cato. Thy nobleness of soul obliges me. 
 
 But know, young prince, that valor soars 
 above 
 
 What the world calls misfortune and af- 
 fliction. 
 
 These are not ills; else would they never 
 fall 
 
 On heaven's first favorites, and the best 
 of men : 
 
 The gods, in bounty, work up storms 
 about us, 
 
 That give mankind occasion to exert 
 
 Their hidden strength, and throw out 
 into practice 
 
 Virtues that shun the day, and lie con- 
 cealed 
 
 In the smooth seasons and the calms of 
 life. 
 Juha. I 'm charmed whene'er thou talk'st ! 
 I pant for virtue 
 
 And all my soul endeavors at perfection. 
 Cato. Dost thou love watchings, absti- 
 nence, and toil. 
 
 Laborious virtues all? learn them from 
 Cato: 
 
 - Success and fortune must thou learn 
 from Caesar. 
 Juha. The best good fortune that can fall 
 on Juba, 
 The whole success at which my heart 
 
 aspires. 
 Depends on Cato. 
 Cato. What does Juba say ? 
 
 Thy words confound me. 
 Juha. I would fain retract them, 
 
 Give 'em me back again. They aimed at 
 nothing. 
 Cato. Tell me thy wish, young prince; 
 make not my ear 
 A stranger to thy thoughts. 
 Juha. Oh! they 're extravagant; 
 
 Still let me hide them. 
 Cato. What can Juba ask 
 
 That Cato will refuse? 
 Juha. I fear to name it. 
 
 Marcia — ^inherits all her father's virtues. 
 Cato. What wouldst thou say? 
 Juha. Cato, thou hast a daughter. 
 
 Cato. Adieu, young prince; I would not 
 hear a word 
 Should lessen thee in my esteem: re- 
 member 
 The hand of fate is over us, and heaven 
 Exacts severity from all our thoughts : 
 It is not now a time to talk of aught 
 But chains or conquest, liberty or death. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 {Syphax, Juha.) 
 
 Syph. How 's this, my prince, what ! cov- 
 ered with confusion? 
 You look as if yon stern philosopher 
 Had just now chid you. 
 Juha. Syphax, I 'm undone ! 
 
 Syph. I know it well. 
 Juha. Cato thinks meanly of me. 
 
 Syph. And so will all mankind. 
 Juba, I 've opened to him 
 
 The weakness of my soul, my love for 
 Marcia. 
 Syph. Cato's a proper person to intrust 
 
 A love-tale with ! 
 Juha. Oh ! I could pierce my heart, 
 
 My foolish heart! was ever wretch like 
 Juba? 
 Syph, Alas! my prince, how are you 
 changed of late I 
 I 've known young Juba rise before the 
 
 sun. 
 To beat the thicket where the tiger slept, 
 Or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts : 
 How did the color mount into your 
 cheeks. 
 
CATO 
 
 559 
 
 When first you roused him to the chase! 
 
 I 've seen you, 
 Even in the Libyan dog-days, hunt him 
 
 down. 
 Then charge him close, provoke him to 
 
 the rage 
 Of fangs and claws, and stooping from 
 
 your horse 
 Rivet the panting savage to the ground. 
 Juha. Prithee, no more! 
 Syph. How would the old king smile 
 
 To see you weigh the paws, when tipped 
 
 with gold. 
 And throw the shaggy spoils about your 
 shoulders ! 
 Juba. Syphax, this old man's talk 
 (though honey flowed 
 In every word) would now lose all its 
 
 sweetness. 
 Cato 's displeased, and Marcia lost for- 
 ever! 
 Syph. Young prince, I yet could give you 
 good advice. 
 Marcia might still be yours. 
 Juba. "What say'st thou, Syphax? 
 
 By heavens, thou tum'st me all into at- 
 tention. 
 Syph. Marcia might still be yours. 
 Juba. As how, dear Syphax? 
 
 Syph. Juba commands Numidia's hardy 
 troops. 
 Mounted on steeds, unused to the re- 
 straint 
 Of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the 
 
 winds: 
 Give but the word, we '11 snatch this 
 
 damsel up 
 And bear her off. 
 Juba. Can such dishonest thoughts 
 
 Rise up in man ! wouldst thou seduce my 
 
 youth 
 To do an act that would destroy my 
 honor? 
 Syph, Gods! I could tear my beard to 
 hear you talk! 
 Honor 's a fine imaginary notion, 
 That draws in raw and unexperienced men 
 To real mischiefs, while th£y hunt a 
 shadow. 
 Juba. Wouldst thou degrade thy prince 
 
 into a rufiSan? 
 Syph. The boasted ancestors of these 
 great men. 
 Whose virtues you admire were all such 
 
 ruffians. 
 This dread of nations, this almighty 
 
 Rome, 
 That comprehends in her wide empire's 
 bounds 
 
 All under heaven, was founded on a rape. 
 Your Scipios, Caesars, Pompeys, and 
 
 your Catos, 
 (These gods on earth) are all the spuri- 
 ous brood 
 Of violated maids, of ravished Sabines. 
 Juba. Syphax, I fear that hoary head of 
 thine 
 Abounds too much in our Numidian 
 wiles. 
 Syph. Indeed, my prince, you want to 
 know the world; 
 You have not read mankind; your youth 
 
 admires 
 The throws and swellings of a Roman 
 
 soul, 
 Cato's bold flights, the extravagance of 
 virtue. 
 Juba. If knowledge of the world makes 
 man perfidious. 
 May Juba ever live in ignorance! 
 Syph. Go, go, you 're young. 
 Juba. Gods ! must I tamely bear 
 
 This arrogance unanswered! thou'rt a 
 
 traitor, 
 A false old -traitor. 
 Syph. I have gone too far. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Juba. Cato shall know the baseness of thy 
 
 soul. 
 Syph. I must appease this storm, or per- 
 ish in it. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Young prince, behold these locks that 
 
 are grown white 
 Beneath a helmet in your father's battles. 
 Juba. Those locks shall ne'er protect thy 
 
 insolence. 
 Syph. Must one rash word, the infirmity 
 of age. 
 Throw down the merit of my better 
 
 years? 
 This the reward of a whole life of serv- 
 ice? 
 Curse on the boy! how steadily he hears 
 me! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Juba. Is it because the throne of my fore- 
 fathers 
 Still stands unfilled, and that Numidia's 
 
 crown 
 Hangs doubtful yet, whose head it shall 
 
 enclose. 
 Thou thus presumest to treat thy prince 
 with scorn? 
 Syph. Why will you rive my heart with 
 such expressions? 
 Does not old Syphax follow you to war? 
 
560 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 What are his aims? why does he load 
 
 with darts 
 His trembling hand, and crush beneath 
 
 a casque 
 His wrinkled brows? what is it he as- 
 pires to? 
 Is it not this, to shed the slow remains. 
 His last poor ebb of blood, in your de- 
 fense? 
 Juha. Syphax, no more! I would not 
 
 hear you talk. 
 Syph. Not hear me talk! what, when my 
 faith to Juba, 
 My royal master's son, is called in ques- 
 tion? 
 My prince may strike me dead, and I '11 
 
 be dumb: 
 But whilst I live, I must not hold my 
 
 tongue, 
 And languish out old age in his dis- 
 pleasure. 
 Juba. Thou know'st the way too well into 
 my heart, 
 I do believe thee loyal to thy prince. 
 Syph. What greater instance can I give? 
 I 've offered 
 To do an action which my soul abhors, 
 And gain you whom you love at any 
 price. 
 Juba. Was this thy motive? I have been 
 
 too hasty. 
 Syph. And 'tis for this my prince has 
 
 called me traitor. 
 Juba. Sure thou mistakest; I did not call 
 
 thee so. 
 Syph. You did indeed, my prince, you 
 called me traitor: 
 Nay, further, threatened you 'd complain 
 
 to Cato. 
 Of what, my prince, would you complain 
 
 to Cato? 
 That Syphax loves you, and would sacri- 
 fice 
 His life, nay, more, his honor in your 
 service. 
 Juba. Syphax, I know thou lov'st me, but 
 indeed 
 Thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far. 
 Honor 's a sacred tie, the law of kings, 
 The noble mind's distinguishing perfec- 
 tion, 
 That aids and strengthens virtue where 
 
 it meets her, 
 And imitates her actions, where she is not : 
 It ought not to be sported with. 
 Syph. By heavens, 
 
 I 'm ravished when you talk thus, though 
 
 you chide me! 
 Alas ! I 've hitherto been used to think 
 
 A blind, officious zeal to serve my king 
 The ruling principle that ought to burn 
 And quench all others in a subject's 
 
 heart. 
 Happy the people, who preserve their 
 
 honor 
 By the same duties that oblige their 
 
 prince! 
 Juba. Syphax, thou now begin'st to speak 
 
 thyself. 
 Numidla 's grown a scorn among the na- 
 tions 
 For breach of public vows. Our Punic 
 
 faith 
 Is infamous, and branded to a proverb. 
 Syphax, we'll join our cares, to purge 
 away 
 Our country's crimes, and clear her rep- 
 utation. 
 Syph. Believe me, prince, you make old 
 Syphax weep 
 To hear you talk — but 't is with tears of 
 
 joy. 
 If e'er your father's crown adorn your 
 
 brows, 
 Numidia will be blest by Cato's lectures. 
 Juba. Syphax, thy hand! we'll mutually 
 
 forget 
 The warmth of youth, and frowardness 
 
 of age: 
 Thy prince esteems thy worth, and loves 
 
 thy person. 
 If e'er the scepter comes into my hand, 
 Syphax shall stand the second in my 
 
 kingdom. 
 Syph. Why will you overwhelm my age 
 
 with kindness? 
 My joy grows burdensome, I shan't sup- 
 port it. 
 Juba. Syphax, farewell, I'll hence, and 
 
 try to find 
 Some blest occasion that may set me 
 
 right 
 In Cato's thoughts. I'd rather have 
 
 that man 
 Approve my deeds, than worlds for my 
 
 admirers. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Syph. solus. Young men soon give, and 
 soon forget affronts; 
 Old age is slow in both — A false old 
 
 traitor ! 
 Those words, rash boy, may chance to 
 
 cost thee dear. 
 My heart had still some foolish fondness 
 
 for thee : 
 But hence ! 't is gone : I give it to the 
 
 winds : 
 CsBsar, I 'm wholly thine — 
 
CATO 
 
 561 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 (Syphax, Sempronius.) 
 
 Syph. All hail, Sempronius ! 
 
 Well, Cato's senate is resolved to wait 
 The fury of a siege before it yields. 
 S'em. Syphax, we both were on the verge 
 
 of fate : 
 Lucius declared for peace, and terms 
 
 were offered 
 To Cato by a messenger from Caesar. 
 Should they submit, ere our designs are 
 
 ripe, 
 We both must perish in the common 
 
 wreck. 
 Lost in a general, undistinguished ruin. 
 Syph. But how stands Cato? 
 Sem. Thou hast seen Mount Atlas: 
 
 While storms and tempests thunder on 
 
 its brows. 
 And oceans break their billows at its 
 
 feet, 
 It stands unmoved, and glories in its 
 
 height. 
 Such is that haughty man; his towering 
 
 soul, 
 'Midst all the shocks and injuries of 
 
 fortune. 
 Rises superior, and looks down on 
 
 Cffisar. 
 Syph. But what's this messenger? 
 Sem. I 've practised with him. 
 
 And found a means to let the victor 
 
 know 
 That Syphax and Sempronius are his 
 
 friends. 
 But let me now examine in my turn : 
 Is Juba fixed? 
 Syph. Yes — ^but it is to Cato. 
 
 I've tried the force of every reason on 
 
 him, 
 Soothed and caressed, been angry, 
 
 soothed again, 
 Laid safety, life, and interest in his 
 
 sight, 
 But all are vain, he scorns them all for 
 
 Cato. 
 Sem. Come, 'tis no matter, we shall do 
 without him. 
 He '11 make a pretty figure in a triumph. 
 And serve to trip before the victor's 
 
 chariot. 
 Syphax, I now may hope thou hast for- 
 sook 
 Thy Juba's cause, and wishest Mareia 
 
 mine. 
 Syph. May she be thine as fast as thou 
 
 wouldst have her! 
 
 Sem. Syphax, I love that woman; though 
 I curse 
 
 Her and myself, yet, spite of me, I love 
 her. 
 Syph. Make Cato sure, and give up Utica, 
 
 CsBsar will ne'er refuse thee such a trifle. 
 
 But are thy troops prepared for a re- 
 volt? 
 
 Does the sedition catch from man to 
 man, 
 
 And run among their ranks? 
 Sem. All, all is ready. 
 
 The factious leaders are our friends, that 
 spread 
 
 Murmurs and discontents among the sol- 
 diers. 
 
 They count their toilsome marches, long 
 fatigues, 
 
 Unusual fastings, and will bear no more 
 
 This medley of philosophy and war. 
 
 Within an hour they '11 storm the senate- 
 house. 
 Syph. Meanwhile I '11 draw up my Nu- 
 midian troops 
 
 Within the square, to exercise their 
 arms. 
 
 And, as I see occasion, favor thee. 
 
 I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato 
 
 Will look aghastj while unforeseen de- 
 struction 
 
 Pours in upon him thus from every side. 
 
 So, where our wide Numidian wastes ex- 
 tend, 
 
 Sudden, the impetuous hurricanes de- 
 scend. 
 
 Wheel throi^h the air, in circling eddies 
 
 Tear up the sands, and sweep whole 
 
 plains away. 
 The helpless traveller, with wild sur- 
 prise, 
 Sees the dry desert all around him rise, 
 And smothered in the dusty whirlwind 
 dies. 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 (Marcus, Fortius.) 
 
 Mar. Thanks to my stars, I have not 
 
 ranged about 
 The wilds of life, ere I could find a 
 
 friend ; 
 Nature first pointed out my Fortius to 
 
 me, 
 And early taiight me, by her secret force, 
 To love thy person, ere I knew thy 
 
 merit; 
 
562 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Till, what was instinct, grew up into 
 friendship. 
 Por. Marcus, the friendsliips of the world 
 are oft 
 
 Confederacies in vice, or leagues of 
 pleasure ; 
 
 Ours has severest virtue for its basis, 
 
 And such a friendship ends not but with 
 life. 
 Mar. Fortius, thou know'st my soul in 
 all its weakness; 
 
 Then prithee spare me on its tender 
 side. 
 
 Indulge me but in love, my other pas- 
 sions 
 
 Shall rise and fall by virtue's nicest 
 rules. 
 Por. When love 's well-timed, 't is not a 
 fault to love. 
 
 The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and 
 the wise 
 
 Sink in -the soft captivity together. 
 
 I would not urge thee to dismiss thy pas- 
 sion, 
 
 (I know 'twere vain) but to suppress 
 its force. 
 
 Till better times may make it look more 
 graceful. 
 Mar. Alas! thou talk'st like one who 
 never felt 
 
 The impatient throbs and longings of a 
 soul 
 
 That pants and reaches after distant 
 good. 
 
 A lover does not live by vulgar time : 
 
 Believe me, Fortius, in my Lucia's ab- 
 sence 
 
 Life hangs upon me, and becomes a 
 burden ; 
 
 And yet, when I behold the charming 
 maid, 
 
 I 'm ten times more undone ; while hope, 
 and fear, 
 
 And grief, and rage, and love, rise up at 
 once. 
 
 And with variety of pain distract me. 
 Por. What can thy Fortius do to give 
 
 thee help? 
 Mar. Fortius, thou oft enjoy'st the fair 
 one's presence: 
 
 Then undertake my cause, and plead it 
 to her 
 
 With all the strength and heats of elo- 
 quence 
 
 Fraternal love and friendship can in- 
 spire. 
 
 Tell her thy brother languishes to death, 
 
 And fades away, and withers in his 
 bloom; 
 
 That he forgets his- sleep, and loathes 
 
 his food, 
 . That youth, and health, an4 war, are 
 
 joyless to him. 
 Describe his anxious days and restless 
 
 nights, 
 And all the torments that thou seest me 
 
 suffer. 
 Por. Marcus, I beg thee give me not an 
 
 office 
 That suits with me so ill. Thou know'st 
 
 my temper. 
 Mar. Wilt thou behold me sinking in my 
 
 woes? 
 And wilt thou not reach out a friendly 
 
 arm, 
 To raise me from amidst this plunge of 
 
 sorrows 1 
 Por. Marcus, thou canst not ask what 
 
 I 'd refuse. 
 But here, believe me, I've a thousand 
 
 reasons — 
 Mar. I know thou 'It say my passion's 
 
 out of season; 
 That Cato's great example and misfor- 
 tunes 
 Should both conspire to drive it from my 
 
 thoughts. 
 But what 's all this to one who loves like 
 
 me! 
 Oh, Fortius, Fortius, from my soul I 
 
 wish 
 Thou didst but know thyself what 'tis 
 
 to love! 
 Then wouldst thou pity and assist thy 
 
 brother. 
 Por. What should I do? If I disclose 
 
 my passion. 
 Our friendship 's at an end : if I conceal 
 
 it. 
 The world will call me false to a friend 
 
 and brother. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Mar. But see where Lucia, at her wonted 
 
 hour. 
 Amid the cool of yon high marble 
 
 arch, 
 Enjoys the noon-day breeze ! observe her. 
 
 Fortius I 
 That face, that shape, those eyes, that 
 
 heaven of beauty! 
 Observe her well, and blame me, if thou 
 
 canst. 
 Por. She sees us, and advances — 
 Mar. I '11 withdraw, 
 
 And leave you for a while. Remember, 
 
 Fortius, 
 Thy brother's life depends upon thy 
 
 tongue. 
 
CATO 
 
 563 
 
 Scene 2. 
 {Luda, Fortius.) 
 
 Luc. Did not I see your brother Marcus 
 
 here? 
 Why did he fly the place, and shun my 
 
 presence? 
 Por. Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to 
 
 show 
 His rage of love ; it preys upon his life ; 
 He pines, he sickens, he despairs, he 
 
 dies: 
 His passions and his virtues lie confused. 
 And mixed together in so wild a tumult, 
 That the whole man is quite disfigured in 
 
 him. 
 Heavens! would one think 'twere possi- 
 ble for love 
 To make such ravage in a noble soul ! 
 Oh, Lucia, I 'm distrest ! my heart bleeds 
 
 for him; 
 Even now, while thus I stand blest in thy 
 
 presence, 
 A secret damp of grief comes o'er my 
 
 thoughts, 
 And I 'm unhappy, though thou smil'st 
 
 upon me. 
 Luc. How wilt thou guard thy honor, in 
 
 the shock 
 Of love and friendship ! think betimes, 
 
 my Fortius, 
 Think how the nuptial tie, that might in- 
 sure 
 Our mutual bliss, would raise to such a 
 
 height 
 Thy brother's griefs, as might perhaps 
 
 destroy him. 
 Por. Alas, poor youth! what dost thou 
 
 think, my Lucia? 
 His generous, open, undesigning heart 
 Has begged his rival to solicit for him. 
 Then do not strike him dead with a de- 
 nial. 
 But hold him up in life, and cheer his 
 
 soul 
 With the faint glimmering of a doubtful 
 
 hope: 
 Perhaps when we have passed these 
 
 gloomy hours. 
 And weathered out the storm that beats 
 
 upon us — 
 Luc. No, Fortius, no! I see thy sister's 
 
 tears. 
 Thy father's ang^iish, and thy brother's 
 
 death. 
 In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves. 
 And, Fortius, here I swear, to heaven I 
 
 swear, 
 
 To heaven, and all the powers that judge 
 
 mankind, 
 Never to mix my plighted hands with 
 
 thine, 
 While such a cloud of mischiefs hangs 
 
 about us. 
 But to forget our loves, and drive thee 
 
 out 
 From all my thoughts, as far — as I am 
 
 able. 
 Por. What hast thou said ! I 'm thunder- 
 struck ! — ^recall 
 Those hasty words, or I am lost for 
 
 ever. 
 Luc. Has not the vow already passed my 
 
 Ups? 
 The gods have heard it, and 'tis sealed 
 
 in heaven. 
 May all the vengeance that was ever 
 
 poured 
 On perjured heads o'erwhelm me, if I 
 
 break it! 
 Por. Fixed in astonishment, I gaze upon 
 
 thee; 
 Like one just blasted by a stroke from 
 
 heaven, 
 Who pants for breath, and stiffens, yet 
 
 aUve, 
 In dreadful looks — a monument of 
 
 wrath! 
 Luc. At length I've acted my severest 
 
 part, 
 I feel the woman breaking in upon me. 
 And melt about my heart ! my tears will 
 
 flow. 
 But oh I '11 think no more ! the hand of 
 
 fate 
 Has torn thee from me, and I must for- 
 get thee. 
 Por. Hard-hearted, cruel maid! 
 Luc. Oh stop those sounds. 
 
 Those killing sounds! why dost thou 
 
 frown upon me? 
 My blood runs cold, my heart forgets to 
 
 heave. 
 And life itself goes out at thy displeas- 
 ure. 
 The gods forbid us to indulge our loves, 
 But oh ! I cannot bear thy hate and live ! 
 Por. Talk not of love, thou never knew'st 
 
 its force, 
 I 've been deluded, led into a dream 
 Of fancied bliss. Oh Lucia, cruel maid! 
 Thy dreadful vow, loaden with death, 
 
 still sounds 
 In my stunned ears. What shall I say 
 
 or do? 
 Quick, let us part! perdition's in thy 
 
 presence, 
 
564 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 And horror dwells about thee ! — hah, she 
 
 faints ! 
 Wretch that I am ! what has my rashness 
 
 done! 
 Lucia, thou injured innocence! thou best 
 And loveliest of thy sex! awake, my 
 
 Lueia, 
 Or Fortius rushes on his sword to join 
 
 thee. 
 — Her imprecations reach not to the 
 
 tomb, 
 They shut not out society in death — 
 But, hah! she moves! life wanders up 
 
 and down 
 Through all her face, and lights up 
 
 every charm. 
 Lue. Fortius, was this well ! — to frown 
 
 on her 
 That lives upon thy smiles! to call in 
 
 doubt 
 The faith of one expiring at thy feet. 
 That loves thee more than ever woman 
 
 loved ! 
 — What do I say? my half -recovered 
 
 sense 
 Forgets the vow in which my soul is 
 
 bound. 
 Destruction stands betwixt us! we must 
 
 part. 
 For. Name not the word, my frighted 
 
 thoughts run back, 
 And startle into madness at the sound. 
 Lue. What wouldst thou have me do? 
 
 consider well 
 The train of ills our love would draw be- 
 hind it. 
 Think, Fortius, think, thou seest thy dy- 
 ing brother 
 Stabbed at his heart, and aU besmeared 
 
 with blood. 
 Storming at heaven and thee! thy awful 
 
 sire 
 Sternly demands the cause, th' accursed 
 
 cause. 
 That robs him of his son! poor Marcia 
 
 trembles, 
 Then tears her hair, and frantic in her 
 
 griefs 
 Calls out on Lucia! What could Lucia 
 
 answer? 
 Or how stand up in such a scene of sor- 
 row? 
 For. To my confusion and ■ etefnal grief, 
 I must approve the sentence that de- 
 stroys me. 
 The mist that hung about my mind 
 
 clears up; 
 And now, athwart the terrors that thy 
 
 vow 
 
 Has planted round thee, thou appear'st 
 more fair. 
 
 More amiable, and risest in thy charms. 
 
 Loveliest of women! heaven is in thy 
 soul. 
 
 Beauty and virtue shine for ever round 
 thee. 
 
 Brightening each other! thou art all di- 
 vine! 
 Luc. Fortius, no more! thy words shoot 
 through my heart. 
 
 Melt my resolves, and turn me all to love. 
 
 Why are those tears of fondness in thy 
 eyes? 
 
 Why heaves thy heart? Why swells thy 
 soul with sorrow? 
 
 It softens me too much — farewell, my 
 Fortius, 
 
 Farewell, though death is in the word, 
 forever. 
 For. Stay, Lucia, stay! what dost thou 
 
 say? Forever? 
 Luc. Have I not sworn? if. Fortius, thy 
 success 
 
 Must throw thy brother on his fate, 
 farewell — 
 
 Oh, how shall I repeat the word? — for- 
 ever! 
 For. Thus o'er the dying lamp the un- 
 steady flame 
 
 Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off 
 by fits. 
 
 And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 
 
 Thou must not go, my soul still hovers 
 o'er thee. 
 
 And can't get loose. 
 Luc. If the firm Fortius shake 
 
 To hear of parting, think what Lucia 
 suffers ! 
 For. "T is true ; unruffled and serene I 've 
 met 
 
 The common accidents of life, but here 
 
 Such an unlooked-for storm of ills falls 
 on me. 
 
 It beats down all my strength. I can- 
 not bear it. 
 
 We must not part. 
 Luc. What dost thou say? not part? 
 
 Hast thou forgot the vow that I have 
 made? 
 
 Are there not heavens, and gods, and 
 thunder o'er us? 
 
 — But see! thy brother Marcus bends 
 this way! 
 
 I sicken at the sight. Once more, fare- 
 well. 
 
 Farewell, and know thou wrong'st me, 
 if thou think'st 
 
 Ever was love, or ever grief, like mine. 
 
CATO 
 
 565 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 (^Marcus, Fortius.) 
 
 Mar. Fortius, what hopes? how stands 
 she? am I doomed 
 To life or death? 
 For. What wouldst thou have me say? 
 Mar. What means this pensive posture? 
 thou appear'st 
 Like one amazed and terrified. 
 For. I 've reason. 
 
 Mar. Thy downcast looks and thy dis- 
 ordered thoughts 
 Tell me my fate. I ask not the success 
 My cause has found. 
 For. I 'm grieved I undertook it. 
 
 Mar. What! does the barbarous maid in- 
 sult my heart, 
 My aching heart! and triumph in my 
 
 pains? 
 That I could cast her from my thoughts 
 for ever! 
 For. Away ! you 're too suspicious in your 
 griefs; 
 Lucia, though sworn never to think of 
 
 love, 
 Compassionates your pains, and pities 
 you! 
 Mar. Compassionates my pains, and 
 pities me! 
 What is compassion when 'tis void of 
 
 love? 
 Fool that I was to choose so cold a 
 
 friend 
 To urge my cause! compassionate- my 
 
 pains 
 
 Prithee what art, what rhetoric didst 
 
 thou use 
 To gain this mighty boon? She pities 
 
 me! 
 To one that asks the warm return of 
 
 love. 
 Compassion 's cruelty, 't is scorn, 't is 
 death — 
 For. Marcus, no more! have I deserved 
 
 this treatment? 
 Mar. What have I said! Fortius, 
 forgive me! 
 A soul exasperated in ills falls out 
 With everything, its friend, its self — 
 
 but, hah! 
 What means that shout, big with the 
 
 sounds of war? 
 What new alarm? 
 For. A second, louder yet, 
 
 .Swells in the winds, and comes more full 
 upon us. 
 Mar. Oh for some glorious cause to fall 
 in battle! 
 
 Lucia, thou hast undone me! thy dis- 
 dain 
 
 Has broke my heart: 'tis death must 
 give me ease. 
 For. Quick, let us hence; who knows if 
 Cato's life 
 
 Stands sure? Marcus, I am warmed; 
 my heart 
 
 Leaps at the trumpet's voice, and bums 
 for glory. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 (Sempronius with the leaders of the 
 mutiny.) 
 
 Sem. At length the winds are raised, the 
 storm blows high, 
 
 Be it your care, my friends, to keep it 
 up 
 
 In its full fury, and direct it right. 
 
 Till it has spent itself on Cato's head. 
 
 Meanwhile I '11 herd among his friends, 
 and seem 
 
 One of the number, that whate'er ar- 
 rive. 
 
 My friends and fellow soldiers may be 
 
 First Lead. We all are safe, Sempronius 
 
 is our friend, 
 Sempronius is as brave a man as Cato. 
 But, hark! he enters. Bear up boldly 
 
 to him; 
 Be sure you beat him down, and bind 
 
 him fast. 
 This day will end our toils, and give us 
 
 rest; 
 Fear nothing, for Sempronius is our 
 
 friend. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 (Cato, Sempronius, Lucius, Fortius, Mar- 
 cus.) 
 
 Cato. Where are these bold, intrepid sons 
 of war, 
 That greatly turn their backs upon the 
 
 foe. 
 And to their general send a brave de- 
 
 cern. Curse on their dastard souls, they 
 stand astonished! 
 (Aside.) 
 Cato. Perfidious men! and will you thus 
 dishonor 
 Your past exploits, and sully all your 
 
 wars? 
 Do yoli confess 'twas not a zeal for 
 Rome, 
 
566 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Nor love of liberty, nor thirst of honor, 
 
 Drew you thus far; but hopes to share 
 the spoil 
 
 Of conquered towns and plundered prov- 
 inces? 
 
 Fired with such motives you do well to 
 join 
 
 With Cato's foes, and follow Caesar's 
 banners. 
 
 Why did I scape the envenomed aspic's 
 rage, 
 
 And all the fiery monsters of the des- 
 ert, 
 
 To see this day? why could not Cato 
 faU 
 
 Without your guilt? Behold, ungrate- 
 ful men, 
 
 Behold my bosom naked to your swords. 
 
 And let the man that 's injured strike the 
 blow. 
 
 Which of you all suspects that he is 
 wronged. 
 
 Or thinks he suffers greater ills than 
 Cato? 
 
 Am I distinguished from you but by 
 toUs, 
 
 Superior toils, and heavier weight of 
 cares ? 
 
 Painful pre-eminence! 
 Sem. By heavens they droop! 
 
 Confusion to the villains! all is lost. 
 {Aside.) 
 Cato. Have you forgotten Libya's burn- 
 ing waste. 
 
 Its barren rocks, parched earth, and hills 
 of sand. 
 
 Its tainted air, and all its broods of 
 poison? 
 
 Who was the first to explore th' un- 
 trodden path, 
 
 When life was hazarded in every step ? 
 
 Or, fainting in the long, laborious march, 
 
 When on the banks of an unlooked-for 
 stream 
 
 You sunk the river with repeated 
 draughts. 
 
 Who was the last in all your 'host that 
 thirsted? 
 Sem. If some penurious source by chance 
 appeared, 
 
 Scanty of waters, when you scooped it 
 dry. 
 
 And offered the full helmet up to Cato, 
 
 Did he not dash the untasted moisture 
 from him? 
 
 Did he not lead you through the mid- 
 day sun, 
 
 And clouds of dust? did not his temples 
 glow 
 
 In the same sultry winds and scorching 
 heats? 
 Cato. Hence, worthless men! hence! and 
 complain to Csesar 
 
 You could not undergo the toils of war, 
 
 Nor bear the hardships that your leader 
 bore. 
 Luc. See, Cato, see th' unhappy men! 
 they weep! 
 
 Fear, and remorse, and sorrow for their 
 crime. 
 
 Appear in every look, and plead for 
 mercy. 
 Cato. Learn to be honest men, give up 
 your leaders. 
 
 And pardon shall descend on all the rest. 
 Sem. Cato, commit these wretches to my 
 care. 
 
 First let 'em each be broken on the rack, 
 
 Then, with what life remains, impaled 
 and left 
 
 To writhe at leisure round the bloody 
 stake. 
 
 There let 'em hang, and taint the south- 
 ern wind. 
 
 The partners of their crime will learn 
 obedience. 
 
 When they look up and see their fellow- 
 traitors 
 
 Stuck on a fork, and blackening in the 
 Sim. 
 Luc. Sempronius, why, why wilt thou 
 urge the fate 
 
 Of wretched men? 
 Sem. How! wouldst thou clear rebellion? 
 
 Lucius (good man) pities the poor of- 
 fenders. 
 
 That would imbrue their hands in Cato's 
 blood. 
 Cato. Forbear, Sempronius! — see they 
 suffer death. 
 
 But in their deaths remember they are 
 men. 
 
 Strain not the laws to make their tor- 
 tures grievous. 
 
 Lucius, the base, degenerate age requires 
 
 Severity and justice in its rigor; 
 
 This awes an impious, bold, offending 
 world. 
 
 Commands obedience, and gives force to 
 laws. 
 
 When by just vengeance guilty mortals 
 perish. 
 
 The gods behold their punislmient with 
 pleasure, 
 
 And lay th' uplifted thunderbolt aside. 
 Sem. Cato, I execute thy will with pleas- 
 ure. 
 Cato. Meanwhile we '11 sacrifice to liberty. 
 
CATO 
 
 567- 
 
 Remember, my friends, the laws, the 
 rights, 
 
 The generous plan of power delivered 
 down, 
 
 Prom age to age by your renowned fore- 
 fathers, 
 
 (So dearly bought, the price of so much 
 blood) 
 
 Oh let it never perish in your hands ! 
 
 But piously transmit it to your children. 
 
 Do thou, great Liberty, inspire our souls, 
 
 And make our lives in thy possession 
 happy, 
 
 Or our deaths glorious -in thy just de- 
 fense. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 {Semproniits and the leaders of the 
 
 mutiny.) 
 
 1st Lead. Sempronius, you have acted 
 
 like yourself, 
 One would have thought you had been 
 
 half in earnest. 
 Sem. Villain, stand off! base, grovelling, 
 
 worthless wretches. 
 Mongrels in faction, poor faint-hearted 
 
 traitors ! 
 2d Lead. Nay, now you carry it too far, 
 
 Sempronius : 
 Throw off the mask, there are none here 
 
 but friends. 
 Sem. EJiow, villains, when such paltry 
 
 slaves presume 
 To miy in treason, if the plot succeeds, 
 They 're thrown neglected by : but if it 
 
 fails, 
 They're sure to die like dogs, as you 
 
 shall do. 
 Here, take these factious monsters, drag 
 
 'em forth 
 To sudden death. 
 
 {Enter Guards.) 
 
 1st Lead. Nay, since it comes to this — 
 Sem. Despatch 'em quick, but first pluck 
 
 out their tongues. 
 Lest with their dying breath they sow 
 
 sedition. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 {Syphax, Sempronius.) 
 
 Syph. Our first design, my friend, has 
 
 proved abortive; 
 Still there remains an after-game to 
 
 play: 
 My troops are mounted; their Numidian 
 
 steeds 
 
 Snuff up the wind, and long to scour the 
 desert : 
 
 Let but Sempronius head us in our 
 flight, 
 
 We '11 force the gate where Marcus keeps 
 his guard. 
 
 And hew down all that would oppose our 
 passage. 
 
 A day will bring us into Caesar's camp. 
 Sem. Confusion! I have failed of half 
 my purpose : 
 
 Marcia, the charming Mareia 's left be- 
 hind! 
 Syph. How! will Sempronius turn a 
 
 woman's slave? 
 Sem. Think not thy friend can ever feel 
 the soft 
 
 Unmanly warmth and tenderness of love. 
 
 Syphax, I long to clasp that haughty 
 maid. 
 
 And bend her stubborn virtue to my pas- 
 sion: 
 
 When I have gone thus far, I 'd cast her 
 off. 
 Syph. Well said! that's spoken like thy- 
 self, Sempronius. 
 
 What hinders then, but that thou find 
 her out, 
 
 And hurry her away by manly force ? 
 Sem. But how to gain admission? for 
 access 
 
 Is given to none but Juba and her broth- 
 ers. 
 Syph. Thou shalt have Juba's dress and 
 Juba's guards: 
 
 The doors will open, when Numidia's 
 prince 
 
 Seems to appear before the slaves that 
 watch them. 
 Sem. Heavens, what a thought is there! 
 Marcia 's my own ! 
 
 How will my bosom swell with anxious 
 
 joy) 
 When I behold her strugglmg in my 
 
 arms, 
 With glowing beauty and disordered 
 
 charms. 
 While fear and anger, with alternate 
 
 grace, 
 Pant in her breast, and vary in her face ! 
 So Pluto, seized of^ Proserpine, con- 
 veyed 
 To hell's tremendous gloom th' affrighted 
 
 maid, 
 There grimly smiled, pleased with the 
 
 beauteous prize, 
 Nor envied Jove his sunshine and his 
 
 skies, 
 
 1 pose«ased of. 
 
S68 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 {Lucia and Marda.) 
 
 Luc. Now tell me, Marcia, tell me from 
 
 thy soul, 
 If thou believ'st 't is possible for -woman 
 To suffer greater ills than Lucia suf- 
 fers? 
 Mar. O Lucia, Lucia, might my big-swoln 
 
 heart 
 Vent all its griefs, and give a loose to 
 
 sorrow : 
 Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep 
 
 pace 
 With all thy woes, and count out tear for 
 
 tear. 
 Luc. I know thou'rt doomed, alike, to be 
 
 beloved 
 By Juba and thy father's friend, Sem- 
 
 pronius ; 
 But which of these has power to charm 
 
 like Fortius? 
 Mar. Still must I beg thee not to name 
 
 Sempronius ? 
 Lucia, I like not that loud, boisterous 
 
 man; 
 Juba to all the bravery of a hero 
 Adds softest love, and more than female 
 
 sweetness ; 
 Juba might make the proudest of our 
 
 sex, 
 Any of woman-kind, but Marcia, happy. 
 Luc. And why not Marcia? come, you 
 
 strive in vain 
 To hide your thoughts from one who 
 
 knows too well 
 The inward glowings of a heart in love. 
 Mar. While Cato lives, his daughter has 
 
 no right 
 To love or hate, but as his choice directs. 
 Luc. But should this father give you to 
 
 'Sempronius ? 
 Mar. I dare not think he will: but if he 
 
 should — 
 Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I 
 
 suffer 
 Imaginary ills, and fancied tortures? 
 I hear the sound of feet ! they march this 
 
 way! 
 Let us retire, and try if we can drown 
 Each softer thought in sense of present 
 
 danger. 
 When love once pleads admission to our 
 
 hearts, 
 (In spite of all the virtue we can boast) 
 The woman that deliberates is lost. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 {Sempronius, dressed like Juba, with Nu- 
 midian guards.) 
 
 Sem. The deer is lodged. I 've tracked 
 
 her to her covert. 
 Be sure you mind the word, and when I 
 
 give it. 
 Rush in at once, and seize upon your 
 
 prey. 
 Let not her cries or tears have force to 
 
 move you. 
 — How will the young Numidian rave, to 
 
 see 
 His mistress lost! if aught could glad 
 
 my soul. 
 Beyond th' enjoyment of so bright a 
 
 prize, 
 'T would be to torture that young gay 
 
 barbarian. 
 — But, hark, what noise! death to my 
 
 hopes! 'tis he, 
 'T is Juba's self I there is but one way 
 
 left- 
 He must be murdered, and a passage cut 
 Through those his guards — Hah! das- 
 tards, do you tremble! 
 Or act like men, or by yon azure 
 
 heaven — 
 
 {Enter Juba.) 
 
 Juba. What do I see? who's this that 
 dare usurp 
 The guards and habit of Numidia's 
 prince? 
 Sem. One that was bom to scourge thy 
 arrogance, 
 Presumptuous youth! 
 Juba. What can this mean? 
 
 Sempronius ! 
 Sem. My sword shall answer thee. Have 
 
 at thy heart. 
 Juba. Nay, then beware thy own, proud, 
 
 barbarous man! 
 {Sempronius falls. His guards surrender.) 
 Sem. Curse on my stars! am I then 
 doomed to fall 
 By a boy's hand, disfigured in a vile 
 Numidian dress, and for a worthless 
 
 woman? 
 Gods, I'm distracted! this my close of 
 
 life! 
 Oh for a peal of thunder that would 
 
 make 
 Earth, sea, and air, and heaven, and 
 Cato tremble! 
 
 {Dies.) 
 Juba. With what m spring his furious 
 soul broke loose. 
 
CATO 
 
 569 
 
 And left the limbs still quivering on 
 
 the ground! 
 Hence let us caxry off those slaves to 
 
 Gate, 
 That we may there at length unravel 
 
 all 
 This dark design, this mystery of fate. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 (Lucia and Marcia.) 
 
 Luc. Sure 't was the clash of swords ; my 
 
 troubled heart 
 Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its 
 
 sorrows. 
 It throbs with fear and aches at every 
 
 sound. 
 Marcia, should thy brothers for my 
 
 I die away with horror at the thought. 
 Mar. See, Lucia, see! here's blood! 
 
 here's blood and murder! 
 Hah, a Numidian! heavens preserve the 
 
 prince ; 
 The face lies muffled up within the gar- 
 ment. 
 But hah! death to my sight, a diadem. 
 And purple robes ! Gods ! 't is he, 't is 
 
 he! 
 Juba, the loveliest youth that ever 
 
 warmed 
 A virgin's heart, Juba lies dead before 
 
 us! 
 Lue. Now, Marcia, now call up to thy 
 
 assistance 
 Thy wonted strength and constancy of 
 
 mind; 
 Thou canst not put it to a greater trial. 
 Mar. Lucia, look there, Aid wonder at 
 
 my patience. 
 Have I not cause to rave, and beat my 
 
 breast, 
 To rend my heart with grief, and run 
 
 distracted? 
 Luc. What can I think or say to give 
 
 thee comfort? 
 Mar. Talk not of comfort, 't is for lighter 
 
 ills: 
 Behold a sight that strikes all comfort 
 
 dead. 
 
 (Enter Juba, listening.) 
 
 I will indulge my sorrows, and give 
 
 way 
 To all the pangs and fury of despair, 
 That man, that best of men, deserved 
 
 it from me. 
 Juba. What do I hear! and was the false 
 
 Sempronius 
 
 The best of men? Oh had I fallen like 
 
 him. 
 And could have thus been mourned, I 
 
 had been happy! 
 Luc. Here will I stand, companion in thy 
 
 woes. 
 And help thee with my tears! when I 
 
 behold 
 A loss like thine, I half forget my own. 
 Mar. 'T is not in fate to ease my tor- 
 tured breast. 
 This empty world, to me a joyless des- 
 ert. 
 Has nothing left to make poor Marcia 
 
 happy. 
 Juba. I 'm on the rack ! was he so near 
 
 her heart? 
 Mar. Oh! he was all made up of love and 
 
 charms, 
 Whatever maid could wish or man ad- 
 mire: 
 Delight of every eye! when he appeared, 
 A secret pleasure gladdened all that 
 
 saw him; 
 But when he talked, the proudest Roman 
 
 blushed 
 To hear his virtues, and old age grew 
 
 wise. 
 Juba. I shall run mad — 
 Mar. Juba! Juba! Juba! 
 
 Juba. What means that voice? did she 
 
 not call on Juba? 
 Mar. Why do I think on what he was! 
 
 he 's dead ! 
 He 's dead, and never knew how much 
 
 I loved him. 
 Lucia, who knows but his poor bleeding 
 
 heart, 
 Amidst its agonies, remembered Marcia, 
 And the last words he uttered called me 
 
 cruel! 
 Alas! he knew not, hapless youth, he 
 
 knew not 
 Marcia's whole soul was full of love and 
 
 Juba. 
 Juba. Where am I? do I live! .ots am 
 
 indeed 
 What Marcia thinks! all is Elysium 
 
 round me! 
 Mar. Ye dear remains of the most loved 
 
 of men ! 
 Nor modesty nor virtue here forbid 
 A last embrace, while thus — 
 Juba. — See, Marcia, see, 
 
 (Throwing himself before her.) 
 The happy Juba lives! he lives to catch 
 That dear embrace, and to return it too 
 With mutual warmth and eagerness of 
 
 love. 
 
570 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Mar. With pleasure and amaze, I stand 
 transported ! 
 Sure 'tis a dream! dead and alive at 
 
 onee! 
 If thou art Juba, who lies there? 
 Juba. A wretch, 
 
 Disguised like Juba, on a cursed design. 
 The tale is long, nor have I heard it 
 
 out; 
 Thy father knows it all. I could not 
 
 bear 
 To leave thee in the neighborhood of 
 
 death, 
 But flew, in all the haste of love, to 
 
 find thee; 
 I found thee weeping, and confess this 
 
 once, 
 Am rapt with joy to see my Marcia's 
 tears. 
 Mar. I 've been surprised in an un- 
 guarded hour. 
 But must not now go back: the love, 
 
 that lay 
 Half smothered in my breast, has broke 
 
 through all 
 Its weak restraints, and burns in its full 
 
 luster; 
 I cannot, if I would, conceal it from 
 thee. 
 Juba. I'm lost in ecstasy! and dost thou 
 love. 
 Thou charming maid? 
 Mar. And dost thou live to ask it 1 
 
 Juba. This, this is life indeed! life worth 
 preserving, 
 Such life as Juba never felt till now! 
 Mar. Believe me, prince, before I thought 
 thee dead, 
 I did not know myself how much I loved 
 thee. 
 Juba. fortunate mistake! 
 Mar. Oh happy Marcia! 
 
 Juba. My joy! my best beloved! my only 
 wish ! 
 How shall I speak the transport of my 
 ■soul? 
 Mar. Lucia, thy arm ! oh let me rest upon 
 it!— 
 The vital blood, that had forsook my 
 
 heart, 
 Returns again in such tumultuous tides. 
 It quite o'ercomes me. Lead to my 
 
 apartment. — 
 prince! I blush to think what I have 
 
 said, 
 But fate has wrested the confession from 
 
 me; 
 Go on, and prosper in the paths of 
 honor, 
 
 Thy virtue will excuse my passion for 
 
 thee, 
 And make the gods propitious to our 
 
 love. 
 
 (Exeunt Marcia and Lucia.) 
 
 Juba. I am so blest, I fear 'tis all a 
 dream. 
 
 Fortune, thou now hast made amends 
 for all 
 
 Thy past unkindness. I absolve my 
 . stars. 
 
 What though Numidia add her con- 
 quered towns 
 
 And provinces to swell the victor's tri- 
 umph! 
 
 Juba will never at his fate repine; 
 
 Let Caesar have the world, if Marcia's 
 mine. 
 
 Scene 4. A March at a Distance. 
 (Cato and Lucius.) 
 
 Luc. I stand astonished! what, the bold 
 
 Sempronius ! 
 That still broke foremost through the 
 
 crowd of patriots, 
 As with a hurricane of zeal transported, 
 And virtuous even to madness — 
 Cato. Trust me, Lucius, 
 
 Our civil discords have produced such 
 
 crimes. 
 Such monstrous crimes, I am surprised 
 
 at notliing. 
 — Lucius! I am sick of this bad 
 
 world ! 
 The day-light and the sun grow painful 
 
 to me. • 
 
 {Enter Fortius^) 
 
 But see where Fortius comes! What 
 
 means this haste? 
 Why are thy looks thus changed? 
 Por. My heart is grieved. 
 
 I bring such news as will afflict my 
 
 father. 
 Cato. Has Caesar shed more Roman 
 
 blood? 
 Por. Not so. 
 
 The traitor Syphax, as within the square 
 He exercised his troops, the signal given, 
 Flew off at once with his Numidian horse 
 To the south gate, where Marcus holds 
 
 the watch. 
 I saw, and called to stop him, but in 
 
 vain. 
 He tossed his arm aloft, and proudly 
 
 told me. 
 
CATO 
 
 671 
 
 He would not stay and perish like Sem- 
 pronius, 
 Cato. Perfidious men! but haste, my son, 
 and see 
 
 Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman's 
 part. 
 
 (Exit For.) 
 
 — ^Lucius, the torrent bears too hard 
 upon me: 
 
 Justice gives way to force : the conquered 
 world 
 
 Is Caesar's: Cato has no business in it. 
 Luc. While pride, oppression, and injus- 
 tice reign, 
 
 The world will still demand her Cato's 
 presence. 
 
 In pity to mankind, submit to Caesar, 
 
 And reconcile thy mighty soul to life. 
 Cato. Would Lucius have me live to swell 
 the number 
 
 Of Caesar's slaves, or by a base submis- 
 sion 
 
 Give up the cause of Rome, and own a 
 tyrant? 
 Luc. The victor never will impose on 
 Cato 
 
 Ungenerous terms. His enemies confess 
 
 The virtues of humanity are Caesar's. 
 Cato. Curse on his virtues! they've un- 
 done his country. 
 
 Such popular humanity is treason — 
 
 But see young Juba ! the good youth ap- 
 pears 
 
 Full of the guilt of his perfidious sub- 
 jects. 
 Luc. Alas ! poor prince ! his fate deserves 
 compassion. 
 
 (Enter Juba.) 
 
 Juba. I blush and am confounded to ap- 
 pear 
 Before thy presence, Cato. 
 Cato. What's thy crime? 
 
 Juba. I 'm a Numidian. 
 Cato. And a brave one too. 
 
 Thou hast a Roman soul. 
 Juba. Hast thou not heard 
 
 Of my false countrymen? 
 Cato. Alas! young prince. 
 
 Falsehood and fraud shoot up in every 
 
 soil. 
 The product of all climes — Rome has its 
 Caesars. 
 Juba. "lis generous thus to comfort the 
 
 distressed. 
 Cato. 'Tis just to give applause where 
 'tis deserved; 
 Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of 
 fortune, 
 
 Like purest gold, that, tortured in the 
 furnace, 
 
 Comes out more bright, and brings forth 
 all its weight. 
 Juba. What shall I answer thee? my 
 ravished heart 
 
 O'erflows with secret joy ; I 'd rather 
 gain 
 
 Thy praise, Cato, than Numidia's em- 
 pire. 
 
 (Be-enter Fortius.) 
 
 For. Misfortune on misfortune! grief on 
 
 grief! 
 My brother Marcus — 
 Cato. Hah! what has he done? 
 
 Has he forsook his post? has he given 
 
 way? 
 Did he look tamely on, and let 'em 
 
 pass? 
 For. Scarce had I left my father, but I 
 
 met him 
 Borne on the shields of his surviving 
 
 soldiers, 
 Breathless and pale, and covered o'er 
 
 with wounds. 
 Long, at the head of his few faithful 
 
 friends. 
 He stood the shock of a whole host of 
 
 foes. 
 Till, obstinately brave, and bent on 
 
 death. 
 Oppressed with multitudes, he greatly 
 
 fell. 
 Cato. I 'm satisfied. 
 
 For. Nor did he fall before 
 
 His sword had pierc'd through the false 
 
 heart of Syphax. 
 Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor 
 Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the 
 
 ground. 
 Cato. Thanks to the gods! my boy has 
 
 done his duty. 
 — Fortius, when I am dead, be sure thou 
 
 place 
 His urn near mine. 
 For. Long may they keep asunder. 
 
 Luc. Cato! arm thy soul with all its 
 
 patience ; 
 See where the corpse of thy dead son 
 
 approaches ! 
 The citizens and senators, alarmed, 
 Have gathered round it, and attend it 
 
 weeping. 
 (Cato, meeting the corpse.) 
 Welcome, my son! here lay him down, 
 
 my friends, 
 Full in my sight, that I may view at 
 
 leisure 
 
572 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 The bloody corse, and count those glo- 
 rious wounds. 
 How beautiful is death, when earned by 
 
 virtue ! 
 Who would not be that youth? what 
 
 pity is it 
 That we can die but onee to serve our 
 
 country ! 
 Why sits this sadness on your brows, 
 
 my friends? 
 I should have bfushed if Cato's house 
 
 had stood 
 Secure, and flourished in a civil war. 
 — Fortius, behold thy brother, and re- 
 member 
 Thy life is not thy own, when Rome de- 
 mands it. 
 Juba, Was ever man like this! 
 
 {Aside.) 
 Cato. Alas! my friends! 
 
 Why mourn you thus? let not a private 
 
 loss 
 Afflict your hearts. 'T is Rome requires 
 
 our tears. 
 The mistress of the world, the seat of 
 
 empire. 
 The nurse of heroes, the delight of 
 
 gods. 
 That humbled the proud tyrants of the 
 
 earth. 
 And set the nations free, Rome is no 
 
 more. 
 Oh liberty! Oh virtue! Oh my country! 
 Juba. Behold that upright man ! Rome 
 
 fills his eyes 
 With tears, that flowed not o'er his own 
 
 dead son. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 Catg. Whate'er the Roman virtue has 
 
 subdued. 
 The sun's whole course, the day and 
 
 year, are Caesar's. 
 For him the self-devoted Decii died, 
 The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios 
 
 conquered ; 
 Even Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh! 
 
 my friends! 
 How is the toil of fate, the work of 
 
 The Roman empire fallen! Oh curst 
 
 ambition ! 
 Fallen into Caesar's hands! Our great 
 
 forefathers 
 Had left him nought to conquer but his 
 
 country. 
 Juba. While Cato lives, Caesar will blush 
 
 to see 
 Mankind enslaved, and be ashamed of 
 
 empire. 
 
 Cato. Caesar ashamed! has not he seen 
 
 Pharsalia? 
 hue. Cato, 't is time thou save thyself 
 
 and us. 
 Cato. Lose not a thought on me ; I 'm 
 
 out of danger. 
 Heaven will not leave me in the victor's 
 
 hand. 
 Csesar shall never say, I conquered Cato. 
 But, oh! my friends, your safety fills 
 
 my heart 
 With anxious thoughts : . a thousand se- 
 cret terrors 
 Rise in my soul: how shall I save my 
 
 friends ! 
 'T is now, Caesar, I begin to fear thee. 
 Luc. CsBsar has mercy, if we ask it of 
 
 him. 
 Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you ! let him 
 
 know 
 Whate'er was done against him, Cato did 
 
 it. 
 Add, if you please, that I request it of 
 
 ■him. 
 The virtue of my friends may pass un- 
 punished. 
 — Juba, my heart is troubled for thy 
 
 sake. 
 Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, 
 Or seek the conqueror? — 
 Juba. If I forsake thee 
 
 Whilst I have life, may heaven abandon 
 
 Juba! 
 Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee 
 
 aright, 
 Will one day make thee great; at Rome, 
 
 hereafter, 
 'T will be no crime to have been Cato's 
 
 friend. 
 Fortius, draw near! my son, thou oft 
 
 hast seen 
 Thy sire engaged in a corrupted state. 
 Wrestling with vice and faction: now 
 
 • thou seest me 
 Spent, overpowered, despairing of suc- 
 cess; 
 Let me advise thee to retreat betimes 
 To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field, 
 Where the great Censor toiled with his 
 
 own hands. 
 And all our frugal ancestors were 
 
 blessed 
 In humble virtues, and a rural life. 
 There live retired, pray for the peace of 
 
 Rome: 
 Content thyself, to be obscurely good. 
 When vice prevails, and impious men 
 
 bear sway. 
 The post of honor is a private station. 
 
CATO 573 
 
 For. I hope my father does not recom- 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 mend 
 
 Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful 
 
 A life to Fortius that he scorns him- 
 
 thought ! 
 
 self. 
 
 Through what variety of untried being. 
 
 Cato. Farewell, my friends! if there be 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes 
 
 any of you 
 
 must we pass ! 
 
 Who dare not trust the victor's clem- 
 
 The wide, th' unbounded prospect, lies 
 
 ency. 
 
 before me; 
 
 Know, there are ships prepared by my 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest 
 
 command, 
 
 upon it. 
 
 (Their sails already opening to the 
 
 Here will I hold. If there's a power 
 
 winds) 
 
 above us. 
 
 That shall convey you to the wished-for 
 
 (And that there is all nature cries aloud 
 
 port. 
 
 Through all her works) he must delight 
 
 Is there aught else, my friends, I can do 
 
 in virtue: 
 
 for you? 
 
 And that which he delights in, must be 
 
 The conqueror draws near. Once more 
 
 happy. 
 
 farewell ! 
 
 But when! or where! — This world was 
 
 If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet 
 
 made for Caesar. 
 
 In happier climes, and on a safer shore, 
 
 I'm weary of conjectures — This must 
 
 Where Cassar never shall approach us 
 
 end 'em. 
 
 more. 
 
 {Laying his hand on his sword.) 
 
 {Pointing to his dead son.) 
 
 Thus am I doubly armed: my death and 
 
 There the brave youth, with love of vir- 
 
 life, 
 
 tue fired, 
 
 My bane and antidote, are both before 
 
 Who greatly in his country's cause ex- 
 
 me: 
 
 pired. 
 
 This in a moment brings me to an 
 
 Shall know he conquered. The firm 
 
 end; 
 
 patriot there. 
 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 
 (Who made the welfare of mankind his 
 
 The soul secured in her existence, smiles 
 
 care) 
 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its 
 
 Though still, by faction, vice, and for- 
 
 point. 
 
 tune crost. 
 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun him- 
 
 Shall find the generous labor was not 
 
 self 
 
 lost. 
 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in 
 
 
 years ; 
 
 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 youth. 
 
 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 The wrecks of matter, and the crush of 
 
 worlds. 
 What means this heaviness that hangs 
 
 upon me? 
 This lethargy that creeps through all 
 
 my senses? 
 
 (Cafo solus, sitting in a thoughtful pos- 
 ture: in his hand Plato's Book on the 
 
 Immortality .of the Soul. A drawn 
 sword on the table by him.) 
 
 It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st 
 
 Nature, oppressed and harassed out with 
 
 well!— 
 
 care. 
 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond 
 
 Sinks down to rest. This once I'll 
 
 desire, 
 
 favor her. 
 
 This longing after immortality? 
 
 That my awakened soul may take her 
 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward 
 
 flight. 
 
 horror. 
 
 Renewed in all her strength, and fresh 
 
 Of falling into naught? why shrinks the 
 
 with life. 
 
 soul 
 
 An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruc- 
 
 fear 
 
 tion? 
 
 Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither 
 
 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 
 
 of 'em. 
 
 'Tis heaven itself, that points out an 
 
 Indifferent in his ehoioe to sleep or 
 
 hereafter. 
 
 die. 
 
574 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 {Cato, Fortius.) 
 
 Cato. But, hah! how's this, my son? 
 ■why this intrusion? 
 Were not my orders that I would be 
 
 private ? 
 Why am I disobeyed? 
 For. Alas! my father! 
 
 What means this sword, this instrument 
 
 of death? 
 Let me convey it hence! 
 Cato. Rash youth, forbear! 
 
 For. Oh let the prayers, th' entreaties 
 of your friends. 
 Their tears, their common danger, wrest 
 it from you. 
 Cato. Wouldst thou betray me? wouldst 
 thou give me up 
 A slave, a captive, into Caesar's hands? 
 Retire, and learn obedience to a father, 
 Or know, young man! — 
 For. Look not thus sternly on me ; 
 
 You know I 'd rather die than disobey 
 you. 
 Cato. 'T is well ! again I 'm master of my- 
 self. 
 Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our 
 
 And bar each avenue, thy gathering 
 fleets 
 
 O'erspread the. sea, and stop up every 
 port; 
 
 Cato shall open to himself a passage, 
 
 And mock thy hopes — 
 For. Oh, sir! forgive your son. 
 
 Whose grief hangs heavy on him! Oh 
 my father! 
 
 How am I sure it is not the last time 
 
 I e'er shall call you so! be not dis- 
 pleased, 
 
 Oh be not angry with me whilst I weep, 
 
 And, in the anguish of my heart beseech 
 you 
 
 To quit the dreadful purpose of your 
 soul! 
 Cato. Thou hast been ever good and duti- 
 ■ ful. 
 
 {Embracing him.) 
 
 Weep not, my son. All will be well 
 again. 
 
 The righteous gods, whom I have sought 
 to please, 
 
 Will succor Cato, and preserve his chil- 
 dren. 
 For. Your words give comfort to my 
 
 drooping heart. 
 Cato. Fortius, thou ma/st rely upon my 
 conduct. 
 
 Thy father will not act what misbe- 
 comes him. 
 
 But go, my son, and see if aught be 
 wanting 
 
 Among thy father's friends; see them 
 embarked ; 
 
 And tell me if the winds and seas be- 
 friend them. 
 
 My soul is quite weighed down with 
 care, and asks 
 
 The soft refreshment of a moment's 
 sleep. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 For. My thoughts are more at ease, my 
 heart revives. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 (Fortius and Mareia.) 
 
 For. Mareia, my sister, still there's 
 hope ! 
 
 Our father will not cast away a life 
 
 So needful to us all, and to his coun- 
 try. 
 
 He is retired to rest, and seems to 
 cherish 
 
 Thoughts full of peace. He has de- 
 spatched me hence 
 
 With orders, that bespeak a mind com- 
 posed, 
 
 And studious for the safety of his 
 friends. 
 
 Mareia, take care that none disturb his 
 slumbers. 
 Mar. ye immortal powers, that guard 
 the just, 
 
 Watch round his couch, and soften his 
 repose, 
 
 Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul 
 
 With easy dreams; remember all his vir- 
 tues ! 
 
 And show mankind that goodness is 
 your care. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 (Lucia and Mareia.) 
 
 Luc. Where is your father, Mareia, where 
 
 is Cato? 
 Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retired to 
 rest. 
 Lucia, I feel a gently-dawning hope 
 Rise in my soul. We shall be happy 
 still. 
 Luc. Alas! I tremble when I think on 
 Cato, 
 In [e]very view, in every thought I 
 tremble ! 
 
CATO 
 
 575 
 
 Cato is stern, and awful as a god; 
 
 He knows not how to wink at human 
 
 frailty, 
 Or pardon weakness that he never felt. 
 Mar. Though stern and awful to the foes 
 
 of Rome, 
 He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild. 
 Compassionate, and gentle to his friends. 
 Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best, 
 The kindest father! I have ever found 
 
 him 
 
 Easy, and good, and bounteous to my 
 wishes. 
 Luc. 'Tis his consent alone can make us 
 blest. 
 
 Mareia, we both are equally involved 
 
 In the same intricate, perplexed dis- 
 tress. 
 
 The cruel hand of fate, that has de- 
 stroyed 
 
 Thy brother Marcus, whom we both la- 
 ment — 
 Mar. And ever shall lament, unhappy 
 
 youth ! 
 Luc. Has set my soul at large, and now 
 I stand 
 
 Loose of my vow. But who knows 
 Cato's thoughts? 
 
 Who knows how yet he may dispose of 
 Fortius, 
 
 Or how he has determined of thyself? 
 Mar. Let him but live! commit the rest 
 to heaven. 
 
 (Enter Lucius.) 
 
 Luc. Sweet are the slumbers of the vir- 
 tuous man! 
 
 Mareia, I have seen thy godlike 
 
 father : 
 Some power invisible supports his soul, 
 And bears it up in all its wonted great- 
 ness. 
 A kind refreshing sleep is fallen upon 
 him: 
 
 1 saw him stretched at ease, his fancy 
 
 lost 
 In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his 
 
 couch. 
 He smiled, and cried, "CsBsar, thou canst 
 not hurt me." 
 Mar. His mind still labors with some 
 
 dreadful thought. 
 Luc. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods 
 of sorrow? 
 Dry up thy tears, my child, we all are 
 
 safe 
 While Cato lives — his presence will pro- 
 tect us. 
 
 {Enter Juha.) 
 
 Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are returned 
 
 from viewing 
 The number, strength, and posture of 
 
 our foes, 
 Who now encamp within a short hour's 
 
 march. 
 On the high point of yon bright western 
 
 tower 
 We ken them from afar, the setting sun 
 Plays on their shining arms and bur- 
 nished helmets. 
 And covers all the field with gleams of 
 
 fire. 
 Luc. Mareia, 'tis time we should awake 
 
 thy father. 
 Csesar is still disposed to give us terms, 
 And waits at distance till he hears from 
 
 Cato. 
 
 (Enter Fortius.) 
 
 Fortius, thy looks speak somewhat of 
 importance, 
 
 What tidings dost thou bring? methinks 
 I see 
 
 Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes. 
 Por. As I was hasting to the . port, 
 where now 
 
 My father's friends, impatient for a pas- 
 sage. 
 
 Accuse the lingering winds, a sail ar- 
 rived 
 
 From Pompey's son, who through the 
 realms of Spain 
 
 Calls out for vengeance on his father's 
 death, 
 
 And rouses the whole nation up to arms. 
 
 Were Cato at their head, once more 
 might Rome 
 
 Assert her rights and claim her liberty. 
 
 But, hark! what means that groan! Oh 
 give me way. 
 
 And let me fly into my father's presence. 
 (Exit Fortius.) 
 Luc. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on 
 Rome, 
 
 And in the wild disorder of his soul 
 
 Mourns o'er his country, — Hah! a sec- 
 ond groan ! — 
 
 Heaven guard us all — 
 Mar. ' Alas ! 't is not the voice 
 
 Of one who sleeps! 'tis agonizing pain, 
 
 'T is death is in that sound — 
 
 (Be-enter Fortius.) 
 
 For. Oh sight of woe! 
 
 Mareia, what we feared is come to 
 pass! 
 
 Cato is fallen upon his sword — 
 Luc. Fortius, 
 
576 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Hide all the horrors of thy mournful 
 tale, 
 
 And let us guess the rest. 
 Por. I 've raised him up, 
 
 And placed him in his chair, where, pale 
 and faint, 
 
 He gasps for breath, and, as his life 
 flows from him. 
 
 Demands to see his friends. His serv- 
 ants weeping, 
 
 Obsequious to his orders, bear him 
 hither. 
 (The hack scene opens and discovers Cato.) 
 Mar. O heaven, assist me in this dread- 
 ful hour 
 
 To pay the last sad duties to my father. 
 Juha. These are thy triumphs, thy ex- 
 ploits, Caesar! 
 Luc. Now is Rome fallen indeed! 
 
 (Cato brought forward in Ms chair.) 
 Cato. Here set me down — 
 
 Fortius, come near me — are my friends 
 embarked? 
 
 Can anything be thought of for their 
 service ? 
 
 Whilst I yet live, let me not live in 
 vain. 
 
 — O Lucius, art thou here? — thou art too 
 good ! — 
 
 Let this our friendship live between our 
 children; 
 
 Make Fortius happy in thy daughter 
 Lucia. 
 
 Alas ! poor man, he weeps ! — Marcia, my 
 daughter — 
 
 — Oh bend me forward! — Juba loves 
 thee, Marcia. 
 
 A senator of Rome, while Rome survived, 
 
 Would not have mateh'd his daughter 
 with a king, 
 
 But Caesar's arms have thrown down all 
 
 distinction ; 
 Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Ro- 
 man. — 
 — I 'm sick to death — Oh when shall I 
 
 get loose 
 From this vain world, tli' abode of guilt 
 
 and sorrow I 
 — And yet methinks a beam of light 
 
 breaks in 
 On ray departing soul. Alas! I fear 
 I 've been too hasty ! ye powers that 
 
 search 
 The heart of man, and weigh his inmost 
 
 thoughts. 
 If I have done amiss, impute it not! — 
 The best may err, but you are good, 
 
 and — oh ! 
 
 (Dies.) 
 Luc. There fled the greatest soul that 
 
 ever warmed 
 A Roman breast. Cato! my fritnd! 
 Thy will shall be religiously observed. 
 But let us bear this awful corpse to 
 
 Caesar, 
 And lay it in his sight, that it may 
 
 stand 
 A fence betwixt us and the victor's 
 
 wrath ; 
 Cato, though dead, shall still protect his 
 
 friends. 
 From hence, let fierce contending nations 
 
 know 
 What dire effects from civil discord flow. 
 'T is this that shakes our country with 
 
 alarms. 
 And gives up Rome a prey to Roman 
 
 arms, 
 Froduces fraud, and cruelty, and strife. 
 And robs the guilty world of Cato's life. 
 
, SIR RICHARD STEELE 
 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 Sir Richard Steele (1672-1729), born in 
 Dublin, son of a well-to-do Irish attorney, 
 was educated and passed most of his life in 
 England. Like the later Irish dramatist 
 Sheridan, he rose to prominence in both poli- 
 tics and literature. Active and versatile, he 
 passed some of his early years in the army, 
 and later contributed to political journalism, 
 entered Parliament and was knighted. A 
 lifelong friend of Addison, from the age of 
 fourteen, like him he won his chief fame by 
 contributing essays to The Tatter and The 
 Spectator, 1709-12. 
 
 The origin and influence of The Conscious 
 Lovers and its type of play are what give 
 the work its main interest. Of itself it is 
 not a particularly good play, and makes us 
 smile oftener when the author did not intend 
 we should than when he did. But all the 
 same it is a landmark of a profound change 
 in social history and in tlie drama. In 
 Steele's plays conscious morality, and senti- 
 mentalism, came into the drama of real life. 
 In Elizabethan domestic tragedy, such as 
 Heywood'a A Woman Killed with Kindness, 
 there had been conscious morality, but with 
 Steele we get a new combination and a new 
 literary effect. 
 
 Two chief influences led Steele to make the 
 innovation. In 1698 Jeremy Collier, a !Non- 
 juring clergyman, had attacked the con- 
 temporary drama in his book A Short View 
 of the Immorality and Profaneness of the 
 English Stage, a work, though not without 
 fallacies, remarkable for learning, wit, so- 
 briety, and sense. On Steele it created a 
 profound impression. Again, in 1701, while 
 still in the army, he had published The Chris- 
 tian Hero, as a check on his own expansive 
 though conscientious nature, declaring Chris- 
 tian principles a better guide for a man than 
 the principles of honor so-called which were 
 the Ideals of most persons of station; the 
 chief result of which book among his mates 
 was "that from being reckoned no unde- 
 lightful companion he was soon reckoned a 
 disagreeable fellow." Feeling a challenge to 
 prove himself after all no prig, he undertook 
 in 1701 " to enliven his character " by the 
 production of a comedy — with the unexpected 
 title The Funeral. This and several which 
 followed, though not lacking cleverness and 
 humor, are notable chiefly for their attempt 
 to teach or at least not to offend morality and 
 virtue. Thus he served both God and Mam- 
 
 mon. 
 
 The Conscious Lovers was written later in 
 
 Steele's life, after the Spectator period. He 
 worked over it for some two years; it ap- 
 peared in 1722, and ran for twenty-six nights, 
 which then meant a considerable success. It 
 evoked much discussion, especially as to act 
 IV, where Bevil as a matter of principle 
 avoids fighting a duel, the strongest and most 
 genuine scene in the play. Steele states in 
 his preface that he wrote the play for tlie 
 sake of this point. Early in his life he had 
 been forced in^o a duel, and came to feel 
 keenly the iniquity of the conventional code 
 of honor; in the play he imaginatively em- 
 bodies and applies the principles which he had 
 laid down in The Christian Hero. Other 
 timely and practical matters which find a 
 voice in the play are the question as to the, 
 relative dignity of the landed aristocracy and 
 the merchant class, discussed by Sealand and 
 the elder Bevil in act IV, and the duty of a 
 father to look sharply into the character 
 of the man to whom he is to intrust his 
 daughter. At such points we feel a decidedly 
 new and modern spirit, and are conscious, 
 under the artificial exterior, of a humane and 
 independent thinker. In other places we get 
 a vivid light on the roughness of contempo- 
 rary life, even among the sentimental; the 
 coarse talk of Cimberton seems to anger the 
 pride rather than to shock the modesty even 
 of the proper Lucinda. Likewise we are sur- 
 prised, though rather relieved, to hear this 
 well-conducted young woman now and then 
 exclaim " Deuce on 'em ! " On the whole, 
 however, the play represents rather things 
 as they supposedly ought to be than as they 
 are. Its moral idealism is more prominent 
 than its realism. Some credit must doubt- 
 less be given to such plays as Steele's, as to 
 novels like Godwin's Caleb Williams {17!)4), 
 also written against duelling, for such, 
 changes in public feeling as have, for ex- 
 ample, abolished the duel from the Anglo- 
 Saxon world. The seriousness which was 
 genially satirized by Fielding through the 
 mouth of Parson Adams in Joseph Andrews 
 was one reason for the play's long hold on 
 people — " I never heard of any plays fit for 
 a Christian to read, but Cato and the Con- 
 scious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter 
 there are some things almost solemn enough 
 for a sermon." The appealing emotionality 
 of sentimental drama fitted it to be an in- 
 strument of social reform. 
 
 The words sentiment and sentimentalism aa 
 used of this and later plays have really two 
 applications. They refer to a soft emotional- 
 
 577 
 
578 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ism — pity, mild unpassionate love, gentle 
 admiration, over-delicacy, and sensitiveness; 
 and also to the fondness of the characters 
 for sententious expression of laudable opin- 
 ions. A " man of sentiment " is a man of 
 feeling, and given to moralizing. The de- 
 velopment of scntimentalism, unlike that of 
 classicism and romanticism, was not well de- 
 fined enough to be called a movement; but 
 all of them were alike in this, that each was 
 at bottom merely a taste, a liking for a cer- 
 tain kind of esthetic impression, a liking 
 which has always existed, but at a particular 
 time became especially general and self-ex- 
 pressive. Since these plays attempted to sub- 
 stitute something harmless for the reckless 
 wit and unscrupulous intrigue of Restora- 
 tion comedy, they were out off from a source 
 of strong sensation ; and it may truly be said 
 that sentimentalism is an endeavor not only 
 to secure the ethical character which the 
 earlier comedy had lacked, but also to retain 
 the interest and piquancy which it had se- 
 cured in another way. It remained for 
 Goldsmith and Sheridan to show that comedy 
 could abandon its licentiousness without sub- 
 stituting tears for laughter. Yet such was 
 the genuine originality and vitality of senti- 
 mentalism that even these men, its enemies, 
 could not escape its influence. 
 
 The sentimentalism of this play is not ex- 
 treme or offensive, yet it is ever present. The 
 delicacy of young Bevil toward his father is 
 almost as fine-drawn as that of Mrs. Ann 
 Radcliffe's romantic heroine, later in the cen- 
 tury, who had too much delicacy to tell her 
 parents of a proposal of marriage. Old 
 Bevil is arrogant and domineering, " yet their 
 fear of giving each other pain is attended 
 with constant mutual uneasiness.". The 
 music-master is introduced merely to let 
 Bevil show that " the distinguishing part 
 of a gentleman " is " to make his superiority 
 of fortune as easy to his inferiors as he can," 
 and to win for him Indiana's " smile of ap- 
 probation." When we first see him he is lay- 
 ing in moral fuel for the day's rim by read- 
 ing Addison's Vision of Mirza. Bevil ap- 
 pears to us a prig, and we dislike him; he 
 pays the penalty of practically all faultless 
 heroes in realistic fiction. The reason for 
 this all but universal feeling is not a mean 
 and envious streak in human nature, but a 
 pardonable resentment at seeing what we 
 know to be rare and difficult represented as so 
 easy as complete virtue is to these unnatural 
 heroes. Indiana has all the swooning, cling- 
 ing sensibility of a long line of later heroines; 
 in the epoch of sensibility women were not 
 expected to control themselves. 'J'he moral 
 delicacy of the play is expressed in its very 
 title. Alluding to the coupliit with which 
 Indiana closes the second act, — 
 
 As conscious honor all his actions steers, 
 So conscious innocence dispels my fears, — 
 
 the word " conscious " in " Conscious Lovers " 
 
 means " who know what they are about." 
 " Conscious love " was a household substitute 
 for the reckless passion which the drama has 
 usually preferred. 
 
 The ideality, representing things as better 
 or more convenient than in life, is not con- 
 fined to the characters. As a further substi- 
 tute for dash and wit, we have an elaborate 
 plot in which probability is not allowed to 
 stand in the way of somewhat crude humor, 
 or the niceties of poetic justice — in which 
 all things work together for good for those 
 who love good, and in which the most childish 
 disguises and intrigues are made to work. 
 The facts of the world give way before the in- 
 terests of both the characters and the drama- 
 tist. Sentimental comedy is thoroughly arti- 
 ficial and conventional in the elements of its 
 plot. There is a curious contrast between the 
 highly sophisticated and fragile characters 
 and the traditional sort of story through 
 which they inove, with its disguises, long- 
 lost children, new-found wills, and the like. 
 For free comedy in this play we have to re- 
 sort to Tom and Phillis, who are not bound 
 by the code which trammels their betters, and 
 who are an early instance of a device com- 
 mon in later novel and drama, a comic and 
 evcry-day pair of lovers alongside a romantic 
 pair. No critic has failed to relish Tom's 
 description (111. i) of his Pyramus-like 
 courtship of Phillis through the window-glass 
 which she was cleaning. But unfortunately 
 this is only told, not acted. 
 
 The traditional, artificial character of the 
 plot is partly accounted for by its source, 
 the Andria of Terence, to which the first two 
 acts and the last are especially indebted; 
 almost every character and every essential 
 incident in Steele's work has its counter- 
 part in the admirable Latin play. Glycerium, 
 lost by her father in infancy and now kept 
 mistress of Pamphilus, turns into the deli- 
 cate-minded Indiana, innocently supported 
 for a time by Bevil's bounty. Charinus, in 
 love with the girl whom Pamphilus' father 
 would have him marry, jealously quarrels 
 with his unwilling rival; from this Steele 
 develops the incident of the averted duel. 
 Tlie recognition of the long-lost daughter at 
 the end he does his best to make as plausible 
 as it seems in Terence; even the change of 
 old Sealand's name is paralleled in Terence 
 by a change of the daughter's. It is of the 
 greatest interest to see how the stock char- 
 acters of Latin comedy — the tyrannical old 
 man, the wild son, the rascally slave — have 
 been translated as it were into the native 
 English vernacular, or refined into ideality. 
 
 The soundest estimate of this and like 
 plays is that they are a hybrid, attempting 
 to combine the entertainment afforded by 
 comedy with the dignity and " uplift " of 
 tragedy. The comic muse, grown too wild, 
 was to be reformed by the influence of her 
 sedate sister. The idealized personalties, 
 
SIR RICHARD STEELE 
 
 579 
 
 the indifference to every-day probability, and 
 the moral teaching of contemporary tragedy 
 are fully adopted; its violent emotions are 
 toned dowTi to a degree which will not rend 
 the frailer fabric of comedy, and become 
 sentimentalism ; so far as possible its poetic 
 vesture is preserved. In The Conscious 
 Lovers much of the talk is not meant to be 
 that of daily life; it is formal, rhetorical, 
 rhythmical, and, toward the end especially, 
 much of it is actually blank verse (though 
 printed as prose). This heavy and edifying 
 side of the play is relieved by comic ele- 
 ments, partly realistic (as in the talk of 
 Tom), partly fantastic (as in the figure of 
 Cimberton and in the various disguises). 
 But the lighter element Is made to know its 
 place; sentimentalism in the person of 
 Lucinda rebukes comedy in the person of 
 Fhillis as "a pert merry hussy" (III. i). 
 The novelty and a certain merit in the com- 
 bination gave it success with the uncritical; 
 and though it was fair game for the ridicule 
 it was to receive from the great comic 
 dramatists, Goldsmith and Sheridan, even 
 
 the critical will give a certain sympathy to 
 its well-meaning optimism. This is the 
 fundamental trait it has in common with 
 contemporary tragedy, and is also what gave 
 the type its long life. The improving senti- 
 ments poured out, and the upright intentions 
 of the characters, seem to gain validity and 
 even divine approval from the complete satis- 
 faction in which everything ends. The pic- 
 ture of life afforded by the play justifies 
 the moral optimism of the concluding 
 couplet : 
 
 Whate'er the generous mind itself denies, 
 The secret care of Providence supplies. 
 
 . The Conscious Lovers was played in the 
 principal theaters of London for generations, 
 and sentimentalism more or less modified has 
 lived on even to the present day, in dramas 
 of lower grade; more important yet, it built 
 Itself a more stately mansion in the novel, 
 beginning with Richardson. Sometimes com- 
 bined with romance, it flourished in the nine- 
 teenth century, and is one of the main ele- 
 ments in the novels of Dickens. 
 
 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 " Illud genus narrationis, quod in personis 
 positum est, debet habere sermonis fcstivita- 
 tem, animorum dissimilitudinem, gravitatem, 
 lenitatem, spem, metum, suspicionem, desider- 
 ium, dissimulationem, misericordiam, rerum 
 
 varietates, fortunse commutationem, inspera- 
 tum Incommodum, subitam letitiam, jucun- 
 dum exitum rerum." * — CiCEKO, Rhetor, ad 
 Herenn. Lib. i. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Sib John Bevil. 
 
 Mb. Sealand. 
 
 Bevil, Jun., in love unth Indiana. 
 
 Mybtle, in love with Lucinda. 
 
 CiMBEETON, a Coxoomh. 
 
 Humphry, an old Servant to Sir John. 
 
 Tom, Servant to Bevil, Jun, 
 
 Daniel, a Country Boy, Servant to Indiana. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. Sir John Bevil's House. 
 (Enter Sir John Bevil and Humphry.) 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Have you ordered that I 
 should not be interrupted while I am 
 dressing? 
 
 Humph. Yes, sir; I believed you had 
 something of moment to say to me. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Let me see, Humphry; I 
 think it is now full forty years since I 
 first took thee to be about myself. 
 
 Humph. I thank you, sir, it has been an 
 easy forty years; and I have passed 'em 
 
 Mrs. Sealand, second Wife to Sealanp. 
 
 Isabella, Sister to Sealand. 
 
 Indiana, Sealand's Daughter, by his first 
 
 Wife. 
 Lucinda, Sealand's Daughter, by his second 
 
 Wife. 
 Phillis, Maid to Lucinda. 
 
 Scene. — London. 
 
 without much sickness, eare, or labor. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Thou hast a brave constitu- 
 tion; you are a year or two older than I 
 am, sirrah. 
 
 Humph. You have ever been of that 
 mind, sir. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. You knave, you know it; I 
 took thee for thy gravity and sobriety, 
 in my wild years. 
 
 Humph. Ah, sir! our manners were 
 
 * The tind of story which is presented on 
 the stage ought to be marlced by gaiety of dialogue, 
 diversity of character, seriousness, tenderness, hope, 
 fear, suspicion, desire, dissimulation, pity, variety 
 of events, changes of fortune, unexpected disaster, 
 sudden joy, and a happy ending. 
 
580 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 formed from our different fortunes, not 
 our different age. Wealtli gave a loose 
 to your youth, and poverty put a re- 
 straint upon mine. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Well, Humphry, you know I 
 have been a kind master to you; I have 
 used you, for the ingenuous nature I 
 observed in you from the beginning, 
 more like an humble friend than a serv- 
 ant. 
 
 Humph. I humbly beg you '11 be so tender 
 of me as to explain your commands, sir, 
 ■without any farther preparation. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I '11 tell thee, then : In the 
 first place, this wedding of my son's in 
 all probabilitj' — shut the door — will 
 never be at all. 
 
 Humph. How, sir! not be at a\U for what 
 reason is it carried on in appearance? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Honest Humphry, have pa- 
 tience ; and I '11 tell thee all in order. 
 I have, myself, in some part of my life, 
 lived (indeed) with freedom, but, I hope, 
 without reproach. Now, I thought lib- 
 erty would be as little injurious to my 
 son; therefore, as soon as he grew to- 
 wards man, I indulged him in living 
 after liis own manner. I knew not how, 
 otherwise, to judge of his inclination; 
 for what can be concluded from a be- 
 havior under restraint and fear? But 
 what charms me above all expression is, 
 that my son has never, in the least ac- 
 tion, the most distant hint or word, 
 valued himself upon that great estate of 
 his mother's, which, according to our 
 marriage settlement, he has had ever 
 since he came to age. 
 
 Humph. No, sir; on the contrary, he 
 seems afraid of appearing to enjoy it, 
 before you or any belonging to you. He 
 is as dependent and resigned to your 
 will as if he had not a farthing but what 
 must come from your immediate bounty. 
 You have ever acted like a good and 
 generous father, and he like an obedient 
 and grateful son. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Nay, his carriage is so easy 
 to all with whom he converses," that he 
 is never assuming, never prefers him- 
 self to others, nor ever is guilty of that 
 rough sincerity which a man is not called 
 to, and certainly disobliges most of his 
 acquaintance; to be short, Humphry, his 
 reputation was so fair in the world, that 
 old Sealand, the great Indian merchant, 
 has offered his only daughter, and sole 
 heiress to that vast estate of his, as a 
 wife for him. You may be sure I made 
 
 no difiSculties, the match was agreed on, 
 and this very day named for the wed- 
 ding. 
 
 Humph. What hinders the proceeding? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Don't interrupt me. You 
 know I was last Thursday at the mas- 
 querade; my son, you may remember, 
 soon found us out. He knew his grand- 
 father's habit, which I then wore; and 
 though it was the mode, in the last age, 
 yet the masquers, you know, followed us 
 as if we had been the most monstrous 
 figures in that whole assembly. 
 
 Humph. I remember, indeed, a young 
 man of quality in the habit of a clown, 
 that was particularly troublesome. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Right; he was too much what 
 he seemed to be. You remember how 
 impertinently he followed and teased 
 us, and would know who we were. 
 
 Humph. I know he has a mind to come 
 into that particular. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Ay, he followed us till the 
 gentleman who led the lady in the Indian 
 mantle presented that gay creature to 
 the rustic, and bid him (like Cymon in 
 the fable) grow polite by falling in love, 
 and let that worthy old gentleman alone, 
 meaning me. The clown was not re- 
 formed, but rudely persisted, and of- 
 fered to force off my mask; with that, 
 the gentleman, throwing off his own, ap- 
 peared to be my son, and in his concern 
 for me, tore off that of the nobleman; 
 at this they seized each other; the com- 
 pany called the guards, and in the sur- 
 prise the lady swooned away; upon 
 which my son quitted his adversary, and 
 had now no care but of the lady. When 
 raising her in his arms, "Art thou gone," 
 cried he, "for ever? — forbid it. Heaven!" 
 She revived at his known voice, and with 
 the most familiar, though modest, ges- 
 ture, hangs in safety over his shoulder 
 weeping, but wept as in the arms of one 
 before whom she could give herself a 
 loose, were she not under observation; 
 while she hides her face in his neck, he 
 carefully conveys her from the com- 
 pany. 
 
 Humph. I have observed this accident has 
 dwelt upon you very strongly. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Her uncommon air, her noble 
 modesty, the dignity of her person, and 
 the occasion itself, drew the whole as- 
 sembly together; and I soon heard it 
 buzzed about she was the adopted daugh- 
 ter of a famous sea-officer who had 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 581 
 
 served in France. Now this unexpected 
 and public discovery of my son's so deep 
 concern for her 
 
 Humph. Was what, I suppose, alarmed 
 Mr. Sealand, in behalf of his daughter, 
 to break off the match? 
 
 ■Sir J. Bev. You are right. He came to 
 me yesterday and said he thought him- 
 self disengaged from the bargain; being 
 credibly informed my son was already 
 married, or worse, to the lady at the mas- 
 querade. I palliated matters, and in- 
 sisted on our agreement; but we parted 
 with little less than a direct breach be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Humph. Well, sir; and what notice have 
 you taken of all this to my young mas- 
 ter? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. That 's what I wanted to de- 
 bate with you. I have said nothing to 
 him yet — but look you, Humphry, if 
 there is so much in this amour of his, 
 that he denies upon my summons to 
 marry, I have cause enough to be of- 
 fended; and then by my insisting upon 
 his marrying to-day, I shall know how 
 far he is engaged to this lady in mas- 
 querade, and from thence only shall be 
 able to take my measures. In the mean- 
 time I would have you find out how far 
 that rogue, his man, is let into his se- 
 cret. He, I know, wiU play tricks as 
 much to cross me, as to serve his master. 
 
 Humph. Why do you think so of him, 
 sir? I believe he is no worse than I 
 was for you, at your son's age. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I see it in the rascal's looks. 
 But I have dwelt on these things too 
 long; I'll go to my son immediately, 
 and while I 'm gone, your part is to con- 
 vince his rogue, Tom, that I am in 
 earnest. — I '11 leave him to you. 
 (Exit Sir John Bevil.) 
 
 Humph. ' Well, though this father and son 
 live as well together as possible, yet 
 their fear of giving each other pain is at- 
 tended with constant mutual uneasiness. 
 I 'm sure I have enough to do to be hon- 
 est, and yet keep well with them both. 
 But they know I love 'em, and that 
 makes the task less painful, however. 
 Oh, here's the prince of poor cox- 
 combs, the representative of all the bet- 
 ter fed than taught. Ho! ho! Tom, 
 whither so gay and so airy this morn- 
 ing? 
 
 (Enter Tom, singing.) 
 
 Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentle- 
 men are another kind of people than you 
 domestic ordinary drudges that do busi- 
 ness; we are raised above you. The 
 pleasures of board wages, tavern din- 
 ners, and many a clear gain ; vails,^ alas ! 
 you never heard or dreamt of. 
 
 Humph. Thou hast follies and vices 
 enough for a man of ten thousand a 
 year, though 't is but as t'other day that 
 I sent for you to town to put you into 
 Mr. Sealand's family, that you might 
 learn a little before I put you to my 
 young master, who is too gentle for train- 
 ing such a rude thing as you were into 
 proper obedience. You then pulled ofE 
 your hat to every one you met in the 
 street, like a bashful great awkward cub 
 as you were. But your great oaken 
 cudgel, when you were a booby, became 
 you much better than that dangling 
 stick at your button, now you are a fop. 
 That 's fit for nothing, except it hangs 
 there to be ready for your master's 
 hand when you are impertinent. 
 
 Tom. Uncle Humphry, yon know my 
 master scorns to strike his servants. 
 You talk as if the world was now just 
 as it was when my old master and you 
 were in your youth; when you went to 
 dinner because it was so much o'clock, 
 when the great blow was given in the 
 hall at the pantry door, and all the fam- 
 ily came out of their holes in such 
 strange dresses and formal faces as you 
 see in the pictures in our long gallery in 
 the country. ' 
 
 Humph. Why, you wild rogue! 
 
 Tom. You could not fall to your dinner 
 till a formal fellow in a black gown said 
 something over the meat, as if the cook 
 had not made it ready enough. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, who do you prate after? 
 Despising men of sacred characters! I 
 hope you never heard my good young 
 master talk so like a profligate. 
 
 Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me, when 
 I first came to town, about being or- 
 derly, and the doctrine of wearing shams 
 to make linen last clean a fortnight, 
 keeping my clothes fresh, and wearing 
 a frock within doors. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons 
 because I supposed at that time your 
 master and you might have dined at 
 home every day, and cost y6u nothing; 
 then you might have made a good fam- 
 ily servaint. But the gang you have fre^ 
 
 1 tips. 
 
582 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 quented since at chocolate houses and 
 taverns, in a continual round of noise 
 and extravagance 
 
 Tom. I don't know what you heavy in- 
 mates call noise and extravagance; but 
 we gentlemen, who are well fed, and cut 
 a figure, sir, think it a fine life, and 
 that we must be very pretty fellows who 
 are kept only to be looked at. 
 
 Humph. Very well, sir, I hope the fash- 
 ion of being lewd and extravagant, de- 
 spising of decency and order, is almost 
 at an end, since it is arrived at persons 
 of your quality. 
 
 Tom. Master Humphry, ha ! ha ! you were 
 an unhappy lad to be sent up to town 
 in such queer days as you were. Why, 
 now, sir, the lackeys are the men of 
 pleasure of the age, the top gamesters; 
 and many a laced coat about town have 
 had their education in our party-colored 
 regiment. We are false lovers; have a 
 taste of music, poetry, billet-doux, dress, 
 politics; ruin damsels; and when we are 
 tired of this lewd town, and have a mind 
 to take up,^ whip into our masters' wigs 
 and linen, and marry fortunes. 
 
 Humph. Hey-day ! 
 
 Tom. Nay, sir, our order is carried up to 
 the highest dignities and distinctions; 
 step but into the Painted Chamber,* 
 and by our titles you'd take us all for 
 men of quality. Then, again, come 
 down to the Court of Requests,' and 
 yon see us all laying our broken heads 
 together for the good of the nation ; and 
 though we never carry a question ne- 
 mine contradicente,* yet this I can say, 
 with a safe conscience (and I wish 
 every gentleman of our cloth could lay 
 his hand upon his heart and say the 
 same), that I never took so much as a 
 single mug of beer for my vote in all 
 my life. 
 
 Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your 
 extravagance ; I '11 hear you prate no 
 longer. I wanted to see you to enquire 
 how things go with your master, as far 
 as you understand them; I suppose he 
 knows he is to be married to-day. 
 
 Tom. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed 
 as gay as the sun; but, between you and 
 I, my dear, he has a very heavy heart 
 under all that gaiety. As soon as he was 
 dressed I retired, but overheard him 
 sigh in the most heavy manner. He 
 
 walked thoughtfully to and fro in the 
 room, then went into his closet; when he 
 came out he gave me this for his mis- 
 tress, whose maid, you know 
 
 Humph. Is passionately fond of your fine 
 person. 
 
 Tom. The poor fool is so tender, and 
 loves to hear me talk of the world, and 
 the plays, operas, and ridottos ' for the 
 winter, the parks and Belsize* for our 
 summer diversions; and "Lard!" says 
 she, "you are so wild, but you have a 
 world of humor." 
 
 Humph. Coxcomb! Well, but why don't 
 you run with your master's letter to Mrs. 
 Lueinda, as he ordered you? 
 
 Tom. Because Mrs. Lueinda is not so 
 easily come at as you think for. 
 
 Humph. Not easily come at? Why, sir- 
 rah, are not her father and my old mas- 
 ter agreed that she and Mr. Bevil are 
 to be one flesh before to-morrow morn- 
 ing? 
 
 Tom. It 's no matter for that ; her mother, 
 it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to 
 it; and you must know, Mr. Humphry, 
 that in that family the grey mare is the 
 better horse. 
 
 Humph. What dost thou mean? 
 
 Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pre- 
 tends to have a will of her own, and has 
 provided a relation of hers, a stiff, 
 -starched philosopher, and a wise fool, 
 for her daughter; for which reason, for 
 these ten days past, she has suffered no 
 message nor letter from my master to 
 come near her. 
 
 Humph. And where had you this intelli- 
 gence ? 
 
 Tom. From a foolish fond soul that can 
 keep nothing from me; one that will de- 
 liver this letter too, if she is rightly 
 managed. 
 
 Humph. What! her pretty handmaid, 
 Mrs. Phillis? 
 
 Tom. Even she, sir; this is the very 
 hour, you know, she usually comes 
 hither, under a pretence of a visit to 
 your housekeeper, forsooth, but in 
 reality to have a glance at 
 
 Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. 
 
 Tom. Nothing else in nature; you must 
 know, I love to fret and play with the 
 little wanton. 
 
 Humph. Play with the little wanton! 
 What will this world come to! 
 
 2 reform. sfte'' rooms in the <• Parties with musio 
 
 s Apparently tsv- old Parliament and dancing, in- 
 
 ems or room» in House. troduced _ into 
 
 a tavern, named * unanimously. England in the 
 
 year of this play 
 (Oxf. Dirt.). 
 8 A fashionable 
 
 pleasure-resort in 
 
 the northwest of 
 London. 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 583 
 
 Tom. I met her this morning in a new 
 manteau and petticoat, not a bit the 
 worse for her lady's wearing; and she 
 has always new thoughts and new airs 
 with new clothes— then she never fails 
 to steal some glance or gesture from 
 every visitant at their house; and is, 
 indeed, the whole town of coquets at 
 second-hand. But here she comes; in 
 one motion she speaks and describes her- 
 self better than all the words in the 
 world can. 
 
 Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your 
 own affair is over, you will be so good 
 as to mind your master 's with her. 
 
 Tom. Dear Humphry, you know my mas- 
 ter is my friend, and those are people I 
 never forget. 
 
 Humph. Sauciness itself! but I'll leave 
 you to do your best for him. 
 {Exit.) 
 {Enter Phillis.) 
 
 Phil. Oh, Mr. Thomas, is Mrs. Sugarkey 
 at home? Lard, one is almost ashamed 
 to pass along the streets! The town is 
 quite empty, and nobody of fashion left 
 in it; and the ordinary people do so 
 stare to see anything dressed like a 
 woman of condition, as it were on the 
 same floor with them, pass by. Alas! 
 alas! it is a sad thing to walk. for- 
 tune! fortune! 
 
 Tom. What! a sad thing to walk? Why, 
 Madam Phillis, do you wish yourself 
 lame? 
 
 Phil. No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were 
 generally carried in a coach or chair, 
 and of a fortune neither to stand nor 
 go, but to totter, or slide, to be short- 
 sighted, or stare, to fleer in the face, to 
 look distant, to observe, to overlook, yet 
 all become me; and, if I was rich, I 
 could twire ^ and loll as well as the best 
 of them. Oh, Tom! Tom! is it not a 
 pity that you should be so great a cox- 
 comb, and I so great a coquet, and yet 
 be such poor devils as we are? 
 
 Tom. Mrs. Phillis, I am your humble 
 servant for that 
 
 Phil. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know how much 
 you are my humble servant, and know 
 what you said to Mrs. Judy, upon see- 
 ing her in one of her lady's cast man- 
 teaus: That any one would have 
 thought her the lady, and that she had 
 ordered the other to wear it till it sat 
 easy; for now only it was becoming. 
 
 To my lady it was only a covering, to 
 Mrs. Judy it was a habit. This you 
 said, after somebody or other. Oh, Tom ! 
 Tom! thou art as false and as base as 
 the best gentleman of them all; but, 
 you wretch, talk to me no more on the 
 old odious subject — don't, I say. 
 
 Tom. I know not how to resist your com- 
 mands, madam. 
 
 {In a submissive tone, retiring.) 
 
 Phil. Commands about parting are grown 
 mighty easy to you of late. 
 
 Tom. Oh, I have her; I have nettled and 
 put her into the right temper to be 
 wrought upon and set a-prating. 
 {Aside.) — Why, truly, to be plain with 
 you, Mrs. Phillis, I can take little com- 
 fort of late in frequenting your house. 
 
 Pliil. Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of 
 a sudden offends your nicety at our 
 house ? 
 
 Tom. I don't care to speak particulars, 
 but I dislike the whole. 
 
 Phil. I thank you, sir, I am a part of 
 that whole. 
 
 Tom. Mistake me not, good Phillis. 
 
 Phil. Good Phillis! Saucy enough. But 
 however 
 
 Tom. I say, it is that thou art a part, 
 which gives me pain for the disposition 
 of the whole. You must know, madam, 
 to be serious, I am a man, at the bot- 
 tom, of prodigious nice honor. You 
 are too much exposed to company at 
 your house. To be plain, I don't like 
 so many, that would be your mistress's 
 lovers, whispering to you. 
 
 Phil. Don't think to put that upon me. 
 You say this, because I wrung you to the 
 heart when I touched your guilty con- 
 science about Judy. 
 
 Tom. Ah, Phillis! Phillis! if you but 
 knew my heart! 
 
 Phil. I know too much on 't. 
 
 Tom. Nay, then, poor Crispo's * fate and 
 mine are one. Therefore give me leave 
 to say, or sing at least, as he does upon 
 the same occasion — 
 
 "Se vedette," &c. 
 {Sings.) 
 
 Phil. What, do you think I 'm to be 
 fobbed " off with a song ? I don't ques- 
 tion but you have sung the same to Mrs. 
 Judy too. 
 
 Tom. Don't disparage your charms, good 
 Phillis, with jealousy of so worthless an 
 object; besides, she is a poor hussy, and 
 if you doubt the sincerity of my love. 
 
 7 "Make eyes," OS" 
 
 s See note on II. ii. 
 
 Put offl, cajoled. 
 
584 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY 
 
 you will allow me true to my interest. 
 You are a fortune, Phillis. 
 
 Phil. What would the fop be at now? 
 In good time, indeed, you shall be set- 
 ting up for a fortune! 
 
 Tom. Dear Mrs. Phillis, you have such 
 a spirit that we shall never be dull in 
 marriage when we come together. But 
 I tell you, you are a fortune, and you 
 have an estate in my hands. 
 (He pulls out a purse, she eyes it.) 
 
 Phil. What pretence have I to what is in 
 your hands, Mr. Tom? 
 
 Tom. As thus : there are hours, you know, 
 when a lady is neither pleased or dis- 
 pleased; neither sick or well; when she 
 lolls or loiters; when she's without de- 
 sires — from having more of everything 
 than she knows what to do with. 
 
 Phil. Well, what then? 
 
 Tom. When she has not life enough to 
 keep her bright eyes quite open, to look 
 at her own dear image in the glass. 
 
 Phil. Explain thyself, and don't be so 
 fond of thy own prating. 
 
 Tom. There are also prosperous and good- 
 natured moments: as when a knot or a 
 patch is happily fixed; when the com- 
 plexion particularly flourishes. 
 
 Phil. Well, what then? I have not pa- 
 tience ! 
 
 Tom. Why, then — or on the like occa- 
 sions — we servants who have skill to 
 know how to time business, see when 
 such a pretty folded thing as this 
 (Shows a letter.) may be presented, 
 laid, or dropped, as best suits the pres- 
 ent humor. And,, madam, because it is 
 a long wearisome journey to run through 
 all the several stages of a lady's temper, 
 my master, who is the most reasonable 
 man in the world, presents you this to 
 bear your charges on the road. 
 (Gives her the purse.) 
 
 Phil. Now you think me a corrupt hussy. 
 
 Tom. fle, I only think you'll take the 
 letter. 
 
 Phil. Nay, I know you do, but I know 
 my own innocence ; I take it for my mis- 
 tress's sake. 
 
 Tom. I know it, my pretty one, I know 
 it. 
 
 Phil. Yes, I say I do it, because I would 
 not have my mistress deluded by one 
 who gives no proof of his passion; but 
 I '11 talk more of this as you see me on 
 my way home. No, Tom, I assure thee, 
 I take this trash of thy master's, not for 
 
 the value of the thing, but as it con- 
 vinces me he has a true respect for my 
 mistress. I remember a verse to the 
 purpose — 
 They may be false who languish and 
 
 complain, 
 But they who part with money never 
 
 feign. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
 
 (Bevil, Jun., reading.) 
 
 Bev. Jun. These moral writers practise 
 virtue after death. This charming vision 
 of Mirza ! ^'' Such an author consulted 
 in a morning sets the spirit for the 
 vicissitudes of the day better than the 
 glass does a man's person. But what a 
 day have I to go through! to put on an 
 easy look with an aching heart! If this 
 lady my father urges me to marry should 
 not refuse me, my dilemma is insupport- 
 able. But why should I fear it? Is 
 not she in equal distress with me? Has 
 not the letter I have sent her this morn- 
 ing confessed my inclination to another? 
 Nay, have I not moral assurances of her 
 engagements, too, to my friend Myrtle? 
 It's impossible but she must give in to 
 it; for, sure, to be denied is a favor any 
 man may pretend to. It must be so — 
 Well, then, with the assurance of being 
 rejected, I think I may confidently say 
 to my father, I am ready to marry her. 
 Then let me resolve upon, what I am not 
 very good at, though it is an honest dis- 
 simulation. 
 
 (Enter Tom.) 
 
 Tom. Sir John Bevil, sir, is in the next 
 
 room. 
 Bev. Jun. Dunce! Why did not you 
 
 bring him in? 
 Tom. I told him, sir, you were in your 
 
 closet. 
 Bev. Jun. I thought you had known, sir, 
 
 it was my duty to see my father any- 
 where. 
 
 (Going himself to the door.) 
 Tom. The devil's in my master! he has 
 
 always more wit^^ than I have. 
 (Aside.) 
 
 (Bevil, Jun., introducing Sir John.) 
 Bev. Jun. Sir, you are the most gallant, 
 
 the most complaisant of all parents. 
 
 Sure, 't is not a compliment to say these 
 
 10 Here Steele compliments his friend Addison's moralizing vision in tlie Spectator (No. 159). 
 11 Cleverness, sense. 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 585 
 
 lodgings are yours. Why would you 
 not walk in, sir? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I was loth to interrupt you 
 unseasonably on your wedding-day. 
 
 Bev. Jun. One to whom I am beholden 
 for my birthday might have used less 
 ceremony. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Well, son, I have intelli- 
 gence you have writ to your mistress 
 this morning. It would please my curi- 
 osity to know the contents of a wedding- ' 
 day letter; for courtship must then be 
 over. 
 
 Bev. Jun. I assure you, sir, there was no 
 insolence in it upon the prospect of such 
 a vast fortune 's being added to our fam- 
 ily; but much acknowledgment of the 
 lady's greater desert. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But, dea,r Jack, are you in 
 earnest in all this? And will you really 
 marry her? 
 
 Bev. Jun. Did I ever disobey any com- 
 mand of yours, sir? nay, any inclina- 
 tion that I saw you bent upon? 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Why, I can't say you have, 
 son; but methinks in this whole busi- 
 ness, you have not been so warm as I 
 could have wished you. You have 
 visited her, it 's true, but you have not 
 been particular. Every one knows you 
 can say and do as handsome things as 
 any man; but you have done nothing 
 but lived in the general — ^been complai- 
 sant only. . 
 
 Bev. Jun. As I am ever prepared to 
 marry if you bid me, so I am ready to 
 let it alone if you will have me. 
 
 {Humphry enters, unobserved.) 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Look you there now! why, 
 what am I to think of this so absolute 
 and so indiflferent a resignation? 
 
 Bev. Jun. Think? that I am still your 
 son, sir. Sir, you have been married, 
 and I have not. And you have, sir, 
 found the inconvenience there is when a 
 man weds with too much love in his head. 
 I have been told, sir, that at the time 
 you married, you made a mighty bustle 
 on the occasion. There was challenging 
 and fighting, scaling walls, locking up 
 the lady, and the gallant under an arrest 
 for fear of killing all his rivals. Now, 
 sir, I suppose you having found the ill 
 consequences of these strong passions 
 and pi'ejudiees, in preference of one 
 woman to another, in case of a man's 
 becoming a widower 
 
 Sir J. Bev. How is this? 
 
 Bev. Jun. I say, sir, experience has made 
 you wiser in your care of me; for, sir, 
 since you lost my dear mother, your time 
 has been so heavy, so lonely, and so 
 tasteless, that you are so good as to 
 guard me against the like unhappiness, 
 by marrying me prudentially by way of 
 bargain and sale. For, as you well 
 judge, a woman that is espoused for a 
 fortune, is yet a better bargain, if she 
 dies; for then a man still enjoys what he 
 did marry, the money, and is disencum- 
 bered of what he did not marry, the 
 woman. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But pray, sir, do you think 
 Lucinda, then, a woman of such little 
 merit? 
 
 Bev. Jun. Pardon me, sir, I don't carry 
 it so far neither; I am rather afraid I 
 shall lite her too well; she has, for one 
 of her fortune, a great many needless 
 and superfluous good qualities. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I am afraid, son, there 's 
 something I don't see yet, something 
 that 's smothered under all this raillery. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Not in the least, sir. If the 
 lady is dressed and ready, you see I am. 
 I suppose the lawyers are ready too. 
 
 Humph. This may grow warm if I don't 
 interpose. (Aside.) — Sir, Mr. Sealand 
 is at the coffee-house, and has sent to 
 speak with you. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Oh! that's well! Then I 
 warrant the lawyers are ready. Son, 
 you'll be in the way, you say. 
 
 Bev. Jun. If you please, sir, I '11 take a 
 chair,^^ and go to Mr. Sealand's, where 
 the young lady and I will wait your 
 leisure. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. By no means. The old fel- 
 low will be so vain if he sees 
 
 Bev. Jun. Ay; but the young lady, sir, 
 will think me so indifferent. 
 
 Humph. Ay, there you are right; press 
 your readiness to go to the bride — he 
 won't let you. 
 
 (Aside to Bev. Jun.) 
 
 Bev. Jun. Are you sure of that? 
 (Aside to Humph.) 
 
 Humph. How he likes being prevented! 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Sir J. Bev. No, no. You are an hour or 
 two too early. 
 
 (Looking on his watch.) 
 
 Bev. Jun. You'll allow me, sir, to think 
 it too late to visit a beautiful, virtuous 
 young woman, in the pride and bloom of 
 
 12 sedan-chair. 
 
586 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 life, ready to give herself to my arms; 
 and to place her happiness or misery, 
 for the future, in being agreeable or dis- 
 pleasing to me, is a Call a chair. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. No, no, no, dear Jack; this 
 Sealand is a moody old fellow. There 's 
 no dealing with some people but by man- 
 aging with indifiEerence. We must leave 
 to him the conduct of this day. It is the 
 last of his commanding his daughter. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Sir, he can't take it iU, that I 
 am impatient to be hers. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Pray let me govern in this 
 matter;- you can't tell how humorsome 
 old fellows are. There's no offering 
 reason to some of 'em, especially when 
 they are rich. — If my son should see him 
 before I've brought old Sealand into 
 better temper, the match would be im- 
 practicable. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Humph. Pray, sir, let me beg you to let 
 Mr. Bevil go. — See whether he will or 
 not. (Aside to Sir John) — (Then to 
 Bev.) — Pray, sir, command yourself; 
 since you see my master is positive, it is 
 better you' should not go. 
 
 Bev. Jun. My father commands me, as to 
 the object of my affections; but I hope 
 he will not, as to the warmth and height 
 of them. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. So! I must even leave things 
 as I found them; and in the meantime, 
 at least, keep old Sealand out of his 
 sight — Well, son, I '11 go myself and take 
 orders in your affair. You '11 be in the 
 way, I suppose, if I send to you. I '11 
 leave your old friend with you — Hum- 
 phry, don't let him stir, d'ye hear? — 
 Your servant, your servant. 
 (Exit Sir John.) 
 
 Humph. 1 have a sad time on't, sir, be- 
 tween you and my master. I see you 
 are uilwilling, and I know his violent in- 
 clinations for the match. — I must betray 
 neither, and yet deceive you both, for 
 your common good. Heaven grant a 
 good end of this matter. — But there is a 
 lady, sir, that gives your father much 
 trouble and sorrow. — You '11 pardon me. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Humphry, I know thou art a 
 friend to both, and in that confidence I 
 dare tell thee, that lady is a woman of 
 honor and virtue. You may assure 
 yourself I never will marry without my 
 father's consent. But give me leave to 
 say, too, this declaration does not come 
 up to a promise that I will take whom- 
 soever he pleases. 
 
 Humph. Come, sir, I wholly understand 
 you. You would engage my services to 
 free you from this woman whom my 
 master intends you, to make way,- in 
 time, for the woman you have really a 
 mind to. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Honest Humphry, you have al- 
 ways been a useful friend to my father 
 and myself; I beg you continue your 
 good offices, and don't let us come to 
 the necessity of a dispute; for, if we 
 should dispute, I must either part with 
 more than life," or lose the best of fa- 
 thers. 
 
 Humph. My dear master, were I but 
 worthy to know this secret, that so near 
 concerns you, my life, my all should be 
 engaged to serve you. This, sir, I dare 
 promise, that I am sure I will and can be 
 secret: your trust, at worst, but leaves 
 you where you were; and if I cannot 
 serve you, I will at once be plain and 
 tell you so. 
 
 Bev. Jun. That's all I ask. Thou hast 
 made it now my interest to trust thee. 
 Be patient, then, and hear the story of 
 my heart. 
 
 Humph. I am all attention, sir. 
 
 Bev. Jun. You may remember, Humphry, 
 that in my last travels my father grew 
 uneasy at my making so long a stay at 
 Toulon. 
 
 Humph. I remember it; he was appre- 
 hensive some woman had laid hold of 
 you. 
 
 Bev. Jun. His fears were just; for there 
 I first saw this lady. She is of English 
 birth: her father's name was Danvers — 
 a younger brother of an ancient family, 
 and originally an eminent merchant of 
 Bristol, who, upon repeated misfortunes, 
 was reduced to go privately to the In- 
 dies. In this retreat. Providence again 
 grew favorable to his industry, and, in 
 six years' time, restored him to his for- 
 mer fortunes. On this he sent direc- 
 tions over that his wife and little family 
 should follow him to the Indies. His 
 wife, impatient to obey such welcome 
 orders, would not wait the leisure of a 
 convoy, but took the first occasion of 
 a single ship, and, -with her husband's 
 sister only, and this daughter, then 
 scarce seven years old, undertook the 
 fatal voyage — for here, poor creature, 
 she lost her liberty and life. ■ She and 
 her family, with all they had, were, un- 
 fortunately, taken by a privateer from 
 Toulon. Being thus made a prisoner, 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 587 
 
 though as such not ill-treated, yet the 
 fright, the shock, and cruel disappoint- 
 ment, seized with such violence upon her 
 unhealthy frame, she sickened, pined, 
 and died at sea. 
 
 Humph. Poor soul! the helpless in- 
 fant! 
 
 Bev. Her sister yet survived, and had 
 the care of her. The captain, too, proved 
 to have humanity, and became a father 
 to her; for having himself married an 
 English woman, and being childless, he 
 brought home into Toulon this her little 
 country-woman, presenting her, with all 
 her dead mother's movables of value, to 
 his wife, to be educated as his own 
 adopted daughter. 
 
 Humph. Fortune here seemed again to 
 smile on her. 
 
 Bev. Only to make her frowns more ter- 
 rible; for, in his height of fortune, this 
 captain, too, her benefactor, unfortu- 
 nately was killed at sea; and dying 
 intestate, his estate fell wholly to an ad- 
 vocate, his brother, who, coming soon to 
 take possession, there found (among his 
 other riches) this blooming virgin at his 
 mercy. 
 
 Humph. He durst not, sure, abuse his 
 power? 
 
 Bev. No wonder if his pampered blood 
 was flred at the sight of her — ^in short, 
 he loved; but when all arts and gentle 
 means had failed to move, he offered, 
 too, his menaces in vain, denouncing 
 vengeance on her cruelty, demanding her 
 to account for all her maintenance from 
 her childhood; seized on her little for- 
 tune as his own inheritance, and was 
 dragging her by violence to prison, when 
 Providence at the instant interposed, 
 und sent me, by miracle, to relieve her. 
 
 Humph. 'T was Providence, indeed. But 
 pray, sir, after all this trouble, how came 
 this lady at last to England? 
 
 Bev. The disappointed advocate, finding 
 she had so unexpected a support, on 
 cooler thoughts, descended to a compo- 
 sition, which I, without her knowledge, 
 secretly discharged. 
 
 Humph. That generous concealment made 
 the obligation double. 
 
 Bev. Having thus obtained her liberty, I 
 prevailed, not without some difficulty, to 
 see her safe to England; where, no 
 sooner arrived, but my father, jealous 
 of my being imprudently engaged, im- 
 mediately proposed this other fatal 
 match that hangs upon my quiet. 
 
 Humph. I find, sir, you are irrecoverably 
 fixed upon this lady. 
 
 Bev. As my vital life dwells in my heart 
 — and yet you see what I do to please 
 my father: walk in this pageantry of 
 dress, this splendid covering of sorrow — 
 But, Humphry, you have your lesson. 
 
 Humph. Now, sir, I have but one ma- 
 terial question 
 
 Bev. Ask it freely. 
 
 Humph. Is it, then, your own passion for 
 this secret lady, or hers for you, that 
 gives you this aversion to the match 
 your father has proposed you? 
 
 Bev. I shall appear, Humphry, more ro- 
 mantic in my answer than in all the rest 
 of my story; for though I dote on her 
 to death, and have no little reason to be- 
 lieve she has the same thoughts for me, 
 yet in all my acquaintance and utmost 
 privacies with her, I never once directly 
 told her that I loved. 
 
 Humph. How was it possible to avoid it? 
 
 Bev. My tender obligations to my father 
 have laid so inviolable a restraint upon 
 my conduct that, till I have his consent 
 to speak, I am determined, on that sub- 
 ject, to be dumb for ever. 
 
 Humph. Well, sir, to your praise be it 
 spoken, you are certainly the most un- 
 fashionable lover in Great Britain. 
 
 {Enter Tom.) 
 
 Tom. Sir, Mr. Mjrrtle 's at the next door, 
 and, if you are at leisure, will be glad to 
 wait on you. 
 
 Bev. Whenever he pleases ^hold, Tom! 
 
 did you receive no answer to my letter? 
 
 Tom. Sir, I was desired to call again ; for 
 I was told her mother would not let her 
 be out of her sight; but about an hour 
 hence, Mrs. Lettice said, I should cer- 
 tainly have one. 
 
 Bev. Very well. 
 
 (Exit Tom.) 
 
 Humph. Sir, I will take another oppor- 
 tunity. In the meantime, I only think 
 it proper to tell you that, from a secret 
 I know, you may appear to your father 
 as forward as you please, to marry Lu- 
 cinda without the least hazard of its 
 coming to a conclusion — Sir, your most 
 obedient servant. 
 
 Bev. Honest Humphry, continue but my 
 friend in this exigence, and you shall al- 
 ways find me yours. {Exit Humph.) — 
 I long to hear how my letter has suc- 
 ceeded with Lucinda — but I think it 
 cannot fail; for, at worst, were it possi- 
 
588 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ble she could take it ill, her resentment 
 of my indifference may as probably oc- 
 casion a delay as her taking it right. 
 Poor Myrtle, what terrors must he be 
 in all this while? Since he knows she 
 is offered to me, and refused to him, 
 there is no conversing or taking any 
 measures with him for his own service. 
 — But I ought to bear with my friend, 
 and use him as one in adversity — 
 All his disquiets by my own I prove. 
 The greatest grief 's perplexity in love 
 (Exit.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. Bevil, Jim's Lodgings. 
 (Enter Bevil, Jun., and Tom.) 
 
 Tom. Sir, Mr. Myrtle. 
 Bev. Jun. Very well — do you step again, 
 and wait for an answer to my letter. 
 (Exit Tom.) 
 (Enter Myrtle.) 
 
 Bev. Jun. Well, Charles, why so much 
 care in thy countenance? Is there any- 
 thing in this world deserves it? You, 
 who used to be so gay, so open, so 
 vacant ! ^' 
 
 Myrt. I think we have of late changed 
 complexions. You, who used to be much 
 the graver man, are now all air in your, 
 behavior. — But the cause of my concern 
 may, for aught I know, be the same ob- 
 ject that gives you all this satisfaction. 
 In a word, I am told that you are this 
 very day — and your dress confirms me in 
 it — to be married to Lueinda. 
 
 Bev. Jun. You are not misinformed. — 
 Nay, put not on the terrors of a rival 
 till you hear me out. I shall disoblige 
 the best of fathers if I don't seem ready 
 to marry Lueinda ; and you know I have 
 ever told yon you might make use of my 
 secret resolution never to marry her for 
 your own service as you please; but I 
 am now driven to the extremity of im- 
 mediately refusing or complying unless 
 you help me to escape the match. 
 
 Myrt. Escape? Sir, neither her merit or 
 her fortune are below your acceptance — 
 Escaping do you call it? 
 
 Bev. Jun. Dear sir, do you wish I should 
 desire the match? 
 
 Myrt. No ; but such is my humorous ^* 
 and sickly state of mind since it has 
 
 been able to relish nothing but Lueinda, 
 that though I must owe my happiness to 
 your aversion to this marriage, I can't 
 bear to hear her spoken of with levity 
 or unconcern. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Pardon me, sir, I shall trans- 
 gress that way no more. She has under- 
 standing, beauty, shape, complexion, 
 wit 
 
 Myrt. Nay, dear Bevil, don't speak of her 
 as if you loved her neither. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Why, then, to give you ease at 
 once, though I allow Lueinda to have 
 good sense, wit, beauty, and virtue, I 
 know another in whom these qualities 
 appear to me more amiable than in her. 
 
 Myrt. There you spoke like a reasonable 
 and good-natured friend. When you 
 acknowledge her merit, and own your 
 prepossession for another, at once you 
 gratify my fondness and cure my jeal- 
 ousy. 
 
 Bev. Jun. But all this while you take no 
 notice, you have no apprehension, of an- 
 other man that has twice the fortune of 
 either of us. 
 
 Myrt. Cimberton! hang him, a formal, 
 philosophical, pedantic coxcomb ; for the 
 sot, with all these crude notions of 
 divers things, under the direction of 
 great vanity and very little judgment, 
 shows his strongest bias is avarice; 
 which is so predominant in him that he 
 will examine the limbs of his mistress 
 with the caution of a jockey, and pays 
 no more compliment to her personal 
 charms than if she were a mere breeding 
 animal. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Are you sure that is not af- 
 fected? I have known some women 
 sooner set on flre by that sort of negli- 
 gence than by 
 
 Myrt. No, no; hang him, the rogue has 
 no art; it is pure, simple insolence and 
 stupidity. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Yet, with all this, I don't take 
 him for a fool. 
 
 Myrt. I own the man is not a natural; ^^ 
 he has a very quick sense,^' though very 
 slow understanding.. He says, indeed, 
 many things that want only the circum- 
 stances of time and place to be very just 
 and agreeable. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Well, you may be sure of me 
 if you can disappoint him; but my in- 
 telligence says the mother has actually 
 sent for the conveyancer to draw articles 
 for his marriage with Lueinda, though 
 
 18 care-free. 
 
 14 capricious. 
 
 le idiot. 
 
 16 perception 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 589 
 
 those for mine with her are, by her 
 father's orders, ready for signing; but it 
 seems _she has not thought fit to consult 
 either 'him or his daughter in the mat- 
 ter. 
 
 Myrt. Pshaw ! a poor troublesome woman. 
 Neither Lucinda nor her father will ever 
 be brought to comply with it. Besides, 
 I am sure Cimberton can make no settle- 
 ment upon her without the concurrence 
 of his great uncle, Sir Geoffry, in the 
 west. 
 
 Bev. Jun. Well, sir, and I can tell you 
 that 's the very point that is now laid 
 before her counsel, to know whether a 
 finn settlement can be made without his 
 uncle's actual joining in it. Now, pray 
 consider, sir, when my affair with Lu- 
 cinda comes, as it soon must, to an open 
 rupture, how are you sure that Cimber- 
 ton's fortune may not then tempt her 
 father, too, to hear his proposals? 
 
 Myrt. There you are right, indeed; that 
 must be provided against. Do you 
 know who are her counsel? 
 
 Bev. Jun. Yes, for your service I have 
 found out that, too. They are Serjeant 
 Bramble and Old Target — by the way, 
 they are neither of them known in the 
 family. Now, I was thinking why you 
 might not put a couple of false counsel 
 upon her to delay and confound matters 
 a little; besides, it may probably let you 
 into the bottom of her whole design 
 against you. 
 
 Myrt. As how, pray? 
 
 Bev. Jun. Why, can't you slip on a black 
 wig and a gown, and be Old Bramble 
 yourself ? 
 
 Myrt. Ha! I don't dislike it.— But what 
 shall I do for a brother in the case? 
 
 Bev. Jun. What think you of my fellow, 
 Tom? The rogue's intelligent, and is a 
 good mimic. All his part will be but to 
 stutter heartily, for that's old Target's 
 case. Nay, it would be an immoral 
 thing to mock him were it not that his 
 impertinence is the occasion of its break- 
 ing out to that degree. The conduct of 
 the scene will chiefly lie upon you. 
 
 Myrt. I like it of all things. If you'll 
 send Tom to my chambers, I will give 
 him full instructions. This will cer- 
 tainly give me occasion to raise difflcul- 
 ties, to puzzle or confound her project 
 for a while at least. 
 
 Bev. Jun. I'll warrant you success.— So 
 far we are right, then. And now. 
 
 Charles, your apprehension of my mar- 
 rying her is all you have to get over. 
 
 Myrt. Dear Bevil, though I know you are 
 my friend, yet when I abstract myself 
 from my own interest in the thing, I 
 know no objection she can make to you, 
 or you to her, and therefore hope 
 
 Bev. Jun. Dear Myrtle, I am as much 
 obliged to you for the cause of your 
 suspicion, as I am offended at the effect; 
 but, be assured, I am taking measures 
 for your certain security, and that all 
 things with regard to me wiU end in 
 your entire satisfaction. 
 
 Myrt. Well, I '11 promise you to be as 
 easy and as confident as I can, though 
 I cannot but remember that I have more 
 than life at stake on your fidelity. 
 {Going.) 
 
 Bev. Jun. Then depend upon it, you have 
 no chance against you. 
 
 Myrt. Nay, no ceremony, you know I 
 must be going. 
 
 (Exit Myrt.) 
 
 Bev. Jun. Well, this is another instance 
 of the perplexities which arise, too, in 
 faithful friendship. We must often in 
 this life go on in our good offices, even 
 under the displeasure of those to whom 
 we do them, in compassion to their 
 weaknesses and mistakes. — But all this 
 while poor Indiana is tortured with the 
 doubt of me. She has no support or 
 comfort but in my fidelity, yet sees me 
 daily pressed to marriage with another. 
 How painful, in such a crisis, must be 
 every hour she thinks on me ! I '11 let 
 her see at least my conduct to her is not 
 changed. I '11 take this opportunity to 
 visit her; for though the religious vow 
 I have made to my father restrains me 
 from ever marrying without his appro- 
 bation, yet that confines me not from 
 seeing a virtuous woman that is the pure 
 delight of my eyes and the guiltless joy 
 of my heart. But the best condition of 
 human life is but a gentler misery — 
 
 To hope for perfect happiness is vain, 
 
 And love has ever its allays ^^ of pain. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. Indiana's Lodgings. 
 
 {Enter Isabella and Indiana.) 
 
 Isab. Yes, I say 'tis artifice, dear child. 
 I say to thee again and again 'tis all 
 skill and management. 
 
 17 alloys. 
 
590 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Ind. Will you persuade me there can be 
 an ill design in supporting me in the 
 condition of a woman of quality? at- 
 tended, dressed, and lodged like one; in 
 my appearance abroad and my furniture 
 at home, every way in the most sumptu- 
 ous manner, and he that does it has an 
 artifice, a design in it? 
 
 Isab. Yes, yes. 
 
 Ind. And all this without so much as ex- 
 plaining to me that all about me comes 
 from him! 
 
 Isah. Ay, ay, the more for that. That 
 keeps the title to all you have the more 
 in him. 
 
 Ind. The more in him! He scorns the 
 thought 
 
 Isab. Then he — ^he — ^he 
 
 Ind. Well, be not so eager. If he is an 
 ill man, let us look into his stratagems. 
 Here is another of them. (Showing a 
 letter.) Here's two hundred and fifty 
 pounds in bank notes, with these words: 
 "To pay for the set of dressing-plate 
 which will be brought home to-morrow." 
 Why, dear aunt, now here 's another 
 piece of skill for you, which I own I 
 cannot comprehend; and it is with a 
 bleeding heart I hear you say anything 
 to the disadvantage of Mr. Bevil. When 
 he is present I look upon him as one to 
 whom I owe my life and the support of 
 it; then, again, as the man who loves me 
 with sincerity and honor. When his 
 eyes are cast another way, and I dare 
 survey him, my heart is painfully di- 
 vided between shame and love. Oh! 
 could I tell you 
 
 Isah. Ah! you need not; I imagine all 
 this for you. 
 
 Ind. This is my state of mind in his pres- 
 ence; and when he is absent, you are 
 ever dinning my ears with notions of the 
 arts of men; that his hidden bounty, his 
 respectful conduct, his careful provision 
 for me, after his preserving me from 
 utmost misery, are certain signs he 
 means nothing but to make I know not 
 what of me. 
 
 Isah. Oh! You have a sweet opinion of 
 him, truly. 
 
 Ind. I have, when I am with him, ten 
 thousand things, besides my sex's nat- 
 ural decency and shame, to suppress my 
 heart, that yearns to thank, to praise, to 
 say it loves him. I say, thus it is with 
 me while I see him; and in his absence 
 I am entertained with nothing but your 
 endeavors to tear his amiable image 
 
 from my heart; and in its stead, to place 
 a base dissembler, an artful invader of 
 my happiness, my innocence, my honor. 
 
 Isah. Ah, poor soul! has not 'his plot 
 taken? don't you die for him? has not 
 the way he has taken been the most 
 proper with you? Oh! oh! He has 
 sense, and has judged the thing right. 
 
 Ind. Go on then, since nothing can an- 
 swer you; say what you will of him. 
 Heigh ! ho ! 
 
 Isah. Heigh! ho! indeed. It is better to 
 say so, as you are now, than as many 
 others are. There are, among the de- 
 stroyers of women, the gentle, the gen- 
 erous, the mild, the affable, the humble, 
 who all, soon after their success in then- 
 designs, turn to the contrary of those 
 characters. I will own to you, Mr. 
 Bevil carries his hypocrisy the best of 
 any man living, but still he is a man, 
 and therefore a hypocrite. They have 
 usurped an exemption from shame for 
 any baseness, any' cruelty towards us. 
 They embrace without love; they make 
 vows without conscience of obligation; 
 they are partners, nay, seducers to the 
 crime, wherein they pretend to be less 
 guilty. 
 
 Ind. That 's truly observed. {Aside.) — 
 But what 's all this to Bevil? 
 
 Isah. This it is to Bevil and all mankind. 
 Trust not those who will think the worse 
 of you for your confidence in them; ser- 
 pents who lie in wait for doves. Won't 
 you be on your guard against those who 
 would betray you? Won't you doubt 
 those who would contemn you for be- 
 lieving 'em? Take it from me, fair and 
 natural dealing is to invite injuries; 'tis 
 bleating to escape wolves who would de- 
 vour you ! Such is the world — and such 
 (since the behavior of one man to my- 
 self) have I believed all the rest of the 
 sex. (Aside.) 
 
 Ind. I will not doubt the truth of Bevil, 
 I will not doubt it. He has not spoke 
 it by an organ that is given to lying. 
 His eyes are all that have ever told me 
 thafhe was mine. I know his virtue, I 
 know his filial piety, and ought to trust 
 his management with a father to whom 
 he has uncommon obligations. What 
 have I to be concerned for? my lesson 
 is very short. If he takes me for ever, 
 my purpose of life is only to please him. 
 If he leaves me (which Heaven avert) 
 I know he'll do it nobly, and I shall 
 have nothing to do but to learn to die, 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 591 
 
 after worse than death has happened to 
 me. 
 
 Isab. Ay, do, persist in your credulity! 
 flatter yourself that a man of his figure 
 and fortune will make himself the jest 
 of the town, and marry a handsome beg- 
 gar for love. 
 
 Ind. The town! I must tell you, madam, 
 the fools that laugh at Mr. Bevil will but 
 make themselves more ridiculous; his ac- 
 tions are the result of thinking, and he 
 has sense enough to make even virtue 
 fashionable. 
 
 Isab. 0' my conscience he has turned her 
 head. — Come, come, if he were the hon- 
 est fool you take him for, why has he 
 kept you here these three weeks, without 
 sending you to Bristol in search of your 
 father, your family, and your relations? 
 
 Ind. I am convinced he still designs it, 
 and that nothing keeps him here, but the 
 necessity of not coming to a breach with 
 his father in regqyd to the match he has 
 proposed him. Beside, has he not writ 
 to Bristol? and has not he advice that 
 my father has not been heard of there 
 almost these twenty years? 
 
 Isab. All sham, mere evasion; he is 
 afraid, if ,he should carry you thither, 
 your honest relations may take you out 
 of his hands, and so blow up all his 
 wicked hopes at once. 
 
 Ind. Wicked hopes! did I ever give him 
 any such? 
 
 Isab. Has he ever given you any honest 
 ones? Can you say, in your conscience, 
 he has ever once offered to marry 
 you? 
 
 Ind. No! but by his behavior I am con- 
 vinced he will offer it, the moment 't is in 
 his power, or consistent with his honor, 
 to make such a promise good to me. 
 
 Isab. His honor! 
 
 Ind. I will rely upon it; therefore desire 
 you will not make my life uneasy, by 
 these ungrateful jealousies of one, to 
 whom I am, and wish to be, obliged. 
 For from his integrity alone, I have re- 
 solved to hope for happiness. 
 
 Isab. Nay, I have done my duty; if you 
 won't see, at your peril be it! 
 
 Ind. Let it be — This is his hour of visit- 
 ing me. 
 
 Isab. Oh! to be sure, keep up your form; 
 don't see him in a bed-chamber — 
 This is pure prudence, when she is liable, 
 wherever he meets her, to be conveyed 
 where'er he pleases. (Apart.) 
 
 Ind. All the rest of my life is but waiting 
 
 till he comes. I live only when I 'm 
 with him. (Exit.) 
 
 Isab. Well, go thy ways, thou wilful in- 
 nocent ! — I once had almost as much love 
 for a man, who poorly left me to marry 
 an estate; and I am now, against my 
 will, what they call an old maid — but I 
 will not let the peevishness of that con- 
 dition grow upon me, only keep up the 
 suspicion of it, to prevent this creature's 
 being any other than a virgin, except 
 upon proper terms. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 (Be-enter Indiana, speaking to a Servant.) 
 
 Ind. Desire Mr. Bevil to walk in — De- 
 sign! impossible! A base designing 
 mind could never think of what he 
 hourly puts in practice. And yet, since 
 the late rumor of his marriage, he seems 
 more reserved than formerly — he sends 
 in too, before he sees me, to know if I 
 am at leisure — such new respect may 
 cover coldness in the heart; it certainly 
 makes me thoughtful — I'll know the 
 worst at once; I'll lay such fair occa- 
 sions in his way, that it shall be impos- 
 sible to avoid an explanation, for these 
 doubts are insupportable! — But see, he 
 comes, and clears them all. 
 
 (Enter Bevil.) 
 
 Bev. Madam, your most obedient — ^I am 
 afraid I broke in upon your rest last 
 night; 'twas very late before we parted, 
 but 'twas your own fault. I never saw 
 you in such agreeable humor. 
 
 Ind. I am extremely glad we were both 
 pleased; for I thought I never saw you 
 better company. 
 
 Bev. Me, madam! you rally; I said very 
 little. 
 
 Ind. But I am afraid you heard me say 
 a great deal; and, when a woman is in 
 the talking vein, the most agreeable 
 thing a man can do, you know, is to have 
 patience to hear her. 
 
 Bev. Then it 's pity, madam, you should 
 ever be silent, that we might be always 
 agreeable to one another. 
 
 Ind. If I had your talent or power, to 
 make my actions speak for me, I might 
 indeed be silent, and yet pretend to 
 something more than the agreeable. 
 
 Bev. If I might be vain of anjrthing in 
 my power, madam, 'tis that my under- 
 standing, from all your sex, has marked 
 you out as the most deserving object of 
 my esteem. 
 
592 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Ind. Should I think I deserve this, 't were 
 enough to make my vanity forfeit the 
 very esteem you offer me. 
 
 Bev. How so, madam? 
 
 Ind. Because esteem is the result of rea- 
 son, and to deserve it from good sense, 
 the height of human glory. Nay, I had 
 rather a man of honor should pay me 
 that, than all the homage of a sincere 
 and humble love. 
 
 Bev. You certainly distinguish right, 
 madam; love often kindles from external 
 merit only. 
 
 Ind. But esteem rises from a higher 
 source, the merit of the soul. 
 
 Bev. True — and great souls only can de- 
 serve it. 
 
 {Bowing respectfully.) 
 
 Ind. Now. I think they are greater still, 
 that can so charitably part with it. 
 
 Bev. Now, madam, you make me vain, 
 since the utmost pride and pleasure of 
 my life is, that I esteem you as I ought. 
 
 Ind. {Aside.) As he ought! still more 
 perplexing! he neither saves nor kills 
 my hope. 
 
 Bev. But, madam, we grow grave, me- 
 thinks. Let's find some other subject — 
 Pray how did you like the opera last 
 night? 
 
 Ind. First give me leave to thank you for 
 my tickets. 
 
 Bev. Oh ! your ' servant, madam. But 
 pray tell me, you now, who are never 
 partial to the fashion, I fancy must be 
 the properest judge of a mighty dispute 
 among the ladies, that is, whether Crispo 
 or Griselda i' is the more agreeable en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 Ind. With submission now, I cannot be a 
 proper judge of this question. 
 
 Bev. How so, madam? 
 
 Ind. Because I find I have a partiality 
 for one of them. 
 
 Bev. Pray which is that? 
 
 Ind. I do not know; there 's something in 
 that rural cottage of Griselda, her for- 
 lorn condition, her poverty, her solitude, 
 her resignation, her innocent slumbers, 
 and that lulling dolce sogno ''■^ that 's 
 sung over her; it had an effect upon me 
 that — in short I never was so well de- 
 ceived, at any of them. 
 
 Bev. Oh ! Now then, I can account for 
 the dispute. Griselda, it seems, is the 
 distress of an injured innocent woman, 
 Crispo, that only of a man in the same 
 condition; therefore the men are mostly 
 
 concerned for Crispo, and, by a natural 
 indulgence, both sexes for Griselda. 
 
 Ind. So that judgment, you think, ought 
 to be for one, though fancy and com- 
 plaisance have got ground for the other. 
 Well! I believe you will never give me 
 leave to dispute with you on any sub- 
 ject; for I own, Crispo has its charms 
 for me too. Though, in the main, all 
 the pleasure the best opera gives us is 
 but mere sensation. Methinks it's pity 
 the mind can't have a little more share 
 in the entertainment. The music's cer- 
 tainly fine, but, in my thoughts, there's 
 none of your composers come up to old 
 Shakespeare and Otway. 
 
 Bev. How, madam! why, if a woman of 
 your sense were to say this in the draw- 
 ing-room 
 
 {Enter a Servant.) 
 
 Serv. Sir, here 's Signor Carbonelli says 
 he waits your compiands in the next 
 room. 
 
 Bev. Apropos! you were saying yester- 
 day, madam, you had a mind to hear 
 him. Will you give him leave to enter- 
 tain you now? 
 
 Ind. By all means; desire the gentleman 
 to walk in. 
 
 {Exit Servant.) 
 
 Bev. I fancy you will find something in 
 this hand that is uncommon. 
 
 Ind. You are always finding ways, Mr. 
 Bevil, to make life seem less tedious to 
 me. 
 
 {Enter Music Master.) 
 
 When the gentleman pleases. 
 
 {After a Sonata is played, Bevil waits on 
 the Master to the door, etc.) 
 
 Bev. You smile, madam, to see me so 
 complaisant to one whom I pay for his 
 visit. Now, I own, I think it is not 
 enough barely to pay those whose talents 
 are superior to our own (I mean such 
 talents as would become our condition, 
 if we had them). Methinks we ought to 
 do something more than barely gratify 
 them for what they do at our command, 
 only because their fortune is below us. 
 
 Ind. You say I smile. I assure you it 
 was a smile of approbation; for, indeed, 
 I cannot but think it the distinguishing 
 part of a gentleman to make his superi- 
 ority of fortune as easy to his inferiors 
 as he can. — Now once more to try him. 
 {Aside.) — I was saying just now, I be- 
 
 18 Operas by G. B. Buononcini (d, about 1750), then popular in London. IB A lullaby. 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 593 
 
 lieved you would never let me dispute 
 with you, and I dare say it will always 
 be so. However, I must have your 
 opinion upon a subject which created a 
 debate between my aunt and me, just 
 before you came hither; she would needs 
 have it that no man ever does any ex- 
 traordinary kindness or service for a 
 woman, but for his own sake. 
 
 Bev. Well, madam! Indeed I can't but 
 be of her mind. 
 
 Ind. What, though he should maintain 
 and support her, without demanding 
 anything of her, on her part? 
 
 Bev. Why, madam, is making an expense 
 in the service of a valuable woman (for 
 such I must suppose her), though she 
 should never do him any favor, nay, 
 though she should never know who did 
 her such service, such a mighty heroic 
 business ? 
 
 Ind. Certainly! I should think he must 
 be a man of an uncommon mould. 
 
 Bev. Dear madam, why so? 'tis but, at 
 best, a better taste in expense. To be- 
 stow upon one, whom he may think one 
 of the ornaments of the whole creation, 
 to be conscious, that from his super- 
 fluity, an innocent, a virtuous spirit is 
 supported above the temptations and 
 sorrows of life! That he sees satisfac- 
 tion, health, and gladness in her counte- 
 nance, while he enjoys the happiness of 
 seeing her (as that I will suppose too, 
 or he must be too abstracted, too insensi- 
 ble), I say, if he is allowed to delight in 
 that prospect; alas, what mighty matter 
 is there in all this? 
 
 Ind. No mighty matter in so disinterested 
 a friendship! 
 
 Bev. Disinterested! I can't think him 
 so; your hero, madam, is no more than 
 what every gentleman ought to be, and 
 I believe very many are. He is only one 
 who takes more delight in reflections 
 than in sensations. He is more pleased 
 with thinking than eating; that's the 
 utmost you can say of him. Why, 
 madam, a greater expense than all this 
 men lay out upon an unnecessary stable 
 of horses. 
 
 Ind. Can you be sincere in what you say? 
 
 Bev. You may depend upon it, if you 
 know any such man, he does not love 
 dogs inordinately. 
 
 Ind. No, that he does not. 
 
 Bev. Nor cards, nor dice. 
 
 Ind. No. 
 
 Bev. Nor bottle companions. 
 
 Ind. No. 
 
 Bev. Nor loose women. 
 
 Ind. No, I 'm sure he does not. 
 
 Bev. Take my word, then, if your ad- 
 mired hero is not liable to any of these 
 kind of demands, there 's no such pre- 
 eminence in this as you imagine. Nay, 
 this way of expense you speak of is 
 what exalts and raises him that has a 
 taste for it; and, at the same time, his 
 delight is incapable of satiety, disgust, 
 or penitence. 
 
 Ind. But still, I insist, his having no pri- 
 vate interest in the action makes it pro- 
 digious, almost incredible. 
 
 Bev. Dear madam, I never knew you 
 more mistaken. Why, who can be more 
 a usurer than he who lays out his money 
 in such valuable purchases? If pleas- 
 ure be worth purchasing, how great a 
 pleasure is it to him, who has a true 
 taste of life, to ease an aching heart; to 
 see the human countenance lighted up 
 into smiles of joy, on the receipt of a bit 
 of ore which is superfluous and other- 
 wise useless in a man's own pocket? 
 What could a man do better with his 
 cash? This is the effect of an humane 
 disposition, where there is only a gen- 
 eral tie of nature and common necessity. 
 What then must it be when we serve an 
 object of merit, of admiration! 
 
 Ind. Well! the more you argue against it 
 the more I shall admire the generosity. 
 
 Bev. Nay, nay — Then, madam, 't is time 
 to fly, after a declaration that my opin- 
 ion strengthens my adversary's argu- 
 ment. I had best hasten to my appoint- 
 ment with Mr. Myrtle, and begone while 
 we are friends, and before things are 
 brought to an extremity. 
 
 (Exit, carelessly.) 
 
 (Enter Isabella.) 
 
 Isab. Well, madam, what think you of 
 him now, pray? 
 
 Ind. I protest, I begin to fear he is 
 wholly disinterested in what he does for 
 me. On my heart, he has no other view 
 but the mere pleasure of doing it, and 
 has neither good or bad designs upon 
 me. 
 
 Isab. Ah! dear niece! don't be in fear of 
 both ! I '11 warrant you, you will know 
 time enough that he is not indifferent. 
 
 Ind. You please me when you tell me so; 
 for, if he has any wishes towards me, I 
 know he will not pursue them but with 
 honor. 
 
594 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Isab. I wish I .were as confident of one 
 as t'other. I saw the respectful down- 
 cast of his eye, when you catch'd him gaz- 
 ing at you during the music. He, I war- 
 rant, was surprised, as if he had been 
 taken stealing your watch. Oh! the un- 
 dissembled guilty look! 
 
 Ind. But did yon observe any such thing, 
 really ? I thought he looked most charm- 
 ingly graceful! How engaging is mod- 
 esty in a man, when one knows there is a 
 great mind within. So tender a con- 
 fusion! and yet, in other respects, so 
 much himself, so collected, so daunt- 
 less, so determined! 
 
 Isab. Ah! niece! there is a sort of bash- 
 fulness which is the best engine to carry 
 on a shameless purpose. Some men's 
 modesty serves their wickedness, as hy- 
 pocrisy gains the respect due to ptety. 
 But I will own to you, there is one hope- 
 ful symptom, if there could be such a 
 thing as a disinterested lover. But it's 
 all a perplexity — ^till — tiU^-till 
 
 Ind. Till what? 
 
 Isab. Till I know whether Mr. Myrtle 
 and Mr. Bevil are really friends or foes. 
 — And that I will be convinced of be- 
 fore I sleep; for you shall not be de- 
 ceived. 
 
 Ind. I 'm sure I never shall, if your 
 fears can guard me. In the meantime 
 I'll wrap myself up in the integrity of 
 my own heart, nor dare to doubt of his. 
 
 As conscious honor all his actions steers. 
 So conscious innocence dispels my fears. 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. Sealand's House. 
 
 {Enter Tom, meeting Phillis.) 
 
 Tom. "Well, Phillis! What, with a face 
 as if you had never seen me before! — 
 What a work have I to do now? She 
 has seen some new visitant at their house 
 whose airs she has catcht, and is re- 
 solved to practise them upon me. Num- 
 berless are the changes she '11 dance 
 through before she'll answer this plain 
 question: videlicet, have you delivered 
 my master's letter to your lady? Nay, 
 I know her too well to ask an account of 
 it in an ordinary way ; I '11 be in my airs 
 as well as she. {Aside.) — Well, madam, 
 as unhappy as you are at present pleased 
 
 to make me, I would not, in the general, 
 be any other than what I am. I would 
 not be a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit 
 taller, a bit shorter than I am at this 
 instant. 
 
 {Looking steadfastly at her.) 
 
 Phil. JDid ever anybody doubt. Master 
 Thomas, but that you were extremely 
 satisfied with your sweet self? 
 
 Tom. I am, indeed. The thing I have 
 least reason to be satisfied with is my 
 fortune, and I am glad of my poverty. 
 Perhaps if I were rich I should overlook 
 the finest woman in the world, that wants 
 nothing but riches to be thought so. 
 
 Phil. How prettily was that said! But 
 I '11 have a great deal more before I '11 
 say one word. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Tom. I should, perhaps, have been stu- 
 pidly above her had I not been her 
 equal; and by not being her equal, never 
 had opportunity of being her slave. I 
 am my master's servant for hire — I am 
 my mistress's from choice, would she 
 but approve my passion. 
 
 Phil. I think it 's the first time I ever 
 heard you speak of it with any sense of 
 the anguish, if yon really do suffer any. 
 
 Tom. Ah, Phillis! can you doubt, after 
 what you have seen? 
 
 Phil. I know not what I have seen, nor 
 what I have heard; but since I'm at 
 leisure, you may tell me when you fell 
 in love with me; how you fell in love 
 with me; and what you have suffered or 
 are ready to suffer for me. 
 
 Tom. Oh, the unmerciful jade! when I'm 
 in haste about my master's letter. But I 
 must go through it. {Aside.) — ^Ah! too 
 well I remember when, and how, and on 
 what occasion I was first surprised. It 
 was on the 1st of April, 1715, I came 
 into Mr. Sealand's service; I was then a 
 hobble-dehoy, and you a pretty little 
 tight girl, a favorite handmaid of the 
 housekeeper. At that time we neither of 
 us knew what was in us. I remember I 
 was ordered to get out of the window, 
 one pair of stairs, to rub the sashes 
 clean; the person employed on the inner 
 side was your charming self, whom I had 
 never seen before. 
 
 Phil. I think I remember the silly acci- 
 dent. What made ye, you oaf, ready to 
 fall down into the street? 
 
 Tom. You know not, I warrant you — you 
 could not guess what surprised me. You 
 took no delight when you immediately 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 595 
 
 grew wanton in your conquest, and put 
 your lips close, and breathed upon the 
 glass, and when my lips approached, a 
 dirty cloth you rubbed against my face, 
 and hid your beauteous form! When I 
 again drew near, you spit, and rubbed, 
 and smiled at my undoing. 
 
 Phil. What silly thoughts you men have! 
 
 Tom. We were Pyramus and Thisbe — but 
 ten times harder was my fate. Pyramus 
 could peep only through a wall; I saw 
 her, saw my Thisbe in all her beauty, but 
 as much kept from her as if a hundred 
 walls between — for there was more : there 
 was her will against me. Would she but 
 yet relent! Phillis! Phillis! shorten 
 nay torment, and declare you pity me. 
 
 Phil. I believe it 's very sufferable ; the 
 pain is not so exquisite but that you may 
 bear it a little longer. 
 
 Tom. Oh! my charming Phillis, if all de- 
 pended on my fair one's will, I could with 
 glory suffer — but, dearest creature, con- 
 sider our miserable state. 
 
 Phil. How ! Miserable ! 
 
 Tom. We are miserable to be in love, and 
 under the command of others than those 
 we love; with that generous passion in 
 the heart, to be sent to and fro on er- 
 rands, called, checked, and rated for the 
 meanest trifles. Oh, Phillis! you don't 
 know how many china cups and glasses 
 my passion for you has made me break. 
 You have broke my fortune as well as 
 my heart. 
 
 Phil. Well, Mr. Thomas, I cannot but own 
 to you that I believe your master writes 
 and you speak the best of any men in the 
 world. Never was woman so well pleased 
 with a letter as my young lady was with 
 his; and this is an answer to it. 
 (Gives him a letter.) 
 
 Tom,. This was well done, my dearest; 
 consider, we must strike out some pretty 
 livelihood for ourselves by closing their 
 affairs. It will be nothing for them to 
 give us a little being of our own, some 
 small tenement, out of their large pos- 
 sessions. Whatever they give us, it will 
 be more than what they keep for them- 
 selves. One acre with Phillis would be 
 worth a whole county without her. 
 
 Phil. 0, could I but believe you ! 
 
 Tom. If not the utterance, believe the 
 touch of my lips. 
 
 (Kisses her.) 
 
 PM. There 's no contradicting you. How 
 closely you argue, Tom! 
 
 Tom. And will closer, in due time. But 
 I must hasten with this letter, to hasten 
 towards the possession of you. Then, 
 Phillis, consider how I must be revenged, 
 look to it, of all your skittishness, shy 
 looks, and at best but eoy compliances. 
 
 Phil. Oh, Tom, you grow wanton, and 
 sensual, as my lady calls it; I must not 
 endure it. Oh! foh! you are a man — an 
 odious, filthy, male creature — you should 
 behave, if you had a right sense or were 
 a man of sense, like Mr. Cimberton, with 
 distance and indifference; or, let me see, 
 some other becoming hard word, with 
 seeming in-in-in-advertency, and not rush 
 on one as if you were seizing a prey. — 
 But hush ! the ladies are coming. — Good 
 Tom, don't kiss me above once, and be 
 gone. Lard, we have been fooling and 
 toying, and not considered the main busi- 
 ness of our masters and mistresses. 
 
 Tom. Why, their business is to be fooling 
 and toying as soon as the parchments are 
 ready. 
 
 Phil. Well remembered, parchments; my 
 lady, to my knowledge, is preparing writ- 
 ings between her coxcomb cousin, Cim- 
 berton, and my mistress, though my mas- 
 ter has an eye to the parchments already 
 prepared between your master, Mr. Bevil, 
 and my mistress ; and, I believe, my mis- 
 tress herself has signed and sealed, in her 
 heart, to Mr. Myrtle. — Did I not bid you 
 kiss me but once, and be gone? But I 
 know you won't be satisfied. 
 
 Tom. No, you smooth creature, how 
 should I? 
 
 (Kissing her hand.) 
 
 PhiL Well, since you are so humble, or so 
 cool, as to ravish my hand only, I '11 take 
 my leave of you like a great lady, and 
 you a man of quality. 
 
 (They salute formally.) 
 
 Tom. Pox of all this state. 
 
 (Offers to kiss her more closely.) 
 
 Phil. No, prithee, Tom, mind your busi- 
 ness. We must follow that interest 
 which will take, but endeavor at that 
 which will be most for us, and we like 
 most. Oh, here 's my young mistress ! 
 (Tom taps her neck behind, and kisses his 
 fingers.) Go, ye liquorish '° fool. 
 (Exit Tom.) 
 (Enter Lucinda.) 
 
 Luc. Who was that you was hurrying 
 
 away? 
 Phil. One that I had no mind to part with. 
 
 20 greedy. 
 
596 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY 
 
 Luc. Why did you turn him away then? 
 
 Phil. Tor your ladyship's service — to 
 carry your ladyship's letter to his mas- 
 ter. I could hardly get the rogue away. 
 
 Luc. Why, has he so little love for his 
 master? 
 
 Phil. No; but he hath so much love for 
 his mistress. 
 
 Luc. But I thought I heard him kiss you. 
 Why did you suffer that? 
 
 Phil. Why, madam, we vulgar take it to 
 be a sign of love — We servants, we poor 
 people, that have nothing but our per- 
 sons to bestow or treat for, are forced to 
 deal and bargain by way of sample, and 
 therefore as we have no parchments or 
 wax necessary in our agreements, we 
 squeeze with our hands and seal with our 
 lips, to ratify vows and promises. 
 
 Luc. But can't you trust one another with- 
 out such earnest down? 
 
 Phil. We don't think it safe, any more 
 than you gentry,' to come together with- 
 out deeds executed. 
 
 Luc. Thou art a pert merry hussy. 
 
 Phil. I wish, madam, your lover and you 
 were as happy as Tom and your servant 
 are. 
 
 Luc. You grow impertinent. 
 
 Phil. I have done, madam; and I won't 
 ask you what you intend to do with Mr. 
 Myrtle, what your father will do with 
 Mr. Bevil, nor what you all, especially 
 my lady, mean by admitting Mr. Cimber- 
 ton as particularly here as if he were 
 married to you already; nay, you are 
 married actually as far as people of 
 quality are. 
 
 Luc. How is that? 
 
 Phil. You have different beds in the same 
 house. 
 
 hue. Pshaw! I have a very great value 
 for Mr. Bevil, but have absolutely put 
 an end to his pretensions in the letter I 
 gave you for him. But my father, in 
 his heart, still has a mind to him, were 
 it not for this woman they talk of; and 
 I am apt to imagine he is married to her, 
 or never designs to marry at all. 
 
 Phil. Then Mr. Myrtle 
 
 Luc. He had my parents' leave to apply 
 to me, and by that he has won me and 
 my affections; who is to have this body 
 of mine without 'em, it seems, is nothing 
 io me. My mother says 't is indecent 
 for me to let my thoughts stray about the 
 person of my husband; nay, she says a 
 maid, riddly virtuous, though she may 
 have been where her lover was a thour 
 
 sand times, should not have made ob- 
 servations enough to know him from an- 
 other man when she sees him in a third 
 place. 
 
 Phil. That is more than the severity of a 
 nun, for not to see when one may is 
 hardly possible; not to see when one 
 can't is very easy. At this rate, madam, 
 there are a great many whom you have 
 not seen who 
 
 Luc. Mamma says the first time you see 
 your husband should be at that instant 
 he is made so. When your father, with 
 the help of the minister, gives you to 
 him, then you are to see him; then you 
 are to observe and take notice of him; 
 because then you are to obey him. 
 
 Phil. But does not my lady remember you 
 are to love as well as obey? 
 
 Luc. To love is a passion, 'tis a desire, 
 and we must have no desires. — Oh, I can- 
 not endure the reflection ! With what in- 
 sensibility on my part, with what more 
 
 • than patience have I been exposed and 
 offered to some awkward booby or other 
 in every county of Great Britain! 
 
 Phil. Indeed, madam, I wonder I never 
 heard you speak of it before with this 
 indignation. 
 
 Luc. Every comer of the land has pre- 
 sented me with a wealthy coxcomb. As 
 fast as one treaty has gone off, another 
 has come on, till my name and person 
 have been the tittle-tattle of the whole 
 town. What is this world come to? — no 
 shame left — to be bartered for like the 
 beasts of the field, and that in such an 
 instance as coming together to an entire 
 familiarity and union of soul and body. 
 Oh ! and this without being so much as 
 well-wishers to each other, but for in- 
 crease of fortune. 
 
 Phil. But, madam, all these vexations will 
 end very soon in one for all. Mr. Cim- 
 berton is your mother's kinsman, and 
 three hundred years an older gentleman 
 than any lover you ever had ; for which 
 reason, with that of his prodigious large 
 estate, she is resolved on him, and has 
 sent to consult the lawyers accordingly; 
 nay, has (whether you know it or no) 
 been in treaty with Sir Geoffry, who, to 
 join in the settlement, has accepted of a 
 sum to do it, and is every moment ex- 
 pected in town for that purpose. 
 
 Luc. How do you get all this intelli- 
 gence ? 
 
 Phil. By an art I have, T thank my stars, 
 beyond all the waiting-maids in Great 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 597 
 
 Britain — tlie art of listening, madam, for 
 your ladyship's service. 
 Luc. I shall soon know as much as you 
 do; leave me, leave me, Phillis, begone. 
 Here, here! I'll turn you out. My 
 mother says I must not converse with my 
 servants, though I must converse with no 
 one else. (Exit Phil.) — How unhappy 
 are we who are born to great fortunes! 
 No one looks at us with indifference, or 
 acts towards us on the foot of plain 
 dealing; yet, by all I have been hereto- 
 fore offered to or treated for I have been 
 used with the most agreeable of all abuses 
 — flattery. But now, by this phlegmatic 
 fool I 'm used as nothing, or a mere 
 thing. He, forsooth, is too wise, too 
 learned to have any regard to desires, 
 and I know not what the learned oaf 
 calls sentiments of love and passidn — 
 Here he comes with my mother — It's 
 much if he looks at me, or if he does, 
 takes no more notice of me than of any 
 other movable in the room. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Sedland, and Mr. Ciniberton.) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. How do I admire this noble, 
 this learned taste of yours, and the 
 worthy regard you have to our own an- 
 cient and honorable house in consulting 
 a means to keep the blood as pure and as 
 regularly descended as may be. 
 
 Cim. Why, really, madam, the young 
 women of this age are treated with dis- 
 courses of such a tendency, and their 
 imaginations so bewildered in flesh and 
 blood, that a man of. reason can't talk to 
 be understood. They have no ideas of 
 happiness, but what are more gross than 
 the gratification of hunger and thirst. 
 
 Luc. With how much reflection he is a 
 coxcomb ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Cim. And in truth, madam, I have con- 
 sidered it as a most brutal custom that 
 persons of the first character in the world 
 should go as ordinarily, and with as lit- 
 tle shame, to bed as to dinner with one 
 another. They proceed to the propaga- 
 tion of the species as openly as to the 
 preservation of the individual. 
 
 Luc. She that willingly goes to bed to thee 
 must have no shame, I 'm sure. 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Oh, cousin Cimberton! cousin 
 Cimberton! how abstracted, how refined 
 is your sense of things ! But, indeed, it 
 is too true there is nothing so ordinary 
 as to gay, in the best governed families. 
 
 my master and lady are gone to bed ; one 
 does not know but it might have been 
 said of one's self. 
 
 (Hiding her face with her fan.) 
 
 Cim. Lycurgus, madam, instituted other- 
 wise; among the Lacedaemonians the 
 whole female world was pregnant, but 
 none but the mothers themselves knew 
 by whom ; their meetings were secret, and 
 the amorous congress always by stealth; 
 and no such professed doings between the 
 sexes as are tolerated among us under 
 the audacious word, marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Oh, had I lived in those days 
 and been a matron of Sparta, one might 
 with less indecency have had ten chil- 
 dren, according to that modest institu- 
 tion, than one, under the confusion of 
 our modem, barefaced manner. 
 
 Luc. And yet, poor woman, she has gone 
 through the whole ceremony, and here I 
 stand a melancholy proof of it. 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. We will talk then of business. 
 That girl walking about the room there 
 is to be your wife. She has, I confess, 
 no ideas, no sentiments, that speak her 
 bom of a thinking mother. 
 
 Cimb. I have observed her;" her lively 
 look, free air, and disengaged counte- 
 nance speak her very 
 
 Imc. Very what? 
 
 Cimb. If you please, madam — to set her 
 a little that way. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Lucinda, say nothing to him, 
 you are not a match for him ; when you 
 are married, you may speak to such a 
 husband when you 're spoken to. But I 
 am disposing of you above yourself every 
 way. 
 
 Cimb. Madam, you cannot but observe the 
 inconveniences I expose myself to, in 
 hopes that your ladyship will be the con- 
 sort of my better part. As for the 
 young woman, she is rather an impedi- 
 ment than a help to a man of letters and 
 speculation. Madam, there is no reflec- 
 tion, no philosophy, can at all times sub- 
 due the sensitive life, but the animal shall 
 sometimes carry away the man. Ha ! ay, 
 the vermilion of her lips. 
 
 Luc. Pray, don't talk of me thus. 
 
 Cimb. The pretty lenough — pant of her 
 bosom. 
 
 LuCi Sir! madam, don't yoji hear him? 
 
 Cimb. Her forward chest. 
 
 Luc. Intolerable ! 
 
 Cimh. High health. 
 
 Luc. The grave, easy impudence of him! 
 
598 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Cimb, Proud heart. 
 
 Luc. Stupid coxcomb ! 
 
 Cimb. I say, madam, her impatience, while 
 we are looking at her, throws out all at- 
 tractions — her arms — ^her neck — what a 
 spring in her step ! 
 
 Luc. Don't you run me over thus, you 
 strange unaccountable ! 
 
 Cimb. What an elasticity in her veins and 
 arteries ! 
 
 Luc, I have no veins, no arteries. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Oh, child! hear him, he talks 
 finely ; he 's a scholar, he knows what you 
 have. 
 
 Cimb. The speaking invitation of her 
 shape, the gathering of herself up, and 
 the indignation you see in the pretty lit- 
 tle thing — ^Now, I am considering her, on 
 this occasion, but as one that is to be 
 pregnant. 
 
 Luc. The familiar, learned, unseasonable 
 puppy! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Cimb. And pregnant undoubtedly she will 
 be yearly. I fear I shan't, for many 
 years, have discretion enough to give her 
 one fallow season. 
 
 Luc. Monster ! there 's no bearing it. The 
 hideous sot ! there 's no enduring it, to 
 be thus surveyed like a steed at sale. 
 
 Cimb. At sale ! She 's very illiterate — 
 But she 's very well limbed too ; turn her 
 in ; I see what she is. 
 
 (Exit Lucinda, in a rage.) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Go, you creature, I am 
 ashamed of yon. 
 
 Cimb. No harm done — you know, madam, 
 the better sort of people, as I observed to 
 you, treat by their lawyers of weddings 
 (Adjusting himself at the glass.) — and 
 the woman in the bargain, like the man- 
 sion house in the sale of the estate, is 
 thrown in, and what that is, whether 
 good or bad, is not at all considered. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. I grant it ; and therefore make 
 no demand for her youth and beauty, and 
 every other accomplishment, as the com- 
 mon world think 'em, because she is not 
 polite. 
 
 Cimb. Madam, I know your exalted un- 
 derstanding, abstracted, as it is, from 
 vulirar prejudices, will not be offended, 
 when I declare to you, I marry to have 
 an heir to my estate, and not to beget a 
 colony, or . a plantation. This young 
 woman's beauty and constitution will de- 
 mand provision for a tenth child at least. 
 
 Mrs. Seal With all that wit and learn- 
 ing, how considerate! What an econo- 
 
 mist! (Aside.) — Sir, I cannot make her 
 any other than she is ; or say she is much 
 better than tHe other young women of 
 this age, or fit for much besides being a 
 mother; but I have given directions for 
 the marriage settlements, and Sir Geoffry 
 Cimberton's counsel is ,to meet ours here, 
 at this hour, concerning his joining in the 
 deed, which, when executed, makes you 
 capable of settling what is due to Lu- 
 cinda's fortune. Herself, as I told you, 
 I say nothing of. 
 
 Cimb. No, no, no, indeed, madam, it is 
 not usual; and I must depend upon ray 
 own reflection and philosophy not to 
 overstock my family. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. I cannot help her, cousin Cim- 
 berton; but she is, for aught I see, as 
 well as the daughter of anybody else. 
 
 Cimb. That is very true, madam. 
 
 (Enter a Servant, who whispers Mrs. 
 Sealand.) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. The lawyers are come, and 
 now we are to hear what they have re- 
 solved as to the point whether it 's neces- 
 sary that Sir Geoffry should join in the 
 settlement, as being what they call in the 
 remainder. But, good cousin, yon must 
 have patience with 'em. These lawyers, 
 I am told, are of a different kind ; one is 
 what they call a chamber counsel, the 
 other a pleader. The conveyancer is 
 slow, from an imperfection in his speech, 
 and therefore shunned the bar, but ex- 
 tremely passionate and impatient of con- 
 tradiction. The other is as warm as he; 
 but has a tongue so voluble, and a head 
 so conceited, he will suffer nobody to 
 speak but himself. 
 
 Cimb. You mean old Serjeant Target and 
 Counsellor Bramble? I have heard of 
 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. The same. Show in the gen- 
 tlemen. 
 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 (He-enter Servant, introducing Myrtle and 
 Tom disguised as Bramble and Target.) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Gentlemen, this is the party 
 concerned, Mr. Cimberton; and I hope 
 you have considered of the matter. 
 
 Tar. Yes, madam, we have agreed that it 
 
 must be by indent dent dent 
 
 dent 
 
 Bram. Yes, madam, Mr. Serjeant and my- 
 self have agreed, as he is pleased to in- 
 form you, that it must be an indenture 
 tripartite, and tripartite let it be, for Sir 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 599 
 
 Geoffiy must needs be a party; old Cim- 
 berton, in the year 1619, says, in that an- 
 cient roll in Mr. Serjeant's bands, as re- 
 course thereto being had, will more at 
 large appear 
 
 Tar. Yes, and by the deeds in your 
 hands, it appears that 
 
 Brum. Mr. Serjeant, I beg of you to make 
 no inferences upon what is in our cus- 
 tody ; but speak to the titles in your own 
 deeds. I shall not show that deed till my 
 client is in town. 
 
 Cimb. You know best your own methods. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. The single question is, whether 
 the entail is such that my cousin. Sir 
 Geoffry, is necessary in this affair? 
 
 Bram. Yes, as to the lordship of Tretrip- 
 let, but not as to the messuage of Grim- 
 gribber. 
 
 Tar. I say that Gr — gr — that Gr — gr — 
 Grinigribber, Grimgribber is in us; that 
 is to say the remainder thereof, as well 
 as that of Tr—tr— Triplet. 
 
 Bram. You go upon the deed of Sir 
 Ralph, made in the middle of the last 
 century, precedent to that in which old 
 Ciinberton made over the remainder, and 
 made it pass to the heirs general, by 
 which your client comes in; and I ques- 
 tion whether the remainder even of Tre- 
 triplet is in him — But we are willing to 
 waive that, and give him a valuable con- 
 sideration. But we shall not purchase 
 what is in us for ever, as Grimgribber is, 
 at the rate, as we guard against the con- 
 tingent of Mr. Cimberton having no son 
 — Then we know Sir Geoffry is the first 
 of the collateral male line in this family 
 —yet 
 
 Tar. Sir, Gr gr ^ber is 
 
 Bram. I apprehend you very well, and 
 your argument might be of force, and we 
 would be inclined to hear that in all its 
 parts — But, sir, I see very plainly what 
 you are going into. I tell you, it is as 
 probable a contingent that Sir Geoffry 
 may die before Mr. Cimberton, as that he 
 may outlive him. 
 
 Tar. Sir, we are not ripe for that yet, but 
 I must say 
 
 Bram. Sir, I allow you the whole extent 
 of that argument; but that will go no 
 farther than as to the claimants under old 
 Cimberton. I am of opinion that, ac- 
 cording to the instruction of Sir Ralph, 
 he could not dock the entail, and then 
 create a new estate for the heirs general. 
 
 Tar. Sir, I have not patience to be told 
 that, when Gr ■gr ^ber 
 
 Bram. I will allow it you, Mr. Serjeant; 
 but there must be the word heirs for ever, 
 to make such an estate as you pretend. 
 
 Cimb. I must be impartial, though you 
 are counsel for my side of the question. 
 Were it not that you are so good as to 
 allow him what he has not said, I should 
 think it very hard you should answer 
 him without hearing him — But, gentle- 
 men, I believe you have both considered 
 this matter, and are firm in your differ- 
 ent opinions. 'T were better, therefore, 
 you proceeded according to the particular 
 sense of each of you, and gave your 
 thoughts distinctly in writing. And do 
 you see, sirs, pray let me have a copy of 
 what you say in English. 
 
 Bram. Why, what is all we have been say- 
 ing? In English ! Oh ! but I forgot my- 
 self, you 're a wit. But, however, to 
 please you, sir, you shall have it, in as 
 plain terms as the law will admit of. 
 
 Cimb. But I would have it, sir, without 
 delay. 
 
 Bram. That, sir, the law will not admit of. 
 The Courts are sitting at Westminster, 
 and I am this moment obliged to be at 
 every one of them, and 't would be wrong 
 if I should not be in the hall to attend 
 one of 'em at least; the rest would take it 
 ill else. Therefore, I must leave what I 
 have said to Mr. Serjeant's consideration, 
 and I will digest his arguments on my 
 part, and you shall hear from me again, 
 sir. 
 
 (Exit Bramble.) 
 
 Tar. Agreed, agreed. 
 
 Cimb. Mr. Bramble is very quick; he 
 parted a little abruptly. 
 
 Tar. He could not bear my argument; I 
 pinched him to the quick about that 
 Gr gr her. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. I saw that, for he durst not 
 
 ■ so much as hear you. I shall send to 
 you, Mr. Serjeant, as soon as Sir Geoffry 
 comes to town, and then I hope all may 
 be adjusted. 
 
 Tar. I shall be at my chambers, at my 
 usual hours. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Cimb. Madam, if you please, I '11 now at- 
 tend you to the tea table, where I shall 
 hear from your ladyship reason and 
 good sense, after all this law and gibber- 
 ish. 
 
 Mrs. Seat 'T is a wonderful thing, sir, 
 that men of professions do not study to 
 talk the substance of whnt they have to 
 say in the language of the rest of the 
 
600 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 world. Sure, they 'd find their account 
 in it. 
 Cim. They might, perhaps, madam, -with 
 people of your good sense ; but with the 
 generality 'twould never do. The vul- 
 gar would have no respect for truth and 
 knowledge, if they were exposed to naked 
 
 Truth is too simple, of all art bereaved : 
 Since the world will — why let it be de- 
 ceived. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
 
 {Bevil, Jun., with a letter in his hand, fol- 
 lowed by Tom.) 
 
 Tom. Upon my life, sir, I know nothing 
 of the matter. I never opened my lips 
 to Mr. Myrtle about anything of your 
 honor's letter to Madam Lucinda. 
 
 Bev. What 's the fool in such a fright 
 for? I don't suppose you did. What I 
 would know is, whether Mr. Myrtle 
 showed any suspicion, or asked you any 
 questions, to lead you to say casually 
 that you had carried any such letter for 
 me this morning. 
 
 Tom. , Why, sir, if he did ask me any ques- 
 tions, how could I help it"? 
 
 Bev. I don't say you could, oaf! I am 
 not questioning you, but him. What did 
 he say to you? 
 
 Tom. Why, sir, when I came to his cham- 
 bers, to be dressed for the lawyer's part 
 your honor was pleased to put me upon, 
 he asked me if I had been at Mr. Sea- 
 land's this morning? So I told him, sir, 
 I often went thither — because, sir, if I 
 had not said that he might have thought 
 there was something more in my going 
 now than at another time. 
 
 Bev. Very well! — The fellow's caution, I 
 find, has given him this jealousy. 
 (Aside.) — Did he ask you no other ques- 
 tions? 
 
 Tom. Yes, sir ; now I remember, as we 
 came away in the hackney coach from 
 Mr. Sealand's, Tom, says he, as I came 
 in to your master this morning, he bade 
 you go for an answer to a letter he had 
 sent. Pray did you bring him any? says 
 he. Ah I pays T, sir, your honor is 
 pleased to joke with me; you have a mind 
 
 to know whether I can keep a secret or 
 no? 
 
 Bev. And so, by showing him you could, 
 you told him you had one? 
 
 Tom. Sir 
 
 (Confiised.) 
 
 Bev. What mean actions does jealousy 
 make a man stoop to! How poorly has 
 he used art with a servant to make him 
 betray his master! — Well! and when did 
 he give you this letter for me? 
 
 Tom. Sir, he writ it before he pulled off 
 his lawyer's gown, at his own chambers. 
 
 Bev. Very well; and what did he say 
 when you brought him my answer to it? 
 
 Tom. He looked a little out of humor, 
 sir, and said it was very well. 
 
 Bev. I knew he would be grave upon't; 
 wait without. 
 
 Tom. Hum! 'gad, I don't like this; I am 
 afraid we are all in the wrong box here. 
 (Exit Tom.) 
 
 Bev. 1 put on a serenity while my fellow 
 was present ; but I have never been more 
 thoroughly disturbed. This hot man ! to 
 write me a challenge, on supposed arti- 
 ficial dealing, when I professed myself 
 his friend ! I can live contented without 
 glory; but I cannot suffer shame. 
 What's to be done?- But first let me 
 consider Lucinda's letter again. 
 
 "Sir, (Beads.) 
 
 "I hope it is consistent with the laws a 
 woman ought to impose upon herself, to 
 acknowledge that your manner of de- 
 clining a treaty of marriage in our fam- 
 ily, and desiring the refusal may come 
 from me, has something more engaging 
 in it than the courtship of him who, I 
 fear, will fall to my lot, except your 
 friend exerts himself for our common 
 safety and happiness. I have reasons 
 for desiring Mr. Myrtle may not know 
 of this letter till hereafter, and am your 
 most obliged humble servant, 
 
 "Lucinda Sealand." 
 
 Well, but the postscript — 
 
 (Beads.) 
 "I won't, upon second thoughts, hide any- 
 thing from you. But my reason for con- 
 cealing this is, that Mr. Myrtle has a 
 jealousy in his temper which gives me 
 some terrors; but my esteem for him in- 
 clines me to hope that only an ill effect 
 which sometimes accompanies a tender 
 love, and what may be cured by a careful 
 and unblamable conduct." 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 601 
 
 Thus has this lady made me her friend 
 and confidant, and put herself, in a kind, 
 under my protection. I cannot tell him 
 immediately the purport of her letter, 
 except I could cure him of the violent 
 and untractable passion of jealousy, and 
 so serve him, and her, by disobeying her, 
 in the article of secrecy, more than I 
 should by complying with her directions. 
 — But then this duelling, which custom 
 has imposed upon every man who would 
 live with reputation and honor in the 
 world — ^how must I preserve myself from 
 imputations there? He'll, forsooth, call 
 it or think it fear, if I explain without 
 fighting. — But his letter — I '11 read it 
 again — t 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 "You have used me basely in correspond- 
 ing and carrying on a treaty where you 
 told me you were indifferent. I have 
 changed my sword since I saw you; 
 which advertisement I thought proper to 
 send you against the jiext meeting be- 
 tween you and the injured 
 
 "Charles Myrtle.'' 
 
 {Enter Tom.) 
 
 Tom. Mr. Myrtle, sir. Would your honor 
 please to see him? 
 
 Bev. Why, you stupid creature ! Let Mr. 
 Myrtle wait at my lodgings? Show him 
 up. (Exit Tom.) Well! I am resolved 
 upon my carriage to him. He is in love, 
 and in every circumstance of life a little 
 distrustful, which I must allow for — but 
 here he is. 
 
 (Enter Tom, introducing Myrtle.) 
 
 Sir, I am extremely obliged to you for 
 this honor.— (To Tom.) But, sir, you, 
 with your very discerning face, leave the 
 room. (Exit Tom.)— Well, Mr. Myrtle, 
 your commands with me? 
 
 Myrt. The time, the place, our long ac- 
 quaintance, and many other circum- 
 stances which affect me on this occasion, 
 oblige me, without farther ceremony or 
 conference, to desire you would not only, 
 as you already have, acknowledge the re- 
 ceipt of my letter, but also comply with 
 the request in it. I must have farther 
 notice taken of my message than these 
 half lines — "I have yours," "I shall be 
 at home." 
 
 Bev. Sir, I own I have received a letter 
 from you in a very unusual style ; but as 
 I design everything in this matter shall 
 be your own action, your own seeking, 
 
 I shall understand nothing but what you 
 are pleased to confirm face to face, and 
 I have already forgot the contents of 
 your epistle. 
 
 Myrt. This cool manner is very agreeable 
 to the abuse you have already made of 
 my simplicity and frankness; and I see 
 your moderation tends to your own ad- 
 vantage and not mine — to your own 
 safety, not consideration of your friend. 
 
 Bev. My own safety, Mr. Myrtle? 
 
 Myrt, Your own safety, Mr. Bevil. . 
 
 Bev. Look you, Mr. Myrtle, there's no 
 disguising that I understand what you 
 would be at; but, sir, you know I have 
 often dared to disapprove of the de- 
 cisions a tyrant custom has introduced, 
 to the breach of all laws, both divine and 
 human. 
 
 Myrt. Mr. Bevil, Mr. Bevil, it would be 
 a good first principle, in those who have 
 so tender a conscience that way, to have 
 as much abhorrence of doing injuries, 
 as 
 
 Bev. As what? 
 
 Myrt. As fear of answering for 'em. 
 
 Bev. As fear of ans\Vering for 'em ! But 
 that apprehension is just or blaniable ac- 
 cording to the object of that fear. I 
 have often told you, in confidence of 
 heart, I abhorred the daring to offend 
 the Author of life, and rushing into His 
 presence — I say, by the very same act, to 
 commit the crime against Him, and im- 
 mediately to urge on to His tribunal. 
 
 Myrt. Mr. Bevil, I must tell you, this 
 coolness, this gravity, this show of con- 
 science, shall never cheat me of my mis- 
 tress. You have, indeed, the best excuse 
 for life, the hopes of possessing Lucinda. 
 But consider, sir, I have as much reason 
 to be weary of it, if I am to lose her; 
 and my first attempt to recover her shall 
 be to let her see the dauntless man who 
 is to be her guardian and protector. 
 
 Bev. Sir, show me but the least glimpse 
 of argument, that I am authorised, by my 
 own hand, to vindicate any lawless insult 
 of this nature, and I will show thee — ^to 
 chastise thee hardly deserves the name of 
 courage — slight, inconsiderate man ! — 
 There is, Mr. Myrtle, no such terror in 
 quick anger ; and you shall, you know not 
 why, be cool, as you have, you know not 
 why, been warm. 
 
 Myrt. Is the woman one loves so little an 
 occasion of anger? You perhaps, who 
 know not what it is to love, who have 
 yotir ready, your commodious, your for- 
 
602 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 eign trinket, for your loose hours; and 
 from your fortune, your specious out- 
 ward carriage, and other lucky circum- 
 stances, as easy a way to the possession 
 of a woman of honor; you know noth- 
 ing of what it is to be alarmed, to be dis- 
 tracted with anxiety and terror of losing 
 more than life. Your marriage, happy 
 man, goes on like common business, and 
 in the interim you have your rambling 
 captive, your Indian princess, for your 
 soft moments of dalliance, your conven- 
 ient, your ready Indiana. 
 Bev. You have touched me beyond the 
 patience of a man ; and I 'm excusable, in 
 the guard of innocence (or from the in- 
 firmity of human nature, which can bear 
 no more), to accept your invitation, and 
 observe your letter — Sir, I '11 attend you. 
 
 (Enter Tom.) 
 
 Tom. Did you call, sir? I thought you 
 did; I heard you speak aloud. 
 
 Bev. Yes; go call a coach. 
 
 Tom. Sir — master — Mr. Myrtle — friends 
 — gentlemen — ^what d 'ye mean ? I am 
 but a servant, or—* — 
 
 Bev. Call a coach. (Exit Tom.) — (A 
 long pause, walking sullenly hy each 
 other.) — (Aside.) Shall I (though pro- 
 voked to the uttermost) recover myself 
 at the entrance of a third person, and 
 that my servant too, and not have re- 
 spect enough to all I have ever been re- 
 ceiving from infancy, the obligation to 
 the best of fathers, to an unhappy virgin 
 too, whose life depends on mine? (Shut- 
 ting the door.) — (To Myrtle.) I have, 
 thank Heaven, had time to recollect my- 
 self, and shall not, for fear of what such 
 a rash man as you think of me, keep 
 longer unexplained the false appearances 
 under which your infirmity of temper 
 makes you suffer; when perhaps too 
 much regard to a false point of honor 
 makes me prolong that suffering. 
 
 Myrt. I am sure Mr. Bevil cannot doubt 
 but I had rather have satisfaction from 
 his innocence than his sword. 
 
 Bev. Why, then, would you ask it first 
 that way? 
 
 Myrt. Consider, you kept your temper 
 yourself no longer than till I spoke to the 
 disadvantage of her you loved. 
 
 Bev. True; but let me tell you, 1 have 
 saved you from the most exquisite dis- 
 tress, even though you had succeeded in 
 the dispute. I know you so well, that I 
 am sure to have found this letter about 
 
 a man you had killed would have been 
 worse than death to yourself — Read it. — 
 (Aside.) When he is thoroughly morti- 
 fied, and shame has got the better of 
 jealousy, when he has seen himself 
 throughly, he will deserve to be assisted 
 towards obtaining Lucinda. 
 
 Myrt. With what a superiority has he 
 turned the injury on me, as the aggres- 
 sor! I begin to fear I have been too 
 far transported — A treaty in our family! 
 is not that saying too much ? I shall re- 
 lapse. — But I find (on the postscript) 
 something like jealousy. With what 
 face can I see my benefactor, my advo- 
 cate, whom I have treated like a be- 
 trayer! (Aside.) — Oh, Bevil, with what 
 words shall I 
 
 Bev. There needs none; to convince is 
 much more than to conquer. 
 
 Myrt. But can you 
 
 Bev. You have o'erpaid the inquietude 
 you gave me, in the change I see in you 
 towards me. Alas! what machines are 
 we ! thy face is -altered to that of another 
 man; to that of my companion, my 
 friend. 
 
 Myrt. That I could be such a precipitant 
 wretch ! 
 
 Bev. Pray, no more. 
 
 Myrt. Let me reflect how many friends 
 have died, by the hands of friends, for 
 want of temper; and you must give me 
 leave to say again, and again, how much 
 I am beholden to that superior spirit you 
 have subdued me with. What had be- 
 come of one of us, or perhaps both, had 
 you been as weak as I was, and as in- 
 capable of reason? 
 
 Bev. I congratulate to us both the escape 
 from ourselves, and hope the memory of 
 it will make us dearer friends than ever. 
 
 Myrt. Dear Bevil, your friendly conduct 
 has convinced me that there is nothins: 
 manly but what is conducted by reason, 
 and agreeable to the practice of virtue 
 and justice. And yet how many have 
 been sacrificed to that idol, the unreason- 
 able opinion of men! Nay, they are so 
 ridiculous in it, that they often use their 
 swords against each other with dissem- 
 bled anger and real fear. 
 
 Betrayed by honor, and compelled by 
 
 shame. 
 
 They hazard being, to preserve a name: 
 
 Nor dare inquire into the dread mistake, 
 
 Till plunged in sad eternity they wake. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 603 
 
 Scene 2. St. James's Park. 
 {Enter Sir John Bevil and Mr^ Sealand.) 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Give me leave, however, Mr. 
 Sealand, as we are upon a treaty for 
 uniting our families, to mention only the 
 business of an ancient house. Genealogy 
 and descent are to be of some consider- 
 ation in an affair of this sort. 
 
 Mr. Sealf Genealogy and descent! Sir, 
 there has been in our family a very large 
 one. There was Galfrid the father of 
 Edward, the father of Ptolomey, the fa- 
 ther of Crassus, the father of Earl Eich- 
 ard, the father of Henry the Marquis, 
 the father of Duke John 
 
 Sir J. Bev. What, do you rave, Mr. Sea- 
 land? all these great names in your fam- 
 ily? 
 
 Mr. Seal. These? yes, sir. I have heard 
 my father name 'em all, and more. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Ay, sir? and did he say they 
 were all in your family? 
 
 Mr. Seal. Yes, sir, he kept 'em all. He 
 was the greatest cocker ^^ in England. 
 He said Duke John won him many bat- 
 tles, and never lost one. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Oh, sir, your servant! you 
 are laughing at my laying any stress 
 upon descent; but I must tell you, sir, I 
 never knew anyone but he that wanted 
 that advantage turn it into ridicule. 
 
 Mr. Seal. And I never knew any one who 
 had many better advantages put that into 
 his account. — But, Sir John, value your- 
 self as you please upon your ancient 
 house, I am to talk freely of everything 
 you are pleased to put into your bill of 
 rates on this occasion; yet, sir, I have 
 made no objections to your son's family. 
 'Tis his morals that I doubt. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Sir, I can't help saying, that 
 what might injure a citizen's credit may 
 be no stain to a gentleman's honor. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir John, the honor of a gen- 
 tleman is liable to be tainted by as small 
 a matter as the credit of a trader. We 
 are talking of a marriage, and in such a 
 case, the father of a young woman will 
 not think it an addition to the honor or 
 credit of her lover that he is a 
 keeper 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Mr. Sealand, don't take upon 
 you to spoil my son's marriage with any 
 woman else. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir John, let him apply to any 
 woman else, and have as many mistresses 
 as he pleases. 
 
 21 Lover of cock-fights. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. My son, sir, is a discreet and 
 sober gentleman. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir, I never saw a man that 
 wenched soberly and discreetly, that ever 
 left it off; the decency observed in the 
 practice hides, even from the sinner, the 
 iniquity of it. They pursue it, not that 
 their appetites hurry 'em away, but, I 
 warrant you, because 't is their opinion 
 they may do it. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Were what you suspect a 
 truth — do you design to keep your 
 daughter a virgin till you find a man un- 
 blemished that way? 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir, as much a cit ^^ as you take 
 me for, I know the town and the world; 
 and give me leave to say, that we mer- 
 chants are a species of gentry that have 
 grown into the world this last century, 
 and are as honorable, and almost as use- 
 ful, as you landed folks, that have al- 
 ways thought yourselves so much above 
 us; for your trading, forsooth, is ex- 
 tended no farther than a load of hay or 
 a fat ox. You are pleasant people, in- 
 deed, because you are generally bred up 
 to be lazy; therefore, I warrant you, in- 
 dustry is dishonorable. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Be not offended, sir; let us 
 go back to our point. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh! not at all offended; but I 
 don't love to leave any part of the ac- 
 count unclosed. Look you. Sir John, 
 comparisons are odious, and more par- 
 ticularly so on occasions of this kind, 
 when we are projecting races that are to 
 be made out of both sides of the com- 
 parisons. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But, my son, sir, is, in the 
 eye of the world, a gentleman of merit. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I own to you, I think him so. — 
 But, Sir John, I am a man exercised and 
 experienced in chances and disasters. I 
 lost, in my earlier years, a very fine wife, 
 and with her a poor little infant. This 
 makes me, perhaps, over cautious to pre- 
 serve the second bounty of providence to 
 me, and be as careful as I can of this 
 child. You'll pardon me, my poor girl, 
 sir, is as valuable to me as your boasted 
 son to you. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. *Why, that's one very good 
 reason, Mr. Sealand, why I wish my son 
 had her. 
 
 Mr. Seal. There is nothing but this 
 strange lady here, this incognita, that 
 can be objected to him. Here and there 
 a man falls in love with an artful crea- 
 
 22 A bourgeois. 
 
604 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ture, and gives up all the motives of life 
 to that one passion. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. A man of my son's under- 
 standing cannot be supposed to be one 
 of them. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Very wise men have been so 
 enslaved; and, when a man marries with 
 one of them upon his hands, whether 
 moved from the demand of the world or 
 slighter reasons, such a husband soils 
 with ^^ his wife 'for a month perhaps — 
 then good be w' ye,^^ madam, the show 's 
 over — Ah! John Dryden points out such 
 a husband to a hair, where he says, — 
 
 "And while abroad so prodigal the dolt 
 
 is, 
 Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt 
 
 is." 
 
 Now, in plain terms, sir, I shall not care 
 to have my poor girl turned a-grazing, 
 and that must be the case when 
 
 Sir J. Bev. But pray consider, sir, my 
 son 
 
 Mr. Seal. Look you, sir, I'll make the 
 matter short. This unknown lady, as I 
 told you, is all the objection I have to 
 him; but, one way or other, he is, or has 
 been, certainly engaged to her. I am 
 therefore resolved, this very afternoon, 
 to visit her. Now from her behavior, or 
 appearance, I shall soon be let into what 
 I may fear or hope for. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Sir, I am very confident there 
 can be nothing inquired into relating to 
 my son, that will not, upon being under- 
 stood, turn to his advantage. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I hope that as sincerely as you 
 believe it. — Sir John Bevil, when I am 
 satisfied, in this great point, if your son's 
 conduct answers the character you give 
 him, I shall wish your alliance more than 
 that of any gentleman in Great Britain; 
 and so your servant. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Sir J. Bev. He is gone in a way but 
 barely civil; but his great wealth, and 
 the merit of his only child, the heiress of 
 it, are not to be lost for a little peevish- 
 ness. 
 
 {Enter Humphry.) 
 
 Oh! Humphry, you are come in a sea- 
 sonable minute. I want to talk to thee, 
 and to tell thee that my head and heart 
 are on the rack about my son. 
 
 23 lives with. 
 
 Humph. Sir, you may trust his discre- 
 tion ; I am sure you may. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Why, I do believe I may, and 
 yet I 'm in a thousand fears when I lay 
 this vast wealth before me; when I con- 
 sider his prepossessions, either generous 
 to a folly, in an honorable love, or aban- 
 doned, past redemption, in a vicious one; 
 and, from the one or the other, his insen- 
 sibility to the fairest prospect towards 
 doubling our estate : a father, who knows 
 how useful wealth is, and how necessary, 
 even to those who despise it — I say a 
 father, Humphry, a father cannot bear 
 it. 
 
 Humph. Be not transported, sir; you will 
 grow incapable of taking any resolution 
 in your perplexity. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Yet, as angry as I am with 
 him, I would not have him, surprised in 
 anything. This mercantile rough man 
 may go grossly into the examination of 
 this matter, and talk to the gentlewoman 
 so as to 
 
 Humph. No, I hope, not in an abrupt 
 manner. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. No, I hope not! Why, dost 
 thou know anything of her, or of him, or 
 of anything of it, or all of it? 
 
 Humph. My dear master, I know so much 
 that I told him this very day you had rea- 
 son to be secretly out of humor about 
 her. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Did you go so far? Well, 
 what said he to that? 
 
 Humph. His words were, looking upon 
 me steadfastly: "Humphry," says he, 
 "that woman is a woman of honor." 
 
 Sir J. Bev. How ! Do you think he is 
 married to her, or designs to marry her? 
 
 Humph. I can say nothing to the latter; 
 but he says he can marry no one without 
 your consent while you are living. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. If he said so much, I know 
 he scorns to break his word with me. 
 
 Humph. I am sure of that. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. You are sure of that — well! 
 that 's some comfort. Then I have noth- 
 ing to do but to see the bottom' of this 
 matter during this present ruffle — Oh, 
 Humphry 
 
 Humph. You are not ill, I hope, sir. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Yes, a man is vei-y ill that's 
 in a very ill-humor. To be a father is to 
 be in care for one whom you oftener dis- 
 oblige than please by that very care — 
 Oh ! that sons could know the duty to a 
 father before they themselves are fathers 
 
 24 good-by. 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 605 
 
 —But, perhaps, you'll say now that I 
 am one of the happiest fathers in the 
 world; but, I assure you, that of the 
 very happiest is not a condition to be 
 envied. 
 
 Humph. Sir, your pain arises, not from 
 the thing itself, but your particular sense 
 of it. You are overfond, nay, give me 
 leave to say, you are unjustly apprehen- 
 sive from your fondness. My master 
 Bevil never disobliged you, and he will, I 
 know he will, do everything you ought to 
 expect. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. He won't take all this money 
 with this girl — For ought I know, he will, 
 forsooth, have so much moderation as to 
 think he ought not to force his liking for 
 any consideration. 
 
 Humph. He is to marry her, not you; he 
 is to live with her, not you, sir. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I know not what to think. 
 But, I luiow, nothing can be more miser- 
 able than to be in this doubt — Follow 
 me; I must come to some resolution. 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. Bevil, Jun.'s Lodgings. 
 {Enter Tom and PMllis.) 
 
 Tom. Well, madam, if you must speak 
 with Mr. Myrtle, you shall; he is now 
 with my master in the library. 
 
 Phil. But you must leave me alone with 
 him, for he can't make me a present, nor 
 I so handsomely take anything from him 
 before you; it would not be decent. 
 
 Tom. It will be very decent, indeed, for 
 me to retire, and leave my mistress with 
 another man. 
 
 Phil. He is a gentleman, and will treat 
 one properly. 
 
 Tom. I believe so; but, however, I won't 
 be far off, and therefore will venture to 
 trust you. I'll call him to you. 
 {Exit Tom.) 
 
 Phil. What a deal of pother and sputter 
 here is between my mistress and Mr. 
 Myrtle from mere punctilio! I could, 
 any hour of the day, get her to her lover, 
 and would do it — but she, forsooth, will 
 allow no plot to get him; but, if he can 
 come to her, I know she would be glad of 
 it. I must, therefore, do her an accept- 
 able violence, and surprise her into his 
 arms. I am sure I go by the best rule 
 imaginable. If she were ray maid, I 
 should think her the best servant in the 
 world for doing so by me. 
 
 {Enter Myrtle and Tom.) 
 
 Oh sir ! You and Mr. Bevil are fine gen- 
 tlemen to let a lady remain under such 
 difficulties as my poor mistress, and no 
 attempt to set her at liberty, or release 
 her from the danger of being instantly 
 married to Cimberton. 
 
 Myrt. Tom has been telling But what 
 
 is to be done? 
 
 PMl. What is to be done — ^when a man 
 can't come at his mistress! Why, can't 
 you fire our house, or the next house to 
 us, to make us run out, and you take us? 
 
 Myrt. How, Mrs. Phillis? 
 
 Phil. Ay; let me see that rogue deny to 
 fire a house, make a riot, or any other 
 little thing, when there were no other 
 way to come at me. 
 
 Tom. I am obliged to you, madam. 
 
 Phil, Why, don't we hear every day of 
 people's banging themselves for love, and 
 won't they venture the hazard of being 
 hanged for love ? Oh, were I a man 
 
 Myrt. What manly thing would you have 
 me undertake, according to your lady- 
 ship's notion of a man? 
 
 Phil. Only be at once what, one time or 
 other, you may be, and wish to be, or 
 must be. 
 
 Myrt. Dear girl, talk plainly to me, and 
 consider I, in my condition, can't be in 
 very good humor — ^you say, to be at once 
 what I must be. 
 
 Phil. Ay, ay; I mean no more than to be 
 an old man ; I saw you do it very well at 
 the masquerade. In a word, old Sir 
 Creoflry Cimberton is every hour expected 
 in town, to join in the deeds and settle- 
 ments for marrying Mr. Cimberton. He 
 is half blind, half lame, half deaf, half 
 dumb ; though, as to his passions and de- 
 sires, he is as warm and ridiculous as 
 when in the heat of youth. 
 
 Tom. Come to the business, and don't 
 keep the gentleman in suspense for the 
 pleasure of being courted, as you serve 
 me. 
 
 Phil. I saw you at the masquerade act 
 such a one to perfection. Go, and put 
 on that very habit, and come to our house 
 as Sir Geoffry. There is not one there 
 but myself knows his person ; I was born 
 in the parish where he is Lord of the 
 Manor. I have seen him often and often 
 at church in the country. Do not hesi- 
 tate, but come hither; they will think you 
 bring a certain security against Mr. 
 Myrtle, and yon bring Mr. Myrtle. 
 
606 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Leave the rest to me; I leave this with 
 you, and expect — They don't, I told you, 
 know you; they think you out of town, 
 which you had as good be for ever, if you 
 lose this opportunity — I must be gone; I 
 know I am wanted at home. 
 
 Myrt. My dear Phillis! 
 
 (Catches and kisses her, and gives her 
 money.) 
 
 Phil. fie! my kisses are not my own; 
 you have committed violence; but I'll 
 carry 'em to the right owner. (lam 
 kisses her.) — Come, see me downstairs 
 (To Tom) and leave the lover to think of 
 his last game for the prize. 
 
 (Exeunt Tom and Phillis.) 
 
 Myrt. I think I will instantly attempt this 
 wild expedient. The extravagance of it 
 will make me less suspected, and it will 
 give me opportunity to assert my own 
 right to Lncinda, without whom I cannot 
 live. But I am so mortified at this con- 
 duct of mine towards poor Bevil. He 
 must think meanly of me — I know not 
 how to reassume myself, and be in spirit 
 enough for such an adventure as this; 
 yet I must attempt it, if it be only to be 
 near Lucinda under her present perplexi- 
 ties; and sure 
 
 The next delight to transport, with the 
 
 fair, 
 Is to relieve her in her hours of care. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. Sealand's House, 
 
 (Enter Phillis, with lights, before Myrtle, 
 disguised like old Sir Geoffry; supported 
 by Mrs. Sealand, Lucinda, and Cimber- 
 ton.) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Now I have seen you thus far, 
 Sir Geoffry, will you excuse me a moment 
 while I give my necessary orders for your 
 accommodation 1 
 
 (Exit Mrs. Seal.) 
 
 Myrt. I have not seen you, cousin Cim- 
 berton, since you were ten years old; and 
 as it is incumbent on you to keep up our 
 name and family, I shall, upon very rea- 
 sonable terms, join with you in a settle- 
 ment to that purpose. Though I must 
 tell you, cousin, this is the first merchant 
 that has married into our house. 
 
 Luc. Deuce on 'em ! am I a merchant be- 
 cause my father is? 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Myrt. But is he directly a trader at this 
 time? 
 
 Cimb. There 's no hiding the disgrace, sir; 
 he trades to all parts of the world. 
 
 Myrt. We never had one of our family be- 
 fore who descended from persons that did 
 anything. 
 
 Cimb. Sir, since it is a girl that they have, 
 I am, for the honor of my family, willing 
 to take it in again, and to sink her into 
 our name, and no harm done. 
 
 Myrt. "I is prudently and generously re- 
 solved — Is this the young thing? 
 
 Cimb. Yes, sir. 
 
 Phil. Good madam, don't be out of humor, 
 but let them run to the utmost of their 
 extravagance. — Hear them out. 
 (To Luc.) 
 
 Myrt. Can't I see her nearer? My eyes 
 are but weak. 
 
 Phil. Beside, I am sure the uncle has some- 
 thing worth your notice. I'll take care 
 to get off the young one, and leave you to 
 observe what may be wrought out of the 
 old one for your good. 
 
 (To Luc. Exit.) 
 
 Cimb. Madam, this old gentleman, your 
 great uncle, desires to be introduced to 
 you, and to see you nearer! — ^Approach, 
 sir. 
 
 Myrt. By your leave, young lady. (Puts 
 on spectacles.) — Cousin Cimberton ! She 
 has exactly that sort of neck and bosom 
 for which my sister Gertrude was so much 
 admired in the year sixty-one, before the 
 French dresses first discovered anything 
 in women below the chin. 
 
 Luc, (Aside.) What a very odd situation 
 -am I in ! though I cannot but be diverted 
 at the extravagance of their humors, 
 equally unsuitable to their age — Chin, 
 quotha — I don't believe my passionate 
 lover there knows whether I have one or 
 not. Ha! ha! 
 
 Myrt. Madam, I would not willingly of- 
 fend, but I have a better glass. 
 (Pulls out a large one.) 
 (Enter Phillis.) 
 
 Phil. (To Cimberton.) Sir, my lady de- 
 sires to show the apartment to you that 
 she intends for Sir Geoffry. 
 
 Cimb. Well, sir! by that tinje you will 
 have sufficiently gazed and sunned your- 
 self in the beauties of my spouse there. — 
 I will wait on you again. 
 
 (Exit Cimb. and Phil.) 
 
 Myrt. Were it not, madam, that I might 
 be troublesome, there is something of im- 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 607 
 
 portance, though we are alone, "which I 
 
 would say more safe from being heard. 
 Luc. There is something in this old fellow, 
 
 methinks, that raises my curiosity. 
 {Aside. ) 
 Myrt. To be free, madam, I as heartily 
 
 contemn this kinsman of mine as you do, 
 
 and am sorry to see so much beauty and 
 
 merit devoted by your parents to so in- 
 sensible a possessor. 
 Lue. Surprising! — I hope, then, sir, you 
 
 will not contribute to the wrong you are 
 
 so generous as to pity, whatever may be 
 
 the interest of your family. 
 Myrt. This hand of mine shall never be 
 
 employed to sign anything against your 
 
 good and happiness. 
 Luc. I am sorry, sir, it is not in my power 
 
 to make you proper acknowledgments; 
 
 but there is a gentleman in the world 
 
 whose gratitude will, I am sure, be worthy 
 
 of the favor. 
 Myrt. All the thanks I desire, madam, are 
 
 in your power to give. 
 Lue. Name them and command them. 
 Myrt. Only, madam, that the first time 
 
 you are alone with your lover, you will, 
 
 with open arms, receive him. 
 Luc. As willingly as his heart could wish 
 
 it. 
 Myrt. Thus, then, he claims your promise. 
 
 O Lucinda! ■ 
 Luc. Oh ! a cheat ! a cheat ! a cheat ! 
 Myrt. Hush ! 't is I, 't is I, your lover* 
 
 Myrtle himself, madam. 
 Lue. bless me! what a rashness and 
 
 folly to surprise me so — But hush — my 
 
 mother. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Sealand, Cimberton, and 
 Phillis. ) 
 
 Mrs. Seal. How now! what's the matter? 
 
 Lue. madam! as soon as you left the 
 room my uncle fell into a sudden fit, and 
 — and — so I cried out for help to sup- 
 port him and conduct him to his chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. That was kindly done! Alas! 
 sir, how do you find yourself? 
 
 Myrt. Never was taken in so odd a way 
 in my life — pray lead me! Oh! I was 
 talking here — (pray carry me)— to my 
 cousin Cimberton's young lady. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. (Aside.) My cousin Cimber- 
 ton's young lady! How zealous he is, 
 even in his extremity, for the match ! A 
 right Cimberton. 
 
 (Cimberton and Lucinda lead Mm, as one 
 in pain.) 
 
 Cimb. Pox! Uncle, you will pull my ear 
 off. 
 
 Luc, Pray, uncle! you will squeeze me to 
 death. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. No matter, no matter — he 
 knows not what he does. — Come, sir, shall 
 I help you out? 
 
 Myrt. By no means ! I '11 trouble nobody 
 but my young cousins here. 
 (They lead him of.) 
 
 Phil. But pray, madam, does your lady- 
 ship intend that Mr. Cimberton shall 
 really marry my young mistress at last? 
 I don't^ think he likes her. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. That 's not material ! Men of 
 his speculation are above desires — but be 
 it as it may. .Now I have given old Sir 
 Geoffry the trouble of coming up to sign 
 and seal, with what countenance can I 
 be off? 
 
 Phil. As well as with twenty others, 
 madam. It is the glory and honor of a 
 great fortune to live in continual treaties, 
 and still to break off: it looks great, 
 
 Mrs. Seal. True, Phillis-^yet to return 
 our blood again into the Cimbertons is 
 an honor not to be rejected — But were 
 not you saying that Sir John Bevil's 
 creature, Humphry, has been with Mr. 
 Sealand? 
 
 Phil. Yes, madam ; I overheard them agree 
 that Mr. Sealand should go himself and 
 visit this unknown lady that Mr. Bevil 
 is so great with ; and if he found nothing 
 there to fright him, that Mr. Bevil should 
 still marry my young mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. How! nay, then, he shall find 
 she is my daughter as well as his. I'll 
 follow him this instant, and take the 
 whole family along with me. The dis- 
 puted power of disposing of my own 
 daughter shall be at an end this very 
 night. I '11 live no longer in anxiety for 
 a little hussy that hurts my appearance 
 wherever I carry her : and for wliose sake 
 I seem to be at all regarded, and that in 
 the best of my days. 
 
 Phil. Indeed, madam, if she were married, 
 your ladyship might very well be taken 
 for Mr. Sealand's daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Nay, when the chit has not 
 been with me, I have heard the men say 
 as much. I '11 no longer cut off the great- 
 est pleasure of a woman's life (the shin- 
 ing in assemblies) by her forward antici- 
 pation of the respect that's due to her 
 superior. She shall down to Cimberton,- 
 Hall — she shall — she shall. 
 
608 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Phil. I hope, madam, I shall stay with 
 
 your ladyship. 
 Mrs. Seal. Thou shalt, Phillis, and I'll 
 
 place thee then more about me — But order 
 
 chairs immediately; I'll be gone this 
 
 minute. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. Charing Cross. 
 {Enter Mr. Sealand and Humphry.) 
 
 Mr. Seal. I am very glad, Mr. Humphry, 
 that you agree with me that it is for our 
 common good I should look thoroughly 
 into this matter. 
 
 Humph. I am, indeed, of that opinion; 
 for there is no artifice, nothing concealed, 
 in our family, which ought in justice to 
 be known. I need not desire you, sir,' to 
 treat the lady with care and respect. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Master Humphry, I shall not 
 be rude, though I design to be a little 
 abrupt, and come into the matter at once, 
 to see how she will bear upon a surprise. 
 
 Humph. That's the door, sir; I wish you 
 success. — (While Humphry speaks, Sea- 
 land consults his table hook.) — I am less 
 concerned what happens there, because I 
 hear Mr. Mjrrtle is well lodged as old 
 Sir Geoffry; so I am willing to let this 
 gentleman employ himself here, to give 
 them time at home; for I am sure 'tis 
 necessary for the quiet of our family 
 Lucinda were disposed of out of it, since 
 Mr. Bevil's inclination is so much other- 
 wise engaged. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Mr. Seal. I think this is the door. 
 (Knocks.) I '11 carry this matter with an 
 air of authority, to inquire, though I 
 make an errand, to begin discourse. 
 
 (Knocks again, and enter a foot-bqy.) 
 
 So, young man! is your lady within? 
 
 Boy. Alack, sir! I am but a country boy 
 — I dant know whether she is or noa ; but 
 an you '11 stay a bit, I '11 goa and ask the 
 gentlewoman that 's with her. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah, though you are a 
 country boy, you can see, can't you? 
 You know whether she is at home, when 
 you see her, don't you 1 
 
 Boy. Nay, nay, I 'm not such a country 
 lad neither, master, to think she 's at 
 home because I see her. I have been in 
 town but a month, and I lost one place 
 already for believing my own eyes. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah! have you learnt 
 to lie already'? 
 
 Boy. Ah, master! things that are lies in 
 the country are not lies at London. I 
 begin to know my business a little better 
 than so — But an you please to walk in, 
 I '11 call a gentlewoman to you that can 
 tell you for certain — she can make bold to 
 ask my lady herself. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh! then, she is within, I find, 
 though you dare not say so. 
 
 Boy. Nay, nay! that's neither here nor 
 there : what 's matter whether she is 
 within or no, if she has not a mind to see 
 anybody ? 
 
 Mr. Seal. I can't tell, sirrah, whether you 
 are arch or simple; but, however, get me 
 a direct answer, and here 's a shilling for 
 you. 
 
 Boy. Will you please to walk in ; I 'U see 
 what I can do for you. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I see you will be fit for your 
 business in time, child; but I expect to 
 meet with nothing but extraordinaries in 
 such a house. 
 
 Boy. Such a house! Sir, you han't seen 
 it yet. Pray walk in. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Sir, I '11 wait upon you. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. Indiana's House. 
 (Enter Isabella.) 
 
 Isab. What anxiety do I feel for this poor 
 creature! What will be the end of her? 
 
 • Such a languishing unreserved passion 
 for a man that at last must certainly leave 
 or ruin her! and perhaps both! Then 
 the aggravation of the distress is, that 
 she does not believe he will — ^not but, I 
 must own, if they are both what they 
 would seem, they are made for one an- 
 other, as much as Adam and Eve were, 
 for there is no other of their kind but 
 themselves. 
 
 (Enter Boy.) 
 
 So, Daniel! what news with you? 
 Boy. Madam, there 's a gentleman below 
 
 would speak with my lady. 
 Isab. Sirrah! don't you know Mr. Bevil 
 
 yet? 
 
 Boy. Madam, 't is not the gentleman who 
 comes every day, and asks for you, and 
 won't go in till he knows whether you are 
 with her or no. 
 
 Isab. Ha ! that 's a particular I did not 
 know before. Well ! be it who it will, let 
 him come up to me. 
 
 (Exit Boy; and re-enters with Mr. Seala/nd; 
 Isabella looks amazed,) 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 Mr. Seal. Madam, I can't blame your be- 
 ing a little surprised to see a perfect 
 stranger make a visit, and 
 
 Isab. I am indeed surprised! — I see he 
 does not know me. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Mr. Seal. You are very prettily lodged 
 here, madam; in troth you seem to have 
 everything in plenty — ^A thousand a year, 
 I warrant you, upon this pretty nest of 
 rooms, and the dainty one within them. 
 (Aside, and looking about.) 
 
 Isab. (Apart.) Twenty years, it seems, 
 have less effect in the alteration of a man 
 of thirty than of a girl of fourteen — 
 he 's almost still the same ; but alas ! I 
 find, by other men, as well as himself, I 
 am not what I was. As soon as he spoke, 
 I was convinced 'twas he; how shall I 
 contain my surprise and satisfaction ! 
 He must not know me yet. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Madam, I hope I don't give you 
 any disturbance; but there is a young 
 lady here with whom I have a particular 
 business to discourse, and I hope she will 
 admit me to that favor. 
 
 Isab. Why, sir, have you had any notice 
 concerning her? I wonder who could 
 give it you. 
 
 Mr. Seal. That, madam, is fit only to be 
 communicated to herself. 
 
 Isab. Well, sir! you shall see her. — 
 (Aside.) I iind he knows nothing yet, 
 nor shall from me. I am resolved I will 
 observe this interlude, this sport of nature 
 and of fortune. — You shall see her pres- 
 ently, sir ; for now I am as a mother, and 
 will trust her with you. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Mr. Seal. As a mother! right; that's the 
 old phrase for one of those commode ^' 
 ladies, who lend out beauty for hire to 
 young gentlemen that have pressing oc- 
 casions. But here comes the precious 
 lady herself. In troth a very sightly 
 woman 
 
 (Enter Indiana.) 
 
 Ind. I am told, sir, you have some affair 
 that requires your speaking with me. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Yes, madam, there came to my 
 hands a biU drawn by Mr. Bevil, which is 
 payable to-morrow; and he, in the inter- 
 eouTse of business, sent it to me, who 
 have cash of his, and desired me to send 
 a servant with it; but I have made bold 
 to bring you the money myself. 
 
 Ind. Sir! was that necessary? 
 
 35 accoraiaodatlng. 
 
 Mr. Seal. No, madam ; but to be free with 
 you, the fame of your beauty, and the 
 regard which Mr. Bevil is a little too well 
 known to have for you, excited my curi- 
 osity. 
 
 Ind. Too well known to have for me! 
 Your sober appearance, sir, which my 
 friend described, made me expect no rude- 
 ness, or absurdity, at least — Who 's 
 there ? ^° — Sii", if you pay the money to a 
 servant, 'twill be as well. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Pray, madam, be not offended; 
 I came hither on an innocent, nay, a vir- 
 tuous design; and, if you will have pa- 
 tience to hear me, it may be as useful to 
 you, as you are in a friendship with Mr. 
 Bevil, as to my only daughter, whom I 
 was this day disposing of. 
 
 Ind. You make me hope, sir, I have mis- 
 taken you. I am composed again; be 
 free, say on — (Aside.) — what I am afraid 
 to hear. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I feared, indeed, an unwar- 
 ranted passion here, but I did not think 
 it was in abuse of so worthy an object, so 
 accomplished a lady as your sense and 
 mien bespeak; but the youth of our age 
 care not what inerit and virtue they bring 
 to shame, so they gratify 
 
 Ind. Sir, you are going into very great 
 errors ; but as you are pleased to say you 
 see something in me that has changed at 
 least the color of your suspicions, so has 
 your appearance altered mine, and made 
 me earnestly attentive to what has any 
 way concerned you to inquire into my 
 affairs and character. 
 
 Mr. Seal. How sensibly, with what an air 
 she talks! 
 
 Ind. Good sir, be seated, and tell me ten- 
 derly; keep all your suspicions concern- 
 ing me alive, that you may in a proper 
 and prepared way acquaint me why the 
 care of your daughter obliges a person of 
 your seeming worth and "fortune to be 
 thus inquisitive about a wretched, help- 
 less, friendless (Weeping.) But I 
 
 beg your pardon; though I am an or- 
 phan, your child is not; and your concern 
 for her, it seems, has brought you 
 hither. — I '11 be composed ; pray go on, 
 sir. 
 
 Mr. Seal. How could Mr. Bevil be such a 
 monster, to injure such a woman ? 
 
 Ind. No, sir, you wrong him; he has not 
 injured me. My support is from his 
 bounty. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Bounty! when gluttons give 
 
 28 A way of calling a servant. 
 
610 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 high prices for delieates, they are pro- 
 digious bountiful. 
 
 Ind. Still, still you will persist in that 
 error. But my own fears tell me all. 
 You are the gentleman, I suppose, for 
 whose happy daughter he is designed a 
 husband by his good father, and he has, 
 perhaps, consented to the overture. He 
 was here this morning, dressed beyond his 
 usual plainness — ^nay, most sumptuously 
 — and he is to be, perhaps, this night a 
 bridegroom. 
 
 Mr. Seal. I own he was intended such; 
 but, madam, on your account, I have de- 
 termined to defer my daughter's marriage 
 till I am satisfied from your own mouth 
 of what nature are the obligations you are 
 under to him. 
 
 Ind. His actions, sir; his eyes have only 
 made me think he designed to make me 
 the partner of his heart. The goodness 
 and gentleness of his demeanor made me 
 misinterpret all. 'T was my own hope, 
 my own passion, that deluded me; he 
 never made one amorous advance to me. 
 His large heart, and bestowing hand, have 
 only helped the miserable; nor know I 
 why, but from his mere delight in virtue, 
 that I have been his care and the object 
 on which to indulge and please himself 
 with pouring favors. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Madam, I know not why it is, 
 but I, as well as you, am methinks afraid 
 of entering into the matter I came about ; 
 but 't is the same thing as if we had talked 
 
 never so distinctly he ne'er shall have 
 
 a daughter of mine. 
 
 Ind. If you say this from what you think 
 of me, you wrong yourself and him. Let 
 not me, miserable though I may be, do 
 injury to my benefactor. No, sir, my 
 treatment ought rather to reconcile you 
 to his virtues. If to bestow without a 
 prospect of return; if to delight in sup- 
 porting what might, perhaps, be thought 
 an object of desire, with no other view 
 than to be her guard against those who 
 would not be so disinterested; if these 
 actions, sir, can in a careful parent's eye 
 commend him to a daughter, give yours, 
 sir, give her to my honest, generous 
 Bevil. What have I to do but sigh, and 
 weep, and rave, run wild, a lunatic in 
 chains, or, hid in darkness, mutter in dis- 
 tracted starts and broken accents my 
 strange, strange story! 
 
 Mr. Seal. Take comfort, madam. 
 
 Ind. All my comfort must be to expostu- 
 late in madness, to relieve with frenzy my 
 
 despair, and shrieking to demand of fate 
 why — why was I bom to such variety of 
 sorrows. 
 
 Mr. Seal,' If I have been the least occa- 
 sion 
 
 Ind. No, 'twas Heaven's high will I 
 should be such; to be plundered in my 
 cradle ! tossed on the seas ! and even there 
 an infant captive ! to lose my mother, hear 
 but of my father ! to be adopted ! lose my 
 adopter! then plunged again into worse 
 calamities ! 
 
 Mr. Seal.' An infant captive ! 
 
 Ind. Yet then, to find the most charming 
 of mankind, once more to set me free 
 from what I thought the last distress, to 
 load me with his services, his bounties, 
 and his favors; to support my very life 
 in a way that stole, at the same time, my 
 very soul itself from me. 
 
 Mr. Seal. And has young Bevil been this 
 worthy man ? 
 
 Ind. Yet then, again, this very man to 
 take another! without leaving me the 
 right, the pretence of easing my fond 
 heart with tears ! For, oh ! . I can't re- 
 proach him, though the same hand that 
 raised me to this height now throws me 
 down the precipice. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Dear lady! Oh, yet one mo- 
 ment's patience : my heart grows full with 
 your affliction. — ^But yet there 's some- 
 thing in your story that 
 
 Ind. My portion here is bitterness and 
 sorrow. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Do not think so. Pray answer 
 me : does Bevil know your name and fam- 
 ily? 
 
 Ind. Alas ! too well ! Oh, could I be any 
 
 other thing than what I am 1 '11 tear 
 
 away all traces of my former self, my 
 little ornaments, the remains of my first 
 state, the hints of what I ought to have 
 been 
 
 {In her disorder she throws away a bracelet, 
 which Sealand takes up, and looks earn- 
 estly on it.) 
 
 Mr. Seal. Ha ! what 's this ? My eyes are 
 not deceived! It is, it is the same! the 
 very bracelet which I bequeathed to my 
 wife at our last mournful parting. 
 
 Ind. "What said you, sir? Your wife? 
 Whither does my fancy carry me? What 
 means this unfelt motion at my heart? 
 And yet, again my fortune but deludes 
 me; for if I err not, sir, your name is 
 Sealand; but my lost father's name 
 was 
 
 Mr. Seal. Dan vers; was it not? 
 
THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 
 
 611 
 
 Ind. What new amazement? That is, in- 
 deed, my family. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Know, then, when my misfor- 
 tunes drove me to the Jndies, for reasons 
 too tedious now to mention, I changed my 
 name of Danvers into Sealand. 
 
 {Enter Isabella.) 
 
 Isab. If yet there wants an explanation of 
 your wonder, examine well this face 
 (yours, sir, I well remember), gaze on 
 and read in me your sister, Isabella. 
 
 Mr. Seal. My sister! 
 
 Isab. But here 's a claim more tender yet 
 
 ^your Indiana, sir, your long-lost 
 
 daughter. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh, my child! my child! 
 
 Ind. All-gracious Heaven ! is it possible ! 
 do I embrace my father? 
 
 Mr. Seal. And do I hold thee?— These 
 passions are too strong for utterance. 
 Rise, rise, my child, and give my tears 
 their way. — Oh, my sister! 
 
 {Embracing her.) 
 
 Isab. Now, dearest niece, my groundless 
 fears, my painful cares no more shall vex 
 thee. If I have wronged thy noble lover 
 with too much suspicion, my just concern 
 for thee, I hope, will plead m;^ pardon. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh ! make him, then, the full 
 amends, and be yourself the messenger of 
 joy. Fly this instant! tell him all these 
 wondrous turns of Providence in his 
 favor! Tell him I have now a daughter 
 to bestow which he no longer will decline ; 
 that this day he still shall be a bride- 
 groom; nor shall a fortune, the merit 
 which his father seeks, be wanting. Tell 
 him the reward of all his virtues waits on 
 his acceptance. {Exit Isab.) My dear- 
 est Indiana! 
 
 {Turns and embraces her.) 
 
 Ind. Have I, then, at last, a father's sanc- 
 tion on my love? His bounteous hand to 
 give, and make my heart a present worthy 
 of Bevil's generosity? 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh, my child ! how are our sor- 
 rows past o'erpaid by such a meeting! 
 Though I have lost so many years of soft 
 paternal dalliance with thee, yet, in one 
 day to find thee thus, and' thus bestow 
 thee, in such perfect happiness, is ample, 
 ample reparation! — And yet, again, the 
 merit of thy lover 
 
 Ind. Oh ! had I spirits left to tell you of 
 his actions! how strongly filial duty has 
 suppressed his love ; and how concealment 
 stil) has doubled all his obligations; the 
 
 pride, the joy of his alliance, sir, would 
 warm your heart, as he has conquered 
 mine. 
 
 Mr. Seal. How laudable is love when born 
 of virtue ! I burn to embrace him 
 
 Ind. See, sir, my aunt already has suc- 
 ceeded, and brought him to your wishes. 
 
 {Enter Isabella, with Sir John Bevil, Bevil, 
 Jun., Mrs. Sealand, Cimberton, Myrtle, 
 and Lucinda.) 
 
 Sir J. Bev. {Entering.) Where, where 's 
 this scene of wonder? Mr. Sealand, I 
 congratulate, on this occasion, our mutual 
 
 happiness Your good sister, sir, has, 
 
 with the story of your daughter's fortune, 
 filled us with surprise and joy. Now all 
 exceptions are removed ; my son has now 
 avowed his love, and turned all former 
 jealousies and doubts to approbation ; 
 and, I am told, your goodness has con- 
 sented to reward him. 
 
 Mr. Seal. If, sir, a fortune equal to his 
 father's hopes can make this object 
 worthy his acceptance. 
 
 Bev. Jun. I hear your mention, sir, of 
 fortune, with pleasure only as it may 
 prove the means to reconcile the best of 
 fathers to my love. Let him be provi- 
 dent, but let me be happy. — My ever-des- 
 tined, my acknowledged wife! 
 {Embracing Indiana.) 
 
 Ind. Wife! Oh, my ever loved! My 
 lord ! my master ! 
 
 Sir J. Bev. I congratulate myself, as well 
 as you, that I had a son who could, under 
 such disadvantages, discover your great 
 merit. 
 
 Mr. Seal. Oh, Sir John! how vain, how 
 weak is human prudence! What care, 
 what foresight, what imagination could 
 contrive such blest events, to make our 
 children happy, as Providence in one 
 short hour has laid before us? 
 
 Cimb. {To Mrs. Sealand.) I am afraid, 
 madam, Mr. Sealand is a little too busy 
 for our affair. If you please, we '11 take 
 another opportunity. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Let us have patience, sir. 
 
 Cimb. But we make Sir Geofiry wait, 
 madam. 
 
 Myrt. 0, sir, I am not in haste. 
 
 {During this Bev. Jun. presents Lucinda to 
 Indiana.) 
 
 Mr. Seal. But here! here's our general 
 benefactor! Excellent young man, that 
 could be at once a lover to her beauty and 
 a parent to her virtue. 
 
 Bev. Jun. If you think that an obligation, 
 
612 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 sir, give me leave to overpay myself, in 
 the only instance that can now add to my 
 felicity, by begging you to bestow this 
 lady on Mr. Myrtle. 
 
 Mr. Seal. She is his without reserve; I 
 beg he may be sent for. Mr. Cimberton, 
 notwithstanding you never had my con- 
 sent, yet there is, since I last saw you, 
 another objection to your marriage with 
 my daughter. 
 
 Cimb. I hope, sir, your lady has concealed 
 nothing from me? 
 
 Mr. Seal. Troth, sir, nothing but what was 
 concealed from myself — another daugh- 
 ter, who has an undoubted title to half 
 my estate. 
 
 Cimb. How, Mr. Sealand? Why, then, if 
 half Mrs. Lueinda's fortune is gone, you 
 can't say that any of my estate is settled 
 upon her. I was in treaty for the whole ; 
 but if that is not to be come at, to be sure 
 there can be no bargain. Sir, I have 
 nothing to do but to take my leave of 
 your good lady, my cousin, and beg par- 
 don for the trouble I have given this old 
 gentleman. 
 
 Myrt. That you have, Mr. Cimberton, with 
 all my heart. 
 
 (Discovers himself.) 
 
 All. Mr. Myrtle ! 
 
 Myrt. And I beg pardon of the whole 
 company that I assumed the person of 
 Sir Geoffry, only to .be present at the 
 danger of this lady's being disposed of, 
 and in her utmost exigence to assert my 
 right to her; which, if her parents will 
 
 ratify, as they once favored my preten- 
 sions, no abatement of fortune shall lessen 
 her value to me. 
 
 Luc. Generous man! 
 
 Mr. Seal. If, sir, you can overlook the in- 
 jury of being in treaty with one who as 
 meanly left her, as you have generously 
 asserted your right in her, she is yours. 
 
 Luc. Mr. Myrtle, though you have ever 
 had my heart, yet now I find I love you 
 more, because I bring you less. 
 
 Myrt. We have much more than we want ; 
 and I am glad any event has contributed 
 to the discovery of our real inclinations 
 to each other. 
 
 Mrs. Seal. Well! however, I'm glad the 
 girl's disposed of, anyway. 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Bev. Myrtle, no longer rivals now, but 
 brothers ! 
 
 Myrt. Dear Bevil, you are born to tri- 
 umph over me ! but now our competition 
 ceases; I rejoice in the pre-eminence of 
 your virtue, and your alliance adds 
 charms to Lueinda. 
 
 Sir J. Bev. Now, ladies and gentlemen, 
 you have set the world a fair example: 
 your happiness is owing to your con- 
 stancy and merit; and the several diffi- 
 culties you have struggled with evidently 
 show — 
 
 Whate'er the generous mind itself denies, 
 The secret care of Providence supplies. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
HENRY FIELDING 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES; OR, THE LIFE AND 
 DEATH OF TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 Henry Fielding (1707-1754), of aristo- 
 cratic birth and pleasure-loving disposition, 
 began writing plays as the best-paying form 
 of literature, most of them being comedies 
 more or less after the pattern of Moli6re and 
 Congreve. He best shows his comic ability 
 in his burlesques and farces. Tom Thumb 
 (the fourth of twenty-seven plays) was first 
 acted, at the Haymarket Theater, in 1730, 
 was enlarged to three acts in 1731, and pub- 
 lished in both years; in an altered form it 
 held the stage till well on in the nineteenth 
 century. At the age of thirty Fielding aban- 
 doned the stage for the law, and a, few years 
 later began the series of great novels which 
 mainly support his fame; a word of admira- 
 tion can be spared also for his essays. 
 
 Fielding was a born parodist. Endlessly 
 clever, versatile, vigorous, with a strong 
 though not fine feeling for style, a great 
 sense of the ridiculous, and exhaustless com- 
 mon-sense, he could have had no mercy on 
 unreality, pomposity, pretentiousness, and 
 sentimentality. His fling at sentimentality 
 is in a novel, later and more celebrated than 
 this play. In 1740 Samuel Richardson had 
 published Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, which 
 seemed to Fielding petty and fine-drawn, 
 and he responded in 1742 with Joseph An- 
 drews. Thus from the first fully-developed 
 novel of emotion was born the first fully- 
 developed novel of incident. For the mood 
 of mockery died away as Fielding became 
 more interested, and a creative spirit replaced 
 it. 
 
 In his earlier burlesque he maintains 
 throughout the spirit of delicious derision. 
 There was no new type of fiction ready for 
 the birth. In a highly diverting Preface to 
 Tom Thumb, all as fictitious as the fantastic 
 name, H. Scriblerus Secundns, under which 
 he wrote it, he states that " some publicly 
 affirmed that no author could produce so 
 fine a piece but Mr. P — [Pope] ; others have 
 with as much vehemence insisted that no one 
 could write anything so bad but Mr. F — 
 [Fielding]." After recording the ponderous 
 praises it had received from universities and 
 critics, and how " though it hath, among 
 other languages, been translated into Dutch, 
 and celebrated with great applause at Am- 
 sterdam (where burlesque never came) by 
 the title of Mynheer Vander Thumb, the 
 burgomasters received it with that reverend 
 
 613 
 
 and silent attention which becometh an audi- 
 ence at a deep tragedy," — he rejects with 
 seeming indignation the notion that it was 
 meant to be ludicrous, and, hinting that it 
 may be by Shakespeare, confidently dates it 
 in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He con- 
 tinues by applauding, in received critical 
 style, " the Fable, the Moral, the Characters, 
 the Sentiments, and the Diction." Thus in 
 the Preface, as well as in some of the notes, 
 he has his joke at the expense of the por- 
 tentous style and deficient insight of some 
 scholars and critics of his day, who he avers 
 have wagged their heavy heads over this 
 eminent work. ' The similarities between it 
 and other plays of the preceding seventy 
 years he affects to be uncertain whether to- 
 attribute to coincidence or to their imitation 
 of his author ; but in the notes intimates that 
 it has been pillaged right and left, till, like 
 Hamlet, it seems to be made up of nothing 
 but quotations. 
 
 The " heroic plays " are particularly though 
 not wholly the object of his mirth, and 
 among them The Conquest of Granada comes 
 in for its full share. Like Almanzor, though 
 probably not especially imitated from him, 
 Tom Thumb has his moments of modesty or 
 at least of courtesy, but not unlike the other 
 he announces, 
 
 I aek not kingdoms, I can conquer those. 
 
 Like Almanzor he is devoted to honor only 
 less than to love, and comes from preter- 
 human victory to lay his heart at the feet 
 of the fair. Like Almanzor ( in part II ) 
 King Arthur not only faces but threatens a 
 ghost; a scene which poor saturnine Dean 
 Swift said was one of the two things in his 
 life which had made him laugh. Several 
 scenes are in the rhymed couplet, which 
 Fielding sometimes varies by such grotesque 
 Browning-like rhymes as " Are you drunk, 
 ha ? " " Huncamunca." The unities are ob- 
 served with a strictness to set the heart of 
 Castelvetro aglow. Like the classical trage- 
 dies of the day, the play has a moral, which 
 when stated is as usually a platitude ; " it 
 teaches these two instructive lessons," says 
 the Preface, "viz., that human happiness is 
 exceeding transient; and that death is the 
 certain end of all men: the former whereof 
 is inculcated by the fatal end of Tom Thumb ; 
 the latter by that of all the other person- 
 
614 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ages." As naturally in a burlesque, the 
 height of the absurd is reached at the end, 
 in the anticlimax where the hero is swal- 
 lowed by a cow, and in the concluding ex- 
 travagance', where the spectator's head fairly 
 swims watching all the other characters fall 
 dead. Thus he has his fling at the exagger- 
 ated and unnatural violences o? some arti- 
 ficial tragedy. On the whole the several 
 dozen plays by sixteen writers .thus ridi- 
 culed are fair game. They are almost with- 
 out exception tragedies of the Restoration 
 and early eighteenth century, more espe- 
 cially those of Dryden, Banks, and Lee. 
 Earlier tragedies he leaves almost entirely 
 alone. While one or two of the plays at 
 which he shoots his arrows, such as Dryden's 
 All for Love, are still admired, most of them 
 met only a, temporary taste, and have ceased 
 to please and even to be read. Passion, free- 
 dom of feeling, are essential to great tragedy, 
 and an age when it was literary good breed- 
 ing to repress and make light of feeling was 
 ill adapted to it. Poets did not wait till the 
 fire kindled and at last they spake with their 
 tongue. They thought more of rule than of 
 spontaneity, as was pointed out in the dis- 
 cussion of Cato. There never was a time 
 when poets made such elaborate effort to 
 write tragedy, or more often dismally failed. 
 They were like the men of Babel, who said, 
 " Go to, let us build us a tower, whose top 
 may reach unto heaven, and let us make us 
 a name " ; and the Lord confounded their lan- 
 guage, that they might not understand one 
 another's speech. 
 
 " Which brings me to speak of his diction," 
 as the Preface says. " Here I shall only beg 
 one postulatum, viz., that the greatest per- 
 fection of the language of a tragedy is, that 
 it is not to be understood; which granted 
 (as I think it must be), it will necessarily 
 follow that the only way to avoid this is by 
 being too high or too low for the understand- 
 ing. . . . What can be so proper for tragedy 
 as a set of big sounding words, so contrived 
 together as to convey no meaning ! " He has 
 no mercy on the artificial and the inflated, 
 especially the frigid and long similes bedeck- 
 ing the tragedies of poets " who liken things 
 not like at all." " Our author " " is very 
 rarely within sight through the whole play, 
 either rising higher than the eye of your imar 
 gination can soar, or sinking lower than it 
 careth to stoop." Such a parody as 
 
 Oh I Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh I, 
 which chastises Thomson's notorious effort 
 
 Oh I Sophonisba; Sophonisba, ohl, 
 illustrates how faint a line parts the ludi- 
 crous from the intolerably touching, for it 
 differs in but one word from Shakespeare's 
 
 O Desdemona, Desdemona, dead, I 
 With the incongruity which is the essence of 
 humor, he varies this sort of thing by the 
 prosaic and grotesque, which made particu- 
 
 larly effective satire in an age when a poet 
 had better be in jail than be " low." His 
 laughter rings out at the too-literary device 
 of attributing liuman traits to non-human 
 things (smiling dolphins, a blushing sun), 
 which John Euskin a century later scolded at 
 as the " pathetic fallacy"; and at the puffing 
 up of a frog-commonplace into an ox-grand- 
 iloquence. Fielding relishes nothing in his 
 play more than the dressing up in burlesque 
 solemnity of some proverb like " Between two 
 stools the breech falls to the ground " (II. x) . 
 With his common-sense liking for pithy 
 reality, he says in the note, " It were to be 
 wished that, instead of filling their pages 
 with the fabulous theology of the pagans, our 
 modern poets would think it worth their 
 while to enrich their works with the prover- 
 bial sayings of their ancestors." There 
 speaks not only eighteenth-century prosaic 
 sense against pseudo-classicism, but also the 
 later romantic spirit, with its fondness for 
 the popular and traditional. 
 
 But, after all, Tom Thumb must not be 
 taken too seriously, even as a burlesque. 
 Fielding was no prophet, or reformer, with 
 deep convictions on literature, but a play- 
 wright who needed money and wanted to 
 "make a hit." He saw a chance in cleverly 
 parodying what everybody would recognize, 
 not only what deserved ridicule and might be 
 discredited by it, but also what could bear 
 ridicule. There are almost as many remi- 
 niscences of Shakespeare as of any later 
 dramatist, though Fielding has too much 
 reverence to point them out in the notes (he 
 also spares Venice Preserved). There is no 
 more humor in his parody of Thomson's 
 Sophonisba-scream than of Juliet in " 
 Tom Thumb! Tom Thumb! wherefore art 
 thou Tom Thumb ? "; or in that of Don John's 
 " Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's 
 Hero," in " My Huncamunca ! — Your Hun- 
 camunca, Tom Thumb's Huncamunca, every 
 man's Huncamunca." The only difference is 
 that Shakespeare can stand it and Thomson 
 cannot. It must not be supposed that Field- 
 ing condemned everything in the plays he 
 parodied, or even every parodied passage. It 
 must be admitted too that his mockery is 
 often undeserved; a clever writer can always 
 take passable or even good things out of their 
 context and make them look silly. Young's 
 " with these eyes I saw him," ridiculed in 
 III. ix, is the natural emphatic language of 
 strong feeling. With a mind full of scraps 
 of plays. Fielding parodied from memory 
 anything that could be made to raise a laugh, 
 and when he came to print set the origi- 
 nals in the footnotes (so far as he could re- 
 member them), and sometimes inaccurately. 
 These notes make the play more suitable to 
 read than to witness, for few things are less 
 intelligible than a burlesque of something un- 
 known. They explain to us a play which is 
 rather a free-and-easy boiling over of humor 
 
HENRY FIELDING 
 
 615 
 
 than a harsh and serious satire. Much of 
 Fielding's spirit reappeared a century later 
 in Thackeray, and one can hardly fail to see 
 the manner and style of Tom Thumb (com- 
 bined with Thackeray's own novelist-style) in 
 his delicious Christmas-burlesquCj The Hose 
 and the Ring. 
 
 The chief origin or models of the work 
 (aside from the plays already discussed) were 
 the Duke of Buckingham's Rehearsal (1671), 
 a dramatic satire on Dryden's plays, and es- 
 pecially A Commentary on the History of 
 Tom Thumb (1711), a burlesque ballad With 
 a commentary much like Fielding's, sup- 
 
 posedly by Dr. William Wagstaffe, and writ- 
 ten to ridicule Addison's appreciation of the 
 ballad of Chevy Chase in the Spectator. The 
 play quotes the History (III. viii), and bor- 
 rows some of its incidents. In such bur- 
 lesques there is really much more of the vital 
 energy of the age than in the works they 
 parodied. Its greatest literary men, Swift, 
 Pope, Addison, were critics, and the critical 
 spirit of the earlier eighteenth century was 
 more vigorous and more characteristic than 
 the imaginative. Any collection of eighteenth- 
 century dramas would be incomplete without 
 a specimen of it. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES; OR, THE LIFE 
 
 AND DEATH OF TOM THUMB 
 
 THE GREAT 
 
 With the Annotations of H. Scriblerus Secundus. 
 First acted in 1730, and altered in 1731. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 MEN 
 
 ICiNG Aethtjb, a passionate sort of king, hus- 
 band to Queen Dollallolla, of whom he 
 stands a little in fear; father to Hunca- 
 MTJNCA, whom he is very fond of and in 
 love with Glumdalca. 
 
 Tom Thumb the Great, a little hero with a 
 great soul, something violent in his temper, 
 which is a little abated by his love for 
 
 HUNCAMUNCA. 
 
 Ghost op Gaffeb Thumb, a whimsical sort 
 of Ghost. 
 
 LoBD Gbizzle, extremely zealous for the lib- 
 erty of the subject, very choleric in his 
 temper, and in love with Huncamunca. 
 
 Meelin, a conjurer, and in some sort father 
 to Tom Thumb. 
 
 Noodle, I coMrtiers in place, and consequently 
 
 -Doodle, \of that party that is uppermost. 
 
 FooDLE, a courtier that is out of place, and 
 consequently of that party that is under- 
 most. 
 
 Bailiff, \gf ^^g „„^(„ o/ the plaintiff. 
 
 Follower, ] ' v « • 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. T^e Palace. 
 
 {Doodle, Noodle.) 
 
 Doodle. Sure such a^ day as this was 
 never seen ! 
 The sun himself, on this auspicious day, 
 
 1 Corneille recommends some very remarkable day 
 wherein to fix the action of a tragedy. This the best 
 of our tragical writers have understood to mean a 
 day remarkable for the serenity of the sky, or what 
 
 By Addison, Fenton, and Kowe. 
 
 PABSOlf, of the side of the church. 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Queen Dollallolla, mfe to King Aethue, 
 and mother to Huncamunca, a womwn en- 
 tirely faultless, saving that she is a little 
 given to drink, a little too much a virago 
 towards her husband, and in love with Tom 
 Thumb. 
 
 The Princess Huncamunca, daughter to 
 their Majesties King Arthub and Queen 
 Dollallolla, of a very sweet, gentle, and 
 amorous disposition, equally in love with 
 Lord Grizzle and. Tom Thumb, and de- 
 sirous to be married to them, both. 
 
 Glumdalca, of the giants, a captive queen, 
 beloved by the king, but in love with TOM 
 Thumb. 
 
 Cleora, Mustacha, maids of honor in love 
 with Noodle and Doodle. 
 
 Courtiers, Guards, Rebels, Drums, Trumpets, 
 Thunder and Lightning. 
 
 Scene. — The Court of King Arthur, and a 
 Plain Thereabouts. 
 
 Shines like a beau in a new birth-day 
 
 suit: 
 This down the seams embroidered, that 
 
 the beams. 
 All nature wears one universal grin. 
 Nood. This day, Mr. Doodle, is a day 
 
 we generally call a fine summer's day: so that ac- 
 cording to this their exposition, the same months are 
 proper for tragedy which are proper for pastoral. 
 Most of our celebrated English tragedies as Qato, 
 Marwmne, Tamerlane,* &c., begin with their observa- 
 tions on the morning. Lee seems to have come the 
 
616 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Indeed ! — A day ,2 we never saw before. 
 The mighty 5 Thomas Thumb victorious 
 
 comes ; 
 Millions of giants crowd his chariot 
 
 wheels, 
 * Giants ! to whom the giants in Guild- 
 
 haU* 
 
 nearest to this beautiful description of our author's: 
 The morning dawns with an unwonted crimson, 
 The flowers eXi odorous seem, the garden birds 
 Sing louder, and the laughing sun ascends 
 The gaudy earth with an unusual brightness: 
 All nature smiles. Ciea. Borg, 
 
 Massinissa, in the New Sophonisha. [by Thomson], is 
 also a favorite of the sun: 
 
 — The sun too seems 
 As conscious of my joy, with broader eye 
 To look abroad the world, and all things smile 
 Like Sophonisba. 
 
 Memnon, in the Persian Princess [by Theobald], 
 makes the sun decline rising, that be may not peep 
 on objects which would profane his brightness: 
 
 — The morning rises slow. 
 And all those ruddy streaks that used to paint 
 The day's approach are lost in clouds, as if 
 The horrors of the night had sent 'em back, 
 To warn the sun he should not leave the sea. 
 To peep, &c. 
 
 2 This line is highly conformable to the beautiful 
 simplicity of the ancients. It hath been copied by 
 almost every modern. 
 
 Not to be is not to be in woe. 
 
 [Dryden's] State of Innocence. 
 Love is not sin but where 'tis sinful love. 
 
 [Dryden's] Von Sebastian. 
 Nature is nature, Lselius. [Lee's] Sophonisba. 
 Men are but men, we did not make ourselves. 
 
 [Young's] Revenge. 
 
 3 Dr. B — ^y reads, The mighty Tall-mast Thumb. 
 Mr. D — 3, The mighty Thumbing Thumb. Mr. 
 T — dt reads, Thundering. I think Thomas more 
 agreeable to the great simplicity so apparent in our 
 author. 
 
 4 That learned historian Mr. S — n.J in the third 
 number of his criticism on our author, takes great 
 pains to explode this passage. "It is," says he, 
 "difBeult to guess what giants are here meant, unless 
 the giant Despair in the Pilgrim's Progress, or the 
 giant Greatness in the Royal Villain; for I have 
 heard of no other sort of giants in the reign of King 
 Arthur." Petrus Burmanhus makes three Tom 
 Thumbs, one whereof he supposes to have been the 
 same person whom the Greeks call Hercules; and 
 that by these giants are to be understood the Cen- 
 taurs slain by that hero. Another Tom Thumb he 
 contends to have been no other than the Hermes 
 Trismegistus of the ancients. The third Tom 
 Thumb he places under the reign of king Arthur; 
 to which third Tom Thumb, says he, the actions «of 
 the other two were attributed. Now, though I know 
 that this opinion is supported by an assertion of 
 Justus Lipsius, "Thomam ilium Thumbum non 
 alium qu&m Herculem fuisse satis constat," yet shall 
 I venture to oppose one line of Mr. Midwinter H 
 against them all: 
 
 In Arthur's court Tom Thumb did live. 
 
 "But then," says Dr. B — y, "if we place Tom 
 Thumb in the court of king Arthur, it will be proper 
 to place that court out of Britain, where no giants 
 were ever heard of." Spenser, in his Fairy Queen, 
 is of another opinion, where, describing Albion, he 
 says, 
 
 ^Far within a savage nation dwelt 
 
 Of hideous giants. 
 
 And in the same canto: 
 
 '• Two wooden fig- 
 ures 14% feet 
 high, of mythical 
 British giants. 
 
 t Bentley, Dennis 
 and Theobald are 
 meant. 
 
 t One of the two 
 Salmon brothers, 
 writers on history 
 and geography 
 (Tupper). 
 
 (I "The supposi- 
 
 titious author of 
 
 Are infant dwarfs. They frown, and 
 
 foam and roar, 
 While Thumb, regardless of their noise, 
 
 rides on. 
 So some cock-sparrow in a farmer's yard, 
 Hops at the head of an huge flock of 
 
 turkeys. 
 Dood. When Goody Thumb first brought 
 
 this Thomas forth, 
 The Genius of our land triumphant 
 
 reigned; 
 Then, thBn, Arthur! did thy Genius 
 
 reign. 
 Nood. They tell me it is = whispered in' the 
 
 books 
 Of all our sages, that this mighty hero, 
 By Merlin's art begot, hath not a bone 
 Within his skin, but is a lump of gristle. 
 Dood. Then 'tis a gristle of no mortal 
 Some God, my Noodle, stept into the 
 ' place 
 Of Gaffer Thumb, and more than* half 
 
 begot 
 This mighty Tom. 
 Nood. '' — Sure he was sent express 
 
 Prom Heaven to be the pillar of our 
 
 state. 
 Though small his body be, so very small, 
 A chairman's || leg is more than twice as 
 
 large, 
 Tet is his soul like any mountain big; 
 And as a mountain once brought forth a 
 
 mouse, 
 * So doth this mouse contain a mighty 
 
 mountain. 
 
 Then Klfar, with two brethren giants had. 
 The one of which had two heads — 
 The other three. 
 Bisum teneatis, amici.** 
 
 5 "To whisper in books," says Mr. D — s, "is ar- 
 rant nonsense," I am afraid this learned man does 
 not sufficiently understand the extensive meaning of 
 the word whisper. If he had rightly understood 
 what is meant by the "senses whispering the soul," 
 in the Persian Princess, or what "whispering like' 
 winds" is in [Dryden's] Aurengzehe, or like thunder 
 in another author, he would have understood this. 
 Emmeline in Dryden sees a voice, but she was born 
 blind, which is an excuse Panthea cannot plead in 
 [Banks' lOi/riw, who hears a sight: 
 
 ^Your description will surpass 
 
 All fiction, painting, or dumb show of horror, 
 That ever ears yet heard, or eyes beheld. 
 When Mr. D — s understands these, he will under- 
 stand whispering in books. 
 
 6 — Some ruffian stept into his father's place. 
 And more than half begot him. 
 
 Uary Queen of Scots.tt 
 7 — ^For niamar seems sent express from Heaven, 
 To civilize this rugged Indian clime. 
 
 [Dennis'] Liberty Asserted. 
 8 "Omne majus continet in se minus, sed minus 
 
 the ballad of 
 Tom Thumb" 
 (Tupper). 
 
 II A carrier of a se- 
 dan-chair. 
 
 ** Don't laugh, my 
 friends. 
 
 tt Banks' The Isl- 
 and [later Albion] 
 Queens; or. The 
 Death of Mary 
 Queen of Scot- 
 Itvnd. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 617 
 
 Bood. Mountain indeed! So terrible his 
 
 name, 
 ' The giant nurses frighten children with it, 
 And cry Tom Thumb is come, and if you 
 
 are 
 Naughty, will surely take the child away. 
 Nood. But hark ! ^° these trumpets speak 
 
 the king's approach. 
 Bood. He comes most luckily for my pe- 
 tition. 
 
 {Fhurish.) 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 {King, Queen, Grizzle, Noodle, Boodle, 
 Foodie.) 
 
 King. ^^ Let nothing but a face of joy ap- 
 pear; 
 The man who frowns this day shall lose 
 
 his head. 
 That he may have no face to frown 
 
 withal. 
 Smile, Dollallolla — Ha! what wrinkled 
 
 sorrow 
 12 Hangs, sits, lies, frowns upon thy 
 
 knitted brow? 
 Whence flow those tears fast down thy 
 
 blubbered cheeks, 
 Like a swoln gutter, gushing through the 
 
 streets t 
 Queen. ^^ Excess of joy, my lord, I 've 
 
 heard folks say, 
 Gives tears as certain as excess of grief. 
 King. If it be so, let all men cry for joy, 
 
 non in se majus continere potest," says Scaliger * in 
 Thumbo, I suppose he would have cavilled at these 
 beautiful lines in the Earl of Essex: 
 
 Thy most inveterate soul, 
 
 That looks through the foul prison of thy body. 
 And at those of Dryden : 
 
 The palace is without too well designed; 
 
 Conduct me in, for I will view thy mind. 
 
 •t Aurenpnehe. 
 
 9 Mr. Banks hath copied this almost verbatim: 
 It was enough to say, here 's Essex come, 
 
 And nurses stilled their children with the fright. 
 
 Earl of Essex. 
 
 10 The trumpet in a tragedy is generally as much 
 as to say Enter king, which makes Mr. Banks, in one 
 of his plays, call it the trumpet's formal sound. 
 
 11 Phraortes, in the Captives Iby Gay], seems to 
 have been acquainted with king Arthur; 
 Proclaim a festival for seven days' space. 
 
 Let the court shine in all its pomp and lustre. 
 Let all our streets resound with shouts of joy ; 
 Let music's care-dispelling voice be heard; 
 The sumptuous banquet and the flowing goblet 
 Shall warm the cheek and fill the heart with gladness. 
 Astarbe shall sit mistress of the feast. 
 
 12 Repentance frowns on thy contracted brow. 
 
 Sophomsba. 
 Hung on his clouded brow, I marked despair. Ibid. 
 
 A sullen gloom 
 
 Scowls on his brow. [Young's] Busirie. 
 
 13 Plato is of this opinion, and so is Mr. Banks: 
 Behold these tears sprung from fresh pain and joy. 
 
 [Banks'] Earl of Essex. 
 
 1* Till my whole court be drowned with 
 
 their tears; 
 Nay, till they overflow my utmost land. 
 And leave me nothing but the sea to rule. 
 Bood. My liege, I a petition have here got. 
 King. Petition me no petitions, sir, to- 
 day: 
 Let other hours be set apart for business. 
 To-day it is our pleasure to be ^^ drunk. 
 And this our queen shall be as drunk as 
 we. 
 Queen. (Though I already i' half seas over 
 am) 
 If the capacious goblet overflow 
 With arrack punch — 'fore George! I'll 
 
 s6e it but: 
 Of rum and brandy I '11 not taste a drop. 
 King. Though rack, in punch, eight shil- 
 lings be a quart, 
 And rum and brandy be no more than 
 
 six, 
 Rather than quarrel you shall have your 
 will. 
 
 (Trumpets.) 
 
 14 These floods are very frequent in the tragic 
 authors : 
 
 Near to some murmuring brook I '11 lay me down. 
 Whose waters, if they should too shallow flow. 
 My tears shall swell them up till I will drown. 
 
 Lee's Sophonisba. 
 Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 
 That were the world on fire they might have drowned 
 The wrath of heaven, and quenched the mighty ruin. 
 [Lee's] Mithridates. 
 One author changes the waters of grief to those of 
 joy: 
 
 ^These tears, that sprang from tides of 
 
 grief. 
 Are now augmented to a flood of joy. 
 
 [Banks'] Cyrus the Great. 
 Another : 
 Turns all the streams of heat, and makes them flow 
 In pity's channel. Boydl Villain.^ 
 
 One drowns himself: 
 
 Pity like a torrent pours me down. 
 
 Now I am drowning all within a deluge. 
 
 [Banks' Virtue Betray'd, or] Anne Bullen. 
 Cyrus drowns the whole world: 
 Our swelling grief 
 
 Shall melt into a deluge, and the world 
 Shall drown in tears. Cyrus the Great. 
 
 15 An expression vastly beneath the dignity of 
 tragedy, says Mr. D — s, yet we find the word he 
 cavils at in the mouth of Mithridates less properly 
 used, and applied to a more terrible idea: 
 
 I would be drunk with death. Mithridates. 
 The author of the new Sophonisba taketh hold of 
 this monosyllable, and uses it pretty much to the same 
 purpose: 
 
 The Carthaginian sword with Boman blood 
 
 Was drunk. 
 I would ask Mr. D — s which gives him the best idea, 
 a drunken king, or a drunken sword! 
 
 Mr. Tate dresses up king Arthur's resolution in 
 heroic [Injured Love, 1707] : 
 Merry, my lord, o' th captain's humor right, 
 I am resolved to be dead drunk to-night. 
 Lee also uses this charming word: 
 
 Love 's the drunkenness of the mind. Gloriana. 
 
 16 Dryden hath borrowed this, and applied it im- 
 properly : 
 
 I 'm half seas o'er in death. 
 
 Cleomenea. 
 
 * A noted French . 
 critic (1540- 
 
 1609). 
 
 t The Persian Princess; or, The Boyal YUlain, by Theobald. 
 
618 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 But, ha! the warrior comes — the gxeat 
 
 Tom Thumb. 
 The little hero, giant-killing boy, 
 Preserver of my kingdom, is arrived. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 (Tom Thumb to them, with Officers, Prison- 
 ers, and Attendants.) 
 
 King. ^' Oh ! welcome most, most welcome 
 to my arms. 
 What gratitude can thank away the debt 
 Your valor lays upon me? 
 
 Queen. 1' Oh ! ye gods ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Thumb. When I 'm not thanked atall, I 'm 
 thanked enough. 
 ^^ I 've done my duty, and I 've done no 
 more. 
 Queen. Was ever such a godlike creature 
 seen? 
 
 (Aside.) 
 King. Thy modesty's a 2° candle to thy 
 merit, 
 It shines itself, and shows thy merit too. 
 But say, my boy, where didst thou leave 
 the giants? 
 Thumb. My liege, without the castle gates 
 they stand. 
 The castle gates too low for their admit- 
 tance. 
 King. What look they like? 
 Thumb. Like nothing but themselves. 
 Queen. "'^ And sure thou art like nothing 
 but thyself. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 King. Enough ! the vast idea fills my soul. 
 I see them — yes, I see them now before 
 
 me: 
 The monstrous, ugly, barb'rovis sons of 
 
 whores. 
 But ha! what form majestic strikes our 
 
 eyes? 
 ^2 So perfect, that it seems to have been 
 drawn 
 
 17 This figure is in great use among the tragedians : 
 
 'T is therefore, therefore 't is. 
 
 rCharles Johnson's] Victim. 
 I long, repent, repent, and long again. 
 
 [ Young s ] BuBiria. 
 
 18 A tragical exclamation. 
 
 19 This line is copied verbatim in the Captives. 
 
 20 We find a candlestick for this candle in two 
 celebrated authors : — 
 
 Each star withdraws 
 
 His golden head, and burns within the socket, 
 
 riiee's] Nero. 
 A soul grown old and sunk into the socket. 
 
 FDryden's Don] Sebastian. 
 
 21 This simile occurs very frequently among the 
 dramatic writers of both kinds. 
 
 22 Mr. Lee hath stolen this thought from our 
 author : 
 
 By all the gods in council : so fair she is, 
 That surely at her birth the council 
 
 paused. 
 And then at length cried out. This is a 
 
 woman ! 
 Thumb. Then were the gods mistaken — 
 
 she is not 
 
 A woman, but a giantess ^whom we, 
 
 2^ With much ado, have made a shift to 
 
 hawl 
 Within the town : ^* for she is by a foot 
 Shorter than all her subject giants were. 
 Glum. We yesterday were both a queen 
 
 and wife, 
 One hundred thousand giants owned our 
 
 sway. 
 Twenty whereof were married to ourself. 
 Queen. Oh ! happy state of giantism where 
 
 husbands 
 Like mushrooms grow, whilst hapless we 
 
 are forced 
 To be content, nay, happy thought, with 
 
 one. 
 Glum. But then to lose them all in one 
 
 black day. 
 That the same sun which, rising, saw me 
 
 wife 
 To twenty giants, setting should behold 
 Me widowed of them all. ^^ My worn- 
 out heart, 
 That ship, leaks fast, and the great heavy 
 
 lading, 
 My soul, will quickly sink. 
 Queen. Madam, believe 
 
 I view your sorrows with a woman's eye : 
 
 This perfect face, drawn by the gods in council, 
 Which they were long a making. 
 
 Luc, Jun. Briit. 
 
 At his birth the heavenly council paused. 
 
 And then at last cried out, This is a man I Dryden 
 hath improved this hint to the utmost perfection: 
 So perfect, that the very gods who formed you 
 
 wondered 
 At their own skill, and cried, A lucky hit 
 Has mended our design I Their envy hindered, 
 Or you had been immortal, and a pattern. 
 When Heaven would work for ostentation sake. 
 To copy out again. [Dryden's] All for love- 
 
 Banks prefers the works of Michael Angelo to that of 
 tho gods: 
 
 A pattern for the gods to make a man by. 
 Or Michael Angeln to form a statue. 
 
 23 It is impossible, says Mr. W — ,* sufficiently to 
 admire this natural easy line. 
 
 24 This tragedy, which In most points resembles 
 the ancients, differs from them in this — that it as- 
 signs the same honor to lowness of stature which they 
 did to height. The gods and heroes in Homer and 
 Virgil are continually described higher by the head 
 than their followers, the contrary of which is ob- 
 served by our author. In short, to exceed on either 
 side is equally admirable ; and a man of three foot is 
 as wonderful a sight as a man of nine. 
 
 25 My blood leaks fast, and the great heavy lading. 
 My soul will quickly sink. Mithridatet. 
 My soul is like a ship. [Tate's] Injured Love. 
 
 * It is not clear who is meant. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 619 
 
 But leam to bear them with what strength 
 
 you may, 
 To-morrow we will have our grenadiers 
 Drawn out before you, and you then shall 
 
 choose 
 What husbands you think fit. 
 Glum. ^^ Madam, I am 
 
 Your most obedient and most humble 
 
 servant. 
 King. Think, mighty princess, think this 
 
 court your own, 
 Nor think the landlord me, this house my 
 
 inn; 
 Call for whate'er you will, you '11 nothing 
 
 pay. 
 ^^ I feel a sudden pain within my breast, 
 Nor know I whether it arise from love 
 Or only the wind-colic. Time must show. 
 Oh Thumb ! what do we to thy valor owe ! 
 Ask some reward, great as we can bestow. 
 Thumb. ^* I ask not kingdoms, I can con- 
 quer those ; 
 I ask not money, money I 've enough ; 
 For what I 've done, and what I mean to 
 
 do, 
 For giants slain, and giants yet unborn, 
 "Which I will slay if this be called a 
 
 debt, 
 Take my receipt in full : I ask but this, — 
 2* To sun myself in Huncamunca's eyes. 
 King. Prodigious bold request. 
 
 Queen. ^^ Be still, my soul. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Thumb. ^^ My heart is at the threshold of 
 
 your mouth. 
 And waits its answer there. Oh! do 
 
 not frown. 
 I've tried to reason's tune to tune my 
 
 soul, 
 
 26 This well-bred line seems to be copied in the 
 Persian Princess: — 
 
 To be your huni})lest and most faithful slave. 
 
 27 This doubt of the king puts me in mind oi a 
 passage in. the Captives, where the noise of feet is 
 mistaken for the rustling of leaves. 
 
 Methrnks I hear 
 
 The sound of feet: 
 
 No ; 't was the wind that shook yon cypress boughs. 
 
 28 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this passage in 
 his eye in the first page of Lave Triumphant. 
 
 20 Don Carlos, in the Revenge, suns himself in 
 the charms of his mistress: 
 While in the lustre of her charms I lay. 
 
 30 A tragical phrase much in use. 
 
 31 This speech hath been taken to pieces by several 
 tragical authors, who seem to have rifled it, and 
 shared its beauties among them. 
 
 My soul waits at the portal of thy breast, 
 To ravish from thy lips the-welcome news. 
 
 Anne Bullen. 
 My soul stands listening at my ears. 
 
 Cyrns the Oreat. 
 Love to his tune my jarring heart would bring. 
 But reason overwinds, and cracks the string. 
 
 [Dryden and Lee's] Duke of Guise, 
 1 should have loved, 
 
 But love did overwind and crack the 
 string. 
 
 Though Jove in thunder had cried out, 
 YOU SHAN'T, 
 
 I should have loved her still for oh, 
 
 strange fate! 
 
 Then when I loved her least I loved her 
 most! 
 King. It is resolved — the princess is your 
 
 own. 
 Thumb. Oh ! ^^ happy, happy, happy, 
 
 happy Thumb ! 
 Queen. Consider, sirj reward your sol- 
 dier's merit, 
 
 But give not Huncamunea to Tom 
 Thumb. 
 King. Tom Thumb ! Odzooks ! my wide- 
 extended realm 
 
 Knows not a name so glorious as Tom 
 Thumb. 
 
 Let Macedonia Alexander boast, 
 
 Let Rome her Csesars and her Scipios 
 show. 
 
 Her Messieurs France, let Holland boast 
 Mynheers, 
 
 Ireland her O's, her Macs let Scotland 
 boast, 
 
 Let England boast no other than Tom 
 Thumb. 
 Queen. Though greater yet his boasted 
 merit was, 
 
 He shall not have my daughter, that is 
 pos'.* 
 King. Ha ! sayest thou, DoUallolla ? 
 Queen. I say he shan't. 
 
 King. ^^ Then by our royal self we swear 
 
 you lie. 
 Queen. ^* Who, but a dog, who, but a dog 
 
 Would use me as thou dost? Me, who 
 have lain 
 
 '^ Tlrese twenty years so loving by thy 
 side! 
 
 But I will be revenged. I'll hang my- 
 self. 
 
 Then tremble all who did this match per- 
 suade, 
 
 Though Jove, in muttering thunder had forbid it. 
 
 New Sophonisha, 
 And when it {my heart) wild resolves to love no 
 
 more, 
 Then is the triumph of excessive love. Hid, 
 
 32 Massinissa is one-fourth less happy than Tom 
 Thumb. 
 
 Oh I happy, happy, happy I New Sophonisha, 
 
 33 No, by myself. Anne Bullen. 
 34 -Who caused 
 
 This dreadful revolution in my fate. 
 Ulamar. Who, but a dog — who, but a dog? 
 
 Liberty Asslerted], 
 35 A bride. 
 
 Who twenty years lay loving by your side. 
 
 Banks. 
 
 ' An old colloquialism for positive. 
 
620 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ^°For, riding on a cat, from high I'll 
 
 fall, 
 And squirt down royal vengeance on you 
 
 all. 
 Food. 2' Her majesty the queen is in a 
 
 passion. 
 King. =8 Be she, or be she not, I '11 to the 
 
 girl 
 And pave thy way, oh Thumb. — ^Now by 
 
 ourself, 
 We were indeed a pretty king of clouts 
 To truckle to her will. For when by 
 
 force 
 Or art the wife her husband over-reaches, 
 Give him the petticoat, and her the 
 
 breeches. 
 Thumb. 28 Whisper ye winds, that Hun- 
 
 camunca 's mine ! 
 Echoes repeat, that Huncamunca 's mine ! 
 The dreadful business of the war is o'er, 
 And beauty, heavenly beauty ! crowns my 
 
 toils! 
 I've thrown the bloody garment now 
 
 • aside 
 And hymeneal sweets invite my bride. 
 So when some chimney-sweeper all the 
 
 day 
 Hath through dark paths pursued the 
 
 sooty way. 
 At night to wash his hands and face he 
 
 flies. 
 And in his t'other shirt with his Brick- 
 
 dusta lies. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Grizzle. (Solus.) *" Where art thou, 
 Grizzle? where are now thy glories? 
 
 Where are the drums that waken thee to 
 honor? 
 
 Greatness is a laced coat from Monmouth- 
 street,* 
 
 Which fortune lends us for a day to wear, 
 
 To-morrow puts it on another's back. 
 
 The spiteful sun but yesterday surveyed 
 
 36 For, borne upon a cloud, from high 1 '11 fall, 
 And rain down royal vengeance _on you all. 
 
 Alb, Queens. 
 
 37 An information very like this we have in the 
 Tragedy of Love TBanks' Cyrus], where, Cyrus hav- 
 ing stormed in the most violent manner, Oyaxares 
 observes very calmly. 
 
 Why, nephew Cyrus, you are moved. 
 38 'T is in your choice. 
 Love me, or love me not. 
 
 [Dryden's] Conquest of Granada. 
 
 3Q There Is not one beauty in this charming speech 
 
 but hath been borrowed by almost every tragic writer. 
 
 40 Mr. Banks has (I wish I could not say too 
 
 servilely) imitated this of Grizzle in his Earl of Essex: 
 
 Where art thou, Essex., &c. 
 
 His rival high as Saint Paul's cupola; 
 Now may he see me as Fleet-ditch laid 
 low. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 (Queen, Grizzle.) 
 
 Queen. *^ Teach me to scold, prodigious- 
 minded Grizzle. 
 Mountain of treason, ugly as the devil. 
 Teach this confounded hateful mouth of 
 
 mine 
 To spout forth words malicious as thy- 
 self, 
 Words which might shame all Billings- 
 gate t to speak. 
 Griz. Far be it from my pride to think 
 my tongue 
 Your royal lips can in that art instruct, 
 Wherein you so excel. But may I ask. 
 Without offence, wherefore my queen 
 would scold ? 
 Queen. Wherefore? Oh ! blood and thun- 
 der ! ha' n't you heard 
 (What every corner of the court re- 
 sounds) 
 That little Thumb will be a great man 
 made? 
 GHz. I heard it. I confess — for who, 
 alas! 
 *^ Can always stop his ears ? — ^But would 
 
 my teeth. 
 By grinding knives, had first been set on 
 edge! 
 Queen. Would I had heard, at the still 
 noon of night, 
 The hallalloo of fire in every street! 
 Odsbobs ! I have a mind to hang myself. 
 To think I should a grandmother be made 
 By such a rascal ! — Sure the king for- 
 gets 
 When in a pudding, by his mother put, 
 The bastard, by a tinker, on a stile 
 Was dropped. — 0, good lord Grizzle ! can 
 
 I bear 
 To see him from a pudding mount the 
 
 throne ? 
 Or can. Oh can, my Huncamunca bear 
 To take a pudding's offspring to her 
 arms? 
 Griz. Oh horror! horror! horror! cease, 
 my queen. 
 
 41 The countess of Nottingham, in the Earl of 
 Essex, is apparently acquainted with DoUallolla. 
 
 4 2 Grizzle was not probably possessed of that glue 
 of which Mr. Banks speaks in his Cyrus. 
 
 1 '11 glue my ears to every word. 
 
 ■* Noted for its second-hand clothing shops ; now called Dudley Street, 
 t The principal fish-market of London; the bad language used at it has become proverbial. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 621 
 
 *3 Thy voice, like twenty screech-owls, 
 
 wracks my brain. 
 Queen. Then rouse thy spirit — we may yet 
 
 prevent 
 This hated match. 
 
 Griz. "We will; **nor fate itself. 
 
 Should it conspire with Thomas Thumb, 
 
 should cause it. 
 I 'II swim through seas ; I '11 ride upon 
 
 the clouds; 
 I'll dig the earth; I'll blow out every 
 
 Are; 
 I 'U rave ; I '11 rant ; I '11 rise ; I '11 rush ; 
 
 I'll roar; 
 Fierce as the man whom *° smiling dol- 
 phins bore 
 From the prosaic to poetic shore. 
 I '11 tear the scoundrel into twenty pieces. 
 Queen. Oh, no! prevent the match, but 
 
 hurt him not; 
 For, though I would not have him have 
 
 my daughter, 
 Yet can we kill the mail that killed the 
 
 giants'? 
 Griz. I tell you, madam, it was all a trick; 
 He made the giants first, and then he 
 
 killed them ; 
 As fox-hunters bring foxes to the wood, 
 And then with hounds they drive them 
 
 out again. 
 Queen. How! have you seen no giants? 
 
 Are there not 
 Now, in the yard, ten thousand proper 
 
 giants'? 
 Griz. *® Indeed I cannot positively tell. 
 
 But firmly do believe there is not one. 
 Queen. Hence! from my sight! thou trai- 
 tor, hie away; 
 "By all my stars! thou enviest Tom 
 
 Thumb. 
 Go, sirrah! go,*^ hie away! hie! — ^thou 
 
 art 
 
 43 Screech-owls, dark ravens, and amphibious 
 monsters, 
 
 Are screaming in that voice. 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots. 
 
 44 The reader may see all the beauties of this 
 speech in a late ode, called the Naval Lyric. [Not 
 identified. ] 
 
 45 This epithet to a dolphin doth not give one so 
 clear an idea as were to he wished; a smiling fish 
 seeming ft little more difficult to be imagined than a 
 flying fish. Mr. Dryden is of opinion that smiling is 
 the property of reason, and that no irrational crea- 
 ture can smile: 
 
 Smiles not allowed to beasts from reason move. 
 
 State of Innocence. 
 
 46 These lines are written in the same key with 
 those in the Earl of Essex: 
 
 Why, sayest thou so ! I love thee well, indeed 
 i do, and thou shalt find by this 't is true. 
 Or with this in Oyrus: 
 
 The most heroic mind that ever was. 
 And with above half of the modern tragedies. 
 
 47 Aristotle, in that excellent work of his which is 
 very justly styled bis masterpiece, earnestly recom- 
 
 A setting-dog : be gone. 
 Griz. Madam, I go. 
 
 Tom Thumb shall feel the vengeance you 
 
 have raised. 
 So, when two dogs are fighting in the 
 
 streets. 
 With a third dog one of the two dogs 
 
 meets. 
 With angry teeth he bites him to the bone. 
 And this dog smarts for what that dog 
 
 had done. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 Queen. (Sola.) And whither shall I go? 
 
 — ^Alack a day! 
 I love Tom Thumb — but must not tell him 
 
 so; 
 For what 's a woman when her virtue 's 
 
 gone'? 
 A coat without its lace; wig out of 
 
 buckle ; 
 A stocking with a hole in 't 1 can't 
 
 live 
 Without my virtue, or without Tom 
 
 Thumb. 
 *^ Then let me weigh them in two equal 
 
 scales ; 
 In this scale put my virtue, that Tom 
 
 Thumb. 
 Alas! Tom Thumb is heavier than my 
 
 virtue. 
 But hold! — perhaps I may be left a 
 
 widow : 
 This match prevented, then Tom Thumb 
 
 is mine : 
 In that dear hope I will forget my pain. 
 So, when some wench to Tothill Bride- 
 well 's sent. 
 With beating hemp and flogging she 's 
 
 content ; 
 She' hopes in time to ease her present 
 
 pain, 
 At length is free, and walks the streets 
 
 again. 
 
 mends using the terms of art, however coarse or even 
 indecent they may be. Mr. Tate is of the same 
 opinion. 
 
 Bru. Do not, like young hawks, fetch a course 
 about : 
 
 Tour game flies fair. 
 Fra. Do not fear it. 
 
 He answers you in your hawking phrase. 
 
 Injured Love. 
 I think these two great authorities are sufficient to 
 justify DollalloUa in the use of the phrase, "Hie 
 away, hie I" when in the same line she says she is 
 speaking to a setting-dog. 
 
 48 We meet with such another pair of scales in 
 Dryden's King Arthur: 
 
 Arthur and Oswald, and their different fates, 
 Are weighing now within the scales of heaven. 
 Also in Sebastian: 
 This hour my lot is weighing in the scales. 
 
622 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ACT II 
 
 ScENK 1. The Street. 
 {Bailiff, Follower.) 
 
 Bail. Come on, my trusty [follower], 
 
 come on; 
 This day discharge thy duty, and at night 
 A double mug of beer, and beer shall glad 
 
 thee. 
 Stand here by me, this way must Noodle 
 
 pass. 
 Fol. No more, no more, oh Bailiff! every 
 
 word 
 Inspires my soul with virtue. Oh ! I long 
 To meet the enemy in the street — and nab 
 
 him: 
 To lay arresting hands upon his back, 
 And drag him trembling to the sponging- 
 
 house.* 
 Bail. There when I have him, I will sponge 
 
 upon him. 
 *° Oh ! glorious thought ! by the sun, 
 
 moon, and stars, 
 I will enjoy it, though it be in thought! 
 Yes, yes, my follower, I will enjoy it. 
 Fol. Enjoy it then some other time, for 
 
 now 
 Our prey approaches. 
 Bail. Let us retire. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 {Tom Thunib, Noodle, Bailiff, Follower.) 
 
 Thumb. Trust me, my Noodle, I am won- 
 drous sick; 
 For, though I love the gentle Hunca- 
 
 munea, 
 Yet at the thought of marriage I grow 
 
 pale: 
 For, oh ! — ^^ but swear thou '11 keep it 
 
 ever secret, 
 I will unfold a tale will make thee stare. 
 Nood. I swear by lovely Huneamunea's 
 
 charms. 
 Thumb. Then know ^^ my grandmamma 
 hath often said, 
 Tom Thumb, beware of marriage. 
 
 49 Mr. t Rowe is generally imagined to have taken 
 some hints from this scene in his character of 
 Bajazet; but as he, of all the tragic writers, bears the 
 least resemblance to our author in his diction, I am 
 unwilling to imagine he would condescend to copy 
 him in this particular. 
 
 50 This method of surprising an audience, by rais- 
 ing their expectation to the highest pitch, and then 
 baulking it, hath been practised with great success 
 by most of our tragical authors. 
 
 51 Almeyda, in Sebastian, is in the same distress: 
 Sometimes raethinks I hear the groan of ghosts. 
 
 Nood. Sir, I blush 
 
 To think a warrior, great in arms as you, 
 Should be affrighted by his grandmamma. 
 Can an old woman's empty dreams deter 
 The blooming hero from the virgin's 
 
 arms'? 
 Think of the joy that will your soul 
 
 alarm. 
 When in her fond embraces clasped you 
 
 lie, 
 While on her panting breast, dissolved in 
 
 bliss. 
 You pour out all Tom Thumb in every 
 kiss. 
 Thumb, Oh! Noodle, thou hast fired ^y 
 eager soul 
 Spite of my grandmother she shall be 
 
 mine; 
 I '11 hug, caress, I '11 eat her up with love : 
 Whole days, and nights, and years shall 
 
 be too short 
 For our enjoyment; every sun shall rise 
 '^ Blushing to see us in our bed together. 
 Nood. Oh ! sir ! this purpose of your soul 
 
 pursue. 
 Bail. Oh! sir! I have an action against 
 
 you. 
 Nood. At whose suit is it? 
 Bail. At your tailor's, sir. 
 Your tailor put this warrant in my hands. 
 And I arrest you, sir, at his commands. 
 Thumb. Ha! dogs! Arrest my friend be- 
 fore my face ! 
 Think you Tom Thumb will suffer this 
 
 disgrace 1 
 But let vain cowards threaten by their 
 
 word, 
 Tom Thumb shall show his anger by his 
 sword. 
 {Kills the Bailiff and his Follower.) 
 Bail. Oh, I am slain ! 
 Fol. I am murdered also 
 
 Tliin hollow sounds and lamentable screams; 
 Then, like a dying echo from afar, 
 My mother's voice that cries. Wed not, Almeyda ; 
 Forewarned, Almeyda, marriage is thy crime. 
 
 52 "As very well he may, if he hath any modesty in 
 him," says Mr, D — s. The author of Busiris is ex- 
 tremely zealous to prevent the sun's blushing at any 
 indecent object; and therefore on all such occasions 
 he addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to 
 keep out of the way. 
 
 Rise never more, O sun 1 let night prevail, 
 Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene. 
 
 Buairia. 
 Sun, hide thy face, and put the world in mourning. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Mr. Banks makes the sun perform the office of 
 Hymen, and therefore not likely to be disgusted at 
 such a sight: 
 The sun sets forth like a gay brideman with you. 
 
 iforj/ Queen of Scot*. 
 
 A place of prelim- 
 inary confine- 
 ment for debtors. 
 
 t Nicholas Rowe (1074-1718), the first editor of Shakespeare, and author of /one 
 Shore and other excellent plays. Observe the compliment Fielding pays Um. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 623 
 
 And to the shades, the dismal shades be- 
 low, 
 
 My bailiff's faithful follower I go. 
 Nood. 53 Go then to hell, like rascals as 
 you are, 
 
 And give our service to the bailiffs there. 
 Thumb. Thus perish all the bailiffs [in the 
 land], 
 
 Till debtors at noon-day shall walk the 
 streets. 
 
 And no one fear a bailiff or his writ. 
 
 Scene 3. The Princess Huncamunca's 
 Apartment. 
 
 {Huncamunca, Cleora, Mustacha. ) 
 
 Hunc. ^* Give me some music — see that it 
 be sad. 
 
 (Cleora sings.) 
 
 Tom Thumb the Great — one properer for 
 a plaything than a husband. Were he 
 my husband his horns should be as long 
 as his body. If you had fallen in love 
 Avith a grenadier, I should not have won- 
 dered at it. If you had fallen in love 
 with something; but to fall in love with 
 nothing ! 
 Hunc. Cease, my Mustacha, on thy duty 
 [cjease. 
 The zephyr, when in flowery vales it 
 
 plays, 
 Is not so soft, so sweet as Thummy's 
 
 breath. 
 The dove is not so gentle to its mate. 
 Must. The dove is every bit as proper for 
 a husband. — Alas! Madam, there's not 
 a beau about the court looks so little like 
 a man. He is a perfect butterfly, a thing 
 without substance, and almost without 
 shadow too. 
 Hunc. This rudeness is unseasonable: de- 
 sist; 
 Or I shall think this railing comes from 
 
 love. 
 Tom Thumb 's a creature of that charm- 
 ing form. 
 That no one can abuse, unless they love 
 him. 
 Must. Madam, the king. 
 
 Cupid, ease a love-sick maid. 
 Bring thy quiver to her aid ; 
 With equal ardor wound the swain. 
 Beauty should never sigh in vain. 
 
 II 
 
 Let him feel the pleasing smart. 
 Drive thy arrow through his heart: 
 When one you wound, you then destroy; 
 When both you kill, you kill with joy. 
 
 Hunc. =^0 Tom Thumb! Tom Thumb! 
 
 wherefore art thou Tom Thumb? 
 Why hadst thou not been bom of royal 
 
 race? 
 Why had not mighty Bantam * been thy 
 
 father? 
 Or else the king of Brentford, Old or 
 
 New? t 
 Must. I am surprised that your highness 
 can give yourself a moment's uneasiness 
 about that little insignificant feIlow,°° 
 
 53 Kourmahal sends the same message to heaven : 
 For I would have you when you upwards move, 
 Speak kindly of us to our friends above. 
 
 Aurenpzebe. 
 We find another "to hell," in the Persian Princess: 
 Villain, get thee down 
 To hell, and tell them that the fray's begun. 
 
 54 Anthony gives the same command in the same 
 words. [Dryden's All for Love, I, i.] 
 
 65 Oh I MariuB, Marius, wherefore art thou Marius J 
 
 Otway's Marius. 
 
 55 Nothing is more common than these seeming 
 contradictions; such as, 
 
 Haughty weakness. Victim. 
 
 Great small world. TEcclestone's] Noah'a Flood. 
 
 * The King of Bantam in .Tava, with a pun on the name of a small kind of fowl, perhaps imported thence, 
 i The two kings of Brentford were fantastic characters in the Duke of Buckingham's play. The Rehearsal. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 {King, Huncamunca.) 
 
 King. Let all but Huncamunca leave the 
 
 room. 
 {Exeunt Cleora and Mustacha.) 
 Daughter, I have observed of late some 
 
 grief 
 Unusual in your countenance: your eyes 
 " That, like two open windows, used to 
 
 show 
 The lovely beauty of the rooms within. 
 Have now two blinds before them. What 
 
 is the cause? 
 Say, have you not enough of meat and 
 
 drink? 
 We've given strict orders not to have 
 
 you stinted. 
 Hunc. Alas! my lord, I value not myself 
 
 67 Lee hath improved this metaphor: 
 Dost thou not view joy peeping from my eyes. 
 
 The casements opened wide to gaze on thee. 
 So Rome's glad citizens to windows rise, 
 
 When they some young triumpher fain would see. 
 [ Lee's ] &loriana. 
 
624 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 That once I eat two fowls and half a 
 
 pig; 
 
 °* Small is that praise ! but oh ! a maid 
 
 may want 
 What she can neither eat nor drink. 
 King. What's that? 
 
 Hunc. °' spare my blushes ; but I mean 
 
 a husband. 
 King. If that be all, I have provided one, 
 A husband great in arms, whose warlike 
 
 sword 
 Streams with the yellow blood of slaugh- 
 
 ter'd giants, 
 Whose name in Terra Incognita is known. 
 Whose valor, wisdom, virtue make a 
 
 noise 
 Great as the kettle-drums of twenty 
 armies. 
 Hunc. Whom does my royal father mean ? 
 King. Tom Thumb. 
 
 Hunc. Is it possible? 
 King. Ha ! the window-blinds are gone ; 
 ®° A country-dance of joy is in your face. 
 Your eyes spit fire, your cheeks grow red 
 as beef. 
 Hunc. 0, there 's a magic-music in that 
 sound. 
 Enough to turn me into beef indeed ! 
 Yes, I will own, since licensed by your 
 
 word, 
 I '11 own Tom. Thumb the cause of all my 
 
 grief. 
 For him I 've sighed, I 've wept, I 've 
 gnawed my sheets. 
 King. Oh! thou shalt gnaw thy tender 
 sheets no more. 
 
 58 Almahide hath the same contempt for these ap- 
 petites : 
 
 To eat and drink can no perfection he. 
 
 Conquest of Qrwnada. 
 The Earl of Essex is of a different opinion, and 
 seems to place the chief happiness of a general 
 therein : 
 
 Were but commanders half so well rewarded, 
 Then they might eat. 
 
 Banks's Earl of Essex, 
 
 But, if we may believe one who knows more than 
 
 either, the devil himself, we shall find eating to be an 
 
 affair of more moment than is generally imagined : 
 
 Gods are immortal only by their food. 
 
 Lucifer, in the State of Innocence [by Drydenl. 
 
 59 "This expression is enough of itself,'' says Mr. 
 D — s, "utterly to destroy the character of Hunca- 
 munca !" Yet we find a woman of no abandoned 
 character in IJryden adventuring farther, and thus 
 excusing herself : 
 
 To speak our wishes first, forbid it pride, 
 
 Forbid it modesty; true, they forbid it, 
 
 But Nature does not. When we are athirst, 
 
 Or hungry, will imperious Nature stay. 
 
 Nor eat, nor drink, before 't is bid fall on 1 
 
 Cleomenea. 
 Cassandra speaks before she is asked: Hunca- 
 munca afterwards. Cassandra speaks her wishes to 
 her lover : Huncamunca only to her father. 
 
 60 Her eyes resistless magic bear ; 
 Angels, I see, and gods are dancing there. 
 
 Lee's Sophonisba. 
 
 A husband thou shalt have to mumble 
 
 now. 
 Hunc. Oh! happy sound! henceforth let 
 
 no one teU 
 That Huncamunca shall lead apes in 
 
 hell.* 
 Oh ! I am overjoyed ! 
 King. I see thou art. 
 
 ^^ Joy lightens in thy eyes, and thunders 
 
 from thy brows; 
 Transports, like lightning, dart along thy 
 
 soul, 
 As small-shot through a hedge. 
 Hunc. Oh! say not small. 
 
 King. This happy news shall on our 
 
 tongue ride post, 
 Ourself we bear the happy news to 
 
 Thumb. 
 Yet think not, daughter, that your pow- 
 erful charms 
 Must still detain the hero from his arms; 
 Various his duty, various his delight; 
 Now is his turn to kiss, and now to fight, 
 And now to kiss again. So, mighty °^ 
 
 Jove, 
 When with excessive thundering tired 
 
 above, 
 Comes down to earth, and takes a bit — 
 
 and then 
 Flies to his trade of thundering hack 
 
 again. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 {Grizzle, Huncamunca.) 
 
 *' Griz. Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, 
 
 oh! 
 Thy pouting breasts, like kettle-drums of 
 
 brass. 
 Beat everlasting loud alarms of joy; 
 As bright as brass they are, and oh, as 
 
 hard. 
 Oh! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh! 
 
 61 Mr. Dennis, in that excellent tragedy called 
 Liberty Asserted, which is thought to. have given so 
 great a stroke to the late French king, hath frequent 
 imitations of this beautiful speech of king Arthur : 
 Conquest lightening in his eyes, and thundering in 
 
 his arm. 
 Joy lightened in her eyes. 
 Joys like lightning dart along my soul. 
 
 62 Jove, with excessive thundering tired above. 
 Comes down for ease, enjoys a njrmpn, and then 
 Mounts dreadful, and to thundering goes again. 
 
 QUriann. 
 
 63 This beautiful line, which ou^ht, says Mr. W — , 
 to be written in gold, is imitated in the New Sopho- 
 nisba : 
 
 Oh I Sophonisba; Sophonisba, oh I 
 
 Oh I Narva ; Narva, oh I 
 The author of a song called Dwlce upon Duke hath 
 improved it: 
 
 Alas! Nick! Nick, alas I 
 Where, by the help of a little false spelling, you have 
 two meanings in the repeated words. 
 
 * It was a jocose tradition that unmarried women must lead apes in hell. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 625 
 
 Hunc. Ha! dost thou know me, princess 
 as I am, 
 ** That thus of me you dare to make your 
 game? 
 Grig. Oh! Huncamunea, well I know that 
 you 
 A princess are, and a king's daughter, 
 
 too; 
 But love no meanness scorns, no grandeur 
 
 fears ; 
 Love often lords into the cellar bears. 
 And bids the sturdy porter come up 
 
 stairs. 
 For what 's too high for love, or what 's 
 
 too low? 
 Oh ! Huncamunea, Huncamunea, oh ! 
 Hunc. But, granting all you say of love 
 were true. 
 My love, alas ! is to another due. 
 In vain to me a suitoring you come, 
 For I 'm already promised to Tom 
 Thumb. 
 Griz. And can my princess such a dur- 
 gen * wed ? 
 One fitter for your pocket than your bed ! 
 Advised by me, the worthless baby shun, 
 Or you will ne'er be brought to bed of 
 
 one. 
 Oh take me to thy arms, and never flinch. 
 Who am a man, by Jupiter! every inch. 
 *' Then, while in joys together lost we 
 
 He, 
 I '11 press thy soul while gods stand wish- 
 ing by. 
 Hunc. If, sir, what you insinuate you 
 prove, 
 All obstacles of promise you remove; 
 For all engagements to a man must fall. 
 Whene'er that man is proved no man at 
 all. 
 Griz. Oh I let him seek some dwarf, some 
 fairy miss. 
 Where no joint-stool must lift him to 
 
 the kiss! 
 But, by the stars and glory! you appear 
 Much fitter for a Prussian grenadier; f 
 One globe alone on Atlas' shoulders 
 
 rests. 
 Two globes are less than Huncamunca's 
 breasts ; 
 
 64 Edith, in the Bloody Brother [by Fletcher], 
 speaks to her lover in the same familiar language : 
 
 Your grace is full of game. 
 
 65 Traverse the glittering chambers of the sky. 
 Borne on a cloud in view of fat-e I '11 lie. 
 
 And press her soul while gods stand wishing by. 
 [Lee's Sophoniaba; or] Hannibal['a Overthrow'] . 
 
 * dwarf. 
 
 t "The allusion is to 
 
 the regiment of 
 
 very tall men in 
 
 the army of King 
 
 The milky way is not so white, that 's 
 
 flat, 
 And sure thy breasts are full as large as 
 
 that. 
 Hunc. Oh, sir, so strong your eloquence I 
 
 find. 
 It is impossible to be unkind. 
 Griz. Ah ! speak that o'er again ; and let 
 
 the°^ sound 
 From one pole to another pole rebound; 
 The eartih and sky each be a battledore. 
 And keep the sound, that shuttlecock, up 
 
 an hour : 
 To Doctors-Commons't for a licence I 
 Swift as an arrow frora a bow will fly. 
 Hunc. Oh, no ! lest some disaster we 
 
 should meet, 
 'T were better to be married at the 
 
 Fleet.! 
 Griz. Forbid it, all ye powers, a princess 
 
 should 
 By that vile place contaminate her blood ; 
 My quick return shall to my charmer 
 
 prove 
 I travel on the *^ post-horses of love. 
 Hunc. Those post-horses to me will seem 
 
 too slow 
 Though they should fly swift as the gods, 
 
 when they 
 Ride on behind that post-boy. Opportu- 
 nity. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 (Tom Thumb, Huncamunea.) 
 
 Thumh. Where is my princess? where 's 
 my Huncamunea? 
 
 Where are those eyes, those card- 
 matches II of love. 
 
 That *' light up all with love my waxen 
 soul? 
 
 Where is that face which artful nature 
 made 
 
 66 Let the four winds from distant corners meet, 
 And on their wings first bear it into France ; 
 
 Then back again to Edina's proud walls, 
 Till victim to the sound th' aspiring city falls. 
 
 Albion Queens. 
 
 67 I do not remember any metaphors so frequent in 
 the tragic poets as those borrowed from riding post: 
 
 "The gods and opportunity ride post. 
 
 Hannibal. 
 
 Let 's rush together, 
 
 For death rides post: Duhe of Quise. 
 
 Destruction gallops to thy murder post. 
 
 Qloriana. 
 
 68 This image, too, very often occurs : 
 Bright as when thy eye 
 
 First lighted up our loves. A.urengzebe. 
 
 'T is not a crown alone lights up my name. 
 
 Busiria. 
 
 Frederick William 
 I, of Prussia, 
 father of Fred- 
 erick the Great. 
 % The body which 
 
 Issued marriage 
 licenses, and dealt 
 with divorces, 
 wills, etc. 
 K A prison fre- 
 
 quented by dis", 
 reputable clergy- 
 men ready to per- 
 form secret mar- 
 riages. 
 
 1 "A piece of card 
 dipped in melted 
 sulphur" (Oa;/. 
 Diet.), used to 
 start a fire. 
 
626 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 *°In the same moulds where Venus' self 
 ■was cast? 
 Hunc. '" Oh ! what is music to the ear 
 that's deaf, 
 Or a goose-pie to him that has no taste? 
 What are these praises now to me, since I 
 Am promised to another? 
 Thumb. Ha! promised? 
 
 Hunc. Too sure; 'tis written in the book 
 
 of fate. 
 Thumb. ''^ Then I will tear away the leaf 
 Wherein it's writ; or, if fate won't al- 
 low 
 So large a gap within its journal-book, 
 I'll blot it out "at least. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 
 {Glumdalca, Tom Thumb, Huncamunca.) 
 
 Glum. '" I need not ask if you are Hunca- 
 munca, 
 Your brandy-nose proclaims 
 
 GO There is great dissension among the poets con- 
 cerning the method of malting man. One tells his 
 mistress that the mould she was made in being lost, 
 Heaven cannot form such another. Lucifer, in Dry- 
 den, gives a merry description of his own formation: 
 Whom heaven, neglecting, made and scarce designed, 
 But threw me in for number to the rest. 
 
 State of Innoclence], 
 In one place the same poet supposes man to be made 
 of metal: I was formed 
 
 Of that coarse metal which, when she was made. 
 The gods threw by for rubbish. 
 
 All for Love, 
 
 In another of dough: 
 When the gods moulded up the paste of man, 
 Some of their clay was left upon tlieir hands. 
 And so they made Egyptians. Cleomenes. 
 
 In another of clay: 
 Rubbish of remaining clay. Sebastian. 
 
 One makes the soul of wax : 
 
 Her waxen soul begins to melt apace. 
 
 Anne Bullen. 
 Another of flint: 
 
 Sure our two souls have somewhere been acquainted 
 In former beings, or, struck out together. 
 One spark to Afrio flew, and one to Portugal. 
 
 Sebastian. 
 
 To omit the great quantities of iron, brazen, and 
 leaden souls which are so plenty in modern authors — 
 I cannot omit the dress of a soul as we find it in 
 Dryden: 
 Souls shirted but with air. . King Arthur. 
 
 Nor can I pass by a i>articular sort of soul in a 
 particular sort of description in the New Sophonieba. 
 Ye mysterious powers, 
 
 Whether through your gloomy depths I wander. 
 
 Or on the mountains walk, give me the calm, 
 The steady smiling soul, where wisdom sheds 
 Eternal sunshine, and eternal joy. 
 
 70 This line Mr. Banks has plundered entire in his 
 Anne Bullen. 
 
 71 Good Heaven I the book of fate before me lay. 
 But to tear out the journal of that day. 
 
 Or, if the order of the world below 
 Will not the gap of one whole day allow, 
 Give me that minute when she made her vow. 
 
 Conquest of Oranada. 
 
 72 I know some of the commentators have imagined 
 that Mr. Dryden, in the altercative scene between 
 Cleopatra and Octavia, a scene which Mr. Addison 
 inveighs against With great bitterness, is much be- 
 holden to our author. How just this their observa- 
 tion is I will not presume to determine. 
 
 Hunc. I am a princess; 
 
 Nor need I ask who you are. 
 Olum. A giantess; 
 
 The queen of those who made and un- 
 made queens. 
 Hunc. The man whose chief ambition is 
 to be 
 My sweetheart hath destroyed these 
 mighty giants. 
 Glum. Your sweetheart? Dost thou think 
 the man who once 
 Hath worn my easy chains will e'er wear 
 thine? 
 Hunc. Well may your chains be easy, 
 since, if fame 
 Says true, they have been tried on twenty 
 
 husbands. 
 ^3 The glove or boot, so many times 
 
 pulled on, 
 May well sit easy on the hand or foot. 
 Glum. I glory in the number, and when I 
 Sit poorly down, like thee, content with 
 
 one, 
 Heaven change this face for one as bad 
 as thine. 
 Hunc. Let me see nearer what this beauty 
 is 
 That captivates the heart of men by 
 scores. 
 
 {Holds a candle to her face.) 
 Oh ! Heaven, thou art as ugly as the devii. 
 Glum, You'd give the best of shoes 
 within your shop 
 To be but half so handsome. 
 Hunc. Since you come 
 
 " To that, I '11 put my beauty to the test : 
 Toni Thumb, I 'm yours, if you with me 
 will go. 
 Glum. Oh! stay, Tom Thumb, and you 
 alone shall fill 
 That bed where twenty giants used to lie. 
 Thumb. In the balcony that o'erhangs the 
 stage, 
 I 've seen a whore two 'prentices engage ; 
 One half-a-crown does in his fingers hold, 
 The other shows a little piece of gold ; 
 
 73 "A cobbling poet indeed," says Mr. D. ; and yet 
 I believe we may And as monstrous images in the 
 tragic authors : I '11 put down one : 
 
 Vntie your folded thoughts, and let them dangle 
 loose as a bride's hair. Injured Love. 
 
 Which line seems to have as much title to a mil- 
 liner's shoTi as our author's to a shoemaker's. 
 
 74 Mr. L — [Lee] takes occasion in this place to 
 commend the great care of our author to preserve the 
 metre of blank verse, in which Shakespeare, Jonson, 
 and Fletcher were so notoriously negligent; and the 
 moderns, in imitation of our author, so laudably ob- 
 servant : 
 
 Then does 
 Your majesty believe that he can be 
 A traitor? Earl of Essex. 
 
 Every page of Sophonisba gives us instances of this 
 
 excellence. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 627 
 
 She the half -guinea wisely does purloin, 
 
 And leaves the larger and the baser coin. 
 
 Glum. Left, scorned, and loathed for such 
 
 a chit as this; 
 ^' I feel the storm that 's rising in my 
 
 mind, 
 Tempests and whirlwinds rise, and roll, 
 
 and roar. 
 T 'm all within a hurricane, as if 
 '" The world's four winds were pent 
 
 within my carcase. 
 '"' Confusion, horror, murder, guts, and 
 
 death! 
 
 Scene 8. 
 {King, Glumdalca.) 
 
 King. '* Sure never was so sad a king 
 
 as I! 
 '* My life is worn as ragged as a coat 
 A beggar wears; a prince should put it 
 
 ofe. 
 *" To love a captive and a giantess ! 
 Oh love! oh love! how great a king art 
 
 thou! 
 My tongue 's thy trumpet, and thou 
 
 trumpetest, 
 Unknown to me, within me. ^^ Oh, 
 
 Glumdalca ! 
 Heaven thee designed a giantess to make, 
 But an angelic soul was shuffled in. 
 *2 1 am a multitude of walking griefs, 
 And only on her lips the balm is found 
 *3 To spread a plaster that might cure 
 
 them all. 
 
 75 Love mounts and rolls about my stormy mind. 
 
 Aurengzebe. 
 Tempests and whirlwinds through my bosom move. 
 
 Cleom[ene8]. 
 
 76 "With such a furious tempest on his brow, 
 As if the world's four winds were pent within 
 
 His blustering carcase. Anne Bullen. 
 
 77 Verba Tragica. [1 e., stock words in tragedy. ^ 
 
 78 This speech has been terribly mauled by the poet. 
 
 79 My life is woi-n to rags, 
 
 Not worth a prince's wearing. 
 
 Love Triumphant. 
 
 80 Must I beg the pity of my slave ! 
 Must a king beg ! But love 's a greater king, 
 A tyrant, nay, a devil, that jiossesses me. 
 
 He tunes the organ to my voice and speaks. 
 Unknown to me, within me. Sebastian. 
 
 81 When thou wert formed heaven did a man begin ; 
 But a brute soul by chance was shuflSed in. 
 
 Aurengxebe. 
 82 I am a multitude 
 Of walking griefs. 
 
 New Sophonisba. 
 
 83 I will take thy scorpion blood. 
 And lay it to my grief till I have ease. 
 
 Anne Bullen. 
 
 84 Our author, who everywhere shows his great 
 penetration into human nature, here outdoes himself: 
 where a less judicious poet would have raised a long 
 scene of whining love, he, who understood the pas- 
 sions better, and that so violent an affection as this 
 must be too big for utterance, chooses rather to send 
 his characters off in this sullen doleful manner, in 
 
 Glum. 
 King. 
 Glum. 
 
 '* Glwn. 
 King. 
 ^^ Glum. 
 King. 
 
 What do I hear? 
 
 What do I see? 
 Oh! 
 
 Ah! 
 
 Ah! wretched queen! 
 Oh! wretched 
 
 king! 
 Ah! 
 Oh! 
 
 Scene 9. 
 
 {Tom Thumb , Huncamunca, Parson.) 
 
 Par. Happy 's the wooing that 's not long 
 a doing; 
 For, if I guess right, Tom Thumb this 
 
 night 
 Shall give a being to a new Tom Thumb. 
 Thumb. It shall be my endeavor so to do. 
 Hunc. Oh ! lie upon you, sir, you make 
 
 me blush. 
 Thumb. It is the virgin's sign, and suits 
 you well : 
 '^ I know not where, nor how, nor what 
 
 I am; 
 *' I 'm so transported, I have lost myself. 
 
 which admirable conduct he is imitated by the author 
 of the justly celebrated Eurydice. Dr. Young seems 
 to point at this violence of passion : 
 
 Passion chokes 
 
 Their words, and they *re the statues of despair. 
 And Seneca tells us, "Curse leves loquuntur, ingentes 
 stupent." The story of the Egyptian king in Hero- 
 dotus is too well known to need to be inserted: I 
 refer the more curious reader to the excellent Mon- 
 taigne, who hath written an essay on this subject. 
 85 To part is death. 
 
 'Tis death to part. 
 
 Ah I 
 Oh I 
 [Otway's] Don Carlos. 
 86 Nor know I whether 
 What am I, who, or where. 
 
 Busiris. 
 I was I know not what, and am I know not how. 
 
 Gloriana. 
 87 To understand sufficiently the beauty of this pas- 
 sage, it will be necessary that we comprehend every 
 man to contain . two selfs. I shall not attempt 
 to prove this from philosophy, which the poets make 
 so plainly evident. 
 
 One runs away from the other ; 
 
 — Let me demand your majesty, 
 Why fly you from yourself? 
 
 Dulie of Guise. 
 In a second one self is a guardian to the other : 
 Leave me the care of me. 
 
 Conquest of Granada. 
 Again : 
 
 Myself am to myself less near. 
 
 Ibid. 
 In the same, the first self is proud of the second ; 
 I myself am proud of me. 
 
 State of Innocence. 
 In a third, distrustful of him : 
 Fain I would tell, but whisper it in my ear. 
 That none besides might hear, nay, not myself. 
 
 Earl of Essr.r 
 In a fouith. honors him; 
 I honor Rome, 
 And honor too myself. 
 
 Sophonisba, 
 
628 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Hune. Forbid it, all ye stars, for you 're 
 
 so small, 
 That were you lost, you'd find yourself 
 
 no more. 
 So the unhappy sempstress once, they 
 
 say. 
 Her needle in a pottle,* lost, of hay; 
 In vain she looked, and looked, and made 
 
 her moan, 
 For ah, the needle was for ever gone. 
 Par. Long may they live, and love, and 
 
 propagate, 
 Till the whole land be peopled with Tom 
 
 Thumbs ! 
 ^^ So, when the Cheshire cheese a maggot 
 
 breeds. 
 Another and another still succeeds: 
 By thousands and ten thousands they 
 
 increase. 
 Till one continued maggot fills the rotten 
 
 cheese. 
 
 Scene 10. 
 
 (Noodle, and then Grizde.) 
 
 Nood. '" Sure, Nature means to break her 
 solid chain, 
 Or else unfix the world, and in a rage 
 To hurl it from its axletree and hinges; 
 All things are so confused, the king 's in 
 
 love. 
 The queen is drunk, the princess married 
 is. 
 Griz. Oh, Noodle! Hast thou Hunca- 
 
 munca seen? 
 Nood. I 've seen a thousand sights this 
 day, where none 
 Are by the wonderful bitch herself out- 
 done. 
 
 In a fifth, at variance with him: 
 Leave me not thus at variance with myself. 
 
 Buairis. 
 Again, in a sixth: 
 
 I find myself divided from myself. 
 
 [Charles Johnson's] Medea. 
 She seemed the sad efRgies of herself. 
 
 Banks. 
 Assist me, Zulema, if thou wouldst be 
 The friend thou seemst, assist me against me. 
 
 AXbion Queens. 
 
 From all which it appears that there are two selfs ; 
 
 and therefore Tom Thumb's losing himself is no such 
 
 solecism as it hath been represented by men rather 
 
 ambitious of criticising than qualified to criticise. 
 
 88 Mr. F — [Fielding] imagines this parson to have 
 been a Welsh one, from his simile. 
 
 89 Our author hath been plundered here, according 
 to custom: 
 
 Great Nature, break thy chain that links together 
 
 The fabric of the world, and make a chaos 
 
 Like that within my soul. hove Triumphant. 
 
 Startle Nature, unfix the globe. 
 
 And hurl it from its axletree and hinges. 
 
 Albion Queena. 
 The tottering earth seems sliding off its props. 
 
 The king, the queen, and all the court, 
 are sights. 
 Griz. ^° D — n your delay, you trifler ! are 
 you drunk, ha? 
 I will not hear one word but Hunca- 
 munea. 
 Nood. By this time she is married to Tom 
 
 Thumb. 
 Griz. °^ My Huncamunea ! 
 Nood. Your Huncamunea, 
 
 Tom Thumb's Huncamunea, every man's 
 Huncamunea. 
 Griz. If this be true, all womankind are 
 
 damned. 
 Nood. If it be not, may I be so myself. 
 Griz. See where she comes ! I '11 not be- 
 lieve a word 
 Against that face, upon whose °^ ample 
 
 brow 
 Sits innocence with majesty enthroned. 
 (Grizzle, Huncamunea.) 
 Griz... Where has my Huncamunea been? 
 See here. 
 The licence in my hand ! 
 Hune. Alas ! Tom Thumb. 
 
 Griz. Why dost thou mention him? 
 Hune. Ah, me! Tom Thumb. 
 
 GHz. What means my lovely Hunca- 
 munea? 
 Hune. Hum ! 
 
 Griz. Oh! speak. 
 Hune. Hum ! 
 
 Griz. Ha ! your evei-y word is hum : 
 
 °^ You force me still to answer you, Tom 
 
 Thumb. 
 Tom Thumb — I 'm on the rack — I 'm in a 
 
 fiame. 
 »*Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb, Tom 
 
 Thumb — ^you love the name; 
 So pleasing is that sound, that, were you 
 
 dumb, 
 You still would find a voice to cry Tom 
 Thumb. 
 Hune. Oh ! be not hasty to proclaim my 
 doom! 
 My ample heart for more than one has 
 
 room: 
 A maid like me HeaVen formed at least 
 for two. 
 
 90 D — n your delay, ^e torturers, proceed ; 
 I will not hear one word but Almahide. 
 
 Conquest of Granada. 
 91 Mr. Dryden hath imitated this in All for Love. 
 sa This Miltonio style abounds in the New Sopko- 
 nisba ; 
 
 And on her ample brow 
 
 Sat majesty. 
 OS Your every answer still so ends in that, 
 You force me still to answer you Morat. 
 
 Aurengzehe. 
 04 Morat, Morat, Morat I you love the name. Ibid. 
 
 ' For bottle, meaning bvmdie. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 629 
 
 °' I married him, and now I '11 marry 
 you. 
 Griz. Ha ! dost thou own thy falsehood to 
 my face? 
 
 Thinkest thou that I will share thy hus- 
 band's place? 
 
 Since to that office one cannot suffice, 
 
 And since you scorn to dine one single 
 dish on, 
 
 Go, get your husband put into commis- 
 sion. 
 
 Commissioners to discharge (ye gods! it 
 fine is) 
 
 The duty of a husband to your highness. 
 
 Yet think not long I will my rival bear. 
 
 Or unrevenged the slighted willow wear; 
 
 The gloomy, brooding tempest, now con- 
 fined 
 
 "Within the hollow caverns of my mind, 
 
 In dreadful whirl shall roll along the 
 coasts. 
 
 Shall thin the land of all the men it 
 boasts, 
 
 '* And cram up every chink of hell with 
 ghosts. 
 
 *' So have I seen, in some dark winter's 
 
 day, 
 
 A sudden storm rush dovra the sky's high- 
 way, 
 
 Sweep through the streets with terrible 
 ding-dong, 
 
 Gush through the spouts, and wash whole 
 c[r]owds along. 
 
 The crowded shops the thronging ver- 
 min screen. 
 
 Together cram the dirty and the clean, 
 
 And not one shoe-boy in the street is 
 seen. 
 
 95 "Here is a sentiment for tlie virtuous Hunca- 
 muncal" says Mr. D — s. And yet, with the leave 
 of this great man, the virtuous Panthea, in Cyrus, 
 hath an heart every whit as ample: 
 
 For two I must confess are gods to me, 
 Which is my Abradatus first, and thee. 
 
 Gyrus the Qreat. 
 Nor is the lady in Love Triumphant more reserved, 
 though not so intelligible: 
 
 I am so divided. 
 That I grieve most for both, and love both most. 
 
 96 A ridiculous supposition to any one who consid- 
 ers the great and extensive largeness of hell, says a 
 commentator; but not so to those who consider the 
 great expansion of immaterial substance. Mr. Banks 
 makes one soul to be so expanded, that heaven could 
 not contain it: 
 
 The heavens are all too narrow for her soul, 
 
 yirtue Betrayed. 
 ■ The Persian Princess hath a passage not unlike the 
 author of this : 
 
 Wo will send such shoals of murdered slaves, 
 Shall glut hell's empty regions. 
 This threatens to fill hell, even though it was empty : 
 Lord Grizzle, only to fill up the chinks, supposing the 
 rest already full. 
 
 97 Mr. Addison is generally thought to have had 
 this simile in his eye when he wrote that beautiful 
 one .at the end of the third act of his Oato. 
 
 liunc. Oh, fatal rashness ! should his fury 
 slay 
 
 My hapless bridegroom on his wedding- 
 day, . 
 
 I, who this morn of two chose which to 
 wed, 
 
 May go again this night alone to bed. 
 
 °* So have I seen some wild unsettled 
 fool. 
 
 Who had her choice of this and that 
 joint-stool. 
 
 To give the preference to either loth, 
 
 And fondly coveting to sit on both, 
 
 "While the two stools her sitting-part con- 
 found, 
 
 Between 'em both fall squat upon the 
 ground. 
 
 ACT III. 
 Scene 1. King Arthur's Palace. 
 
 ""Ghost (solus). Hail! ye black horrors 
 of midnight's midnoon ! 
 Ye fairies, goblins, bats, and screech- 
 owls, hail! 
 
 98 This beautiful simile is founded on a proverb 
 which does honor to the English language: 
 
 Between two stools the breech falls to the ground. 
 
 I am not so well pleased with any written remains 
 of the ancients as with those little aphorisms which 
 verbal tradition hath delivered down to us under the 
 title of proverbs. It were to be wished that, instead 
 of filling their pages with the fabulous theology of the 
 pagans, our modern poets would think it worth their 
 while to enrich their works with the proverbial say- 
 ings of their ancestors. Mr. Bryden hath chronicled 
 one in heroic : 
 
 Two ifs scarce make one possibility. 
 
 Conquest of Granada. 
 
 My Lord Bacon is of -opinion that, whatever is 
 known of arts and sciences might be proved to have 
 lurked in the Proverbs of Solomon. I am of the 
 same opinion in relation to those above mentioned; 
 at least I am confident that a more perfect system of 
 ethics, as well as economy, might be compiled out of 
 them than is at present extant, either in the works 
 of the ancient philosophers, or those more valuable, 
 as more voluminous ones of the modern divines. 
 
 99 Of all the particulars in which the modern stage 
 falls short of the ancient, there is none so much to 
 be lamented as the great scarcity of ghosts. 
 Whence this proceeds I will not presume to de- 
 termine. Some are of opinion that the moderns are 
 unequal to that sublime language which a ghost ought 
 to speak. One says, ludicrously, that ghosts are out 
 of fashion; another that they are properer for com- 
 edy ; forgetting, 1 suppose, that Aristotle hath told us 
 that a ghost is the soul of tragedy ; for so I render the 
 \j/vxTl i fivBos T^s rpayadias which M. Dacier, 
 amongst others, hath mistaken; I suppose misled by 
 not understanding the Fabula of' the Latins, which 
 signifies a ghost as well as fable. 
 
 "Te premet nox, fabulseque manes." 
 
 Horace. 
 Of all the ghosts that have ever appeared on the stage, 
 a very learned and judicious foreign critic gives the 
 preference to this of our author. These are his 
 words, speaking of this tragedy : — "Nee quidquam in 
 ilU admirabilius quam phasma quoddam horrendum, 
 quod omnibus aliis spectris, quibuscum scatet Ange- 
 lorum tragoedia, longd (pace D — ysii V. Doctiss. 
 dixerim) prsetulerim," 
 
630 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 And, oh! ye mortal watchmen, whose 
 
 hoarse throats 
 The immortal ghosts' dread croakings 
 
 counterfeit. 
 All hail ! — Ye dancing phantoms, who, 
 
 by day. 
 Are some condemned to fast, some feast 
 
 in fire, 
 Now play in churchyards, skipping o'er 
 
 the graves, 
 To the '""loud music of the silent bell, 
 All hail! 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 {King and Ghost.) 
 
 King. What noise is this? What villain 
 dares. 
 At this dread hour, with feet and voice 
 
 profane, 
 Disturb our royal walls? 
 Ghost. One who defies 
 
 Thy empty power to hurt him ; '"' one 
 
 who dares 
 Walk in thy bedchamber. 
 King. Presumptuous slave 1 
 
 Thou diest. 
 Ghost. Threaten others with that word: 
 
 '"^ I am a ghost, and am already dead. 
 King. Ye stars ! 't is well. Were thy last 
 hour to come, 
 This moment had been it ; ^"^ yet by thy 
 
 shroud 
 I '11 pull f hee backward, squeeze thee to a 
 
 bladder, 
 Till thou dost groan thy nothingness 
 
 away. 
 Thou flyest ! 'T is well. 
 
 (Ghost retires.) 
 
 100 We have already given instances of this figure, 
 
 101 Almanzor reasons in the same manner : 
 
 A ghost I '11 be ; 
 And from a ghost, you know, no place is free. 
 
 Conquest of Granada. 
 
 102 " The man who writ this wretched pun," says 
 Mr. D., "would have picked your pocket:" which he 
 proceeds to show not only bad in itself, but doubly so 
 on so solemn an occasion. And yet, in that excellent 
 play of Liberty Asserted, we nnd something very 
 much resembling a pun in the mouth of a mistress, 
 who is parting with the lover she is fond of : 
 
 VI. Oh, mortal woe I one kiss, and then farewell. 
 
 Irene. The gods have given to others to fare well. 
 01 miserably must Irene fare. 
 
 Agamemnon, in the Victim, is full as facetious on the 
 most solemn occasion — ^that of sacrificing his daugh- 
 
 Yes, daughter, yes ; you will assist the priest ; 
 Yes, you must offer up your — vows for Greece. 
 
 103 I '11 pull thee backwardsAy thy shroud to light. 
 Or else I 'U squeeze thee, like a bladder, there. 
 And make thee groan thyself away to air. 
 
 Cfonqveat of Oranada 
 Snatch me, ye gods, this moment into nothing. 
 
 Cyrus the Great. 
 
 1"^ I thought what was the courage of a 
 
 ghost ! 
 Yet, dare not, on thy life — Why say I 
 
 that, 
 Since life thou hast not? — Dare not walk 
 
 again 
 Within these walls, on pain of the Bed 
 
 Sea. 
 For, if henceforth I ever find thee here, 
 As sure, sure as a gun, I'll have thee 
 
 laid 
 
 Ghost. Were the Red Sea a sea of Hol- 
 land's gin. 
 The liquor (when alive) whose very smell 
 I did detest, did loathe — ^yet, for the sake 
 Of Thomas Thumb, I would be laid 
 
 therein. 
 King. Ha! said you? 
 Ghost. Yes, my liege, I said Tom Thumb, 
 Whose father's ghost I am — once not 
 
 unknown 
 To mighty Arthur. But, I see, *t is true, 
 The dearest friend, when dead, we all 
 
 forget. 
 King. 'T is he — it is the honest Gaffer 
 
 Thumb. 
 Oh ! let me press thee in my eager arras, 
 Thou best of ghosts! thou something 
 
 more than ghost ! 
 Ghost. Would I were something more, 
 
 that we again 
 Might feel each other in the warm em- 
 brace. 
 But now I have th' advantage of my 
 
 king, 
 105 jpqp J f ggj ^jjgg^ whilst thou dost not 
 
 feel me. 
 King. But say, ^"^thou dearest air, Oh! 
 
 say what dread. 
 Important business sends thee back to 
 
 earth? 
 Ghost. Oh ! then prepare to hear — which 
 
 but to hear 
 Is full enough to send thy spirit hence. 
 Thy subjects up in arms, by Grizzle led. 
 Will, ere the rosy-fingered mom shall 
 
 ope 
 The shutters of the sky, before the gate 
 
 104 So, art thou gone t Thou canst no conquest 
 
 boast. 
 I thought what was the courage of a ghost. 
 
 Conquest of Granada 
 King Arthur seems to be as brave a fellow as Alman- 
 zor, who says most heroically, 
 
 In spite of ghosts I 'II on. 
 105 The ghost of Lausaria, in Cyrus, is a plain 
 copy of this, and is therefore worth reading: 
 Ah, Cyrus I 
 
 Thou mayest as well grasp water, or fleet air. 
 As think of touching my immortal shade. 
 
 Cyrus the Great. 
 100 Thou better part of heavAnly air. 
 
 Conquest of Granada. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 63] 
 
 Of this thy royal palace, swarming 
 
 spread, 
 ^o' So have I seen the bees in clusters 
 
 swarm, 
 So have I seen the stars in frosty nights. 
 So have I seen the sand in windy days, 
 So have I seen the ghost [s] on Pluto's 
 
 shore. 
 So have I seen the flowers in spring arise, 
 So have I seen the leaves in autumn fall, 
 So have I seen the fruits in summer smile, 
 So have I seen the snow in winter frown. 
 King. D — ^n all thou hast seen ! dost thou, 
 
 beneath the shape 
 Of Gaffer Thumb, come hither to abuse 
 
 me 
 With similes, to keep me on the rack? 
 Hence — or, by all the torments of thy 
 
 heU, 
 108 J jji j-mj tjjgg through the body, though 
 
 thou 'st none. 
 Ghost. Arthur, beware! I must this mo- 
 ment hence. 
 Not frighted by your voice, but by the 
 
 cocks ! 
 Arthur beware, beware, beware, beware! 
 Strive to avert thy yet impending fate; 
 For if thou 'rt killed to-day, 
 To-morrow all thy care will come too 
 
 late. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 {King, soIms.) 
 
 King. Oh! stay, and leave me not uncer- 
 tain thus ! 
 
 And, whilst thou tellest me what's like 
 my fate, 
 
 Oh ! teach me how I may avert it too ! 
 
 Cursed be the man who first a simile 
 made! 
 
 Cursed every bard who writes ! — So have 
 I seen 
 
 Those whose comparisons are just and 
 true. 
 
 And those who liken things not like at 
 all. 
 
 The devil is happy that the whole cre- 
 ation 
 
 Can furnish out no simile to his fortune. 
 
 107 "A string of similes," says one, "proper to be 
 hung up in the cabinet of a prince." 
 
 108 Tliis passage liatli been understood several dif- 
 ferent ways by the commentators. For my part, I 
 find it difficult to understand it at all. Mr, Dryden 
 says — 
 
 I 've heard something how two bodies meet. 
 But how two souls 'join I know not. 
 So that, till the body of a spirit be better understood, 
 it will be difficult to understand bOW It is possibly to 
 run him through it. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 {King, Queen.) 
 
 Queen. What is the cause, my Arthur, 
 
 that you steal 
 Thus silently from DoUalloUa's breast? 
 Why dost thou leave me in the ""' dark 
 
 alone, 
 When well thou knowest I am afraid of 
 
 sprites ? 
 King. Oh, DoUalloUa! do not blame my 
 
 love! 
 I hoped the fumes of last night's punch 
 
 had laid 
 Thy lovely eyelids fast.— But, oh ! I find 
 There is no power in drams to quiet 
 
 wives ; 
 Each mom^ as the returning sun, they 
 
 wake. 
 And shine upon their husbands. 
 Queen. Think, Oh think! 
 
 What a surprise it must be to the sun, 
 Rising, to find the vanished world away. 
 What less can be the wretched wife's 
 
 surprise 
 When, stretching out her arms to fold 
 
 thee fast, 
 She folds her useless bolster in her arms. 
 ""Think, think, on that.— Oh! think, 
 
 think well on that! 
 I do remember also to have read 
 m In Dryden's Ovid's Metamorphoses, 
 That Jove in form inanimate did lie 
 With beauteous Danae: and, trust me, 
 
 love, 
 ^^^ I feared the bolster might have been 
 
 a Jove. 
 King. Come to my arms, most virtuous ol 
 
 thy sex; 
 Oh, Dollallolla! were all wives like thee, 
 So many husbands never had worn horns. 
 Should Huncamunca of thy worth par- 
 take, 
 Tom Thumb indeed were blest. — Oh, fatal 
 
 name! 
 Eor didst thou know one quarter what I 
 
 know, 
 Then wouldst thou know — Alas! what 
 
 thou wouldst know! 
 
 100 Cydaria is of the same fearful temper with 
 Dollallolla. 
 I never durst in darkness be alone. 
 
 [Dryden's] Indian Emperor. 
 
 110 Think well of this, think that, think every way. 
 
 Sophonitha. 
 
 111 These quotations are more usual in the comic 
 than in the tragic writers. 
 
 112 "This distress." says Mr. D — [Dennis], "1 
 must allow to be extremely beautiful, and tends to 
 heighten the virtuous character of Dollallolla, who is 
 so exceedingly delicate, that she is in the highest 
 apprehension from the inanimate embrace of a bolster. 
 An example worthy of imitation [for] all our writ 
 ers of tragedy." 
 
632 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Queen. What can I gather hence? Why 
 
 dost thou speak 
 Like men who carry rareeshows * about ? 
 "Now you shall see, gentlemen, what you 
 
 shall see." 
 0, tell me more, or thou hast told too 
 
 much. 
 
 , Scene 5. 
 
 {King, Queen, Noodle.) 
 
 Nood. Long life attend your majesties se- 
 rene, 
 Great Arthur, king, and DoUallolla, 
 
 queen ! 
 Lord Grizzle, with a bold rebellious 
 
 crowd, 
 Advances to the palace, threatening loud. 
 Unless the princess be delivered straight. 
 And the victorious Thumb, without his 
 
 pate, 
 They are resolved to batter down the 
 gate. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 (King, Queen, Huncamunca, Noodle.) 
 
 King. See where the princess comes! 
 
 Where is Tom Thumb? 
 Hunc. Oh! sir, about an hour and half 
 
 ago 
 He sallied out to encounter with the foe. 
 And swore, unless his fate had him mis- 
 led, 
 From Grizzle's, shoulders to cut off his 
 
 head. 
 And serve 't up with your chocolate in 
 
 bed. 
 King. 'T is well, I found one devil told 
 
 us both. 
 Come, DoUallolla, Huncamunca, come; 
 Within we '11 wait for the victorious 
 
 Thumb : 
 In peace and safety we secure may stay. 
 While to his arm we trust the bloody 
 
 fray; 
 Though men and giants should conspire 
 
 with gods, 
 *^' He is alone equal to all these odds. 
 
 118 "Oredat Judeeus Appella, 
 
 Non ego," 
 «8yB Mr. D — . "For, passing over the absurdity of 
 being equal to odds, can we possibly suppose a little 
 insignificant fellow — I say again, a little insignificant 
 fellow — able to vie with a strength which all the Sam- 
 sons and Hereuleses of antiquity would be unable 
 to encounter!" I shall refer this incredulous critic 
 to Iilr. Dryden's defence of his Almanzor; and, lest 
 that should not satisfy him, I shall quote a few lines 
 
 Queen. He is, indeed, ^^* a helmet to us 
 aU; 
 While he supports we need not fear to 
 
 faU; 
 His arm dispatches all things to our wish, 
 And serves up every foe's head in a dish. 
 Void is the mistress of the house of care. 
 While the good cook presents the bill of 
 
 fare; 
 Whether the cod, that northern king of 
 
 fish, 
 Or duck, or goose, or pig, adorn the dish. 
 No fears the number of her guests af- 
 ford, 
 But at her hour she sees the dinner on 
 the board. 
 
 Scene 7. A Plain. 
 
 {Grizzle, Foodie, Bebels.) 
 
 Griz. Thus far our arms with victory are 
 crowned ; 
 For, though we have not fought, yet we 
 
 have found 
 11" No enemy to fight withal. 
 Food. Yet I, 
 
 Methinks, would willingly avoid this day, 
 11' This first of April, to engage our foes. 
 Griz. This day, of all the days of th' year, 
 I 'd choose. 
 For on this day my grandmother was 
 
 born. 
 Gods! I will make Tom Thumb an 
 April-fool ; 
 
 from the speech of a much braver fellow than Alman- 
 
 zor, Mr. Johnson's Achilles: 
 
 Though human race rise in embattled hosts, 
 
 To force her from my arms — Oh I son of Atreus 1 
 
 By that immortal power, whose deathless spirit 
 
 Informs this earth, I will oppose them all. 
 
 VtcMm. 
 
 11* "I have heard of being supported by a staff," 
 says Mr. D., "but never of being supported by an 
 helmet." I believe he never heard of sailing with 
 wings, which he may read in no less a poet than Mr. 
 Dryden : 
 Unless we borrow wings, and sail through air. 
 
 Love Triumphant. 
 What will he say to a kneeling valley ! 
 
 1 '11 stand 
 
 Like a safe valley, that low bends the knee 
 To some aspiring mountain. Injured, Love. 
 
 I am ashamed of so ignorant a carper, who doth not 
 know that an epithet in tragedy is very often no other 
 than an expletive. Do not we read in the New 
 Sophoniiha of "grinding chains, blue plagues, white 
 occasions, and blue serenity!" Nay, it is not the 
 adjective only, but sometimes half a sentence is put by 
 way of expletive, as, "Beauty pointed high with 
 spirit," in the same play; and, "In the lap of bless- 
 ing, to be most curst, in the Revenge. 
 
 iiB A victory like that of Almanzor: 
 Almanzor is victorious without fight. 
 
 Conqueet of Oranada. 
 
 110 Well have we chose an happy day for fight; 
 For every man, in course of time, has found 
 Some days are lucky, some unfortunate. 
 
 King Arthur. 
 
 * A peep-show, carried around in a box. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 633 
 
 U7 'Will teach his wit an errand it ne'er 
 
 knew, 
 And send it post to the Elysian shades. 
 Food. I 'm glad to find our army is so 
 
 stout, 
 Nor does it move my wonder less than 
 
 joy- 
 
 Grig. '^^^ What friends we have, and how 
 we came so strong, 
 I '11 softly tell you as we march along. 
 
 Scene 8. Thunder and Lightning. 
 {Tom Thumb, Glumdalca, cum suis.*) 
 
 Thumb. Oh, Noodle ! hast thou seen a day 
 like this? 
 ^^* The unhorn thunder rumbles o'er our 
 
 heads, 
 ^^"As if the gods meant to unhinge the 
 
 world ; 
 And heaven and earth in wild confusion 
 
 hurl ; 
 Yet will I boldly tread the tottering ball. 
 Merl Tom Thumb! 
 Thumb. What voice is this I hear*? 
 
 Merl. Tom Thumb ! 
 
 Thumb. Again it calls. 
 Merl. Tom Thumb! 
 
 Glum. It calls again. 
 
 Thumb. Appear, whoe'er thou art ; I fear 
 
 thee not. 
 Merl. Thou hast no cause to fear, I am 
 thy friend. 
 Merlin by name, a conjurer by trade. 
 And to my art thou dost thy being owe. 
 Thumb. How ! 
 
 Merl. Hear then the mystic getting of 
 Tom Thumb. 
 
 ^^^ His father was a ploughman plain. 
 
 His mother milked the cow; 
 And yet the way to get a son 
 
 This couple knew not how. 
 Until such time the good old man 
 
 To learned Merlin goes, 
 And there to him, in great distress. 
 
 In secret manner shows; 
 How in his heart he wished to have 
 
 117 We read of such another in Lee ; 
 Teach his rude wit a flight she never made, 
 And send her post to the Elysian shade. 
 
 Gloriana. 
 
 118 These lines are copied verbatim in the Indian 
 Emperor. 
 
 119 Unborn thunder rolling in a cloud. 
 
 OonqueBt of Granada. 
 
 120 Were heaven and earth in wild confusion hurled, 
 Should the rash gods unhinge the rolling world, 
 Undaunted would I tread the tottering ball, 
 Crushed, but unconquered. in the dreadful fall. 
 
 [Hopkins'] Female Warrior. 
 
 121 See the Hiatory of Tom Thumb, page 2. 
 
 A child, in time to come, 
 To be his heir, though it may be 
 
 No bigger than his thumb : 
 Of which old Merlin was foretold 
 
 That he his wish should have; 
 And so a son of stature small 
 
 The charmer to him gave. 
 
 Thou'st heard the past, look up and see 
 
 the future. 
 Thwmb. ^^^ Lost in amazement's gulf, my 
 
 senses sink; 
 See there, Glumdalca, see another ^^^ me ! 
 Glum. 0, sight of horror! see, you are 
 
 devoured 
 By the expanded jaws of a red cow. 
 Merl, Let not these sights deter thy noble 
 
 mind, 
 ^^* For, lo ! a sight more glorious courts 
 
 thy eyes. 
 See from afar a theatre arise ; 
 There ages, yet unborn, shall tribute pay 
 To the heroic actions of this day; 
 Then buskin tragedy at length shall 
 
 choose 
 Thy name the best si;ipporter of her muse. 
 Thumb. Enough : let every warlike music 
 
 sound. 
 We fall contented, if we fall renown'd. 
 
 Scene 9. 
 
 {Lord Grizzle, Foodie, Rebels, on one side; 
 Tom Thumb, Glumdalca, on the other.) 
 
 Food.- At length the enemy advances nigh, 
 125 1 ]jear them with my ear, and see 
 them with my eye. 
 Griz. Draw all your swords: for liberty 
 we fight, 
 i^" And liberty the mustard is of life. 
 
 122 Amazement swallows up my sense. 
 And in the impetuous whirl of circling fate 
 Drinks down my reason. Persian Princess. 
 
 123 I have outfaced myself. 
 What! am I two! Is there another me? 
 
 King Arthur. 
 
 124 The character of Merlin is wonderful through 
 out; but most so in this proplietic part. We find 
 several of these prophecies in the tragic authors, who 
 frequently take this opportunity to pay a compliment 
 to their country, and sometimes to their prince. 
 None but our author (who seems to have detested 
 the least appearance of flattery) would have passed 
 by such an opportunity of being a political prophet. 
 
 J25 I saw the villain, Myron ; with these eyes I 
 saw him. Busiris. 
 
 In both which places it is intimated that it is some- 
 times po«isible to see with other eyes than your own. 
 
 126 "This mustard," says Mr. D., "is enough to 
 turn one's stomach, I would be glad to know what 
 idea the author had in his head when he wrote it." 
 This will be, I believe, best explained by a line of Mr. 
 Dennis : 
 
 And gave him liberty, the salt of life. 
 
 ,. , . Liberty Asserted. 
 
 The understanding that can digest the one will not 
 rise at the other. 
 
 * With their followers. 
 
634 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Thumb. Are you the man ■whom men 
 
 famed Grizzle name? 
 Grig. ^^^ Are you the much more famed 
 
 Tom Thumb? 
 Thumb. The same. 
 
 Griz. Come on; our worth upon ourselves 
 we'll prove; 
 For liberty I flght. 
 Thumb. And I for love. 
 
 {A bloody engagement between the two 
 armies here; drums beating, trumpets 
 sounding, thunder and lightning. They 
 fight off and on several times. Some fall. 
 Griz. and Glum, remain.) 
 Glum. Turn, coward, turn; nor from a 
 
 woman fly. 
 Griz. Away— thou art too ignoble for my 
 
 arm. 
 Glum,. Have at thy heart. 
 Griz. Nay, then I thrust at thine. 
 
 Glu^n. You push too well ; you 've run me 
 through the guts. 
 And I am dead. 
 Griz. Then there's an end of one. 
 
 Thumb. When thou art dead, then there 's 
 an end of two, 
 "8 Villain. 
 Griz. Tom Thumb! 
 Thumb. Rebel ! 
 Griz. Tom Thumb! 
 Thumb. Hell! 
 Griz. Huncamunca ! 
 Thumb. Thou hast it there. 
 Griz. Too sure I feel it. 
 Thumb. To hell then, like a rebel as you 
 are. 
 And give my service to the rebels there. 
 Griz. Triumph not, Thumb, nor think 
 thou shalt enjoy 
 Thy Huncamunca undisturbed; I'll send 
 iz9]yjy gjiost to fetch her to the other 
 
 world ; 
 "0 It shall but bait at heaven, and then 
 return. 
 
 127 Ban. Are yon the chief ■whom men famed 
 Scipio call? 
 
 Sciv. Are you the much more famous Hanmball 
 '^ Hammial. 
 
 128 Dr. Young seems to have copied this engage- 
 ment in his Bttsirto. 
 
 Myr, Villain I 
 
 Mem. Myron 1 
 
 Uyr. Eebel I 
 
 Mem. Myron I 
 
 Myr. Hell I 
 
 Mem. Mandanel , „ . , , it i. 
 
 129 This last speech of my Lord Grizzle hath heon 
 of great service to our poets : 
 
 I '11 hold it fast 
 As life, and when life's gone I'll hold this last; 
 And if thou takest it from me ■when I m slain, 
 I'll send my ghost, and fetch it back again 
 
 ' Conquest of Granada. 
 
 130 My soul should with such speed obey, 
 It should not bait at heaven to stop its way. 
 
 ^'^ But, ha ! I feel death rumbling in my 
 brains : 
 
 1^2 Some kinder sprite knocks softly at 
 my soul, 
 
 And gently whispers it to haste away. 
 
 I come, I come, most willingly I come. 
 
 138 So ^hen some city ■wife, for country 
 air. 
 
 To Hampstead or to Highgate does re- 
 pair. 
 
 Her to make haste her husband does im- 
 plore, 
 
 And cries, "My dear, the coach is at the 
 door :" 
 
 With equal ■wish, desirous to be gone,. 
 
 She gets into the coach, and then she 
 cries — "Drive on !" 
 Thumb. With those last words i^* he vom- 
 ited his soul. 
 
 Which, "° like whipt cream, the devil 
 will swallow down. 
 
 Bear off the body, and cut off the head. 
 
 Which I will to the king in triumph lug. 
 
 Rebellion 's dead, and now I '11 go to 
 breakfast. 
 
 Scene 10. 
 {King, Queen, Huncamunca, Courtiers.) 
 
 King. Open the prisons, set the wretched 
 
 free, 
 And bid our treasurer disburse six 
 
 pounds 
 To pay their debts. — Let no one weep 
 
 to-day. 
 Come, DoUallolla; i'° curse that odious 
 
 name! 
 It is so long, it asks an hour to speak it. 
 By heavens I I '11 change it into Doll, or 
 
 Loll, 
 Or any other civil monosyllable. 
 That will not tire my tongue. — Come, sit 
 
 thee down. 
 
 Lee seems to have had this last in his eye : 
 "Twas not my purpose, sir, to tarry there; 
 I would hut go to heaven to take the air. 
 
 Gloriana. 
 
 181 A rising vapor rumbling in my brains. 
 
 Oleomenei. 
 
 182 Some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul, 
 To tell me fate 's at hand. 
 
 133 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this simile in his 
 eye, when he says. 
 My soul is packing up, and just on wing. 
 
 Conquest of Granada. 
 134 And in a purple vomit poured his soul. 
 
 Cleomenes. 
 135 The devil swallows vulgar souls 
 
 Like whipt cream. Seftostion. 
 
 136 How I could curse my name of Ptolemy I 
 It is so long, it asks an hour to write it. 
 By heaven 1 I '11 change it into Jove or Mars I 
 Or any other civil monosyllahle. 
 That will not tire my hand. Oleoimnet. 
 
TOM THUMB THE GREAT 
 
 635 
 
 Here seated let us view the dancers' 
 
 sports ; 
 Bid 'em advance. This is the wedding-day 
 Of Princess Huncamunca and Tom 
 
 Thumb; 
 Tom Thumb ! who wins two victories *'' 
 
 to-day, 
 And this way marches, bearing Grizzle's 
 
 head. 
 
 A dance here. 
 Nood. Oh! monstrous, dreadful, terrible. 
 
 Oh! Oh! 
 Deaf be my ears, for ever Wind my eyes ! 
 Dumb be my tongue ! feet lame ! all 
 
 senses lost! 
 ^^' Howl wolves, grunt bears, hiss snakes, 
 
 shriek all ye ghosts ! 
 King. What does the blockhead mean 1 
 Nood. I mean, my liege, 
 
 ^^' Only to grace my tale with decent 
 
 horror. 
 "Whilst from my garret, twice two stories 
 
 high, 
 I looked abroad into the streets below, 
 I saw Tom Thumb attended by the mob; 
 Twice twenty shoe-boys, twice two dozen 
 
 links. 
 Chairmen and porters, hackney-coach- 
 men, whores; 
 Aloft he bore the grizly head of Grizzle ; 
 When of a sudden through the streets 
 
 there came 
 A cow, of larger than the usual size. 
 And in a moment — guess. Oh ! guess the 
 
 rest ! — 
 And in a moment swallowed up Tom 
 
 Thumb. 
 King. Shut up again the prisons, bid my 
 
 treasurer 
 Not give three farthings out — hang all 
 
 the culprits, 
 Guilty or not — no matter. — Ravish vir- 
 gins: 
 Go bid the schoolmasters whip all their 
 
 boys! 
 Let lawyers, parsons, and physicians 
 
 loose. 
 To rob, impose on, and to kill the world. 
 Nood. Her majesty the queen is in a 
 
 swoon. 
 
 137 Here is a visible conjunction of two days in 
 one, by which our author may have either intended 
 an emblem of a wedding, or to insinuate that men in 
 the honey-moon are apt to imagine time shorter than 
 it is. It brings into my mind a passage in the com- 
 edy called The Coffee-House Politician : 
 
 We will celebrate this day at my house to-morrow. 
 
 138 These beautiful phrases are all to be found in 
 one single speech of King Arthur, or The British 
 Worthy. 
 
 139 I was but teaching him to ffrace his tale 
 With decent horror. Cleomenes. 
 
 Queen. Not so much in a swoon but I have 
 still 
 Strength to reward the messenger of ill 
 news. 
 
 {Kills Noodle.) 
 Nood. ! I am slain. 
 Cle. My lover 's killed, I will revenge him 
 so. 
 
 (Kills the Queen.) 
 Hune. My mamma killed ! vile murderess, 
 beware. 
 
 (Kills Cleora.) 
 Dood. This for an old grudge to thy 
 heart. 
 
 (Kills Huncamunca.) 
 Must. And this 
 
 I drive to thine, Doodle ! for a new one. 
 (Kills Doodle.) 
 King. Ha! murderess vile, take that. 
 (Kills Must.) 
 "" And take thou this. 
 
 (Kills himself, and falls.) 
 
 So when the child, whom nurse from 
 
 danger guards, 
 Sends Jack for mustard * with a pack of 
 
 cards. 
 Kings, queens, and knaves, throw one 
 
 another down, 
 Till the whole pack lies scattered and 
 
 o'erthrown ; 
 So aU our pack upon the floor is cast. 
 And all I boast is — that I fall the last. 
 
 (Dies.) 
 
 140 We may say with Dryden IConquest of Gran- 
 ada] : 
 
 Death did at length so many slain forget. 
 And left the tale, and took them by the great. 
 1 know of no tragedy which comes nearer to this 
 charming and bloody catastrophe than Cieomenee, 
 where the curtain covers five principal characters 
 dead on the stage. These lines too — 
 1 asked no questions then, of who killed who? 
 The bodies tell the story as they lie — 
 seem to have belonged more properly to this scene of 
 our author ; nor can I help imagining they were orig- 
 inally his. The Rival Ladies [by BrydenJ, too, 
 seem beholden to this scene: 
 We 're now a chain of lovers linked in death; 
 Julia goes first, Gonsalvo hangs on her, 
 And Angelina hangs upon Gonsalvo, 
 As I on Angelina. 
 
 No scene, I believe, ever received greater honors than 
 this. It was applauded by several encores, a word 
 very unusual in tragedy. And it was very difficult 
 for the actors to escape without a second slaughter. 
 This I take to be a lively assurance of that fierce spirit 
 of liberty which remains among us, and which Mr. 
 Dryden, in his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, hath ob- 
 served: "Whether custom," says he, "hath so insin- 
 uated itself into our countrymen, or nature hath so 
 formed them to fierceness, I know not; but they will 
 scarcely suffer combats and other objects of horror 
 to be taken from them." And indeed I am for 
 having them encouraged in this martial disposition: 
 nor do I believe our victories over the French have 
 been owing to anything more than to those bloody 
 spectacles daily exhibited in our tragedies, of which 
 the French stage is so entirely clear. 
 
 * Apparently a trick or game in which cards are stood up on end and then knocked over. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774), born in cen- 
 tral Ireland, was educated in Dublin, later 
 studying medicine in various parts of Great 
 Britain and the Continent. After attempts 
 as schoolmaster and physician, he settled 
 down as a hack or miscellaneous writer, as 
 which he was very successful, though nothing 
 could have made him rich. Careless, mer- 
 curial, unpractical, generous, lie like Steele 
 and Sheridan was an example of some of the 
 traits often associated with the Irishman and 
 with the artistic temperament. Most of his 
 literary work was made-to-order and 
 mediocre; with now and then a masterpiece, 
 like The Deserted Village among poems, The 
 Vicar of Wakefield among novels, and She 
 Stoops to Conquer among plays, which ad- 
 vance him close to the front rank of eight- 
 eenth-century writers. 
 
 Goldsmith's principal other play, The- 
 Good 'Satur'd Man, only moderately good 
 and only moderately successful, in 1768 had 
 earned him £400 or £500, while The Vicar of 
 Wakefield seems to have fetched only some 
 £63 ; though others of his non-dramatic works 
 had made more than this, it is no wonder 
 that in his needs he turned to the stage again, 
 and in 1771 wrote She Stoops to Conquer, 
 which was published and performed two years 
 later. Since he badly needed money, it is 
 the more to the credit of his literary con- 
 science that he set himself against the pre- 
 vailing fashion of sentimentalism, and even 
 publicly ridiculed it; but he had the per- 
 sonal reason that Hugh Kelly's False Deli- 
 cacy, a rather wishy-washy specimen of the 
 type, had come out as a rival to his own 
 earlier play. George Colman, the manager of 
 the Covent Garden theater, doubting the suc- 
 cess of She Stoops to Conquer, accepted it 
 only through the persuasions and almost the 
 compulsion of Dr. Johnson, a warm friend 
 of Goldsmith's. Johnson and other friends 
 went the first night to force applause, but 
 when the nervous author entered the theater 
 behind the scenes during the fifth act, and 
 heard a hiss (at the supposed improbability 
 of Mrs. Hardcastle in her own garden believ- 
 ing herself forty miles from home), Colman 
 maliciously said to him, " Pshaw, Doctor, 
 don't be fearful of squibs, when we have been 
 sitting almost these two hours upon a barrel 
 of gunpowder." So strong had been the tide 
 of sentimentalism. But the tide was turned 
 back. The hiss was understood next day to 
 have come only from Cumberland, the high- 
 priest of sentimental comedy; the play "suc- 
 
 ceeded prodigiously," according to even Hor- 
 ace Walpole, who disliked it; everybody 
 watching Dr. Johnson, and laughing when 
 he did. No wonder the author dedicated his 
 'play to its greatest supporter. 
 
 The. ridicule of sentimentalism is most ap- 
 parent in the prologue and in scene ii of act I. 
 In the former, which was written by David 
 Garrick the actor, the play is represented as 
 a last effort to revive the dying muse of sound 
 legitimate comedy, and to save the world 
 from the deluge of maudlin sentimentality 
 and platitude-sentiments poured out by her 
 rival. The parody of the manner and 
 speeches of the sentimental hero must have 
 been highly diverting on the stage. In the 
 other passage, the fellows at The Three 
 Pigeons love to hear the booby Tony Lumpkin 
 sing, " faekeays he never gives us nothing 
 that's low." " May this be my poison if my 
 bear ever dances but to the very genteelest 
 of tunes." Elsewhere also there is plenty of 
 satire, as in that on the insincere talk of the 
 conventional hero in the embarrassed Mar- 
 lowe's stuttering attempts at genteel conver- 
 sation with Miss Hardcastle (II. i), who 
 speaks satirically of " a man of sentiment." 
 Yet, so hard is it to escape the mental atmos- 
 phere in whicn one lives, there are some 
 slight signs of the disease even in the physi- 
 cian who is to cure it, notably in Miss Ne- 
 ville's somewhat exaggerated sense of pro- 
 priety. When she at last refuses to elope, 
 " prudence once more comes to her relief, and 
 she will obey its dictates," but she is re- 
 strained less by sense than by sensibility. 
 It would have harmonized better with the 
 high spirits of the play if she had been al- 
 lowed to rattle off toward Scotland. But 
 this would have prevented not only a grand 
 finale, with all the chief personages on the 
 stage, but also a sense of complete and duti- 
 ful propriety at the end, of all for the very 
 best, of submitting oneself to all one's gover- 
 nors, teachers, spiritual pastors, and masters. 
 " Pshaw, pshaw ! " cries Mrs. Hardcastle, ap- 
 parently conscious of it, " this is all but the 
 whining end of a modern novel." 
 
 Instead of the edification afforded by the 
 over-sweet new style of play, Goldsmith meant 
 simply to amuse. He asked a friend to whom 
 he had given a ticket how he had liked the 
 play. To the reply that it had made him 
 laugh he said, " That is all I ask." He would 
 stick to good old-fashioned styles in comedy, 
 as old Hardcastle in dress : " Is not the 
 whole age in a combination to drive sense 
 
 636 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 63? 
 
 and discretion out of doors ? " He aimed 
 but little, after all, at either satire or the 
 exhibition of truth for its own sake; rather 
 to excite a state of mind as different as pos- 
 sible from that produced by a Kelly or a 
 Cumberland. She Stoops to Conquer is in 
 the main a comedy of intrigue. Even Horace 
 Walpole, who thought it mean and " low," 
 worse than the sort of comedy it satirized, 
 allowed merit in the situations, and that it 
 made one laugh; its admirer Johnson, while 
 admitting that the plot, with its confusion of 
 a gentleman's house with an inn, bordered 
 upon farce, felt that the incidents were so 
 prepared for as not to seem improbable. The 
 preparation is fairly obvious, as where in the 
 first scene Mrs. Hardcastle calls the audi- 
 ence's attention to the inn-like look of the 
 house, and Miss Hardcastle informs her 
 father that she is wont at night to wear a 
 "housewive's dress, to please him"; and else- 
 where information is given the audience in 
 a sufficiently deliberate way. Like Sheri- 
 dan, Goldsmith cared less to surprise the 
 spectator than to gratify him by sharing 
 secrets with him. It may make us a little 
 readier in accepting two of the most surpris- 
 ing incidents, to know that Goldsmith as a 
 boy spent a night in a squire's house in 
 Ardagh thinking it an inn, and that Sheri- 
 dan played on Mme. de Genlis a trick like 
 Tony's on his mother. Chance constantly 
 favors the deceptions, as in the play of cross- 
 purposes between Marlow and old Hardcastle 
 (IV. i), where the former thinks he is doing 
 his landlord a favor by instructing his serv- 
 ants to drink Jheavily and thus increase the 
 bill. Hastings is too much absorbed in his 
 own amorous schemes to undeceive his friend 
 (his fear of disconcerting him is hardly 
 enough). The light is dim when the bash- 
 ful Marlow sees Miss Hardcastle so little as 
 not to recognize her the next time. We are 
 willing to give the dramatist the benefit of 
 every doubt; though our generosity is some- 
 what tried where Miss Neville returns to 
 Tony her lover's letter. The gaiety and ra- 
 pidity of the action keep such improbabili- 
 ties from offending us. The farther any 
 play departs from probability — the nearer 
 it comes to farce — , the more crowded must 
 be the action; which here is quick and 
 abundant, with an unusual amount of sur- 
 prise and reversal. Assuredly it well ful- 
 filled its purpose, as Dr. Johnson said : " I 
 know of no comedy for many years that has 
 so much exhilarated an audience, that has 
 answered so much the great end of comedy 
 — making an audience merry." 
 
 The characterization, as fits a comedy of 
 intrigue, is simple but firm. Few sketches 
 of a heroine have more charm than Miss 
 Hardcastle. If her talk to her father some- 
 times sounds a trifle prim, that was only to 
 be expected in a patriarchal century, and her 
 merry impudence and tact in talking with 
 Marlow, her freedom from prudishness, her 
 living vigor, recall the heroines of Shakes- 
 peare's comedies, the Rosalinds and the Beat- 
 rices. Hastings, who realizes that more flies 
 are caught by' honey than vinegar, is the soft- 
 tongued sort that gets what he wants, yet 
 keeps the good-will of those who would have 
 withheld it; Mrs. Hardcastle has never a 
 harsh word for him. He is the off-spring of 
 an Irishman's heart. His one slip, if it is 
 such, is assuring Mrs. Hardcastle that jewels 
 do not befit a woman under forty, and so mak- 
 ing it harder for Miss Neville to filch her 
 own. Tony Lumpkin, the inspired hobble- 
 dehoy, is the most enlivening creation in the 
 play (suggested by Humphry Gubbin in 
 Steele's The Tender Eusband). Though 
 critics have protested that a fellow who could 
 scarcely read should not have composed , the 
 admirable drinking-song in the first act, a 
 light comedy may take full advantage of the 
 license of art to make any type of person 
 more perfect in the type than he would be 
 in life; and is not a clever drinking-song di- 
 rectly in the line of this resourceful lover of 
 the bottle ? Marlow and his adventures bring 
 us nearest to farce, but his timidity or bold- 
 ness with different sorts of women are only 
 heightened beyond those of Thackeray's 
 Harry Foker. 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer prevailed over its 
 adversary not only with a sling and with a 
 stone, but also by temperate and sincere use 
 of what had been overdone in the other. 
 With all the merriment and extravagance, 
 there is no lack, of genuine sentiment, and old 
 Hardcastle even manages to slip in sotto voce 
 a moral (V. ii) more practical than the ediT 
 fying commonplaces of the rival type of play. 
 It follows the sentimental tradition as started 
 by Steele in its entire cleanness and sweet- 
 ness Garrick's promise in the prologue is 
 well fulfilled; 
 
 No poisonous drugs are mixed in what lie gives. 
 If it is too much to say, though it has been 
 said, that this play gave a deadly blow to the 
 sentimental drama, it certainly reinstated 
 pure comedy, and no reader needs to be told 
 that, along with Sheridan's best two plays, 
 alone among eighteenth-century dramas, it 
 still excites spontaneous delight on the stage. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF 
 
 A NIGHT 
 
 TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 
 
 Deae Sie, — By inscribing this slight per- 
 formance to you, I do not mean so much 
 to compliment you as myself. It may do 
 me some honor to inform the public, that 
 I have lived many years in intimacy with 
 you. It may serve the interests of man- 
 kind also to inform them, that the greatest 
 wit may be found in a character, without 
 impairing the most unaffected piety. 
 
 I have, particularly, reason to thank you 
 for your partiality to this performance. 
 The undertaking a comedy, not merely sen- 
 timental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Col- 
 man, who saw this piece in its various 
 stages, always thought it so. However, I 
 ventured to trust it to the public; and, 
 though it was necessarily delayed till late 
 in the season, I have every reason to be 
 grateful. — I am, dear Sir, your most sin- 
 cere friend and admirer, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 By David Garrick, Esq. 
 
 (Enter Mr. Woodward,''- dressed in blaeJc, 
 and holding a Handkerchief to his Eyes.) 
 
 Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet 
 
 speak — 
 I'm crying now — and have been all the 
 
 week! 
 , 'T is not alone this mourning suit, good 
 
 masters ; 
 I've that within — for which there are no 
 
 plasters ! 
 Pray would you know the reason why I 'm 
 
 crying? 
 The Comic muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
 And if she goes, my tears will never stop; 
 For as a player, I can't squeeze out one 
 
 drop: 
 I am undone, that's all— shall lose my 
 
 bread — ■ 
 I'd rather, but that's nothing— lose my 
 
 bead. 
 
 1 An actor. 
 
 638 
 
 When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
 
 Shuter ^ and I shall be chief mourners here. 
 
 To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 
 
 Who deals in sentimentals will succeed! 
 
 Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents. 
 
 We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments! 
 
 Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up. 
 
 We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
 
 What shall we do ? — If Comedy forsake us ! 
 
 They 'II turn us out, and no one else will 
 take us, 
 
 But why can't I be moral? — Let me try — 
 
 My heart thus pressing — fixed my face and 
 eye— 
 
 With a sententious look, that nothing means 
 
 (Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes). 
 
 Thus I begin — All is not gold that glit- 
 ters, 
 
 Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of 
 bitters. 
 
 When ignorance enters, folly is at hand; 
 
 Learning is better far than house and land. 
 
 Let not your virtue trip, who trips may 
 stumble, 
 
 And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble. 
 
 I give it up-=— morals won't do for me ; 
 
 To make you laugh I must play tragedy. 
 
 One hope remains — Shearing the maid was 
 iU, 
 
 A doctor comes this night to show his skill. 
 
 To cheer her heart, and give your muscles 
 motion, 
 
 He in five draughts prepared, presents a 
 potion : 
 
 A kind of magic charm — for be assured. 
 
 If you will swallow it, the maid is cured. 
 
 But desperate the Doctor, and her case 
 is. 
 
 If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! 
 
 This truth he boasts, will boast it while he 
 lives. 
 
 No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he 
 gives; 
 
 Should he succeed, you '11 give him his de- 
 gree; 
 
 If not, within he will receive no fee ! 
 
 The college you, must his pretentions back, 
 
 Pronounce him regular, or dub him quack, 
 
 2 An actor who played old Hardcastle. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 
 
 639 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 MEN 
 SiE Chables Maelow. 
 Young Maelow (His Son). 
 Haeucastle. 
 Hastings. 
 Tony Lumpkin. 
 
 DiGGOBT. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. A Chamber in an Old-Fashioned 
 House. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hard- 
 castle.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, 
 you're very particular. Is there a crea- 
 ture in the whole country, but ourselves, 
 that does not take a trip "■.o town now 
 and then, to rub off the rust a little? 
 There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our 
 neighbor, Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a 
 month's polishing every winter. 
 
 Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and af- 
 fectation to last them the whole year. I 
 wonder why London cannot keep its own 
 fools at home. In my time, the follies of 
 the town crept slowly among us, but now 
 they travel faster than a stage-coach. 
 Its fopperies come down, not only as in- 
 side passengers, but in the very basket.^ 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine 
 times, indeed ; you have been telling us of 
 them for many a long year. Here we 
 live in an old rumbling mansion, that 
 looks for all the world like an inn, but 
 that we never see company. Our best 
 visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's 
 wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame 
 dancing-master: and all our entertain- 
 ment your old stories of Prince Eugene 
 and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate 
 such old-fashioned trumpery. 
 
 Hard. And I love it. I love everything 
 that's old: old friends, old times, old 
 manners, old books, old wine; and, I be- 
 lieve, Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll 
 own I have been pretty fond of an old 
 wife. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you 're 
 for ever at your Dorothy's and your old 
 wife's. You may be a Darby, but I'll 
 be no Joan, I promise you.* I'm not 
 so old as you 'd make me, by more than 
 one good year. Add twenty to twenty, 
 and make money of that. 
 
 3 The back-part of a stage-coach, a poor place to 
 travel in. 
 
 WOMEN 
 Mrs. Haedcastle. 
 Miss Haedcastle. 
 Miss Neville. 
 Maid. 
 
 Landlord, Servants, &c., &c. 
 
 Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, 
 makes just fifty and seven ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle: I 
 was but twenty when I was brought to 
 bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lump- 
 kin, my first husband ; and he 's not come 
 to years of discretion yet. 
 
 Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for 
 him. Ay, you have taught him finely ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin 
 has a good fortune. My son is not to 
 live by his learning. I don't think a boy 
 wants much learning to spend fifteen hun- 
 dred a year. 
 
 Hard. Learning, quotha ! A mere compo- 
 sition of tricks and mischief! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Humor, my dear : nothing but 
 humor. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must 
 allow the boy a little humor. 
 
 Hard. I 'd sooner allow him an horse- 
 pond! If burning the footmen's shoes, 
 frighting the maids, and worrying the 
 kittens, be humor, he has it. It was but 
 yesterday he fastened my wig to the back 
 of my chair, and when I went to make a 
 bow, I popped my bald head in Mrs. 
 Frizzle's face! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame? The 
 poor boy was always too sickly to do any 
 good. A school would be his death. 
 When he comes to be a little stronger, 
 who knows what a year or two's Latin 
 may do for him? 
 
 Hard. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle! 
 No, no, the ale-house and the stable are 
 the only schools he '11 ever go to ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the 
 poor boy now, for I believe we shan't 
 have him long among us. Anybody that 
 looks in his face may see he 's consump- 
 tive. 
 
 Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of 
 the symptoms. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his 
 lungs. 
 
 i Darby and Joan, in tradition, are a deT0te4 el- 
 ^ei'ly qoupl^. 
 
640 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Hard. And truly, so am I; for lie some- 
 times whoops like a speaking-trumpet — 
 (Tony hallooing behind the scenes) — 0, 
 there he goes — A very consumptive fig- 
 ure, truly! 
 
 {Enter Tony, crossing the stage.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, 
 
 my charmer? Won't you give papa and 
 
 I a little of your company, lovey? 
 Tony. I 'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay. 
 Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this 
 
 raw evening, my dear: you look most 
 
 shockingly. 
 Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three 
 
 Pigeons expects me down every moment. 
 
 There's some fun going forward. 
 Hard. Ay; the ale-house, the old place: 
 
 I thought so. 
 Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 Tony. Not so low, neither. There 's Dick 
 
 Muggins the exciseman. Jack Slang the 
 
 horse doctor. Little Aminadab that 
 
 grinds the music box, and Tom Twist 
 
 that spins the pewter platter. 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint 
 
 them for one night, at least. 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I 
 
 should not so much mind; but I can't 
 
 abide to disappoint myself! 
 Mrs. Hard. (Detaining him.) You shan't 
 
 go- 
 
 Tony. I will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. 
 
 tony. We'll see which is strongest, you 
 or I. 
 
 (Exit hauling her out.) 
 (Hardcastle solus.) 
 
 Hard. Ay, there goes a pair that only 
 spoil each other. But is not the whole 
 age in a combination to drive sense and 
 discretion out of doors'? There's my 
 pretty darling, Kate; the fashions of the 
 times have almost infected her too. By 
 living a year or two in town, she is as 
 fond of gauze and French frippery as 
 the best of them. 
 
 (Enter Miss Hardcastle.) 
 
 Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! 
 Dressed out as usual, my Kate! Good- 
 ness! What a quantity of. superfluous 
 silk has thou got about thee, girl! I 
 could never teach the fools of this age, 
 that the indigent world could be clothed 
 out of the trimmings of the vain. 
 
 Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. 
 You allow me the morning to receive and 
 pay visits, and to dress in my own man- 
 
 ner; and in the evening, I put on my 
 housewife's dress, to please you. 
 
 Hard. Well, remember, I insist on the 
 terms of our agreement; and, by-the-bye, 
 I believe I shall have occasion to try your 
 obedience this vei-y evening. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't com- 
 prehend your meaning. 
 
 Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, 
 I expect the young gentleman I have 
 chosen to be your husband from town 
 this very day. I have his father's letter, 
 in which he informs me his son is set out, 
 and that he intends to follow himself 
 shortly after. 
 
 Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known 
 something of this before. Bless me, how 
 shall I behave? It's a thousand to one 
 I shan't like him ; our meeting will be so 
 formal, and so like a thing of business, 
 that I shall find no room for friendship 
 or esteem. 
 
 Hard. Depend upon it, child, I'll never 
 control your choice; but Mr. Marlow, 
 whom I have pitched upon, is the son of 
 my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of 
 whom you have heard me talk so often. 
 The young gentleman has been bred a 
 scholar, and is designed for an employ- 
 ment in the service of his country. I am 
 told he 's a man of an excellefat under- 
 standing. 
 
 Miss Hard. Is he? 
 
 Hard. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hard. 1 'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hard.- And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more 
 (kissing his hand), he's mine, I'll have 
 him! 
 
 Hard. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one 
 of the most bashful and reserved young 
 fellows in all the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to 
 death again. That word reserved has un- 
 done all the rest of his accomplishments. 
 A reserved lover, it is said, always makes 
 a suspicious husband. 
 
 Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom 
 resides in a breast that is not enriched 
 with nobler virtues. It was the very fea- 
 ture in his character that first struck me. 
 
 Miss Hard. He must have more striking 
 features to catch me, I promise you. 
 However, if he be so young, so handsome, 
 and so everything, as you mention, I be- 
 lieve he'll do still I think I'll have 
 him. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 641 
 
 Rard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an ob- 
 stacle. It is more than an even wager, 
 he may not have you. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you 
 mortify one so? — Well, if he refuses, in- 
 stead of breaking my heart at his indif- 
 ference, I'll only break my glass for its 
 flattery. Set my cap to some newer 
 fashion, and look out for some less diffi- 
 cult admirer. 
 
 Hard. Bravely resolved! In the mean- 
 time I '11 go prepare the servants for his 
 reception; as we seldom see company, 
 they want as much training as a company 
 of recruits the first day's muster. 
 (Exit.) . 
 {Miss Hardcastle sola.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Lud, this news of papa's puts 
 me all in a flutter. Young, handsome; 
 these he put last; but I put them fore- 
 most. Sensible, good-natured; I like all 
 that. But then reserved, and sheepish, 
 that 's much against him. Yet can't he be 
 cured of his timidity, by being taught to 
 be proud of his wife 1 Yes, and can't I — 
 but I vow I 'm disposing of the husband 
 before I have secured the lover ! 
 
 {Enter Miss Neville.) 
 
 Miss Hard. I 'm glad you 're come, Neville, 
 my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I 
 look this evening? Is there anything 
 whimsical about me? Is it one of my 
 weU-looking days, child? Am I in face 
 to-day? 
 
 Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet, 
 now I look again — ^bless me ! — sure no ac- 
 cident has happened among the canary 
 birds or the goldfishes? Has your 
 brother or the cat been meddling? Or 
 has the last novel been too moving? 
 
 Miss Hard. No; nothing of all this, I 
 have been threatened — I can scarce get it 
 out — I have been threatened with a lover ! 
 
 Miss Neville. And his name 
 
 Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 
 
 Miss Neville. Indeed! 
 
 Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Mar- 
 low. 
 
 Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate 
 friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. 
 They are never asunder. I believe you 
 must have seen him when we lived in 
 town. 
 
 Miss Hard. Never. 
 
 Miss Neville. He's a very singular char- 
 acter, I assure you. Among women of 
 reputation and virtue, he is the modestest 
 
 man alive ; but his acquaintance give him 
 a very different character among crea- 
 tures of another stamp : you understand 
 me. 
 
 Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed! I 
 shall never be able to manage him. What 
 shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of 
 him, but trust to occurrences for success. 
 But how goes on your own affair, my 
 dear? Has my mother been courting you 
 for my brother Tony, as usual? 
 
 Miss Neville. I have just come from one 
 of our agreeable tete-A-tStes. She has 
 been saying a hundred tender things, and 
 setting off her pretty monster as the very 
 pink of perfection. 
 
 Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, 
 that she actually thinks him so. A for- 
 tune like yours is no small temptation. 
 Besides, as she has the sole management 
 of it, I 'm not surprised to see her un- 
 willing to let it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which 
 chiefly consists in jewels, is no such 
 mighty temptation. But, at any rate, if 
 my dear Hastings be but constant, I make 
 no doubt to be too hard for her at last. 
 However, I let her suppose that I am in 
 love with her son, and she never once 
 dreams that my affections are fixed upon 
 another. 
 
 Miss Hard. My good brother holds out 
 stoutly. I could almost love him for 
 hating you so. 
 
 Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature 
 at bottom, and I 'm sure would wish to 
 see me married to anybody but himself. 
 But my aunt's bell rings for our after- 
 noon's walk round the improvements. 
 Allans.^ Courage is necessary, as our af- 
 fairs are critical. 
 
 Hard. Would it were bed-time and 
 all were well. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. An Ale-house Boom. 
 
 {Several shabby fellows, with punch and 
 tobacco. Tony at the head of the table, 
 a little higher than the rest: a mallet in 
 his hand.) 
 
 Omnes. Hurrea, hurrea, hurrea, bravo! 
 First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for 
 
 a song. The 'Squire is going to knock 
 
 himself dovra for a song. 
 Omnes. Ay, a song, a song. 
 Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a 
 
 E Let's go. 
 
642 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 song I made upon this ale-house, the 
 Three Pigeons. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Let school-masters puzzle their brain 
 With grammar, and nonsense, and learn- 
 ing; 
 Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 
 
 Gives genus " a better discerning. 
 Let them brag of their Heathenish Gods, 
 
 Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians ; 
 Their Quis, and their Quss, and their 
 Quods, 
 They 're all but a parcel of pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! 
 
 When Methodist preachers come down, 
 
 A-preaehing that drinking is sinful, 
 I'll wager the rascals a crown, 
 
 They always preach best with a skinful. 
 But when you come down with your pence, 
 
 For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
 I '11 leave it to all men of sense. 
 
 But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.'' 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! 
 
 Then come, put the jorum ^ about, 
 And let us be merry and clever, 
 Our hearts and our liquors are stout. 
 
 Here 's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 
 Let some cry up woodcock or hare. 
 
 Your bustards, your ducks, and your 
 widgeons; 
 But of all the birds in the air, 
 
 Here's a health to the Three Jolly 
 Pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! 
 
 Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 
 
 First Fellow. The 'Squire has got spunk 
 in him. 
 
 Second Fellow. I loves to hear hjm sing, 
 bekeays he never gives us nothing that 's 
 low. ' 
 
 Third Fellow. damn anything that's 
 low, I cannot bear it ! 
 
 Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the 
 genteel thing at any time. If so be that 
 a gentleman bees in a concatenation ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, 
 Master Muggins. What, though I am 
 obligated to dance a bear, a man may be 
 a gentleman for all that. May this be my 
 poison if my bear ever dances but to the 
 very genteelest of tunes. Water Parted, 
 or the minuet in Ariadne. 
 
 Second Fellow. What a pity it is the 
 'Squire is, not come to his own. It would 
 be well for all the publicans within ten 
 miles round of him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master 
 Slang. I'd then show what it was to 
 keep choice of company. 
 
 Second Fellow. 0, he takes after his own 
 father for that. To be sure, old 'Squire 
 Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever 
 set my eyes on. For winding the straight 
 horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a 
 wench, he never had his fellow. It was a 
 saying in the place, that he kept the best 
 horses, dogs, and girls in the whole 
 county. 
 
 Tony. Ecodj and when I 'm of age I '11 be 
 no bastard, I promise you. I have been 
 thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's 
 grey mare to begin with. But come, my 
 boys, drink about and be merry, for you 
 pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's 
 the matter? 
 
 {Enter Landlord.) 
 
 Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a 
 postchaise at the door. They have lost 
 their way upo' the forest; and they are 
 talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must 
 be the gentleman that 's coming down to 
 court my sister. Do they seem to be 
 Londoners ? 
 
 Landlord. I believe they may. They look 
 woundily ° like Frenchmen. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, 
 and I '11 set them right in a twinkling. 
 {Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they 
 may n't be good enough company for you, 
 step down for a moment, and I '11 be with 
 you in the squeezing of a lemon. 
 {Exeunt Moh.) 
 {Tony solus.) 
 
 Tony. Father-in-law 1" has been calling 
 me whelp and hound, this half year. 
 Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged 
 upon the old grumbletonian. But then 
 I'm afraid— afraid of what? I shall 
 soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and 
 let him frighten me out of that if he can ! 
 
 {Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and 
 Hastings. ) 
 
 Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable 
 day have we had of it ! We were told it 
 was but forty miles across the country, 
 and w« have come above threescore ! 
 
 « Presumably for 
 gen4/uB, 
 
 7 gull, dupe. 
 
 8 bowl. 
 
 8 extremely (a pro- 
 vincial word). 
 
 10 Sometimes 
 wrongly used in 
 
 England for step- 
 father. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 643 
 
 Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that un- 
 accountable reserve of yours, that would 
 not let us enquire more frequently on the 
 way. 
 
 Harlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling 
 to lay myself under an obligation to every 
 one I meet; and often stand the chance 
 of an unmannerly answer. 
 
 Hastings. At present, however, we are not 
 likely to receive any answer. 
 
 Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I 'm 
 told you have been enquiring for one Mr. 
 Hardcastle, in [these] parts. Do you 
 know what part of the country you are 
 in? 
 
 Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should 
 thank you for information. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came? 
 
 Hastings. No, sir, but if you can inform 
 us 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know 
 neither the road you are going, nor where 
 you are, nor the road you came, the first 
 thing I have to inform you is, that — you 
 have lost your way. 
 
 Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 
 
 Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold 
 as to ask the place from whence you 
 came? 
 
 Marlow. That 's not necessary towards di- 
 recting us where we are to gO; 
 
 Tony. No offence; but question for ques- 
 tion is all fair, you know. Pray, gentle- 
 men, is not this same Hardcastle a cross- 
 grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow 
 with an ugly face, a daughter, and a 
 pretty son ? 
 
 Hastings. We have not seen the gentle- 
 man, but he has the family you mention. 
 
 Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trol- 
 
 loping, talkative maypole The son, a 
 
 pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that 
 everybody is fond of! 
 
 Marlow. Our information differs in this. 
 The daughter is said to be well-bred and 
 beautiful; the son, an awkward booby, 
 reared up and spoiled at his mother's 
 apron -string. 
 
 Tony. He-he-hem — then, gentlemen, all I 
 have to tell you is, that you won't reach 
 Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I be- 
 lieve. 
 
 Hastings.^ Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It 's a damned long, dark, boggy, 
 dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the 
 gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's. 
 (Winking upon tJie Landlord.) Mr. 
 Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh, you un- 
 derstand me. 
 
 Landlord. Master Hardcastle's! Lack-a- 
 daisy, my masters, you 're come a deadly 
 deal wrong ! When you came to the bot- 
 tom of the hill, you should have crossed 
 down Squash Lane. 
 
 Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane! 
 
 Landlord. Then you were to keep straight 
 forward, until you came to four roads. 
 
 Marlow. Come to where four roads meet! 
 
 Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take 
 only one of them. 
 
 Marlow. 0, sir, you 're facetious ! 
 
 Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are 
 to go sideways till you come upon Crack- 
 skull Common : there you must look sharp 
 for the track of the wheel, and go for- 
 ward, till you come to Farmer Murrain's 
 bam. Coming to the farmer's barn, you 
 are to turn to the right, and then to the 
 left, and then to the right about again, 
 till you find out the old mill 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, man! we could as soon 
 find out the longitude ! 
 
 Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow? 
 
 Marlow. This house promises but a poor 
 reception, though, -perhaps, the landlord 
 can accommodate us. 
 
 Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one 
 spare bed in the whole house. 
 
 Tony. And to my knowledge, that 's taken 
 up by three lodgers already. (After a 
 pause, in which the rest seem discon- 
 certed.) I have hit it. Don't you think, 
 Stingo, our landlady could accommodate 
 
 the gentlemen by the fire-side, with 
 
 three chairs and a bolster? 
 
 Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 
 
 Marlow. And I detest your three chairs 
 and a bolster. 
 
 Tony. You do, do you? — then let me see — 
 what — if you go on a mile further, to the 
 Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head on the 
 hill, one of the best inns in the whole 
 county? 
 
 Hastings. ho! so we have escaped an 
 adventure for this- night, however. 
 
 Landlord. (Apart to Tony.) Sure, you 
 be n't sending them to your father's as an 
 inn, be you ? 
 
 Tony. Mum, you fool, you. Let them find 
 that out. (To them.) You have only to 
 keep on straight forward, till you come 
 to a large old house by the roadside. 
 You '11 see a pair of large horns over the 
 door. That's the sign. Drive up the 
 yard, and call stoutly about you. 
 
 Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The 
 servants can't miss the way? 
 
 Tony. No, no: but I tell you though, the 
 
644 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 landlord is rich, and going to leave off 
 business ; so he wants to be thought a gen- 
 tleman, saving your presence, he ! he ! he ! 
 He'll be for giving you his company, 
 and, eeod, if you mind him,- he'll per- 
 suade you that his mother was an alder- 
 man, and his aunt a justice of peace ! 
 
 Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be 
 sure ; but 'a keeps as good wines and beds 
 as any in the whole country. 
 
 Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, 
 we shall want no further connection. We 
 are to turn to the right, did you say ? 
 
 Tony. No, no ; straight forward. I 'IP just 
 step myself, and show you a piece of the 
 way. {To the Landlord.) Mum. 
 
 Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a 
 sweet, pleasant, — damned mischievous son 
 of a whore. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene 1. An Old-Fashioned Souse. 
 
 {Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or 
 four awkward Servants.) 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, I hope you 're perfect 
 in the table exercise I have been teaching 
 you these three days. You all know your 
 posts and your places, and can show that 
 you have been used to good company, 
 without ever stirring from home. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hard. When company comes, you are not 
 to pop out and stare, and then run in 
 again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. 
 
 Omnes. No, no. 
 
 Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken 
 from the barn, are to make a show at the 
 side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have 
 advanced from the plough, are to place 
 yourself behind my chair. But you 're 
 not to stand so, with your hands in your 
 pockets. Take your hands from your 
 pockets, Roger; and from your head, you 
 blockhead, you. See how Diggory car- 
 ries his hands. They 're a little too stiff, 
 indeed, but that 's no great matter. 
 
 Piggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I 
 learned to hold my hands this way, when 
 I was upon drill for the militia. And 
 so being upon drill 
 
 Hard. You must not be so talkative, Dig- 
 gory. You must be all attention to the 
 guests. You must hear us talk, and not 
 
 think of talking; you must see us drink, 
 and not think of drinking; you must see 
 us eat, and not think of eating. 
 
 Diggory. By the laws, your worship, 
 that's parfectly unpossible. Whenever 
 Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, 
 he 's always wishing for a mouthful him- 
 self. 
 
 Hard. Blockhead! Is not a bellyful in 
 the kitchen as good as a bellyful in the 
 parlor? Stay your stomach with that re- 
 flection. 
 
 Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I '11 
 make a shift to stay my stomach with a 
 slice of cold beef in the pantry. 
 
 Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. 
 Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or 
 tell a good story at table, you must not 
 all burst out a-laughing, as if you made 
 part of the company. 
 
 Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must 
 not teU the story of Ould Grouse in the 
 gun-room: I can't help laughing at that 
 — he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of me ! We 
 have laughed at that these twenty years 
 — ^ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Hard. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good 
 one. Well, honest Diggory, you may 
 laugh at that — ^but still remember to be 
 attentive. Suppose one of the company 
 should call for a glass of wine, how will 
 you behave ? A glass of wine, sir, if you 
 please {to Diggory) — Eh, why don't you 
 move? 
 
 Diggory. Eeod, your worship, I never have 
 courage tiU I see the eatables and drink- 
 ables brought upo' the table, and then 
 I 'm as bauld as a lion. 
 
 Hard. What, will nobody move? 
 
 Firs* Servant. I'm not to leave this 
 pleaee. 
 
 Second Servant. I 'm sure it 's no pleaee 
 of mine. 
 
 Third Servant. Not mine, for sartain. 
 
 Diggory. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna 
 be mine. 
 
 Hard. You numskulls! and so while, like 
 your betters, you are quarrelling for 
 places, the guests must be starved. 0, 
 you dunces ! I find I must begin all over 
 again. — But don't I hear a coach drive 
 into the yard ? To your posts, you block- 
 heads ! I '11 go in the meantime and give 
 my old friend's son a hearty reception at 
 the gates. 
 
 {Exit Hardcastle.) 
 
 Diggory. By the elevens,!^ my pleaee is 
 gone quite out of my head. 
 
 11 A meaningless exclamation. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 645 
 
 Roger. I know that my pleace is to be 
 everywhere ! 
 
 First Servant. Where the devil is mine? 
 
 Second Servant. My pleace is to be no- 
 where at all ; and so I 'ze go about my 
 business ! 
 
 (Exeunt Servants, running about as if 
 frighted, different ways.) 
 
 {Enter Servant with candles, showing in 
 Marlow and Eastings.) 
 
 Servant. "Welcome, gentlemen, very wel- 
 come. This way. 
 
 Hastings. After the disappointments of 
 the day, welcome once more, Charles, to 
 the comforts of a clean room and a good 
 Are. Upon my word, a very weU-looking 
 house; antique but creditable. 
 
 Marlow. The usual fate of a large man- 
 sion. Having first ruined the master by 
 good housekeeping, it at last comes to 
 levy contributions as an inn. 
 
 Hastings. As you say, we passengers are 
 to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I 
 have often seen a good, sideboard, or a 
 marble chimney-piece, though not actually 
 put in the bill, inflame a reckoning con- 
 foundedly. 
 
 Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in 
 aU places. The only difference, is, that 
 in good inns, you pay dearly for luxuries ; 
 in bad inns, you are fleeced and starved. 
 
 Eastings. You have lived pretty much 
 among them. In truth, I have been often 
 surprised, that you who have seen so 
 much of the world, with your natural 
 good sense, and your many opportunities, 
 could never yet acquire a requisite share 
 of assurance. 
 
 Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But 
 tell me, George, where could I have 
 learned that assurance you talk of? My 
 life has been chiefly spent in a college, or 
 an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part 
 of the creation that chiefly teach men 
 confidence. I don't know that I was ever 
 familiarly acquainted with a single 
 modest woman — except my mother — ^But 
 among females of another class, you 
 know 
 
 Eastings. Ay, among them you are im- 
 pudent enough of all conscience ! 
 
 Marlow. They are of us, you know. 
 
 Hastings. But in the company of women 
 of reputation I never saw such an idiot, 
 such a trembler; you look for all the 
 world as if you wanted an opportunity of 
 stealing out of the room. 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, that's because I do 
 want to steal out of the room. Eaith, I 
 have often formed a resolution to break 
 the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But 
 I don't know how, a single glance from a 
 pair of fine eyes has totally overset my 
 resolution. An impudent fellow may 
 counterfeit modesty, but I'll be hanged 
 if a modest man can ever counterfeit 
 impudence. 
 
 Eastings. If you could but say half the 
 fine things to them that I have heard you 
 lavish upon the barmaid of an inn, or 
 even a college bedmaker 
 
 Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine 
 things to them. They freeze, they 
 petrify me. They may talk of a coraet, 
 or a burning mountain, or some such bag- 
 atelle. But to me, a modest woman, 
 dressed out in all her finery, is the most 
 tremendous object of th^ whole creation. 
 
 Eastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, 
 how can you ever expect to marry ! 
 
 Marlow. Never, unless, as among kings 
 and princes, my bride were to be courted 
 by proxy. If,, indeed, like an Eastern 
 bridegroom, one were to be introduced to 
 a wife he never saw before, it might be 
 endured. But to go through all the ter- 
 rors of a formal courtship, together with 
 the episode of aunts, grandmothers and 
 cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad 
 staring question of, madam, will you 
 marry me f No, no, that 's a strain much 
 above me, I assure you ! 
 
 Hastings. I pity you. But how do you 
 intend behaving to the lady you are come 
 down to visit at the request of your 
 father? 
 
 Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies. 
 Bow very low. Answer yes, or no, to all 
 her demands — But for the rest, I don't 
 think I shall venture to look in her face, 
 till I see my father's again. 
 
 Eastings. I 'm surprised that one who js 
 so warm a friend can be so cool a lover. 
 
 Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, 
 my chief inducement down was to be in- 
 strumental in forwarding your happiness, 
 not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the 
 family don't know you, as my friend you 
 are sure of a reception, and let honor dp 
 the rest. 
 
 Eastings. My dear Marlow! But I'll 
 suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, 
 meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you 
 should be the last man in the world I 
 would apply to for assistance. But 'Miss 
 Neville's person is all I ask, and that is 
 
646 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 mine, both from her deceased father's 
 consent, and her own inclination. 
 Marlow. Happy man! You have talents 
 and art to captivate any woman. I 'm 
 doomed to adore the sex, and yet to con- 
 verse with the only part of it I despise. 
 This stammer in my address, and this 
 awkward [un] prepossessing visage of 
 mine, can never permit me to soar above 
 the reach of a milliner's apprentice, or 
 one of the duchesses of Drury Lane.i" 
 Pshaw ! this f eUow here to interrupt us. 
 
 {Enter Hardcastle.) 
 
 Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are 
 heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Mar- 
 low? Sir, you're heartily welcome. 
 It's not my way, you see, to receive my 
 friends with my back to the flre. I like 
 to give them a hearty reception in the old 
 style at my gate. I like to see their 
 horses and trunks taken care of. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) He has got our names 
 from the servants already. (2*0 him.) 
 We approve your caution and hospitality, 
 sir. {To Hastings.) I have been think- 
 ing, George, of changing our travelling 
 dresses in the morning. I am grown con- 
 foundedly ashamed of mine. 
 
 Hard. 1 beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no 
 ceremony in this house. 
 
 Hastings. I fancy, George, you 're right : 
 the first blow is half the battle. I intend 
 opening the campaign with the white and 
 gold. 
 
 Hard. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gen- 
 tlemen — ^pray be under no constraint in 
 this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentle- 
 men. You may do just as you please 
 here. 
 
 Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the cam- 
 paign too fiercely at first, we may want 
 ammunition before it is over. I think to 
 reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat. 
 
 Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Mar- 
 low, puts me in mind of the Duke of 
 Marlborough, when we went to besiege 
 Denain.^^ He first summoned the garri- 
 son 
 
 Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or 
 waistcoat will do with the plain brown? 
 
 Hard. He first summoned the garrison, 
 which might consist of about five thou- 
 sand men 
 
 Hastings. I think not: brown and yellow 
 mix but very poorly. 
 
 Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling 
 you, he summoned the garrison, which 
 
 might consist of about five thousand 
 men 
 
 Marlow. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hard. Which might consist of about five 
 thousand men, well appointed with stores, 
 ammunition, and other implements of 
 war. "Now," says the Duke of Marl- 
 borough to George Brooks, that stood 
 next to him — you must have heard of 
 George Brooks ; "I '11 pawn my duke- 
 dom," says he, "but I take that garrison 
 without spilling a drop of blood!" 
 So 
 
 Marlow. What, my good friend, if you 
 gave us a glass of punch in the mean- 
 time, it would help us to carry on the 
 siege with vigor. 
 
 Hard. Punch, sir! — (Aside.) This is the 
 most unaccountable kind of modesty I 
 ever met with ! 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, punch! A glass of 
 warm punch, after our journey, will he 
 'comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you 
 know. 
 
 Hard. Here 's cup, sir. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his 
 Liberty Hall, will only let us have just 
 what he pleases. 
 
 Hard. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll 
 find it to your mind. I have prepared it 
 with my own hands, and I believe you '11 
 own the ingredients are tolerable. Will 
 you be so good as to pledge me, sir? 
 Here, Mr. Marlow, here is our better ac- 
 quaintance ! 
 
 (Drinks.) 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) A very impudent fel- 
 low this ! but he 's a character, and I '11 
 humor him a little. Sir, my service to 
 you. 
 
 (Drinks.) 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) I see this fellow 
 wants to give us his company, and forgets 
 that he 's an innkeeper, before he has 
 learned to be a gentleman. 
 
 Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, 
 my old friend, I suppose you have a good 
 deal of business in this part of the coun- 
 try. Warm work, now and then, at elec- 
 tions, I suppose? 
 
 Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work 
 over. Since our betters have hit upon 
 the expedient of electing each other, 
 there's no business for us that sell ale. 
 
 Hastings. So, then you have no turn for 
 politics, I find. 
 
 Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, 
 indeed, I fretted myself about the mis- 
 
 12 courtesans. 
 
 13 Where the English and their allies were heaten by the French in 1712. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 647 
 
 takes of government, like other people; 
 
 but, finding myself every day grow more 
 
 angry, and the government growing no 
 
 better, I left it to mend itself. Since 
 
 that, I no more trouble my head about 
 
 Heyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about 
 
 Ally Croaker.^* Sir, my service to you. 
 Hastings. So that, with eating above 
 
 stairs, and drinking below, with receiving 
 
 your friends within, and amusing them 
 
 without, you lead a good pleasant bus- 
 tling life of it. 
 Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that 's 
 
 certain. Half the differences of the 
 
 parish are adjusted in this very parlor. 
 Marlow. {After drinking.) And you have 
 
 an argument in your cup, old gentleman, 
 
 better than any in Westminster Hall. 
 Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a 
 
 little philosophy. 
 Marlow. {Aside.) Well, this is the first 
 
 time I ever heard of an innkeeper's phi- 
 losophy. 
 Hastings. So then, like an experienced 
 
 general, you attack them on every quar- 
 ter. If you find their reason manageable, 
 
 you attack it with your philosophy; if 
 
 you find they have no reason, you attack 
 
 them with this. Here 's your health, my 
 
 philosopher. 
 
 {Drinks.) 
 Hard. Good, very good, thank you; ha! 
 
 ha! Your generalship puts me in mind 
 
 of Prince Eugene, when he fought the 
 
 Turks at the battle of Belgrade.^^ You 
 
 shall hear. 
 Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, 
 
 I believe it 's almost time to talk about 
 
 supper. What has your philosophy got 
 
 in the house for supper? 
 Hard. For supper, sir ! {Aside.) Was 
 
 ever such a request to a man in his own 
 
 house ! 
 Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to 
 
 feel an appetite. I shall make devilish 
 
 ■work to-night in the larder, I promise 
 
 you. 
 Hard. {Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure 
 
 never my eyes beheld. {To him.) Why, 
 
 really, sir, as for supper I can't well tell. 
 
 My Dorothy, and the cook maid, settle 
 
 these things between them. I leave these 
 
 kind of things entirely to them. 
 Marlow. You do, do you? 
 Hard. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe 
 
 they are in actual consultation upon 
 
 what 's for supper this moment in the 
 
 kitchen. 
 
 14 The first two were Hindoo potentates ; the third, a popular Irish song. 
 
 Marlow. Then I beg they '11 admit me as 
 one of their privy council. It 's a way I 
 have got When I travel, I always 
 choose to regulate my own supper. Let 
 the cook be called. No offence, I hope, 
 sir. 
 
 Hofrd. 0, no, sir, none in the least ; yet, I 
 don't know how: our Bridget, the cook 
 maid, is not very communicative upon 
 these occasions. Should we send for her, 
 she might scold us all out of the house. 
 
 Hastings. Let 's see your list of the larder,, 
 then. I ask it as a favor. I always, 
 match my appetite to my bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow. {To Hardcastle, who looks at 
 them with surprise.) Sir, he 's very 
 right, and it 's my way, too. 
 
 Hard. Sir, you have a right to command 
 here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of 
 fare for to-night's supper. I believe it 's- 
 drawn out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, 
 puts me in mind of my uncle. Colonel 
 Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no 
 man was sure of his supper till he had 
 eaten it. 
 
 Hastings. {Aside.) All upon the high 
 ropes ! His uncle a colonel ! We shall 
 soon hear of his mother being a justice 
 of peace. But let 's hear the bill of fare. 
 
 Marlow. {Perusing.) What's here? For 
 the first course; for the second course; 
 for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you 
 think we have brought down the whole 
 Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of 
 Bedford, to eat up such a supper ? Two 
 or three little things, clean and comfort- 
 able, will do. 
 
 Hastings. But let 's hear it. 
 
 Marlow. {Reading.) For the first course 
 at the top, a pig, and pruin sauce. 
 
 Hastings. Damn your pig, I say! 
 
 Marlow. And damn your pruin sauce, 
 say I! 
 
 Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that 
 are hungry, pig, with pruin sauce, is very 
 good eating. 
 
 Marlow. At the bottom, a calf's tongue 
 and brains. 
 
 Hastings. Let your brains be knocked 
 out, my good sir; I don't like them. 
 
 Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate 
 by themselves, I do. 
 
 Hard. {Aside.) Their impudence con- 
 founds me. {To them.) Gentlemen, you 
 Care my guests, make what alterations you 
 please. Is there anything else you wish 
 to retrench or alter, gentlemen? 
 
 Marlow. Item, A pork pie, a boiled rab- 
 
 IB In 1717. 
 
648 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 bit and sausages, a florentine,^* a shaking 
 pudding, and a dish of tiff— tafl— taffety 
 cream! 
 
 Hastings. Confound your made dishes, I 
 shall be as much at a loss in this house as 
 at a green and yellow dinner at the 
 French ambassador's table. I'm for 
 plain eating. 
 
 Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have 
 nothing you like, but if there be anything 
 you have a particular fancy to 
 
 Marlow. Why, really, sir, your biU of fare 
 is so exquisite, that any one part of it 
 is full as good as another. Send us what 
 you please. So much for supper. And 
 now to see that our beds are aired, and 
 properly taken care of. 
 
 Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to 
 me. You, shall not stir a step. 
 
 Marlow. Leave that to you! I protest, 
 sir, you must excuse me, I always look to 
 these things myself. 
 
 Hard. I must insist, sir, you 'U make your- 
 self easy on that head. 
 
 Marlow. You see I 'm resolved on it. — 
 {Aside.) A very troublesome fellow this, 
 as ever I met with. 
 
 Hard. Well, sir, I 'm resolved at least to 
 attend you. — (Aside.) This may be 
 modem modesty, but I never saw any- 
 thing look so like old-fashioned impu- 
 dence. 
 
 {Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle.) 
 {Hastings solus.) 
 
 Hastings. So I find this fellow's civilities 
 bepn to grow troublesome. But who can 
 be angry at those assiduities which are 
 meant to please him? Ha! what do I 
 see! Miss Neville, by all that's happy! 
 
 {Enter Miss Neville.) 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear Hastings! To 
 what imexpected good fortune? to what 
 accident am I to ascribe this happy meet- 
 ing? 
 
 Hastings. Eather let me ask the same ques- 
 tion, as I could never have hoped to meet 
 my dearest Constance at an inn. 
 
 Miss Neville. An inn ! sure you mistake ! 
 my aunt, my guardian, lives here. What 
 could induce you to think this house an 
 inn? 
 
 Hastings. My friend, Mr. Maxlow, with 
 whom I came down, and I, have been sent 
 here as to an inn, I assure you. A young 
 fellow whom we accidentally met at a 
 house hard by directed us hither. 
 
 Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of 
 
 my hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you 
 have heard me talk so often, ha! ha! ha! 
 ha! 
 
 Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for 
 you? He of whom I have such just ap- 
 prehensions ? 
 
 Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear 
 from him, I assure you. You 'd adore 
 him if you knew how heartily he despises 
 me. My aunt knows it too, and has un- 
 dertaken to court me for him, and actu- 
 ally begins to think she has made a con- 
 quest. 
 
 Hastings. Thou dear dissembler! You 
 must know, my Constance, I have just 
 seized this happy opportunity of my 
 friend's visit here to get admittance into 
 the family. The horses that carried us 
 down are now fatigued with their jour- 
 ney, but they'll soon be refreshed; and 
 then, if my dearest girl will trust in her 
 faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed 
 in Prance, where even among slaves the 
 
 . laws of marriage are respected. 
 
 Miss Neville. I have often told you, that 
 though ready to obey you, I yet should 
 leave my little fortune behind with re- 
 luctance. The greatest part of it was 
 left me by my uncle, the India Director, 
 and chiefly consists in jewels. I have 
 been for some time persuading my aunt 
 to let me wear them. I fancy I 'm very 
 near succeeding. The instant they are 
 put into my possession you shall find me 
 ready to make them and myself yours. 
 
 Hastings. Perish the baubles! Your per- 
 son is all I desire. In the meantime, my 
 friend Marlow must not be let into his 
 mistake. I know the strange reserve of 
 his temper is such, that if abruptly in- 
 formed of it, he would instantly quit the 
 house before our plan was ripe for execu- 
 tion. 
 
 Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him 
 in the deception? Miss Hardcastle is 
 just returned from walking; what if we 
 still continue to deceive him? — This, this 
 
 way- 
 
 {They confer.) 
 {Enter Marlow.) 
 
 Marlow. The assiduities of these good peo- 
 ple tease me beyond bearing. My host 
 seems to think it ill manners to leave me 
 alone, and so he claps not only himself, 
 but his old-fashioned wife on my back. 
 They talk of coming to sup with us, too; 
 and then, I suppose, we are to run the 
 
 16 A kind of pie. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 649 
 
 gauntlet through all the rest of the fam- 
 ily. — What have we got here? — 
 
 Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me con- 
 gratulate you — The most fortunate acci- 
 dent! — Who do you think is just 
 alighted? 
 
 Marlow. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hard- 
 castle and Miss Neville. Give me leave 
 to introduce Miss Constance Neville to 
 your acquaintance. Happening to dine 
 in the neighborhood, they called, on their 
 return, to take fresh horses here. Miss 
 Hardcastle has just stept into the next 
 room, and will be back in an instant. 
 Wasn't it lucky? eh! 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) I have just been morti- 
 fied enough of all conscience, and here 
 comes somethiug to complete my em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 Hastings. Well! but wasn't it the most 
 fortunate thing in the world? 
 
 Marlow. Oh! yes. Very fortunate — a 
 
 most joyful encounter ^But our 
 
 dresses, George, you know, are in dis- 
 order What if we should postpone the 
 
 happiness till to-morrow? To-morrow 
 
 at her own house It will be every bit 
 
 as convenient ^And rather more re- 
 spectful To-morrow let it be. 
 
 {Offering to go.) 
 
 Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your 
 ceremony will displease her. The dis- 
 order of your dress will show the ardor 
 of your impatience. Besides, she knows 
 you are in the house, and will permit 
 you to see her. 
 
 Marlow. O ! the devil ! how shall I support 
 it ? Hem I hem ! Hastings, you must not 
 go. You are to assist me, j?ou know. I 
 shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, 
 hang it ! I '11 'take courage. Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it 's but the first 
 plunge, and all's over. She's but a 
 woman, you know. 
 
 Marlow. And of all women, she that I 
 dread most to encounter ! 
 
 {Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from 
 walking, a bonnet, dc.) 
 
 Hastings. {Introducing them.) Miss Hard- 
 castle, Mr. Marlow, I 'm proud of bring- 
 ing two persons of such merit together, 
 that only want to know, to esteem each 
 other. 
 
 Miss Hard. {Aside.) Now, for meeting 
 my modest gentleman with a demure face, 
 and quite in his own manner. {After a 
 pause, in which he appears very uneasy 
 
 and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your 
 
 safe arrival, sir 1 'm told you had 
 
 some accidents by the way. 
 
 Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we 
 had some. Yes, madam, a good many ac- 
 cidents, but should be sorry — madam — 
 or rather glad of any accidents — that are 
 so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 
 
 Hastings. {To him.) You never spoke 
 better in your whole life. Keep it up, 
 and I '11 insure you the victory. 
 
 Miss Hard. I 'm afraid you flatter, sir. 
 You that have seen so much of the finest 
 company can find little entertainment in 
 an obscure corner of the country. 
 
 Marlow. {Gathering courage.) I have 
 lived, indeed, in the world, madam ; but I 
 have kept very little company. I have 
 been but an observer upon life, madam, 
 while others were enjoying it. 
 
 Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the 
 way to enjoy it at last. 
 
 Hastings. {To him.) Cicero never spoke 
 better. Once more, and you are con- 
 firmed in assurance for ever. 
 
 Marlow. {To him.) Hem! Stand by me, 
 then, and when I'm down, throw in a 
 word or two to set me up again. 
 
 Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon 
 life, were, I fear, disagreeably employed, 
 since you must have had much more to 
 censure than to approve. 
 
 Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was al- 
 ways willing to be amused. The foUy of 
 most people is rather an object of mirth 
 than uneasiness. 
 
 Hastings. {To him.) Bravo, bravo. 
 Never spoke so well in your whole life. 
 Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and 
 Mr. Marlow are going to be very good 
 company. I believe our being here wiU 
 but embarrass the interview. 
 
 Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. 
 We like your company of all- things. 
 {To him.) Zounds! George, sure you 
 won't go? How can you leave us? 
 
 Hastings. Our presence will but spoil con- 
 versation, so we '11 retire to the next room. 
 {To him.) You don't consider^ man, that 
 we are to manage a little tete-d,-tSte of 
 our own. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Miss Hard. {After a pause.) But you 
 have not been wholly an observer, I pre- 
 sume, sir. The ladies, I should hope, have 
 employed some part of your addresses. 
 
 Marlow. {Relapsing into timidity.) Par- 
 don me, madam, I — I — I — as yet have 
 studied — only — to — deserve them. 
 
650 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Miss Hard. And that some say is the very 
 worst way to obtain them. 
 
 Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love 
 to converse only with the more grave and 
 
 sensible part of the sex. But I'm 
 
 afraid I grow tiresome. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not at all, sir; there is noth- 
 ing I like so much as grave conversation 
 myself : I could hear it for ever. Indeed, 
 I have often been surprised how a man 
 of sentiment could ever admire those light 
 airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the 
 heart. 
 
 Marlow. It's — a disease — of the mind, 
 madam. In the variety of tastes there 
 must be some who, wanting a relish for 
 — um-a-um. 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There 
 must be some, who, wanting a relish for 
 refined pleasures, pretend to despise what 
 they are incapable of tasting. 
 
 Marlow. My meaning, madam, but in- 
 finitely better expressed. And I can't 
 help observing — a 
 
 Miss Hard. (Aside.) Who could ever 
 
 suppose this fellow impudent upon some 
 occasions. {To him.) You were going 
 to observe, sir 
 
 Marlow. I was observing, madam 1 
 
 protest, madam, I forget what I was go- 
 ing to observe. 
 
 Miss Hard. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. 
 (To him.) You were observing, sir, that 
 in this age of hypocrisy — something 
 about hypocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of 
 hypocrisy, there are few who upon strict 
 enquiry do not — a — a — a 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) Egad ! and that 's more 
 than I do myself ! 
 
 Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypo- 
 critical age there are few that do not 
 condemn in public what they practise in 
 private, and think they pay every debt to 
 virtue when they praise it. 
 
 Marlow. True, madam; those who have 
 most virtue in their mouths, have least 
 of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I 
 tire you, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir; there's 
 something so agreeable and spirited in 
 
 your manner, such life and force 
 
 pray, sir, go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. I was saying 
 
 that there are some occasions when a 
 
 total want of courage, madam, destroys 
 
 all the and puts us upon a a 
 
 a 
 
 Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely, a 
 want of courage upon some occasions as- 
 sumes the appearance of ignorance, and 
 betrays us when we most want to excel. 
 I beg you '11 proceed. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, 
 madam But I see Miss NevUle expect- 
 ing us in the next room. I would not in- 
 trude for the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was 
 more agreeably entertained in all my life. 
 Pray go on. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, madam. I was ^But she 
 
 beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I 
 do myself the honor to attend you ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Well then, I 'II follow. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) This pretty smooth 
 dialogue has done for me. 
 {Exit.) 
 (Miss Hardcastle sola.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever 
 such a sober sentimental interview? I 'ni 
 certain he scarce looked in my face the 
 whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his 
 unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well, 
 too. He has good sense, but then so 
 buried in his fears, that it fatigues one 
 more than ignorance. If I could teach 
 him a little confidence, it would be doing 
 somebody that I know of a piece of 
 service. But who is that somebody? — 
 that, faith, is a question I can scarce 
 answer. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 (Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by 
 Mrs. Hardcastle and Hastings.) 
 
 Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin 
 Con ? I wonder you 're not ashamed to 
 be so very engaging. 
 
 Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may 
 speak to one's own relations, and not be 
 to blame. 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a re- 
 lation you want to make me, though ; but 
 it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it 
 won't do, so I beg you'll keep your dis- 
 tance, I want no nearer relationship. 
 
 (She follows coquetting him to the iacJc 
 scene. ) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings,, 
 you are very entertaining. There 's noth- 
 ing in the world I love to talk of so much 
 as London, and the fashions, though I 
 was never there myself. 
 
 Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! 
 From your air and manner, I concluded 
 you had been bred all your life either at 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 651 
 
 Ranelagh, St. James's or Tower Wharf.^^ 
 
 Mrs. Hard. ! sir, you 're only pleased to 
 say so. We country persons can have no 
 manner at all. I'm in love with the 
 town, and that serves to raise me above 
 some of our neighboring rustics ; but who 
 can have a manner, that has never seen 
 the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the 
 Borough,^* and such places where the 
 nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is 
 to enjoy London at second-hand. I take 
 care to know every tete-d,-tete from the 
 Scandalous Magazine, and have all the 
 fashions as they come out, in a letter from 
 the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. 
 Pray how do you like this head, Mr. 
 Hastings? 
 
 Hastings. Extremely elegant and dega- 
 gee,^^ upon my word, madam. Your 
 f riseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself 
 from a print in the Ladies' Memorandum- 
 book for the last year. 
 
 Hastings. Indeed. Such a head in a side- 
 box, at the Play-house, would draw as 
 many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a 
 City Ball. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. 1 vow, since inoculation "" be- 
 gan, there is no such thing to be seen as 
 a plain woman ; so one must dress a little 
 particular or one may escape in the 
 crowd. 
 
 Hastings. But that can never be your case, 
 madam, in any dress! (Bowing.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dress- 
 ing when I have such a piece of antiquity 
 by my side as Mr. Hardcastle: all I can 
 say will never argue down a single button 
 from his clothes. I have often wanted 
 him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and 
 where he was bald, to plaster it over like 
 my Lord Pately, with powder. 
 
 Hastings. You are right, madam; for, 
 as among the ladies there are none 
 ugly, so among the men there are none 
 old. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his 
 answer was? Why, with his usual 
 Gothic ^^ vivacity, he said I only wanted 
 him to throw off his wig to convert it into 
 a tete for my own wearing! 
 
 Hastings. Intolerable! At your age you 
 may wear what you please, and it must 
 become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do 
 
 17 The first two 
 were fashionable 
 places in the city, 
 the third was 
 just the reverse. 
 
 Of course he is 
 playing on her 
 ignorance. 
 IS She betrays her 
 ignorance ; the 
 
 you take to be the most fashionable age 
 about town? 
 
 Hastings. Some time ago forty was all 
 the mode ; but I 'm told the ladies intend 
 to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Seriously! Then I shall be 
 too young for yie fashion ! 
 
 Hastings. No lady begins now to put on 
 jewels till she 's past forty. For in- 
 stance, miss there, in a polite circle, would 
 be considered as a child, as a mere maker 
 of samplers. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks 
 herself as much a woman, and is as fond 
 of jewels, as the oldest of us all. 
 
 Hastings. Your niece, is she? And that 
 young gentleman, a brother of yours, I 
 should presume? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are con- 
 tracted to each other. Observe their lit- 
 tle sports. They fall in and out ten 
 times a day, as if they were man and 
 wife already. (To them.) Well, Tony, 
 child, what soft things are you saying to 
 your cousin Constance, this evening? 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things; 
 but that iii's very hard to be followed 
 about so ! Eeod ! I 've not a place in the 
 house now that's left to myself but the 
 stable. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my 
 dear. He 's in another story behind your 
 back. 
 
 Miss Neville. There 's something generous 
 in my cousin's manner. He falls out be- 
 fore faces to be forgiven in private. 
 
 Tony. That's a damned confounded 
 
 crack.^^ 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he 's a sly one. Don't 
 you think they 're like each other about 
 the mouth, Mr. Hastings? The Blenkin- 
 sop mouth to a T. They're of a size, 
 too. Back to back, my pretties, that 
 Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 
 
 Tony. You had as good not make me, I 
 tell you. 
 
 (Measuring.) 
 
 Miss Neville. O lud ! he has almost cracked 
 my head. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. 0, the monster! For shame, 
 Tony. You a man, and behave so ! 
 
 Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my 
 fortin. Ecod! I'll not be made a fool 
 of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all 
 
 Borough, in hall on Oxford 20 Which diminish- 
 
 Southwark, was St, ed small-pox. 
 
 very unlike the 19 unconstrained, 21 barbarous, 
 
 fashionable Pan- easy. 22 lie. 
 theon, ^ concert 
 
652 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 that I'm to get for the pains I have 
 taken in your education? I that have 
 rocked you in your cradle, and fed that 
 pretty mouth with a spoon! Did not I 
 work that waistcoat to make you genteel'? 
 Did not I prescribe for you every day, 
 and weep while the receipt was operat- 
 ing? 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for 
 you have been dosing me ever since I was 
 born. I have gone through every re- 
 ceipt in the Complete Housewife ten 
 times over; and you have thoughts of 
 coursing me through Quincy next spring. 
 But, ecod ! I tell you, I '11 not be made a 
 fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, 
 viper? Wasn't it all for your good? 
 
 Tony. 1 wish you'd let me and my good 
 alone, then. Snubbing this way when 
 I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any 
 good, let it come of itself; not to keep 
 dinging it, dinging it into one so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. That 's false ; I never see you 
 when you 're in spirits. No, Tony, you 
 then go to the ale-house or kennel. I'm 
 never to be delighted with your agree- 
 able, wild notes, unfeeling monster! 
 
 Tony. Ecod ! Mamma, your own notes are 
 the wildest of the two. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like? But I 
 see he wants to break my heart, I see he 
 does. 
 
 Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lec- 
 ture the young gentleman a little. I 'm 
 certain I can persuade him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well! I must retire. Come, 
 Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hast- 
 ings, the wretchedness of my situation. 
 Was ever poor woman so plagued with a 
 dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful 
 boy? 
 {Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss 
 Neville.) 
 (Hastings. Tony.) 
 
 Tony. (Singing!) There was a young 
 man riding by, and fain would have his 
 will. Bang do didlo dee. Don't mind 
 her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of 
 her heart. I have seen her and sister 
 cry over a book for an hour together, 
 and they said, they liked the book the 
 better the more it made them cry. 
 
 Hastings. Then you 're no friend to the 
 ladies, I find, my pretty young gentle- 
 man? 
 
 Tony. That's as I find 'um. 
 
 Hastings. Not to her of your mother's 
 
 choosing, I dare answer! And yet she 
 appears to me a pretty, well-tempered 
 girl. 
 
 Tony. That 's because you don't know her 
 as well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch 
 about her; and there's not a more bitter 
 cantankerous toad in all Christendom! 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) Pretty encourage- 
 ment, this, for a lover! 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of 
 that. She has as many tricks as a haie 
 in a thicket, or a colt the first day's 
 breaking. 
 
 Hastings. To me she appears sensible and 
 silent ! 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when 
 she 's with her playmates, she 's as loud as 
 a hog in a gate. 
 
 Hastings. But there is a meek modesty 
 about her that charms me. 
 
 Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, 
 she kicks up, and you 're flung in a ditch. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a 
 little beauty. — Yes, you must allow her 
 some beauty. 
 
 Tony. Bandbox ! She 's all a made up 
 thing, mun. Ah! could you but see Bet 
 Bouncer of these parts, you might then 
 talk of beauty. Ecod, she has two eyes 
 as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and 
 red as a pulpit cushion. She 'd make 
 two of she. 
 
 Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend 
 that would taike this bitter bargain off 
 your hands? 
 
 Tony. Anon.^^ 
 
 Hastings. Would you thank him that 
 would take Miss Neville, and leave you to 
 happiness and your dear Betsy? 
 
 Tony. Ay; but where is there such a 
 friend, for who would take herl 
 
 Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, 
 I'll engage to whip her off to France, 
 and you shall never hear more of her. 
 
 Tony. Assist you! Ecod, I will, to the 
 last drop of my blood. I 'U clap a pair 
 of horses to your chaise that shall trun- 
 dle you off in a twinkling, and maybe 
 get you a part of her fortin beside, in 
 jewels, that you little dream of. 
 
 Hastings. My dear 'Squire, this looks like 
 a lad of spirit. 
 
 Tony. Come along then, and you shall 
 see more of my spirit before you have 
 done with me. 
 
 (Singing.) 
 We are the boys 
 That fears no noise 
 
 23 What do you mean ! 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 653 
 
 Where the thundering cannons roar. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. The House. 
 
 (Enter Hardcastle solus.) 
 
 Hard. What could my old friend Sir 
 Charles mean by recommending his son as 
 the modestest young man in town? To 
 me he appears the most impudent piece 
 of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. 
 He has taken possession of the easy chair 
 by the fireside already. He took off his 
 boots in the parlor, and desired me to see 
 them taken care of. I 'm desirous to 
 know how his impudence affects my 
 daughter. — She will certainly be shocked 
 at it. 
 
 (Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed.) 
 
 Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have 
 changed your dress as I bid you ; and yet, 
 I believe, there was no great occasion. 
 
 Miss Hard. 1 find such a pleasure, sir, in 
 obeying your commands, that I take care 
 to observe them without ever debating 
 their propriety. 
 
 Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give 
 you some cause, particularly when I rec- 
 ommended my modest gentleman to you 
 as a lover to-day. 
 
 Miss Hard. You taught me to expect 
 something extraordinary, and I find the 
 original exceeds the description! 
 
 Hard. I was never so surprised in my 
 Ufe! He has quite confounded all my 
 faculties ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it ! 
 And a man of the world, too ! 
 
 Hard. Ay, he learned it aU abroad, — 
 what a fool was I, to think a young man 
 could learn modesty by travelling. He 
 might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. 
 
 Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 
 
 Hard. A good deal assisted by bad com- 
 pany and a French dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure, you mistake, papa! a 
 French dancing-master could never have 
 taught him that timid look, — that awk- 
 ward address, — that bashful manner 
 
 Hard. Whose look? whose manner, child? 
 
 Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's: his mauvaise 
 honte,"* his timidity struck me at the first 
 sight. 
 
 Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; 
 for I think him one of the most brazen 
 
 first sights that ever astonished my 
 senses ! 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never 
 saw anyone so modest. 
 
 Hard. And can you be serious? I never 
 saw such a bouncing swaggering puppy 
 since I was bom. Bully Dawson was but 
 a fool to him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with 
 a respectful bow, a stammering voice, 
 and a look fixed on the ground. 
 
 Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a 
 lordly air, and a familiarity that made 
 my blood freeze again. 
 
 Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence 
 and respect ; censured the manners of the 
 age; admired the prudence of girls that 
 never laughed; tired me with apologies 
 for being tiresome; then left the room 
 with a bow, and, "madam, I would not 
 for the world detain you." 
 
 Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me 
 all his life before. Asked twenty ques- 
 tions, and never waited for an answer. 
 Interrupted my best remarks with some 
 silly pun, and when I was in my best 
 story of the Duke of Marlborough and 
 Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a 
 good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, 
 he asked your father if he was a maker 
 of punch! 
 
 Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be 
 mistaken. 
 
 Hard. If he be what he has shown him- 
 self, I 'm determined he shall never have 
 my consent. 
 
 Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing 
 I take him, he shall never have mine. 
 
 Hard^ In one thing then we are agreed — 
 to reject him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. 
 For if you should find him less impudent, 
 and I more presuming; if you find him 
 more respectful, and I more importunate 
 — I don't know — the fellow is well 
 enough for a man — Certainly we don't 
 meet many such at a horse race in the 
 country. 
 
 Hard. If we should find him so. — But 
 that 's impossible. The first appearance 
 has done my business. I 'm seldom de- 
 ceived in that. 
 
 Miss 'Hard. And yet there may be many 
 good qualities under that first appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's 
 outside to her taste, she then sets about 
 guessing the rest of his furniture. With 
 
 24 embarrassment. 
 
654 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 her, a smooth face stands for good sense, 
 and a genteel figure for every virtue. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation 
 begun with a compliment to my good 
 sense won't end with a sneer at my un- 
 derstanding? 
 
 Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young 
 Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling 
 contradictions, he may please us both, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Miss Hard. And as one of us must be 
 mistaken, what if we go to make further 
 discoveries 1 
 
 Hard. Agreed. But depend on 't I 'm in 
 the right. 
 
 Miss Hard. And depend on 't I 'm not 
 much in the wrong. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 {Enter Tony, running in with a casket.) 
 
 Tony. Eeod! I have got them. Here 
 they are. My cousin Con's necklaces, 
 bobs "^ and all. My mother shan't cheat 
 the poor souls out of their fortune 
 neither. ! my genius, is that you 1 
 {Enter Hastings.) 
 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how have you 
 managed with your mother? I hope you 
 have amused her with pretending love 
 for your cousin, and that you are willing 
 to be reconciled at last 1 Our horses will 
 be refreshed in a short time, and we shall 
 soon be ready to set off. 
 
 Tony. And here 's something to bear your 
 charges by the way. (Giving the cas- 
 ket.) Your sweetheart's jewels. Keep 
 them, and hang those, I say, that would 
 rob you of one of them! 
 
 Hastings. But how have you procured 
 them from your mother? 
 
 Tony. Ask me no questions, and I '11 tell 
 you no flbs. I procured them by the rule 
 of thumb. If I had not a key to every 
 drawer in mother's bureau, how could I 
 go to the ale-house so often as I do ? An 
 honest man may rob himself of his own 
 at any time. 
 
 Hastings. Thousands do it every day. 
 But to be plain with you ; Miss Neville is 
 endeavoring to procure them from her 
 aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, 
 it will be the most delicate way at least 
 of obtaining them. * 
 
 Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how 
 it will be. But I know how it will be well 
 enough, she 'd as soon part with the only 
 sound tooth in her head ! 
 
 Hastings. But I dread the effects of her 
 resentment, when she finds she has lost 
 them. 
 
 Tony. Never you mind her resentment, 
 leave me to manage that. I don't value 
 her resentment the bounce of a cracker. 
 Zounds! here they are! Morrice,'" 
 
 prance 
 
 {Exit Hastings.) 
 {Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Neville.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze 
 me. Such a girl as you want jewels? It 
 will be time enough for jewels, my dear, 
 twenty years hence, when your beauty be- 
 gins to want repairs. 
 
 Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty 
 at forty, will certainly improve it at 
 twenty, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of 
 none. That natural blush is beyond 
 a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, 
 jewels are quite out at present. Don't 
 you see half the ladies of our acquaint- 
 ance, my lady Kill-day-light, and Mrs. 
 Crump, and the rest of them, carry their 
 jewels to town, and bring nothing but 
 paste and marcasites^' back? 
 
 Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but 
 somebody that shall be nameless would 
 like me best with all my little finery 
 about me? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, 
 and then see, if with such a pair of eyes, 
 you want any better sparklers. What do 
 you think, Tony, my dear, does your 
 cousin Con want any jewels, in your eyes, 
 to set off her beauty? 
 
 Tony. That 's as thereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew 
 how it would oblige me. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned 
 rose and table-cut ^* things. They would 
 make you look like the court of king 
 Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I 
 believe I can't readily come at them. 
 They may be missing, for aught I know 
 to the contrary. 
 
 Tony. {Apart to Mrs. Hard.) Then why 
 don't you tell her so at once, as she 's so 
 longing for them. Tell her they 're lost. 
 It's the only way to quiet her. Say 
 they 're lost, and call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Apart to Tony.) You know, 
 my dear, I 'm only keeping them for you. 
 So if I say they 're gone, you '11 bear me 
 witness, will you? He! he! he! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll say I 
 
 2S pendants. 
 ?eBe off I 
 
 S7 A (jbesp mineral, used, fo; ornamentQ. 28 Cut with a large flat sur(BC^, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OP A NIGHT 655 
 
 saw them taken out with my own eyes. 
 
 Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, 
 madam. Just to be permitted to show 
 them as relics, and then they may be 
 locked up again. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my 
 dear Constance, if I could find them, you 
 should have them. They 're missing, I 
 assure you. Lost, for aught I know ; but 
 we must have patience wherever they are. 
 
 Miss Neville. 1 'U not believe it ; this is 
 but a shallow pretence to deny me. I 
 know they're too valuable to be so 
 slightly kept, and as you are to answer 
 for the loss. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. 
 If they be lost, I must restore an equiva- 
 lent. But my son knows they are miss- 
 ing, and not to be found. 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They 
 are missing, and not to be found, I '11 
 take my oath on 't ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, 
 my dear ; for though we lose our fortune, 
 yet we should not lose our patience. See 
 me, how calm I am! 
 
 Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally 
 calm at the misfortunes of others. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your 
 good sense should waste a thought upon 
 such trumpery. "We shall soon find them; 
 and, in the meantime, you shall make use 
 of my garnets till your jewels be found. 
 
 Miss Neville. I detest garnets! 
 
 Mrs. Hard.' The most becoming things in 
 the world to set off a clear complexion. 
 You have often seen how well they look 
 upon me. You shall have them. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. 
 You shan't stir. — AVas ever anything so 
 provoking-^to mislay my own jewels, and 
 force me to wear her trumpery. 
 
 Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you 
 the garnets, take what you can get. The 
 jewels are your own already. I have 
 stolen them out of her bureau, and she 
 does not know it. Fly to your spark, 
 he '11 tell you more of the matter. Leave 
 me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Neville. My dear cousin! 
 
 Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has 
 missed them already. {Exit Miss Ne- 
 ville.) Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits 
 about like a Catharine wheel ! 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Hardcastle.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Confusion! thieves! robbers! 
 
 We are cheated, plundered, broke open, 
 undone ! 
 
 Tony. What 's the matter, what 's the mat- 
 ter, mamma? I hope nothing has hap- 
 pened to any of the good family ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau 
 has been broke open, the jewels taken out, 
 and I 'm undone ! 
 
 Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By 
 the laws, I never saw it better acted in 
 my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined 
 in earnest, ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in 
 earnest. My bureau has been broke open, 
 and all taken away. 
 
 Tony. Stick to that; ha, ha, ha! stick to 
 that. I '11 bear witness, you know, call 
 me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that 's 
 precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall 
 be ruined for ever. 
 
 Tony. Sure I know they're gone, and I 
 am to say so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear 
 me. They 're gone, I say. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me 
 for to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took 
 them well enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a block- 
 head, that can't tell the difference be- 
 tween jest and earnest? I tell you I'm 
 not in jest, booby ! 
 
 Tony. That's right, that's right: You 
 must be in a bitter passion, and then no- 
 body will suspect either of us. I '11 bear 
 witness that they are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross- 
 grained brute, that won't hear me ! Can 
 you bear witness that you 're no better 
 than a fool? Was ever poor woman so 
 beset with fools on one hand, and thieves 
 on the other? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you 
 blockhead, you, and I '11 turn you out of 
 the room directly. My poor niece, what 
 will become of herf Do you laugh, you 
 unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my 
 distress ? 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster? 
 I '11 teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 
 
 Tony. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 (He runs off, she follows him.) 
 
 (Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid.) 
 
 Miss Hard. What an unaccountable crea- 
 ture is that brother of mine, to send them 
 
656 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 to the house as an inn, ha ! ha ! I don't 
 wonder at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the 
 young gentleman as you passed by in 
 your present dress, asked me if you were 
 the barmaid! He mistook you for the 
 barmaid, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did he? Then as I live I 'm 
 resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell 
 me, Pimple, how do you like my present 
 dress? Don't you think I look something 
 like Cherry in the Beaux Stratagem ? "" 
 
 Maid. It 's the dress, madam, that every 
 lady wears in the country, but when she 
 visits or receives company. 
 
 Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not 
 remember my face or person? 
 
 Maid. Certain of it. ' 
 
 Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so; for 
 though we spoke for some time together, 
 yet his fears were such, that he never 
 once looked up during the interview. In- 
 deed, if he had, my bonnet would have 
 kept him from seeing me. 
 
 Maid. But what do you hope from keep- 
 ing him in his mistake? 
 
 Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be 
 seen, and that is no small advantage to a 
 girl who brings her face to market. Then 
 I shall • perhaps make an acquaintance, 
 and that's no small victory gained over 
 one who never addresses any but the 
 wildest of her sex. But my chief aim is 
 to take my gentleman off his guard, and 
 like an invisible champion of romance 
 examine the giant's force before I offer 
 to combat. 
 
 Maid. But you are sure you can act your 
 part, and disguise your voice, so that he 
 may mistake that, as he has already mis- 
 taken your person ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I 
 have got the true bar cant. — Did your 
 
 honor call ? Attend the Lion there. 
 
 Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — The 
 Lamb^" has been outrageous this half- 
 hour! 
 
 Maid. It will do, madam. But he 's here. 
 {Exit Maid.) 
 
 (Enter Marlow.) 
 
 Marlow. What a bawling in every part of 
 the house; I have scarce a moment's re- 
 pose. If I go to the best room, there I 
 find my host and his story. If I fly to 
 the gallery, there we have my hostess 
 with her curtsey down to the ground. I 
 
 29 A play by Parquhar (1707). 
 
 have at last got a moment to myself, and 
 now for recollection. 
 
 (Walks and muses.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Did you call, sir? did your 
 honor call? 
 
 Marlow. (Musing.) As for Miss Hard- 
 castle, she's too grave and sentimental 
 for me. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did your honor call? 
 
 (She still places herself before him, he turn- 
 ing away.) 
 
 Marlow. No, child ! (Musing.) Besides 
 from the glimpse I had of her, I think 
 she squints. 
 
 Miss Hard. I 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 
 ring. 
 
 Marlow. No, no! (Musing.) I have 
 pleased my father, however, by coming 
 down, and I '11 to-morrow please myself 
 by returning. 
 (Talcing out his tablets, and perusing.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman 
 called, sir? 
 
 Marlow. I tell you, no. 
 
 Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir. 
 We have such a parcel of servants. 
 
 Marlow. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full 
 in her face.) Yes, child, I think I did 
 
 call. I wanted: 1 wanted 1 vow, 
 
 child, you are vastly handsome! 
 
 Miss Hard. la, sir, you'll make one 
 ashamed. 
 
 Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly ma- 
 licious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did 
 caU. Have you got any of • your — a — 
 what d'ye call it in the house? 
 
 Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of 
 that these ten days. 
 
 Marlow. One may call in this house, I 
 find, to very little purpose. Suppose I 
 should call for a taste, just by way of 
 trial, of the nectar of your lips; per- 
 haps I might be disappointed in that, 
 too! 
 
 Miss Hard. Nectar! nectar! that's a 
 liquor there 's no call for in these parts. 
 French, I suppose. We keep no French 
 wines here, air. 
 
 Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure 
 you. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not 
 know it. We brew all sorts of wines in 
 this house, and I have lived here these 
 eighteen years. 
 
 Marlow. Eighteen years ! Why one would 
 think, child, you kept the bar before you 
 were bom. How old are you? 
 
 Miss Hard. 0! sir, I must not tell my 
 
 80 The rooms in inns were often given sucli namea* 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 657 
 
 age. They say women and music should 
 never be dated. 
 
 Marlow. To guess at this distance, you 
 can't be much above forty. (Approach- 
 ing.) Yet nearer I don't think so much. 
 (Approaching.) By coming close to 
 some women they look younger still; but 
 when we come very close indeed — (At- 
 tempting to kiss her.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. 
 One would think you wanted to know 
 one's age as they do horses, by mark of 
 mouth. 
 
 Marlow. I protest, child, you use me ex- 
 tremely m. If you keep me at this dis- 
 tance, how is it possible you and I can 
 ever be acquainted? 
 
 Miss Hard. And who wants to be ac- 
 quainted with you? I want no such ac- 
 quaintance, not I. I 'm sure you did not 
 treat Miss Hardcastle that was here 
 awhile ago in this obstropalous manner. 
 I '11 warrant me, before her you looked 
 dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, 
 and talked, for aU the world, as if you 
 was before a justice of peace. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) Egad! she has hit it, 
 sure enough. (To her.) In awe of her, 
 child? Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward, 
 squinting thing, no, no ! I find you don't 
 know me. I laughed, and rallied her a 
 little; but I was unwilling to be too se- 
 vere. No, I could not be too severe, 
 curse me! 
 
 Miss Hard. ! then, sir, you are a favor- 
 ite, I find, among the ladies? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. 
 And yet, hang me, I don't see what they 
 find in me to follow. At the Ladies' 
 Club in town I'm called their agreeable 
 Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real 
 name, but one I 'm known by. My name 
 is Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at 
 your service. 
 
 (Offering to salute her.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Hold, sir ; you were introduc- 
 ing me to your club, not to yourself. 
 And you 're so great a favorite there, you 
 say? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. 
 Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the 
 Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Longhorns, old 
 Miss Biddy Buckskin and your humble 
 servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it 's a very merry place, 
 I suppose. 
 
 Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, 
 wine, and old women can make us. 
 
 Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle, 
 
 ha! ha! ha! 
 Marlow. (Aside.) Egad! I don't quite 
 
 like, this chit. She looks knowing, me- 
 
 thinks. You laugh, child ! 
 Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think 
 
 what time they all have for minding their 
 
 work or their family. 
 Marlow. (Aside.) All's weU, she don't 
 
 laugh at me. (To her.) Do you ever 
 
 work, child? 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a 
 
 screen or a quilt in the whole house but 
 
 what can bear witness to that. 
 Marlow. Odso! Then .you must show me 
 
 your embroidery. I embroider and draw 
 
 patterns myself a little. If you want a 
 
 judge of your work you must apply to 
 
 me. 
 
 (Seising her hand.) 
 Miss Hard. Ay, but the colors don't look 
 
 well by candle light. You shall see all 
 
 in the morning. 
 
 (Struggling.) 
 Marlow. And why not now, my angel? 
 
 Such beauty flres beyond the power of 
 
 resistance. Pshaw! the father here! 
 
 My old luck : I never nicked seven that I 
 
 did not throw amesace ^^ three times fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 (Exit Marlow.) 
 
 (Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise.) 
 
 Hard. So, madam ! So I find this is your 
 modest lover. This is your humble ad- 
 mirer that kept his eyes fixed on the 
 ground, and only adored at humble dis- 
 tance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed 
 to deceive your father so? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, 
 but he 's still the modest man I first took 
 him for, you '11 be convinced of it as well 
 as I. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe 
 his impudence is infectious ! Did n't I 
 see him seize your hand? Didn't I see 
 him haul you about like a milkmaid? 
 And now you talk of his respect and his 
 modesty, forsooth ! 
 
 Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you 
 of his modesty, that he has only the 
 faults that will pass off with time, and 
 the virtues that will improve with age, I 
 hope you '11 forgive him. 
 
 Hard. The girl would actually make one 
 run mad ! I tell you I '11 not be con- 
 vinced. I am convinced. He has 
 scarcely been three hours in the house. 
 
 81 Made a high throw without making a low throw (in dice). 
 
658 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 and he has already encroached on all my 
 prerogatives. You may like his impu- 
 dence, and call it modesty. But my son- 
 in-law, madam, must have very different 
 qualifications. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to 
 convince you. 
 
 Hard. You shall not have half the time, 
 for I have thoughts of turning him out 
 this very hour. 
 
 Miss Hard. Give me that hour then, and 
 I hope to satisfy you. 
 
 Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But 
 I '11 have no trifling with your father. 
 All fair and open, do you mind me? 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever 
 
 found that I considered your commands 
 
 as my pride; for your kindness is such, 
 
 that my duty as yet has been inclination. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. The House. 
 {Enter Hastings and Miss Neville.) 
 
 Hastings. You surprise me! Sir Charles 
 Marlow expected here this night? 
 Where have you had your information? 
 
 Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I 
 just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in 
 which he tells him he intends setting out 
 a few hours after his son. 
 
 Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must 
 be completed before he arrives. He 
 knows me; and should he find me here, 
 would discover my name, and perhaps 
 my designs, to the rest of the family. 
 
 Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe. 
 
 Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to 
 Marlow, who keeps the keys of our bag- 
 gage. In the meantime, I'll go to pre- 
 pare matters for our elopement. I have 
 had the 'Squire's promise of a fresh pair 
 of horses; and, if I should not see him 
 again, will write him further directions. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Neville. Well ! success attend you. 
 In the meantime, I '11 go amuse my aunt 
 with the old pretence of a violent pas- 
 sion for my cousin. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 (Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant.) 
 
 Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could 
 mean by sending me so valuable a thing 
 as a casket to keep for him, when he 
 knows the only place I have is the seat 
 of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have 
 
 you deposited the casket with the land- 
 lady, as I ordered you? Have you put 
 it into her own hands ? 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honor. 
 
 Marlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did 
 she? 
 
 Servant. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe 
 enough; she asked me how I came by it? 
 and she said she had a great mind to 
 make me give an account of myself. 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They 're safe, how- 
 ever. What an unaccountable set of be- 
 ings have we got amongst! This little 
 barmaid though runs in my head most 
 strangely, and drives out the absurdities 
 of all the rest of the family. She 's mine, 
 she must be mine, or I 'm greatly mis- 
 taken. 
 
 (Enter Hastings.) 
 
 Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell 
 her that I intended to prepare at the bot- 
 tom of the garden. Marlow here, and in 
 spirits too! 
 
 Marlow. Give me joy, George! Crown 
 me, shadow me with laurels! Well, 
 George, after aU, we modest fellows don't 
 want for success among the women. 
 
 Hastings. Some women, you mean. But 
 what success has your honor's modesty 
 been crowned with now, that it grows so 
 insolent upon us? 
 
 Marlow. Did n't you see the tempting, 
 brisk, lovely little thing that runs about 
 the house with a bunch of keys to its 
 girdle? 
 
 Hastings. Well! and what then? 
 
 Marlow. She 's mine, you rogue, you. 
 Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such 
 
 lips ^but egad ! she would not let me 
 
 kiss them though. 
 
 Hastings. But are you so sure, so very 
 sure of her? 
 
 Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing 
 me her work above-stairs, and I am to 
 improve the pattern. 
 
 Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go 
 about to rob a woman of her honor? 
 
 Marlow. Pshaw! pshaw! we all know the 
 honor of the barmaid of an inn. I don't 
 intend to rob her, take my word for it; 
 there's nothing in this house I shan't 
 honestly pay for! 
 
 Hastings. I believe the girl has wtue. 
 
 Marlow. And if she has, I should be the 
 last man in the world that would attempt 
 to corrupt it. 
 
 Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 659 
 
 the casket I sent you to lock up '3 It 's in 
 safety? 
 
 Mallow. Yes, yes. It 's safe enough. I 
 have taken care of it. But how could 
 you think the seat of a post-coach at an 
 inn-door a place of safety? Ah! numb- 
 skull! I have taken better precautions 
 
 for you than you did for yourself. 
 
 I have 
 
 Hastings. What? 
 
 Marloio. I have sent it to the landlady to 
 keep for you. 
 
 Hastings. To the landlady! 
 
 Marlow. The landlady. 
 
 Hastings. You did ! 
 
 Marlow. I did. She 's to be answerable 
 for its fortK-eoming, you know. 
 
 Hastings. Yes, she '11 bring it forth with a 
 witness. 
 
 Mario w. Was n't I right ? I believe you '11 
 allow that I acted prudently upon this 
 occasion ? 
 
 Hastings. {Aside.) He must not see my 
 uneasiness. 
 
 Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted, 
 though, methinks. Sure nothing has 
 happened? 
 
 Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in bet- 
 ter spirits in all my life. And so you left 
 it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very 
 readily undertook the charge? 
 
 Marlow. Rather too readily. For she not 
 only kept the casket, but, through her 
 great precaution, was going to keep the 
 messenger too. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Hastings. He! he! he! They're safe, 
 however. 
 
 Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 
 
 Hastings. (Aside.) So now all hopes of 
 fortune are at an end, and we must set 
 off without it. {To him.) Well, Charles, 
 I '11 leave you to your meditations on the 
 pretty barmaid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you 
 be as successful for yourself as you have 
 been for me. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Marlow. Thank ye, George! T ask no 
 more. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 (Enter Hardcastle.) 
 
 Hard. I no longer know my own house. 
 It's turned all topsy-turvy. His serv- 
 ants have got drunk already. I '11 bear it 
 no longer, and yet, from my respect for 
 his father, I '11 be calm. (To him.) Mr. 
 Marlow, your servant. I'm your very 
 humble servant. 
 
 (Bowing low.) 
 
 Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. 
 
 (Aside.) What 's to be the wonder now? 
 
 Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, 
 sir, that no man alive ought to be more 
 welcome than your father's son, sir. I 
 hope you think so? 
 
 Marlow. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't 
 want much entreaty. I generally make 
 my father's son welcome wherever he 
 goes. 
 
 Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
 But though I say nothing to your own 
 conduct, that of your servants is insuffer- 
 able. Their manner of drinking is set- 
 ting a very bad example in this house, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, 
 that 's no fault of mine. If they don't 
 drink as they ought, they are to blame. 
 I ordered them not to spare the cellar, I 
 did, I assure you. (To the side scene.) 
 Here, let one of my servants come up. 
 (To him.) My positive directions were, 
 that as I did not drink myself, they 
 should make up for my deficiencies below. 
 
 Hard. Then they had your orders for what 
 they do ! I 'm satisfied ! 
 
 Marlow. They had, I assure you. You 
 shall hear from one of themselves. 
 
 (Enter Servant, drunk.) 
 
 Marlow. You, Jeremy! Come forward, 
 sirrah! What were my orders? Were 
 you not told to drink freely, and call for 
 what you thought fit, for the good of the 
 house ? 
 
 Hard. (Aside.) 1 begin to lose my pa- 
 tience. 
 
 Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and 
 Fleet Street for ever ! Though I 'm but 
 a servant, I 'm as good as another man. 
 I '11 drink for no man before supper, sir, 
 dammy! Good liquor will sit upon a 
 good supper, but a good supper will not 
 sit upon hiccup upon my con- 
 science, sir. 
 
 Marlow. You see, my old friend, the fel- 
 low is as drunk as he can possibly be. I 
 don't know what you 'd have more, unless 
 you 'd have the poor devil soused in a 
 beer-barrel. 
 
 Hard. Zounds ! He '11 drive me distracted 
 if I contain myself any longer. Mr. 
 Marlow ! Sir ! I have submitted to your 
 insolence for more than four hours, and 
 I see no likelihood of its coming to an 
 end. I 'm now resolved to be master 
 here, sir, and I desire that you and your 
 drunken pack may leave my bouse di- 
 rectly. 
 
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Marlow. Leave your house! — Sure, you 
 jest, my good friend? What, when I'm 
 doing what I can to please you ! 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; 
 so I desire you '11 leave my house. 
 
 Marlow. Sure, you cannot be serious ! At 
 this time of night, and such a night ! 
 You only mean to banter me! 
 
 Hard. I teU you, sir, I 'm serious ; and, 
 now that my passions are roused, I say 
 this house is mine, sir ; this house is mine, 
 and I command you to leave it directly. 
 
 Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a 
 storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. 
 (In a serious tone.) This your house, 
 fellow! It's my house. This is my 
 house. Mine, while I choose to stay. 
 What right have you to bid me leave this 
 house, sir? I never met with such impu- 
 dence, curse me, never in my whole life 
 before ! 
 
 Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did! 
 To come to my house, to call for what he 
 likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to 
 insult the family, to order his servants to 
 get drunk, and then to tell me, — This 
 house is mine, sir. By all that's impu- 
 dent, it makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! 
 Pray, sir {Bantering), as you take the 
 house, what think you of taking the rest 
 of the furniture? There's a pair of sil- 
 ver candlesticks, and there 's a flre-sereen, 
 and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bel- 
 lows, perhaps you may take a fancy to 
 them? 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir, bring me 
 your bill, and let 's make no more words 
 about it. 
 
 Hard. There are a set of prints, too. 
 What think you of the Rake's Progress ^^ 
 for your own apartment? 
 
 Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say; and 
 I'U leave you and your infernal house 
 directly. 
 
 Hard. Then there 's a mahogany table, 
 that you may see your own face in. 
 
 Marlow. My bill, I say. 
 
 Hard. I had forgot the great chair, for 
 your own particular slumbers, after a 
 hearty meal. 
 
 Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, 
 and let 's hear no more on 't. 
 
 Hard. Young man, young man, from your 
 father's letter to me, I was taught to ex- 
 pect a well-bred modest man, as a visitor 
 here, but now I find him no better than 
 a coxcomb and a bully; but he will be 
 
 82 A series of pictures by Hogarth. 
 
 down here presently, and shaU hear more 
 of it. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Marlow. How's this! Sure, I have not 
 mistaken the house? Everything looks 
 like an inn. The servants cry "coming." 
 The attendance is awkward ; the barmaid, 
 too, to attend us. But she 's here, and 
 will further inform me. Whither so fast, 
 child ? A word with yon. 
 
 {Enter Miss Hardcastle.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I 'm in 
 a hurry. — {Aside.) 1 believe he begins 
 to find out his mistake, but it 's too soon 
 quite to undeceive him. 
 
 Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one ques- 
 tion. What are you, and what may your 
 business in this house be? 
 
 Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marlow. What? A poor relation ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir. A poor relation ap- 
 pointed to keep the keys, and to see that 
 the guests want nothing in my power to 
 give them. 
 
 Marlow. That is, you act as the barmaid 
 of this inn. 
 
 Miss Hard. Inn I law ! — ^What brought 
 that in your head? One of the best fam- 
 ilies in the county keep an inn! Ha, 
 ha, ha, old Mr. Hardeastle's house an 
 inn! 
 
 Marlow. Mr. Hardeastle's house! Is this 
 house Mr. Hardeastle's house, child ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should 
 it be? 
 
 Marlow. So then all 's out, and I have 
 been damnably imposed on. 0, confound 
 my stupid head, I shall be laughed at 
 over the whole town. I shall be stuck up 
 
 in caricatura in all the print-shops, 
 
 The Dullissimo Maccaroni.'^ To mistake 
 this house of all others for an inn, and 
 my father's old friend for an inn-keeper I 
 What a swaggering puppy must he take 
 me for! What a silly puppy do I find 
 myself! There again, may I be hanged, 
 my dear, but I mistook you for the bar- 
 maid! 
 
 Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I 'm sure 
 there 's nothing in my behavour to put me 
 upon a level with one of that stamp. 
 
 Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But 
 I was in for a list of blunders, and could 
 not help making you a subscriber. My 
 stupidity saw everything the wrong way. 
 I mistook your assiduity for assurance, 
 
 38 A dandjr ; Dvllisaimo, a mock-Italian superlative, 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 661 
 
 and your simplicity for allurement. But 
 it 's over — this house I no more show my 
 face in! 
 
 Miss Bard. I hope, sir, I have done noth- 
 ing to disoblige you. I 'm sure I should 
 be sorry to affront any gentleman who 
 has been so polite, and said so many civil 
 things to me. I 'm sure I should be 
 sorry {pretending to cry) if he left the 
 family upon my account. I'm sure I 
 should be sorry people said anything 
 amiss, since I have no fortune but my 
 character. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) By heaven, she weeps. 
 This is the first mark of tenderness I ever 
 had from a modest woman, and it touches 
 me. {To her.) Excuse me, my lovely 
 girl, you are the only part of the family 
 I leave with reluctance. But to be plain 
 with you, the difference of our birth, for- 
 tune and education, make an honorable 
 connexion impossible; and I can never 
 harbor a thought of seducing simplicity 
 that trusted in my honor, or bringing 
 ruin upon one whose only fault was being 
 too lovely. 
 
 Miss Hard. {Aside.) Generous man! I 
 now begin to admire him. {To him.) 
 But I 'm sure my family is as good as 
 Miss Hardcastle's, and though I 'm poor, 
 that's no great misfortune to a con- 
 tented mind, and, until this moment, I 
 never thought that it was bad to want 
 fortune. 
 
 Marlow. And why now, my pretty sim- 
 plicity? 
 
 Miss Hard. Because it puts me ^t a dis- 
 tance from one, that if I had a thousand 
 pound I would give it all to. 
 
 Marlow. {Aside.) This simplicity be- 
 witches me, so that if I stay I 'm undone. 
 I must make one bold effort, and leave 
 her. {To her.) Your partiality in my 
 favor, my dear, touches me most sensibly, 
 and were I to live for myself alone, I 
 could easily fix my choice. But I owe 
 too much to the opinion of the world, 
 too much to the authority of a father, so 
 that — I can scarcely speak it — it affects 
 me ! Farewell ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit 
 till now. He shall not go, if I have 
 power or art to detain him. I '11 still 
 preserve the character in which I sfooped 
 to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, 
 who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his 
 resolution. {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Tony, Miss Neville.) 
 
 Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves 
 the next time. I have done my duty. 
 She has got the jewels again, that's a 
 sure thing; but she believes it was all a 
 m.istake of the servants. 
 
 Miss Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure, 
 you won't forsake us in this distress. If 
 she in the least suspects that I am going 
 off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent 
 to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times 
 worse. 
 
 Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are 
 damned bad things. But what can I do ? 
 I have got you a pair of horses that will 
 fly like Whistle jacket, and I 'm sure you 
 can't say but I have courted you nicely 
 before her face. Here she comes, we 
 must court a bit or two more, for fear 
 she should suspect us. 
 
 {They retire, and seem to fondle.) 
 {Enter Mrs. Hardcastle.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, 
 to be sure, But my son tells me it was 
 all a mistake of the servants. I shan't 
 be easy, however, till they are fairly mar- 
 ried, and then let her keep her own for- 
 tune. But what do I see? Fondling to- 
 gether, as I 'm alive ! I never saw Tony 
 so sprightly before. Ah ! have I caught 
 you, my pretty doves'? What, billing, 
 exchanging stolen glances, and broken 
 murmurs ! Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grum- 
 ble a little now and then, to be sure. 
 But there's no love lost between us. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, 
 upon the flame, only to make it burn 
 brighter. 
 
 Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises to 
 give us more of his company at home. 
 Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It 
 won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it? 
 
 Tony. ! it 's a pretty creature. No, I 'd 
 sooner leave my horse in a pound, than 
 leave you when you smile upon one so. 
 Your laugh makes you so becoming. 
 
 Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can 
 help admiring that natural humor, that 
 pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless, {Pat- 
 ting his cheek.) ah ! it 's a bold face. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence! 
 
 Tony. I 'm sure I always loved cousin 
 Con's hazel eyes, and her pretty long fin- 
 gers, that she twists this way and that, 
 over the haspichoUs,'* like a parcel of 
 bobbins. 
 
 34 A corrupt form for harpsichord. 
 
662 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Mts. Sard. Ah, he would charm the bird 
 from the tree. I was never so happy be- 
 fore. My boy takes after his father, 
 poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. Thie jewels, 
 my dear Con, shall be yours inconti- 
 nently. You shall have them. Isn't he 
 a sweet boy, my dear? You shall be mar- 
 ried to-morrow, and we '11 put off the rest 
 of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's ser- 
 mons, to a fitter opportunity. 
 
 {Enter Diggory.) 
 
 Dig gory. Where's the 'Squire? I have 
 got a letter for your worship. 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads 
 all my letters first. 
 
 Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into 
 your own hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from? 
 
 Diggory. Your worship mun ask that of 
 the letter itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know, though. 
 (Turning the letter, and gazing on it.) 
 
 Miss Neville. (Aside.) Undone, undone! 
 A letter to him from Hastiags. I know 
 the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are 
 mined for ever. I '11 keep her employed 
 a little if I can. (To Mrs. Eardcastle.) 
 But I have not told you, madam, of my 
 cousin's smart answer . just now to Mr. 
 Marlow. We so laughed — ^you must 
 know, madam — this way a little, for he 
 must not hear us. (They confer.) 
 
 Tony. (Still gazing.) A damned cramp 
 piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in 
 my life. I can read your print-hand very 
 well. But here there are such handles, 
 and shanks, and dashes, that one can 
 scarce tell the head from the tail. To 
 Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire. It 's very 
 odd, I can read the outside of my letters, 
 where my own name is, well enough. 
 But when I come to open it, it 's all — 
 buzz. That's hard, very hard; for the 
 inside of the letter is always the cream of 
 the correspondence. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very 
 well. And so my son was too hard for 
 the philosopher! 
 
 Miss Neville. Yes, madam; but you must 
 hear the rest, madam. A little more this 
 way, or he may hear us. You '11 hear 
 how he puzzled him again. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled 
 now himself, methinks. 
 
 Tony. (Still gazing.) A damned up and 
 down hand, as if it was disguised in 
 liquor. (Beading.) Dear Sir. Ay, 
 
 that's that. Then there's an M, and a 
 T, and an S, but whether the next be an 
 izzard ^^ or an IR, confound me, I cannot 
 tell! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear? Can 
 I give you any assistance? 
 
 Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. 
 Nobody reads a cramp hand better than 
 I. (Twitching the letter from her.) Do 
 you know who it is from ? 
 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Gin- 
 ger the feeder. 
 
 Miss Neville. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to 
 read.) "Dear 'Squire, Hoping that 
 you 're in health, as I am at this present. 
 The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club has 
 cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green 
 quite out of feather. The odds — ^um — 
 odd battle — um — ^long fighting — ^um, here, 
 here, it's all about cocks, and fighting; 
 It 's of no consequence, here, put it up, 
 put it up. 
 
 (Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.) 
 
 Tony. But I tell you, miss, it 's of all the 
 consequence in the world! I would not 
 lose the rest of it for a guinea! Here, 
 mother, do you make it out. Of no con- 
 sequence ! 
 (Giving Mrs. Hardeastle the letter.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. How 's this ! (Beads.) "Dear 
 'Squire, I'm now waiting for Miss 
 Neville, with a post-chaise and a pair, at 
 the bottom of the garden, but I find my 
 horses yet unable to perform the journey. 
 I expect you '11 assist us with a pair of 
 fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch 
 is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your 
 mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, 
 Hastings." Grant me patience. I shall 
 run distracted ! My rage chokes me. 
 
 Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you '11 sus- 
 pend your resentment for a few moments, 
 and not impute to me any impertinence, 
 or sinister design that belongs to another. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Curtseying very low.) Fine 
 spoken, madam, you are most miracu- 
 lously polite and engaging, and quite the 
 very pink of courtesy and circumspection, 
 madam. (Changing her tone.) And 
 you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with 
 scarce sense enough to keep your mouth 
 shut. Were you too joined against me? 
 But I'll defeat all your plots in a mo- 
 ment. As for you, madam, since you 
 have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it 
 would be cruel to disappoint them. So, 
 if you please, instead of running away 
 with your spark, prepare, this very mo- 
 
 ss z. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 
 
 663 
 
 ment to run off with me. Your old aunt 
 Pedigree will keep you secure, I '11 war- 
 rant me. You, too, sir, may mount your 
 horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, 
 Thomas, Roger, Diggciy ! I 'II show you 
 that I wish you better than you do your- 
 selves. 
 
 {'Exit.) 
 
 Miss Neville. So now I 'm completely 
 ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Neville. What better could be ex- 
 pected from being connected with such a 
 stupid fool, and after all the nods and 
 signs I made him? 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own 
 cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did 
 your business. You were so nice and so 
 busy with your Shake-bags and Goose- 
 greens that I thought you could never be 
 making believe. 
 
 (Enter Eastings.) 
 
 Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, 
 that you have shown my letter, and be- 
 trayed us. Was this well done, young 
 gentleman 1 
 
 Tony. Here's another. Ask miss there 
 who betrayed you. Ecod, it was her do- 
 ing, not mine. 
 
 (Enter Marlow.) 
 
 Marlow. So I have been finely used here 
 among you. Rendered contemptible, 
 driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, 
 laughed at. 
 
 Tony. Here 's another. We shall have old 
 Bedlam broke loose presently. 
 
 Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentle- 
 man to whom we all owe every obligation. 
 
 Marlow. What can I say to him? a mere 
 boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age 
 ai*e a protection. 
 
 Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that 
 would but disgrace correction. 
 
 Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice 
 enough to make himself merry with all 
 our embarrassments. 
 
 Hastings. An insensible cub. 
 
 Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 Tony. Baw ! damme, but I '11 fight you 
 both one after the other, ^with bas- 
 kets.^® 
 
 Marlow. As for him, he 's below resent- 
 ment. But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, 
 requires an explanation. You knew of 
 my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. 
 
 Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own 
 
 disappointments, is this a time for expla- 
 nations 1 It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. . 
 
 Marlow. But, sir 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept 
 on your' mistake, till it was too late to 
 undeceive you. Be pacified. 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. My mistress desires you 'II get 
 ready immediately, madam. The horses 
 are putting to. Your hat and things are 
 in the next room. We are to go thirty 
 miles before morning. 
 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, well; I'll come pres- 
 ently. 
 
 Marlow. (To Hastings.) Was it well 
 done, sir, to assist in rendering me ridicu- 
 lous? To hang me out for the scorn of 
 all my acquaintance? Depend upon it, 
 sir, I shall expect an explanation. 
 
 Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you 're 
 upon that subject, to deliver what I en- 
 trusted to yourself, to the care of another, 
 sir? 
 
 Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings. Mr. Marlow. 
 Why will you increase my distress by this 
 groundless dispute? I implore, I en- 
 treat you 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mis- 
 tress is impatient. 
 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Miss Neville. I come. Pray be pacified. 
 If I leave you thus, I shall die with ap- 
 prehension ! 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, 
 madam. The horses are waiting. 
 
 Miss Neville. 0, Mr. Marlow! if you 
 knew what a scene of constraint and iU- 
 nature lies before me, I 'm sure it would 
 convert your resentment into pity. 
 
 Marlow. I 'm so distracted with a variety 
 of passions, that I don't know what I do. 
 Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. 
 You know my hasty temper, and should 
 not exasperate it. 
 
 Hastings. The torture of my situation is 
 my only excuse. 
 
 Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if 
 you have that esteem for me that I think, 
 that I am sure you have, your constancy 
 for three years will but increase the hap- 
 piness of our future eoun^ction. If — ^ 
 
 86 Probably a stick with a bilt of baeket-work. 
 
664 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Within.) Miss Neville. Con- 
 stance, why, Constance, I say. 
 
 Miss Neville. I'm coming. Well, con- 
 stancy. Remember, constancy is the 
 word. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Hastings. My heart ! How can I support 
 this? To be so near happiness, and such 
 happiness ! 
 
 Marlow. {To Tony.) You see now, young 
 gentleman, the effects of your folly. 
 What might be amusement to you, is here 
 disappointment, and even distress. 
 
 Tony. {From, a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit 
 it. It 's here. Your hands. Yours and 
 yours, my poor Sulky. My boots there, 
 ho ! Meet me two hours hence at the bot- 
 tom of the garden ; and if you don't find 
 Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fel- 
 low than you thought for, I '11 give you 
 leave to take my best horse, and Bet 
 Bouncer into the bargain! Come along. 
 My boots, ho ! 
 
 {ExeutU.) 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. Continues. 
 {Enter Hastings and Servant.) 
 
 Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss 
 Neville drive off, you say? 
 
 Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off 
 in a post-coach, and the young 'Squire 
 went on horseback. They 're thirty miles 
 off by this time. 
 
 Hastings. Then all my hopes are over. 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is ar- 
 rived. He and the old gentleman of the 
 house have been laughing at Mr. Mar- 
 low's mistake this half-hour. They are 
 coming this way. 
 
 Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So 
 now to my fruitless appointment at the 
 bottom of the garden. This is about the 
 time. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle.) 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone 
 in which he sent forth his sublime com- 
 mands! 
 
 Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I 
 suppose he treated all your advances. 
 
 Hard. And yet he might have seen some- 
 thing in me above a common innkeeper, 
 too. 
 
 ^^V Charle?. Yes, Dick, but he mistook 
 
 you for an uncommon innkeeper, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Hard. WeU, I'm in too good spirits to 
 think of anything but joy. Yes, my dear 
 friend, this union of our families will 
 make our personal friendships heredi- 
 tary: and though my daughter's fortune 
 is but small 
 
 Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of 
 fortune to me? My son is possessed of 
 more than a competence already, and can 
 want nothing but a good and virtuous girl 
 to share his happiness and increase it. 
 If they like each other, as you say they 
 do 
 
 Hard. If, man! I tell you they do like 
 each other. My daughter as good as told 
 me so. 
 
 Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter 
 themselves, you know. 
 
 Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the 
 warmest manner myself; and here he 
 comes to put you out of your ifs, I war- 
 rant him. 
 
 {Enter Marlow.) 
 
 Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask 
 pardon for my strange conduct. I can 
 scarce reflect on my insolence without con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
 gravely. An hour or two's laughing with 
 my daughter will set all to rights again. 
 She 'II never like you the worse for it. 
 
 Marlow. Sir, I shaU be always proud of 
 her approbation. 
 
 Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, 
 Mr. Marlow; if I am not deceived, you 
 have something more than approbation 
 thereabouts. You take me. 
 
 Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Hard. Come, boy, I 'm an old fellow, and 
 know what 's what, as well as you that are 
 younger. I know what has passed be- 
 tween you ; but mum. 
 
 Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has passed be- 
 tween us but the most profound respect 
 on my side, and the most distant reserve 
 on hers. You don't think, sir, that my 
 impudence has been passed upon all the 
 rest of the family. 
 
 Hard. Impudence! No, I don't say that— 
 Not quite impudence — Though girls like 
 to be played with, and rumpled a little 
 too, sometimes. But she has told no 
 tales, I assure you. 
 
 Marlow. I never gave her the slightest 
 cause. 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 665 
 
 Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its 
 place, well enough. But this is over-act- 
 ing, young gentleman. You may be 
 open. Your father and I wiU like you 
 the better for it. 
 
 Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever 
 
 Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you; 
 and as I 'm sure you like her 
 
 Marlow. Dear sir — I protest, sir 
 
 Hard. I see no reason why you should not 
 be joined as fast as the parson can tie 
 you. 
 
 Marlow. But hear me, sir 
 
 Hard. Your father approves the match, I 
 admire it, every moment's delay will be 
 doing mischief, so 
 
 Marlow. But why won't you hear me? 
 By all that 's just and true, I never gave 
 Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my 
 attachment, or even the most distant hint 
 to suspect me of affection. We had but 
 one interview, and that was formal, mod- 
 est, and uninteresting. 
 
 Hard. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, 
 modest impudence is beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And you never grasped her 
 hand, or made any protestations ! 
 
 Marlow. As heaven is my witness, I came 
 down in obedience to your commands, I 
 saw the lady without emotion, and parted 
 without reluctance. I hope you '11 exact 
 no further proofs of my duty, nor pre- 
 vent me from leaving a house in which I 
 suffer so many mortifications. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Sir Charles. I 'm astonished at the air of 
 sincerity with which he parted. 
 
 Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliber- 
 ate intrepidity of his assurance. 
 
 Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and 
 honor upon his truth. 
 
 Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I 
 would stake my happiness upon her 
 veracity. 
 
 (Enter Miss Hardcastle.) 
 
 Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer 
 
 us sincerely, and without reserve; has Mr. 
 
 Marlow made you any professions of love 
 
 and affection? 
 Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, 
 
 sir! But since you require unreserved 
 
 sincerity, I think he has. 
 Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. 
 Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you 
 
 and my son had more than one interview? 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 
 Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. But did he profess any at- 
 tachment 1 
 
 Miss Hard. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Charles. Did he talk of love? 
 
 Miss Hard. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Charles. Amazing! And all this for- 
 mally? 
 
 Miss Hard. Formally. 
 
 Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are 
 satisfied. 
 
 Sir Charles. And how did he behave, 
 madam? 
 
 Miss Hard. As most professed admirers 
 do. Said some civil things of my face, 
 talked much of his want of merit, and the 
 greatness of mine; mentioned his heart, 
 gave a short tragedy speech, and ended 
 with pretended rapture. 
 
 Sir Charles. Now I 'm perfectly convinced, 
 indeed. I know his conversation among 
 women to be modest and suhmissive. 
 This forward, canting,^' ranting manner 
 by no means describes him, and I am 
 confident he never sat for the picture. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should 
 convince you to your face of my sincer- 
 ity ? If you and my papa, in about half- 
 an-hour, will place yourselves behind that 
 screen, you shall hear him declare his 
 passion to me in person. 
 
 Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him 
 what you describe, all my happiness in 
 him must have an end. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Miss Hard. And if you don't find him 
 what I describe — I fear my happiness 
 must never have a beginning. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. Changes to the Back of the 
 Garden. 
 
 (Enter Hastings.) 
 
 Hastings. What an idiot am I, to wait here 
 for a fellow, who probably takes a delight 
 in mortifying me ! He never intended to 
 be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. 
 What do I see? It is he, and perhaps 
 with news of my Constance. 
 
 (Enter Tony, booted and spattered.) 
 
 Hastings. My honest 'Squire ! I now find 
 
 you a man of your word. This looks like 
 
 friendship. 
 Tony. Ay, I 'm your friend, and the best 
 
 friend you have in the world, if you 
 
 knew but all. This riding by night, by- 
 
 37 Conventionally affected. 
 
666 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 the-bye, is cursedly tiresome. It has 
 shook me worse than the basket of a 
 stage-eoach. 
 
 Hastings. But how? Where did you leave 
 your fellow-travellers? Are they in 
 safety ? Are they housed ? 
 
 Tony. Kve and twenty miles in two hours 
 and a half is no such bad driving. The 
 poor beasts have smoked for it : rabbit 
 me, but I 'd rather ride forty miles after 
 a fox, than ten with such varment. 
 
 Hastings. Well, but where have you left 
 the ladies? I die with impatience. 
 
 Tony. Left them? Why, where should I 
 leave them, but where I found them? 
 
 Hastings. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony. Riddle me this, then. What 's that 
 goes round the bouse, and round the 
 house, and never touches the house? 
 
 Hastings. I 'm still astray. 
 
 Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led 
 them astray. By jingo, there's not a 
 pond or slough within five miles of the 
 place but they can tell the taste of. 
 
 Hastings. Ha, ha, ha, I understand; you 
 took them in a round, while they sup- 
 posed themselves going forward. And 
 so you have at last brought them home 
 again ? 
 
 Tony. You shall hear. I first took them 
 down Feather-Bed Lane, where we stuck 
 fast in the mud. I then rattled them 
 crack over the stones of Up-and-down 
 Hill— I then introduced them to the gib- 
 bet on Heavy-Tree Heath, and from that, 
 with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged 
 them in the horse-pond at the bottom of 
 the garden. 
 
 Hastings. But no accident, I hope. 
 
 Tony. No, no. Only mother is confound- 
 edly frightened. She thinks herself forty 
 miles off. She 's sick of the journey, and 
 the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if your 
 own horses be ready, you may whip off 
 with cousin, and I '11 be bound that no 
 soul here can budge afoot to follow you. 
 
 Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be 
 grateful ? 
 
 Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 
 'Squire. Just now, it was all idiot, cub, 
 and run me through the guts. Damn 
 your way of fighting, I say. After we 
 take a knock in this part of the country, 
 we kiss and be friends. But if you had 
 run me through the guts, then I should 
 be dead, and you might go kiss the hang- 
 man. 
 
 Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must 
 hasten to relieve Miss Neville ; if you keep 
 
 the old lady employed, I promise to take 
 care of the young one. 
 
 {Exit Hastings.) 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. 
 Vanish. She 's got from the pond, and 
 draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Hardcastle.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I 'm killed. Shook. 
 Battered to death. I shall never survive 
 it. That last jolt that laid us against the 
 quick-set hedge has done my business. 
 
 Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own 
 fault. You would be for running away 
 by night, without knowing one inch of the 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. 
 I never met so many accidents in so short 
 a journey. Drenched in the mud, over- 
 turned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, 
 jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our 
 way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, 
 Tony? 
 
 Tony. By my guess we should be upon 
 Crack-skull Common, about forty miles 
 from home. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. lud! lud! the most no- 
 torious spot in all the country. We only 
 want a robbery to make a complete night 
 on't. 
 
 Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be 
 afraid. Two of the five that kept here 
 are hanged, and the other three may not 
 find us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man 
 that's galloping behind us? No; it's 
 only a tree. Don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill 
 me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see any thing like a black 
 hat moving behind the thicket? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. death ! 
 
 Tony. No, it's only a cow. Don't be 
 afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a 
 man coming towards us. Ah ! I 'm sure 
 on 't. If he perceives us, we are undone. 
 
 Tony. {Aside.) Father-in-law, by all 
 that's unlucky, come to take one of his 
 night walks. {To her.) Ah, it 's a high- 
 wayman, with pistols as long as my arm. 
 A damned ill-looking fellow. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Good heaven defend us! He 
 approaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, 
 and leave me to manage him. If there be 
 any danger I '11 cough and cry hem. 
 When I cough be sure to keep close. 
 
 {Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the 
 back scene.) 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 667 
 
 {Enter Hardcastle.) 
 
 Hard. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of 
 people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is 
 that you? I did not expect you so soon 
 back. Are your mother and her charge 
 in safety? 
 
 Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedi- 
 gree's. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Ah death! 
 I find there 's danger. 
 
 Hard. Forty miles in three hours; sure, 
 that 's too much, my youngster. 
 
 Tony. Stout horses and willing minds 
 make short journeys, as they say. Hem. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Sure he'll 
 do the dear boy no harm. 
 
 Hard. But I heard a voice here ; I should 
 be glad to know from whence it eame? 
 
 Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. 
 I was saying that forty miles in four 
 hours was very good going. Hem. As 
 to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a 
 sort of cold by being out in the air. 
 We '11 go in if you please. Hem. 
 
 Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you 
 did not answer yourself. I am certain I 
 heard two voices, and am resolved {Rais- 
 ing his voice.) to find the other out. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Oh! he's 
 coming to find me out. Oh ! 
 
 Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you 1 
 Hem. I '11 lay down my life for the 
 truth. — ^hem — I '11 tell you all, sir. 
 {Detaining him:.) 
 
 Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I 
 insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect 
 I 'II believe you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Running forward from be- 
 hind. ) lud, he '11 murder my poor boy, 
 my darling. Here, good gentleman, whet 
 your rage- upon me. Take my money, my 
 life, but spare that young gentleman, 
 spare my child, if you have any mercy. 
 
 Hard. My wife! as I'm a Christian. 
 From whence can she come, or what does 
 she mean 1 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Kneeling.) Take compas- 
 sion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. 
 Take our money, our watches, all we have, 
 but spare our lives. We will never bring 
 you to justice, indeed we won't, good Mr. 
 Highwajrman. 
 
 Hard. I believe the woman 's out of her 
 senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know 
 mef 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I 'm alive ! 
 My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, 
 could have expected to meet you here, in 
 
 this frightful place, so far from home? 
 What has brought you to follow us? 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost 
 your wits ! So far from home, when you 
 are within forty yards of your own door ! 
 {To him.) This is one of your old tricks, 
 you graceless rogue, you! {To her.) 
 Don't you know the gate, and the mul- 
 berry-tree; and don't you remember the 
 horsepond, my dear? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the 
 horsepond as long as I live ; I have caught 
 my death in it. {To Tony.) And is it 
 to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all 
 this ? I '11 teach you to abuse your 
 mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says 
 you have spoiled me, and so you may take 
 the fruits on 't. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I '11 spoil you, I will. 
 
 {Follows him off the stage. Exit.) 
 
 Hard. There's morality, however, in his 
 reply. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Hastings and Miss Neville.) 
 
 Hastings. My dear Constance, why will 
 you deliberate thus? If we delay a mo- 
 ment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a 
 little resolution, and we shall soon be out 
 of the reach of her malignity. 
 
 Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My 
 spirits are so sunk with the agitations I 
 have suffered, that I am unable to face 
 any new danger. Two or three years' 
 patience will at last crown us with happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse 
 than inconstancy. Let us fly, my 
 charmer. Let us date our happiness from 
 this very moment. Perish fortune. Love 
 and content will increase what we possess 
 beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me 
 prevail. 
 
 Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. 
 Prudence once more comes to my relief, 
 and I will obey its dictates. In the mo- 
 ment of passion, fortune may be despised, 
 but it ever produces a lasting repentance. 
 I 'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's 
 compassion and justice for redress. 
 
 Hastings. But though he had the will, he 
 has not the power to relieve you. 
 
 Miss Neville. But he has influence, and 
 upon that I am resolved to rely. 
 
 Hastings. I have no hopes. But since you 
 persist, I must reluctantly obey you. 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
668 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY 
 
 Scene 3. Scene changes '{to a Boom at 
 Mr. Rardcastle's.] 
 
 (Enter Sir Charles and Miss Hardcastle.) 
 
 Sir Charles. What a situation am I in! 
 If what you say appears, I shall then find 
 a guilty son. If what he says be true, I 
 shall then lose one that, of all others, I 
 most wished for a daughter. 
 
 Miss Hard. I am proud of your approba- 
 tion ; and, to show I merit it, if you place 
 yourselves as I directed, you shall hear 
 his explicit declaration. But he comes. 
 
 Sir Charles. I 'U to your father, and keep 
 him to the appointment. 
 
 (Exit Sir Charles.) 
 
 {Enter Marlow.) 
 
 Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, 
 I come once more to take leave, nor did I, 
 till this moment, know the pain I feel in 
 the separation. 
 
 Miss Hard. (In her own natural manner.) 
 I believe these sufferings cannot be very 
 great, sir, which you can so easily remove. 
 A day or two longer, perhaps, might les- 
 sen your uneasiness, by showing the little 
 value of what you now think proper to 
 regret. 
 
 Marlow. (Aside.) This girl every mo- 
 ment improves upon me. (To her.) It 
 must not be, madam. I have already 
 trifled too long with my heart. My very 
 pride begins to submit to my passion. 
 The disparity of education and fortune, 
 the anger of a parent, and the contempt 
 of my equals, begin to lose their weight; 
 and nothing can restore me to myself but 
 this painful effort of resolution. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then go, sir. I '11 urge noth- 
 ing more to detain you. Though my 
 family be as good as hers you came down 
 to visit, and my education, I hope, not 
 inferior, what are these advantages with- 
 out equal affluence? I must remain con- 
 tented with the slight appi-obation of im- 
 puted merit ; I must have only the mock- 
 ery of your addresses, while all your 
 serious aims are fixed on fortune. 
 
 (Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles from 
 behind.) 
 
 Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
 Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I '11 engage 
 
 my Kate covers him with confusion at 
 
 last. 
 Marlow. By heavens, madam, fortune was 
 
 ever my smallest consideration. Your 
 
 beauty at first caught my eye; for who 
 could see that without emotion? But 
 every moment that I converse with you, 
 steals in some new grace, heightens the 
 picture, and gives it stronger expression. 
 What at first seemed rustic plainness, now 
 appears refined simplicity. What seemed 
 forward assurance, now strikes me as the 
 result of courageous innocence, and con- 
 scious virtue. 
 
 Sir Charles. What can it mean? He 
 amazes me ! 
 
 Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Marlow. I am now determined to stay, 
 madam, and I have too good an opinion 
 of my father's discernment, when he sees 
 you, to doubt his approbation. 
 
 Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, 
 cannot detain you. Do you think I could 
 suffer a connexion, in which there is the 
 smallest room for repentance? Do you 
 think I would take the mean advantage 
 of a transient passion, to load you with 
 confusion? Do you think I could ever 
 
 , relish that happiness, which was acquired 
 by lessening yours? 
 
 Marlow. By all that 's good, I can have no 
 happiness but what's in your power to 
 grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repent- 
 ance, but in not having seen your merits 
 before. I will stay, even eontrai-y to your 
 wishes; and though you should persist 
 to shun me, I will make my respectful 
 assiduities atone for the levity of my past 
 conduct. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you '11 de- 
 sist. As our acquaintance began, so let it 
 end, in indifference. I might have given 
 an hour or two to levity; but, seriouslyt 
 Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever 
 submit to a connection where I must ap- 
 pear mercenary, and you imprudent? 
 Do you think I could ever catch at the 
 confident addresses of a secure admirer? 
 
 Marlow. (Kneeling.) Does this look like 
 security? Does this look like confidence? 
 No, madam, every moment that shows me 
 your merit, only serves to increase my 
 difl&dence and confusion. Here let me 
 continue 
 
 Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. 
 Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived 
 me ! Is this your indifference, your unin- 
 teresting conversation ! 
 
 Hard. Your cold contempt! your formal 
 interview! What have you to say now? 
 
 Marlow. That I 'm all amazement ! What 
 can it mean? 
 
 Hard. It means that you can say and un- 
 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 
 
 say things at pleasure. That you can ad- 
 dress a lady in private, and deny it in 
 public; that you have one story for us, 
 and another for my daughter ! 
 
 Marlow. Daughter! — this lady your 
 daughter ! 
 
 Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My 
 Kate, whose else should she be? 
 
 Marlow. Oh, the devil! 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical 
 tall squinting lady you were pleased to 
 take me for. (Curtseying.) She that 
 you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
 mental man of gravity, and the bold, for- 
 ward, agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' 
 Club : ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Marlow. Zounds, there 's no bearing this ; 
 it 's worse than death ! 
 
 Miss Hard. In which of your characters, 
 sir, will you give us leave to address you i 
 As the faltering gentleman, with looks on 
 the ground, that speaks just to be heard, 
 and hates hypocrisy : or the loud confident 
 creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Man- 
 trap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till 
 three in the morning ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Marlow. 0, curse on my noisy head. I 
 never attempted to be impudent yet, that 
 I was not taken down. I must be gone. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, but you 
 shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and 
 I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, 
 sir, I teU you. I know she '11 forgive you. 
 Won't you forgive him, Kate ? We '11 all 
 forgive you. Take courage, man. 
 
 {They retire, she tormenting him to the 
 bach scene.) 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Hardcastle, Tony.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. So, so, they 're gone off. Let 
 them go, I care not. 
 
 Hard. WTio gone? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gen- 
 tleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He 
 who came down with our modest visitor 
 here. 
 
 Sir Charles. Who, my honest George 
 Hastings ! As worthy a fellow as lives, 
 and the girl could not have made a more 
 prudent choice. 
 
 Hard. • Then, by the hand of my body, I 'm 
 proud of the connection. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away 
 the lady, he has not taken her fortune, 
 that remains in this family to console us 
 for her loss. 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so 
 mercenary ? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not 
 
 yours. But you know, if your son, when 
 of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her 
 whole fortune is then at her own disposal. 
 Hard. Ah, but he 's not of age, and she 
 has not thought proper to wait for his re- 
 fusal. 
 
 (Enter Hastings and Miss Neville.) 
 
 .Mrs. Hard. (Aside.) What! returned so 
 soon? I begin not to like it. 
 
 Hastings. (To Hardcastle.) For my late 
 attempt to fly off with your niece, let my 
 present confusion be my punishment. 
 We are now come back, to appeal from 
 your justice to your humanity. By her 
 father's consent, I first paid her my ad- 
 dresses, and our passions were first 
 founded in duty. 
 
 Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been 
 obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid 
 oppression. In an hour of levity, I was 
 ready even to give up my fortune to se- 
 cure my choice. But I 'm now recovered 
 from the delusion, and hope from your 
 tenderness what is denied me from a 
 nearer connection. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but 
 the whining end of a modern novel. 
 
 Hard: Be it what it will, I 'm glad they 're 
 come back to reclaim their due. Come 
 hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this 
 lady's hand whom I now offer you ? 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing? You 
 know I can't refuse her till I 'm of age, 
 father. 
 
 Hard. While I thought concealing your 
 age, boy, was likely to conduce to your 
 improvement, I concurred with your 
 mother's desire to keep it secret. But 
 since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I 
 must now declare, you have been of age 
 these three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father? 
 
 Hard. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll 
 make ef my liberty. (Taking Miss 
 Neville's hand.) Witness all men by 
 these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, 
 Esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Con- 
 stantia Neville, spinster, of no place at 
 all, for my true and lawful wife. So 
 Constance Neville may marry whom she 
 pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own 
 man again! 
 
 Sir Charles. brave 'Squire ! 
 
 Hastings. My worthy friend ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring! 
 
 Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you 
 joy, sincerely. And could I prevail upon 
 
670 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, 
 I should be the happiest man alive, if 
 you would return me the favor. 
 
 Hastings. (To Miss Hardcastle.) Come, 
 madam, you are now driven to the very 
 last scene of all your contrivances. I 
 know you like him, I 'm sure he loves you, 
 and you must and shall have him. 
 
 Hard. {Joining their hands.) And I say 
 so, too. And Mr. Marlow, if she makes 
 as good a wife as she has a daughter, I 
 don't believe you '11 ever repent your bar- 
 gain. So now to supper, to-morrow we 
 shall gather all the poor of the parish 
 about us, and the Mistakes of the Night 
 shall be crowned with a merry morning; 
 so boy, take her; and as you have been 
 mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that 
 you may never be mistaken in the wife. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 By Dr. Goldsmith. 
 
 Well, having stooped to conquer with suct 
 
 cess. 
 And gained a husband without aid from 
 
 dress, 
 Still as a barmaid, I could wish it too, 
 As I have conquered him to conquer you : 
 And let me say, for all your resolution. 
 That pretty barmaids have done execution. 
 Our life is all a play, composed to please, 
 "We have our exits and our entrances." ^' 
 The first act shows the simple country maid. 
 Harmless and young, of everything afraid; 
 Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning 
 
 action, 
 I hopes as how to give you satisfaction. 
 Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
 Th' unblushing barmaid of a country inn, 
 Who whisks about the house, at market 
 
 caters. 
 Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds 
 
 the waiters. 
 Next the scene shifts to town, and there she 
 
 soars. 
 The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. 
 On 'Squires and Cits^' she there displays 
 
 her arts. 
 And on the gridiron broils her lovers' 
 
 hearts — 
 And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete. 
 Even Common Councilmen forget to eat. 
 The fourth act shows her wedded to the 
 
 'Squire, 
 
 S8 This line and 39 Citizens, 
 what follows are geois." 
 
 after the pattern 
 of the "seven 
 ages" in Shakes- 
 peare's As You 
 Like It, II. vii. 
 
 "bour- 
 
 40 /. e., 'bravo. 
 
 41 The former is a 
 popular song, 
 the latter is an 
 aria in Gliick's 
 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher; 
 Pretends to taste, at Operas cries caro^" 
 And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che 
 
 Faro.*^ 
 Boats upon dancing, and in all her pride, 
 Swims round the room, the Heinel*" of 
 
 Cheapside : 
 Ogles and leers with artificial skill. 
 Till having lost in age the power to kill. 
 She sits all night at cards, and ogles at 
 
 spadille.*' 
 Such, through our lives, the eventful his- 
 tory— 
 The fifth and last act still remains for me. 
 The barmaid now for your protection prays. 
 Turns female barrister, and pleads for 
 Bayes.** 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 To be spoken in the character of 
 Tony Lumpkin. 
 
 By J. Craddock, Esq. 
 
 Well — now all's ended — and my comrades 
 
 gone. 
 Pray what becomes of mother's nonly sonf 
 A hopeful blade ! — in town I '11 fix my sta- 
 tion. 
 And try to make a bluster in the nation. 
 As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her. 
 Off — in a crack — I'U carry big Bet 
 
 Bouncer. 
 Why should not I in the great world ap- 
 pear? 
 I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ; 
 No matter what a man may here inherit, 
 In London — 'gad, they 've some regard to 
 
 spirit. 
 I see the horses prancing up the streets, 
 And big Bet Bouncer bobs to aU she meets ; 
 Then hoikes to jiggs and pastimes ev'ry 
 
 night — 
 Not to the plays — they say it a'n't polite. 
 To Sadler's-Wells *^ perhaps, or Operas go, 
 And once by chance, to the roratorio. 
 Thus here and there, for ever up and down. 
 We '11 set the fashions too, to half the town ; 
 And then at auctions — money ne'er regard, 
 Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a 
 
 yard: 
 Zounds, we shall make these London gentry 
 
 say, 
 We know what 's damned genteel, as well as 
 
 they. 
 
 den in The Re- 
 hearsal) . There 
 is mock-modesty 
 in using the 
 
 W0T*d. 
 
 London' about person who was 45 A pleasure-resort 
 this time. a parody on Bry- in the north of 
 
 London. 
 
 opera Orfeo, 4S The ace of spades 
 
 1764. — Che Jari in certain card- 
 
 sema Euridice? games. 
 
 42 A Prussian dan- 44 i, e., the drama- 
 
 cer popular in tist (from the 
 
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816), 
 like Goldsmith, was Irish in blood and some- 
 what in temperament; he was born in Dublin, 
 though in boyhood he came to England, his 
 home thereafter. Through his father, an 
 actor and theater-manager, he was doubtless 
 from the first thoroughly familiar with the 
 stage. His six plays were all written in his 
 youth; of the two best and most permanently 
 popular, The Rivals was first acted in 1775 
 and The School for Scandal in 1777. His 
 later eminence was political; he was in Par- 
 liament for many years, rose high in the gov- 
 ernment, and was celebrated as an eloquent 
 and brilliant speaker. 
 
 The School for Scandal is the finest ex- 
 ample in the eighteenth century of the comedy 
 of manners. As usual with this type, the 
 characters are many, the dialogue is spark- 
 ling, action bustling, and plot somewhat loose. 
 It has often been noticed that the title of 
 the play is derived from a very minor ele- 
 ment in it. Lady Sneerwell and her sister- 
 hood, and their irresponsible and venomous 
 gossip. It is hardly true, however, that the 
 scandal scenes are without function, for they 
 give an extensive background, a sense that 
 the action of the play is typical of a large 
 society, which is essential to the comedjr of 
 manners. They also sharpen the satire; 
 scandal half the time is mistaken, as the 
 audience is shown in advance (Sheridan fully 
 understood the advantage of flattering his 
 audience) ; the tattlers make out Joseph Sur- 
 face to be Lady Sneerwell's lover instead of 
 Lady Teazle's, and him to be the saint and 
 his brother Charles the sinner, instead of the 
 nearly opposite truth; and no one will forget 
 the immortal satire on scandal-mongering in 
 act V. ii, where a purely imaginary bullet is 
 said to have rebounded from the little bronze 
 Pliny " and wounded the postman, who was 
 just coming to the door with a double letter 
 from Northamptonshire." 
 
 The essentials of the plot are neither espe- 
 cially original nor striking. Domestic quar- 
 rels and intrigues, the exposure of hypocrisy 
 and the rewarding of generosity, are no more 
 entertaining and pleasing than they are usual 
 in comedy. Even the gossip-club is fore- 
 shadowed in Congreve's The Way of the 
 World (I. i) and elsewhere. Much the same 
 is. true of the characters. The humor of the 
 old man who marries a young wife, brags to 
 her of the exploits of his youth, and is cajoled, 
 managed, and deceived by her, is at least 
 
 as old as Chaucer's Merchant's Tale; the two 
 brothers, one plausible and unlovely, the other 
 reckless but good-hearted, are familiar in 
 Fielding's Tom Jones (not to mention the 
 parable of the Prodigal Son). In this play, 
 as often, the comedy of manners verges into 
 the comedy of humors. That each character 
 is intended to embody a single trait is an- 
 nounced in the names of most of them — 
 Teazle, Surface, Crabtree, etc. The char- 
 acterization is broad and simple, with little 
 aim at subtlety. But it is endlessly diverting 
 and vigorous; every stroke counts, and its 
 force makes it seem more lifelike than it is. 
 Nor is it wanting in original discernment, as 
 in the person of Mrs. Candour, who gets a 
 reputation for charity by professing disbelief 
 in the malevolent gossip she spreads. 
 
 The vitality of the play consists chiefly in 
 its situations and its dialogue. Every action 
 and line show Sheridan's, keen eye for the 
 dramatically effective. Two scenes are espe- 
 cially celebrated. One (IV. i) is where 
 Charles has his ancestors' portraits auctioned 
 off, the other (IV. iii) where the screen is 
 thrown down ^nd Lady Teazle is disclosed. 
 In each of them every speech makes the situa- 
 tion more tense. The comedy is made 
 more piquant in each by the spectator being 
 in the secret, which is not shared by the char- 
 acters; he rejoices that Charles' loyalty to 
 his uncle is serving him better than he knows, 
 and that Joseph's agonized struggles (unseen 
 by the other persons) are entangling him 
 more and more. The scenes where Joseph re- 
 jects his disguised uncle's request (V. i), 
 where Sir Peter walks in upon the gossips 
 (V. ii), and the general clearing up at the 
 end, are also admirable. It is perhaps chiefly 
 the effectiveness on the stage of such scenes 
 in this play and The Rivals that has enabled 
 Sheridan to outlive all other men of the 
 eighteenth century except Goldsmith as an 
 acting dramatist; and that made Sir Henry 
 Irving call this play the most popular comedy 
 in the English language. 
 
 His popularity on the stage has been hardly 
 less helped by his dialogue; which is the 
 chief reason for his popularity among readers. 
 He and Congreve are the most constantly 
 brilliant of the older English dramatists, and 
 Congreve is perhaps less epigrammatic and 
 quotable. Sheridan's dialogue resembles 
 those fireworks which emit a steady shower 
 of sparks, and now and then an exploding ball 
 of fire. Its sheer cleverness cannot be sur- 
 
 671 
 
672 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 passed, and justifies the sacrifices he makes 
 to it. The chief of these is realism. It was 
 said of Ben Jonson that he would rather lose 
 his friend than his jest; Sheridan would 
 rather lose his truth to nature than his jest 
 Snake declares that, since he lives by the bad- 
 ness of his character, " if it were once known 
 that he had been betrayed into an honest 
 action, he should lose every friend he has in 
 the world." The cynical impudence is of the 
 stage, not of life. It is acceptable because 
 the play is a work of art, not a study of 
 human character. Even the fop Sir Benjamin 
 Backbite says clever things, and the clever 
 Trip is rather the roguish servant of fiction 
 than of life. The vigor of the play carries us 
 over the obstructions of sober truth. Sheri- 
 dan neglects no source of mirth; he is fond 
 of leading his characters, especially Sir Peter 
 Teazle, into verbal pitfalls whence they 
 scramble out covered with ridicule. When 
 Lady Teazle in her new station aspires to be 
 thought a woman of taste, he sputters back, 
 "Zounds, madam! You had no taste when 
 you married me" (I. i). 
 
 No play is a, more lifelike reflection of the 
 age when it was written than The School for 
 Scandal. Being a comedy of manners, it il- 
 lustrates social life and conceptions; we are 
 conscious of the dress and bearing of modish 
 society, of its amusements, and its moral 
 standards. The play vividly illustrates the 
 differing moral standards for the two sexes, 
 and the petty vices with which what used to 
 be called the softer sex was ayowed to solace 
 itself for strictness in weightier matters. 
 Maria, the model young woman, declares, 
 " We have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thou- 
 sand motives to depreciate each other; but 
 the male slanderer must have the cowardice 
 of a woman before he can traduce one " (I.i) . 
 
 In a literary way, too, the play is of its 
 time, just as Goldsmith's are. It embodies 
 sentimentalism even more than She Stoops to 
 Conquer does; but in the main satirizes it. 
 It makes some concession to the popular taste 
 in the complete poetic justice of the close, and 
 in the ease with which the characters mend 
 their ways. Lady Teazle is to settle down to 
 rural domesticity (at least according to the 
 epilogue). Charles is to illustrate the good 
 old-fashioned theory that the reformed rake 
 makes the best husband, though he is cau- 
 tious enough to " make no promises " " as to 
 reforming." He is the sentimental type of 
 hero, almost to the present day beloved on the 
 
 suburban stage, and inherited by the nine- 
 teenth century from the eighteenth, the reck- 
 less dare-devil fellow, his own worst enemy, 
 who rises to an occasion for loyalty and gen- 
 erosity where the plausible and well-behaved 
 fails; a type more attractive than true to 
 morals and life. Sentimental love appears 
 but little ; it is said because Sheridan doubted 
 the success in a love-scene of the actor who 
 was to play Charles. The play was called in 
 its own day an " attempt to destroy the taste 
 for sentimental comedy revived by Mr. Cum- 
 berland" (whose West Indian and other 
 plays had met great success). Sheridan ridi- 
 cules sentimentalism chiefly in the person of 
 Joseph Surface, " a man of sentiment." To 
 the world he is a highly moral young man, 
 who hardly opens his mouth without drop- 
 ping edification. In reality he is a cynical 
 hypocrite, who throws off his mask when he 
 fancies it unnecessary. " Lud," says Lady 
 Sneerwell, "you are going to be moral, and 
 forget that you are among friends." " Egad, 
 that 's triie," says he ; " I '11 keep that senti- 
 ment till I see Sir Peter." He is a very 
 difiicult character to play. He must not 
 seem shifty and unctuous, for he appears 
 honest enough to deceive the world, and 
 dashing enough to be the lover of the 
 frivolous Lady Teazle, and to pass for the 
 lover of the experienced Lady Sneerwell. 
 Though heightened beyond ordinary reality, 
 he is exceedingly effective dramatically. 
 
 The greatest charm of The School for 
 Scandal is its combination of cleverness with 
 geniality; in which it contrasts with Re- 
 storation comedy. We laugh with a clearer 
 heart at the cynical wit of the scandalmongers 
 because we are not expected to sympathize 
 with them. Nothing is made ridiculous that 
 does not deserve to be; the dramatist spares 
 us the ordinary stage Jew, even Moses has his 
 good points. 1 We accept characters on 
 analysis somewhat conventional, situations a 
 little forced, and poetic justice far more com- 
 plete than squares with experience, because of 
 the brilliant dash and good spirits with which 
 it all goes through. It is all no more arti- 
 ficial than art has the right to be. It shows 
 us something better than life, but with such 
 originality and energy as insures sufficient 
 illusion for supreme effectiveness. 
 
 1 Some seventeen years later the Bentimental 
 dramatist Cumberland produced a still more chiv- 
 alrouB picture in his play The Jew. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 "Written by Mr. Garrick. 
 
 A School for Scandal! tell me, I beseech 
 
 you, 
 Needs there a school this modish art to 
 
 teach you ? 
 No need of lessons now, the knowing think ; 
 We might as well be taught to eat and 
 
 drink. 
 Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the 
 
 -let them read the 
 
 vapors '■ 
 
 Distress our fair ones- 
 papers ; 
 
 Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit ; 
 
 Crave what you will — there's quantum 
 sufp,cit? 
 
 "Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who 
 loves tattle, 
 
 And puts much salt and pepper in her 
 prattle). 
 
 Just risen at noon, aU night at cards when 
 threshing • 
 
 Strong tea and scandal — "Bless me, how re- 
 freshing ! 
 
 Give me the papers, Lisp — ^how bold and 
 free! {Sips.) 
 
 Last night Lord L. (Sips) was caught with 
 Lady D. 
 
 For aching heads what charming sal vola- 
 tile! (Sips.) 
 
 If Mrs. B. will still continue -flirting, 
 
 We hope she 'II draw, or we 'II undraw the 
 curtain. 
 
 Fine satire, poz ^ — ^in public all abuse it. 
 
 But, by ourselves (Sips), our praise we 
 
 can't refuse it. 
 Now, Lisp, read you — there, at that dash 
 
 and star :" 
 "Yes, ma'am — A certain lord had best be- 
 ware, 
 Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor 
 
 Square; 
 For, should he Lady W. find willing. 
 Wormwood is bitter" "Oh, that 's me ! 
 
 the villain ! 
 Throw it behind the fire, and never more 
 Let that vile paper come within my door." 
 Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the 
 
 dart; 
 To reach our feelings, we ourselves must 
 
 smart. 
 Is our young bard so young, to think that he 
 Can stop' the full spring-tide of calumny? 
 Knows he the world so little, and its trade 1 
 Alas ! the devil 's sooner raised than laid. 
 So strong, so swift, the monster there 's no 
 
 gagging: 
 Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is 
 
 wagging. 
 Proud of your smiles once lavishly be- 
 stowed. 
 Again our young Don Quixote takes the 
 
 road ; 
 To show his gratitude he draws his pen. 
 And seeks his hydra. Scandal, in his den. 
 For your applause all perils he would 
 
 through — 
 He '11 fight — ^that 's write — a eavalliero true, 
 TiU every drop of blood — ^that's ink — ^is 
 
 spilt for you. 
 
 DEAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 SiE Peteb Teazle. 
 
 SiE Olives Sukface. 
 
 Young Surface. 
 
 Chables, his Brother. 
 
 Cbabtbee. 
 
 Sib Benjamin Backbite. 
 
 Rowlet. 
 
 Spunge. 
 
 Moses. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. Lady Sneerwell's House. 
 
 (Lady Sneerwell at her' dressing table with 
 Lappet; Miss Verjuice drinking choco- 
 late.) 
 
 1 A fit of melancholy. 
 
 Snake. 
 
 Cabeless — and other comparisons to Chables. 
 
 Tbip. 
 
 Lady Teazle. 
 
 Mabia. 
 
 Lady Sneeewell. 
 
 Mbs. Candouk. 
 
 Miss Vebjuice. 
 
 Lady Sneer. The paragraphs you say 
 were all inserted'? 
 
 Verj. They were, madam — and as I copied 
 them myself in a feigned hand there can 
 be no suspicion whence they came. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Did you circulate the report 
 
 3 positively. 
 
 2 A sufficiency. 
 673 
 
674 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 of Lady Brittle 's intrigue with Captain 
 Boastall? 
 
 Ferj. Madam, by this time Lady Brittle 
 is the talk of half the town — and I doubt 
 not in a week the men will toast her as a 
 demirep. 
 
 Lady Sneer. What have you done as to 
 the insinuation as to a certain baronet's 
 lady and a certain cook t 
 
 Verj. That is in as fine a train as your 
 Ladyship could wish. I told the story 
 yesterday to my own maid with directions 
 to communicate it directly to my hair- 
 dresser. He, I am informed, has a 
 brother who courts a milliner's prentice in 
 Pallmall, whose mistress has a first cousin 
 whose sister is femme de chamhre to Mrs. 
 Clackit — so that in the common course of 
 things it must reach Mrs. Clackit's ears 
 within four-and-twenty hours, and then 
 you know the business is as good as 
 done. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Why, truly, Mrs. CJackit has 
 a very pretty talent — a great deal of in- 
 dustry — ^yet — ^yes — ^been tolerably success- 
 ful in her way. To my knowledge she 
 has been the cause of breaking off six 
 matches, of three sons being disinherited 
 and four daughters being turned out of 
 doors; of three several elopements, as 
 many close confinements, nine separate 
 maintenances, and two divorces. — Nay, I 
 have more than once traced her causing a 
 tete-dhtete in the Town and Country 
 Magazine, when the parties perhaps had 
 never seen each other's faces before in 
 the course of their lives. 
 
 Verj. She certainly has talents. 
 
 Lady Sneer. But her manner is gross. 
 
 Verj. 'T is very true. She generally de- 
 signs well, has a free tongue, and a bold 
 invention; but her coloring is too dark 
 and her outline often extravagant. She 
 wants that delicacy of tint and mellow- 
 ness of sneer which distinguish your 
 Ladyship's scandal. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Ah, you are partial, Verjuice. 
 
 Verj. Not in the least; everybody allows 
 that Lady Sneerwell can do more with a 
 word or a look than many can with the 
 most labored detail, even when they hap- 
 pen to have a little truth on their side to 
 suppoit it. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Yes, my dear Verjuice. I 
 am no hypocrite to deny the satisfaction I 
 reap from the success of my efforts. 
 Wounded myself in the early part of my 
 life by the envenomed tongue of slander, 
 I confess I have since known no pleasure 
 
 equal to the reducing others to the level 
 of my own injured reputation. 
 
 Verj. Nothing can be more natural. But, 
 my dear Lady Sneerwell, there is one 
 affair in which you have lately employed 
 me, wherein, I confess, I am at a loss to 
 guess your motives. 
 
 Lady Sneer. I conceive you mean with re- 
 spect to my neighbor. Sir Peter Teazle, 
 and his family — Lappet. — And has my 
 conduct in this matter really appeared to 
 you so mysterious? 
 
 (Exit Maid.) 
 
 Verj. Entirely so. An old bachelor as Sir 
 Peter was, having taken a young wife 
 from out of the country — as Lady Teazle 
 is — are certainly fair subjects for a lit- 
 tle mischievous raillery ; but here are two 
 young men to whom Sir Peter has acted 
 as a kind of guardian since their father's 
 death, the eldest possessing the most ami- 
 able character and universally well 
 spoken of, the youngest the most dissi- 
 pated and extravagant young fellow in 
 the kingdom, without friends or charac- 
 ter; the former one an avowed admirer 
 of yours and apparently your favorite, 
 the latter attached to Maria, Sir Peter's 
 ward, and confessedly 'beloved by her. 
 Now on the face of these circumstances it 
 is utterly unaccountable to me why you, 
 a young widow with no great jointure, 
 should not close with the passion of a 
 man of such character and expectations 
 as Mr. Surface, and more so why yon 
 should be so uncommonly earnest to 
 destroy the mutual attachment sub- 
 sisting between his brother Charles and 
 Maria. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Then at once to unravel this 
 mystery, I must inform you that love has 
 no share whatever in the intercourse be- 
 tween Mr. Surface and me. 
 
 Verj. No ! 
 
 Lady Sneer. His real attachment is to 
 Maria or her fortune, but finding in his 
 brother a favored rival, he has been 
 obliged to mask his pretensions and profit 
 by my assistance. 
 
 Verj. Yet still I am more puzzled why 
 you should interest yourself in his suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Heavens! how dull you are! 
 cannot you surmise the weakness which I 
 hitherto thro' shame have concealed even 
 from you? — must I confess that Charles 
 — that libertine, that extravagant, that 
 bankrupt in fortune and reputation — ^that 
 he it is for whom I am thus anxious and 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 675 
 
 malicious and to gain whom I would 
 sacrifice — everything 1 
 
 Verj. Now indeed, your conduct appears 
 consistent and I no longer wonder at your 
 enmity to Maria ; but how came you and 
 Surface so confidential? 
 
 Lady Sneer. Pbr our mutual interest ; but 
 I have found out him a long time since, 
 altho' he has contrived to deceive every- 
 body beside. I know him to be artful, 
 selfish, and malicious; while with Sir 
 Peter, and indeed with all his acquaint- 
 ance, he passes for a youthful miracle of 
 prudence, good sense, and benevolence. 
 
 Verj. Yes, yes, I know Sir Peter vows he 
 has not his equal in England ; and, above 
 all, he praises him as a man of sentiment. 
 
 Lady Sneer. True, and with the assistance 
 of his sentiments and hypocrisy he has 
 brought Sir Peter entirely in his interests 
 with respect to Maria, and is now, I be- 
 lieve, attempting to flatter Lady Teazle 
 into the same good opinion towards him, 
 while poor Charles has no friend in the 
 house; though I fear he has a powerful 
 one in Maria's heart, against whom we 
 must direct our schemes. 
 
 Serv. Mr. Surface. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Show him up. He generally 
 calls about this time. I don't wonder at 
 people's giving him to me for a lover. 
 
 {Enter Surface.) 
 
 Surf. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do 
 you do to-day — your most obedient. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Miss Verjuice has just been 
 arraigning me on our mutual attachment 
 now ; but I have informed her of our real 
 views and the purposes for which our 
 geniuses at present co-operate. You 
 know how useful she has been to us; 
 and believe me, the confidence is not ill- 
 placed. 
 
 Surf. Madam, it is impossible for me to 
 suspect that a lady of Miss Verjuice's 
 sensibility and discernment 
 
 Lady Sneer. Well, well, no compliments 
 now ; but tell me when you saw your mis- 
 tress or, what is more material to me, 
 your brother. 
 
 Surf. I have not seen either since I saw 
 you, but I can inf onn yon that they are 
 at present at variance; some of your 
 stories have taken good effect on Maria. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Ah! my dear Verjuice, the 
 merit of this belongs to you. But do 
 your brother's distresses increase? 
 
 Surf. Every hour. I am told he had an- 
 other execution in his house yesterday ; in 
 
 short, his dissipation and extravagance 
 exceed anything I have ever heard of. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Poor Charles ! 
 
 Surf. True, madam, notwithstanding his 
 vices one can't help feeling for him; ah, 
 poor Charles ! I 'm sure I wish it was in 
 my power to be of any essential service 
 to him, for the man who does not share 
 in the distresses of a brother, even 
 though merited by his own misconduct, 
 deserves 
 
 Lady Sneer. Lud, you are going to be 
 moral, and forget that you are among 
 friends. 
 
 Surf. Egad, that's true — I'll keep that 
 sentiment till I see Sir Peter. However, 
 it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria 
 from such a libertine, who, if he is to be 
 reclaimed, can be so only by a person of 
 your ladyship's superior accomplishments 
 and understanding. 
 
 Verj. 'T would be a hazardous experiment. 
 
 Surf. But, madam, let me caution you to 
 place no more confidence in our friend 
 Snake the libeller; I have lately detected 
 him in frequent conference with old 
 [Rowley], who was formerly my father's 
 steward and has never been a friend of 
 mine. 
 
 Lady Sneer. I 'm not disappointed in 
 Snake; I never suspected the fellow to 
 have virtue enough to be faithful even to 
 his own villany. 
 
 (Enter Maria.) 
 
 Maria, my dear, how do you do ? What 's 
 
 the matter? 
 Maria. 0, there is that disagreeable lover 
 
 of mine. Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just 
 
 called at my guardian's with his odious 
 
 Uncle Crabtree; so I slipt out and ran 
 
 hither to avoid them. 
 Lady Sneer. Is that all? 
 Verj. Lady Sneerwell, I'll go and write 
 
 the letter I mentioned to you. 
 (Exit Verj.) 
 Surf. If my brother Charles had been of 
 
 the party, madam, perhaps you would not 
 
 have been so much alarmed. 
 Lady Sneer. Nay, now, you are severe, 
 
 for I dare swear the truth of the matter 
 
 is Maria heard you were here; but, my 
 
 dear, what has Sir Benjamin done that 
 
 you should avoid him so? , 
 
 Mar. Oh, he has done nothing; but his 
 
 conversation is a perpetual libel on all his 
 
 acquaintance. 
 Surf. Aye, and the worst of it is there is 
 
 no advantage in not knowing [him], for 
 
676 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 he '11 abuse a stranger just as soon as his 
 best friend ; and Crabtree is as bad. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Nay, but we should make al- 
 lowance — Sir Benjamin is a wit and a 
 poet. 
 
 Mar. For my part, I own, madam, wit 
 loses its respect with me, when I see it in 
 company with malice. — What do you 
 think, Mr. Surface? 
 
 Surf. Certainly, madam; to smile at the 
 jest which plants a thorn on another's 
 breast is to become a principal in the mis- 
 chief. I 
 
 Lady Sneer. Pshaw, there 's no possibility 
 of being witty without a little [ill-] na- 
 ture — ^the malice of a good thing is the 
 barb that makes it stick. — What 's your 
 opinion, Mr. Surface? 
 
 Surf. Certainly, madam ; that conversation 
 where the spirit of raillery is suppressed 
 will ever appear tedious and insipid. 
 
 Mar. Well, I '11 not debate how far scandal 
 may be allowable, but in a man I am 
 sure it is always contemptible. We have 
 pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand 
 motives to depreciate each other, but the 
 male-slanderer must have the cowardice 
 of a woman before he can traduce one. 
 
 Lady Sneer. I wish my cousin Verjuice 
 hadn't left us — she should embrace you. 
 
 Surf. Ah ! she 's an old maid, and is privi- 
 leged, of course. 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Serv. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below and 
 if your Ladyship 's at leisure will leave 
 her carriage. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Beg her to walk in. (Exit 
 Servant.) Now, Maria, however, here is 
 a character to your taste, for tho' Mrs. 
 Candour is a little talkative, everybody 
 allows her to be the best-natured and best 
 sort of woman. 
 
 Mar. Yes, with a very gross affectation of 
 good nature and benevolence, she does 
 more mischief than the direct malice of 
 old Crabtree. 
 
 Surf. V faith, 't is very true, Lady Sneer- 
 well. When ever I hear the current run- 
 ning again [st] the characters of my 
 friends, I never think them in such dan- 
 ger as when Candour undertakes their 
 defence. 
 
 L%dy Sneer. Hush, here she is 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Candour.) 
 
 Mrs. Can. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how 
 have you been this century? I have 
 never seen you tho' I have heard of you 
 
 very often. — Mr. Surface, the world says 
 scandalous things of you — but indeed it is 
 no matter what the world says, for I 
 think one hears nothing else but scandal. 
 
 Surf. Just so, indeed, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Ah, Maria, child — ^what! is the 
 whole affair off between you and Charles? 
 His extravagance, I presume — the town 
 talks of nothing else 
 
 Mar. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town 
 has so little to do. 
 
 Mrs. Can. True, true, child; but there's 
 no stopping people's tongues. I own I 
 was hurt to hear it — as I indeed was to 
 learn from the same quarter that your 
 guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle 
 have not agreed lately so well as could be 
 wished. 
 
 Mar. 'T is strangely impertinent for peo- 
 ple to busy themselves so. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Very true, child ; but what 's to 
 be done? People will talk — ^there's no 
 preventing it. Why, it was but yester- 
 day I was told that Miss Gadabout had 
 eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, 
 Lord ! there is no minding what one 
 hears ; tho' to be sure I had this from very 
 good authority. 
 
 Mar. Such reports are highly scandalous. 
 
 Mrs. Can. So they are, ehild^ — shameful! 
 shameful! but the world is so censorious 
 no character escapes. Lord, now! who 
 would have suspected your friend. Miss 
 Prim, of an indiscretion; yet such is the 
 ill-nature of people that they say her 
 uncle stopped her last week just as she 
 was stepping into a postchaise with her 
 . dancing-master. 
 
 Mar. I '11 answer for 't there are no 
 grounds for the report. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Oh, no foundation in the world, 
 I dare swear; no more probably than for 
 the story circulated last month, of Mrs. 
 Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino — 
 though to be sure that matter was never 
 rightly cleared up. 
 
 Surf. The licence of invention some peo- 
 ple take is monstrous indeed. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis so; but in my opinion those 
 who report such things are equally cul- 
 pable. 
 
 Mrs. Can. To be sure they are ; tale bear- 
 ers are as bad as the tale makers — 't is an 
 old observation and a very true one — ^but 
 what's to be done, as I said before? 
 How will you prevent people from talk- 
 ing? To-day Mrs. Clackitt assured me 
 Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last be- 
 come Djere man and wife — ^like [the rest 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 677 
 
 of their] acquaintance; she likewise 
 hinted that a certain widow in the next 
 street had got rid of her dropsy and re- 
 covered her shape in a most surprising 
 manner; at the same [time] Miss Tattle, 
 who was by, affirmed that Lord Boffalo 
 had discovered his Lady at a house of no 
 extraordinary fame, and that Sir Harry 
 Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to meas- 
 ure swords on a similar provocation. 
 But, Lord! do you think I would report 
 these things'! No, no! tale bearers, as I 
 said before, are just as bad as the tale 
 makers. 
 
 Surf. Ah ! Mrs. Candour, if everybody 
 had your forbearance and good nature — 
 
 Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I can- 
 not bear to hear people traduced behind 
 their backs ; and when ugly circumstances 
 come out against our acquaintance, I own 
 I always love to think the best. — By the 
 bye, I hope 't is not true that your brother 
 is absolutely ruined — 
 
 Surf. I am afraid his circumstances are 
 very bad indeed, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Ah! I heard so; but you must 
 tell him to keep up his spirits ; everybody 
 almost is in the same way — ^Lord Spindle, 
 Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and 
 Mr. Nickit — all up, I hear, within this 
 week ; so if Charles is undone, he '11 find 
 half his acquaintance ruined too, and 
 that, you know, is a consolation. 
 
 Surf. Doubtless, ma'am, a very great one. 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Serv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin 
 
 Backbite. 
 Lady Sneer. Soh! Maria, you see your 
 
 lover pursues you. Positively you shan't 
 
 escape. 
 
 {Enter Crabtree and Sir Benjamin 
 Backbite.) 
 
 Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. 
 Mrs. Candour, I don't believe you are ac- 
 quainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin 
 Backbite. Egad, ma'am, he has a pretty 
 wit, and is a pretty poet too, isn't he. 
 Lady Sneerwell? 
 
 Sir Ben. fle, uncle ! 
 
 Crab. Nay, egad, it's true. I back him 
 at a rebus or a charade against the best 
 rhymer in the kingdom. Has your Lady- 
 ship heard the epigram he wrote last 
 week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching 
 fire? — do, Benjamin, repeat it — or the 
 
 4 A sort of recep- 
 tion. 
 6 Petrarch (1304- 
 
 1374) addressed 
 his love-lyrics to 
 Laura, and the 
 
 English poet 
 
 Waller (1606- 
 1687) addressed 
 
 charade you made last night extem- 
 pore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione 1 * 
 — Come now, your first is the name of a 
 fish, your second a great naval com- 
 mander — and — 
 
 Sir Ben. Dear uncle — ^now — prithee 
 
 Crab. V faith, ma'am, 't would surprise 
 you to hear how ready he is at all these 
 things. 
 
 Lady Sneer. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you 
 never publish anything. 
 
 Sir Ben. To say truth, ma'am, 't is very 
 vulgar to print, and as my little produc- 
 tions are mostly satires and lampoons, I 
 find they circulate more by giving copies 
 in confidence to the friends of the 
 parties; however, I have some love-ele- 
 gies, which, when favored with this 
 lady's smile, I mean to give to the public. 
 {Pointing to Maria.) 
 
 Crab. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they '11 im- 
 mortalize you — you '11 be handed down to 
 posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Wal- 
 ler's Saeharissa.^ 
 
 Sir Ben. Yes, madam, I think you will 
 like them — ^when you shall see in a beau- 
 tiful quarto page how a neat rivulet of 
 text shall meander thro' a meadow of 
 margin — 'fore Gad, they wiU be the most 
 elegant things of their kind. 
 
 Crab. But, ladies, have you heard the 
 news? 
 
 Mrs. Can. What, sir, do you mean the re- 
 port of 
 
 Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it. — Miss 
 Nicely is going to be married to her own 
 footman. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Impossible! 
 
 Crah. Ask Sir Benjamin. 
 
 Sir Ben. 'T is very true, ma'am ; every- 
 thing is fixed and the wedding livery be- 
 spoke. 
 
 Crab. Yes, and they say there were press- 
 ing reasons for 't. 
 
 Mrs. Can. It cannot be — and I wonder 
 any one should believe such a story of so 
 prudent a- lady as Miss Nicely. 
 
 Sir Ben. Lud ! ma'am, that 's the very 
 reason 'twas believed at once. She has 
 always been so cautious and so reserved 
 that everybody was sure there was some 
 reason for it at bottom. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Yes, a tale of scandal is as 
 fatal to the reputation of a prudent lady 
 of her stamp as a fever is generally to 
 those of the strongest constitutions, but 
 there is a sort of puny sickly reputation, 
 
 Lady Dorotliy 
 Sidney). 
 
 his to Sacharissa 
 (his name for 
 
678 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 that is always ailing yet will outlive 
 the robuster characters of a hundred 
 prudes. 
 
 Sir Ben. True, madam, there are valetudi- 
 narians in reputation as well as constitu- 
 tion, who being conscious of their weak 
 part, avoid the least breath of air, and 
 supply their want of stamina by care and 
 circumspection. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Well, but this may be all mis- 
 take. You know, Sir Benjamin, very 
 trifling circumstances often give rise to 
 the most injurious tales. 
 
 Crab. That they do, I '11 be sworn, ma'am. 
 Did you ever hear how Miss Shepherd 
 came to lose her lover and her character 
 last summer at Tunbridge? — Sir Benja- 
 min, you remember it. 
 
 Sir Ben. to be sure, the most whimsical 
 circumstance — 
 
 Lady Sneer. How was it, pray? 
 
 Crab. Why, one evening at Mrs. Ponto's 
 assembly, the conversation happened to 
 turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova- 
 Scotia sheep in this country. Says a 
 young lady in company, "I have known 
 instances of it, for Miss Letitia Shep- 
 herd, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova- 
 Scotia sheep that produced her twins." — 
 "What!" cries the old Dowager Lady 
 Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a 
 post), "has Miss Letitia Shepherd had 
 twins?" — This mistake, as you may 
 imagine, threw the whole company into a 
 flit of laughing. However, 't was the next 
 morning everywhere reported and in a 
 few days believed by the whole town, that 
 Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually been 
 brought to bed by a fine boy and girl, and 
 in less than a week there were people 
 who could name the father, and the farm 
 house where the babies were put out to 
 nurse. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Strange indeed ! 
 
 Crdb. Matter of fact, I assure you. 
 Lud ! Mr. Surface, pray, is it true 
 that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming 
 home? 
 
 Surf. Not that I know of indeed, sir. 
 
 Crab. He has been in the East Indies a 
 long time; you can scarcely remember 
 him, I believe. Sad comfort on his ar- 
 rival to hear how your brother has gone 
 -on! 
 
 Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir. 
 
 to be sure; but I hope no busy people 
 .have already prejudiced Sir Oliver 
 against him. He may reform. 
 
 Sir Ben. To be sure he may ; for my part 
 I never believed him to be so utterly void 
 of principle as people say; and tho' he 
 has lost ail his friends, I am told nobody 
 is better spoken of — by the Jews. 
 
 Crab. That's true, egad, nephew; if the 
 Old Jewry ^ was a ward I believe Charles 
 would be an alderman — no man more 
 popular there ; 'fore Gad, I hear he pays 
 as many annuities ' as the Irish Ton- 
 tine,* and that whenever he 's sick they 
 have prayers for the recovery of his 
 health in the synagogue. 
 
 Sir Bent. Yet no man lives in greater 
 splendor: — they tell me when he enter- 
 tains his friends, he can sit down to din- 
 ner with a dozen of his own securities, 
 have a score of tradesmen waiting in the 
 ante-chamber, and an officer behind every 
 guest's chair. 
 
 Surf. This may be entertainment to you, 
 gentlemen, but you pay very little re- 
 gard to the feelings of a brother. 
 
 Mar. Their malice is intolerable. Lady 
 Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morn- 
 ing — I 'm not very well. 
 {Exit Mar.) 
 
 Mrs. Can. dear, she changed color very 
 much! 
 
 Lady Sneer. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow 
 her — she may want assistance. 
 
 Mrs. Can. That I will with all my soul, 
 ma'am. — Poor, dear girl, who knows 
 what her situation may be ! 
 (Exit Mrs. Can.) 
 
 Lady Sneer. 'T was nothing but that she 
 could not bear to hear Charles reflected 
 on, notwithstanding their difference. 
 
 Sir Ben. The young lady's penchant is 
 obvious. 
 
 Crab. But, Benjamin, you must n't give 
 up the pursuit for that; follow her and 
 put her into good humor — repeat her 
 some of your verses; come, I'll assist 
 you— 
 
 Sir Ben. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to 
 hurt you, but depend on 't your brother 
 is utterly undone. 
 
 {Going.) 
 
 Crab. Lud! aye — undone — as ever man 
 was — can't raise a g:uinea. 
 
 6 A street in the 
 center of Lon- 
 don, named from 
 a synagogue 
 
 which stood there 
 
 the 
 
 Middle 8 A tontine is a 
 
 kind of insurance 
 
 7 An annual pay- scheme which 
 
 ment made hv a sometimes paid 
 
 dehtor. 
 
 annual divi- 
 
 dends. Shortly 
 before the date 
 of this play the 
 
 Irish government 
 had undertaken 
 to raise money by 
 starting one. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 679 
 
 Sir Ben. And everything sold, I 'm told, 
 that was movable. 
 
 (Going.) 
 
 Crab. I was at his house — ^not a thing 
 left but some empty bottles that were 
 overlooked and the family pictures, 
 which I believe are framed in the wain- 
 scot. 
 
 (Going.) 
 
 Sir Ben. And I 'm very sorry to hear also 
 some bad stories against him. 
 (Going.) 
 
 Crab. he has done many mean things, 
 that 's certain ! 
 
 Sir Ben. But however, as he is your 
 
 brother 
 
 (Going.) 
 
 Crab. "We'll tell you all another oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! 'tis very hard 
 for them to leave a subject they have not 
 quite run down. 
 
 Surf. And I believe the abuse was no 
 more acceptable to your ladyship than 
 Maria. 
 
 Lady Sneer. I doubt her affections are 
 farther engaged than we imagined; but 
 the family are to be here this evening, 
 so you may as well dine where you are 
 and we shall have an opportunity of ob- 
 serving farther. In the meantime, I '11 
 go and plot mischief and you shall study 
 sentiments 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. Sir Peter's House. 
 
 (Enter Sir Peter.) 
 
 Sir Pet. When an old bachelor takes a 
 young wife, what is he to expect ? 'T is 
 now six months since Lady Teazle made 
 me the happiest of men — and I have been 
 the most miserable dog ever since that 
 ever committed wedlock. We tift a little 
 going to church — and came to a quarrel 
 before the bells had done ringing. I was 
 more than once nearly choked with gall 
 during the honeymoon, and had lost all 
 comfort in life before my friends had 
 done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with 
 caution — a girl bred wholly in the coun- 
 try, who never knew luxury beyond one 
 silk gown, nor dissipation above the 
 annual gala of a race-ball. Yet she now 
 plays her part in all the extravagant fop- 
 peries of the fashion and the town, with 
 
 9 A fashionable district in the West End of London. 
 
 as ready a grace as if she had never seen 
 a bush nor a grass plot out of Gros- 
 venor-Square ! " I am sneered at by my 
 old acquaintance — paragraphed in the 
 newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, 
 and contradicts all my humors. Yet the 
 worst of it is I doubt '^° I love her or I 
 should never bear all this. However, 
 I '11 never be weak enough to own it. 
 
 (Enter Bowley.) 
 
 Bow. Sir Peter, your servant: — how is't 
 with you, sir? 
 
 Sir Pet. Very bad, Master Rowley, very 
 bad. I meet with nothing but crosses 
 and vexations. 
 
 Bow. What can have happened to trouble 
 you since yesterday? 
 
 Sir Pet, A good question to a married 
 man! 
 
 Bow. Nay, I 'm sure your lady. Sir Peter, 
 can't be the cause of your uneasiness. 
 
 Sir Pet. Why, has anybody told you she 
 was dead? 
 
 Bow. Come, come. Sir Peter, you love her, 
 notwithstanding your tempers do not ex- 
 actly agree. 
 
 Sir Pet. But the fault is entirely hers, 
 Master Eowley; I am myself the sweet- 
 est tempered man alive, and hate a teas- 
 ing temper; and so I tell her a hundred 
 times a day. 
 
 Bow. Indeed ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, and what is very extraordi- 
 nary in all our disputes, she is always in 
 the wrong ! But Lady Sneerwell and the 
 set she meets at her house encourage the 
 perverseness of her disposition. Then to 
 complete my vexations, Maria, my ward, 
 whom I ought to have the power of a 
 father over, is determined to turn rebel 
 too and absolutely refuses the man whom 
 I have long resolved on for her husband 
 — meaning, I suppose, to bestow herself 
 on his profligate brother. 
 
 Bow. You know. Sir Peter, I have always 
 taken the liberty to differ with you on 
 the subject of these two young gentle- 
 men; I only wish you may not be de- 
 ceived in your opinion of the elder. For 
 Charles, my life on 't ! he will retrieve 
 his errors yet; their worthy father, once 
 my honored master, was at his years 
 nearly as wild a spark. 
 
 Sir Pet. You are wrong, Master Rowley. 
 On their father's death you know I acted 
 as a kind of guardian to them both, till 
 their uncle Sir Oliver's Eastern bounty 
 
 10 suspect, fear. 
 
680 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 gave them an early independence. Of 
 course no person could have more oppor- 
 tunities of judging of their hearts, and 
 I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph 
 is indeed a model for the young men of 
 the age. He is a man of sentiment, and 
 acts up to the sentiments he professes; 
 but for the other, take my word for 't, if 
 he had any grain of virtue by descent, he 
 has dissipated it with the rest of his in- 
 heritance. Ah! my old friend, Sir 
 Oliver, will be deeply mortified when he 
 finds how part of his bounty has been 
 misapplied. 
 
 Bow. I am sorry to find you so violent 
 against the young man, because this may 
 be the most critical period of his fortune. 
 I came hither with news that will sur- 
 prise you. 
 
 Sir Pet. What! let me hear. 
 
 Bow. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this mo- 
 ment in town. 
 
 Sir Pet. How! — you astonish me. I 
 thought you did not expect him this 
 month ! 
 
 Bow. I did not, but bis passage has been 
 remarkably quick. 
 
 Sir Pet. Egad, I shall rejoice to see my 
 old friend. 'T is sixteen years since we 
 met. We have had many a day together. 
 But does he still enjoin us not to inform 
 his nephews of his arrival? 
 
 Bow. Most strictly. He means, before he 
 makes it known, to make some trial of 
 their dispositions, and we have already 
 planned something for the purpose. 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah, there needs no art to dis- 
 cover their merits ; however, he shall have 
 his way. But pray does he know I am 
 married 1 
 
 Bow. Yes, and will soon wish you joy. 
 
 Sir Pet. You may tell him 'tis too late. 
 Ah, Oliver will laugh at me — we used to 
 rail at matrimony together, but he has 
 been steady to his text. Well, he must 
 be at ray house tho' — I'll instantly give 
 orders for his reception. But, Master 
 Rowley, don't drop a word that Lady 
 Teazle and I ever disagree. 
 
 Bow. By no means. 
 
 Sir Pet. For I should never be able to 
 stand Noll's jokes ; so I 'd have him think 
 that we are a very happy couple. 
 
 Row. I understand you; but then you 
 must be very careful not to differ while 
 he's in the house with you. 
 
 Sir Pet. Egad, and so we must — that 's 
 
 impossible. Ah! Master Rowley, when 
 an old bachelor marries a young wife, he 
 deserves— no, the crime carries the pun- 
 ishment along with it. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. At Sir Peter's. 
 (Sir Peter and Lady Teazle.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll 
 not bear it. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you 
 may scold or smile, according to your 
 humor, but I ought to have my own way 
 in ■ everything, and what 's more I will 
 too. What! tho' I was educated in the 
 country, I know very well that women of 
 fashion in London are accountable to 
 nobody after they are married. 
 
 Sir Pet. Very well! ma'am, very well! so 
 a husband is to have no influence, no au- 
 thority? 
 
 Lady Teaz. Authority! no, to be sure — ^if 
 you wanted authority over me, you should 
 have adopted me and not married me: I 
 am sure you were old enough. 
 
 Sir Pet. Old enough — aye, there it is! 
 Well— well— Lady Teazle, tho' my hfe 
 may be made unhappy by your temper, 
 I '11 not be ruined by your extravagance. 
 
 Lady Teaz. My extravagance! I'm sure 
 I 'm not more extravagant than a woman 
 of fashion ought to be. 
 
 Sir Pet. No, no, madam, you shall throw 
 away no more sums on such unmeaning 
 luxury. 'Slife,^^ to spend as much to 
 furnish your dressing room with flowers 
 in winter as would suffice to turn the 
 Pantheon ^^ into a greenhouse, and give 
 a fete champ et re at Christmas. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Lord! Sir Peter, am I to 
 blame because flowers are dear in cold 
 weather? You should find fault with the 
 climate, and not with me. For my part 
 
 . I 'm sure I wish it was spring all the 
 year round, and that roses grew under 
 one's feet! 
 
 Sir Pet. Oons ! ^^ madam, if you had been 
 born to those fopperies, I should n't won- 
 der at your talking thus ; but you forget 
 what your situation was when I married 
 you. 
 
 Lady Teaz. No, no, I don't ; 't was a very 
 disagreeable one or I should never have 
 married you. 
 
 11 A disguised oatli, — "by God's life I" 12 A large concert-hall in the West End. 
 
 IS Another disguised oath. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 681 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, you were then 
 in somewhat a humbler style — the daugh- 
 ter of a plain country squire. Recollect, 
 Lady Teazle, when I saw you first — sit- 
 ting at your tambour ^■^ in a pretty fig- 
 ured linen gown — with a bunch of keys 
 at your side, and your apartment hung 
 round with fruits in worsted, of your 
 own working. 
 
 Lady Teaz. horrible! horrible! — don't 
 put me in mind of it! 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, and your daily 
 occupation to inspect the dairy, superin- 
 tend the poultry, make extracts from the 
 
 J family receipt-book, and comb your aunt 
 Deborah's lap dog. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Abominable! 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, madam, and what were your 
 evening amusements? To draw patterns 
 for ruffles, which you hadn't the mate- 
 rials to make, play Pope Joan ^^ with the 
 curate, to read a sermon to your aunt, or 
 be stuck down to an old spinet to strum 
 your father to sleep after a fox chase. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Scandalous, Sir Peter — not a 
 word of it true. 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, madam, these were the 
 recreations I took you from; and now — 
 no one more extravagantly in the fash- 
 ion — every foppery adopted — a head- 
 dress to o'ertop Lady Pagoda with 
 feathers pendant, horizontal, and per- 
 pendicular. You forget, Lady Teazle, 
 when .a little wired gauze with a few 
 beads made you a fly cap not much big- 
 ger than a blue-bottle, and your hair 
 was combed smooth over a roll. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Shocking! horrible roll!! 
 
 Sir Pet. But now — ^you must have your 
 coach — Vis-a-vis,^'^ and three powdered 
 footmen before your chair,^^ and in the 
 summer a pair of white cobs to draw you 
 to Kensington Gardens ^^ — ^no recollec- 
 tion when you were content to ride dou- 
 ble, behind the butler, on a docked coach- 
 horse ! 
 
 Lady Teaz. Horrid ! — I swear I never did. 
 
 Sir Pet. This, madam, was your , situa- 
 tion; and what have I not done for you? 
 I have made you woman of fashion, of 
 fortune, of rank — in short I have made 
 you my wife. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but 
 one thing more you can make me to add 
 to the olDligation. 
 
 Sir Pet. What's that, pray? 
 
 Lady Teaz. Your widow. 
 
 Sir Pet. Thank you, madam — but don't 
 flatter yourself, for though your ill-con- 
 duet may distuib my peace, it shall never 
 break my heart, I promise you. How- 
 ever I am equally obliged to you for the 
 hint. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Then, why will you endeavor 
 to make yourself so disagreeable to me 
 and thwart me in every little elegant ex- 
 pense ? 
 
 Sir Pet. 'Slife, madam, I pray, had you 
 any of these elegant expenses when you 
 married me? 
 
 Lady Teaz. Lud, Sir Peter, would you 
 have me be out of the fashion ? 
 
 Sir Pet. The fashion indeed ! — ^what had 
 you to do with the fashion before you 
 married me? 
 
 Lady Teaz. For my part, I should think 
 you would like to have your wife thought 
 a woman of taste. 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, there again — taste ! Zounds, 
 madam, you had no taste when you mar- 
 ried me. 
 
 Lady Tea-z. That's very true indeed. Sir 
 Peter ! after having married you I should 
 never pretend to taste again, I allow. 
 
 Sir Pet. So, so, then, madam, if these are 
 your sentiments, pray how came I to be 
 honored with your hand? 
 
 Lady Teaz. Shall I tell you the truth? 
 
 Sir Pet. If it 's not too great a favor. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Why, the fact is, I was tired 
 of all those agreeable recreations which 
 you have so good-naturedly described, 
 and having a spirit to spend and enjoy 
 a fortune, I determined to marry the 
 first rich man that would have me. 
 
 Sir Pet. A very honest confession, truly 
 — but pray, madam, was there no one 
 else you might have tried to ensnare but 
 me? 
 
 Lady Teaz. lud — I drew my net at sev- 
 eral but you were the only one I could 
 catch. 
 
 Sir Pet. This is plain dealing indeed. 
 
 Lady Teaz. But now. Sir Peter, if we have 
 finished our daily jangle, I presume I 
 may go to my engagement at Lady Sneer- 
 well's? 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, there 's another precious 
 circumstance — a charming set of ac- 
 quaintance you have made there! 
 
 Lady Teaz. Nay, Sir Peter, they are peo- 
 ple of rank and fortune, and remark- 
 ably tenacious of reputation. 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of 
 
 14 An embroidery- 
 frame. 
 
 IB A game of cards. 16 /. e., a two-seated coach. ir A sedan-chair. 
 
 18 A park at the West End. 
 
682 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 reputation with a vengeance, for they 
 don't choose anybody should have a char- 
 acter but themselves! Such a crew! 
 Ah ! many a wretch has rid on hurdles " 
 who has done less mischief than these 
 utterers of forged tales, coiners of scan- 
 dal, and clippers of reputation.^" 
 
 Lady Tectz. What ! would you restrain the 
 freedom of speech? 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, they have made you just as 
 bad as any one of the society. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Why, I believe I do bear a 
 part with a tolerable grace. But I vow 
 I bear no malice against the people I 
 abuse; when I say an ill-natured thing, 
 't is out of pure good humor, and I take 
 it for granted they deal exactly in the 
 same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, 
 you know you promised to come to Lady 
 Sneerwell's too. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, well, I '11 call in, just to 
 look after my own character. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Then, indeed, you must make 
 haste after me, or you '11 be too late ; so 
 good bye to ye. 
 
 Sir Pet. So — I have gained much by my 
 intended expostulation. Yet with what a 
 charming air she contradicts everything 
 I say — and how pleasingly she shows her 
 contempt of my authority. Well, tho' I 
 can't make her love me, there is certainly 
 a great satisfaction in quarrelling with 
 her; and I think she never appears to 
 such advantage as when she is doing ev- 
 erything in her power to plague me. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. At Lady Sneerwell's. 
 
 {Liidy Sneerwell, Mrs. Candour, Crabtree, 
 Sir Benjamin Backbite, and Surface.) 
 
 Lady Sneer. Nay, positively, we will hear 
 it. 
 
 Surf. Yes, yes, the epigram, by all means. 
 
 Sir Ben. ph-gne on't, uncle, 'tis mere 
 nonsense. 
 
 Crab. No, no; 'fore gad, very clever for 
 an extempore! 
 
 Sir Ben. But, ladies, you should be ac- 
 quainted with the circumstances. You 
 must know that one day last week as 
 Lady Betty Curricle was taking the dust 
 in [Hyde] Park,^! in a sort of duo- 
 decimo ^^ phaeton, she desired me to write 
 some verses on her ponies; upon which I 
 
 19 Light sledges on 20 He alludes to the 
 
 which great crim- utterers (issuers) 
 
 inals used to be and coiners of 
 
 drawn to execu- counterfeit mon- 
 
 tlon. ey, and to those 
 
 took out my pocketbook, and in one mo- 
 ment produced — ^the following: — 
 
 Sure never were seen two such beautiful 
 ponies ; 
 
 Other horses are clowns — and these maca- 
 ronies,^' 
 
 Nay to give 'em this title, I 'm sure is n't 
 wrong. 
 
 Their legs are so slim, and their tails are 
 so long. 
 
 Crab. There, ladies — done in the smack of 
 a whip and on horseback too. 
 
 Surf. A very Phcebus mounted, indeed, 
 Sir Benjamin. 
 
 Sir Ben. Oh, dear sir — trifles — ^trifles. 
 
 {Enter Lady Teazle and Maria.) 
 
 Mrs. Can. I must have a copy. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Lady Teazle, I hope we 
 
 shall see Sir Peter? 
 Lady Teaz. I believe he'll wait on your 
 
 Ladyship presently. 
 Lady Sneer. Maria, my love, you look 
 
 grave. Come, you shall sit down to 
 
 piquet with Mr. Surface. 
 Mar. I take very little pleasure in cards; 
 
 however, I '11 do as you please. 
 Lady Teaz. I am surprised Mr. Surface 
 
 should sit down with her; I thought he 
 
 would have embraced this opportunity 
 
 of speaking to me before Sir Peter 
 
 came. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 Mrs. Can. Now, I'll die but you are so 
 
 scandalous I'll forswear your society. 
 Lady Teaz. What 's the matter, Mrs. Can- 
 dour? 
 Mrs. Can. They'll not allow our friend 
 
 Miss Vermillion to be handsome. 
 Lady Sneer. Oh, surely she is a pretty 
 
 woman. . . . 
 Crab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am. 
 Mrs. Can. She has a charming fresh color. 
 Crab. Yes, when it is fresh put on. 
 Lady Teaz. fie ! I '11 swear her color is 
 
 natural — I have seen it come and go. 
 Crab. I dare swear you have, ma'am: it 
 
 goes of a night, and comes again in the 
 
 morning. 
 Sir Ben. True, uncle, it not only comes 
 
 and goes, but what 's more, egad, her maid 
 
 can fetch and carry it. 
 Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha ! ha ! how I hate to hear 
 
 you talk so ! But surely, now her sister 
 
 is or was very handsome. 
 
 who clipped hits 21 A varibtion on 28 Fashionables, 
 
 off gold coins (a "taking the air"; dandies; jf. 
 
 practice now pre- Hyde Park is in Tankee Doodle 
 
 vented by milling the West End. ("And csJled it 
 
 the edge). 22 J. e., miniature. macaroni"). 
 
THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL 
 
 683 
 
 Crab. Who? Mrs. Stucco? Olud! she's 
 six-and-flf ty if she 's an hour ! 
 
 Mrs. Can. Now positively you wrong her ; 
 flfty-two, or flfty-three is the utmost — 
 and I don't think she looks more. 
 
 Sir Ben, Ah ! there 's no judging by her 
 looks, unless one was to see her face. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Well — well — if she does take 
 some pains to repair the ravages of time, 
 you must allow she effects it with great 
 ingenuity — and surely that 's better than 
 the careless manner in which the widow 
 Oere chalks her wrinkles. 
 
 Sir Ben. Nay, now, you are severe upon 
 the widow; come, come, it isn't that she 
 paints so ill — but when she has finished 
 her face she joins it on so badly to her 
 neck, that she looks like a mended statue, 
 in which the connoisseur sees at once 
 that the head's modern though the 
 trunk 's antique. 
 
 Crab. Ha! ha! ha! well said, nephew! 
 
 Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make 
 me laugh but I vow I hate you for it. 
 What do you think of Miss Simper? 
 
 Sir Ben. Why, she has very pretty teeth. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Yes, and on that account, 
 when she is neither speaking nor laugh- 
 ing (which very seldom happens), she 
 never absolutely shuts her mouth, but 
 leaves it always on a- jar, as it were. 
 
 Mrs. Can. How can you be so ill-natured ? 
 
 Lady Teaz. Nay, I allow even that 's bet- 
 ter than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to 
 conceal her losses in front — she draws 
 her mouth till it resembles the aperture 
 of a poor's-box, and all her words appear 
 to slide out edgewise. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Very well, Lady Teazle, I 
 see you can be a little severe. 
 
 Lady Teaz. In defence of a friend it is 
 but justice, but here comes Sir Peter to 
 spoil our pleasantry. 
 
 {Enter Sir Peter.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Ladies, your obedient — mercy on 
 me, here is the whole set! a character's 
 dead at every word, I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, 
 Sir Peter; they have been so censorious 
 and Lady Teazle as bad as any one. 
 
 Sir Pet. That must be very distressing to 
 you, Mrs. Candour, I dare swear. 
 
 Mrs. Can. 0, they will allow good quali- 
 ties to nobody — not even good nature to 
 our friend, Mrs. Pursy. 
 
 Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who 
 was at Mrs. Codrille's last night ? 
 
 Lady Sneer. Nay, her bulk is her mis- 
 fortune and when she takes such pains 
 to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect 
 on her. 
 
 Mrs. Can. 'T is very true, indeed. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives 
 on acids and small whey, laces herself 
 by pulleys,' and often in the hottest noon 
 of summer you may see her on a little 
 squat pony, with her hair plaited up 
 behind like a drummer's, and pufSng 
 round the Ring^* on a full trot. 
 
 Mrs. Can. I thank you. Lady Teazle, for 
 defending her. 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, a good defence, truly! 
 
 Mrs. Can. But for Sir Benjamin, he is as 
 censorious as Miss Sallow. 
 
 Crah. Yes, and she is a curious being to 
 pretend to be censorious — an awkward 
 gawky, without any one good point un- 
 der Heaven ! 
 
 Lady Sneer. Positively, you shall not be 
 so very severe. Miss Sallow is a rela- 
 tion of mine by marriage, and, as for her 
 person, great allowance is to be made; 
 for, let me tell you, a woman labors un- 
 der many disadvantages who tries to pass 
 for a girl at six-and-thirty. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Though, surely she is hand- 
 some still — and for the weakness in her 
 eyes, considering how much she reads by 
 candle-light, it is not to be wondered at. 
 
 Lady Sneer. True, and then as to her 
 manner — upon my word, I think it is 
 particularly graceful considering she 
 never had the least education: for you 
 know her mother was a Welsh milliner, 
 and her father a sugar-baker at Bris- 
 tow. 
 
 Sir Ben. Ah! You are both of you too 
 good-natured ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, damned good-natured! 
 Her own relation! mercy on me! 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Can. For my part I own I cannot 
 bear to hear a friend ill-spoken of. 
 
 Sir Pet. No, to be sure! 
 
 Sir Ben. Ah, you are of a moral turn, 
 Mrs. Candour, and can sit for an hour 
 to hear Lady Stucco talk sentiments. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is 
 very well with the dessert after dinner, 
 for she 's just like the Spanish fruit one 
 cracks for mottoes, — made up of paint 
 and proverb. 
 
 Mrs Can. Well, I never will join in ridi- 
 culing a friend — and so I constantly tell 
 my cousin Ogle — and you all know what 
 
 84 A circular road in Hyde Park, 
 
684 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 pretensions she has to be critical in 
 beauty. 
 
 Lady Teaz. 0, to be sure, she has herself 
 the oddest countenance that ever was seen 
 — 'tis a collection of features from all 
 the different countries of the globe. 
 
 Sir Ben. So she has indeed — an Irish 
 front 
 
 Crab. Caledonian locks 
 
 Sir Ben. Dutch nose 
 
 Crab. Austrian lips 
 
 Sir Ben. Complexion of a Spaniard 
 
 Crab. And teeth ct la Chinoise 
 
 Sir Ben. In short, her face resembles a 
 table d'hote at Spa^^ — ^where no two 
 guests are of a nation. 
 
 Crab. Or a congress at the close of a gen- 
 eral war, wherein all the members even 
 to her eyes appear to have a different in- 
 terest, and her nose and chin are the 
 only parties likely to join issue. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Sir Pet. Mercy on my life ! a person they 
 dine with twice a week ! 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Lady Sneer. Go — go — you are a couple of 
 provoking toads. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not 
 carry the laugh off so — for give me leave 
 to say, that Mrs. Ogle 
 
 Sir Pet. Madam, madam — I beg your 
 pardon — there 's no stopping these good 
 gentlemen's tongues ; but when I tell you, 
 Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are 
 abusing is a particular friend of mine, I 
 hope you '11 not take her part. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well said, Sir 
 Peter; but you are a cruel creature — too 
 phlegmatic yourself for a jest and too 
 peevish^* to allow wit in others. 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more 
 nearly [allied] to good nature than your 
 ladyship is aware of. 
 
 Lady Sneer. True, Sir Peter — I believe 
 they are so near akin that they can never 
 be united. 
 
 Sir Ben. rather, madam, suppose them 
 man and wife, because one seldom sees 
 them together. 
 
 Lady Teaz. But Sir Peter is such an 
 enemy to scandal I believe he would have 
 it put down by Parliament. 
 
 Sir Pet. 'Fore heaven! madam, if they 
 were to consider the sporting with repu- 
 tation of as much importance as poach- 
 ing on manors, and pass an act for the 
 
 25 A watering-place 
 in Belgium. 
 
 26 spiteful. 
 
 27 Law relating to 
 business. 
 
 preservation of fame, there are many 
 would thank them for the bill. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Lud! Sir Peter, would 
 you deprive us of our privileges? 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, madam, and then no person 
 should be permitted to kill characters or 
 run down reputations but qualified old 
 maids and disappointed widows. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Go, you monster — 
 
 Mrs. Can. But sure you would not be 
 quite so severe on those who only report 
 what they hear? 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, madam, I would have Law 
 Merchant ^^ for that too — and in all cases 
 of slander currency, whenever the drawer 
 of the lie was not to be found, the in- 
 jured party should have a right to come 
 on any of the indorsers.^^ 
 
 Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there 
 never was a scandalous tale without some 
 foundation. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Come, ladies, shall we sit 
 down to cards in the next room? 
 
 (Enter Servant, whispers Sir Peter.) 
 
 Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly.— 
 (Exit Servant.) I'll get away unper- 
 ceived. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not leav- 
 ing us? 
 
 Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me — 
 I'm called away by particular business 
 — but I leave my character behind me. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Sir Ben. Well, certainly. Lady Teazle, 
 that lord of yours is a strange being; I 
 could tell you some stories of him would 
 make you laugh heartily if he weren't 
 your husband. 
 
 Lady Teaz. 0, pray don't mind that- 
 come, do let 's hear 'em. (Join the rest 
 of the company going into the next 
 room.) 
 
 Surf. Maria, I see you have no satisfac- 
 tion in this society. 
 
 Mar. How is it possible I should? If to 
 raise malicious smiles at the infirmities 
 or misfortunes of those who have never 
 injured us be the province of wit or 
 humor, Heaven grant me a double por- 
 tion of dullness. 
 
 Surf. Yet they appear more ill-natured 
 than they are — they have no malice at 
 heart. 
 
 Mar. Then is their conduct still more con- 
 temptible; for in my opinion, nothing 
 
 28 He is quibbling on a financial note or bill, for 
 which the indorser is responsible after the drawer. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 685 
 
 could excuse the intemperance of their 
 tongues but a natural and ungovernable 
 bitterness of mind. 
 
 Surf. Undoubtedly, madam; and it has 
 always been a sentiment of mine that 
 to propagate a malicious truth wantonly 
 is more despicable than to falsify from 
 revenge; but can you, Maria, feel thus 
 for others and be unkind to me alone — 
 nay, is hope to be denied the tenderest 
 passion ? 
 
 Mar. Why will you distress me by renew- 
 ing this subject? 
 
 Surf. Ah ! Maria ! you would not treat me 
 thus and oppose your guardian's, Sir 
 Peter's, wishes — but that I see that my 
 profligate brother is still a favored rival. 
 
 Mar. Ungenerously urged; but whatever 
 my sentiments of that unfortunate young 
 man are, be assured I shall not feel more 
 bound to give him up because his dis- 
 tresses have sunk him so low as to de- 
 prive him of the regard even of a 
 brother. 
 
 Surf. Nay but, Maria, do not leave me 
 with a frown — ^by all that 's honest, I 
 
 swear Gad's life, here 's Lady Teazle 
 
 — ^you must not — no, you shall — for 
 though I have the greatest regard for 
 Lady Teazle 
 
 Mar. Lady Teazle! 
 
 Surf. Yet were Sir Peter to suspect 
 
 {Enter Lady Teazle, and comes forward.) 
 
 Lady Teaz. What's this, pray — do you 
 take her for me ? — Child, you are wanted 
 in the next room. — What's all this, 
 pray— 
 
 {Exit Maria.] 
 
 Surf. 0, the most unlucky circumstance 
 in nature. Maria has somehow suspected 
 the tender concern I have for your hap- 
 piness, and threatened to acquaint Sir 
 Peter with her suspicions, and I was 
 just endeavoring to reason with her when 
 yon came. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Indeed, but you seemed to 
 adopt — a very tender mode of reason- 
 ing. Do you usually argue on your 
 knees? 
 
 Surf. 0, she 's a child — and I thought a 
 
 little bombast ^but. Lady Teazle, when 
 
 are you to give me your judgment on my 
 library as you promised? 
 
 Lady Teaz. No — no, I begin to think it 
 would be imprudent; and you know I 
 admit you as a lover no farther than 
 fashion requires. 
 
 Surf. True — a mere Platonic Cicisbeo,^'' 
 what every London wife is entitled to. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Certainly one must not be out 
 of the fashion — however, I have so much 
 of my country prejudices left — that — 
 though Sir Peter's ill humor may vex me 
 ever so, it never shall provoke me to 
 
 Surf. The only revenge in your power — 
 well, I applaud your moderation. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Go — you are an insinuating 
 hypocrite — ^but we shall be missed — let 
 us join the company. 
 
 Surf. True, but we had best not return 
 together. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Well, don't stay — for Maria 
 shan't come to hear any more of your 
 reasoning, I promise you. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Surf. A curious dilemma, truly, my poli- 
 tics have run me into. I wanted at first 
 only to ingratiate myself with Lady 
 Teazle that she might not be my enemy 
 with Maria; and I have, I don't know 
 how, become her serious lover, so that I 
 stand a chance of committing a crime I 
 never meditated — and probably of losing 
 Maria by the pursuit ! — Sincerely I begin 
 to wish I had never made such a point of 
 gaining so very good a character, for it 
 has led me into so many curst rogueries 
 that I doubt I shall be exposed at last. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene 3. At Sir Peter's. 
 {Bowley and Sir Oliver.) 
 
 Sir Oliv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! and so my old 
 friend is married, hey? — a young wife 
 out of the country ! — ha ! ha ! that he 
 should have stood bluff to old bachelor 
 so long and sink into a husband at last ! 
 
 Bow. But you must not rally him on the 
 subject. Sir Oliver — 'tis a tender point, 
 I assure you, though he has been mar- 
 ried only seven months. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Ah, then he has been just half 
 a year on the stool of repentance — poor 
 Peter! But you say he has entirely 
 given up Charles — never sees him, hey? 
 
 Bow. His prejudice against him is as- 
 tonishing, and I am sure, greatly in- 
 creased by a jealousy of him with Lady 
 Teazle, which he has been industriously 
 led into by a scandalous society in the 
 neighborhood who have contributed not 
 a little to Charles's ill name. Whereas 
 the truth is, I believe, if the lady is par- 
 
 29 (Italian) A trifling cavalier to a married woman. 
 
686 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY 
 
 tial to either of them his brother is the 
 favorite. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Aye — I know — ^there are a set 
 of malicious, prating, prudent gossips 
 both male and female, who murder char- 
 acters to kill time, and will rob a young 
 fellow of his good name before he has 
 years to know the value of it . . . but I 
 am not to be prejudiced against my 
 nephew by such, I promise you ! No, 
 no! if Charles has done nothing false or 
 mean, I shall compound ^^ for his ex- 
 travagance. 
 
 Bow. Then, my life on 't, you wiU re- 
 claim him. Ah, sir, it gives me new 
 vigor to find that your heart is not 
 turned against him, and that the son of 
 my good old master has one friend, how- 
 ever, left. 
 
 Sir Oliv. What! shall I forget, Master 
 Rowley, when I was at his house myself 1 
 — Egad, my brother and I were neither of 
 us very prudent youths, and yet I be- 
 lieve you have not seen many better men 
 than your old master was. 
 
 Row. 'T is this reflection gives me assur- 
 ance that Charles may yet be a credit to 
 his family — but here comes Sir Peter 
 
 Sir Oliv. Egad, so he does. Mercy on me 
 — ^he 's greatly altered — and seems to have 
 a settled married look — one may read 
 husband in his face at this distance. 
 
 (Enter Sir Peter.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Ha! Sir Oliver, my old friend — 
 
 welcome to England — a thousand times! 
 Sir Oliv. Thank you — thank you — Sir 
 
 Peter; and i' faith I am as glad to find 
 
 you well, believe me. 
 Sir Pet. Ah ! 't is a long time since we met 
 
 — sixteen year, I doubt, Sir Oliver — and 
 
 many a cross accident in the time. 
 Sir Oliv. Aye, I have had my share — ^but, 
 
 what! I find you are married — hey, my 
 
 old boy — ^well — well it can't be helped — 
 
 and so I wish you joy with all my heart. 
 Sir Pet. Thank you — thanks, Sir Oliver. 
 
 — Yes, I have entered into the happy 
 
 state, but we '11 not talk of that now. 
 Sir OUv. True, true, Sir Peter, old friends 
 
 shouldn't begin on grievances at first 
 
 meeting. No, no — 
 
 Bow. Take care, pray, sir 
 
 Sir OUv. Well — so one of my nephews, I 
 
 find, is a wild rogue — hey? 
 Sir Pet. Wild! — oh! my old friend — I 
 
 grieve for your disappointment there. 
 
 He 's a lost young man indeed ; however 
 
 30 Settle, come to terms. Si An almost meaningless exclamation; bless mel 
 
 his brother will make you amends; Jo- 
 seph is indeed what a youth should be — 
 everybody in the world speaks well of 
 him. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I am sorry to hear it — ^he has 
 too good a character to be an honest fel- 
 low. Everybody speaks well of him! 
 Psha ! then he has bowed as low to knaves 
 and fools as to the honest dignity of vir- 
 tue. 
 
 Sir Pet. What! Sir Oliver, do you blame 
 him for not making enemies 1 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes — if he has merit enough to 
 _ deserve them. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well — ^weU — ^you '11 be convinced 
 when you know him; 'tis edification to 
 hear him converse — ^he professes the no- 
 blest sentiments. 
 
 Sir OUv. Ah, plague on his sentiments — 
 if he salutes me with a scrap sentence of 
 morality in his mouth, I shall be sick di- 
 rectly — but, however, don't mistake me, 
 Sir Peter, I don't mean to defend 
 Charles's errors; but before I form my 
 judgment of either of them, I intend to 
 make a trial of their hearts — and my 
 friend Rowley and I have planned some- 
 thing for the purpose. 
 
 Bow. And Sir Peter shall own he has been 
 for once mistaken. 
 
 Sir Pet. My life on Joseph's honor 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, come, give us a bottle of 
 good wine, and we'll drink the lads' 
 healths and tell you our scheme. 
 
 Sir Pet. Allons, then. 
 
 Sir Oliv. But don't, Sir Peter, be so se- 
 vere against your old friend's son. 
 
 Sir Pet. 'T is his vices and follies have 
 made me his enemy. 
 
 Bow. Come — come — Sir Peter, consider 
 how early he was left to his own guid- 
 ance. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Odds my life ^^ — I am not sorry 
 that he has run out of the course a little ; 
 for my part, I hate to see dry prudence 
 clinging to the gi-een juices of youth — 
 't is like ivy round a sapling and spoils 
 the growth of the tree. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. At Sir Peter's. 
 
 (Sir Peter, Sir Oliver, and Bowley.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, then, we will see the fel- 
 lows first and have our wine afterwards. 
 But how is this, Master Rowley? I don't 
 see the jet *^ of your scheme. 
 
 S2 Gist, main point. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 687 
 
 Row. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley whom I 
 was speaking' of is nearly related to them 
 by their mother. He was once a mer- 
 chant in Dublin, but has been ruined by 
 a series of undeserved misfortunes, and 
 now lately coming over to solicit the as- 
 sistance of his friends here, has been 
 flung into prison by some of his cred- 
 itors, where he is now with two helpless 
 boys. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Aye, and a worthy fellow, too, 
 I remember him. But what is this to 
 lead to? 
 
 Bow. You shall hear. He has applied by 
 letter both to Mr. Surface and Charles; 
 from the former he has received nothing 
 but evasive promises of future service, 
 while Charles has done all that his ex- 
 travagance has left him power to do, and 
 he is at this time endeavoring to raise a 
 sum of money, part of which, in the 
 midst of his own distresses, I know he 
 intends for the service of poor Stanley. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Ah ! he is my brother's son. 
 
 Sir Pet. "Well, but how is Sir Oliver per- 
 sonally to 
 
 Row. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and 
 his brother that Stanley has obtained 
 permission to apply in person to his 
 friends, and as they have neither of them 
 ever seen him, let Sir Oliver assume his 
 character, and he will have a fair oppor- 
 tunity of judging at least of the benevo- 
 lence of their dispositions. 
 
 Sir Pet. Pshaw! this will prove nothing. 
 I make no doubt Charles is coxcomb and 
 thoughtless enough to give money to poor 
 relations if he had it. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Then he shall never want it. I 
 have brought a few rupees home with 
 me, Sir Peter, and I only want to be 
 sure of bestowing them rightly. 
 
 Row. Then, sir, believe me you will find 
 in the youngest brother one who in the 
 midst of folly and dissipation has still, 
 as our immortal bard expresses it, — 
 
 "a tear for pity and a hand open as the 
 day for melting charity." ^^ 
 
 Sir Pet. Pish ! What signifies his having 
 an open hand or purse either when he has 
 nothing left to give ! But if you talk of 
 humane sentiments, Joseph is the man. 
 Well, well, make the trial, if you please. 
 But where is the fellow whom you 
 brought for Sir Oliver to examine, rela- 
 tive to Charles's affairs? 
 
 Bow. Below, waiting his commands, and 
 no one can give him better intelligence. 
 This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who 
 to do him justice, has done everything in 
 his power to bring your nephew to a 
 proper sense of his extravagance. 
 
 Sir Pet. Pray, let us have him in. 
 
 Bow. Desire Mr. Moses to walk upstairs. 
 (Calls to Servant.) 
 
 Sir Pet. But, pray, why should you sup- 
 pose he will speak the truth ? 
 
 Bow. Oh, I have convinced him that he 
 has no chance of recovering certain sums 
 advanced to Charles but through the 
 bounty of Sir Oliver, who he knows is ar- 
 rived; so that you may depend on his 
 fidelity to his interest. I have also an- 
 other evidence in my power, one Snake, 
 whom I shall shortly produce to remove 
 some of your prejudices. Sir Peter, rela- 
 tive to Charles and Lady Teazle. 
 
 Sir Pet. I have heard too much on that 
 subject. 
 
 Bow. Here comes the honest Israelite. 
 
 {Enter Moses.) 
 
 — This is Sir Oliver. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Sir, I understand you have 
 lately had great dealings with my nephew 
 Charles. 
 
 Mos. Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I 
 could for him, but he was ruined before 
 he came to me for assistance. 
 
 Sir Oliv. That was unlucky truly, for 
 you have had no opportunity of showing 
 your talents. 
 
 Mos. None at all — I had n't the pleasure 
 of knowing his distresses till he was some 
 thousands worse than nothing, till it was 
 impossible to add to them. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Unfortunate indeed! but I sup- 
 pose you have done all in your power for 
 him,, honest Moses? 
 
 Mos. Yes, he knows that. This very 
 evening I was io have brought him a gen- 
 tleman from the city who does not Imow 
 him and will I believe advance some 
 money. 
 
 Sir Pet. What ! one Charles has never had 
 money from before? 
 
 Mos. Yes, Mr. Premium, of Crutched 
 Friars.^* 
 
 Sir Pet. Egad, Sir Oliver, a thought 
 strikes me! — Charles you say doesn't 
 know Mr. Premium? 
 
 Mos. Not at all. 
 
 Sir Pet. Now then. Sir Oliver, you may 
 
 S3 Quoted (not quite accurately) from Shakespeare's II. Benry IT., IV. iv. 
 84 A street in the financial district of London. 
 
688 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 have a better opportunity of satisfying 
 yourself than by an old romanciug tale 
 of a poor relation ; go with my friend 
 Moses and represent Mr. Premium, and 
 then I '11 answer for 't you '11 see your 
 nephew in all his glory. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Egad, I like this idea better than 
 the other, and I may visit Joseph after- 
 wards as old Stanley. 
 
 Sir Pet. True, so you may. 
 
 Bow. Well, this is taking Charles rather 
 at a disadvantage, to be sure ! However, 
 Moses, you understand Sir Peter and 
 will be faithful. 
 
 Mos. You may depend upon me — and this 
 is near the time I was to have gone. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I '11 accompany you as soon as 
 you please, Moses. But hold — I have 
 forgot one thing — how the plague shall I 
 be able to pass for a Jew ? 
 
 Mos. There 's no need ; the principaP^ is 
 Christian. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Is he? I'm very sorry to hear 
 it — ^but then again, an't I rather too 
 smartly dressed to look like a money- 
 lender? 
 
 Sir Pet. Not at all ; 't would not be out of 
 character, if you went in your own car- 
 riage, would it, Moses? 
 
 Mos. Not in the least. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well— but— how must I talk? 
 there 's certainly some cant of usUry 
 and mode of treating thai I ought to 
 know. 
 
 Sir. Pet. Oh, there 's not much to learn — 
 the great point as I take it is to be ex- 
 orbitant enough in your dpmands, hey, 
 Moses ? 
 
 Mos. Yes that 's very great point. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I '11 answer for 't I '11 not be 
 wanting in that — I '11 ask him eight or 
 ten per cent, on the loan — at least. 
 
 Mos. You '11 be found out directly ; if you 
 ask him no more than that, you '11 be dis- 
 covered immediately. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Hey ! what the plague ! — ^how 
 much then ? 
 
 Mos. That depends upon the circum- 
 stances; if he appears not very anxious 
 for the supply, you should require only 
 forty or fifty per cent. — but if you find 
 him in great distress, and want the 
 monies very bad, you may ask double. 
 
 Sir Pet. A good, honest trade you 're 
 learning, Sir Oliver — 
 
 Sir Oliv. Truly, I think so — and not un- 
 profitable. 
 
 Mos. Then, you know, you have n't the 
 monies yourself, but are forced to borrow 
 them for him of a friend. 
 
 Sir Oliver. 0, I borrow it of a friend, 
 do I? 
 
 Mos. And your friend is an unconseioned 
 dog — but you can't help it. 
 
 Sir Oliv. My friend 's an unconscionable 
 dog, is he? 
 
 Mos. Yes — and he himself hasn't the 
 monies by him — but is forced to sell stock 
 — at a great loss. 
 
 Sir Oliv. He is forced to sell stock, is he — 
 at a great loss, is he ? Well, that 's very 
 kind of him. 
 
 Sir Pet. I' faith. Sir Oliver — Mr. Premium 
 I mean — you'll soon be master of the 
 trade. But Moses would have him in- 
 quire if the borrower is a minor. 
 
 Mos. yes. 
 
 Sir Pet. And in that case his conscience 
 will direct him — 
 
 Mos. To have the bond in another name, 
 to be sure. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well — well, I shall be perfect. 
 
 Sir Pet. But, hearkee, would n't you have 
 him also run out a little against the an- 
 nuity bill? 3^ That would be in char- 
 acter I should think. 
 
 Mos. Very much. 
 
 Row. And lament that a young man now 
 must be at years of discretion before he is 
 suffered to ruin himself! 
 
 Mos. Aye, great pity! 
 
 Sir Pet. And abuse the public for allow- 
 ing merit to an act whose only object is 
 to snatch misfortune and imprudence 
 from the rapacious relief of usury! and 
 give the minor a chance of inheriting his 
 estate without being undone by coming 
 into possession. 
 
 Sir Oliv. So — so^-Moses shall give me 
 further instructions as we go together. 
 
 Sir Pet. You will not have much time, for 
 your nephew lives hard by. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Oh, never fear: my tutor ap- 
 pears so able that tho' Charles lived in 
 the next street, it must be my own fault 
 if I am not a complete rogue before I 
 turn the corner. 
 
 (Exeunt Sir Oliver and Moses.) 
 
 Sir Pet. So, now I think Sir Oliver will 
 be convinced — ^you shan't follow them, 
 Rowley. You are partial and would 
 have prepared Charles for t' other plot. 
 
 Row. No, upon my word, Sir Peter — 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, go bring me this Snake, 
 
 3B The person whose 
 agent he is. 
 
 30 
 
 A 
 rers 
 
 recent parliamentary bill, partly for the protection, of minors against usu- 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 689 
 
 and I '11 hear what he has to say pres- 
 ently. I see Maria, and want to speak 
 with her. {Exit Rowley.) I should be 
 glad to be convinced my suspicions of 
 Lady Teazle and Charles were unjust; I 
 have never yet opened my mind on this 
 subject to my friend Joseph. ... I am 
 determined. I will do it — he will give 
 me his opinion sincerely. — 
 
 {Enter Maria.) 
 
 So, child, has Mr. Surface returned with 
 you? 
 
 Mar. No, sir, he was engaged. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, Maria, do you not reflect, 
 the more you converse with that amiable 
 young man, what return his partiality for 
 you deserves? 
 
 Mar. Indeed, Sir Peter, your frequent im- 
 portunity on this subject distresses me 
 extremely ; you compel me to declare that 
 I know no man who has ever paid me a 
 particular attention whom I would not 
 prefer to Mr. Surface. 
 
 Sir Pet. Soh ! Here 's perverseness ; no, 
 no, Maria, 't is Charles only whom you 
 would prefer — 't is evident his vices and 
 f oUies have won your heart. 
 
 Mar. This is unkind, sir. You know I 
 have obeyed you in neither seeing nor 
 corresponding with him — I have heard 
 enough to convince me that he is un- 
 worthy my regard. Yet I cannot think 
 it culpable, if while my understanding 
 severely condemns his vices, ray heart 
 suggests some pity for his distresses. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, well, pity him as much as 
 you please, but give your heart and hand 
 to a worthier object. 
 
 Mar. Never to his brother ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Go — perverse and obstinate ! but 
 take care, madam, you have never yet 
 known what the authority of a guardian 
 is— don't compel me to inform you of it. 
 
 Mar. I can only say, you shall not have 
 just reason. 'T is true, by my fathei-'s 
 will I am for a short period bound to re- 
 gard you as his substitute, but I must 
 cease to think you so when you would 
 compel me to be miserable. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Was ever man so crossed as I am, 
 everything conspiring to fret me? I had 
 not been involved in matrimony a fort- 
 night, before her father, a hale and 
 hearty man, died on purpose, I believe, 
 for the pleasure of plaguing me with the 
 care of his daughter. . . . But here 
 comes my helpmate! She appears in 
 
 great good humor; how happy I should 
 be if I could teaze her into loving me 
 tho' but a little ! 
 
 {Enter Lady Teazle.) 
 
 Lady Teast. Lud! Sir Peter, I hope you 
 have n't been quarrelling with Maria ? It 
 isn't using me well to be ill-humored 
 when I am not by ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah ! Lady Teazle, you might have 
 the power to make me good-humored at 
 all times. 
 
 Lady lean. I am sure, I wish I had — for 
 I want you to be in a charming sweet 
 temper at this moment — do be good-hu- 
 mored now — and let me have two hun- 
 dred pounds, will you ? 
 
 Sir Pet. Two hundred pounds ! what, an't 
 I to be in a good humor without paying 
 for it? But speak to me thus — and 
 i' faith there's nothing I could refuse 
 you. You shall have it — ^but seal me a 
 bond for the repayment. 
 
 Lady Teaz. no-^there — my note of 
 hand will do as well. 
 
 Sir Pet. And you shall no longer reproach 
 me with not giving you an independent 
 settlement; I shall shortly surprise you, 
 and you '11 not call me ungenerous. But 
 shall we always live thus — hey? 
 
 Lady Teaz. If you please ; I 'm sure I 
 don't care how soon we leave off quarrel- 
 ling provided you '11 own you were tired 
 first. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well — then let our future contest 
 be who shall be most obliging. 
 
 Lady Teaz. I assure you. Sir Peter, good 
 nature becomes you — you look now as 
 you did before we were married — ^when 
 you used to walk with me under the elms, 
 and tell me stories of what a gallant you 
 were in your youth — and chuck me under 
 the chin, you would — and ask me if I 
 thought I could love an old fellow who 
 would deny me nothing — did n't you ? 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes — yes — and you were as kind 
 and attentive 
 
 Lady Teaz. Aye, so I was — and would al- 
 ways take your part, when my acquaint- 
 ance used to abuse you and turn you into 
 ridicule. 
 
 Sir Pet. Indeed ! 
 
 Lady Teaz. Aye — and when my cousin 
 Sophy has called you a stiff, peevish, old 
 bachelor and laughed at me for thinking 
 of marrying one who might be my father 
 — I have always defended you — and said 
 I did n't think you so ugly by any means. 
 
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 and that you 'd make a very good sort of 
 a husband. 
 
 Sir Pet. And you prophesied right, and 
 we shall certainly now be the happiest 
 couple 
 
 Lady Teae. And never differ again. 
 
 Sir Pet. No, never — tho' at the same time 
 indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must 
 watch your temper very narrowly, for in 
 all our little quarrels, my dear, if you 
 recollect, my love, you always began 
 first. 
 
 Ladu Teas. I beg your pardon — my dear 
 Sir Peter — indeed — ^you always gave the 
 provocation. 
 
 Sir Pet. Now — see, my love, take care — 
 contradicting isn't the way to keep 
 friends. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my 
 love! 
 
 Sir Pet. There now — ^you are going on : 
 you don't perceive, my life, that you are 
 just doing the very thing, my love, which 
 you know always makes me angry. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Nay — ^you know if you will be 
 angry without any reason — my dear — 
 
 Sir Pet. There now you want to quarrel 
 again. 
 
 Lady Teaz. No, I am sure I don't, but if 
 you will be so peevish 
 
 Sir Pet. There, now who begins first 9 
 
 Lady Teaz. Why, you, to be sure — I said 
 nothing — ^but there's no bearing your 
 temper. 
 
 Sir Pet. No, no, my dear — ^the fault's in 
 your own temper. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Aye, you are just what my 
 cousin Sophy said you would be — 
 
 Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy — is a forward 
 impertinent gipsey — 
 
 Lady Teaz. Go, you great bear — ^how dare 
 you abuse my relations'? 
 
 Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of mar- 
 riage be doubled on me, if ever I try to 
 be friends with you any more ! 
 
 Lady Teaz. So much the better. 
 
 Sir Pet. No, no, madam, 'tis evident you 
 never cared a pin for me ; I was a mad- 
 man to marry you. 
 
 Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool 
 to marry you — an old dangling bachelor, 
 who was single at fifty, only because he 
 never could meet with any one who would 
 have him. 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, aye, madam, but you were 
 pleased enough to listen to me; you 
 never had such an offer before — 
 
 Lady Teaz. No — did n't I refuse Sir Je- 
 
 remy Terrier, who everybody said would 
 have been a better match — for his estate 
 is just as good as yours — and he has broke 
 his neck since we have been married ! 
 
 Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam! 
 You are an unfeeling, ungrateful — ^bnt 
 there 's an end of everything — I believe 
 you capable of anything that 's bad ; yes, 
 madam — I now believe the reports rela- 
 tive to you and Charles, — ^madam — yeS'— 
 madam — you and Charles are — ^not with- 
 out grounds 
 
 Lady Teaz. Take care, Sir Peter — ^you had 
 better ntjt insinuate any such thing! 
 I '11 not be suspected without cause, I 
 promise you 
 
 Sir Pet. Very — ^well — ^madam — ^very well! 
 a separate maintenance, as soon as you 
 please. Yes, madam, or a divorce — I'll 
 make an example of myself for the bene- 
 fit of all old bachelors. . Let us separate, 
 madam. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Agreed, agreed — and now — 
 my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind 
 again, we may be the happiest couple — 
 and never differ again, you know — ^ha! 
 ha ! — Well, you are going to be in a pas- 
 sion I see, and I shall only interrupt you 
 — so, bye! bye! hey — ^young Jockey 
 tried and countered.^' 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures! She pre- 
 tends to keep her temper; can't I make 
 her angry neither ! ! I am the miser- 
 able fellow ! But I '11 not bear her pre- 
 suming to keep her temper — No, she may 
 break my heart — ^but she shan't keep her 
 temper. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. At Charles's House. 
 {Enter Trip, Moses, and Sir Oliver.) 
 
 Trip. Here, Master Moses — if you '11 stay 
 
 a moment — I '11 try whether Mr. — what 's 
 
 the gentleman's name? 
 Sir Oliv. Mr. Moses, what is my 
 
 name 
 
 Mos. Mr. Premium. 
 Trip. Premium — very well. 
 
 {Exit Trip, taking stmff.) 
 Sir Oliv. To judge by the servants — one 
 
 wouldn't believe the master was ruined. 
 
 But what — sure this was my brother's 
 
 house — 
 Mos. Yes, sir, Mr. Charles bought it of 
 
 Mr. Joseph with the furniture, pictures, 
 
 87 ApparentlT a cant phrase implying a taunt for failure. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 691 
 
 etc. — just as the old gentleman left it. 
 Sir Peter thought it a great piece of ex- 
 travagance in him. 
 Sir Oliv. In my mind the other's economy 
 in selling it to him was more repre- 
 hensible by half. 
 
 (Enter Trip.) 
 
 Trip. My master, gentlemen, says you 
 must wait, he has company, and can't 
 speak with you yet. 
 
 Sir Oliv. If he knew who it was wanted 
 to see him, perhaps he would n't have 
 sent such a message. 
 
 Trip. Yes, yes, sir, he knows you are 
 here — I didn't forget little Premium — 
 no — ^no. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Very weU — and pray, sir, what 
 may be your name ? 
 
 Trip. Trip, sir — ^my name is Trip, at your 
 sei^ice. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, then, Mr. Trip — I presume 
 your master is seldom without com- 
 pany 
 
 Trip. Very seldom, sir — the world says 
 ill-natured things of him but 'tis all 
 malice — ^no man was ever better beloved ; 
 sir, he seldom sits down to dinner without 
 a dozen particular friends. 
 
 Sir Oliv. He's very happy indeed — ^you 
 have a pleasant sort of place here, I 
 guess? 
 
 Trip. Why, yes, here are three or four 
 of us pass our time agreeably enough; 
 but then our wages are sometimes a little 
 in arrear — and not very great either — ^but 
 fifty pounds a year and find our own 
 bags*8 and bouquets 
 
 Sir Oliv. Bags and bouquets! — Halters 
 and bastinadoes ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Trip. But & propos, Moses — ^have you 
 been able to get me that little bill dis- 
 counted ? 
 
 Sir Olive. Wants to raise money too! — 
 mercy on me ! has his distresses,'" I war- 
 rant, like a lord — and affects creditors 
 and duns! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Mos. 'T was not to be done, indeed 
 
 Trip. Good lack— you surprise me— my 
 friend Brush has indorsed it and I 
 thought when he put his name at the 
 back of a bill, 't was as good as cash. 
 
 Mos. No, 't would n't do. 
 
 Trip. A small sum — ^but twenty pound — 
 
 harkee, Moses, do you think you could get 
 it me by way of annuity? 
 
 Sir Oliv. An annuity! ha! ha! a footman 
 raise money by annuity! Well done, 
 Luxury, egad! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Mos. Who would you get to join with you? 
 
 Trip. You know my Lord Applice — you 
 have seen him however 
 
 Mos. Yes 
 
 Trip. You must have observed what an 
 appearance he makes — nobody dresses 
 better, nobody throws off faster — ^very 
 weU, this gentleman will stand my se- 
 curity. 
 
 Mos. Well — 'but you must insure your 
 place. 
 
 Trip. with all my heart — I '11 insure my 
 place, and my life too, if you please. 
 
 Sir Oliv. It's more than I would your 
 neck 
 
 Mos. But is there nothing you could de- 
 posit? 
 
 Trip. Why nothing capital of my master's 
 wardrobe has dropped lately — ^but I 
 could give you a mortgage on some of his 
 winter clothes with equity of redemption 
 before November or — ^you shall have the 
 reversion of the French velvet, or a 
 post obit*" on the blue and silver — these 
 I should think, Moses, with a few pair 
 of point ruffles as a collateral security — 
 hey, my little fellow? 
 
 Mos. Well, well — we '11 talk presently — we 
 detain the gentlemen. 
 
 Sir Oliv. 0, pray, don't let me interrupt 
 Mr. Trip's negotiation. 
 
 Trip. . Harkee — I heard the bell — I be- 
 lieve, gentlemen, I can now introduce you 
 — don't forget the annuity, little Moses. 
 
 Sir Oliv. If the man be a shadow of his 
 master, this is the Temple of Dissipation 
 indeed ! 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. Charles, Careless, Etc., Etc. 
 (At Table with Wine.) 
 
 Chas. 'Fore Heaven, 'tis true! — there is 
 the great degeneracy of the age — many 
 of our acquaintance have taste, spirit, 
 and politeness — but plague on 't, they 
 won't drink. 
 
 Care. It is so indeed, Charles; they give 
 in to all the substantial luxuries of the 
 
 S8 /. e., provide the wigs. 
 
 nets worn to hold 38 Legal seizures of 
 the back-hair of goods not paid 
 
 for. 
 
 The word 
 is sometimes 
 
 punned on in this 
 
 play. 
 10 A bond' payable 
 after the death of 
 
 a specified per- 
 
692 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 table — and abstain from nothing but 
 wine and wit. Oh, certainly society suf- 
 fers by it intolerably, for now instead of 
 the social spirit of raillery that used to 
 mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy 
 their conversation is become just like the 
 Spa water they drink which has all the 
 pertness and flatulence of champagne 
 without its spirit or flavor. 
 
 1st Gent. But what are they to do who 
 love play better than wine? 
 
 Care. True — ^there 's Harry diets himself 
 for gaming, and is now under a hazard 
 regimen. 
 
 Chas. Then he '11 have the worst of it. 
 What, you would n't train a horse for the 
 course by keeping him from corn. For 
 my part, egad, I am never so successful 
 as when I 'm a little — merry ; — let me 
 throw on a bottle of champagne and I 
 never lose — at least I never feel my 
 losses, which is exactly the same thing. 
 
 2nd Gent. Aye, that may be — but it is as 
 impossible to follow wine and play as to 
 unite love and politics. 
 
 Chas.- Pshaw! you may do both; Caesar 
 made love and laws in a breath — and was 
 liked by the Senate as well as the ladies. 
 But no man can pretend to be a believer 
 in love, who is an abjurer of wine — 't is 
 the test by which a lover knows his own 
 heart. Fill a dozen bumpers to a dozen 
 beauties, and she that floats atop is the 
 maid that has bewitched you. 
 
 Care. Now then, Charles — be honest and 
 give us yours. 
 
 Chas. Why, I have withheld her only in 
 compassion to you — if I toast her you 
 should give a round of her peers, which is 
 impossible! on earth! 
 
 Care. 0, then we '11 find some canonized 
 vestals or heathen goddesses that will do, 
 I warrant 
 
 Chas. Here, then — bumpers — ^you rogues 
 — ^bumpers ! Maria — Maria — 
 
 1st Gent. Maria who? 
 
 Chas. Oh, damn the surname ; 't is too 
 formal to be registered in Love's calen- 
 dar — but now, Careless, beware — beware 
 — we must have Beauty's superlative. 
 
 1st Geni. Nay, never study. Careless — 
 we'll stand to the toast — ^tho' your mis- 
 tress should want an eye — and you know 
 you have a song will excuse you. 
 
 Care. Egad, so I have — and I '11 give him 
 the song instead of the lady. 
 
 (Song. — And Chorus — ) 
 Here 's to the maiden of bashful fifteen ; 
 Here 's to the widow of fifty ; 
 
 Here 's to the flaunting, extravagant 
 quean. 
 And here's to the housewife that's 
 thrifty. 
 
 (Chorus.) 
 Let the toast pass, — 
 Drink to the lass, 
 I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for 
 a glass. 
 
 Here 's to the charmer whose dimples we 
 prize ; 
 Now to the maid who has none, sir; 
 Here 's to the girl with a pair of blue 
 eyes, 
 And here 's to the nymph with but one, 
 sir. 
 
 (Chorus.) 
 Let the toast pass, &c. 
 
 Here 's to the maid with a bosom of 
 snow: 
 Now to her that 's as brown as a berry : 
 Here 's to the wife with a face full of 
 woe. 
 And now to the damsel that 's merry. 
 
 (Chorus.) 
 Let the toast pass, &e. 
 
 For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, 
 
 Young or ancient, I care not a feather; 
 
 So fill a pint bumper quite up to the 
 
 brim, 
 So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the 
 brim. 
 And let us e'en toast them together. 
 
 (Chorus.) 
 Let the toast pass, &c. 
 
 (Enter Trip, whispers Charles.) 
 
 2d Gent. Bravo, Careless. There's toast 
 and sentiment too. 
 
 1st Gent. I' faith, there's infinite charity 
 in that song. 
 
 Chas. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a 
 little. Careless, take the chair, will you? 
 
 Care. Nay, prithee, Charles — what now— 
 this is one of your peerless beauties, I 
 suppose, has dropped in by chance? 
 
 Chas. No, faith, to tell you the truth, 't is 
 a Jew and a broker who are come by ap- 
 pointment. 
 
 Care. damn it, let 's have the Jew in. 
 
 1st Gent. Aye and the broker, too, by all 
 means 
 
THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL 
 
 693 
 
 2d Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the 
 broker. 
 
 Chas. — Egad, with all my heart. Trip, bid 
 the gentlemen walk in — tho' there 's one 
 of them a stranger I can tell you 
 
 Trip. What, sir, would you chose Mr. 
 Premium to come up with 
 
 1st Gent. Yes, yes, Mr. Premium, cer- 
 tainly. 
 
 Care. To be sure, Mr. Premium, by all 
 means, Charles; let us give them some 
 generous Burgundy, and perhaps they'll 
 grow conscientious 
 
 Chas. 0, hang 'em, no; wine does but 
 draw forth a man's natural qualities ; and 
 to make them drink would only be to 
 whet their knavery. 
 
 (Enter Trip, Sir Oliver, and Moses.) 
 
 Chas. So — ^honest Moses, walk in, walk in, 
 pray, Mr. Premium — that 's the gentle- 
 man's name, isn't it, Moses? 
 
 Mos. Yes, sir. 
 
 Chas. Set chairs, Tri[p]. — Sit down, Mr. 
 Premium. Glasses, Tri[p]. — Sit down, 
 Moses. Come, Mr. Premium, I'll give 
 you a sentiment. Here 's success to 
 usury! Moses, fill the gentleman a 
 bumper. 
 
 Mos. Success to usury ! 
 
 Care. Eight, Moses, usury is prudence and 
 industry, and deserves to succeed. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Then, here is — all the success it 
 deserves ! 
 
 (Drinks.) 
 
 Chas. Mr. Premium, you and I are but 
 strangers yet — ^but I hope we shall be 
 better acquainted by and bye 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, hope we shall — ^more in- 
 timately perhaps than you '11 wish. 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Care. No, no, that won't do! Mr. Pre- 
 mium, you have demurred at the toast, 
 and must drink it in a pint bumper. 
 
 1st Gent. A pint bumper, at least. 
 
 Mos. Oh, pray, sir, consider — Mr. Pre- 
 mium's a gentleman. 
 
 Care. And therefore loves good wine. 
 
 2d Gent. Give Moses a quart glass — this is 
 mutiny, and a high contempt for the 
 chair. 
 
 Care. Here, now for't! I'll see justice 
 done, to the last drop of my bottle. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Nay, pray, gentlemen, I did not 
 expect this usage. 
 
 Chas. No, hang it, you shan't; Mr. Pre- 
 mium's a stranger. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Odd! I wish I was well out of 
 their company. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Care. Plague on 'em then! if they won't 
 drink, we '11 not sit down with them. 
 Come, Harry, the dice are in the next 
 room. — Charles, you '11 join us when you 
 have finished your business with the 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 Chas. I will! I will! — (Exeunt Sir Harry 
 Bumper and Gentlemen; Careless fol- 
 lowing. ) Careless. 
 
 Care. (Returning.) Well! 
 
 Chas. Perhaps I may want you. 
 
 Care. Oh, you know I am always ready: 
 word, note, or bond, 'tis all the same 
 to me. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Mos. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentle- 
 man of the strictest honor and secrecy; 
 and always performs what he under- 
 takes. Mr. Premium, this is 
 
 Chas. Psha!have done. Sir, my friend 
 Moses is a very honest fellow, but a 
 little slow at expression : he '11 be an 
 hour giving us our titles. Mr. Pre- 
 mium, the plain state of the matter is 
 this: I am an extravagant young fel- 
 low who wants to borrow money; you 
 I take to be a prudent old fellow, who 
 have got money to lend. I am block- 
 head enough to give fifty per cent, 
 sooner than not have it ! and you, I pre- 
 sume, are rogue enough to take a hun- 
 dred if you can get it. Now, sir, you 
 see we are acquainted at once, and may 
 proceed to business without further cere- 
 mony. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Exceeding frank, upon my 
 word. I see, sir, you are not a man of 
 many compliments. 
 
 Chas. Oh, no, sir! plain dealing in busi- 
 ness I always think best. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Sir, I like you the better for 
 it. However, you are mistaken in one 
 thing; I have no money to lend, but I 
 believe I could procure some of a friend ; 
 but then he 's an unconscionable dog. 
 Isn't he, Moses? And must sell stock 
 to accommodate you. Mustn't he, 
 Moses ! 
 
 Mos. Yes, indeed! You know I always 
 speak the truth, and scorn to tell a lie! 
 
 Chas. Eight. People that speak truth 
 generally do. But these are trifles, Mr. 
 Premium. What! I know money isn't 
 to be bought without paying for't! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, but what security could 
 you give? You have no land, I sup- 
 pose? 
 
 Chas. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but 
 
694 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 what's in the bough-pots out of the 
 window ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Nor any stock, I presume? 
 
 Chas. Nothing but live stock — and that 's 
 only a few pointers and ponies. But 
 pray, Mr. Premium, are you acquainted 
 at all with any of my connections? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Why, to say the truth, I am. 
 
 Chas. Then you must know that I have a 
 devilish rich uncle in the East Indies, 
 Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have 
 the greatest expectations? 
 
 Sir Oliv. That yon have a wealthy uncle, 
 I have heard; but how your expectations 
 will turn out is more, I believe, than you 
 can teU. 
 
 Chas. Oh, no! there can be no doubt. 
 They tell me I 'm a prodigious favorite, 
 and that he talks of leaving me every- 
 thing. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Indeed! this is the first I've 
 heard of it. 
 
 Chas. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses 
 knows 'tis true; don't you, Moses? 
 
 af OS. Oh, yes ! I '11 swear to 't. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Egad, they'll persuade me 
 presently I'm at Bengal. 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Chas. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if 
 it 's agreeable to you, a post-obit on Sir 
 Oliver^s life: though at the same time 
 the old fellow has been so liberal to me, 
 that I give you my word, I should be 
 very sorry to hear that anjrthing had 
 happened to him. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Not more than I should, I as- 
 sure you. But the bond you mention 
 happens to be just the worst security 
 you could offer me — for I might live to 
 a hundred and never see the prindipal. 
 
 Chas. Oh, yes, you would! the moment 
 Sir Oliver dies, you know, you would 
 come on me for the money. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Then I believe I should be the 
 most unwelcome dun you ever had, in 
 your life. 
 
 Chas. What! I suppose you're afraid 
 that Sir Oliver is too good a life? 
 
 Sir Oliv. No, indeed I am not; though I 
 have heard he is as hale and healthy as 
 any man of his years in Christendom. 
 
 Chas. There again, now, you are misin- 
 formed. No, no, the climate has hurt 
 him considerably, poor uncle Oliver. 
 Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I 'm told — and 
 is so much altered lately that his near- 
 est relations would not know him. 
 
 Sir OUv. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much al- 
 
 tered lately that his nearest relations 
 would not know him! Ha! ha! ha! 
 egad — ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Chas. Ha ! ha ! — you 're glad to hear that, 
 little Premium? 
 
 Sir Oliv. No, no, I 'm not. ■ 
 
 Chas. Yes, yes, you are — ha ! ha ! ha ! — | 
 you know that mends your chance. ? 
 
 Sir Oliv. But I 'm told Sir Oliver is com- 
 ing over; nay, some say he is actually 
 arrived. ' 
 
 Chas. Psha! sure I must know better 
 than you whether he 's come or not 
 No, no, rely on 't he 's at this moment 
 at Calcutta. Isn't he, Moses? 
 
 Mos. Oh, yes, certainly. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Very true, as you say, you must 
 know better than I, though I have it 
 from pretty good authority. Haven't 
 I, Moses? 
 
 Mos. Yes, most undoubted! 
 
 Sir Oliv. But, sir, as I understand you 
 want a few hundreds immediately, is 
 there nothing you could dispose of? 
 
 Chas. How do you mean? 
 
 Sir OUv. Tor instance, now, I have heard 
 that your father left behind him a great 
 quantity of massy old plate. 
 
 Chas. Lud ! that 's gone long ago. 
 Moses can tell you how better than I , 
 can. 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Good lack! all the 
 family race-cups and corporation- j 
 bowls !*^ — (Aloud.) Then it was also 
 supposed that his library was one of 
 the most valuable and compact. 
 
 Chas. Yes, yes, so it was — ^vastly too 
 much so for a private gentleman. For 
 my part, I was always of a communi- , 
 cative disposition, so I thought it a 
 shame to keep so much knowledge to 
 myself. 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Mercy upon me! 
 learning that had run in the family like 
 an heirloom! — (Aloud.) Pray, what 
 has become of the books? 
 
 Chas. You must inquire of the auctioneer, 
 Master Premium, for I don't believe 
 even Moses can direct you. 
 
 Mos. 1 know nothing of books. 
 
 Sir Oliv. So, so, nothing of the family 
 property left, I suppose? 
 
 Chas. Not much, indeed; unless you have 
 a mind to the family pictures. I have 
 got a room full of ancestors above: and 
 if you have a taste for old paintings, 
 egad, you shall have 'em a bargain! 
 
 Sir OUv. Hey! what the devil! sure, you 
 
 4X OnpB or bowls received as prizes or presented by a city. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDAL 
 
 695 
 
 wouldn't sell your forefathers, would 
 you? 
 
 Chas. Every man of them, to the best 
 bidder. 
 
 Sir Oliv. What! your great-uncles and 
 aunts? 
 
 Chas. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and 
 grandmothers, too. 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Now I give him up ! 
 — {Aloud.) What the plague, have you 
 no bowels for your own kindred? Odd's 
 life! do you take me for Shyloek in the 
 play, that you would raise money of me 
 on your own flesh and blood? 
 
 Chas. Nay, my little broker, don't be 
 angry: what need you care, if you have 
 your money's worth? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, I 'U be the purchaser: I 
 think I can dispose of the family canvas. 
 — {Aside.) Oh, I'll never forgive him 
 this! never! 
 
 {Re-enter Careless.) 
 
 Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you? 
 
 Chas. I can't come yet. I' faith, we are 
 going to have a sale above stairs ; here 's 
 little Premium will buy all my ancestors ! 
 
 Care. Oh, bum your ancestors! 
 
 Chas. No, he may do that afterwards, if 
 he- pleases. Stay, Careless, we want you: 
 egad, you shall be auctioneer — so come 
 along with us. 
 
 Care. 0, have with you, if that's the 
 case. I can handle a hammer as well as 
 a, dice box! Going! going! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Oh, the profligates! 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Chas. Come, Moses, you shall be ap- 
 praiser, if we want one. Gad's life, lit- 
 tle Premium, you don't seem to like the 
 business ? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Oh, yes, I do vastly! Ha! ha! 
 ha! yes, yeSj, I think it a rare joke to sell 
 one's family by auction — ha! ha! — 
 {Aside.) Oh, the prodigal ! 
 
 Chas. To be sure! when a man wants 
 money, where the plague should he get 
 asistance if he can't make free with his 
 own relations? 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Sir Oliv. I'll never forgive him; never! 
 never ! 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 ScasNE 1. A Picture Boom in Charles 
 Surface's House. 
 
 {Enter Charles, Sir Oliver, Moses, and 
 Careless.) 
 
 Chas. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; 
 — here they are, the family of the Sur- 
 faces, up to the Conquest. 
 
 Sir Oliv. And, in my opinion, a goodly 
 collection. 
 
 Chas. Ay, ay, these are done in the true 
 spirit of portrait-painting; no volontiere 
 grace *^ or expression. Not like the 
 works of your modem Eaphaels, who 
 give you the strongest resemblance, yet 
 contrive to make your portrait independ- 
 ent of you; so that you may sink the 
 original and not hurt the picture. No, 
 no; the merit of these is the inveterate 
 likeness — all stiff and awkward as the 
 originals, and like nothing in human na- 
 ture besides. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Ah ! we shall never see such 
 figures of men again. 
 
 Chas. I hope not. Well, you see. Master 
 Premium, what a domestic character I 
 am; here I sit of an evening surrounded 
 by my family. But come, get to your 
 pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; here's an old 
 gouty chair of my grandfather's will 
 answer the purpose. 
 
 Care. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, 
 I haven't a hammer; and what's an 
 auctioneer without his hammer? 
 
 Chas. Egad, that's true. What parch- 
 ment have we here? Oh, our genealogy 
 in full. {Taking pedigree down.) 
 Here, Careless, you shall have no com- 
 mon bit of mahogany, here 's the family 
 tree for you, you rogue! This shall be 
 your hammer, and now you may knock 
 down my ancestors with their own pedi- 
 gree. 
 
 Sir Oliv. What an unnatural rogue! — an 
 ex post facto parricide! 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Care. Yes, yes, here 's a list of your gen- 
 eration indeed; — ^faith, Charles, this is 
 the most convenient thing you could have 
 found for the business, for 'twill not 
 only serve as a hammer, but a catalogue 
 into the bargain. Come, begin — ^A-go- 
 ing, a-going, a-going! 
 
 Chas. Bravo, Careless! Well, here's my 
 great uncle, Sir Eichard Eavelin, a mar- 
 velous good general in his day, I assure 
 you. He served in all the Duke of Marl- 
 borough's wars, and got that cut over his 
 eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What 
 say you, Mr. Premium? look at him — 
 there 's a hero ! not cut out of his feathers, 
 as your modern clipped captains are, 
 but enveloped in wig and regimentals, 
 
 42 Free artistic grace. 
 
696 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 as a general should be. What do you 
 bid? 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside to Moses.) Bid him 
 speak. 
 
 Mas. Mr. Premium would have you speak. 
 
 Chas. Why, then, he shall have him for 
 ten pounds, and I 'm sure that 's not dear 
 for a staS-offieer. 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Heaven deliver me! 
 his famous uncle Richard for ten 
 pounds! — (Aloud.) Very well, sir, I 
 take him at that. 
 
 Chcis. Careless, knock down my uncle 
 Richard. — Here, now, is a maiden sister 
 of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by 
 Kneller,*^ in his best manner, and 
 esteemed a very formidable likeness. 
 There she is, you see, a shepherdess feed- 
 ing her flock. You shall have her for 
 five pounds ten — the sheep are worth the 
 money. 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside.) Ah! poor Deborah! a 
 woman who set such a value on herself! 
 — (Aloud.) Five pounds ten — she's 
 mine. 
 
 Chas. Knock down my aunt Deborah! 
 Here, now, are two that were a sort of 
 cousins of theirs. — You see, Moses, these 
 pictures were done some time ago, when 
 beaux wore wigs, and the ladies their 
 own hair. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear 
 to have been a little lower in those days. 
 
 Chas. Well, take that couple for the 
 same. 
 
 Mos. 'T is a good bargain. 
 
 Chas. Careless! — This now, is a grand- 
 father of my mother's, a learned judge, 
 well known on the western circuit. — 
 What do you rate him at, Moses? 
 
 Mos. Four guineas. 
 
 Chas. Four guineas! Gad's life, you 
 don't bid me the price of his wig. — Mr. 
 Premium, you have more respect for the 
 woolsack ; *^ do let us knock his lordship 
 down at fifteen. 
 
 Sir Oliv. By all means. 
 
 Care. Gone! " 
 
 Chas. And there are two brothers of his, 
 William and Walter Blunt, Esquires, 
 both members of Parliament, and noted 
 speakers; and, what's very extraordi- 
 nary, I believe, this is the first time they 
 were ever bought or sold.*"* 
 
 Sir Oliv. That is very extraordinary, in- 
 deed ! I '11 take them at your own price, 
 for the honor of Parliament. 
 
 is A very popular 44 /. e., (or the le- 
 portrait - painter gal profession 
 (1646-1723). (the head ol 
 
 Care. Well said, little Premium! I'll 
 knock them down at forty. 
 
 Chas. Here 's a jolly fellow — I don't know 
 what relation, but he was mayor of Nor- 
 wich : take him at eight pounds. 
 
 Sir Oliv. No, no; six will do for the 
 mayor. 
 
 Chas. Come, make it guineas, and I'll ;; 
 throw you the two aldermen here into the 
 bargain. * 
 
 Sir Oliv. They 're mine. 
 
 Chas. Careless, knock down the mayor 
 and aldermen. But, plague on't! we 
 shall be all day retailing in this manner; . 
 do let us deal wholesale : what say yoUj j| 
 little Premium? Give me three hundred ,t 
 pounds for the rest of the family in the 
 lump. 
 
 Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, well, anything to accom- 
 modate you ; they are mine. But there is 
 one portrait which you have always 
 passed over. 
 
 Care, What, that ill-looking little fellow 
 over the settee? 
 
 Sir Oliv, Yes, sir, I mean that; though 
 I don't think him so ill-looking a little 
 fellow, by any means. 
 
 Chas, What, that? Oh; that's my uncle 
 Oliver. 'T was done before he went to 
 India. 
 
 Care. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then 
 you'll never be friends, Charles. That, 
 now, to me, is as stem a looking rogue 
 as ever I saw; an unforgiving eye, and 
 a damned disinheriting countenance! an 
 inveterate knave, depend on't. Don't 
 you think so, little Ptemium? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Upon my soul, sir, I do not; I 
 think it is as honest a looking face as 
 any in the room, dead or alive. But I 
 suppose uncle Oliver goes with the rest 
 of the lumber? 
 
 Chas. No, hang it ! I '11 not part with poor 
 Noll. The old fellow has been very good 
 to me, and, egad, I '11 keep his picture 
 while I 've a room to put it in. 
 
 Sir Oliv, (Aside.) The rogue's my 
 nephew after all! — (Aloud.) But, sir, 
 I have somehow taken a fancy to that 
 picture. 
 
 Chas. I'm sorry for't, for you certainly 
 will not have it. Oons, have n't you got 
 enough of them? 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside.) I forgive him every- 
 thing! — (Aloud.) But, sir, when I take 
 a whim in my head, I don't value money. 
 
 which, the Lord 
 Chancellor, sits 
 on the woolsack 
 
 in the House of 
 Lords). 
 
 45 1. «., of course, 
 bribed. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 697 
 
 I '11 give you as much for that as for all 
 the rest. 
 
 Chas. Don't tease me, master broker; I 
 teU you I '11 not part with it, and there 's 
 an end of it. 
 
 Sir Oliv. {Aside.) How like his father 
 the dog is. — (Aloud.) Well, well, I have 
 done. — (Aside.) I did not perceive it 
 before, but I think I never saw such a 
 striking resemblance. — (Aloud.) Here is 
 a draught for your sum. 
 
 Chas. Why, 't is for eight hundred 
 pounds ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. You will not let Sir Oliver go? 
 
 Chas. Zounds ! no ! I tell you, once more. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Then never mind the difference, 
 we '11 balance that another time. But 
 give me your hand on the bargain; you 
 are an honest fellow, Charles — I beg par- 
 don, sir, for being so free. — Come, 
 Moses. 
 
 Chas. Egad, this is a whimsical old fel- 
 low ! — But hark'ee, Premium, you '11 pre- 
 pare lodgings for these gentlemen. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, I'll send for them in 
 a day or two. 
 
 Chas. But, hold; do now send a genteel 
 conveyance for them, for, I assure you, 
 they were most of them used to ride in 
 their own carriages. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I will, I will— for all but Oliver. 
 
 Chas. Ay, all but the little nabob. 
 
 Sir Oliv. You're fixed on that? 
 
 Chas. Peremptorily. 
 
 Sir Oliv. (Aside.) A dear extravagant 
 rogue! — (Aloud.) Good day! Come, 
 Moses. — (Aside.) Let me hear now who 
 dares call him profligate! 
 
 (Exit with Moses.) 
 
 Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of 
 the sort I ever met with! 
 
 Chas. Egad, he 's the prince of brokers, I 
 think. I wonder how the devil Moses got 
 acquainted with so honest a fellow. — 
 Ha! here's Eowley. — Do, Careless, say 
 1 '11 join the company in a few moments. 
 
 Care. I will — but don't let that old block- 
 head persuade you to squander any of 
 that money on old musty debts, or any 
 such nonsense; for tradesmen, Charles, 
 are the most exorbitant fellows. 
 
 Chas. Very true, and paying them is only 
 encouraging them. 
 
 Care. Nothing else. 
 
 Chas. Ay, ay, never fear. — (Exit Care- 
 less.) So! this was an odd old fellow, 
 indeed. Let me see, two-tliirds of these 
 five hundred and thirty odd pounds are 
 
 46. A pun, explained in an earlier note. 
 
 mine by right. Tore Heaven! I find 
 one's ancestors are more valuable rela- 
 tions than I took them for! — Ladies and 
 gentlemen, your most obedient and very 
 grateful servant. 
 (Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.) 
 
 (Enter Rowley.) 
 
 Ha ! old Eowley ! egad, you are just come 
 in time to take leave of your old ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Row. Yes, I heard they were a-going. 
 But I wonder you can have such spirits 
 under so many distresses. 
 
 Chas. Why, there 's the point ! my dis- 
 tresses *^ are so many, that I can't afford 
 to part with my spirits; but I shall be 
 rich, and splenetic,*^ all in good time. 
 However, I suppose you are surprised 
 that I am not more sorrowful at parting 
 with so many near relations; to be sure, 
 't is very affecting ; but you see they 
 never move a muscle, so why should I ? 
 
 Row. There 's no making you serious a 
 moment. 
 
 Chas. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my 
 honest Rowley, here, get me this changed 
 directly, and take a hundred pounds of it 
 immediately to old Stanley. 
 
 Row. A hundred pounds! Consider 
 only 
 
 Chas. Gad's life, don't talk about it ! poor 
 
 . Stanley's wants are pressing, and, if you 
 
 don't make haste, we shall have some one 
 
 call that has a better right to the money. 
 
 Row. Ah ! there 's the point ! I never will 
 cease dunning you with the old prov- 
 erb 
 
 Chas. Be just before you 're generous. — 
 Why, so I would if I could; but Justice 
 is an old hobbling beldame, and I can't 
 get her to keep pace with Generosity, for 
 the soul of me. 
 
 Row. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's 
 reflection 
 
 Chas. Ay, ay, it 's very true; but, hark'ee, 
 Rowley, while I have, by Heaven I'll 
 give; so, damn your economy! and now 
 for hazard.*^ 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. -The Parlor. 
 
 (Enter Sir Oliver and Moses.) 
 
 Mas. Well sir, I think, as Sir Peter said, 
 you have seen Mr. Charles in high glory 
 — 'tis great pity he's so extravagant. 
 
 47 iiTitable. 48 J. e., the dice. 
 
698 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Sir Oliv. True — but he ■would not sell my 
 picture. 
 
 Mos. And loves wine and women so 
 much — 
 
 Sir Oliv. But he would n't sell my picture. 
 
 Mos. And game so deep — 
 
 Sir Oliv. But he would n't sell my picture. 
 0, here's Rowley! 
 
 {Enter Bowley.) 
 
 Row. So, Sir Oliver. I find you have 
 made a purchase 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, our young rake has 
 parted with lus ancestors, like old ta- 
 pestry — sold judges and generals by the 
 foot, and maiden aunts as cheap as 
 broken china. 
 
 Row. And here has he commissioned me 
 to re-deliver you part of the purchase- 
 money — I mean, though, in your neces- 
 sitous character of old Stanley. 
 
 Mos. Ah! there is the pity of all! He is 
 so damned charitable. 
 
 Row. And I left a hosier and two tailors 
 in the haU, who, I 'm sure, won't be paid, 
 and this hundred would satisfy 'em. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well— well— I '11 pay his debts 
 and his benevolences too — I '11 take care 
 of old Stanley, myself. But now I am 
 no more a broker, and you shall introduce 
 me to the elder brother as Stanley. 
 
 Row. Not yet a while; Sir Peter, I know, 
 means to call there about this time. 
 
 {Enter Trip.) 
 
 Trip. 0, gentlemen, I beg pardon for not 
 showing you out. This way; Moses, a 
 word. 
 
 {Exit Trip with Moses.) 
 
 Sir Oliv. There's a fellow for you! 
 Would you believe it, that puppy inter- 
 cepted the Jew, on our coming, and 
 wanted to raise money before he got to 
 his master! 
 
 Row. Indeed ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes; they are now planning an 
 annuity business. Ah, Master Rowley, 
 in my day servants were content with the 
 folUes of their masters when they were 
 worn a little threadbare, but now they 
 have their vices like their birthday 
 clothes, with the gloss on. 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. A Library. 
 
 {Surface and Servant.) 
 
 Surf. No letter from Lady Teazle? 
 
 Serv. No, sir. 
 
 Surf. I am surprised she hasn't sent 
 
 if she is prevented from coming! Sir 
 Peter certainly does not suspect me, yet 
 I wish I may not lose the heiress, through 
 the scrape I have drawn myself in with 
 the wife. However, Charles's impru- 
 dence and bad character are great points' 
 in my favor. 
 
 Serv. Sir, I believe that must be Lady 
 Teazle— 
 
 Surf. Hold! see whether it is or not be- 
 fore you go to the door; I have a par- 
 ticular message for you if it should be 
 my brother. 
 
 Serv. 'T is her ladyship, sir. She always, 
 leaves her chair at the milliner's in the 
 next street. 
 
 Surf. Stay, stay, draw that screen before 
 the window — ^that will do; my opposite 
 neighbor is a maiden lady of so curious 
 a temper! — {Servant draws the screen 
 and exit.) I have a difficult hand to 
 play in this affair; Lady Teazle has 
 lately suspected my views on Maria, but 
 she must by no means be let into that 
 secret, at least till I have her more in 
 my power. 
 
 {Enter Lady Teazle.) 
 
 Lady Teas. What! sentiment in solilo- 
 quy; have you been very impatient now? 
 Lud! don't pretend to look grave — ^I 
 vow I couldn't come before. 
 
 Surf. madam, punctuality is a species 
 of constancy, a very unfashionable qual- 
 ity in a lady. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Upon my word you ought to 
 pity me; do you know Sir Peter is 
 grown so ill-tempered to me of late ; and 
 so jealous! of Charles, too; — that's the 
 best of the story, isn't it? 
 
 Surf. I am glad my scandalous friends 
 keep that up. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish he would 
 let Maria marry him, and then perhaps 
 he would be convinced, — don't you, Mr. 
 Surface? 
 
 Surf. Indeed I do not. {Aside.) cer- 
 tainly I do, for then my dear Lady 
 Teazle would also be convinced how 
 wrong her suspicions were of my having 
 any design on the silly girl. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Well, well, I'm inclined to 
 believe you; besides I really never could 
 perceive why she should have so many 
 admirers. 
 
 Surf. for her fortune — nothing else. 
 
 Lady Teaz. I believe so, for tho' she is 
 certainly very pretty, yet she has no 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 699 
 
 conversation in the world, and is so 
 grave and reserved that I declare I think 
 she'd have made an excellent wife for 
 Sir Peter. 
 
 Surf. So she would. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Then — one never hears her 
 speak ill of "anybody — which you know 
 is mighty dull. 
 
 Surf. Yet she does n't want understand- 
 ing. 
 
 Lady Teaz. No more she does — yet one 
 is always disappointed when one hears 
 her speak. For though her eyes have 
 no kind of meaning in them, she very 
 seldom talks nonsense. 
 
 Surf. Nay, nay, surely — she has very fine 
 eyes. 
 
 Lady Tean. Why, so she has — ^tho' some- 
 times one fancies there's a little sort of 
 a squint. 
 
 Surf. A squint — fle, Lady Teazle. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Yes, yes, I vow now — come, 
 there is a left-handed Cupid in one eye 
 — that 's the truth on 't. 
 
 Surf. Well, his aim is very direct how- 
 ever, — but Lady Sneerwell has quite cor- 
 rupted you. 
 
 Lady Teaz. No, indeed, I have not opin- 
 ion enough of her to be taught by her, 
 and I know that she has lately raised 
 many scandalous hints of me; which 
 you know one always hears from one 
 common friend or other. 
 
 Surf. Why, to say truth, I believe you 
 are not more obliged to her than others 
 of her acquaintance. 
 
 Lady Teaz. But isn't it provoking to 
 hear the most ill-natured things said to 
 one, and there 's my friend Lady Sneer- 
 • well has circulated I don't know how 
 many scandalous tales of me, and all 
 without any foundation, too ; that 's 
 what vexes me. 
 
 Surf. Aye, madam, to be- sure that is the 
 provoking circumstance — without foun- 
 dation — ^yes, yes — ^there 's the mortifica- 
 tion indeed — for when a slanderous 
 story is believed against one, there cer- 
 tainly is no comfort like the conscious- 
 ness of having deserved it. 
 
 Lady Teaz. No, to be sure; then I'd for- 
 give their malice — but to attack me, who 
 am really so innocent and who never say 
 an ill-natured thing of anybody — that is, 
 of any friend — ! and then Sir Peter too 
 — ^to have him so peevish — and so suspi- 
 cious — when I know the integrity of my 
 own heart — ^indeed 'tis monstrous. 
 
 Surf. But, my dear Lady Teazle, 'tis 
 
 your own fault if you suffer it — ^when a 
 husband entertains a groundless suspi- 
 cion of his wife and withdraws his con- 
 fidence from her, the original compact 
 is broke and she owes it to the honor of 
 her sex to endeavor to outwit him. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Indeed! So that if he sus- 
 pects me without cause, it fojlows that 
 the best way of curing his jealousy is to 
 give him reason for 't. 
 
 Surf. Undoubtedly, for your husband 
 should never be deceived in you; and in 
 that case it becomes you to be frail in 
 compliment to his discernment. 
 
 Lady Teaz. To be sure what you say is 
 very reasonable, and when the con- 
 sciousness of my own innocence 
 
 Surf. Ah, my dear — ^madam, there is the 
 great mistake — 'tis this very conscious 
 innocence that is of the greatest preju- 
 dice to you. What is it makes you negli- 
 gent of forms and careless of the world's 
 opinion? — why, the consciousness of 
 your innocence. What makes you 
 thoughtless in your conduct and apt to 
 run into a thousand little imprudences? 
 — why, the consciousness of your inno- 
 cence. What makes you impatient of Sir 
 Peter's temper, and outrageous at his 
 suspicions? — why, the consciousness of 
 your own innocence. 
 
 Lady Teaz. 'T is very true. 
 
 Surf. Now, my dear Lady Teazle, if you 
 but once make a trifling faux pas, you 
 can't conceive how cautious you would 
 grow, and how ready to humor and agree 
 with your husband. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Do you think so? 
 
 Surf. 0, I 'm sure on 't ; and then you 'd 
 find all scandal would cease at once, for 
 in short your character at present is like 
 a person in a plethora, absolutely dying 
 of too much health. 
 
 Lady Teaz.- So — so — then I perceive your 
 prescription is that I must sin in my 
 own defence, and part with my virtue to 
 preserve my reputation. 
 
 Surf. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Well, certainly this is the 
 oddest doctrine, and the newest receipt 
 for avoiding calumny. 
 
 Surf. An infallible one, believe me — pru- 
 dence like experience must be paid for. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Why, if my understanding 
 were once convinced 
 
 Surf. Oh, certainly madam, your under- 
 standing should be convinced — yes — ^yes 
 — Heaven forbid I should persuade you 
 to do anything you thought wrong — ^no — 
 
700 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 no — I have too much honor to desire it. 
 Lady Teaz. Don't — you think we may as 
 
 well leave honor out of the argument? 
 
 (Rises.) 
 
 Surf. Ah — ^the iU effects of your country 
 
 education I see still remain with you. 
 Lady Teaz. I doubt they do indeed — and 
 
 I will fairly own to you, that if I could 
 
 be persuaded to do wrong it would be by 
 
 Sir Peter's ill-usage, sooner than your 
 
 honorable logic, after all. 
 Surf. Then by this hand, which he is 
 
 unworthy of 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 'Sdeath, you blockhead, what do you 
 want? 
 
 Serv. I beg your pardon, sir, but I 
 thought you wouldn't choose Sir Peter 
 to come up without announcing him? 
 
 Surf. Sir Peter — Oons — ^the devil! 
 
 Lady Teaz. Sir Peter! Lud! I'm 
 ruined ! I 'm ruined ! 
 
 Serv. Sir, 't was n't I let him in. 
 
 Lady Teaz. 0, I 'm undone ! what will be- 
 come of me now, Mr. Logic? — Oh! 
 mercy, he 's on the stairs — I '11 get be- 
 hind here — and if ever I m so impru- 
 dent agaii) 
 
 (Goes behind the screen.) 
 
 Surf. Give me that — book! 
 
 (Sits down — Servant pretends to adjust 
 his hair.) 
 
 (Enter Sir Peter.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye — ever improving himself! — 
 Mr. Surface — 
 
 Surf. Oh ! my dear Sir Peter — ^I beg your 
 pardon — (Gaping and throws away the 
 book.) I have been dozing over a stupid 
 book! well — I am much obliged to you 
 for this call. You have n't been here, I 
 believe, since I fitted up this room. 
 Books you know are the only things I 
 am a coxcomb in. 
 
 Sir Pet. 'T is very neat indeed; well, well, 
 that 's proper — and you make even your 
 screen a source of knowledge — hung I 
 perceive with maps — 
 
 Surf. O yes — I find great use in that 
 screen. 
 
 Sir Pet. I dare say you must; certainly, 
 when you want to find out anything in a 
 hurry. 
 
 Surf. Aye or to hide anything in a hurry 
 either. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, I have a little private busi- 
 ness — if we were alone — 
 
 Surf. You needn't stay. 
 
 Serv. No, sir. 
 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Surf. Here 's a chair, Sir Peter, I beg ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, now we are alone, there is 
 a subject, my dear friend, on which I 
 wish to unburthen my mind to you — a 
 point of the greatest moment to my 
 peace; in short, my good friend — Lady 
 Teazle's conduct of late has made me 
 very unhappy. 
 
 Surf. Indeed, I 'm very sorry to hear it. 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, 'tis but too plain she has. 
 not the least regard for me, but what's 
 worse, I have pretty good authority to 
 suspect that she must have formed an 
 attachment to another. 
 
 Surf. Indeed! you astonish me. 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes — and between ourselves — ^I 
 think I have discovered the person. 
 
 Surf. How — you alarm me exceedingly! 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah ! my dear friend, I knew you 
 would sympathize with me. 
 
 Surf. Yes — believe me, Sir Peter — such a - 
 discovery would hurt me just as much as 
 it would you — 
 
 Sir Pet. 1 am convinced of it; ah, it is a 
 happiness to have a friend whom one 
 can trust even with one's family secrets. 
 But have you no guess who I mean? 
 
 Surf. I haven't the most distant idea; it 
 can't be Sir Benjamin Backbite. 
 
 Sir Pet. 0, no. What say you to 
 Charles? 
 
 Surf. My brother — ^impossible! — no, 
 Sir Peter, you mustn't credit the scan- 
 dalous insinuations you hear — ^no, no; — "^ 
 Charles to be sure has been charged with 
 many things, but I can never think he 
 would meditate so gross an injury. 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah ! my dear friend, the good- ' 
 ness of your own heart misleads you — 
 you judge of others by yourself. 
 
 Surf. Certainly, Sir Peter, the heart that 
 is conscious of its own integrity is ever 
 slowest to credit another's treachery. 
 
 Sir Pet. True — but your brother has no 
 sentiment — you never hear him talk so. 
 
 Surf. Well, there certainly is no know- 
 ing what men are capable of — no — ^there 
 is no knowing — ^yet I can't but think 
 Lady Teazle herself has too much prin- \ 
 ciple. 
 Sir Pet. Aye, but what's principle 
 against the fiattery of a handsome, lively 
 young fellow? 
 Surf. That 's very true. 
 Sir Pet. And then you know the differ- 
 ence of our ages makes it very improb- 
 able that she should have any great af- 
 
TBE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 701 
 
 feetion for me; and if she were to be 
 frail and I were to make it public — why, 
 the town would only laugh at the fool- 
 ish old bachelor, who had married a girl. 
 
 Surf. That 's true ; to be sure people 
 would laugh. 
 
 Sir Pet. Laugh — aye, and make ballads 
 and paragraphs and the devil knows 
 what of me. 
 
 Surf. No, you must never make it public. 
 
 Sir Pet. But then again that the nephew 
 of my old friend. Sir Oliver, should be 
 the person to attempt such an injury — 
 hurts me more nearly. 
 
 Surf. Undoubtedly; when ingratitude 
 barbs the dart of injury, the wound has 
 double danger in it. 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, I that was in a manner left 
 his guardian — in [whose] house he had 
 been so often entertained — ^who never in 
 my life denied him my advice — 
 
 Surf. O, 'tis not to be credited. There 
 may be a man capable of such baseness, 
 to be sure — but for my part till you can 
 give me positive proofs you must excuse 
 me withholding my belief. However, if 
 this should be proved on him, he is no 
 longer a brother of mine, I disclaim kin- 
 dred with him — for the man who can 
 break thro' the laws of hospitality and 
 attempt the wife of his friend deserves 
 to be branded as the pest of society. 
 
 Sir Pet. What a difference there is be- 
 tween you! what noble sentiments! 
 
 Surf. But I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's 
 honor. 
 
 Sir Pet. I 'm sure I wish to think well of 
 her and to remove all ground of quarrel 
 between us. She has lately reproached 
 me more than once with having made no 
 settlement on her, and, in our last quar- 
 rel, she almost hinted that she should not 
 break bet heart if I was dead. Now as 
 we seem to differ in our ideas of expense, 
 I have resolved she shall be her own 
 mistress in that respect for the future; 
 and if I were to die, she shall find that I 
 have not been inattentive to her interests 
 while living. Here, my friend, are the 
 draughts of two deeds which I wish to 
 have your opinion on: by one she will 
 enjoy eight hundred a year independent 
 while I live, and by the other the bulk 
 of my fortune after my death. 
 
 Surf. This conduct, Sir Peter, is indeed 
 truly generous! I wish it may not cor- 
 rupt my pupil. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Sir Pet. YeSj I am determined she 
 
 have no cause to complain, tho' I would 
 not have her acquainted with the latter 
 instance of my affection yet awhile. 
 
 Surf. Nor I — if I could help it. 
 
 Sir Pet. And now, my dear friend, if you 
 please, we will talk over the situation of 
 your hopes with Maria. 
 
 Surf. No, no. Sir Peter, — another time if 
 you please — 
 
 {Softly.) 
 
 Sir Pet. I am sensibly chagrined at the 
 little progress you seem to make in her 
 affection. 
 
 Surf. I beg you will not mention it. 
 What are my disappointments when 
 your happiness is in debate. {Softly.) 
 'Sdeath, I shall be ruined every way. 
 
 Sir Pet. And tho' you are so averse to 
 my acquainting Lady Teazle with your 
 passion, I am sure she 's not your enemy 
 in the affair. 
 
 Surf. Pray, Sir Peter, now oblige me. I 
 am really too much affected by the sub- 
 ject we have been speaking of to bestow 
 a thought on my own concerns. The 
 man who is entrusted with his friend's 
 distresses can never 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Well, sir? 
 
 Serv. Your brother, sir, is speaking to a 
 gentleman in the street, and says he 
 knows you 're within. 
 
 Surf. 'Sdeath, blockhead, I 'm not within, 
 — 1 'm out for the day. 
 
 Sir Pet. Stay — ^hold — a thought has 
 struck me; you shall be at home. 
 
 Surf. Well — well — let him up. — {Exit 
 Serv.) He'll interrupt Sir Peter, how- 
 ever. • 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Now, my good friend, oblige me, 
 I intreat you; before Charles comes let 
 me conceal myself somewhere; then do 
 you tax him on the point we have been 
 talking on, and his answers may satisfy 
 me at once. 
 
 Surf. O, fle, Sir Peter, would you have 
 me join in so mean a trick? to trepan 
 my brother too? 
 
 Sir Pet. Nay, you tell me you are sure 
 he is innocent; — if so, you do him the 
 greatest service in giving him an op- 
 portunity to clear himself, arid you will 
 set my heart at rest. Come, you shall 
 not refuse me — here behind this screen 
 will be — hey! what the devil — there 
 seems to be one listener here already; — 
 I '11 swear I saw a petticoat. — 
 
702 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Surf. Ha! ha! ha! Well, this is ridicu- 
 lous enough! I'll tell you, Sir Peter- 
 though I hold a man of intrigue to be a 
 most despicable character, yet you know 
 it does n't follow that a man is to be an 
 absolute Joseph ^^ either; — ^harkee, 'tis 
 a little French milliner — a silly rogue 
 that plagues me — and having some char- 
 acter, on your coming she ran behind 
 the screen. 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah, a rogue — ^but 'egad she has 
 overheard all I have been saying of my 
 wife. 
 
 Surf. 't will never go any farther, you 
 may depend on 't. 
 
 Sir Pet. No! — then i' faith, let her hear 
 it out. — Here 's a closet will do as well. 
 
 Surf. "Well, go in there. 
 
 Sir Pet. Sly rogue — sly rogue. 
 
 Surf. Gad 's my life, what an escape ! and 
 a curious situation I 'm in ! — ^to part 
 man and wife in this manner. 
 
 Lady Teag. {Peeps out.) Couldn't I 
 steal off? 
 
 Surf. Keep close, my angel! 
 
 Sir Pet. {Peeping out.) Joseph, tax him 
 home. 
 
 Surf. Back — ^my dear friend. 
 
 Lady Teaz. {Peeping out.) Couldn't 
 you lock Sir Peter in? — 
 
 Surf. Be still — my life! 
 
 Sir Pet. {Peeping.) You 're sure the lit- 
 tle milliner won't blab? 
 
 Surf. In! in! my good Sir Peter — 'Fore 
 Gad, I wish I had a key to the door. 
 
 {Enter Charles.) 
 
 Chas. Hollo! brother — ^what has been the 
 matter? your fellow -would n't let me up 
 at first — ^What! have you "had a Jew or 
 a wench with you? 
 
 Surf. Neither, brother, I assure you. 
 
 Chas. But — what has made Sir Peter steal 
 off? I thought he had been with you — 
 
 Surf. He was, brother, but hearing you 
 were coming he did n't choose to stay. 
 
 Chas. What! was the old gentleman 
 afraid I wanted to borrow money of 
 him? 
 
 Surf. No, sir, but I am sorry to find, 
 Charles, you have lately given that 
 worthy man grounds for great uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 Chas. Yes, they tell me I do that to a 
 great many worthy men; — but how so, 
 pray? 
 
 Surf. To be plain with you, brother, he 
 
 thinks you are endeavoring to gain Lady 
 Teazle's affections from him. 
 
 Chas. Who, I? — Lud! not I, upon my 
 word. — Ha! ha! ha! so the old fellow 
 has found out that he has got a young 
 wife, has he? or what's worse she has 
 discovered that she has an old husband? 
 
 Surf. This is no subject to jest on, 
 brother. He who can laugh 
 
 Chas. True, true, as you were going to 
 say — ^then seriously I never had the least. 
 idea of what you charge me with, upon 
 my honor. 
 
 Surf. Well, it will give Sir Peter great 
 satisfaction to hear this. 
 
 Chas. {Aloud.) To be sure, I once 
 thought the lady seemed to have taken 
 a fancy — but upon my soul I never gave 
 her the least encouragement. — ^Besides 
 you know my attachment to Maria — 
 
 Surf. But sure, brother, even if Lady 
 Teazle had betrayed the fondest parti- 
 ality for you 
 
 Chas. Why — look'ee, Joseph — ^I hope I 
 shall never deliberately do a dishonor- 
 able action; but if a pretty woman was 
 purposely to throw herself in my way — 
 and that pretty woman married to a 
 man old enough to be her father 
 
 Surf. Well? 
 
 Chas. Why I believe I should be obliged 
 to borrow a little of your morality, 
 that 's all. But, brother, do you know 
 now that you surprise me exceeding[ly] 
 by naming me with Lady Teazle — for 
 faith I always understood you were her 
 favorite — 
 
 Surf. for shame! Charles. This retort 
 is foolish. 
 
 Chas. Nay, I swear I have seen you ex- 
 change such significant glances 
 
 Surf. Nay — ^nay — sir — ^this is.no jest — 
 
 Chas. Egad, I 'm serious. Don't you re- 
 member one day, when I called 
 here? 
 
 Su/rf. Nay — prithee — Charles — 
 
 And found you together 
 
 Zounds, sir, I insist- 
 
 Chas. 
 Surf. 
 Chas. 
 ant- 
 Surf. 
 
 And another time when your serv- 
 
 Brother, brother, a word with you 
 — Gad, I must stop him — 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Chas. Informed me that 
 
 Surf. Hush ! — I beg your pardon, but Sir 
 Peter has overheard all we have been 
 saying; I knew you would clear your- 
 self, or I should n't have consented — 
 
 40 7. c, a model o£ virtae (Qeneaw, xxxix). 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 703 
 
 Chas. How? Sir Peter?— Where is he? 
 Surf. Softly, there! 
 
 (Points to the closet.) 
 Chas. In the closet ! 'tore Heaven, I '11 
 
 have him out ! — Sir Peter, come forth ! 
 
 Surf. No — no 
 
 Ch(is. I say, Sir Peter — come into court. 
 
 (Pulls in Sir Peter.) What — ^my old 
 
 guardian — what! turn inquisitor and 
 
 take evidence incog. ! — 
 Sir Pet. Give me your hand, Charles; I 
 
 believe I have suspected you wrongfully ; 
 
 but you must n't be angry with Joseph — 
 
 't was my plan — 
 Chas. Indeed ! 
 Sir Pet. But I acquit you; I promise you 
 
 I don't think near so ill of you as I did. 
 
 What I have heard has given me great 
 
 satisfaction. 
 Chas. Egad, then 't was lucky you did n't 
 
 hear any more, was n't it, Joseph ? 
 Sir Pet. Ah! you would have retorted on 
 
 him. 
 Chas. Aye — aye — that was a joke. 
 Sir Pet. Yes, yes, I know his honor too 
 
 well. 
 Chas. Yet you might as well have sus- 
 pected him as me in this matter, for all 
 
 that, mightn't he, Joseph? 
 Sir Pet. Well, well, I believe you. 
 Surf. Would they were both out of the 
 
 room! 
 
 (Enter Servant, whispers Surface.) 
 
 Sir Pet. And in future perhaps we may 
 not be such strangers. 
 
 Surf. Gentlemen — I beg pardon — I must 
 wait on you downstairs, — here is a per- 
 son come on particular business 
 
 Chas. Well, you can see him in another 
 room; Sir Peter and I haven't met a 
 long time and I have something to say 
 to him. 
 
 Surf. They must not be left together. — 
 I'll send this man away and return di- 
 rectly — 
 
 (Surface goes out.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah, Charles, if you associated 
 more with your brother, one might in- 
 deed hope for your reformation. He is 
 a man of sentiment. Well! there is 
 nothing in the world so noble as a man 
 of sentiment ! 
 
 Chas. Pshaw! he is too moral by half, 
 and so apprehensive of his good name, 
 as he calls it, that I suppose he would as 
 soon let a priest in his house as a girl. 
 
 Sir Pet. No, no, come, come, you wrong 
 him. No, no, Joseph is no rake but he 
 
 is no such saint in that respect either. — 
 I have a great mind to tell him — we 
 should have such a laugh! (Aside.) 
 
 Chas. Oh, hang him ! He 's a very an- 
 chorite — a young hermit. 
 
 Sir Pet. Harkee, you must not abuse him, 
 he may chance to hear of it again, I 
 promise you. 
 
 Chas. Why, you won't tell him? 
 
 Sir Pet. No— but— this way.— Egad, I 'II 
 tell him. — Harkee, have you a mind to 
 have a good laugh against Joseph? 
 
 Chas. 1 should like it of all things. 
 
 Sir Pet. Then, i'f aith, we will— I '11 be 
 quit with him for discovering me. — He 
 had a girl with him when I called. 
 (Whispers.) 
 
 Chas. What! Joseph! you jest. 
 
 Sir Pet. Hush! — a little Trench milliner 
 — and the best of the jest is — she's in 
 the room now. 
 
 Chas. The devil she is! 
 
 Sir Pet. Hush! I tell you. 
 (Points.) 
 
 Chas. Behind the screen! Odds life, let 's 
 unveil her! 
 
 Sir Pet. No — ^no! he's coming — you 
 shan't indeed! 
 
 Chas. Oh, egad, we '11 have a peep at the 
 little milliner! 
 
 Sir Pet. Not for the world — Joseph will 
 never forgive me. 
 
 Chas. I '11 stand by you 
 
 Sir Pet. Odds life ! Here he 's coming — 
 
 (Surface enters just as Charles throws 
 
 down the screen.) 
 
 (Be-enter Joseph Surface.) 
 
 Chas. Lady Teazle ! by all that 's wonder- 
 ful! 
 
 Sir Pet. Lady Teazle! by all that's hor- 
 rible ! 
 
 Chas. Sir Peter, this is one of the smart- 
 est French milliners I ever saw! — Egad, 
 you seem all to have been diverting 
 yourselves here at hide and seek — and I 
 don't see who is out of the secret ! — Shall 
 I beg your ladyship to inform me? — Not 
 a word! — Brother! — will you please to 
 explain this matter? What! is Honesty 
 dumb too? — Sir Peter, though I found 
 you in the dark — perhaps you are not so 
 now — all mute? Well tho' I can make 
 nothing of the affair, I make no doubt 
 .but you perfectly understand one an- 
 other,— so I 'II leave you to yourselves. — 
 (Going.) Brother, I'm sorry to find 
 
 , you have given that worthy man grounds 
 for so much uneasiness! — Sir Peter — 
 
704 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 there 's nothing in the world so noble as 
 a man of sentiment ! — 
 
 {Stand for some time looking at one an- 
 other. Exit Charles.) 
 
 Surf. Sir Peter — notwithstanding I con- 
 fess that appearances are against me, if 
 you will afford me your patience, I make 
 no doubt but I shall explain everything 
 to your satisfaction. 
 
 Sir Pet. If you please — sir — 
 
 Surf. The fact is, sir — that Lady Teazle 
 knowing my pretensions to your ward 
 Maria — I say, sir. Lady Teazle — ^being 
 apprehensive of the jealousy of your 
 temper — and knowing my friendship to 
 the family, — she, sir — ^I say called here 
 — in order that I might explain those 
 pretensions — but on your coming being 
 apprehensive — as I said, of your jeal- 
 ousy — she withdrew — and this, you may 
 depend on 't, is the whole truth of the 
 matter. 
 
 Sir Pet. A very clear account, [upon] my 
 word; and I dare swear the lady will 
 vouch for every article of it. 
 
 Lady Teaz. For not one word of it, Sir 
 Peter. 
 
 Sir Pet. How! don't you think it worth 
 while to agree in the lie? 
 
 Lady Teaz. There is not one syllable of 
 truth in what that gentleman has told 
 you. 
 
 Sir Pet. I believe you upon my soul, 
 ma'am. 
 
 Surf. 'Sdeath, madam, will you betray 
 mel 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Lady Teaz. Good Mr. Hypocrite, by your 
 leave I will speak for myself. 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, let her alone, sir — you'll 
 find she '11 make out a better story than 
 you without prompting. 
 
 Lady Teaz. Hear me, Sir Peter. I came 
 hither on no matter relating to your 
 ward and even ignorant of this gentle- 
 man's pretensions to her; but I came — 
 seduced by his insidious arguments and 
 pretended passion — at least to listen to 
 his dishonorable love if not to sacrifice 
 your honor to his baseness. 
 
 Sir Pet. Now, I believe, the truth is com- 
 ing, indeed. 
 
 Surf. The woman 's mad — 
 
 Lady Teaz. No, sir, she has recovered her 
 senses. Your own arts have furnished 
 her with the means. Sir Peter— I do 
 not expect you to credit me — but the 
 tenderness you expressed for me, when 
 
 I am sure you could not think I was a 
 witness to it, has penetrated so to my 
 heart that had I left the place without 
 the shame of this discovery, my future 
 life should have spoken the sincerity of 
 my gratitude; — as for that smooth- 
 tongued hypocrite, who would have se- 
 duced the wife of liis too credulous 
 friend while he pretended honorable ad- 
 dresses to his ward, I behold him now in 
 a light so truly despicable that I shall 
 never again respect myself for having 
 listened to him. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Surf. Notwithstanding all this. Sir Peter 
 — Heaven knows — 
 
 Sir Pet. That you are a villain! — and so 
 I leave you to your conscience. 
 
 Surf. You are too rash, Sir Peter — you 
 shall hear me. — The man who shuts out 
 conviction by refusing to 
 
 {Exeunt, Surface following and speaking.) 
 
 ACT V. • 
 
 Scene 1. The Library. 
 {Enter Surface, Servant.) 
 
 Surf. Mr. Stanley! and why should yon 
 think I would see him? — you must know 
 he came to ask something! 
 
 Serv. Sir, I should n't have let him in 
 but that Mr. Rowley came to the door 
 with him. 
 
 Surf. Pshaw! — Blockhead to suppose 
 that I should now be in a temper to re- 
 ceive visits from poor relations! — ^well, 
 why don't you show the fellow up? 
 
 Serv. I will, sir! why, sir, it was not 
 my fault that Sir Peter discovered my 
 lady 
 
 Surf. Go, fool! {Exit Serv.) Sure 
 Fortune never play a man of my policy 
 such a trick before — my character with 
 Sir Peter! — ^my hopes with Maria!— 
 destroyed in a moment! I'm in a rare 
 humor to listen to other people's dis- 
 tresses ! I shan't be able to bestow even 
 a benevolent sentiment on Stanley. — So! 
 here he comes and Rowley with him — I 
 must try to recover myself, and put a 
 little charity into my face however. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Sir Oliver and Rowley.) 
 Sir Oliv. What! does he avoid us? that 
 was he, was it not? 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 705 
 
 Row. It yas, sir, but I doubt you are 
 come a little too abruptly — his nerves 
 are so weak that the sight of a poor re- 
 lation may be too much for him — I 
 should have gone first to break you to 
 him. 
 
 Sir Oliv. A plague of his nerves! yet this 
 is he whom Sir Peter extols as a man of 
 the most benevolent way of thinking! 
 
 Bow. As to his way of thinking — I can't 
 pretend to decide, for, to do him justice, 
 he appears to have as much speculative 
 benevolence as any private gentleman 
 in the kingdom; though he is seldom so 
 sensual as to indulge himself in the ex- 
 ercise of it. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yet he has a string of charitable 
 sentiments, I suppose, at his fingers' 
 ends! 
 
 Row. Or rather at his tongue's end. Sir 
 Oliver; for I believe there is no senti- 
 ment he has more faith in than that 
 "charity begins at home." 
 
 Sir Oliv. And his I presume is of that 
 domestic sort which never stirs abroad 
 at all. 
 
 Row. I doubt you'll find it so — but he's 
 coming — I must n't seem to interrupt 
 you; and you know immediately, as you 
 leave him, I come in to announce your 
 arrival in your real character. 
 
 Sir Oliv. True, and afterwards you'll 
 meet me at Sir Peter's — 
 
 Row. Without losing a moment. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Sir Oliv. So — I see he has premeditated 
 a denial by the complaisance of his fea- 
 tures. 
 
 (Enter Surface.) 
 
 Surf. Sir, I beg you ten thousand par- 
 dons for keeping you a moment waiting 
 — Mr. Stanley — I presume — 
 
 Sir Oliv. At your service. 
 
 Surf. Sir, I beg you will do me the honor 
 to sit down — I entreat you, sir. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Dear sir, there 's no occasion — 
 too civil by half! 
 
 Surf. I have not the pleasure of know- 
 ing you, Mr. Stanley, but I am extremely 
 happy to see you look so well; you were 
 nearly related to my mother, I think, Mr. 
 Stanley. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I was, sir, so nearly that my 
 present poverty, I fear, may do discredit 
 to her wealthy children, else I should not 
 have presumed to trouble you. 
 
 Surf. Dear sir, there needs no apology; 
 
 he that is, in distress, tho' a stranger, has 
 a right to claim kindred with the 
 wealthy. I am sure I wish I was of that 
 class, and had it in my power to offer 
 you even a small relief. 
 
 Sir Oliv. If your uncle, Sir Oliver, were 
 here, I fehould have a friend 
 
 Surf. 1 wish he was, sir, with all my 
 heart — you should not want an advocate 
 with him, believe me, sir. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I should not need one — ^my dis- 
 tresses would recommend me. But I 
 imagined his bounty had enabled you to 
 become the agent of his charity. 
 
 Surf. My dear sir, you are strangely mis- 
 informed. Sir Oliver is a worthy man, 
 a worthy man — a very worthy sort of 
 man; but avarice, Mr. Stanley, is the 
 vice of age — I will tell you, my good 
 sir, in confidence: — ^what he has done 
 for me has been a mere — nothing; tho' 
 people, I know, have thought otherwise, 
 and for my part I never chose to con- 
 tradict the report. 
 
 Sir Oliv. What! — ^has he never trans- 
 mitted you bullion — ^rupees — pagodas^ ^^ 
 
 Surf. dear sir, nothing of the kind! 
 no, no — a few presents now and then — 
 china, shawls, congo tea, avadavats, and 
 Indian crackers,^^ little more, believe me. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Here 's gratitude for twelve 
 thousand pounds! — avadavats, and In- 
 dian crackers! 
 
 Surf. Then, my dear sir, you have heard, 
 I doubt not, of the extravagance of my 
 brother. Sir, there are very few would 
 credit what I have done for that unfor- 
 tunate young man. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Not I for one! 
 
 Surf. The sums I have lent him ! Indeed, 
 I have been exceedingly to blame — it was 
 an amiable weakness! however, I don't 
 pretend to defend it; and now I feel it 
 doubly culpable, since it has deprived 
 me of the power of serving you, Mr. 
 Stanley, as my heart directs. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Dissembler! — Then, sir, you 
 cannot assist me? 
 
 Surf. At present it grieves me to say I 
 cannot — but whenever I have the ability, 
 you may depend upon hearing from me. 
 
 Sir Oliv. I am extremely sorry 
 
 Surf. Not more than I am, believe me ; to 
 pity without the power to relieve is still 
 more painful than to ask and be de- 
 nied. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Kind sir, your most obedient, 
 humble servant. 
 
 50 East Indian coins (worth 7-88.). 
 
 51 The last three mean respectively a black tea from China, small Indian song-Dirds, and fancy 
 firecrackers. 
 
706 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Surf. You leave me deeply affected, Mr. 
 
 Stanley; William, be ready to open the 
 
 door. 
 
 Sir Oliv. 0, dear sir, no ceremony 
 
 Surf. Your very obedient 
 
 Sir Oliv. Your most obsequious 
 
 Surf. You may depend on hearing from 
 
 me whenever I can be of service 
 
 Sir Oliv. Sweet sir, you are too good- 
 
 Surf. In the mean time I wish you health 
 and spirits 
 
 Sir Oliv. Your ever grateful and per- 
 petual humble servant 
 
 Surf. Sir, yours as sineerely- 
 
 Sir Oliv. Charles! — ^you are my heir. 
 {Exit.) 
 {Surface, solus.) 
 
 Soh! — This is one bad effect of a good 
 character — it invites applications from 
 the unfortunate and there needs no small 
 degree of address to gain the reputation 
 of benevolence without incurring the ex- 
 pense. The silver ore of pure charity 
 is an expensive article in the catalogue 
 of a man's good qualities, whereas the 
 sentimental French plate I use instead 
 of it makes just as good a show, and 
 pays no tax. 
 
 {Enter Bowley.) 
 
 Bow. Mr. Surface, your servant. I was 
 apprehensive of interrupting you, 
 though my business demands immediate 
 attention, as this note will inform you. 
 
 Surf. Always happy to see Mr. Rowley. 
 How — Oliver — Surface ! — My uncle ar- 
 rived! 
 
 Bow. He is indeed — ^we have just parted 
 — quite well — after a speedy voyage — 
 and impatient to embrace his worthy 
 nephew. 
 
 Surf. I am astonished! — ^William! stop 
 Mr. Stanley, if he's not gone. 
 
 Bow. — ^he 's out of reach, I believe. 
 
 Surf. Why didn't you let me know this 
 when you came in together'? 
 
 Bow. I thought you had particular — 
 business; but I must be gone to inform 
 your brother, and appoint him here to 
 meet his uncle. He will be with you in 
 a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Surf. So he says. Well, I am strangely 
 overjoyed at his coming! — Never to be 
 sure was anything so damned unlucky! 
 
 Bow. You will be delighted to see how 
 well he looks. 
 
 Surf. 0, I 'm rejoiced to hear it — just at 
 this time 
 
 Row. 1 '11 tell him how impatiently you 
 expect him. 
 
 Surf. Do — do — ^pray — give my best duty 
 and affection — indeed, I cannot express 
 the sensations I feel at the thought of 
 seeing him! — certainly his coming just 
 at this time is the cruellest piece of ill 
 
 fortune 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. At Sir Peter's House. 
 {Enter Mrs. Candour and Servant.) 
 
 Serv. Indeed, ma'am, my Lady will see 
 nobody at present. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Did you tell her it was her 
 friend, Mrs. Candour? 
 
 Serv. Yes, ma'am, but she begs you will 
 excuse her. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Do go again — ^I shall be glad 
 to see her if it be only for a moment, for 
 I am sure she must be in great distress. 
 {Exit Maid.) — Dear heart, how provok- 
 ing ! — I 'm not mistress of half the cir- 
 cumstances! — ^We shall have the whole 
 affair in the newspapers with the names 
 of the parties at length before I have 
 dropt the story at a dozen houses. 
 
 {Enter Sir Benjamin.) 
 
 Sir Benjamin, you have heard, I sup- 
 pose 
 
 Sir Ben. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Sur- 
 face 
 
 Mrs. Can. And Sir Peter's discovery 
 
 Sir Ben. the strangest piece of busi- 
 ness to be sure 
 
 Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised 
 in my life ! — I am so sorry for all parties 
 — ^indeed. . 
 
 Sir Ben. Now, I don't pity Sir Peter at 
 all; he was so extravagant — partial to 
 Mr. Surface 
 
 Mrs. Can. Mr. Surface! — why, 'twas 
 with Charles Lady Teazle was detected. 
 
 Sir Ben. No such thing! Mr. Surface is 
 the gallant. 
 
 Mrs. Can. No, no, Charles is the man; 
 't was Mr. Surface brought Sir Peter on 
 purpose to discover them. 
 
 Sir Ben. I tell you I have it from one 
 
 Mrs. Can. And I have it from one 
 
 Sir Ben. Who had it from one who had 
 it 
 
 Mrs. Can. From one immediately — but 
 here comes Lady Sneerwell — perhaps 
 she knows the whole affair. 
 
 {Enter Lady Sneerwell.) 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 707 
 
 Lady Sneer. So, my dear Mrs. Candour, 
 here 's a sad affair of our friend Teazle. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Aye, my dear friend, who 
 could have thought it? 
 
 Lady Sneer. WeU, there is no trusting to 
 appearances; though, indeed, she was al- 
 ways too lively for me. 
 
 Mrs. Can. To be sure, her manners were 
 a little too free — but she was very 
 young 
 
 Lady Sneer. And had indeed some good 
 qualities. 
 
 Mrs. Can. So she had indeed — ^but have 
 you heard the particulars? 
 
 Lady Sneer. No, but everybody says that 
 Mx. Surface 
 
 Sir Ben. Aye, there I told you — ^Mr. Sur- 
 face was, the man. 
 
 Mrs. Can. No, no, indeed the assignation 
 was with Charles 
 
 Lady Sneer. With Charles! — You alarm 
 me, Mrs. Candour! 
 
 Mrs. Can. Yes, yes, he was the lover; 
 Mr. Surface — do him justice — ^was only 
 the informer. 
 
 Sir Ben. Well, I '11 not dispute with you, 
 Mrs. Candour — ^but be it which it may, 
 I hope that Sir Peter's wound will 
 not 
 
 Mrs. Can. Sir Peter's wound! mercy! 
 I didn't hear a word of their fight- 
 ing 
 
 Lady Sneer. Nor I a syllable! 
 
 Sir Ben. No! what, no mention of the 
 duel? 
 
 Mrs. Can. Not a word — 
 
 Sir Ben. O, Lord, yes, yes, they fought 
 before they left the room. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Pray, let us hear. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Aye — do oblige us with the 
 duel 
 
 Sir Ben. "Sir," says Sir Peter, immedi- 
 ately after the discovery, "you are a 
 most ungrateful fellow." 
 
 Mrs. Can. Aye to Charles 
 
 Sir Ben. No, no— to Mr. Surface — "a 
 most ungrateful fellow; and old as I am, 
 sir," says he, "I insist on immediate 
 satisfaction." 
 
 Mrs. Can. Aye, that must have been to 
 Charles, for 'tis very unlikely Mr. 
 Surface should go to fight in his own 
 house. 
 
 Sir Ben. Gad's life, ma'am, not at all — 
 "giving me immediate satisfaction" — on 
 this, madam — Lady Teazle seeing Sir 
 Peter in such danger — ran out of the 
 
 room in strong hysterics — and Charles 
 after her calling out. for hartshorn and 
 water! Then, madam, they began to 
 fight with swords 
 
 {Enter Crabtree.) 
 
 Crab. With pistols, nephew, I have it 
 from undoubted authority. 
 
 Mrs. Can. Oh, Mr. Crabtree, then it is all 
 true 
 
 Crab. Too true indeed, ma'am, and Sir 
 Peter dangerously wounded 
 
 Sir Ben. By a thrust in second °^ — quite 
 through his left side. 
 
 Crab. By a bullet lodged in the 
 thorax 
 
 Mrs. Can. Mercy on me! Poor Sir 
 Peter 
 
 Crab. Yes, ma'am, tho' Charles would 
 have avoided the matter if he could 
 
 Mrs. Can. I knew Charles was the per- 
 son 
 
 Sir Ben. my uncle, I see, knows noth-- 
 ing of the matter 
 
 Crab. But Sir Peter taxed him with the 
 basest ingratitude 
 
 Sir Ben. That I told you, you know 
 
 Crab. Do, nephew, let me speak — and in- 
 sisted on immediate 
 
 Sir Ben. Just as I said 
 
 Crab. Odd's life! Nephew, allow others 
 to know something too — A pair of pis- 
 tols lay on the bureau — for Mr. Surface, 
 it seems, had come home the night be- 
 fore late from Salt-Hill where he had 
 been to see the Montem °^ with a friend, 
 who has a son at Eton — so unluckily the 
 pistols were left charged 
 
 Sir Ben. I heard nothing of- this 
 
 Crab. Sir Peter forced Charles to take 
 one and they fired — it seems pretty 
 nearly together — Charles's shot took 
 place as I tell you, and Sir Peter's 
 missed — but what is very extraordinary 
 the ball struck against a little bronze 
 Pliny that stood over the fire place — 
 grazed out of the window at a right 
 angle — and wounded the postman, who 
 was just coming to the door with a 
 double letter from Northamptonshire. 
 
 Sir Ben. My uncle's account is more cir- 
 cumstantial, I must confess, — but I be- 
 lieve mine is the true one for all that. 
 
 Lady Sneer. I am more interested in this 
 affair than they imagine — and must have 
 better information. — 
 (Exit.) 
 
 52 A position 
 iencing. 
 
 53 A festival for- 
 merly held at 
 
 Eton College, in 
 which the schol- 
 
 ars marched to a 
 mound (.ad mon- 
 
 tem), called Salt 
 Hill, near Slough. 
 
709 
 
 THE EiaHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Sir Ben. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is 
 
 very easily accounted for. 
 Crab. Yes, yes, they certainly do say — 
 
 taut that 's neither here nor there. 
 Mrs. Can. But pray, where is Sir Peter 
 
 at present? 
 Crab. Oh! they brought him home and 
 
 he is now in the house, tho' the servants 
 
 are ordered to deny it. 
 Mrs. Can. I believe so — and Lady Teazle, 
 
 I suppose, attending him. 
 Crab. Yes, yes, and I saw one of the 
 
 faculty ^* enter just before me. 
 Sir Ben. Hey, who comes here? 
 Crab. Oh, this is he, the physician, de- 
 pend on 't. 
 Mrs. Can. certainly, it must be the 
 
 physician, and now we shall know 
 
 {Enter Sir Oliver.) 
 
 Crab. Well, Doctor, what hopes? 
 
 Mrs. Can. Aye, Doctor, how 's your pa- 
 tient? 
 
 Sir Ben. Now, Doctor, isn't it a wound 
 with a small sword 
 
 Crab. A bullet lodged in the thorax — for 
 a hundred! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Doctor! — a wound with a small 
 sword! and a bullet in the thorax! — 
 Oons! are you mad, good people? 
 
 Sir Ben. Perhaps, sir, you are not a 
 doctor. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Truly, sir, I am to thank you 
 for my degree if I am. 
 
 Crab. Only a friend of Sir Peter's, then, 
 I presume ; but, sir, you must have heard 
 of his accident. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Not a word! 
 
 Crab. Not -of his being dangerously 
 wounded? 
 
 Sir Oliv. The devil he is! 
 
 Sir Ben. Run thro' the body 
 
 Crab. Shot in the breast 
 
 Sir Ben. By one Mr. Surface 
 
 Crab. Aye, the younger. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Hey! what the plague! you 
 seem to differ strangely in your ac- 
 counts; however, you agree that Sir 
 Peter is dangerously wounded. 
 
 Sir Ben. Oh yes, we agree in that. 
 
 Crab. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no 
 doubt in that. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Then, upon my word, for a 
 person in that situation, he is the most 
 imprudent man alive, for here he comes 
 walking as if nothing at all was the 
 matter. 
 
 {Enter Sir Peter.) 
 
 Odd's heart. Sir Peter 1 you are come in 
 good time I promise you, for we had 
 just given you over! 
 
 Sir Ben. 'Egad, uncle, this is the most 
 sudden recovery! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Why, man, what do you do out 
 of bed with a small sword through your 
 body, and a bullet lodged in your 
 thorax? 
 
 Sir Pet. A small sword and a bullet — 
 
 Sir Oliv. Aye, these gentlemen would 
 have killed you without law or physic, 
 and wanted to dub me a doctor to make 
 me an accomplice. 
 
 Sir Pet. Why! what is all this? 
 
 Sir Ben. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the 
 story of the duel is not true — and are 
 sincerely sorry for your other misfor- 
 tune. 
 
 Sir Pet. So, so, — all over the town al- 
 ready ! 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Crab. Though, Sir Peter, you were cer- 
 tainly vastly to blame to marry at all at 
 your years. 
 
 Sir Pet. Sir, what business is that of 
 yours? 
 
 Mrs. Can. Though, indeed, as Sir Peter 
 made so good a husband, he 's very much 
 to be pitied. 
 
 Sir Pet. Plague on your pity, ma'am, I 
 desire none of it. 
 
 Sir Ben. However, Sir Peter, you must 
 not mind the laughing and jests you will 
 meet with on the occasion. 
 
 Sir Pet. Sir, I desire to be master in my 
 own house. 
 
 Crab. 'T is no uncommon case, that 's one 
 comfort. 
 
 Sir Pet. I insist on being left to myself, 
 without ceremony, — I insist on your 
 leaving my house directly! 
 
 Mrs. Can. Well, well, we are going and 
 depend on 't, we '11 make the best report 
 of you we can. 
 
 Sir Pet. Leave my house! 
 
 Crab. And tell how hardly you have been 
 treated. 
 
 Sir Pet. Leave my house — 
 
 Sir Ben. And how patiently you bear it. 
 
 Sir Pet. Friends! Vipers! Furies! Oh 
 that their own venom would choke them! 
 
 Sir Oliver. They are very provoking in- 
 deed, Sir Peter. 
 
 {Enter Bowley.) 
 
 Bow. I heard high words: what has ruf- 
 fled you. Sir Peter. 
 
 54 1, v., of the medical profession. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 709 
 
 Sir Pet. Pshaw! what signifies asking — 
 do I ever pass a day without my vexa- 
 tions? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, I'm not inquisitive — I 
 come only to tell you that I have seen 
 both my nephews in the manner we pro- 
 posed. 
 
 Sir Pet. A precious couple they are!» 
 
 Row. Yes, and Sir Oliver is convinced 
 that your judgment was right. Sir Peter. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, I find Joseph is indeed 
 the man after all. 
 
 Row. Aye, as Sir Peter says, he 's a man 
 of sentiment. 
 
 Sir Oliv. And acts up to the sentiments 
 he professes. 
 
 Row. It certainly is edification to hear 
 him talk. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Oh, he 's a model for the young 
 men of his age ! But how 's this, Sir 
 Peter? you don't join us in your friend 
 Joseph's praise as I expected. 
 
 Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned 
 wicked world, and the fewer we praise 
 the better. 
 
 Row. What, do you say so. Sir Peter, who 
 were never mistaken in your life? 
 
 Sir Pet. Pshaw! Plague on you both — I 
 see by your sneering you have heard the 
 whole affair — I shall go mad among you ! 
 
 Row. Then to fret you no longer. Sir 
 Peter, we are indeed acquainted with it 
 all. I met Lady Teazle coming from 
 Mr. Surface's so humbled that she 
 deigned to request me to be her advocate 
 with you. 
 
 Sir Pet. And does Sir Oliver know all too? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Every circumstance! 
 
 Sir Pet. What of the closet and the 
 screen — hey? 
 
 Sir Oliv. Yes, yes — and. the little French 
 milliner. Oh, I have been vastly di- 
 verted with the story! ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Sir Pet. 'T was very pleasant ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. I never laughed more in my 
 life, I assure you; ha! ha! 
 
 Sir Pet. vastly diverting! Ha! ha! 
 
 Row. To be sure, Joseph with his senti- 
 ments! ha! ha! 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, his sentiments! ha! ha! a 
 hypocritical villain! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Aye, and that rogue Charles — 
 to pull Sir Peter out of the closet, 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Sir Pet. Ha! ha! 'twas devilish enter- 
 taining, to be sure. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter, I 
 should like to have seen your face when 
 the screen was thrown down — ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sir Pet. Yes, my face when the screen 
 was thrown down: ha! ha! ha! 0, I 
 must never show my head again ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. But come, come, it is n't fair to 
 laugh at you neither, my old friend, tho' 
 upon my soul I can't help it — 
 
 Sir Pet. pray, don't restrain your 
 mirth on my account: it does not hurt 
 me at all — I laugh at the whole affair 
 myself. — Yes — yes — I think being a 
 standing jest for all one's acquaintance 
 a very happy situation — yes — and 
 then of a morning to read the para- 
 graphs about Mr. S , Lady T , 
 
 and Sir P , will be so entertaining! 
 
 — I shall certainly leave town tomorrow 
 and never look mankind in the face 
 again ! 
 
 Row. Without affectation. Sir Peter, you 
 may despise the ridicule of fools. But 
 I see Lady Teazle going towards the 
 next room — I am sure you must desiye 
 a reconciliation as earnestly as she does. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Perhaps my being here prevents 
 her coming to you ; well, I '11 leave hon- 
 est Rowley to mediate between you; but 
 he must bring you all presently to Mr. 
 Surface's — where I am now returning — 
 if not to reclaim a libertine, at least to 
 expose hypocrisy. ^ 
 
 Sir Pet. Ah ! I '11 be present at your dis- 
 covering yourself there with all my 
 heart; though 'tis a vile unlucky place 
 for discoveries. 
 
 Sir Oliv. However, it is very convenient 
 to the carrying on of my plot that you 
 all live so near one another ! 
 {Exit Sir Oliver.) 
 
 Row. We '11 follow— 
 
 Sir Pet. She is not coming here, you see, 
 Rowley — 
 
 Row. No, but she has left the door of 
 that room open, you perceive. — See, she 
 is in tears! 
 
 Sir Pet. She seems indeed to wish I 
 should go to her. How dejected she ap- 
 pears ! 
 
 Row. And will you refrain from comfort- 
 ing her? 
 
 Sir Pet. Certainly, a little mortification 
 appears very becoming in a wife. 
 Don't you think it will do her good to let 
 her pine a little? 
 
 Row. 0, this is ungenerous in you. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, I know not what to think. 
 You remember, Rowley, the letter I 
 found of hers — evidently intended for 
 Charles? 
 
 Row. A mere forgery, Sir Peter, laid in 
 
710 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 your way on purpose. This is one of 
 
 the points which I intend Snake shall 
 
 give you conviction on. 
 Sir Pet. I wish I were once satisfied of 
 
 that. She looks this way what a re- 
 markably elegant turn of the head she 
 
 has! Rowley, I'll go to her. 
 Sow. Certainly — 
 Sir Pet. Tho' when it is known that we 
 
 are reconciled, people will laugh at me 
 
 ten times more! 
 Sow. Let them laugh — and retort their 
 
 malice only by showing them you are 
 
 happy in spite of it. 
 Sir Pet. r faith, so I will — and if I 'm not 
 
 mistaken, we may yet be the happiest 
 
 couple in the country. 
 Bow. Nay, Sir Peter, he who once lays 
 
 aside suspicion 
 
 Sir Pet. Hold, Master Rowley, if you 
 
 have any regard for me, never let me 
 
 hear you utter anything like a sentiment. 
 
 I have had enough of them to serve me 
 
 the rest of my life. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene the Last. The Library. 
 (Surface and Lady Sneerwell.) 
 
 Lady Sneer. Impossible! will not Sir 
 Peter immediately be reconciled to 
 Charles? and of consequence no longer 
 oppose his union with Maria? The 
 thought is distraction to me ! 
 
 Surf. Can passion furnish a remedy? 
 
 Lady Sneer. No, nor cunning either. 
 I was a fooj, an idiot, to league with 
 such a blunderer! 
 
 Surf. Surely, Lady Sneerwell, I am the 
 greatest sufferer — ^yet you see I bear the 
 accident with calmness. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Because the disappointment 
 has n't reached your heart; your interest 
 only attached you ■ to Maria ; had you 
 felt for her what I have for that un- 
 grateful libertine, neither your temper 
 nor hypocrisy could prevent your show- 
 ing the sharpness of your vexation. 
 
 Surf. But why should your reproaches 
 fall on me for this disappointment? 
 
 Lady Sneer. Are not you the cause of it? 
 what had you to bate in your pursuit of 
 Maria to pervert Lady Teazle by the 
 way? — had you not a suflSeient field for 
 your roguery in blinding Sir Peter and 
 supplanting your brother? I hate such 
 an avarice of crimes; 'tis an unfair 
 monopoly and never prospers. 
 
 Surf. Well, I admit I have been to blame. 
 
 I confess I deviated from the direct- road 
 of wrong, but I don't think we're so 
 totally defeated neither. 
 
 Lady Sneer. No ! 
 
 Surf. You tell me you have made a trial 
 of Snake since we met, and that you 
 still believe him faithful to us. 
 
 Lad^ Sneer. I do believe so. 
 
 Surf, And that he has undertaken, should 
 it be necessary, to swear and prove that 
 Charles is at this time contracted by 
 vows and honor to your ladyship, which 
 some of his former letters to you will 
 serve to support. 
 
 Lady Sneer. This, indeed, might have 
 assisted — 
 
 Surf. Come, come, it is not too late yet; 
 but hark! this is probably my uncle, Sir 
 Oliver; retire to that room — we'll con- 
 sult further wheii he 's gone. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Well, but if he should find 
 you out to[o] — 
 
 Surf. 0, I have no fear of that — Sir 
 Peter will hold his tongue for his own 
 credit sake — and you may depend on't, 
 I shall soon discover Sir Oliver's weak 
 t 
 
 Lady Sneer. I have no diffidence of your 
 abilities — only be constant to one ro- 
 guery at a time. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Surf. I will, I will. So 'tis confounded 
 hard after such bad fortune, to be baited 
 by one's confederate in evil. Well, at 
 all events my character is so much better 
 than Charles's, that I certainly — ^hey — 
 what! — this is not Sir Oliver — but old 
 Stanley again ! — Plague on 't, that he 
 should return to tease me just now; — I 
 shall have Sir Oliver come and find him 
 here — and — 
 
 (Enter Sir Oliver.) 
 
 Gad's life, Mr. Stanley, why have you 
 come back to plague me at this time? 
 you must not stay now, upon my word! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is 
 expected here, and tho' he has been so 
 penurious to you, I '11 try what he '11 do 
 for me. 
 
 Surf. Sir ! 't is impossible for you to stay 
 
 now; so I must beg come any other 
 
 time and I promise you, you shall be as- 
 sisted. 
 
 Sir Oliv. No — Sir Oliver and I must be 
 acquainted — 
 
 Surf. Zounds, sir, then I insist on your 
 quitting the room directly — 
 
 Sir Oliver. Nay, sir 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 711 
 
 Surf. Sir, I insist on't. Here, William, 
 show this gentleman out. Since you 
 compel me, sir — not one moment — this is 
 such insolence. 
 
 (Going to push Mm out.) 
 
 {Enter Charles.) 
 
 Chas. Heyday! what's the matter now? 
 what the devil, have you got hold of my 
 little broker here! Zounds, brother, 
 don't hurt little Premium. What's the 
 matter, my little fellow? 
 
 Surf. So! He has been with you, too, 
 has he? 
 
 Chas. To be sure he has! Why, 'tis as 
 
 honest a little But sure, Joseph, 
 
 you have not been borrowing money, too, 
 have you? 
 
 Surf. Borrowing — no ! — But, brother, 
 you know sure we expect Sir Oliver 
 every 
 
 Chas. Gad, that's true — ^NoU mustn't 
 find the little broker here, to be sure — 
 
 Surf. Yet Mr. Stanley insists 
 
 Chas. Stanley! why his name's Pre- 
 mium — 
 
 Surf. No, no, Stanley. 
 
 Chas. No, no, Premium. 
 
 Surf. Well, no matter which — but 
 
 Chas. Aye, aye, Stanley or Premium, 't is 
 the same tiung as you say — for I sup- 
 pose he goes by half a hundred names, 
 besides A. B's ^° at the coffee-house. 
 (Knock.) 
 
 Surf. 'Sdeath, here's Sir Oliver at the 
 door. Now, I beg, Mr. Stanley 
 
 Chas. Aye, aye, and I beg, Mr. Pre- 
 mium 
 
 Sir Oliv. Gentlemen- 
 
 Surf. Sir, by Heaven, you shall go — 
 
 Chas. 'Aye, out with him certainly 
 
 Sir Oliv. This violence 
 
 Surf. 'Tis your own fault. 
 Chas. Out with him, to be sure. 
 
 (Both forcing Sir Oliver out.) 
 
 {Enter Sir Peter Teade, Lady Teazle, 
 Maria, and Rowley.) 
 
 Sir Pet. My old friend. Sir Oliver!— hey! 
 
 what in the name of wonder! — Here are 
 
 dutiful nephews! — assault their uncle at 
 
 his first visit ! 
 Lady Teaz. Indeed, Sir Oliver, 't was well 
 
 we came in to rescue you. 
 Bow. Truly it was, for I perceive. Sir 
 
 Oliver, the character of old Stanley was 
 
 no protection to you. 
 Sir Oliv. Nor of Premium, either. The 
 
 necessities of the former could not ex- 
 tort a shilling from that benevolent gen- 
 tleman; and with the other I stood a 
 chance of faring worse than my an- 
 cestors, and being knocked down without 
 being paid for. 
 
 Surf. Charles! 
 
 Chas. Joseph ! 
 
 Surf. 'T is complete ! 
 
 Chas. Very ! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Sir Peter, my friend, and Row- 
 ley, too — look on that elder nephew of 
 mine. You know what he has already 
 received from my bounty and you know 
 also how gladly I would have looked on 
 half my fortune as held in trust for him. 
 Judge then my disappointment in dis- 
 covering him to be destitute of truth, 
 charity, and gratitude. 
 
 Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, I should be more sur- 
 prised at this declaration, if I had not 
 myself found him to be selfish, treacher- 
 ous, and hypocritical. 
 
 Lady Teaz. And if the gentleman pleads 
 not guilty to these, pray let him call me 
 to his character. 
 
 Sir Pet. Then I believe we need add no 
 more. If he knows himself, he will con- 
 sider it as the most perfect punishment 
 that he is known to the world. 
 
 Chas. If they talk this way to Honesty, 
 what will they say to me by and bye? 
 
 Sir Oliv. As for that prodigal, his brother 
 there 
 
 Chas. Aye, now comes my turn — ^the 
 damned family pictures will ruin me. 
 
 Surf. Sir Oliver, uncle, will you honor 
 me with a hearing? 
 
 Chas. I wish Joseph now would make 
 one of his long speeches and I might 
 recollect myself a little. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Aid I suppose you would un- 
 dertake to vindicate yourself entirely — 
 
 Surf. I trust I could — 
 
 Sir Oliv. Nay, if you desert your roguery 
 in its distress and try to be justified, you 
 have even less principle than I thought 
 you had. — (To Charles Surface.) Well, 
 sir, and you could justify yourself too, 
 I suppose? 
 
 Chas. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver. 
 
 Sir Oliv. What! little Premium has been 
 let too much into the secret, I presume. 
 
 Chas. True, sir, but they were family 
 secrets, and should not be mentioned 
 again, you know. 
 
 Row. Come, Sir Oliver, I know you can- 
 not speak of Charles's follies with anger. 
 
 55 An allusion to the practice of receiving at a ooffee-houBe letters addressed with an assumed name or 
 initials. 
 
712 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Sir Oliv. Odd's heart, no more I can — nor 
 with gravity, either. Sir Peter, do you 
 know the rogue bargained with me for 
 all his ancestors — sold me judges and 
 generals by the foot,' and maiden aunts 
 as cheap as broken china ! , 
 
 Chas. • To be sure. Sir Oliver, I did make 
 a little free with the family canvas, 
 that 's the truth on 't : — my ancestors 
 may certainly rise in judgment against 
 me, there 's no denying it ; — but believe 
 me sincere when I tell you, and upon my 
 soul I would not say so if I was not, 
 that if I do not appear mortified at the 
 exposure of my follies, it is because I 
 feel at this moment the warmest satis- 
 faction in seeing you, my liberal bene- 
 factor. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Charles — I believe you — give 
 me your hand again; the ill-looking little 
 fellow over the couch has made your 
 peace. 
 
 Chas. Then, sir, my gratitude to the 
 original is still increased. 
 
 Lady Teaz. (Advancing.) Yet I believe, 
 Sir Oliver, here is one whom Charles is 
 stiU more anxious to be reconciled to. 
 
 Sir Oliv. 0, I have heard of his attach- 
 ment there — and with the young lady's 
 pardon, if I construe right that blush 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, child, speak your senti- 
 ments; you know, we are going to be 
 reconciled to Charles. 
 
 Mar. Sir, I have little to say, but that I 
 shall rejoice to hear that he is happy. 
 For me, whatever claim I had to his af- 
 fection I willing [ly] resign to one who 
 has a better title. 
 
 Chas. How, Maria! 
 
 Sir Pet. Heyday, what's the mystery 
 now? while he appeared an incorrigible 
 rake, you would give your hand to no 
 one else, and now that he 's likely to re- 
 form I '11 warrant you won't have him ! 
 
 Mar. His own heart, and Lady Sneerwell, 
 know the cause. 
 
 Chas. Lady Sneerwell! 
 
 Surf. Brother, it is with great concern — 
 I am obliged to speak on this point, but 
 my regard to justice obliges me — and 
 Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer 
 be concealed — 
 
 {Goes to the door.) 
 
 {Enter Lady Sneerwell.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Sob! another French milliner, 
 egad ! He ha^ one in every room in the 
 house, I suppose — 
 
 Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles! Well 
 may you be surprised and feel for the 
 indelicate situation which your perfidy 
 has forced me into. 
 
 Chas. Pray, uncle, is this another plot of 
 yours? for as I have life, I don't under- 
 stand it. 
 
 Surf. I believe, sir, there is but' the evi- 
 dence of one person more necessary to 
 make it extremely clear. 
 
 Sir Pet. And that person, I imagine, is 
 Mr. Snake. Rowley, you were perfectly 
 right to bring him with us, and pray let 
 him appear. 
 
 Bow. Walk in, Mr. Snake — 
 
 {Enter Snake.) 
 
 I thought his testimony might be wanted ; 
 however, it happens unluckily that he 
 comes to confront Lady Sneerwell and 
 not to support her. 
 
 Lady Sneer. A villain! — Treacherous to 
 me at last I Speak, fellow, have you too 
 conspired against me? 
 
 Snake. I beg your ladyship ten thousand 
 pardons, — ^you paid me extremely lib- 
 erally for the lie in question — but I un- 
 fortunately have been offered double to 
 speak the truth. 
 
 Lady Sneer. The torments of shame and 
 disappointment on you all! 
 
 Lady Teaz. Hold, Lady Sneerwell, before 
 you go, let me thank you for the trouble 
 you and that gentleman have taken in 
 writing letters from me to Charles and 
 answering them yourself; and let me 
 also request you to make my respects to 
 the Scandalous College, of which you 
 are President, and inform them that 
 Lady Teazle, Licentiate,^^ begs leave to 
 return the diploma they granted her — 
 as she leaves off practice and kills char- 
 acters no longer. 
 
 Lady Sneer. Provoking — insolent! — ^may 
 your husband live these fifty years! 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Cons, what a fury! 
 
 Lady Teaz. A malicious creature indeed! 
 
 Sir Pet. Hey — ^not for the last wish? — 
 
 Lady Teaz. 0, no — 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, sir, and what have you to 
 say now? 
 
 Surf. Sir, I am so confounded, to find 
 that Lady Sneerwell could be guilty of 
 suborning Mr. Snake in 'this manner to 
 impose on us all, that I know not what 
 
 to say. However, lest her revengeful 
 
 spirit should prompt her to injure my 
 
 66 graduate. 
 
THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 
 
 713 
 
 brother, I had certainly better follow her 
 directly. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Sir Pet. Moral to the last drop! 
 
 Sir Oliv. Aye, and marry her, Joseph, if 
 you can. — Oil and vinegar, egad : — you '11 
 do very well together. 
 
 Bow. I believe we have no more occasion 
 for Mr. Snake at present. 
 
 Snake. Before I go, I beg pardon once for;^ 
 all for whatever uneasiness I have been 
 the humble instrument of causing to the 
 parties present. 
 
 Sir Pet. Well, well, you have made atone- 
 ment by a good deed at last. 
 
 Snake. But I must request of the com- 
 pany that it shall never be Tsnown. 
 
 Sir Pet. Hey ! — ^what the plague — are you 
 ashamed of having done a right, thing 
 once in your life? 
 
 Snake. Ah, sir, consider I live by the 
 badness of my character! — I have noth- 
 ing but my infamy to depend on ! — and, 
 if it were once known that I had been 
 betrayed into an honest action, I should 
 lose every friend I have in the world. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, well, we'll not traduce 
 you by saying anything to your praise, 
 never fear. 
 
 (Exit Snake.) 
 
 Sir Pet. There's a precious rogue. — Yet 
 that fellow is a writer and a critic. 
 
 Lady Teaz. See, Sir Oliver, there needs 
 no persuasion now to reconcile your 
 nephew and Maria. 
 
 Sir Oliv. Aye, aye, that's as it should 
 be, and egad, we '11 have the wedding to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 Chas. Thank you, dear uncle ! 
 
 Sir Pet. What! you rogue, don't you ask 
 the girl's consent first? 
 
 Chas. Oh, I have done that a long time — 
 above a minute ago — and she has looked 
 yes — 
 
 Mar. Tor shame, Charles ! I protest. Sir 
 Peter, there has not been a word 
 
 Sir Oliv. Well, then, the fewer the better 
 — may your love for each other never 
 know abatement. 
 
 Sir Pet. And may you live as happily to- 
 gether as Lady Teazle and I — intend to 
 . do. 
 
 Chas. Rowley, my old friend, I am sure 
 you congratulate me and I suspect too 
 that I owe you much. 
 
 Sir Oliv. You do, indeed, Charles. 
 
 Row. If my efforts to serve you had not 
 
 • succeeded, you would have been in my 
 
 debt for the attempt; — but deserve to be 
 happy — and you over-repay me. 
 
 Sir Pet. Aye, honest Rowley always said 
 you would reform. 
 
 Chas. Why, as to reforming. Sir Peter, 
 I'll make no promises — and that I take 
 to be a proof that I intend to set about 
 it. — But here shall be my monitor, my 
 gentle guide.' — Ah ! can I leave the virtu- 
 ous path those eyes illumine? 
 
 Tho' thou, dear maid, should'st waive thy 
 
 beauty's sway, 
 — Thou still must rule — ^because I will 
 
 obey: 
 An humbled fugitive from folly view. 
 No sanctuary near but love and you: 
 You can indeed each anxious fear re- 
 move. 
 For even scandal dies if you approve. 
 (To the audience.) 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 By Mr. Caiman. 
 
 Spoken by Lady Teazle. 
 
 I, who was late so volatile and gay. 
 
 Like a trade-wind must now blow all one 
 
 way. 
 Bend all my cares, my studies, and my 
 
 vows, 
 To one dull rusty weathercock — my spouse ! 
 So wills our virtuous bard — ^the motley 
 
 Bayes 
 Of crying epilogues and laughing plays! 
 Old bachelors, who marry smart young 
 
 wives, 
 Learn from our play to regulate your lives : 
 Each bring his dear to town, all faults 
 
 upon her — 
 London will prove the very source of 
 
 honor. 
 Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves. 
 When principles relax, to brace the nerves : 
 Such is my case ; and yet I must deplore 
 That the gay dream of dissipation 's o'er. 
 And say, ye fair ! was ever lively wife, 
 Bom with the genius for the highest life. 
 Like me untimely blasted in her bloom, 
 Like me condemned to such a dismal doom? 
 Save money — ^when I just knew how to 
 
 waste it! 
 Leave London — just as I began to taste it! 
 Must I then watch the early crowing cock. 
 The melancholy ticking of a clock; 
 In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded. 
 With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats 
 
 surrounded? 
 
714 
 
 THE EiaHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 With humble curate can I now retire, 
 (While good Sir Peter boozes with the 
 
 squire,) 
 And at backgammon mortify my soul, 
 That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole? " 
 Seven 's the main ! Dear sound that must 
 
 expire, 
 Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire; 
 The transient hour of fashion too soon 
 
 spent. 
 Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell eon- 
 tent! 
 Farewell the plumed head, the cushioned 
 
 tete, 
 That takes the cushion from its proper 
 
 seat! 
 That spirit-stirring drum! — card drums I 
 
 mean, 
 Spadille — odd trick — pam — basto — king 
 
 and queen! 
 And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen 
 
 throat, 
 
 The welcome visitors' approach denote; 
 Farewell all quality of high renown. 
 Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious 
 
 town! 
 Farewell! your revels I partake no more, 
 And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er! 
 All this I told our bard; he smiled, and 
 
 said 'twas clear, 
 I ought to play deep tragedy next year. 
 Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his 
 
 play. 
 And in these solemn periods stalk'd 
 
 away : — 
 "Blessed were the fair like you; her faults 
 
 who stopped, 
 And closed her follies when the curtain 
 
 dropped ! 
 No more in vice or error to engage, 
 Or play the fool at large on life's great 
 
 stage." 
 
 67 Here and below are various terms used in card-games; much of the passage parodies Othello's fare* 
 well to war. 
 
V. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 THE CENCI 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), though 
 the son of a conservative country gentleman, 
 was at odds with English society most of his 
 life; dividing his allegiapce between poetry 
 and the cause of liberty as he conceived it. 
 His publication in 1811 of a pamphlet, The 
 Necessity of Atheism (for which he was ex- 
 pelled from the University of Oxford), his 
 irregular views and conduct as to marriage, 
 his attempt in 1812 to rouse the Irish, his 
 sympathy later for the Greek revolutionists, 
 and much of his poetry, all show his liberal- 
 ism. In 1813-4 he was intimate with such 
 English radicals as Leigh Hunt and William 
 Godwin, and after the suicide of his first 
 wife he married Godwin's daughter. He was 
 a somewhat unpractical enthusiast, who held 
 ardent views, and acted on them, concerning 
 many practical subjects. The latter part of 
 his life especially he devoted to poetry, living 
 in Italy from 1818 to 1822, when he was 
 drowned. 
 
 In 1818, at the age of twenty-six, Shelley 
 came upon a professedly historical manu- 
 script account of the crimes and calamities 
 "of the Roman count Cenci and his family in 
 the year 1598. Persecuted innocence, pa- 
 tience under affliction, like that of Beatrice in 
 this story, always more than anything else 
 moved his sympathy. Struck by the suit- 
 ability of the story for drama, and more 
 trusting his wife's abilities in that direction 
 than his own, he urged her to write a play on 
 it; but ended in writing it himself the fol- 
 lowing year. The fact that he turned from 
 the vastness and abstractness of Prometheus 
 Unbound, only semi-dramatic, to this intense, 
 concrete and actable play is an example 
 of versatility unusual in Shelley. While in 
 general he took but little interest in the 
 theater, he was most desirous and made every 
 effort that The Cenci should be performed at 
 Covent Garden in 1820, but the strange pain- 
 fulness of the subject prevented, and the play 
 has been performed but once, so far as is 
 known, in London, 1886, under the aiispices 
 of the Shelley Society, before a huge and dis- 
 tinguished audience. With certain effective 
 scenes, what gave the play its force on the 
 stage was mainly the personalities of Count 
 Cenci and especially Beatrice. 
 
 The Relation of the Death of the Family of 
 the Cenci, the manuscript account mentioned 
 
 above, is closely followed by the play and sug- 
 gested all its essentials, and even such points 
 as the abortive first plan for the murder, 
 the hesitation of the murderers and Beatrice's 
 firmness at the second attempt, and the gold- 
 trimmed mantle given by her to one of them. 
 Most of the characters are in both, Beatrice 
 is the same in outline, and also Count Cenci. 
 The Relation is naturally much more pro- 
 saically circumstantial, particularly as to 
 what followed the murder, the successful con- 
 cealment of it for a time, and the culprits' 
 condemnation and execution. The narrative 
 has a curiously popular and even naif effect, 
 with its particulars as to dress, personal 
 appearance, pious last words, and the like; 
 and though it shows sympathy chiefly toward 
 Beatrice and her associates, it professes great 
 horror at the parricide. The story is so 
 hideous, and the guilt in it so one-sided, that 
 we are not surprised to learn that legend 
 has mingled with history ; in real life heavenly 
 innocents and devilish brutes rarely exist 
 in the same family. There are even those 
 who state that the harshness of the historic 
 Cenci to his daughter was not without ex- 
 cuse, and that there was much more moral 
 justification for her execution than for his 
 murder. The family was one of criminals, 
 the Count was better and less monstrous, and 
 his family worse, than legend says. Thus an- 
 other traditional story fades into the light 
 of common day through historical criticism. 
 Authenticity is also denied to the well- 
 known supposed portrait of Beatrice Cenci at- 
 tributed to Guido Eeni. 
 
 But as with any creation of vital imagina- 
 tion, this matters little for the play; art 
 deals rather with general than particular 
 truth, and general truth is untouched by his- 
 torical criticism. Unspeakable as the story 
 is, it cannot be called impossible. Count Cenci 
 may pass for one of the monsters of egotism, 
 the combinations of uncontrolled crime and 
 guile, of which we hear during the Italian 
 Renascence; or, in more modern parlance, for 
 a type of paranoia, of inversion and corrup- 
 tion of feeling and impulse. As we read we 
 cannot but give the picture a horrified ac- 
 ceptance. He is so powerfully drawn that 
 we accord him that willing suspension of dis- 
 belief which (as Coleridge says) constitutes 
 poetic faith. His long course of crime is 
 
 715 
 
716 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 made the easier by contemporary conditions 
 — the paternal authority which gave a father 
 almost absolute power in his family and 
 which would incline society to take his part, 
 and (according to the play and the Relation} 
 the corruption of the papal court, which pre- 
 ferred inflicting lucrative fines to more ef- 
 fective punishments. The poet draws more 
 vividly Cenci's monstrous hate than his other 
 sins; indeed hate is his motive throughout 
 the play; but we are spared none of his 
 hideous wickedness (some of it only hinted 
 at), since only this could win our sympathy 
 for such a crime as parricide. No play there- 
 fore could contain more violent conflicting 
 emotions. Beatrice has her father's tendency 
 to madness, a little of his shrewdness, and 
 his powerful will, which overrides her asso- 
 ciates and imposes on others her view of 
 things. But the groundwork of her nature 
 is not only normal and good; she is almost 
 unique in the English drama for her com- 
 bination of gentleness and energetic forti- 
 tude. As we read we can readily believe the 
 Relation, that to her beauties she added " a 
 spirit and a majestic vivacity that captivated 
 every one." By her simple final words she 
 leaves us with an impression of matchless 
 self-command. To active evil in her father 
 she at first opposes merely the passive re- 
 sistance of goodiess; to the active evil in so- 
 ciety, at the end, which punishes those who 
 are really victims, she opposes purely pas- 
 sive resistance; when she is goaded to active 
 revenge-, this constitutes in Shelley's view not 
 a crime but only a " tragic error " ( for the 
 murder is at once seen to have been needless) , 
 which ends in the ruin of the family. Society 
 in the person of the pope has refused to save 
 her from irremediable degradation, and she 
 takes the only way out. That this embodi- 
 ment of Christian patience should first be 
 left defenceless and then martyred by the 
 church is one of the ironies of the play. To 
 her, others of her family serve as foils — the 
 weak Giacomo, who has not sufficient hold 
 over his wife and children to neutralize his 
 father's calumnies, and especially Lucretia, a 
 lovable domestic soul, cruelly thrown into a 
 situation too harsh for her, an Ophelia of 
 fifty, we might say. Nothing could be more 
 touching than the strong bond made between 
 her and her step-children by their common 
 misfortunes. According to the author of the 
 Relation, who was sensible of the contrast, 
 each on the way to her death carried a hand- 
 kerchief, " with which Lucretia wiped her 
 eyes, and Beatrice the perspiration from her 
 forehead." With Shelley's dislike of eccle- 
 siastics we should hardly expect from him 
 a sympathetic portrait of pontitt or prelate; 
 yet to offset the hard and mercenary pope 
 (with the ironical name Clement) and the 
 crafty, somewhat unreal Orsino, there is the 
 humane cardinal Camillo. Indeed, it is with 
 a realism and detachment unusual with 
 
 Shelley, but more merciless than invective, 
 that he is able to suggest the religious atmos- 
 phere in which his characters live, and in 
 which the connection between religion and 
 morality is a purely ceremonial one. 
 
 The structure of the play is symmetrical 
 and simple, but somewhat wanting in incident 
 ~and action, the interest being mainly psycho- 
 logical. Some of the most dramatic scenes 
 are the poet's own invention, such as the 
 banquet-scene, and the discovery (IV. iv) 
 that the slayers were on the point of being 
 relieved of their tyrant through the action 
 of law. This touch, filled with possibilities 
 of pathos and dramatic irony, is treated per- 
 haps with excessive restraint, and serves 
 chiefly to contrast Lucretia's repining with 
 Beatrice's firmness.' The simplicity of the 
 plot and structure may reflect Shelley's ad- 
 miration for Greek tragedy, for there are 
 none of the comic elements which vary the 
 tragedies of Shakespeare. His influence, 
 however, on any English poetic drama is 
 almost inevitable, and many reminiscences of 
 his plays have been pointed out here; those of 
 Macbeth in the murder and discovery scenes, 
 and of Lear in Cenci's curse, are obvious. 
 
 In style the play is singularly unlike most 
 of Shelley's poetry. Here is no " beautiful 
 and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his 
 luminous wings in vain," none of the melting 
 imagery, full of beauty and transcendental 
 feeling but intellectually bfifiling, which per- 
 vades his other work, and has had no very 
 wholesome influence on later nineteenth-cen- 
 tury poetry. Shelley realized that in an 
 acting drama he must be 
 
 Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole. 
 
 He avoided deliberately, he says in his Pref- 
 ace, " what is commonly called mere poetry, 
 and I imagine there will scarcely be found a 
 detached simile or a single isolated descrip- 
 tion." His style in the play is more austere 
 than Shakespeare's; Keats was even minded 
 to reproach him that he did not " load every 
 rift of his subject with ore." His conscious 
 endeavor was to let his characters express 
 themselves, not him. The beautiful is subor- 
 dinated to the significant. 
 
 When we look from this play back over the 
 comedy and tragedy of the preceding century 
 and more, the contrast is great and sig- 
 nificant. The critical ajid satirical spirit 
 which pervaded the greater literature of the 
 earlier age had in the drama best ex- 
 pressed itself in comedy, the only form ol 
 drama in which the eighteenth century had 
 excelled. Sentimental drama and tragedy 
 had been hemmed in by rules, convention- 
 ality, and artificiality. Rarely had great 
 emotion freely expressed itself. Shelley was 
 filled with the grandeur and pathos of human 
 character and fate as embodied in this story; 
 he followed traditional forms of expression 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 717 
 
 so far as suited him, but there is no longer 
 any bondage to the three unities or to a defi- 
 nite moral lesson. The moral effect of the 
 play stands in its exhibition of the human 
 spirit rising superior to external torment 
 and defilement; we are exalted by being shown 
 the worth and dignity of man, and are more 
 grateful for this than we should be for moral 
 statements the truth of which we knew be- 
 fore. In literary style drama was freed from 
 a somewhat artificial diction, and felt no 
 other obligation than to express the thought 
 and feeling of the moment as beautifully and 
 fittingly as possible. In these various ways 
 the freedom which was the moving spirit of 
 the early nineteenth century, in literature as 
 in life, was able occasionally to express itself 
 in poetic tragedy. That it did not do so 
 oftener and as worthily as in Shelley's play 
 
 was due partly to the poets' desire for a more 
 intimate self-expression than is possible in 
 impersonal drama, and partly to the allure- 
 ments of a newer literary form, the novel. 
 As the century advanced, the spirit of realism 
 more and more prevailed, which ia hard to 
 combine with poetic drama. Tlie drama of 
 the nineteenth century was even less notable 
 than that of the eighteenth. That which is 
 best as literature has not been by professional 
 dramatists, but by writers like Shelley, 
 Byron, Browning, Tennyson, more distin- 
 guished in other fields ; has been of the nature 
 of closet-drama, better to read than to act. 
 The plays that year after year have filled the 
 theaters are mostly too poor as literature to 
 be much read. But a single not unfavor- 
 able specimen of this kind will be given 
 next. 
 
 THE CENCI 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Count Francesco Cenci. 
 
 G"-™'*"' his Sons. 
 Beenabdo, ) 
 
 Cabdinal Camillo. 
 
 [Pbince Colonna.] 
 
 Oksino, o Prelate. 
 
 Savblea, the Pope's Legate. 
 
 ^!^-^n' Ussassins. 
 Maezio, j 
 
 Andbea, Servant to Cenci. 
 
 Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene 1. An Apartment in the Cenci 
 Palace. Enter Count Cenci, and Cardi- 
 nal Camillo. 
 
 Camillo. That matter of the murder is 
 
 hushed up 
 If you consent to yield his Holiness 
 Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian 
 
 gate. 
 It needed all my interest in the conclave 
 To bend him to this point: he said that 
 
 Bought perilous impunity with your 
 
 gold; 
 That crimes like yours if once or twice 
 
 compounded 
 Enriched the Church, and respited from 
 
 hell 
 
 Ltjobetia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother 
 
 of his Children. 
 Beateice, his Daughter. 
 
 The Scene lies principally in Rome, but 
 changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, 
 a castle among the Apulian Appen- 
 nines. 
 
 Time. During the Pontificate of Clement 
 VIII. 
 
 An erring soul which might repent and 
 
 live; 
 But that the glory and the interest 
 Of the high throne he fills, little consist 
 With making it a daily mart of guilt 
 As manifold and hideous as the deeds 
 Which you scarce hide from men's re- 
 volted eyes. 
 Cenci. The third of my possessions — ^let 
 it go! 
 Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope 
 Had sent his architect to view the ground. 
 Meaning to build a villa on my vines 
 The next time I compounded with his 
 
 uncle : 
 I little thought he should outwit me so! 
 Henceforth no witness — not the lamp — 
 
 shall see 
 That which the vassal threatened to 
 divulge. 
 
718 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Whose throat is choked with dust for 
 
 his reward. 
 The deed he saw could not have rated 
 
 higher 
 Than his most worthless life : ^ — it angers 
 
 me! 
 Eespited me from Hell! — So may the 
 
 Devil 
 Respite their souls from Heaven. No 
 
 doubt Pope Clement, 
 And his most charitable nephews, pray 
 That the Apostle Peter and the saints 
 Will grant for their sake that I long 
 
 enjoy 
 Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, 
 
 and length of days 
 Wherein to act the deeds which are the 
 
 stewards 
 Of their revenue. — But much yet remains 
 To which they show no title. 
 Cam. Oh, Count Cenci! 
 
 So much that thou mightst honorably 
 
 live 
 And reconcile thyself with thine own 
 
 heart 
 And with thy God, and with the offended 
 
 world. 
 How hideously look deeds of lust and 
 
 blood 
 Thro' those snow white and venerable 
 
 hairs ! 
 Your children should be sitting round 
 
 you now, 
 But that you fear to read upon their 
 
 looks 
 The shame and misery you have written 
 
 there. 
 Where is your wife? Where is your 
 
 gentle daughter? 
 Methinks her sweet looks, which make all 
 
 things else 
 Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend 
 
 within you. 
 Why is she barred from all society 
 But her own strange and uncomplaining 
 
 wrongs? 
 Talk with me. Count, — you know I mean 
 
 you well. 
 I stood beside your dark and fiery 
 
 youth 
 Watching its bold and bad career, as 
 
 men 
 Watch meteors, but it vanished not: I 
 
 marked 
 Your desperate and remorseless man- 
 hood; now 
 Do I behold you, in dishonored age, 
 
 Charged with a thousand unrepented 
 crimes. 
 
 Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, 
 
 And in that hope have saved your life 
 three times. 
 Cen. Tor which Aldobrandino owes you 
 now 
 
 My flef beyond the Pincian. Cardinal, 
 
 One thing, I pray you, recollect hence- 
 forth. 
 
 And so we shall converse with less re- 
 straint. 
 
 A man you knew spoke of my wife and 
 daughter : 
 
 He was accustomed to frequent my house; 
 
 So the next day his wife and daughter 
 came 
 
 And asked if I had seen him; and I 
 smiled : 
 
 I think they never saw him any more. 
 Cam. Thou execrable man, beware! — 
 Cen. Of thee? 
 
 Nay, this is idle: we should know each 
 other. 
 
 As to my character for what men call 
 crime, 
 
 Seeing I please my senses as I list. 
 
 And vindicate that right with force or 
 guile, 
 
 It is a public matter, and I care not 
 
 If I discuss it with you. I may speak 
 
 Alike to you and my own conscious 
 heart; 
 
 For you give out that you have half re- 
 formed me, 
 
 Therefore strong vanity will keep you 
 silent 
 
 If fear should not; both wUl, I do not 
 •doubt. 
 
 All men delight in sensual luxury, 
 
 All men enjoy revenge; and most exult 
 
 Over the tortures they can never feel ; 
 
 Flattering their secret peace with others' 
 pain. 
 
 But I delight in nothing else. I love 
 
 The sight of agony, and the sense of 
 
 joy, 
 
 When this shall be another's and that 
 
 mine. 
 And I have no remorse apd little fear, 
 Which are, I think, the checks of other 
 
 men. 
 This mood has grown upon me, until 
 
 now 
 Any design my captious fancy makes 
 The picture of its wish, and it forms 
 
 none 
 
 1 The sense is a little obscure; — the fine for the crime which the man was killed to prevent his re- 
 vealing would have been no higher than that for the murder. 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 719 
 
 But such as men like you would start to 
 know, 
 
 Is as my natural food and rest debarred 
 
 Until it be accomplished. 
 Cam. Art thou not 
 
 Most miserable? 
 Cen. Why miserable? — 
 
 No. I am what your theologians call 
 
 Hardened; which they must be in impu- 
 dence, 
 
 So to revile a man's peculiar taste. 
 
 True, I was happier than I am, while yet 
 
 Manhood remained to act the thing I 
 thought ; 
 
 While lust was sweeter than revenge; 
 and now 
 
 Invention palls: ay, we must all grow 
 old: 
 
 And but that there yet remains a deed to 
 act 
 
 Whose horror might make sharp an ap- 
 petite 
 
 Duller than mine — I 'd do, — I know not 
 what. 
 
 When I was young I thought of nothing 
 else 
 
 But pleasure ; and I fed on honey sweets : 
 
 Men, by St. Thoipas! cannot live like 
 bees, 
 
 And I grew tired : yet, till I killed a foe. 
 
 And heard his groans, and heard his chil- 
 dren's groans. 
 
 Knew I not what delight was else on 
 earth, 
 
 Which now delights me little. I the 
 rather 
 
 Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals : 
 
 The dry, fixed eyeball; the pale, quiver- 
 ing lip, 
 
 Which tell me that the spirit weeps 
 within 
 
 Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of 
 Christ. 
 
 I rarely kill the body, which preserves. 
 
 Like a strong prison, the soul within my 
 power. 
 
 Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear 
 
 For hourly pain. 
 Cam. Hell's most abandoned fiend 
 
 Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, 
 
 Speak to his heart as now you speak to 
 me; 
 
 I thank my God that I believe you not 
 
 (Enter Andrea.) 
 
 Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman from Sala- 
 manca 
 Would speak with you. 
 Cen. Bid him attend me 
 
 In the grand saloon. 
 
 (Exit Andrea.) 
 Cam. Farewell; and I will pray 
 
 Almighty God that thy false, impious 
 
 words 
 Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. 
 (Exit Camillo.) 
 Cen. The third of my possessions ! I must 
 
 use 
 Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's 
 
 sword, 
 Falls from my withered hand. But yes- 
 terday 
 There came an order from the Pope to 
 
 make 
 Fourfold provision for my cursed sons, 
 Whom I had sent from Rome to Sala- 
 manca, 
 Hoping some accident might cut them 
 
 off; 
 And meaning if I could to starve them 
 
 there. 
 I pray thee, God, send some quick death 
 
 upon them ! 
 Bernardo and my wife could not be worse 
 If dead and damned: then, as to 
 
 Beatrice — 
 (Looking around him suspiciously.) 
 I think they cannot hear me at that door ; 
 What if they should? And yet I need 
 
 not speak. 
 Though the heart triumphs with itself in 
 
 words. 
 0, thou most silent air, that shalt not 
 
 hear 
 What now I think! Thou, pavement, 
 
 which I tread 
 Towards her chamber, — let your echoes 
 
 talk 
 Of my imperious step, scorning surprise. 
 But not of my intent! Andrea! 
 
 (Enter Andrea.) 
 
 Andr. My Lord ! 
 
 Cen. Bid Beatrice attend me in her cham- 
 ber 
 This evening: — no, at midnight, and 
 alone. 
 
 (Exeunt. ) 
 
 Scene 2. A Garden of the Cenci Palace. 
 Enter Beatrice and Orsino, as in conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Beatrice. Pervert not truth, 
 
 Orsino. You remember where we held 
 That conversation ; — nay, we see the spot 
 Even from this cypress ; — two long years 
 
 are past 
 Since, on an April midnight, underneath 
 
720 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine, 
 I did confess to you my secret mind. 
 Orsino. You said you loved me then. 
 Beatr. You ai-e a priest, 
 
 Speak to me not of love. 
 Ors. I may obtain 
 
 The dispensation of the Pope to marry. 
 Because I am a priest do you believe 
 Your image, as the hunter some struck 
 
 deer, 
 Follows me not whether I wake or sleep ? 
 Beatr. As I have said, speak to me not of 
 
 love; 
 Had you a dispensation, I have not; 
 Nor will I leave this home of misery 
 Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle 
 
 lady 
 To whom I owe life and these virtuous 
 
 thoughts, 
 Must suffer what I still have strength to 
 
 share. 
 Alas, Orsino ! All the love that once 
 I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. 
 Ours was a youthful contract, which you 
 
 first 
 Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will 
 
 loose. 
 And thus I love you still, but holily, 
 Even as a sister or a spirit might; 
 And so I swear a cold fidelity. 
 And it is well perhaps we shall not 
 
 marry. 
 You have a sly, equivocating vein 
 That suits me not. Ah, wretched that I 
 
 am! 
 Where shall I turn ? Even now you look 
 
 on me 
 As you were not my friend, and as if 
 
 you 
 Discovered that I thought so, with false 
 
 smiles 
 Making my true suspicion seem your 
 
 wrong. 
 Ah ! No, forgive me ; sorrow makes me 
 
 seem 
 Sterner than else my nature might have 
 
 been; 
 I have a weight of melancholy thoughts. 
 And they forebode, — ^but what can they 
 
 forebode 
 Worse than I now endure? 
 Ors. All will be well. 
 
 Is the petition yet prepared? You know 
 My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice ; 
 Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill. 
 So that the Pope attend to your com- 
 plaint. 
 Beatr. Your zeal for all I wish ; — ^Ah me, 
 
 you are cold! 
 
 Your utmost skill — speak but one word — 
 
 (Aside.) Alas! 
 Weak and deserted creature that I am. 
 Here I stand bickering with my only 
 
 friend ! 
 (To Orsino.) This night my father gives 
 
 a sumptuous feast, 
 Orsino ; he has heard some happy news 
 From Salamanca, from my brothers 
 
 there, 
 And with this outward show of love he 
 
 mocks 
 His inward hate. 'T is bold hypocrisy. 
 For he would gladlier celebrate their 
 
 deaths, 
 Which I have heard him pray for on his 
 
 knees: 
 Great God ! that such a father should be 
 
 mine! 
 But there is mighty preparation made. 
 And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there, 
 And all the chief nobility of Rome. 
 And he has bidden me and my pale 
 
 mother 
 Attire ourselves in festival array. 
 Poor lady! She expects some happy 
 
 change 
 In his dark spirit from this act; I none. 
 At supper I will give you the petition: 
 Till when — farewell. 
 Ors. Farewell. {Exit 
 
 Beatrice.) I know the Pope 
 Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly 
 
 vow 
 But by absolving me from the revenue 
 Of many a wealthy see ; and, Beatrice, 
 I think to win thee at an easier rate. 
 Nor shall he read her eloquent petition: 
 He might bestow her on some poor rela- 
 tion 
 Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, 
 And I should be debarred from all access. 
 Then as to what she suffers from her 
 
 father. 
 In all this there is much exaggeration: 
 Old men are testy and will have their 
 
 way; 
 A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal. 
 And live a free life as to wine or women. 
 And with a peevish temper may return 
 To a dull home, and rate his wife and 
 
 children ; 
 Daughters and wives call this foul 
 
 tyranny. 
 I shall be well content, if on my con- 
 science 
 There rest no heavier sin than what they 
 
 suffer 
 From the devices of my love — A net 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 721 
 
 From which she shall escape not. Yet I 
 
 fear 
 Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze, 
 Whose beams anatomize me, nerve by 
 
 nerve. 
 And lay me bare, and make me blush to 
 
 see 
 My hidden thoughts. — Ah, no ! A friend- 
 less girl 
 Who clings to me, as to her only hope : — 
 I were a fool, not less than if a panther 
 Were panic-stricken by the antelope's 
 
 eye. 
 If she escape me. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 3. A magnificent Hall in the Genci 
 Palace. A Banquet. Enter Cenci, Lu- 
 cretia, Beatrice, Orsino, Camillo, Nobles. 
 
 Cenci. Welcome, my friends and kinsmen ; 
 
 welcome ye 
 Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the 
 
 . church. 
 Whose presence honors our festivity. 
 I have too long lived like an anchorite, 
 And, in my absence from your merry 
 
 meetings. 
 An evil word is gone abroad of me : 
 But I do hope that you, my noble friends, 
 When you have shared the entertainment 
 
 here, 
 And heard the pious cause for which, 't is 
 
 given, 
 And we have pledged a health or two to- 
 gether. 
 Will think me flesh and blood as well as 
 
 you; 
 Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, 
 But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. 
 First Guest. In truth, my Lord, you seem 
 
 too light, of heart, 
 Too sprightly and companionable a man, 
 To act the deeds that rumor pins on you. 
 {To his companion.) I never saw such 
 
 blithe and open cheer 
 In any eye! 
 Second Guest. Some most desired event, 
 In which we all demand a common joy. 
 Has brought us hither; let us hear it, 
 
 Count. 
 Cen. It is indeed a most desired event. 
 If, when a parent, from a parent's heart. 
 Lifts from this earth to the great father 
 
 of all 
 A prayer, both when he lays him down to 
 
 sleep 
 And when he rises up from dreaming it; 
 
 One supplication, one desire, one hope. 
 That he would grant a wish for his two 
 
 sons. 
 Even all that he demands in their re- 
 gard — 
 And suddenly, beyond his dearest hope. 
 It is accomplished, he should then re. 
 
 joice, 
 And call his friends and kinsmen to a 
 
 feast, 
 And task their love to grace his merri^ 
 
 ment. 
 Then honor me thus far — for I am he. 
 Beatrice. (To Lucretia.) Great God! 
 
 How horrible! Some dreadful ill 
 Must have befallen my brothers. 
 Lucretia. Fear not, child, 
 
 He speaks too frankly. 
 Beatr. Ah ! My blood runs cold. 
 
 I fear that wicked laughter round his 
 
 eye. 
 Which wrinkles up the skin even to the 
 
 hair. 
 Cen. Here are the letters brought from 
 
 Salamanca ; 
 Beatrice, read them to your mother, 
 
 God, 
 I thank thee! In one night didst thou 
 
 perform, 
 By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. 
 My disobedient and rebellious sons 
 Are dead! — Why, dead! — ^What means 
 
 this change of cheer? 
 You hear me not, I tell you they are 
 
 dead; 
 And they will need no food or raiment 
 
 more : 
 The tapers that did light them the dark 
 
 way 
 Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, 
 
 will jaot 
 Expect I should maintain them in their 
 
 coffins. 
 Rejoice with me, my heart is wondrous 
 
 glad. 
 Beatr. (Lucretia sinks, half fainting; 
 
 Beatrice supports her.) It is not 
 
 true ! — Dear lady, pray look up. 
 Had it been true, there is a God in 
 
 Heaven, 
 He would not live to boast of such a 
 
 boon. 
 Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is 
 
 false. 
 Cen. Ay, as the word of God; whom here 
 
 I call 
 To witness that I speak the sober truth ; 
 And whose most favoring Providence 
 
 was shown 
 
722 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Even in the manner of their deaths. For 
 
 Eoceo 
 Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen 
 
 others, 
 When the church fell and crushed him to 
 
 a mummy; 
 The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano 
 Was stabhed in error by a jealous man, 
 Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his 
 
 rival ; 
 All in the self-same hour of the same 
 
 night; 
 Which shows that Heaven has special 
 
 care of me. 
 I beg those friends who love me, that 
 
 they mark 
 The day a feast upon their calendars. 
 It was the twenty-seventh of December: 
 Ay, read the letters if you doubt my 
 
 oath. 
 {The assembly appears confused; several 
 
 of the guests rise.) 
 First Guest. Oh, horrible ! I will depart. 
 Second Guest. And I. 
 
 Third Guest. No, stay ! 
 
 I do believe it is some jest ; though faith, 
 'T is mocking us somewhat too solemnly. 
 I think his son has married the Infanta, 
 Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado ; 
 'T is but to season some such news; stay, 
 
 stay! 
 I see 't is only raillery by his smile. 
 Cen. (Filling a bowl of wine, and lifting 
 
 it up. ) Oh, thou bright wine, whose 
 
 purple splendor leaps 
 And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl 
 Under the lamp-light, as my spirits do. 
 To hear the death of my accursed sons! 
 Could I believe thou wert their mingled 
 
 blood. 
 Then would I taste thee like a^sacrament. 
 And pledge with thee the mighty Devil 
 
 in Hell; 
 Who, if a father's curses, as men say. 
 Climb with swift wings after their chil- 
 dren's souls. 
 And drag them from the very throne of 
 
 Heaven, 
 Now triumphs iii ray triumph ! — ^But thou 
 
 art 
 Superfluous ; I have drunken deep of joy, 
 And I will taste no other wine to-night. 
 Here, Andrea ! Bear the bowl around. 
 A Guest. (Rising.) Thou wretch! 
 
 Will none among this noble company 
 Cheek the abandoned villain 7 
 Camilla. For God's sake, 
 
 Let me dismiss the guests! You are in- 
 sane, 
 
 Some ill will come of this. 
 Second Guest. Seize, silence him ! 
 
 First Guest. I will ! 
 Third Guest. And I! 
 
 Cen. (Addressing those who rise with a 
 threatening gesture.) Who moves? 
 Who speaks? 
 (Turning to the company.) 'T is noth- 
 
 Enjoy yourselves. — Beware! for my re- 
 venge 
 
 Is as the sealed commission of a king, 
 
 That kills, and none dare name the mur- 
 derer. 
 (The banquet is broken up; several of the 
 
 guests are departing.) 
 Beatr. I do entreat you, go not, noble 
 guests ; 
 
 What, although tyranny and impious 
 hate 
 
 Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair? 
 
 What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these 
 limbs 
 
 Who tortures them, and triumphs? 
 What, if we. 
 
 The desolate and the dead, were his own 
 flesh, 
 
 His children and his wife, whom he is 
 bound 
 
 To love and shelter? Shall we therefore 
 find 
 
 No refuge in this merciless wide world? 
 
 Oh, think what deep wrongs must have 
 blotted out 
 
 First love, then reverence in a child's 
 prone mind, 
 
 Till it thus vanquish shame and fear ! 0, 
 think! 
 
 I have borne much, and kissed the sacred 
 hand 
 
 Which crushed us to the earth, and 
 thought its stroke 
 
 Was perhaps some paternal chastise- 
 ment! 
 
 Have excused much, doubted; and when 
 no doubt 
 
 Remained, have sought by patience, love 
 and tears. 
 
 To soften him; and when this could not 
 be, 
 
 I have knelt down through the long sleep- 
 less nights, 
 
 And lifted up to God, the father of all, 
 
 Passionate prayers : and when these w6re 
 not heard 
 
 I have still borne; — until I meet you 
 here, 
 
 Prihees and kinsmen, at this hideous 
 feast 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 723 
 
 Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet 
 remain, 
 
 His wife remains and I, whom if ye save 
 not, 
 
 Ye may soon share such merriment again 
 
 As fathers make over their children's 
 graves. 
 
 Oh! Prince Colonna, thou art our near 
 kinsman ; 
 
 Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamber- 
 lain; 
 
 Camillo, thou art chief justiciary; 
 
 Take us away! 
 Cen. {He has been conversing with Ca- 
 millo during the first part of Bea- 
 trice's speech; he hears the conclu- 
 sion, and now advances.) I hope 
 my good friends here 
 
 Will think of their own daughters — or 
 perhaps 
 
 Of their own throats — before they lend 
 an ear 
 
 To this wild girl. 
 Beatr. {Not noticing the words of Cenci.) 
 Dare no one look on me? 
 
 None answer? Can one tyrant overbear 
 
 The sense of many best and wisest men? 
 
 Or is it that I sue not in some form 
 
 Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit ? 
 
 Oh, God! That I were buried with my 
 brothers ! 
 
 And that the flowers of this departed 
 spring 
 
 Were fading on my grave ! And that my 
 father 
 
 Were celebrating now one feast for all! 
 Cam. A bitter wish for one so young and 
 gentle; 
 
 Can we do nothing? 
 Colonna. Nothing that I see. 
 
 Count Cenei were a dangerous enemy; 
 
 Yet I would second any one. 
 A Cardinal. And I. 
 
 Cen. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl ! 
 Beatr. Retire thou, impious man! Ay, 
 hide thyself 
 
 Where- never eye can look upon thee 
 more ! 
 
 Wouldst thou have honor and obedience. 
 
 Who art a torturer? Father, never 
 dream, 
 
 Though thou mayst overbear this com- 
 pany. 
 
 But ill must come of ill. — Frown not on 
 me! 
 
 Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging 
 looks 
 
 My brothers' gbosts should hunt thee 
 from thy seat! 
 
 Cover thy face from every living eye. 
 And start if thou but hear a human step : 
 Seek out some dark and silent comer, 
 
 there 
 Bow thy white head before offended God, 
 And we will kneel around, and fervently 
 Pray that he pity both ourselves and 
 
 thee. 
 Cen. My friends, I do lament this insane 
 
 girl 
 Has spoiled the mirth of our festivity. 
 Good night, farewell; I will not make 
 
 you longer 
 Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels. 
 Another time. — 
 {Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatrice.) 
 
 My brain is swimming round; 
 Give me a bowl of wine ! {To Beatrice.) 
 
 Thou painted viper! 
 Beast that thou art! Fair and yet ter- 
 rible! 
 I know a charm shall make thee meek and 
 
 tame. 
 Now get thee from my sight ! 
 {Exit Beatrice.) 
 
 Here, Andrea, 
 Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I 
 
 said 
 I would not drink this evening; but I 
 
 must; 
 For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail 
 With thinking what I have decreed to do. 
 
 {Drinking the nine.) 
 Be thou the resolution of quick youth 
 Within my veins, and manhood's purpose 
 
 stem. 
 And age's Arm, cold, subtle villainy; 
 As if thou wert indeed my children's 
 
 blood 
 Which I did thirst to drink. The charm 
 
 works well; 
 It must be done; it shall be done, I 
 
 swear ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. An Apartment in the Cenci 
 Palace. Enter Lucretia and Bernardo. 
 
 Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he 
 
 struck but me. 
 Who have borne deeper wrongs. In 
 
 truth, if he 
 Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed. 
 0, God Almighty, do thou look upon us, 
 We have no other friend but only thee! 
 Yet weep not; though I love you as my 
 
 own, 
 
724 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 I am not your true mother. 
 Bernardo. Oh, more, more 
 
 Than ever mother was to any child, 
 That have you been to me ! Had he not 
 
 been 
 My father, do you think that I should 
 weep? 
 Lucr. Alas, poor boy, what else couldst 
 thou have done ? 
 
 {Enter Beatrice.) 
 
 Beatrice. {In a hurried voice.) Did he 
 
 pass this way? Have you seen him, 
 
 brother? 
 Ah ! No, that is his step upon the stairs ; 
 'Tis nearer now; his hand is on the door; 
 Mother, if I to thee have ever been 
 A duteous child, now save me! Thou, 
 
 great God, 
 Whose image upon earth a father is. 
 Dost thou indeed abandon me? He 
 
 comes ; 
 The door is opening now ; I see his face ; 
 He frowns on others, but he smiles on 
 
 me, 
 Even as he did after the feast last night. 
 
 {Enter a Servant.) 
 
 Almighty God, how merciful thou art! 
 
 'T is but Orsino's servant. — ^Well, what 
 news ? 
 Servant. My master bids me say, the Holy 
 Father 
 
 Has sent back your petition thus un- 
 opened. 
 
 {Giving a paper.) 
 
 And he demands at what hour 't were se- 
 cure 
 
 To visit you again? 
 Lucr. At the Ave Mary. 
 
 {Exit Servant.) 
 
 So, daughter, our last hope has failed; 
 Ah me. 
 
 How pale you look; you tremble, and 
 you stand 
 
 Wrapped in some fixed and fearful medi- 
 tation. 
 
 As if one thought were over strong for 
 you: 
 
 Your eyes have a chill glare; 0, dearest 
 child! 
 
 Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak 
 to me. 
 Beatr. You see I am not mad ; I speak to 
 
 you. 
 Lucr. You talked of something that your 
 father did 
 
 After that dreadful feast? Could it be 
 worse 
 
 Than when he smiled, and cried. My sons 
 
 are dead! 
 And every one looked in his neighbor's 
 
 face 
 To see if others were as white as he ? 
 At the first word he spoke I felt the 
 
 blood 
 Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance ; 
 And when it past I sat all weak and 
 
 wild; 
 Whilst you alone stood up, and with 
 
 strong words 
 Checked his unnatural pride ; and I could 
 
 see 
 The devil was rebuked that lives in him. 
 Until this hour thus have you ever stood 
 Between us and your father's moody 
 
 wrath 
 Like a protecting presence : your firm 
 
 mind 
 Has been our only refuge and defence: 
 What can have thus subdued it? What 
 
 can now 
 Have given you that cold melancholy 
 
 look, 
 Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear? 
 Beatr. What is it that you say? I was 
 
 just thinking 
 'T were better not to struggle any more. 
 Men, like my father, have been dark and 
 
 bloody. 
 Yet never — ! before worse comes of it 
 'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at 
 
 last. 
 Lucr. Oh, talk not so, dear child! Tell 
 
 me at once 
 What did your father do or say to 
 
 you? 
 He stayed not after that accursed feast 
 One moment in your chamber. — Speak to 
 
 me. 
 Ber. Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to 
 
 us! 
 Beatr. {Speaking very slowly with a 
 
 forced calmness.) It was one word, 
 
 mother, one little word ; 
 One look, one smile. {Wildly.) Oh! 
 
 He has trampled me 
 Under his feet, and made the blood 
 
 stream down • 
 My pallid cheeks. And he has given us 
 
 all 
 Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh 
 Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve. 
 And we have eaten. He has made me 
 
 look 
 On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust 
 Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet 
 
 limbs, 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 725 
 
 And I have never yet despaired — but 
 
 now! 
 What would I say? {Recovering her- 
 self.) Ah! No, 'tis nothing new. 
 The sufferings we all share have made me 
 
 wild: 
 He only struck and cursed me as he 
 
 passed ; 
 He said, he looked, he did; — nothing at 
 
 all 
 Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. 
 Alas ! I am forgetful of my duty, 
 I should preserve my senses for your 
 
 sake. ' 
 
 Luer. Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my 
 
 sweet girl. 
 If any one de,spiairs it should be I, 
 Who loved him once, and now must live 
 
 with him 
 Till God in pity call for him or me. 
 For you may, like your sister, find some 
 
 husband, 
 And smUe, years hence, with children 
 
 round your knees; 
 , Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous 
 
 coil. 
 Shall be remembered only as a dream. 
 Beatr. Talk not to me, dear lady, of a 
 
 husband. 
 Did you not nurse me when my mother 
 
 died? 
 Did you not shield me and that dearest 
 
 boy? 
 And had we any other friend but you 
 In infancy, with gentle words and looks. 
 To win our father not to murder us? 
 And shall I now desert you? May the 
 
 ghost 
 Of my dead mother plead against my 
 
 soul. 
 If I abandon her who filled the place 
 She left, with more, even, than a mother's 
 
 love ! 
 Ber. And I am of my sister's mind. In- 
 deed 
 I would not leave you in this wretched- 
 ness, 
 Even though the Pope should make me 
 
 free to live 
 In some blithe place, like others of my 
 
 age. 
 With sports, and delicate food, and the 
 
 fresh air. 
 Oh, never think that I will leave you, 
 
 mother ! 
 Lucr. My dear, dear children ! 
 
 (Enter Cenci, suddenly.) 
 
 Cenci. What ! Beatrice here I 
 
 Come hither! (She shrinks back and 
 
 covers her face.) Nay, hide not 
 
 your face, 't is fair ; 
 Look up! Why, yesternight you dared 
 
 to look 
 With disobedient ■ insolence upon me, 
 Bending a stern and an inquiring brow 
 On what I meant; whilst I then sought 
 
 to hide 
 That which I came to tell you — ^but in 
 
 vain. 
 Beatr. (Wildly, staggering towards the 
 
 door.) Oh, that the earth would 
 
 gape ! Hide me, oh God ! 
 Cen. Then it was I whose inarticulate 
 
 words 
 Pell from my lips, and who with totter- 
 ing steps 
 Fled from your presence, as you now 
 
 from mine. 
 Stay, I command you : from this day and 
 
 hour 
 Never again, I think, with fearless eye, 
 And brow superior, and unaltered cheek. 
 And that lip made for tenderness or 
 
 scorn, 
 Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of 
 
 mankind ; 
 Me least of all. Now gfet thee to thy 
 
 chamber ! 
 Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed 
 
 mother, 
 (To Bernardo.) Thy milky, meek face 
 
 makes me sick with hate ! 
 (Exeunt Beatrice and Bernardo.) 
 (Aside.) So much has past between us 
 
 as must make 
 Me bold, her fearful. 'T is an awful 
 
 thing 
 To touch such mischief as I now conceive : 
 So men sit shivering on the dewy bank 
 And try the chill stream with their feet ; 
 
 once in — 
 How the delighted spirit pants for joy! 
 Lucr. (Advancing timidly towards him.) 
 
 Oh, husband! Pray forgive poor 
 
 Beatrice, 
 She meant not any ill. 
 Cen. Nor you, perhaps? 
 
 Nor that young imp, whom you have 
 
 taught by rote 
 Parricide with his alphabet? nor Gia- 
 
 como 
 Nor those two most unnatural sons, who 
 
 stirred 
 Enmity up against me with the Pope? 
 Whom in one night merciful God cut off : 
 Innocent lambs! They thought not any 
 
 ill. 
 
726 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 You were not here conspiring'? You 
 
 said nothing 
 Of how I might be dungeoned as a mad- 
 man; 
 Or be condemned to. death for some of- 
 fence, 
 And you would be the witnesses? — This 
 
 failing, 
 How just it were to hire assassins, or 
 Put sudden poison in my evening drink? 
 Or smother me when overcome by wine? 
 Seeing we had no other judge but God, 
 And be had sentenced me, and there were 
 
 none 
 But you to be the executioners 
 Of his decree enregistered in heaven? 
 Oh, no! You said not this? 
 Lucr. So help me God, 
 
 I never thought the things you charge 
 
 me with! 
 Cen. If you dare speak that wicked lie 
 
 again, 
 I '11 kiU you. What ! it was not by your 
 
 counsel 
 That Beatrice disturbed the feast last 
 
 night? 
 You did not hope to stir some enemies 
 Against me, and escape, and laugh to 
 
 scorn 
 What every nerve of you now trembles 
 
 at? 
 You judged that men were bolder than 
 
 they are: 
 Few dare to stand between their grave 
 
 and me. 
 Lucr. Look not so dreadfully! By my 
 
 salvation 
 I knew not aught that Beatrice designed ; 
 Nor do I think she designed anything 
 Until she heard you talk of her dead 
 
 brothers. 
 Cen. Blaspheming liar! you are damned 
 
 for this ! 
 But I will take you where you may per- 
 suade 
 The stones you tread on to deliver you: 
 For men shall there be none but those 
 
 who dare 
 All things; not question that which I 
 
 command. 
 On Wednesday next I shall set out : you 
 
 know 
 That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella : 
 'T is safely walled, and moated round 
 
 about : 
 Its dungeons under-ground, and its thick 
 
 towers. 
 Never told tales ; though they have heard 
 
 and seen 
 
 What might make dumb things speak. 
 
 Why do you linger? 
 Make speediest preparation for the jour- 
 ney! 
 
 (Exit Lueretia.) 
 The aU-beholding sun yet shines; I hear 
 A busy stir of men about the streets ; 
 I see the bright sky through the window 
 
 panes : 
 It is a garish, broad and peering day; 
 Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and 
 
 ears; 
 And .^every little comer, nook, and hole. 
 Is penetrated with the insolent light. 
 Come, darkness! Yet, what is the day 
 
 to me? 
 And wherefore should L wish for night, 
 
 who do 
 A deed which shall confound both night 
 
 and day? 
 'T is she shall grope through a bewilder- 
 ing mist 
 Of horror : if there be a sun in heaven, 
 She shall not dare to look upon its beams, 
 Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish 
 
 for night; 
 The act I think shall soon extinguish all 
 For me : I bear a darker deadlier gloom 
 Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air. 
 Or constellations quenched in murkiest 
 
 cloud, 
 In which I walk secure and unbeheld 
 Towards my purpose. — ^^'^ould that it 
 were done ! 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. A Chamber in the Vatican. 
 Enter Camillo and Giacomo, in conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Camillo. There is an obsolete and doubt- 
 ful law 
 
 By which you might obtain a bare pro- 
 vision 
 
 Of food and clothing — 
 Giacomo. Nothing more? Alas! 
 
 Bare must be the provision which strict 
 law 
 
 Awards, and aged, sullen avarice pays. 
 
 Why did my father not apprentice me 
 
 To some mechanic trade? I should have 
 then 
 
 Been trained in no high-born necessities 
 
 Which I could meet not by my daily toil. 
 
 The eldest son of a rich nobleman 
 
 Is heir to all his incapacities ; 
 
 He has wide wants, and narrow powers. 
 If you, 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 727 
 
 Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once 
 
 From thrice-driven beds of down, and 
 delicate food, 
 
 An hundred servants, and six palaces. 
 
 To that which nature doth indeed re- 
 quire ? — 
 Cam. Nay, there is reason in your plea; 
 
 't were hard. 
 Giac. "lis hard for a firm man to bear: 
 but I 
 
 Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, 
 
 "Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father, 
 
 Without a bond of witness to the deed: 
 
 And children, who inherit her fine senses, 
 
 The fairest creatures in this breathing 
 world ; 
 
 And she and they reproach me not. Car- 
 dinal, 
 
 Do you not think the Pope would inter- 
 pose. 
 
 And stretch authority beyond the law? 
 Cam. Though your peculiar case is hard, 
 I know 
 
 The Pope will not divert the course of 
 law. 
 
 After that impious feast the other night 
 
 I spoke with him, and urged him then to 
 check 
 
 Your father's cruel hand; he frowned 
 and said, 
 
 "Children are disobedient, and they sting 
 
 Their fathers' hearts to madness and de- 
 spair, 
 
 Requiting years of care with contumely. 
 
 I pity the Count Cenei from my heart ; 
 
 His outraged love perhaps awakened 
 hate. 
 
 And thus he is exasperated to ill. 
 
 In the great war between the old and 
 young, 
 
 I, who have white hairs and a tottering 
 body. 
 
 Will keep at least blameless neutrality." 
 
 (Enter Orsino.) 
 
 You, my good lord Orsino, heard those 
 words. 
 Orsino. What words? 
 Giac. Alas, repeat them not again ! 
 
 There then is no redress for me ; at least 
 None but that which I may achieve my- 
 self, 
 Since I am driven to the brink. But, 
 
 say. 
 My innocent sister and my only brother 
 Are dying underneath my father's eye. 
 The memorable torturers of this land, 
 Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, 
 Never inflicted" on the meanest slave 
 
 What these endure; shall they have no 
 
 protection 1 
 Cam. Why, if they would petition to the 
 
 Pope, 
 I see not how he could refuse it — ^yet 
 He holds it of most dangerous example 
 In aught to weaken the paternal power. 
 Being, as 't were, the shadow of his own. 
 I pray you now excuse me. I have busi- 
 ness 
 That will not bear delay. 
 {Exit Camillo.) 
 Giac. But you, Orsino, 
 
 Have the petition : wherefore not present 
 
 it? 
 Ors. I have presented it, and backed it 
 
 with 
 My earnest prayers, and urgent interest ; 
 It was returned unanswered. I doubt 
 
 not 
 But that the strange and execrable deeds 
 Alleged in it (in truth they might well 
 
 baffle 
 Any belief) have turned the Pope's dis- 
 pleasure 
 Upon the accusers from the criminal: 
 So I should guess from what Camillo 
 
 said. 
 Giac. My friend," that palace-walking 
 
 devil. Gold, 
 Has whispered silence to his Holiness : 
 And we are left, as scorpions ringed with 
 
 fire, 
 ' What should we do but strike ourselves 
 
 to death? 
 For he who is our murderous persecutor 
 Is shielded by a father's holy name, 
 Or I would — 
 
 {Stops abruptly.) 
 Ors. What? Fear not to speak 
 
 your thought. 
 Words are but holy as the deeds they 
 
 cover : 
 A priest who has forsworn the God he 
 
 serves ; 
 A judge who makes truth weep at his 
 
 decree ; 
 A friend who should weave counsel, as I 
 
 now. 
 But as the mantle of some selfish guile ; 
 A father who is all a tyrant seems, 
 Were the profaner for his sacred name. 
 Giac. Ask me not what I think; the un- 
 willing brain • 
 Feigns often what it would not; and we 
 
 trust 
 Imagination with such fantasies 
 As the tongue dares not fashion into 
 
 words; 
 
72S 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Which have no words, their horror makes 
 
 them dim 
 To the mind's eye. My heart denies 
 
 itself 
 To think what you demand. 
 Ors^. But a friend's bosom 
 
 Is as the inmost cave of our own mind, 
 Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of 
 
 day, 
 And from the all-communicating air. 
 You look what I suspected. 
 Giae. Spare me now ! 
 
 I am as one lost in a midnight wood, 
 Who dares not ask some harmless pas- 
 senger 
 The path across the wilderness, lest he. 
 As my thoughts are, should be — a mur- 
 derer. 
 I know you are my friend, and all I dare 
 Speak to my soul, that will I trust with 
 
 thee. 
 But now my heart is heavy, and would 
 
 take 
 Lone counsel from a night of sleepless 
 
 care. 
 Pardon me that I say farewell — fare- 
 well! 
 I would that to my own suspected self 
 I could address a word so full of peace. 
 Ors. Farewell! — Be your thoughts better 
 or more bold. 
 
 {Exit Giacomo.) 
 I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo 
 To feed his hope with cold encourage- 
 ment: 
 It fortunately serves my close designs 
 That 't is a trick of this same family 
 To analyze their own and other minds. 
 Such self-anatomy shall teach the will 
 Danderous secrets: for it. tempts our 
 
 powers. 
 Knowing what must be thought, and may 
 
 be done, 
 Into the depth of darkest purposes: 
 So Cenei fell into the pit; even I, 
 Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, 
 And made me shrink from what I can- 
 not shun, 
 Show a poor figure to my own esteem. 
 To which I grow half reconciled. I'll 
 
 do 
 As little mischief as I can; that thought 
 Shall fee the accuser conscience. 
 {After a pause.) 
 
 Now what harm 
 If Cenei should be murdered? — Yet, if 
 
 murdered, 
 Wherefore by me? And what if I could 
 take 
 
 The profit, yet omit the sin and peril 
 In such an action? Of all earthly 
 
 things 
 I fear a man whose blows outspeed his 
 
 words ; 
 And such is Cenei : and while Cenei lives 
 His daughter's dowry were a secret 
 
 gi-ave, 
 If a priest wins her. — Oh, fair Beatrice! 
 Would that I loved thee not, or loving 
 
 thee 
 Could but despise danger and gold, and 
 
 all 
 That frowns between my wish and its 
 
 effect, 
 
 smiles beyond it ! There is no escape: 
 Her bright form kneels beside me at the 
 
 altar. 
 And follows me to the resort of men. 
 And fills my slumber with tumultuous 
 
 dreams, 
 So, when I wake, my blood seems liquid 
 
 fire; 
 And if I strike my damp and dizzy head. 
 My hot palm scorches it : her very name, 
 But spoken by a stranger, makes my 
 
 heart 
 Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably 
 
 1 clasp the phantom of unfelt delights 
 Till weak imagination half possesses 
 The self-created shadow. Yet much 
 
 longer 
 Will I not nurse this life of feverous ' ■ 
 
 hours : ' r 
 
 From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo 
 I must work out my own dear purposes, j ■ ; 
 I see, as from a tower, the end of all : 
 Her father dead; her brother bound to 
 
 me 
 By a dark secret, surer than the grave ; 
 Her mother scared and unexpostulating 
 •From the dread manner of her wish 
 
 achieved : 
 And she! — Once more take courage, my 
 
 faint heart ; 
 What dares a friendless maiden matched 
 
 with thee? 
 I have such foresight as assures success; 
 Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, 
 When dread events are near, stir up 
 
 men's minds 
 To black suggestions; and he prospers 
 
 best, 
 Not who becomes the instrument of ill, 
 But who can flatter the dark spirit, that 
 
 makes 
 Its empire and its prey of other hearts, 
 Till it become his slave-^-as I will do. 
 (Exit.) ' 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 729 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. An Apartment in the Cenci 
 Palace. Lueretia, to her enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beatrice. (She enters staggering, and 
 
 speaks wildly.) Reach me that 
 
 handkerchief! — My brain is hurt; 
 My eyes are full of blood; just wipe 
 
 them for me — 
 I see but indistinctly: — 
 Lueretia. My sweet child, 
 
 You have no wound ; 't is only a cold dew 
 That starts from your dear brow — Alas ! 
 
 Alas! 
 What has befallen? 
 Beatr. How comes this hair undone? 
 
 Its wandering strings must be what blind 
 
 me so, 
 And yet I tied it fast. — 0, horrible ! 
 The pavement sinks under my feet ! The 
 
 walls 
 Spin round! I see a woman weeping 
 
 there, 
 And standing calm and motionless, whilst 
 
 I 
 Slide giddily as the world reels — My 
 
 God! 
 The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with 
 
 blood! 
 The sunshine on the floor is black ! The 
 
 air 
 Is changed to vapors such as the dead 
 
 breathe 
 In charnel-pits ! Pah! I am choked! 
 
 There creeps 
 A clinging, black, contaminating mist 
 About me — 'tis substantial, heavy, thick, 
 I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues 
 My fingers and my limbs to one another. 
 And eats into my sinews, and dissolves 
 My flesh to a pollution, poisoning 
 The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of 
 
 life! 
 My God ! I never knew what the mad felt 
 Before ; for I am mad beyond all doubt ! 
 (More wUdly.) No, I am dead! These 
 
 putrefying limbs 
 Shut round and sepulchre the panting 
 
 soul. 
 Which would burst forth into the wander- 
 ing air! 
 {A pause.) What hideous thought was 
 
 that I had even now? 
 'Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains 
 
 here 
 O'er these dull eyes — upon this weary 
 
 heart! 
 0, world! 0,life! 0,day! 0, misery! 
 
 Lucr. What ails thee, my poor child? 
 
 She answers not: 
 Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain. 
 But not its cause; suffering has dried 
 
 away 
 The source from which it sprung. 
 Beatr. (Frantically.) Like parricide — 
 Misery has killed its father : yet its father 
 Never like mine — 0, God! What thing 
 
 ami? 
 Lucr. My dearest child, what has your 
 
 father done? 
 Beatr. (Doubtfully.) Who art thou, ques- 
 tioner? I have no father. 
 (Aside.) She is the madhouse nurse 
 
 who tends on me, 
 It is a piteous office. (To Lueretia, in a 
 
 slow, subdued voice.) Do you know 
 I thought I was that wretched Beatrice 
 Men speak of, whom her father some- 
 times hales 
 Prom hall to hall by the entangled hair; 
 At others, pens up naked in damp cells 
 Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves 
 
 her there, 
 Till she will eat strange flesh. This wo- 
 
 ful story 
 So did I overact in my sick dreams. 
 That I imagined — no, it cannot be! 
 Horrible things have been in this wild 
 
 world, 
 Prodigious mixtures, and confusions 
 
 strange 
 Of good and ill; and worse have been 
 
 conceived 
 Than ever there was found a heart to do. 
 But never fancy imaged such a deed 
 As— 
 (Pauses, suddenly recollecting herself.) 
 
 Who art thou ? Swear to me, ere I die 
 With fearful expectation, that indeed 
 Thou art not what thou seemest — 
 
 Mother ! 
 Lucr. Oh ! 
 
 My sweet child, know you — 
 Beatr. Yet speak it not : 
 
 For then if this be truth, that other too 
 Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, 
 Linked with each lasting circumstance of 
 
 life. 
 Never to change, never to pass away. 
 Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace; 
 Thou art Lueretia ; I am Beatrice. 
 I have talked some wild words, but will 
 
 no more. 
 Mother, come near me: from this point 
 
 of time, 
 I am — 
 
 (Her voice dies away faintly.) 
 
730 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Lu'cr. Alas ! What has befallen thee, 
 
 child? 
 What has thy father done? 
 Beatr. What have I done? 
 
 Am I iiot innocent? Is it my crime 
 That one with white hair, and imperious 
 
 brow, 
 Who tortured me from my forgotten 
 
 years, 
 As parents only dare, should call himself 
 My father, yet should be ! — Oh, what am 
 
 I? 
 What name, what place, what memory 
 
 shall be mine ? 
 What retrospects, outliving even despair? 
 Lucr. He is a violent tyrant, surely, child ; 
 We know that death alone can make us 
 
 free; 
 His death or ours. But what can he have 
 
 done 
 Of deadlier outrage or worse injury? 
 Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot 
 
 forth 
 A wandering and strange spirit. Speak 
 
 to me, 
 Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers 
 
 twine 
 With one another. 
 Beatr. 'T is the restless life 
 
 Tortured within them. If I try to speak, 
 I shall go mad. Ay, something must be 
 
 done; 
 What, yet I know not — something which 
 
 shall make 
 The thing that I have suffered but a 
 
 shadow 
 In the dread lightning which avenges 
 
 it; 
 Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying 
 The consequence of what it cannot cure. 
 Some such thing is to be endured or done : 
 When I know what, I shall be still and 
 
 calm. 
 And never any thing will move me more. 
 But now! — Oh blood, which art my 
 
 father's blood. 
 Circling through these contaminated 
 
 veins. 
 If thou, poured forth on the polluted 
 
 earth. 
 Could wash away the crime, and punish- 
 ment 
 By which I suffer — ^no, that cannot be ! 
 Many might doubt there were a God 
 
 above 
 Who sees and permits evil, and so die: 
 That faith no agony shall obscure in me. 
 Lucr. It must indeed have been some bit- 
 ter wrong; 
 
 Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost 
 child, 
 
 Hide not in proud impenetrable grief 
 
 Thy sufferings from my fear. 
 Beatr. I hide them not. 
 
 What are the words which you would 
 have me speak ? 
 
 I, who can feign no image in my mind 
 
 Of that which has transformed me : I, 
 whose thought 
 
 Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up 
 
 In its own formless horror : of all words. 
 
 That minister to mortal intercourse, 
 
 Which wouldst thou hear? For there is 
 none to tell 
 
 My misery; if another ever knew 
 
 Aught like to it, she died as I will die. 
 
 And left it, as I must, without a name. 
 
 Death ! Death ! Our law and our re- 
 ligion call thee 
 
 A punishment and a reward. — Oh, which 
 
 Have I deserved? 
 Luer. The peace of innocence; 
 
 Till in your season you be called to 
 heaven. 
 
 Whate'er you may have suffered, you 
 have done 
 
 No evil. Death must be the punishment 
 
 Of crime, or the reward of trampling 
 down 
 
 The thorns which God has strewed upon 
 the path 
 
 Which leads to immortality. 
 Beatr. Ay, death— 
 
 The punishment of crime. I pray thee, 
 God, 
 
 Let me not be bewildered while I judge. 
 
 If I must live day after day, and keep 
 
 These limbs, the unworthy temple rff thy 
 spirit, 
 
 As a foul den from which what thou ab- 
 horrest 
 
 May mock thee, unavenged — ^it shall not 
 be! 
 
 Self-murder? no, that might be no es- 
 cape. 
 
 For thy decree yawns like a Hell be- 
 tween 
 
 Our will and it. ! in this mortal world 
 
 There is no vindication and no law 
 
 Which can adjudge and execute the doom 
 
 Of that through which I suffer. 
 
 {Enter Orsino.) 
 
 (She approaches him solemnly.) Wel- 
 come, friend! 
 I have to tell you that, since last we met, 
 I have endured a wrong so great and 
 strange, 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 731 
 
 That neither life nor death can give me 
 
 rest. 
 Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds 
 Which have no form, sufferings which 
 
 have no tongue. 
 Orsino. And what is he who has thus in- 
 jured you? 
 Beatr. The man they call my father: a 
 
 dread name. 
 Ors. It cannot be — 
 
 Beatr. What it can be, or not. 
 
 Forbear to think. It is, and it has been ; 
 Advise me how it shall not be again. 
 I thought to die, but a religious awe 
 Restrains me, and the dread lest death 
 
 itself 
 Might be no refuge from the conscious- 
 ness 
 Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak! 
 Ors. Accuse him of the deed, and let the 
 
 law 
 Avenge thee. 
 Beatr. Oh, ice-hearted counsellor ! 
 
 If I could find a word that might make 
 
 known 
 The crime of my destroyer; and that 
 
 done, 
 My tongue should, like a knife, tear out 
 
 the secret 
 Which cankers my heart's core; ay, lay 
 
 all bare. 
 So that my unpolluted fame should be 
 With vilest gossips a stale mouthed story ; 
 A mock, a bye-word, an astonishment : — 
 If this were done, which never shall be 
 
 done, 
 Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded 
 
 hate. 
 And the strange horror of the accuser's 
 
 tale, ' 
 Baffling belief, and overpowering speech ; 
 Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapt 
 In hideous hints — Oh, most assured 
 
 redress ! 
 Ors. You will endure it then? 
 Beatr. Endure ! Orsino, 
 
 It seems your counsel is small profit. 
 (Turns from him, and speaks half to her- 
 self.) Ay, 
 All must be suddenly resolved and done 
 What is this undistinguishable mist 
 Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after 
 
 shadow, 
 Darkening each other? 
 Ors. Should the offender live? 
 
 Triumph in his misdeed? and make, by 
 
 use. 
 His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no 
 
 doubt, 
 
 Thine element ; until thou mayest become 
 Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue 
 Of that which thou permittest ? 
 Beatr. {To herself .) Mighty death! 
 
 Thou double- visaged- shadow! Only 
 
 judge ! 
 Rightfullest arbiter! 
 
 (She retires absorbed in thought.) 
 Lucr. If the lightning 
 
 Of God has e'er descended to avenge — 
 Ors. Blaspheme not ! His high Provi- 
 dence commits 
 Its glory on this earth, and their own 
 
 wrongs 
 Into the hands of men ; if they neglect 
 To punish crime — 
 Lucr. But if one, like this wretch. 
 
 Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, 
 
 and power? 
 If there be no appeal to that which makes 
 The guiltiest tremble? If, because our 
 
 wrongs. 
 For that they are unnatural, strange, 
 
 and monstrous. 
 Exceed all measure of belief? Oh, God! 
 If, for the very reasons which should 
 
 make 
 Redress most swift and sure, our injurer 
 
 triumphs ? 
 And we, the victims, bear worse punish- 
 ment 
 Than that appointed for their torturer? 
 Ors. Think not 
 
 But that there is redress where there is 
 
 wrong. 
 So we be bold enough to seize it. 
 Lucr. How? 
 
 If there were any way to make all sure, 
 I know not — ^but I think it might be good 
 To— 
 Ors. Why, his late outrage to Beatrice ; 
 For it is such, as I but faintly guess. 
 As makes remorse dishonor, and leaves 
 
 her 
 Only one duty, how she may avenge: 
 You, but one refuge from ills ill en- 
 dured ; 
 Me, but one counsel — 
 Lucr. For we cannot hope 
 
 That aid, or retribution, or resource. 
 Will arise thence, where every other one 
 Might find them with less need. 
 (Beatrice advances.) 
 Ors. Then— 
 
 Beatr. Peace, Orsino! 
 
 And, honored Lady, while I speak, I. pray 
 That you put off, as garments overworn, 
 Forbearance and respect, remorse and 
 fear. 
 
732 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 And all the fit restraints of daily life, 
 "Which have been borne from childhood, 
 
 but which now 
 Would be a mockery to my holier plea. 
 As I have said,, I have endured a wrong, 
 Which, though it be expressionless, is 
 
 such 
 As asks atonement, both for what is past, 
 And lest I be reserved, day after day. 
 To load with crimes an overburthened 
 
 soul. 
 And be — what ye can dream not. I have 
 
 prayed 
 To God, and I have talked with my own 
 
 heart, 
 And have unravelled my entangled will, 
 And have at length determined what is 
 
 right. 
 Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or 
 
 true? 
 Pledge thy salvation ere I speak. 
 Ors. I swear 
 
 To dedicate my cunning, and my 
 
 strength, 
 My silence, and whatever else is mine. 
 To thy commands. 
 Lucr. You think we should devise 
 
 His death? 
 Beatr. And execute what is devised, 
 
 And suddenly. We must be brief and 
 bold. 
 Ors. And yet most cautious. 
 Lucr. For the jealous laws 
 
 Would punish us with death and infamy 
 For that which it became themselves to 
 do. 
 Beatr. Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. 
 Orsino, 
 What are the means? 
 Ors. I know two dull, fierce outlaws, 
 
 Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and 
 
 they 
 Would trample out, for any slight ca- 
 price. 
 The meanest or the noblest life. This 
 
 mood 
 Is marketable here in Rome. They sell 
 What we now want. 
 Lucr. To-morrow, before dawn, 
 
 Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, 
 Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. 
 If he arrive there — 
 Beatr. He must not arrive. 
 
 Ors. Will it be dark before you reach the 
 
 tower? 
 Lucr. The sun will scarce be set. 
 Beatr. But I remember 
 
 Two miles on this side of the fort, the 
 road 
 
 Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and 
 
 narrow. 
 And winds with short turns down the 
 
 precipice ; 
 And in its depth there is a mighty rock. 
 Which has, from unimaginable years. 
 Sustained itself with terror and with toil 
 Over a gulph, and with the agony 
 With which it clings seems slowly coming 
 
 down; 
 Even as a wretched soul hour after hour. 
 Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, 
 
 leans ; 
 And leaning, makes more dark the dread 
 
 abyss 
 In which it fears to fall: beneath this 
 
 crag. 
 Huge as despair, as if in weariness. 
 The melancholy mountain yawns; below, 
 You hear but see not an impetuous tor- 
 rent 
 Raging among the caverns, and a bridge 
 Crosses the chasm; and high above there 
 
 grow. 
 With intersecting trunks, from crag to 
 
 crag. 
 Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose 
 
 tangled hair 
 Is matted in one solid roof of shade 
 By the dark ivy's twine. At noon-day 
 
 here 
 'Tis twilighl^, and at sunset blackest 
 
 night. 
 Ors. Before you reach that bridge make 
 
 some excuse 
 For spurring on your mules, or loitering 
 Until— 
 Beatr. What sound is that? 
 
 Lucr. Hark ! No, it cannot be a servant's 
 
 step; 
 It must be Cenci, unexpectedly 
 Returned — Make some excuse for being 
 
 here. 
 Beatr. {To Orsino as she goes out.) That 
 
 step we hear approach must never 
 
 The bridge of which we spoke. 
 {Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice.) 
 Ors. What shall I do? 
 
 Cenci must find me here, and I must bear 
 The imperious inquisition of his looks 
 As to what brought me hither: let me 
 
 mask 
 Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. 
 
 {Enter Giacomo, in a hurried manner.) 
 
 How! Have you ventured hither? 
 
 Know you then 
 That Cenci is from home? 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 733 
 
 Giacomo. I sought him here; 
 
 And now must wait till he returns. 
 
 Ors. Great God! 
 
 Weigh you the danger of this rashness? 
 
 Giae. Ay ! 
 
 Does my destroyer know his danger? 
 
 We 
 Are now no more, as once, parent and 
 
 child, 
 But man to man; the oppressor to the 
 
 oppressed ; 
 The slanderer to the slandered; foe to 
 
 foe. 
 He has east Nature oil, which was his 
 
 shield. 
 And Nature casts him off, who is her 
 
 shame; 
 And I spurn both. Is it a father's throat 
 Which I will shake, and say, I ask not 
 
 gold; 
 I ask not happy years ; nor memories 
 Of tranquil childhood; nor home-shel- 
 tered love; 
 Though all these hast thou torn from me, 
 
 and more; 
 But only my fair fame; only one hoard 
 Of peace, which I thought hidden from 
 
 thy hate. 
 Under the penury heaped on me by thee ; 
 Or I will — God can understand and par- 
 don. 
 Why should I speak with man ? 
 Ors. Be calm, dear friend. 
 
 Giac. Well, I will calmly tell you what he 
 
 did. 
 This old Francesco Cenci, as you know. 
 Borrowed the dowry of my wife from 
 
 me, 
 And then denied the loan; and left me 
 
 so 
 In poverty, the which I sought to mend 
 By holding a poor office in the state. 
 It had been promised to me, and already 
 I bought new clothing for my ragged 
 
 babes. 
 And my wife smiled ; and my heart knew 
 
 repose ; 
 When Cenei's intercession," as I found, 
 Conferred this office on a wretch, whom 
 
 thus 
 He paid for vilest service. I returned 
 With this ill news, and we sate sad to- 
 gether 
 Solacing our despondency with tears 
 Of such affection and unbroken faith 
 As temper life's worst bitterness; when 
 
 he, 
 As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse, 
 Mocking our poverty, and telling us 
 
 Such was God's scourge for disobedient 
 
 sons. 
 And then, that I might strike him dumb 
 
 with shame, 
 I spoke of my wife's dowry; but he 
 
 coined 
 A brief yet specious tale, how I had 
 
 wasted 
 The sum in secret riot ; and he saw 
 My wife was touched, and he went smil- 
 ing forth. 
 And when I knew the impression he had 
 
 made. 
 And felt my wife insult with silent scorn 
 My ardent truth, and look averse and 
 
 cold, 
 I went forth too: but soon returned 
 
 again ; 
 Yet not so soon but that my wife had 
 
 taught 
 My children her harsh thoughts, and they 
 
 all cried, 
 "Give us clothes, father ! Give us better 
 
 food! 
 What you in one night squander were 
 
 enough 
 For months!" I looked, and saw that 
 
 home was hell; 
 And to that hell will I return no more 
 Until mine enemy has rendered up 
 Atonement, or, as he gave life to me 
 I will, reversing nature's law — 
 Ors. Trust me, 
 
 The compensation which thou seekest 
 
 here 
 Will be denied. 
 Giac. Then — ^Are you not my friend? 
 
 Did you not hint at the alternative. 
 Upon the brink of which you see I stand. 
 The other day when we conversed to- 
 gether? 
 My wrongs were then less. That word 
 
 parricide, 
 Although I am resolved, haunts me like 
 ' fear. 
 Ors. It must be fear itself, for the bare 
 
 word 
 Is hollow mockery. "Mark, how wisest 
 
 God 
 Draws to one point the threads of a just 
 
 doom. 
 So sanctifying it: what you devise 
 Is, as it were, accomplished. 
 Giac. Is he dead? 
 
 Ors. His grave is ready. Know that since 
 
 we met 
 Cenci has done an outrage to his daugh- 
 ter. 
 Giac. What outrage? 
 
734 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Ors, That she speaks not, but you may 
 
 Conceive such hall' conjectures as I do, 
 From her fixed paleness, and the lofty 
 
 grief 
 Of her stem brow, bent on the idle air. 
 And her severe unmodulated voice, 
 Drowning both tenderness and dread ; and 
 
 last 
 From this; that whilst her step-mother 
 
 and I, 
 Bewildered in our horror, talked to- 
 gether 
 With obscure hints; both self -misunder- 
 stood. 
 And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our 
 
 talk, 
 Over the truth, and yet to its revenge. 
 She interrupted us, and with a look 
 Which told before she spoke it, he must 
 die: — 
 Giae. It is enough. My doubts are well 
 appeased ; 
 There is a higher reason for the act 
 Than mine; there is a holier judge than 
 
 me, 
 A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, 
 Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth 
 Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised 
 A living flower, but thou hast pitied it 
 With needless tears! Fair sister, thou 
 
 in whom 
 Men wondered how such loveliness and 
 
 wisdom 
 Did not destroy each other! -Is there 
 
 made 
 Ravage of thee? 0, heart, I ask no more 
 Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino, 
 Till he return, and stab him at the door? 
 Ors. Not so; some accident might inter- 
 pose 
 To rescue him from what is now most 
 
 sure; 
 And you are unprovided where to fly. 
 How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, 
 
 listen : 
 All is contrived ; success is so assured 
 That— 
 
 (Enter Beatrice.) 
 
 Beatrice. 'T is my brother's voice ! You 
 
 know me not? 
 Giac. My sister, my lost sister! 
 Beatr. Lost indeed ! 
 
 I see Orsino has talked with you, and 
 That you conjecture things too horrible 
 To speak, yet far less than the truth. 
 
 Now, stay not. 
 He might return: yet kiss me; I shall 
 know 
 
 That then thou hast consented to his 
 
 death. 
 Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God, 
 Brotherly love, justice, and clemency, 
 And all Ihings that make tender hardest 
 
 hearts. 
 Make thine hard, brother. Answer not: 
 
 farewell. 
 
 (Exeunt severally.) 
 
 Scene II. A mean Apartment in Gia- 
 como's House. Giacomo alone. 
 
 Giacomo. 'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes 
 
 not yet., (Thunder, and the sound 
 
 of a storm.) 
 What! can the everlasting elements 
 Feel with a worm like man? If so, the 
 
 shaft 
 Of mercy-winged lightning would not fall 
 On stones and trees. My wife and chil- 
 dren sleep : 
 They are now living in unmeaning 
 
 dreams : 
 But I must wake, still doubting if that 
 
 deed 
 Be just, which was most necessary. 0, 
 Thou unreplenished lamp ! whose narrow 
 
 fire 
 Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge 
 Devouring darkness hovers ! Thou small 
 
 flame. 
 Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls. 
 Still fliekerest up and down, how very 
 
 soon, 
 Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail 
 
 and be 
 As thou hadst never been! So wastes 
 
 and sinks 
 Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled 
 
 mine: 
 But that no power can fill with vital oil 
 That broken lamp of flesh. Ha ! 't is the 
 
 blood 
 Which fed these veins, that ebbs till all 
 
 is cold: 
 It is the form that moulded mine, that 
 
 sinks 
 Into the white and yellow spasms of 
 
 death : 
 It is the soul by which mine was arrayed 
 In God's immortal likeness, which now 
 
 stands 
 Naked before Heaven's judgment seat! 
 
 (A tell strikes.) One! Two! 
 The hours crawl on; and, when my hairs 
 
 are white. 
 My son will then perhaps be waiting 
 
 thus, 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 735 
 
 Tortured between just hate and vain re- 
 morse ; 
 
 Chiding the tardy messenger of news 
 
 like those which I expect. I almost 
 wish 
 
 He be not dead, although my wrongs are 
 great; 
 
 Yet — 'tis Orsino's step — 
 
 (Enter Orsino.) 
 
 Speak ! 
 Orsino. I am come 
 
 To say he has escaped. 
 Giac. Escaped ! 
 
 Ors. And safe 
 
 Within Petrella. He past by the spot 
 Appointed for the deed an hour too soon. 
 Giac. Are we the fools of such contingen- 
 cies? 
 And do we waste in blind misgivings thus 
 The hours when we should act? Then 
 
 wind and thunder, 
 Which seemed to howl his knell, is the 
 
 loud laughter 
 With which Heaven mocks our weak- 
 ness! I henceforth 
 Will ne'er repent of aught, designed or 
 
 done. 
 But my repentance. 
 Ors, See, the lamp is out. 
 
 Giac. If no remorse is ours when the dim 
 air 
 Has drank this innocent flame, why 
 
 should we quail 
 When Cenci's life, that light by which ill 
 
 spirits 
 ^ee the worst deeds they prompt, shall 
 
 sink forever? 
 No, I am hardened. 
 Ors. Why, what need of this? 
 
 Who feared the pale intrusion of re- 
 morse 
 In a just deed? Altho' our first plan 
 
 failed, 
 Doubt not but he will soon be laid to 
 
 rest. 
 But light the lamp ; let us not talk i' the 
 dark. 
 Giac. {lighting the lamp). And yet, once 
 quenched, I cannot thus relume 
 My father's life: do you not think his 
 
 ghost 
 Might plead that argument with God? 
 Ors. Once gone. 
 
 You cannot now recall your sister's 
 
 peace ; 
 Your own extinguished years of youth 
 and hope; 
 
 Nor your wife's bitter words ; nor all the 
 
 taunts 
 Which, from the prosperous, weak mis- 
 fortune takes; 
 Nor your dead mother; nor — 
 Giao. 0, speak no more! 
 
 I am resolved, although this very hand 
 Must quench the life that animated it. 
 Ors. There is no need of that. Listen; 
 
 you know, 
 Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella 
 In old Colonna's time; him whom your 
 
 father 
 Degraded from his post? And Marzio, 
 That desperate wretch, whom he deprived 
 
 last year 
 Of a reward of blood, well earned and 
 
 due? 
 Giac. I knew Olimpio; and they say he 
 
 hated 
 Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage 
 His lips grew white only to see him pass. 
 Of Marzio I know nothing. 
 Ors. Marzio's hate 
 
 Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these 
 
 men. 
 But in your name, and as at your re- 
 quest, 
 To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. 
 Giac. Only to talk? 
 
 Ors. The moments which even now 
 
 Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight 
 
 hour 
 May memorize their flight with death: 
 
 ere then 
 They must have talked, and may perhaps 
 
 have done. 
 And made an end — 
 Giac. Listen! What sound is that? 
 
 Ors, The house-dog moans, and the beams 
 
 crack: nought else. 
 Giac. It is my wife complaining in her 
 
 sleep : 
 I doubt not she is saying bitter things 
 Of me; and all my children round her 
 
 dreaming 
 That I deny them sustenance. 
 Ors. Whilst he 
 
 Who truly took it from them, and who 
 
 fills 
 Their hungry rest with bitterness, now 
 
 sleeps 
 Lapped in bad pleasures, and trium- 
 phantly 
 Mocks thee in visions of successful hate 
 Too like the truth of day. 
 Giac. If e'er he wakes 
 
 Again, I will not trust to hireling 
 
 bands — 
 
736 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 
 
 Ors. "Why, that were well. I must be 
 
 gone ; good night ! 
 
 When next we meet may all be done — 
 
 Giao. And all 
 
 Forgotten — Oh, that I had never been ! 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene 1. An Apartment in the Castle of 
 Petrella. Enter Cenci. 
 
 Cenci. She comes not; yet I left her even 
 now 
 
 Vanquished and faint. She knows the 
 penalty 
 
 Of her delay: yet what if threats are 
 vain? 
 
 Am I not now within Petrella's moaf? 
 
 Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome 1 
 
 Might I not drag her by the golden hair? 
 
 Stamp on her? keep her sleepless till her 
 brain 
 
 Be overworn? tame her with chains and 
 famine ? 
 
 Less would suffice. Yet so to leave un- 
 done 
 
 What I most seek! No, 'tis her stub- 
 born will. 
 
 Which, by its own consent, shall stoop as 
 low 
 
 As that which drags it down. 
 
 {Enter Lucretia.) 
 
 Thou loathed wretch ! 
 Hide thee from my abhorrence; fly, be- 
 gone! 
 Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither. 
 Lucretia. Oh, 
 
 Husband ! I pray, for thine own wretched 
 
 Heed what thou dost. A man who walks 
 
 like thee 
 Through crimes, and through the danger 
 
 of his crimes, 
 Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden 
 
 grave. 
 And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary 
 
 grey; 
 As thou wouldst save thyself from death 
 
 and hell, 
 Pity thy daughter; give her to some 
 
 friend 
 In marriage : so that she may tempt thee 
 
 not 
 To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse 
 
 there be. 
 Cen. What ! like her sister who has found 
 
 a home 
 
 To mock my hate from with prosperity? 
 
 Strange ruin shall destroy both her and 
 thee 
 
 And all that yet remain. My death may 
 be 
 
 Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, 
 
 Bid her come hither, and before my 
 mood 
 
 Be changed, lest I should drag her by the 
 hair. 
 Luor. She sent me to thee, husband. At v 
 thy presence 
 
 She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance; 
 
 And in that trance she heard a voice 
 which said, 
 
 " Cenci must die ! Let him confess him- 
 self! 
 
 "Even now the accusing angel waits to 
 hear 
 
 " If God, to punish his enormous crimes, 
 
 " Harden his dying heart ! " 
 Cen. Why — such things are: 
 
 No doubt divine revealings may be made. 
 
 'Tis plain I have been favored from 
 above. 
 
 For when I cursed my sons they died — 
 Ay — so — 
 
 As to the right or wrong that's talk- 
 repentance — 
 
 Repentance is an easy moment's work. 
 
 And more depends on God than me. 
 Well— well— 
 
 I must give up the greater point, which 
 was 
 
 To poison and corrupt her soul. 
 
 {A pause; Lucretia approaches anx- 
 iously, and then shrinks hack as 
 he speaks.) 
 
 One, two; 
 
 Ay — Rocco and Cristofano my curse 
 
 Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will 
 find 
 
 Life a worse Hell than that beyond the 
 grave : 
 
 Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, 
 
 Die in despair, blaspheming: to Ber- 
 nardo, 
 
 He is so innocent, I will bequeath 
 
 The memory of these deeds, and make his 
 youth 
 
 The sepulchre of hope, where evil 
 thoughts 
 
 Shall grow like weeds on a neglected 
 tomb. 
 
 When all is done, out in the wide 
 Campagna 
 
 I will pile up my silver and my gold; 
 
 My costly robes, paintings, and tapes- 
 tries; 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 737 
 
 My parchments and all records of my 
 
 wealth ; 
 And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave 
 Of my possessions nothing but my name ; 
 Which shall be an inheritance to strip 
 Its wearer bare as infamy. That done, 
 My soul, which is a scourge, will I re- 
 sign 
 Into the hands of him who wielded it ; 
 Be it for its own punishment or theirs. 
 He will not ask it of me till the lash 
 Be broken in its last and deepest wound ; 
 Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, 
 Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me 
 
 make 
 Short work and sure — (Going.) 
 
 Luer. (stops him). Oh, stay! It was a 
 
 feint: 
 She had no vision, and she heard no 
 
 voice. 
 I said it but to awe thee. 
 Cen. ■ That is well. 
 
 VUe palterer with the sacred truth of 
 
 God, 
 Be thy soul choked with that blasphem- 
 ing lie! 
 For Beatrice, worse terrors are in store, 
 To bend her to my vidll. 
 I/ucr. Oh, to what will? 
 
 What cruel sufferings, more than she has 
 
 known. 
 Canst thou inflict? 
 Cen. Andrea! Go call my daughter. 
 And if she comes not tell her that I 
 
 come. 
 What sufferings? I will drag her, step 
 
 by step. 
 Through infamies unheard of among 
 
 men: 
 She shall stand shelterless in the broad 
 
 noon 
 Of public scorn, for acts blazoned 
 
 abroad. 
 One among which shall be — What? 
 
 Canst thou guess? 
 She shall become (for what she most 
 
 abhors 
 Shall have a fascination to entrap 
 Her loathing will) to her own conscious 
 
 self 
 All she appears to others; and when 
 
 dead. 
 As she shall die unshrived and unfor- 
 
 given, 
 A rebel to her father and her God, 
 Her corpse shall be abandoned to the 
 
 hounds ; 
 Her name shall be the terror of the 
 
 earth; 
 
 Her spirit shall approach the throne of 
 
 God 
 Plague-spotted with my curses. I will 
 
 make 
 Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. 
 
 (Enter Andrea.) 
 
 Andrea. The lady Beatrice— 
 
 Cen. Speak, pale slave! What 
 
 Said she? 
 Andr. . My Lord, 't was what she looked ; 
 she said: 
 " Go tell my father that I see the gulf 
 " Of Hell between us two, which he may 
 
 pass, 
 " I will not." 
 
 (Exit Andrea.) 
 Cen. Go thou quick, Lucretia, 
 
 Tell her to come; yet let her understand 
 Her coming is consent; and say, more- 
 over. 
 That if she come not I will curse her. 
 
 (Exit Lucretia.) 
 
 Ha! 
 With what but with a father's curse doth 
 
 God 
 Panic-strike armed victory, and make 
 
 pale 
 Cities in their prosperity? The world's 
 
 Father 
 Must grant a parent's prayer against his 
 
 child. 
 Be he who asks even what men call me. 
 Will not the deaths of her rebellious 
 
 brothers 
 Awe her before I speak? for I on them 
 Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. 
 
 (Enter Lucretia.) 
 
 Well; what? Speak, wretch! 
 Lucr. She said, " I cannot come ; 
 
 " Go tell my father that I see a torrent 
 
 " Of his own blood raging between us." 
 Cen. (kneeling) God! 
 
 Hear me ! If this most specious mass of 
 
 Which thou hast made my daughter; this 
 my blood. 
 
 This particle of my divided being; 
 
 Or rather, this my bane and my disease. 
 
 Whose sight infects and poisons me; this 
 devU, 
 
 Which sprung from me as from a hell, 
 was meant 
 
 To aught good use; if her bright loveli- 
 ness 
 
 Was kindled to illumine this dark world ; 
 
 If, nursed by thy selectest dew of love 
 
738 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Such virtues blossom in her as should 
 
 make 
 The peace of life, I pray thee, for my 
 
 As thou the common God and Father art 
 Of her, and me, and all; reverse that 
 
 doom! 
 Earth, in the name of God, let her food 
 
 be 
 Poison, until she be encrusted round 
 With leprous stains ! Heaven, rain upon 
 
 her head 
 The blistering drops of the Maremma's 
 
 dew. 
 Till she be speckled like a toad; parch 
 
 up 
 Those love-enkindled lips, warp those 
 
 fine limbs 
 To loathed lameness ! All-beholding sun. 
 Strike in thine envy those life-darting 
 
 eyes 
 "With thine own bUnding beams ! 
 Lucr. Peace ! Peace ! 
 
 For thine own sake unsay those dreadful 
 
 words. 
 When high God grants, he punishes such 
 prayers. 
 Cen. (leaping up, and throwing his right 
 hand towards Heaven). He does his 
 will, I mine! This in addition. 
 That if she have a child — 
 Lucr. Horrible thought ! 
 
 Cen. That if she ever have a child; and 
 thou. 
 Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy 
 
 God, 
 That thou be fruitful in her, and en- 
 crease 
 And multiply, fulfilling his command, 
 And my deep imprecation! May it be 
 A hideous likeness of herself ; that, as 
 From a distorting mirror, she may see 
 Her image mixed with what she most ab- 
 hors. 
 Smiling upon her from her nursing 
 
 breast. 
 And that the child may from its infancy 
 Grow, day by day, more wicked and de- 
 formed, 
 Turning her mother's love to misery: 
 And that both she and it may live, until 
 It shall repay her care and pain with 
 
 hate. 
 Or what may else be more unnatural. 
 So he may hunt her through the clamor- 
 ous scoffs 
 Of the loud world to a dishonored grave. 
 Shall I revoke this curse? Go, bid her 
 come, 
 
 Before my words are chronicled in 
 heaven. 
 
 {Exit Lucretia.) 
 I do not feel as if I were a man. 
 But like a fiend appointed to chastise 
 The offences of some unremembered 
 
 world. 
 My blood is running up and down my 
 
 veins ; 
 A fearful pleasure makes it prick and 
 
 tingle : 
 I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe; 
 My heart is beating with an expectation r 
 Of horrid joy. 
 
 {Enter Lucretia.) 
 
 What? Speak! 
 Lucr. She bids thee curse; 
 
 And if thy curses, as they cannot do. 
 Could kill her soul — 
 Cen. She would not come. 'T is well, 
 
 I can do both : first take what I demand. 
 And then extort concession. To thy 
 
 chamber ! 
 Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this 
 
 night 
 That thou cross not my footsteps. It 
 
 were safer 
 To come between the tiger and his prey. 
 
 {Exit Lucretia.) 
 It must be late; mine eyes grow weai7 
 
 dim 
 With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. 
 Conscience! Oh, thou most insolent of 
 
 lies ! ; 
 
 They say that sleep, that healing dew of ] 
 
 heaven, 
 Steeps not in balm the foldings of the 
 
 brain 
 Which thinks thee an impostor. I will 
 
 go, 
 First to belie thee with an hour of rest, 
 Which will be deep and calm, I feel : and 
 
 then — 
 0, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will 
 
 shake 
 Thine arches with the laughter of their j 
 
 ]oy 
 
 There shall be lamentation heard in 
 
 Heaven 
 As o'er an angel fallen ; and upon Earth 
 All good shall droop and sicken, and ill 
 
 things 
 Shall, with a spirit of unnatural life, 
 Stir and be quickened; even as I am 
 
 now. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
THE CENCl 
 
 739 
 
 Scene 2. Before the Castle of Petrella. 
 Enter Beatrice and Lucretia above on the 
 ramparts. 
 
 Beatrice. They come not yet. 
 Lucretia. 'T is scarce midnight. 
 
 Beatr. How slow 
 
 Behind the course of thought, even sick 
 with speed, 
 
 Lags leaden-footed time! 
 Lucr. The minutes pass — 
 
 If he should wake before the deed is 
 done? 
 Beatr. 0, mother! he must never wake 
 again. 
 
 What thou hast said persuades me that 
 our act 
 
 Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell 
 
 Out of a human form. 
 Imcr. 'T is true he spoke 
 
 Of death and judgment with strange con- 
 fidence 
 
 For one so wicked ; as a man believing 
 
 In God, yet recking not of good or ill. 
 
 And yet to die without confession! 
 Beatr. Oh ! 
 
 Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, 
 
 And will not add our dread necessity 
 
 To the amount of his offences. 
 
 {Enter Olimpio and Margio helovj.) 
 
 Lucr. See, 
 
 They come. 
 Beatr. All mortal things must hasten thus 
 To their dark end. Let us go down. 
 (Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice 
 from above.) 
 Olimpio. How feel you to this work? 
 Marzio. As one who thinks 
 
 A thousand crowns excellent market 
 
 price 
 For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks 
 are pale. 
 Olim. It is the white reflection of your 
 own, 
 Which you call pale. 
 Mar. Is that their natural hue? 
 
 Olim. Or 'tis my hate, and the deferred 
 desire 
 To wreak it, which extinguishes their 
 blood. 
 Mar. You are inclined then to this busi- 
 ness? 
 Olim. Ay, 
 
 If one should bribe me with a thousand 
 
 crowns 
 To kill a serpent which had stung my 
 
 child, 
 I could not be more willing. I 
 
 (Enter Beatrice and Lucretia below.) 
 
 Noble ladies! 
 Beatr. Are ye resolved? 
 Olim. Is he asleep? 
 
 Mar. Is all 
 
 Quiet? 
 Lucr. I mixed an opiate with his drink : 
 
 He sleeps so soundly — 
 Beatr. That his death will be 
 
 But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, 
 A dark continuance of the Hell within 
 
 him. 
 Which God extinguish! But ye are re- 
 solved? 
 Ye know it is a high and holy, deed ? 
 Olim. We are resolved. 
 Mar. As to the how this act 
 
 Be warranted, it rests with you. 
 Beatr. ■ Well, follow! 
 
 Olim. Hush! Hark! What noise is that ? 
 Mar. Ha! some one comes! 
 
 Beatr. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, 
 rock to rest 
 Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, 
 Which ye left open, swinging to the wind. 
 That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, 
 
 follow ! 
 And be your steps like mine, light, quick, 
 and bold. 
 
 (Exeunt. ) 
 
 Scene 3. An Apartment in the Castle. 
 Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. 
 
 Lucretia. They are about it now. 
 
 Beatrice. Nay, it is done. 
 
 Lucr. I have not heard him groan. 
 
 Beatr. He will not groan. 
 
 Lucr. What sound is that? 
 
 Beatr. List ! 't is the tread of feet 
 
 About his bed. 
 Lucr. My God! 
 
 If he be now a cold, stiff corpse. 
 Beatr. 0, fear not 
 
 What may be done, but what is left un- 
 done: 
 The act seals all. 
 
 (Enter Olimpio and Marzio.) 
 Is it accomplished? 
 Marzio. What? 
 
 Olimpio. Did you not call? 
 Beatr. When? 
 
 Olim. Now. 
 
 Beatr. I ask if all is over? 
 
 Olim. We dare not kill an old and sleep- 
 ing man ; 
 His thin grey hair, his stem and reverent 
 brow, 
 
740 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 His veined hands crossed on his heaving 
 
 breast, 
 And the eahn innocent sleep in which he 
 
 Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do 
 
 it. 
 Mar. But I was bolder; for I ciiid 
 
 Olimpio, 
 And bade him bear his wrongs to his own 
 
 grave 
 And leave me the reward. And now my 
 
 knife 
 Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when 
 
 the old man 
 Stirred in his" sleep, and said, " God ! 
 
 hear, 0, hear 
 "A father's curse! What, art thou not- 
 our father?" 
 And then he laughed. I knew it was the 
 
 ghost 
 Of my dead father speaking through his 
 
 lips, 
 And could not kUl him. 
 Beatr. Miserable slaves! 
 
 Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, 
 Found ye the boldness to return to me 
 With such a deed undone? Base palter- 
 
 ers! 
 Cowards and traitors! Why, the vei-y 
 
 conscience 
 Which ye would sell for gold and for re- 
 venge 
 Is an equivocation : it sleeps over 
 A thousand daily acts disgracing men ; 
 And when a deed where mercy insults 
 
 heaven — 
 Why do I talk? (Snatching a dagger 
 
 from one of them and raising it.) 
 
 Hadst thou a tongue to say, 
 She murdered her own father, I must do 
 
 it! 
 But never dream ye shall outlive him 
 
 long! 
 Olim. Stop, for God's sake ! 
 Mar. 1 will go back and kill him. 
 
 Olim. Give me the weapon, we must do 
 
 thy wUl. 
 Beatr. Take it! Depart! Return! 
 
 (Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.) 
 
 How pale thou art ! 
 We do but that which 'twere a deadly 
 
 crime 
 To leave undone. 
 Lucr. Would it were done! 
 
 Beatr. Even whilst 
 
 That doubt is passing through your 
 
 mind, the world 
 Is conscious of a change. Darkness and 
 
 hell 
 
 Have swallowed up the vapor they sent 
 
 forth 
 To blacken the sweet light of life. My 
 
 breath 
 Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied 
 
 blood 
 Runs freely through my veins. Hark! 
 
 (Enter Olimpio and Marzio.) 
 
 He is — 
 Olim. Dead! 
 
 Mar. We strangled him that there might 
 be no blood; 
 And then we threw his heavy corpse i' 
 
 the garden 
 Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell. 
 Beatr. (giving them a tag of coin). Here, 
 take this gold, and hasten to your 
 homes. 
 And, Marzio, because thou wast only 
 
 awed 
 By that which made me tremble, wear 
 thou this! 
 
 (Clothes him in a rich mantle.) 
 It was the mantle which my grandfather 
 Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
 Envied his state : so may they envy thine. 
 Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God 
 To a just use. Live long and thrive! 
 
 And, mark. 
 If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is 
 none. 
 
 (A horn is sounded.) 
 Lucr. Hark! 'tis the castle horn; my 
 God! it sounds 
 Like the last trump. 
 Beatr. Some tedious guest is coming. 
 Lucr. The drawbridge is let down; there 
 is a tramp 
 Of horses in the court; fly, hide your- 
 selves ! 
 
 (Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.) 
 Beatr. Let us retire to counterfeit deep 
 rest; 
 I scarcely need to counterfeit it now : 
 The spirit which doth reign within these 
 
 limbs 
 Seems strangely undisturbed. I could 
 
 even sleep 
 Fearless and calm : all ill is surely past. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 4. Another Apartment in the 
 Castle. Enter on otw side the Legate 
 Savella, introduced hy a Servant, and on 
 the other Lucretia and Bernardo. 
 
 Savella. Lady, my duty to his Holiness 
 
TCHE CENCI 
 
 ^41 
 
 Be my excuse that thus unseasonably 
 
 I break upon your rest. I musl^ speak 
 with 
 
 Count Cenei; doth he sleep? 
 Lucretia (in a hurried and confused man- 
 ner). I think he sleeps; 
 
 Yet, wake him not, I pray, spare me 
 awhile, 
 
 He is a wicked and a wrathful man; 
 
 Should he be roused out of his sleep to- 
 night, 
 
 Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams. 
 
 It were not well ; indeed it were not well. 
 
 Wait till day break — (aside) 0, I am 
 deadly sick!' 
 Sav. I grieve thus to distress you, but the 
 Count 
 
 Must answer charges of the gravest im- 
 port. 
 
 And suddenly; such my commission is. 
 Lucr. (with increased agitation.) I dare 
 not rouse him: I know none who 
 dare: 
 
 'T were perilous ; — you might as safely 
 waken 
 
 A serpent; or a corpse in which some 
 fiend 
 
 Were laid to sleep. 
 Sav. Lady, my moments here 
 
 Are counted. I must rouse him from his 
 sleep. 
 
 Since none else dare. 
 Lucr. (aside). 0, terror! 0, despair! 
 
 (To Bernardo.) Bernardo, conduct you 
 the Lord Legate to 
 
 Tour father's chamber. 
 
 (Exeunt Savella and Bernardo.) 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beatrice. 'T is a messenger 
 
 Come to arrest the culprit who now 
 
 stands 
 Before the throne of unappealable God. 
 Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbi- 
 ters. 
 Acquit our deed. 
 Lucr. Oh, agony of fear ! 
 
 Would that he yet might live! Even 
 
 now I heard 
 The Legate's followers whisper, as they 
 
 p'assed. 
 They had a warrant for his instant death. 
 All was prepared by unforbidden means, 
 Which we must pay so dearly, having 
 
 done. 
 Even now they search the tower, and find 
 
 the body; 
 Now they suspect the truth; now they 
 
 consult 
 
 Before they come to tax us with the fact : 
 0, horrible, 'tis all discovered! 
 Beatr. Mother, 
 
 What is done wisely, is done well. Be 
 
 bold 
 As thou art just. 'T is like a truant 
 
 child. 
 To fear that others know what thou hast 
 
 done. 
 Even from thine own strong conscious- 
 ness, and thus 
 Write on unsteady eyes and altered 
 
 cheeks 
 All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to 
 
 thyself. 
 And fear no other witness but thy fear. 
 For if, as cannot be, some circumstance 
 Should rise in accusation, we can blind 
 Suspicion with such cheap astonishment. 
 Or overbear it with such guiltless pride, 
 As murderers cannot feign. The deed is 
 
 done. 
 And what may follow now regards not 
 
 me. 
 I am as universal as the light ; 
 Free as the earth-surrounding air; as 
 
 firm 
 As the world's centre. Consequence, to 
 
 me, 
 Is as the wind which strikes the solid 
 
 rock 
 But shakes it not. 
 
 (A cry within and tumult.) 
 Voices. Murder! Murder! Murder! 
 
 (Enter Bernardo and Savella.) 
 
 Sav. (to his followers). Go, search the 
 
 castle round ; sound the alarm ; 
 
 Look to the gates that none escape ! 
 
 Beatr. What now? 
 
 Bernardo. I know not what to say: my 
 
 father 's dead ! 
 Beatr. How? dead? he only sleeps: you 
 mistake, brother. 
 His sleep is very calm, very like death; 
 'T is wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. 
 He is not dead? 
 Ber. Dead! murdered! 
 
 Lucr. (with esctreme agitation). Oh, no, 
 no, 
 He is not murdered, though he may be 
 
 dead; 
 I have alone the keys of those apart- 
 ments. 
 Sav. Ha! Is it so? 
 
 Beatr. My Lord, I pray excuse us; 
 
 We will retire ; my mother is not well : 
 She seems quite overcome with this 
 strange horror. 
 
742 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 {Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice.) 
 Sav, Can you suspect who may have mur- 
 dered him? 
 
 Ber. I know not what to think. 
 
 Sav, Can you name any 
 
 Who had an interest in his death? 
 Ber. Alas! 
 
 I can name none who had not, and those 
 most 
 
 Who most lament that such a deed is 
 done; 
 
 My mother, and my sister, and myself. 
 Sav. 'T is strange ! There were clear 
 marks of violence. 
 
 I found the old man's body in the moon- 
 light 
 
 Hanging beneath the window of his 
 chamber, 
 
 Among the branches of a pine : he could 
 not 
 
 Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay 
 heaped 
 
 And effortless; 'tis true there was no 
 blood. 
 
 Favor me, Sir (it much imports your 
 house 
 
 That all should be made clear) to tell the 
 ladies 
 
 That I request their presence. 
 (Exit Bernardo.) 
 {Enter Guards, bringing in Mareio.) 
 
 Guard. We have one. 
 
 Officer. My Lord, we found this rufQan 
 and another 
 Lurking among the rocks; there is no 
 
 doubt 
 But that they are the murderers of Count 
 
 Cenci : 
 Each had a bag of coin ; this fellow wore 
 A gold-inwoven robe, which, shining 
 
 bright 
 Under the dark rocks to the glimmering 
 
 moon, 
 Betrayed them to our notice: the other 
 
 feU 
 Desperately fighting. 
 Sav. What does he confess? 
 
 Officer. He keeps firm silence; but these 
 lines found on him 
 May speak. 
 Sav. Their language is at least sincere. 
 {Beads.) 
 
 "To THE Ladt Beatrice. 
 
 "That the atonement of what my nature 
 sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, I 
 »end thee, at thy brother's desire, those who 
 
 will speak and do more than I dare write — 
 . "Thy devoted servant, 
 
 "Orsino." 
 
 {Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardo.) \ 
 
 Knowest thou this writing. Lady? 
 Beatr. No. 
 
 Sav. Nor thou? 
 
 Lucr. {Her conduct throughout the scene is 
 
 marked by extreme agitation.) Vl 
 Where was it found? What is it? H; 
 It should be 
 Orsino's hand ! It speaks of that strange 
 
 horror 
 Which never yet found utterance, but 
 
 which made 
 Between that hapless child and her dead 
 
 father 
 A gulf of obscure hatred. 
 Sav. Is it so? 
 
 Is it true, Lady, that thy father did 
 Such outrages as to awaken in thee 
 Unfllial hate? 
 Beatr. Not hate, 'twas more than hate: 
 This is most true, yet wherefore question 
 me? 
 Sav. There is a deed demanding question 
 done; 
 Thou hast a secret which will answer not. 
 Beatr. What sayest? My Lord, your 
 
 words are bold and rash. 
 Sav. I do arrest all present in the name 
 Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to 
 Rome. 
 Lucr. 0, not to Rome ! Indeed we are not 
 
 guilty. 
 Beatr. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt? 
 My Lord, 
 I am more innocent of parricide 
 Than is a child bom fatherless. Dear 
 
 mother, 
 Your gentleness and patience are no 
 
 shield 
 For this keen-judging world, this two- 
 edged lie. 
 Which seems, but is not. What! will 
 
 human laws. 
 Rather will ye who are their ministers. 
 Bar all access to retribution first. 
 And then, when heaven doth interpose to 
 
 do 
 What ye neglect, arming familiar things 
 To the redress of an unwonted crime, 
 Make ye the victims who demanded it 
 Culprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That 
 
 poor wretch 
 Who stands so pale, and trembling, and 
 
 amazed. 
 If it be true he murdered Cenci, was 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 743 
 
 A sword in the right hand of justest God. 
 Wherefore should I have wielded it? 
 
 Unless 
 The crimes which mortal tongue dare 
 
 never name 
 God therefore scruples to avenge. 
 Sav. You own 
 
 That you desired his death? 
 Beatr. It would have been 
 
 A crime no less than his, if, for one 
 
 moment, 
 That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 
 'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and 
 
 pray. 
 Ay, I even knew — for God is wise and 
 
 just, 
 That some strange sudden death hung 
 
 over him. 
 'T is true that this did happen, and most 
 
 true 
 There was no other rest for me on earth. 
 No other hope in Heaven: now what of 
 
 this? 
 Sav. Strange thoughts beget strange 
 
 deeds ; and here are both : 
 I judge thee not. 
 Beatr. And yet, if you arrest me. 
 
 You are the judge and executioner 
 Of that which is the life of life: the 
 
 breath 
 Of accusation kills an innocent name, 
 And leaves for lame acquittal the poor 
 
 life 
 Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most 
 
 false 
 That I am guilty of foul parricide ; 
 Although I must rejoice, for justest 
 
 cause, 
 That other hands have sent my father's 
 
 soul 
 To ask the mercy he denied to me. 
 Now leave us free: stain not a noble 
 
 house 
 With vague surmises of rejected crime ; 
 Add to our sufferings and your own 
 
 neglect 
 No heavier sum; let them have been 
 
 enough ; 
 Leave us the wreck we have. 
 Sav. I dare not, Lady. 
 
 I pray that you prepare yourselves for 
 
 Home : 
 There the Pope's further pleasure will be 
 
 known.. 
 Imcr. 0, not to Eome ! 0, take us not to 
 
 Rome! 
 Beatr. Why not to Rome, dear mother? 
 
 There as here 
 Our innocence is as an armed heel 
 
 To trample accusation. God is there. 
 
 As here, and with his shadow ever clothes 
 
 The innocent, the injured, and the weak; 
 
 And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, 
 lean 
 
 On me ; collect your wandering thoughts. 
 My Lord, 
 
 As soon as you have taken some refresh- 
 ment. 
 
 And had all such examinations made 
 
 Upon the spot, as may be necessary 
 
 To the full understanding of this matter, 
 
 We shall be ready. Mother, will you 
 come? 
 Imcr. Ha! they will bind us to the rack, 
 and wrest 
 
 Self-accusation from our agony ! 
 
 Will Giacomo be there? Orsino? Mar- 
 zio? 
 
 All present; all confronted; all demand- 
 ing 
 
 Each from the other's countenance the 
 thing 
 
 Which is in every heart ! 0, misery ! 
 (She faints, and is borne out.) 
 Sav. She faints : an ill appearance this. 
 Beatr. My Lord, 
 
 She knows not yet the uses of the world. 
 
 She fears that power is as a beast which 
 grasps 
 
 And loosens not; a snake, whose look 
 transmutes 
 
 All things to guilt which is its nutriment ; 
 
 She cannot know how well the supine 
 slaves 
 
 Of blind authority read the truth of 
 things 
 
 When written on a brow of guilelessness : 
 
 She sees not yet triumphant Innocence 
 
 Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal 
 man, 
 
 A judge and an accuser of the wrong 
 
 Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, 
 my Lord ; 
 
 Our suite will join yours in the court be- 
 low. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. An Apartment in Orsino's Pal- 
 ace. Enter Orsino and Giacomo. 
 
 Giacomo. Do evil deeds thus quickly come 
 to end? 
 
 0, that the vain remorse which must chas- 
 tise 
 
 Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to 
 warn 
 
744 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 As its keen sting is mortal to avenge! 
 0, that the hour when present had east 
 
 off 
 The mantle of its mystery, and shewn 
 The ghastly form with which it now re- 
 
 tiirns 
 When its seared game is roused, cheering 
 
 the hounds 
 Of conscience to their prey! Alas! 
 
 Alas! 
 It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed. 
 To kill an old and hoary-headed father. 
 Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, in 
 
 truth. 
 Giac. To violate the sacred doors of sleep ; 
 To cheat kind nature of the placid death 
 Which she prepares for over-wearied 
 
 age; 
 To drag from Heaven an unrepentant 
 
 soul, 
 Which might have quenched in reconcil- 
 ing prayers 
 A life of burning crimes — 
 Ors. You cannot say 
 
 I urged you to the deed. 
 Giac. 0, had I never 
 
 Found in thy smooth and ready coun- 
 tenance 
 The mirror of my darkest thoughts ; hadst 
 
 thou 
 Never with hints and questions made me 
 
 look 
 Upon the monster of my thought, until 
 It grew familiar to desire — 
 Ors. 'Tis thus 
 
 Men cast the blame of their unprosperous 
 
 acts 
 Upon the abettors of their own resolve ; 
 Or any thing but their weak, guilty selves. 
 And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril 
 In which you stand that gives you this 
 
 pale sickness 
 Of penitence ; confess 't is fear disguised 
 From its own shame that takes the mantle 
 
 now 
 Of thin remorse. What if we yet were 
 
 safe? 
 Giac. How can that be? Already Bea- 
 
 atrice, 
 Lucretia, and the murderer, are in prison. 
 I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, 
 Sent to arrest us. 
 Ors. I have all prepared 
 
 For instant flight. We can escape even 
 
 now. 
 So we take fleet occasion by the hair. 
 Giac. Rather expire in tortures, as I may. 
 What! will you cast by self -accusing 
 
 flight 
 
 Assured conviction upon Beatrice? 
 
 She, who alone in this unnatural work. 
 
 Stands like God's angel ministered upon 
 
 By fiends; avenging such a nameless 
 wrong 
 
 As turns black parricide to piety; 
 
 WhUst we for basest ends — I fear, Or- 
 sino, 
 
 While I consider all your words and 
 looks, 
 
 Comparing them with your proposal now, 
 
 That you must be a villain. For what 
 end 
 
 Could you engage in such a perilous 
 crime. 
 
 Training me on with hints, and signs, and 
 smiles, 
 
 Even to this gulf? Thou art no liar? 
 No, 
 
 Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! 
 
 Coward and slave ! But, no, defend thy- 
 self; 
 
 (Drawing.) Let the sword speak what 
 the indignant tongue 
 
 Disdains to brand thee with. 
 Ors. Put up your weapon. 
 
 Is it the desperation of your fear 
 
 Makes you thus rash and sudden with a 
 friend. 
 
 Now ruined for your sake? If honest 
 anger 
 
 Have moved you, know, that what I just 
 proposed 
 
 Was but to try you. As for me, I think 
 
 Thankless affection led me to this point, 
 
 From which, if my firm temper could re- 
 pent, 
 
 I cannot now recede. Even whilst we 
 speak 
 
 The ministers of justice wait below : 
 
 They grant me these brief moments. 
 Now if you 
 
 Have any words of melancholy comfort 
 
 To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best 
 to pass 
 
 Out at the postern, and avoid them so. 
 Giac. 0, generous friend! how canst thou 
 pardon me? 
 
 Would that my life could purchase thine ! 
 Ors. That wish 
 
 Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare 
 thee well! 
 
 Hear'st thou not steps along the corri- 
 dor? 
 
 (Exit Giaeomo.) 
 
 I'm sorry for it; but the guards are 
 waiting 
 
 At his own gate, and such was my con- 
 trivance 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 745 
 
 That I might rid me both of him and 
 
 them. 
 I thought to act a solemn comedy 
 Upon the painted scene of this new world, 
 And to attain my own peculiar ends 
 By some such plot of mingled good and 
 
 ill 
 As others weave ; but there arose a Power 
 Which grasped and snapped the threads 
 
 of my device, 
 And turned it to a net of ruin — Ha ! 
 
 {A shout is heard.) 
 Is that my name I hear proclaimed 
 
 abroad? 
 But I will pass, wrapt in a vile disguise ; 
 Rags on my back, and a false innocence 
 Upon my face, through the misdeeming 
 
 crowd 
 Which judges by what seems. 'T is easy 
 
 then 
 For a new name and for a country new. 
 And a new life, fashioned on old desires, 
 To change the honors of abandoned 
 
 Rome. 
 And these must be the masks of that 
 
 within, 
 Which must remain unaltered. Oh, I 
 
 fear 
 That what is past will never let me rest ! 
 Why, when none else is conscious but 
 
 myself 
 Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's 
 
 contempt 
 Trouble me? Have I not the power to 
 
 fly 
 
 My own reproaches? Shall I be the 
 slave 
 
 Of— what? A word? which those of 
 this false world 
 
 Employ against each other, not them- 
 selves ; 
 
 As men wear daggers not for self-offence. 
 
 But if I am mistaken, where shall I 
 
 Find the disguise to hide me from my- 
 self. 
 
 As now I skulk from every other eye? 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. A Hall of Justice. Camilla, 
 Judges, Sc, are discovered seated. Mar- 
 zio is led in. 
 
 First Judge. Accused, do you persist in 
 
 your denial? 
 I ask you; are you innocent, or guilty? 
 I demand who were the participators 
 In your offence? Speak truth and the 
 
 whole truth. 
 
 Margio. My God! I did not kill him; I 
 know nothing; 
 Olimpio sold the robe to me from which 
 You would infer my guilt. 
 Second Judge. Away with him .' 
 
 First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet white 
 from the rack's kiss. 
 Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner 
 That you would bandy lover's talk with 
 
 it 
 Till it wind out your life and soul? 
 Away! 
 Mar. Spare me! 0, spare! I will eon- 
 
 First Judge. Then speak. 
 
 Mar. I strangled him in his sleep. 
 First Judge. Who urged. you to it? 
 
 Mar. His own son Giacomo, and the young 
 prelate 
 Orsino sent me to Petrella ; there 
 The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia 
 Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and 
 
 I 
 And my companion forthwith murdered 
 
 him. 
 Now let me die. 
 First Judge. This sounds as bad as 
 
 truth. 
 Guards, there, lead forth the prisoners. 
 
 {Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, 
 guarded.) 
 
 Look upon this man; 
 When did- you see him last? 
 Beatrice. We never saw him. 
 
 Mar. You know me too well, Lady Bea- 
 trice. 
 Beatr. I know thee ! How ? where ? when ? 
 Mar. You know 't was I 
 
 Whom you did urge with menaces and 
 
 bribes 
 To kill your father. When the thing was 
 
 done 
 You clothed me in a robe of woven gold 
 And bade me thrive : how I have thriven, 
 
 you see. 
 You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, 
 You know that what I speak is true. 
 {Beatrice advances towards him; he covers 
 his face, and shrinks hack.) 
 
 0, dart 
 The terrible resentment of those eyes 
 On the dead earth! Turn them away 
 
 from me ! 
 They wound : 't was torture forced the 
 
 truth. My Lords, 
 Having said this, let me be led to death. 
 Beatr. Poor wretch, I pity thee : yet stay 
 awhile. 
 
746 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Camillo. Guards, lead him not away. 
 Beatr. Cardinal Camillo, 
 
 You have a good repute for gentleness 
 And wisdom : can it be that you sit here 
 To countenance a wicked farce like this? 
 When some obscure and trembling slave 
 
 is dragged 
 From sufferings which might shake the 
 
 sternest heart, 
 And bade to answer, not as he believes. 
 But as those may suspect or do desire, 
 Whose questions thence suggest their own 
 
 reply; 
 And that in peril of such hideous tor- 
 ments 
 As merciful God spares even the damned. 
 
 Speak now 
 The thing you surely know, which is, 
 
 that you 
 If your fine frame were stretched upon 
 
 that wheel, 
 And you were told: "Confess that you 
 
 did poison 
 Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed 
 
 child 
 Who was the loadstar of your life:" — 
 
 and though 
 AU see, since his most swift and piteous 
 
 death. 
 That day and night, and heaven and 
 
 earth, and time. 
 And all the things hoped for or done 
 
 therein 
 Are changed to you, through your exceed- 
 ing grief, 
 Yet you would say, "I confess anything :" 
 And beg from your tormentors, like that 
 
 slave, 
 The refuge of dishonorable death. 
 I pray thee. Cardinal, that thou assert 
 My innocence. 
 Cam. {Much moved.) What shall we 
 
 think, my Lords? 
 Shame on these tears! I thought the 
 
 heart was frozen 
 Which is their fountain. I would pledge 
 
 my soul 
 That she is guiltless. 
 Judge. Yet she must be tortured. 
 
 Cam. I would as soon have tortured mine 
 
 own nephew : 
 (If he now lived he would be just her 
 
 age; 
 His hair, too, was her color, and his 
 
 eyes 
 Like hers in shape, but blue and not so 
 
 deep) 
 As that most perfect image of God's 
 
 love 
 
 That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. 
 
 She is as pure as speechless infancy! 
 Judge. Well, be her purity on your head, 
 my Lord, 
 
 If you forbid the rack. His Holiness 
 
 Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous 
 crime 
 
 By the severest forms of law; nay, even 
 
 To stretch a point against the criminals. 
 
 The prisoners stand accused of parricide 
 
 Upon such evidence as justifies 
 
 Torture. 
 Beatr. What evidence? This man's? 
 Judge. Even so. 
 
 Beatr. {To Marzio.) Come near. And 
 who art thou thus chosen forth 
 
 Out of the multitude of living men, 
 
 To kill the innocent? 
 Mar. I am Marzio, 
 
 Thy father's vassal. 
 Beatr. Fix thine eyes on mine; 
 
 Answer to what I ask. {Turning to the 
 Judges.) I prithee mark 
 
 His countenance: unlike bold calumny 
 
 Which sometimes dares not speak the 
 thing it looks, 
 
 He dares not look the thing he speaks, 
 but bends 
 
 His gaze on the blind earth. {To Mar- 
 zio.) What ! wilt thou say 
 
 That I did murder my own father? 
 Mar. Oh! 
 
 Spare me! My brain swims round — I 
 cannot speak — 
 
 It was that horrid torture forced the 
 truth. 
 
 Take me away ! Let her not look on me ! 
 
 I am a guilty, miserable wretch ; 
 
 I have said all I know ; now, let me die ! 
 Beatr. My Lords, if by my nature I had 
 been 
 
 So stern, as to have planned the crime 
 alleged. 
 
 Which your suspicions dictate to this 
 slave. 
 
 And the rack makes him utter, do you 
 think 
 
 I should have left this two-edged instru- 
 ment 
 
 Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody 
 knife 
 
 With my own name engraven on the heft 
 
 Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes. 
 
 For my own death? That with such hor- 
 rible need 
 
 For deepest silence, I should have ne- 
 glected 
 
 So trivial a precaution, as the making 
 
 His tomb the keeper of a secret written 
 
THE CBNCI 
 
 747 
 
 On a thief's memory? What is his poor 
 
 life? 
 What are a thousand lives? A parricide 
 Had trampled them like dust; and see, 
 
 he lives! 
 {Turning to Marzio.) And thou — 
 Mar. Oh, 
 
 spare me ! Speak to me no more ! 
 That stern yet piteous look, those solemn 
 
 tones. 
 Wound worse than torture. {To the 
 
 Judges.) I have told it all ; 
 For pity's sake lead me away to death. 
 Cam. Guards, lead him nearer the Lady 
 
 Beatrice, 
 He shrinks from her regard like autumn's 
 
 leaf 
 From the keen breath of the serenest 
 
 north. 
 Beatr. Oh, thou who tremblest on the 
 
 giddy verge 
 Of life and death, pause ere thou answer- 
 
 est me ; 
 So mayst thou answer God with less dis- 
 may: 
 What evil have we done thee? I, alas! 
 Have lived but on this earth a few sad 
 
 years 
 And so my lot was ordered, that a father 
 First turned the moments of awakening 
 
 life 
 To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet 
 
 hope; and then 
 Stabbed with one blow my everlasting 
 
 soul; 
 And my untainted fame; and even that 
 
 peace 
 Which sleeps within the core of the 
 
 heart's heart. 
 But the wound was not mortal; so my 
 
 hate 
 Became the only worship I could lift 
 To our great father, who in pity and love, 
 Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him 
 
 off; 
 And thus his wrong becomes my accusa- 
 tion; 
 And art thou the accuser? If thou 
 
 hopest 
 Mercy in heaven, show justice upon 
 
 earth : 
 Worse than a bloody hand is a hard 
 
 heart. 
 If thou hast done murders, made thy 
 
 life's path 
 Over the trampled laws of> God and 
 
 man. 
 Rush not before thy Judge, and say: 
 
 "My Maker, 
 
 I have done this and more ; for there was 
 one 
 
 Who was most pure £ind innocent on 
 earth; 
 
 And because she endured what never any, 
 
 Guilty or innocent, endured before ; 
 
 Because her wrongs could not be told, 
 not thought; 
 
 Because thy hand at length did rescue 
 her; 
 
 I with my words killed her and all her 
 kin." 
 
 Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay 
 
 The reverence living in the minds of 
 men 
 
 Towards our ancient house, and stainless 
 fame ! 
 
 Think what it is to strangle infant pity, 
 
 Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, 
 
 Till it become a crime to suffer. Think 
 
 What 't is to blot with infamy and blood 
 
 All that which shows like innocence, and 
 is, 
 
 Hear me, great God ! I swear, most inno- 
 cent. 
 
 So that the world lose all discrimination 
 
 Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of 
 guilt, 
 
 And that which now compels thee to re- 
 ply 
 
 To what I ask : Am I, or am I not 
 
 A parricide? 
 Mar. Thou art not ! 
 
 Judge. What is this? 
 
 Mar. I here declare those whom I did ac- 
 cuse 
 
 Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty. 
 Judge. Drag him away to torments; let 
 them be 
 
 Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the 
 folds 
 
 Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him 
 not 
 
 Till he confess. 
 Mar. Torture me as ye will : 
 
 A keener pain has wrung a higher truth 
 
 From my last breath. She is most inno- 
 cent! 
 
 Bloodhounds,, not men, glut yourselves 
 well with me; 
 
 I will not give you that fine piece of 
 nature 
 
 To rend and ruin. 
 
 (Exit Marzio, guarded.) 
 Cam. What say ye now, my Lords? 
 
 Judge. Let tortures strain the truth till it 
 be white 
 
 As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind, 
 Cam, Yet stained with blood. 
 
748 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Judge. (To Beatrice.) Know you this 
 
 paper, Lady? 
 Beatr. Entrap me not with questions. 
 
 Who stands here 
 As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, 
 Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, 
 
 judge, 
 What, all in one? Here is Orsino's 
 
 name; 
 Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet 
 
 mine. 
 What means this scrawl ? Alas ! ye know 
 
 not what, 
 And therefore on the chance that it may 
 
 be 
 Some evil, wiU ye kiU us? 
 
 {Enter an, Officer.) 
 
 Officer. Marzio's dead. 
 
 Judge. What did he say? 
 Officer. Nothing. As soon as we 
 
 Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled 
 
 on us, 
 As one who baffles a deep adversary ; 
 And holding his breath, died. 
 Judge. There remains nothing 
 
 But to apply the question to those prison- 
 ers. 
 Who yet remain stubborn. 
 Cam. I overrule 
 
 Further proceedings, and in the behalf 
 Of these most innocent and noble persons 
 Will use my interest with the Holy 
 Father. 
 Judge. Let the Pope's pleasure then be 
 done. Meanwhile, 
 Conduct these culprits each to separate 
 
 cells ; 
 And be the engines ready : for this night. 
 If the Pope's resolution be as grave. 
 Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the 
 
 truth 
 Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by 
 groan. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. The Cell of a Prison. Beatrice 
 is discovered asleep on a Couch. Enter 
 Bernardo. 
 
 Bernardo. How gently slumber rests upon 
 her face, 
 
 Like the last thoughts of some day 
 sweetly spent 
 
 Closing in night and dreams, and so pro- 
 longed. 
 
 After such torments as she bore last 
 night, 
 
 How light and soft her breathing comes. 
 Ay, me! 
 
 Methinks that I shall never sleep again. 
 
 But I must shake the heavenly dew of 
 rest 
 
 From this sweet folded flower, thus — 
 wake! awake! 
 
 What, sister, canst thou sleep? 
 Beatrice. (Awaking.) I was just dream- 
 ing 
 
 That we were all in Paradise. Thou 
 knowest 
 
 This cell seems like a kind of Paradise 
 
 After our father's presence. 
 Ber. Dear, dear sister, 
 
 Would that thy dream were not a dream ! 
 0, God! 
 
 How shall I tell? 
 Beatr. What wouldst thou tell, 
 
 sweet brother? 
 Ber, Look not so calm and happy, or even 
 whilst 
 
 I stand considering what I have to say 
 
 My heart will break. 
 Beatr. See now, thou 
 
 mak'st me weep : 
 
 How very friendless thou wouldst be, 
 dear child. 
 
 If I were dead. Say what thou hast to 
 say. 
 Ber. They have confessed; they could en- 
 dure no more 
 
 The tortures — 
 Beatr. Ha ! What was there to 
 
 confess? 
 
 They must have told some weak and 
 wicked lie 
 
 To flatter their tormentors. Have they 
 said 
 
 That they were guilty? 0, white inno- 
 cence. 
 
 That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt 
 to hide 
 
 Thine awful and serenest countenance 
 
 From those who know thee not ! 
 
 (Enter Judge, with Lucretia and Giacomo, 
 guarded.) 
 
 Ignoble hearts! 
 For some brief spasms of pain, which 
 
 are at least 
 As mortal as the limbs through which 
 
 they pass. 
 Are centuries of high splendor laid in 
 
 dust? 
 And that eternal honor which should live 
 Sun-like, above the reek of mortal fame, 
 Changed to a mockery and a by-word? 
 
 What! 
 
THE CENCI 
 
 749 
 
 Will you give up these bodies to be 
 
 dragged 
 At horses' heels, so that our hair should 
 
 sweep 
 The footsteps of the vain and senseless 
 
 crowd, 
 Who, that they may make our calamity- 
 Their worship and their spectacle,- will 
 
 leave 
 The churches and the theatres as void 
 As their own hearts? Shall the light 
 
 multitude 
 Fling, at their choice, curses or faded 
 
 pity> 
 
 Sad funeral flowers to deck a living 
 
 corpse, 
 Upon us as we pass to pass away, 
 And leave — ^what memory of our having 
 
 been? 
 Infamy, blood, terror, despair? thou. 
 Who wert a mother to the parentless. 
 Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs 
 
 kill thee! 
 Brother, lie down with me upon the rack. 
 And let us each be silent as a corpse; 
 It soon will be as soft as any grave. 
 'T is but the falsehood it can wring from 
 
 fear 
 
 Makes the rack cruel. 
 
 Giacomo. They will tear the truth 
 
 Even from thee at last, those cruel pains : 
 
 Tor pity's sake say thou art guilty now. 
 
 Lucr. O, speak the truth! Let us all 
 
 quickly die; 
 And after death, God is our judge, not 
 
 they; 
 He will have mercy on us. 
 Ber. If indeed 
 
 It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; 
 And then the Pope will surely pardon 
 
 you, 
 And all be well. 
 Judge. Confess, or I will warp 
 
 Your limbs with such keen tortures — 
 Beatr. Tortures ! Turn 
 
 The rack henceforth into a spinning- 
 wheel ! 
 Torture your dog, that he may tell when 
 
 last 
 He lapped the blood his master shed — 
 
 not me ! 
 My pangs are of the mind, and of the 
 
 heart. 
 And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul. 
 Which weeps within tears as of burning 
 
 gall 
 To see, in this ill world where none are 
 
 true, 
 My kindred false to their deserted selves. 
 
 And with considering all the wretched 
 life 
 
 Which I have lived, and its now wretched 
 end, 
 
 And the small justice shown by Heaven 
 and Earth 
 
 To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou 
 art. 
 
 And what slaves these; and what a world 
 we make. 
 
 The oppressor and the oppressed — such 
 pangs compel 
 
 My answer. What is it thou wouldst 
 with me ? 
 Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy father's 
 
 death? 
 Beatr. Or wilt thou rather tax high judg- 
 ing God 
 
 That he permitted such an act as that 
 
 Which I have suffered, and which he be- 
 held; 
 
 Made it unutterable, and took from it 
 
 All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, 
 
 But that which thou hast called my fath- 
 er's death? 
 
 Which is or is not what men call a crime. 
 
 Which either I have done, or have not 
 done; 
 
 Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. 
 
 If ye desire it thus, thus let it be. 
 
 And so an end of all. Now do your will ; 
 
 No other pains shall force another word. 
 Judge. She is convicted, but has not con- 
 fessed. 
 
 Be it enough. Until their final sentence 
 
 Let none have converse with them. You, 
 young Lord, 
 
 Linger not here ! 
 Beatr. 0, tear him not away ! 
 
 Judge. Guards ! do your duty. 
 Ber. (Embracing Beatrice.) Oh! would 
 ye divide 
 
 Body from soul? 
 Ofjicer. That is the headsman's business. 
 (Exeunt all hut Lucretia, Beatrice, and 
 
 Criacomo.) 
 Giac. Have I confessed? Is it all over 
 now? 
 
 No hope! No refuge! weak, wicked 
 tongue, 
 
 Which hast destroyed me, would that thou 
 hadst been 
 
 Cut out and thrown to dogs first! To 
 have killed 
 
 My father first, and then betrayed my 
 sister ; 
 
 Ay, thee ! the one thing innocent and' pure 
 
 In this black, guilty world, to that which 
 I 
 
750 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 So well deserve! My wife! my little 
 
 ones! 
 Destitute, helpless, and I — ^Father ! God ! 
 Canst thou forgive even the unforgiving, 
 When their full hearts break thus, thus ! 
 
 (Covers his face, and weeps.) 
 Lucr. 0, my child ! 
 
 To what a dreadful end are we all come ! 
 Why did I yield? Why did I not sus- 
 tain 
 Those torments? Oh, that I were all 
 
 dissolved 
 Into these fast and unavailing tears, 
 Which flow and feel not ! 
 Beatr. What 't was weak to do, 
 
 'T is weaker to lament, once being done; 
 Take cheer! The God who knew my 
 
 wrong, and made 
 Our speedy act the angel of his wrath, 
 Seems, and but seems to have abandoned 
 
 us. 
 Let us not think that we shall die for this. 
 Brother, sit near me; give me your firm 
 
 hand, 
 You had a manly heart. Beaf up! 
 
 Bear up ! 
 0, dearest Lady, put your gentle head 
 Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile : 
 Your eyes look pale, hollow, and over- 
 worn. 
 With heaviness of watching and slow 
 
 grief. 
 Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy 
 
 tune, 
 Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old 
 
 thing. 
 Some outworn and unused monotony, 
 Such as our country gossips sing and 
 
 spin, * 
 Till they almost forget they live: lie 
 
 down! 
 So, that will do. Have I forgot the 
 
 words? 
 Faith ! They are sadder than I thought 
 
 they were. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 False friend, wilt thou smile or weep 
 When my life is laid asleep? 
 Little cares for a smile or a tear, 
 The clay-cold corpse upon the bier! 
 
 Farewell ! Heighho ! 
 
 What is this whispers low? 
 There is a snake in thy smile, my dear ; 
 And bitter poison within thy tear. 
 
 Sweet sleep, were death like to thee. 
 Or if thou eouldst mortal be, 
 I would close these eyes of pain ; 
 
 When to wake? Never again. 
 
 World ! Farewell ! 
 
 Listen to the passing bell ! 
 It says, thou and I must part. 
 With a light and a heavy heart. 
 
 (The scene closes.) 
 
 ScENK 4. A Hall of the Prison. Enter 
 Camillo and Bernardo. 
 
 Camillo. The Pope is stem; not to be 
 moved or bent. 
 
 He looked as calm and keen as is the 
 engine 
 
 Which tortures and which kills, exempt 
 itself 
 
 From aught that it inflicts; a marble 
 form, 
 
 A rite, a law, a custom : not a man. 
 
 He frowned, as if to frown had been the 
 trick 
 
 Of his machinery, on the advocates 
 
 Presenting the defences, which he tore 
 
 And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, 
 harsh voice : 
 
 "Which among ye defended their old 
 father 
 
 Killed in his sleep?" Then to another: 
 "Thou 
 
 Dost this in virtue of thy place; 'tis 
 well." 
 
 He turned to me then, looking depreca- 
 tion, 
 
 And said these three words, coldly: 
 "They must die." 
 Bernardo. And yet you left him not? 
 Cam. I urged him still; 
 
 Pleading, as I could guess, the deviUsh 
 wrong 
 
 Which prompted your unnatural parent's 
 death. 
 
 And he replied: "Paolo Santa Croee 
 
 Murdered his mother yester-evening. 
 
 And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife, 
 
 That soon, for some just cause no doubt, 
 the young 
 
 Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. 
 
 Authority, and power, and hoary hair, 
 
 Are grown crimes capital. You are my 
 nephew. 
 
 You come to ask their pardon ; stay a mo- 
 ment; 
 
 Here is their sentence ; never see me more 
 
 Till, to the letter, it be all fulfllled." 
 Ber. 0, God, not so! I did believe indeed 
 
 That all you said was but sad prepara- 
 tion 
 
 For happy news. 0, there are words 
 and looks ' 
 
THE CENCl 
 
 751 
 
 To bend the sternest purpose! Once I 
 
 knew them, 
 Now I forget them at my dearest need. 
 What think you if I seek him out and 
 
 bathe 
 His feet and robe with hot and bitter 
 
 tears? 
 Importune him with prayers, vexing his 
 
 brain 
 With my perpetual cries, until in rage 
 He strike me with his pastoral cross, and 
 
 trample 
 Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood 
 May stain the senseless dust on which he 
 
 treads, 
 And remorse waken mercy 1 I will do it ! 
 0, wait till I return 1 
 
 {Rushes out.) 
 Cam. Alas! poor boy! 
 
 A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray 
 To the deaf sea. 
 
 (Enter Lueretia, Beatrice, and Giaeomo, 
 guarded.) 
 
 Beatrice. I hardly dare to fear 
 
 That thou bring'st other news than a just 
 
 pardon. 
 Cam. May God in heaven be less inex- 
 orable 
 To the Pope's prayers, than he has been 
 
 to mine. 
 Here is the sentence and the warrant. 
 Beatr. (Wildly.) Oh, 
 
 My God ! Can it be possible I have 
 To die so suddenly? So young to go 
 Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy 
 
 ground ! 
 To be nailed down into a narrow place; 
 To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no 
 
 more 
 Blithe voice of living thing; muse not 
 
 again 
 Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus 
 
 lost — 
 How fearful! To be nothing! Or to 
 
 be — 
 What? 0, where am I? Let me not go 
 
 mad! 
 Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! 
 
 If there should be 
 No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void 
 
 w6rld ; 
 The wide, grey, lampless, deep, unpeopled 
 
 world ! 
 If all things then should be — ^my father's 
 
 spirit, 
 His eye, his voice, his touch, surrounding 
 
 me; 
 
 The atmosphere and breath of my dead 
 
 life! 
 If sometimes, as a shape more like him- 
 self. 
 Even the form which tortured me on 
 
 earth, 
 Masked in grey hairs and wrinkles, he 
 
 should come 
 And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix 
 His eyes on mine, and drag me down, 
 
 down, down ! 
 For was he not alone omnipotent 
 On Earth, and ever present? Even tho' 
 
 dead. 
 Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, 
 And work for me and mine still the same 
 
 ruin. 
 Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet re- 
 turned 
 To teach the laws of death's untrodden 
 
 realm? 
 Unjust perhaps as those which drive us 
 
 now, 
 0, whither, whither? 
 Lueretia. Tnist in God's sweet love. 
 
 The tender promises of Christ : ere night, 
 Think we shall be in Paradise. 
 Beatr. 'T is past! 
 
 Whatever comes, my heart shall sink no 
 
 more. 
 And yet, I know not why, your words 
 
 strike chill: 
 How tedious, false, and cold seem all 
 
 things. I 
 Have met with much injustice in this 
 
 world ; 
 No difference has been made by God or 
 
 man. 
 Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 
 'Twixt good or evil, As regarded me. 
 I am cut off from the only world I know, 
 From light, and life, and love, in youth's 
 
 sweet prime. 
 You do well telling me to trust in God, 
 I hope I do trust in him. In whom else 
 Can any trust? And yet my heart is 
 
 cold. 
 (During the latter speeches Giaeomo has re- 
 tired conversing with Camillo, who now 
 goes out. Giaeomo advances.) 
 Giaeomo. Know you not, mother — sister, 
 
 know you not? 
 Bernardo even now is gone to implore 
 The Pope to grant our pardon. 
 Imer. Child, perhaps 
 
 It will be granted. We may all then 
 
 live 
 To make these woes a tale for distant 
 
 years: 
 
752 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 0, what a thought! It gushes to my 
 
 heart 
 Like the warm blood. 
 Beatr. Yet both will soon be cold. 
 
 0, trample out that thought! Worse 
 
 than despair', 
 Worse than the bitterness of death, is 
 
 hope: 
 It is the only ill which can find place 
 Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow hour 
 Tottering beneath us. Plead with the 
 
 swift frost 
 That it should spare the eldest flower of 
 
 spring -: 
 Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er 
 
 whose couch 
 Even now a city stands, strong, fair and 
 
 free ; 
 Now stench and blackness yawn, like 
 
 death. plead 
 With famine, or wind-walking pestilence, 
 Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with 
 
 man! 
 Cruel, cold, formal man! righteous in 
 
 words. 
 In deeds a Cain. No, mother, we must 
 
 die: 
 Since such is the reward of innocent 
 
 lives ; 
 Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. 
 And whilst our murderers live, and hard, 
 
 cold men. 
 Smiling and slow, walk thro' a world of 
 
 tears 
 To death as to life's sleep ; 't were just the 
 
 grave 
 Were some strange joy for us. Come, 
 
 obscure Death, 
 And wind me in thine all-embracing 
 
 arms ! 
 Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom. 
 And rock me to the sleep from which 
 
 none wake. 
 Live ye, who live, subject to one another 
 As we were once, who now — 
 
 {Bernardo rushes in.) 
 
 Ber. Oh, horrible ! 
 
 That tears, that looks, that hope poured 
 forth in prayer, 
 
 Even till the heart is vacant and de- 
 spairs, 
 
 Should all be vain! The ministers of 
 death 
 
 Are waiting round the doors. I thought 
 I saw 
 
 Blood on the face of one — what if 't were 
 fancy? 
 
 Soon the heart's blood of all I lovfe on 
 
 earth 
 Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off 
 As if 'twere only rain. 0, life! 0, 
 
 world ! 
 Cover me ! let me be no more ! To see 
 That perfect mirror of pure innocence 
 Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and 
 
 good. 
 Shivered to dust ! To see thee, Beatrice, 
 Who made all lovely thou didst look 
 
 upon — 
 Thee, light of life— dead, dark! while I 
 
 say, sister. 
 To hear I have no sister; and thou. 
 
 Mother, 
 Whose love was [as] a bond to all our 
 
 loves — 
 Dead! The sweet bond broken! 
 
 {Enter Camillo and Guards.) 
 
 They come. Let me 
 
 Kiss those warm lips before their crimson 
 leaves 
 
 Are blighted — white — cold. Say fare- 
 well, before 
 
 Death chokes that gentle voice! 0, let 
 me hear 
 
 You speak! 
 Beatr. Farewell, my tender brother. 
 
 Think 
 
 Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now : 
 
 And let mild pitying thoughts lighten for 
 thee 
 
 Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh de- 
 spair. 
 
 But tears and patience. One thing more, 
 my child. 
 
 For thine own sake be constant to the 
 love 
 
 Thou bearest us ; and to the faith that I, 
 
 Though wrapt in a strange cloud of crime 
 and shame. 
 
 Lived ever holy and unstained. And 
 though 
 
 111 tongues shall wound me, and our com- 
 mon name 
 
 Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent 
 brow 
 
 For men to point at as they pass, do 
 thou 
 
 Forbear, and never think a thought un- 
 kind 
 
 Of those, who perhaps love thee in their 
 graves. 
 
 So mayest thou die as I do; fear and 
 pain 
 
 Being subdued. Farewell! farewell! 
 farewell ! 
 
THE CENCI 753 
 
 Ber. I cannot say, farewell! 
 
 And yours I see is coming down. How 
 
 Cam. 0, Lady Beatrice ! 
 
 often 
 
 Beatr. Give yourself no unnecessary pain, 
 
 Have we done this for one another ! now 
 
 My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, 
 
 We shall not do it any more. My Lord, 
 
 tie 
 
 We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very 
 
 My girdle for me, and bind up this hair 
 
 well. 
 
 In any simple knot; ay, that does well. 
 
 
EDWARD BULWER-LTTTON 
 
 THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 Edward Bulwer-Lytton, first Baron Lytton 
 (1803-1873), of aristocratic birth, passed a 
 youth of romantic emotion, precocious liter- 
 ary work, wide desultory study, and fashion- 
 able gaiety. Interested in political reform, he 
 was in the House of Commons from 1831 most 
 of the time till 1806, when he became a peer; 
 and also held cabinet offices. His activity 
 and versatility were great. His best-known 
 literary works are his novels; his plays, 
 notably The Lady of Lyons and Richelieu, 
 have been among the most often acted of 
 the century. 
 
 Bulwer-Lytton was rather a popular than 
 a great writer, a man of much talent but 
 not of genius. He seems to have taken to 
 Avriting as a result of his ambition and de- 
 sire for popularity and prominence, and of a 
 mind which was restless and active rather 
 than fine, penetrating, or imaginative. His 
 earlier novels followed the prevalent ro- 
 mantic taste, being especially under the in- 
 fluence of Byron. Later, like Dickens, he 
 combined realism with the spirit of reform; 
 he also wrote some of the most popular of 
 historical novels. In his style there is a 
 grandiloquence, a flowery wordiness, that 
 often seems insincere, and was made fun of 
 by Thackeray among his Burlesques. From 
 the first, the critics have had no very high 
 praise for his novels, but their popular suc- 
 cess was universal; which was due in large 
 measure to active elaborate plots, and a pro- 
 fusion of " strong " dramatic situations. 
 And much the same must be said of his plays. 
 They follow instead of leading contemporary 
 taste; their style is sometimes meretricious. 
 Yet their popularity was and has continued 
 to be great. It shows how relatively low has 
 been the literary quality of nineteenth-cen- 
 tury acting drama that they are ianfong the 
 most favorable specimens of dramatic taste 
 in the earlier Victorian period. Bulwer-Lyt- 
 ton was the only man, except perhaps Gold- 
 smith, from Dryden to the present day, who 
 was prominent in other literary work and 
 greatly succeeded in the drama. 
 
 The Lady of Lyons was written in 1838, 
 in little over two weeks. The author states 
 in his Preface that the plot was suggested by 
 a vague memory of a " very pretty little tale,, 
 called 'The Bellows-Mender'"; also that the 
 play was written to help Macready in his 
 newly assumed management of the Covent 
 Garden theater, and to retrieve " the com- 
 parative failure on the stage of The Duchess 
 
 de la Valliire," a play of his own which had 
 appeared in 1836. When produced, The Lady 
 of Lyons made an immediate success, and has 
 held the stage intermittently till almost the 
 present day. It was put on in elaborate and 
 expensive style by so eminent an actor as 
 Henry Irving in 1879, when it was already 
 old and hackneyed, and played by him forty- 
 five times, at a period when he was acting in 
 such plays as Faust and The Bells. Irving 
 used also to read it aloud publicly. For half 
 a century, therefore, it was a representative 
 play and pleased the best tastes. 
 
 A play like The Lady of Lyons, with its 
 abundant action, its superficiality, its sen- 
 sationalism, its emotionality, is properly to 
 be classed as a melodrama ; but it shows curi- 
 ously a heritage from both sentimentalism 
 and romanticism. It ends with a couple of 
 maxims of the sort affected by the former, 
 and such are to be found elsewhere in the 
 play. Mme. Deschappellcs is of a type of 
 crudely worldly, designing woman often op- 
 posed to the celestial innocence of the eight- 
 eenth century heroine. The resemblance to 
 sentimental drama is perhaps most impor- 
 tant in the attempt to combine realism and 
 humor with an all-pervading but shallow 
 emotionality, and with an elaborate and not 
 over-probable plot. A romantic element was 
 inevitable in any play by Bulwer and writ- 
 ten in the 30's. The lovers belong rather to 
 romance than to sentimentalism. The eight- 
 eenth century liked to see a young man 
 raise slighted and unfortunate merit to the 
 honor of associating with county-families; 
 what could give better opportunity for the 
 mood of moral approbation in which senti- 
 mental drama baslied? Sentimentalism was 
 after all conventionality and worldliness on 
 its good behavior; while romance hardly ac- 
 cepted the bonds even of possibility. 
 Romance liked to hitch its wagon to a star, 
 and eagerly granted a suspension of its dis- 
 belief to the gardener's son who learned paint- 
 ing, fencing, and deportment that he might 
 woo the haughtiest beauty of Lyons. Tlie 
 romance was felt as the more delightful be- 
 cause the scene was in a neighboring country 
 and the time within the memory of middle- 
 aged people; those with an appetite for the 
 strange and alluring were gratified at finding 
 it so near their own lives. The setting had 
 another advantage. A concession to com- 
 mon-sense was made by placing the action, as 
 the author remarks in his Preface, at a time 
 
 754 
 
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON 
 
 755 
 
 when the strata of society had just been 
 shaken up by the Revolutionary earthquake, 
 and an excess of mawkishness was avoided 
 by treating Mme. Deschappelies (and lier 
 daughter at first) with satiric humor. Tlie 
 dramatist forgot his romance also in act IV, 
 where, after being grossly tricked by him, 
 Pauline betrays and finally confesses her con- 
 tinued desire for Claude. Such a strain on 
 our credulity can be justified only by a phys- 
 ical passion such as crude realism may por- 
 tray, a dash of cynicism, and the dramatist's 
 desire to prepare for the happy outcome. 
 Romance flourishes chiefly in the figure of 
 Claude in act V, during most of which he 
 is judiciously kept rather in the background, 
 lest the beautifying glamour of fresh romance 
 which now covers him should be dissipated. 
 " This mysterious Morier," especially favored 
 by Napoleon — " his constant melancholy, the 
 loneliness of his habits — his daring valor, 
 his brilliant rise in the profession, all tend to 
 make him as much the matter of gossip as of 
 admiration." This is a perfect description 
 of the " Byronic hero," gloomy and piquing, 
 who began his admired course in such poems 
 as The Giaour and Manfred, and enthralled 
 the world, not young ladies only, for a gener- 
 ation. Bulwer himself in his youth had been 
 nicknamed " Childe Harold " by an English- 
 woman in Paris. Claude Melnotte is a com- 
 bination of romance and sheer improbability. 
 In his Preface the author pleads the general 
 ferment of the time as the excuse for Mel- 
 notte's " unsettled principles ( the struggle 
 between which makes the passion of this 
 drama) "; but the most romantic spectator 
 could hardly find here an excuse for his un- 
 manly treachery. His ideal figure at the 
 close was needed to restore him to the good 
 graces of the audience. It must be remem- 
 bered that in fiction of this type the barest 
 minimum of psychological truth was all that 
 was felt to be needed in the persons who acted 
 out an interesting plot. Other traits char- 
 acteristic of the age appear in the literary 
 style, the composite style of the romanticists 
 — not the language of life, but somewhat 
 artificial, and ornate and stilted, yet unlike 
 the artificiality of the eighteenth century. 
 With Shakespeare's example as a precedent, 
 
 Bulwer puts the more high-emotional pas- 
 sages of this prose play into blank-verse. 
 
 In this play as in the romantic novel, such 
 as Scott's, some solid mundane element was 
 needed to hold the romance down from float- 
 ing away into the palaces of the sunset clouds. 
 Two of the characters especially fulfil this 
 ofBce, the two " character parts." Damas is 
 the typical blunt soldier, affecting cynicism 
 about women, but generous, good-hearted, and 
 ready " to blubber " at an affecting scene. 
 The other is Mme. Deschappelies, transpar- 
 ently silly and vain. This combination of 
 the improbable-pleasing with the exagger- 
 ated-real may be regarded as inherited from 
 sentimentalism, and makes a strong link be- 
 tween Bulwer-Lytton and Dickens. In life 
 they were good friends, and both were equally 
 interested in the novel and the drama, which 
 have long been the most intimately connected 
 of literary forms. 
 
 The success of the play was due first and 
 foremost, no doubt, to its well-constructed 
 plot, full of suspense, surprise, and variety. 
 To it the author tells us he gave his chief 
 attention. As in The Alchemist, Venice Pre- 
 served and The Cenci, the last act stands 
 apart from the rest of the play; the main 
 action being concluded, it seems as if all were 
 over, yet a new interest is created as keen 
 as the old, an admirable device. Bulwer 
 himself attributed his success to the art " of 
 creating agreeable emotions " ; this amounts 
 to saying that it was adapted to con- 
 temporary taste, which the author shared, but 
 which, being somewhat crudely ambitious, he 
 also studied. To us the play seems a some- 
 what unhappy combination of the romantic, 
 the sentimental, the satiric, and the realistic. 
 It seems to us lacking whether we compare it 
 with the stalwart imagination of the Eliza- 
 bethans, or the austere reality of Ibsen and 
 his followers. It seems to us more old-fash- 
 ioned, because it was more temporary, than 
 the plays of Sheridan or Jonson. It is only 
 the highest excellence that is timeless. But 
 the qualities which won admiration for The 
 Lady of Lyons in its day gain it tolerance 
 now, and its suggestiveness as to early Vic- 
 torian taste gives it considerable historical in- 
 terest. 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Bei\.useant, o rich gentleman of Lyons, in 
 love with, amd refused ty, Pauline Des- 
 chappelles. 
 
 Glavis, his friend^ also a rejected suitor to 
 Pauline. 
 
 Colonel (afterwards General) Damas, 
 cousin to Mme. Deschappelles, and an of- 
 ficer in the French Army. 
 
 MoNSiEDB Deschappelles, a Lyonnese mer- 
 chant, father to Pauline. 
 
 Landlobd of the Golden Lion. 
 
 Gaspae. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. A room in the house of M. 
 Deschappelles, at Lyons. Pauline re- 
 clining on a sofa; Marian, her maid fan- 
 ning her. — Flowers and notes on a table 
 beside the sofa. — Madame Deschappelles 
 seated. — The gardens are seen from the 
 open window. 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Marian, put that rose a 
 little more to the left. — (Marian alters 
 the position of a rose in Pauline's hair.) 
 — Ah, so! — that improves the air, — the 
 tournure, the je ne sais quoi! ^ — You are 
 certainly very handsome, child! — quite 
 my style; — ^I don't wonder that you 
 make such a sensation! — Old, young, 
 rich, and poor, do homage to the Beauty 
 of Lyons! — ^Ah, we live again in our 
 children, — especially when they have our 
 eyes and complexion! 
 
 Pauline. (Languidly.) Dear mother, you 
 spoil your Pauline! — (Aside.) I wish I 
 knew who sent me these flowers ! 
 
 Mme. Deschap. No, child! — ^If I praise 
 you, it is only to inspire you with a 
 proper ambition. — ^You are bom to make 
 a great marriage. — ^Beauty is valuable 
 or worthless according as you invest the 
 property to the best advantage. — Mar- 
 ian, go and order the carriage! 
 (Exit Marian.) 
 
 Pauline. Who can it be that sends me, 
 every day, these beautiful flowers? — how 
 sweet they are! 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Claude Melnotte. 
 
 FiBST Officeb, Second Officee, Thied Of- 
 fices. 
 
 Servants, Notary, &c. 
 Madame Deschappelles. 
 Pauline, her daughter. 
 The Widow Melnotte, mother to Claude. 
 Janet, the innkeeper's daughter. 
 Maeian, maid to Pauline. 
 
 Scene — Lyons and the neighborhood. 
 Time— 1795-1798. 
 
 Servant, Monsieur Beauseant, madam. 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Let him enter. PauUne, 
 this is another offer! — I know it is! — 
 Your father should engage an additional 
 clerk to keep the account-book of your 
 conquests. 
 
 (Enter Beauseant.) 
 
 Beau. Ah, ladies, how fortunate I am to 
 find you at home! — (Aside.) How 
 lovely she looks! — It is a great sacrifice 
 I make in marrying into a family in 
 trade! — ^they will be eternally grateful! 
 — (Aloud.) Madame, you will permit 
 me a word with your charming daughter. 
 — (Approaches Pauline, who rises dis- 
 dainfully.) — ^Mademoiselle, I have ven- 
 tured to wait upon you, in a hope that 
 you must long since have divined. Last 
 night, when you outshone all the beauty 
 of Lyons, you completed your conquest 
 over me! You know that my fortune is 
 not exceeded by any estate in the prov- 
 ince, — you know that, but for the Revo- 
 lution, which has defrauded me of my 
 titles, I should be noble. May I, then, 
 trust that you will not reject my al- 
 liance? I offer you my hand and heart. 
 
 Pauline. (Aside.) He has the air of a 
 man who confers a favor! — (Aloud.) 
 Sir, you are very condescending — I 
 thank you humbly; but, being duly sensi- 
 ble of my own demerite, you must allow 
 me to decline the honor you propose. 
 (Curtsies, and turns away.) 
 
 Beau. Decline! impossible! — ^you are not 
 serious! — Madame, suffer me to appeal 
 
 1 The general effect, the inexpressible eometbing. 
 736 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OE, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 757 
 
 to you. I am a suitor for your daugh- 
 ter's hand — the settlements shall be 
 ■worthy her beauty and my station. 
 May I wait on M. Deschappelles? 
 
 Mme. Deschap. M. Desehappelles never 
 interferes in the domestic arrangements, 
 — you are very obliging. If you were 
 still a marquis, or if my daughter were 
 intended to marry a commoner, — why, 
 perhaps, we might give you the pref- 
 erence. 
 
 Beau. A commoner! — we are all common- 
 ers in France now. 
 
 Mme. Besehap. In France, yes; but there 
 is a nobility still left in the other coun- 
 tries in Europe. We are quite aware of 
 your good qualities, and don't doubt that 
 you will find some lady more suitable to 
 your pretensions. We shall be always 
 happy to see you as an acquaintance, 
 M. Beauseant! — My dear child, the car- 
 riage will be here presently. 
 
 Beau. Say no more, madame! — say no 
 more! — {Aside). Refused! and by a 
 merchant's daughter! — refused! It will 
 be all over Lyons before sunset! — ^I will 
 go and bury myself in my chateau, study 
 philosophy, and turn woman-hater. Re- 
 fused! they ought to be sent to a mad- 
 house ! — Ladies, I have the honor to wish 
 you a very good morning. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Mme. Besehap. How forward these men 
 are! — I think, child, we kept up our 
 dignity. Any girl, however inexperi- 
 enced, knows how to accept an offer, but 
 it requires a vast deal of address to re- 
 fuse one with proper condescension and 
 disdain. I used to practise it at school 
 with the dancing-master. 
 
 (Enter Bamas.) 
 
 Damas. Good morning, cousin Desehap- 
 pelles. — Well, Pauline, are you recovered 
 from last night's ball? — So many tri- 
 umphs must be very fatiguing. Even 
 M. Glavis sighed most piteously when 
 you departed; but that might be the 
 effect of the supper. 
 ■ Pauline. M. Glavis, indeed ! 
 
 Mme. Besehap. M. Glavis? — as if my 
 daughter would think of M. Glavis! 
 
 Bamas. Hey-day! — why not? — His father 
 left him a very pretty fortune, and his 
 birth is higher than yours, cousin Des- 
 ehappelles. But perhaps you are look- 
 ing to M. Beauseant, — his father was a 
 marquis before the Revolution. 
 
 Pauline. M. Beauseant! — Cousin, you de- 
 light in tormenting me ! 
 
 Mme. Besehap. Don't mind him, Pauline ! 
 — Cousin Damas, you have no suscepti- 
 bility of feeling, — ^there is a certain in- 
 delicacy in all your ideas. — M. Beauseant 
 knows already that he is no match for 
 my daughter! 
 
 Bamas. Pooh ! pooh ! one would think you 
 intended your daughter to marry a 
 prince ! 
 
 Mme. Besehap. Well, and if I did? — 
 what then? — Many a foreign prince — 
 
 Bamas. {Interrupting her.) Foreign 
 prince! — foreign fiddlestick! — ^you ought 
 to be ashamed of such nonsense at your 
 time of life. 
 
 Mme. Besehap. My time of life! — That 
 is an expression never applied to any 
 lady till she is sixty-nine and three- 
 quarters; — and only then by the clergy- 
 man of the parish. 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. Madame, the carriage is at the 
 door. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Mme. Besehap. Come, child, put on your 
 bonnet — you really have a very thor- 
 ough-bred air — not at all like your poor 
 father. — {Fondly.) Ah, you little co- 
 quette! when a young lady is always 
 making mischief, it is a sure sign that 
 she takes after her mother! 
 
 Pauline. Good day, cousin Damas — and a 
 better humor to you. — {Going back to 
 the table and talcing the flowers.) Who 
 could have sent me these flowers? 
 
 {Exeunt Pauline and Madame Besohap- 
 pelles.) 
 
 Bamas. That would be an excellent girl 
 if her head had not been turned. I fear 
 she is now become incorrigible ! Zounds, 
 what a lucky fellow I am to be still a 
 bachelor! They may talk of the devo- 
 tion of the sex — but the most faithful at- 
 tachment in life is that of a woman in 
 love — with herself. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. The exterior of a small Village 
 Inn — sign, the Golden Lion — a . few 
 leagues from Lyons, which is seen at a 
 distance. 
 
 Beau. {Behind the scenes.) Yes, you 
 may bait the horses; we shall rest here 
 an hour. 
 
758 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 {Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 
 
 Gla. Keally, my dear Beauseant, consider 
 that I have promised to spend a day or 
 two with you at your chateau, — that I 
 am quite at your mercy for my enter- 
 tainment, — and yet you are as silent 
 and as gloomy as a mute at a funeral, or 
 an Englishman at a party of pleasure. 
 
 Beau. Bear with me; — the fact is that I 
 am miserable. 
 
 Gla. You — ^the richest and gayest bachelor 
 in Lyons? 
 
 Beau. It is because I am a bachelor that 
 I am miserable. — Thou knowest Pauline 
 — the only daughter of the rich mer- 
 chant, Mons. Deschappelles? 
 
 Gla. Know her? — who does not? — as 
 pretty as Venus, and as proud as Juno. 
 
 Beau. Her taste is worse than her pride. 
 — {Drawing himself up.) Know, Gla- 
 vis, she has actually refused me! 
 
 Gla. {Aside.) So she has me! — ^very 
 consoling! In all cases of heart-ache, 
 the application of another man's disap- 
 pointment draws out the pain and allays 
 the irritation. — {Aloud.) Refused you! 
 and wherefore? 
 
 Beau. I know not, unless it be because 
 the Revolution swept away my father's 
 title of Marquis, — and she will not marry 
 a commoner. Now, as we have no noble- 
 men left in France, — as we are all citi- 
 zens and equals, she can only hope that, 
 in spite of the war, some English Milord 
 or German Count will risk his life, by 
 coming to Lyons and making her my 
 Lady. Refused me, and with scorn ! — ^By 
 Heaven, I '11 not submit to it tamely : — 
 I 'm in a perfect fever of mortification 
 and rage.— Refuse me, indeed! 
 
 Gla. Be comforted, my dear fellow, — I 
 will tell you a secret. For the same rea- 
 son she refused me! 
 
 Beau. You! — ^that's a very different mat- 
 ter! But give me your hand, Glavis, — 
 we'll think of some plan to humble her. 
 By Jove, I should like to see her married 
 to a strolling player ! 
 
 {Enter Landlord and his Daughter from 
 the Inn.) 
 
 Land. Your servant, citizen Beauseant, — 
 servant, sir. Perhaps you will take din-^ 
 nSr before you proceed to your chateau;' 
 our larder is most plentifully supplied. 
 
 Beau. I have no appetite. 
 
 Gla. Nor I. Still it is bad travelling on 
 an empty stomach. What have you got ? 
 
 {Takes and looks over the bill of fare.) 
 
 {Shout without.) "Long live the Prince! 
 — Long live the Prince!" 
 
 Beau. The Prince! — ^what Prince is that? 
 I thought we had no princes left in 
 France. 
 
 Land. Ha, ha! the lads always call him 
 Prince. He has just won the prize at 
 the shooting-match, and they are taking 
 him home in triumph. 
 
 Beau. Him! and who's Mr. Him? 
 
 Land. Who should he be but the pride of 
 the village, Claude Melnotte? — Of course 
 you have heard of Claude Melnotte? 
 
 Gla. {Giving back the bill of fare.) 
 Never . had that honor. Soup — ragout 
 of hare — ^roast chicken, and, in short, all 
 , you have ! 
 
 Beau. The son of old Melnotte, the gar- 
 dener? 
 
 Land. Exactly so — a wonderful young 
 man. 
 
 Beau. How, wonderful? — Axe his cab- 
 bages better than other people's? 
 
 Land. Nay, he don't garden any more; 
 his father left him well off. He's only 
 a genus. 
 
 Gla. A what? 
 
 Land. A genus! — a man who can do 
 everything in life except anything that 's 
 useful ; — ^that 's a genus. 
 
 Beau. You raise my curiosity; — proceed. 
 
 Land. Well, then, about four years ago, 
 old Melnotte died, and left his son well 
 to do in the world. We then all ob- 
 served that a great change came over 
 young Claude: he took to reading and 
 Latin, and hired a professor from 
 Lyons, who had so much in his head that 
 he was forced to wear a great full- 
 bottom wig to cover it. Then he took a 
 fencing-master, and a dancing-master, 
 and a music-master; and then he learned 
 to paint; and at last it was said that 
 young Claude was to go to Paris, and 
 set up for a painter. The lads laughed 
 at him at first; but he is a stout fellow, 
 is Claude, and as brave as a lion, and 
 soon taught them to laugh the wrong side 
 of their mouths; and now all the boys 
 swear by him, and all the girls pray 
 for him. 
 
 Beau. A promising youth, certainly! 
 And why do they call him Prince? 
 
 Land. Partly because he is at the head 
 of them all, and partly because he has 
 such a proud way with him, and wears 
 such fine clothes — and, in short, looks 
 like a prince. 
 
 Beau, And what could have turned the 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 759 
 
 foolish fellow's brain? The Revolution, 
 I suppose? 
 
 Land. Yes — the revolution that turns us 
 all topsy-turvy— the revolution of Love. 
 
 Beau. Romantic young Corydon! And 
 with whom he is in love? 
 
 Land. Why — but it is a secret, gentle- 
 men. 
 
 Beau. Oh ! certainly. 
 
 Land. Why, then, I hear from .his mother, 
 good soul! that it is no less a person 
 than the Beauty of Lyons, Pauline Des- 
 chappelles. 
 
 Beau, and Glavis. Ha, ha! — Capital! 
 
 Land. You may laugh, but it is as true as 
 I stand here. 
 
 Beau. And what does the Beauty of 
 Lyons say to his suit? 
 
 Land. Lord, sir, she never even conde- 
 scended to look at him, though when he 
 was a boy he worked in her father's 
 garden. 
 
 Beau. Are you sure of that? 
 
 Land. His mother says that Mademoi- 
 selle does not know iiim by sight. 
 
 Beau. (Taking Glavis aside.) I have hit 
 it, — I have it; — here is our revenge! 
 Here is a prince for our haughty dam- 
 sel! Do you take me? 
 
 Gla. Deuce take me if I do ! 
 
 Beau. Blockhead ! — it 's as clear as a map. 
 What if we could make this elegant 
 clown pass himself off as a foreign 
 prince? — ^lend him money, clothes, 
 equipage for the purpose? — make him 
 propose to Pauline? — marry Pauline? 
 Would it not be delicious? 
 
 Gla. Ha, ha! — excellent! But how shall 
 we support the necessary expenses of his 
 highness? 
 
 Beau. Pshaw! Revenge is worth a much 
 larger sacrifice than a few hundred louis ; 
 — as for details, my valet is the trustiest 
 fellow in the world, and shall have the 
 appointment of his highness's establish- 
 ment. Let 's go to him at once, and see 
 if he be really this Admirable Crichton.^ 
 
 Gla. With all my heart; — but the dinner? 
 
 Beau. Always thinking of dinner! Hark 
 ye, landlord ; how far is it to young Mel- 
 notte's cottage? I should like to see 
 such a prodigy. 
 
 Land. Turn down the lane, — ^then strike 
 across the common, — and you will see 
 his mother's cottage. 
 
 Beau. True, he lives with his mother. — 
 (Aside.) We will not trust to an old 
 woman's discretion; better send for him 
 
 hither. I '11 just step in and write him 
 a note. Come, Glavis. 
 
 Gla. Yes, — Beauseant, Glavis, and Co., 
 manufacturers of princes, wholesale and 
 retail, — an uncommonly genteel line of 
 business. But why so grave? 
 
 Beau. You think only of the sport, — I of 
 the revenge. 
 
 (Exeunt within the Inn.) 
 
 Scene 3. The interior of Melnotte's 
 cottage; flowers placed here and there; 
 a guitar on an oaken table, with a port- 
 folio, d;c.; a picture on an easel, covered 
 bif a curtain; fencing-foils crossed over 
 the mantelpiece; an attempt at refine- 
 ment in spite of the homeliness of the 
 furniture, d:c.; a staircase to the right 
 conducts to the upper story. 
 
 (Shout without.) "Long live Claude 
 
 Melnotte !" "Long Jive the Prince !" 
 The Widow Mel. Hark ! — ^there 's my dear 
 
 son ; — carried off the prize, I 'm sure ; 
 
 and now he '11 want to treat them all. 
 Claude Mel. (Opening the door.) What! 
 
 you won't come in, my friends ! Well, 
 
 well, — there 's a trifle to make merry 
 
 elsewhere. Good day to you all, — good 
 
 day! 
 
 (Shout.) "Hurrah! Long live -Prince 
 
 Claude!" 
 
 (Enter Claude Melnotte, with a rifle in his 
 hand.) 
 
 Mel. Give me joy, dear mother! — I've 
 won the prize! — ^never missed one shot! 
 Is it not handsome, this gun? 
 
 Widow. Humph ! — Well, what is it worth, 
 Claude? 
 
 Mel. Worth! What is a riband worth to 
 a soldier? Worth! everything! Glory 
 is priceless! 
 
 Widow. Leave glory to great folks. Ah! 
 Claude, Claude, castles in the air cost a 
 vast deal to keep up! How is all this 
 to end? What good does it do thee to 
 learn Latin, and sing songs, and play on 
 the guitar, and fence, and dance, and 
 paint pictures? All very fine; but what 
 does it bring in ? 
 
 Mel. Wealth! wealth, my mother! 
 Wealth to the mind — wealth to the heart 
 — high thoughts — bright dreams — the 
 hope of fame — ^the ambition to be 
 worthier to love Pauline. 
 
 Widow. My poor son! — The young lady 
 will never think of thee. 
 
 2 James OricMon, 1560-1583 (?)> wss a Scotch adventurer noted (or his versatility, 
 
760 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Mel. Do the stars think of us? Yet if 
 the prisoner see them shine into his 
 dungeon, wo'uldst thou bid him turn 
 away from their lustre? Even so from 
 this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to 
 Pauline and forget my chains. — (Goes to 
 the picture and draws aside the curtain.) 
 See, this is her image — ^painted from 
 memory. Oh, how the canvas wrongs 
 her! — {Takes up the brush and throws 
 it aside.) I shall never be a painter! 
 I can paint no likeness but one, and that 
 is above all art. I would turn soldier — 
 France needs soldiers ! But to leave the 
 air that Pauline breathes! What is the 
 hour? — so late? I will tell thee a se- 
 cret, mother. Thou knowest that for 
 the last six weeks I have sent every day 
 the rarest flowers to Pauline? — she wears 
 them. I have seen them on her breast. 
 Ah, and then the whole universe seemed 
 filled with odors! . I have now grown 
 more bold — I have poured my worship 
 into poetry — I have sent the verses to 
 Pauline — I have signed them with my 
 own name. My messenger ought to be 
 back by this time. I bade him wait for 
 the answer. 
 
 Widow. And what answer do you expect, 
 Claude? 
 
 Mel. That which the Queen of Navarre 
 sent to the poor troubadour: — "Let me 
 see the Oracle that can tell nations I am 
 beautiful!" She will admit me. I shall 
 hear her speak — I shall meet her eyes — 
 I shall read upon her cheek the sweet 
 thoughts that translate themselves into 
 blushes. Then — ^then, oh, then — she 
 may forget that I am the peasant's son! 
 
 Widow. Nay, if she will but hear thee 
 talk, Claude? 
 
 Mel. I foresee it all. She will tell me that 
 desert is the true rank. She will give 
 me a badge — a flower — a glove! Oh 
 rapture! I shall join the armies of the 
 republic — I shall rise — I shall win a 
 name that beauty will not blush to hear. 
 I shall return with the right to say to 
 her — "See, how love does not level the 
 proud, but raise the humble !" Oh, how 
 my heart swells within me! — Oh, what 
 glorious prophets of the future are youth 
 and hope! 
 
 (Knock at the door.) 
 
 Widow. Come in. 
 
 (Enter Qaspar.) 
 
 Mel. Welcome, Gaspar, welcome. Where 
 is the letter? Why do you turn away. 
 
 man ? where is the letter? ( Gaspar gives 
 him one.) This! This is mine, the one 
 I intrusted to thee. Didst thou not 
 leave it? 
 
 Gaspar. Yes, I left it. 
 
 Mel. My own verses returned to me. 
 Nothing else? 
 
 Gaspar. Thou wilt be proud to hear how 
 thy messenger was honored. For thy 
 sake, Me^notte, I have borne that which 
 no Frenchman can bear without dis- 
 grace. 
 
 Mel. Disgrace, Gaspar! Disgrace? 
 
 Gaspar. I gave thy letter to the porter, 
 who passed it from lackey to lackey till 
 it reached the lady it was meant for. 
 
 Mel. It reached her, then; — ^you are sure 
 of that? It reached her, — ^well, well! 
 
 Gaspar. It reached her, and was returned 
 to me with blows. Dost hear, Melnotte? 
 with blows! Death! are we slaves still, 
 that we are to be thus dealt with, we 
 peasants ? 
 
 Mel. With blows? No, Gaspar, no; not 
 blows ! 
 
 Gaspar. I could show thee the marks if 
 it were not so deep a shame to bear them. 
 The lackey who tossed thy letter into the 
 mire swore that his lady and her mother 
 never were so insulted. What could thy 
 
 , letter contain, Claude? 
 
 Mel. (Looking over the letter.) Not a 
 line that a serf might not have written to 
 an empress. No, not one. 
 
 Gaspar. They promise thee the same greet- 
 ing they gave me, if thou wilt pass that 
 way. Shall we endure this, Claude? 
 
 Mel. (Wringing Gaspar's hand.) For- 
 give me, the fault was mine, I have 
 brought this on thee; I will not forget it; 
 thou shalt be avenged ! The heartless in- 
 solence ! 
 
 Gaspar. Thou are moved, Melnotte; think 
 not of me; I would go through fire and 
 water to serve thee; but, — a blow! It is 
 not the bruise that galls, — ^it is the blush, 
 Melnotte. 
 
 Mel. Say, what message? — How insulted! 
 — ^Wherefore — What the offence? 
 
 Gaspar. Did you not write to Pauline Des- 
 chappelles, the daughter of the rich mer- 
 chant? 
 
 Mel. Well?— 
 
 Gaspar. And are you not a peasant — a 
 gardener's son? — ^that was the offence. 
 Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a 
 French citizen, blows! 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Widow. Now you are cured, Claude! 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OE, LOVE AND PRIDE, 
 
 761 
 
 Mel. {Tearing the letter.) So do I scat- 
 ter her image to the winds — I will stop 
 her in the open streets — I will insult her 
 — I will beat her menial ruffians — ^I will 
 — {Turns suddenly to Widow.) Mother, 
 am I humpbacked — deformed — hideous? 
 
 Widow. You ! 
 
 Mel. A coward — a thie£ — a liar? 
 
 Widow. You ! 
 
 Mel. Or a dull fool — a vain, drivelling, 
 brainless idiot? 
 
 Widow. No, no. 
 
 Mel. What am I then — worse than all 
 these? Why, I am a peasant! What 
 has a peasant to do with love? Vain 
 revolutions, why lavish your cruelty on 
 the great? Oh that we — we, the hewers 
 of wood and drawers of water — ^had been 
 swept away, so that the proud might 
 learn what the world would be without 
 us! — 
 
 {Knock at the door.) 
 
 {Enter Servant from the Inn.) 
 
 Servant. A letter for Citizen Melnotte. 
 
 Mel. A letter! from her perhaps — who 
 sent thee? 
 
 Servant. Why, Monsieur — I mean Citizen 
 — Beauseant, who stops to dine at the 
 Golden Lion, on his way to his chateau. 
 
 Mel. Beauseant! — {Reads.) "Young man, 
 I know thy secret — ^thou lovest above 
 thy station: if thou hast wit, cour- 
 age, and discretion, I can secure to thee 
 the realization of thy most sanguine 
 hopes ; and the sole condition I ask in re- 
 turn is, that thou shalt he steadfast to 
 thine own ends. I shall demand from 
 thee a solemn oath to marry her whom 
 thou lovest ; to bear her to thine home on 
 thy wedding night. I am serious — ^if 
 thou wouldst learn more, lose not a mo- 
 ment, but follow the bearer of this letter 
 to thy friend and patron, — Charles 
 Beauseant." 
 
 Mel. Can I believe my eyes? Are our 
 own passions the sorcerers that raise up 
 for us spirits of good or evil? I wUl go 
 instantly. 
 
 Widow. What is this, Claude? 
 
 Mel. "Marry her whom thou lovest" — 
 "bear her to thine own home." — Oh, re- 
 venge and love; which of you is the 
 stronger? — {Gazing on the picture.) 
 Sweet face, thou smilest on me from the 
 canvas: weak fool that I am, do I then 
 love her still? No, it is the vision of my 
 own romance that I have worshiped: it 
 is the reality to which I bring scorn for 
 
 scorn. Adieu, mother: I will return 
 anon. My brain reels — ^the earth swims 
 before me. — {Looks again at the letter.) 
 No, it is not a mockery ; I do not dream ! 
 {Exit.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. The gardens of M. Desohap- 
 pelles' house at Lyons — the house seen at 
 the hack of the stage. 
 
 {Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 
 
 Beau, Well, what think you of my plot? 
 Has it not succeeded to a miracle? The 
 instant that I introduced his Highness 
 the Prince of Como to the pompous 
 mother and the scornful daughter, it was 
 all over with them: he came — he saw — 
 he conquered : and, though it is not many 
 days since he arrived, they have already 
 promised him the hand of Pauline. 
 
 Gla. It is lucky, though, that you told 
 them his highness travelled incognito, for 
 fear the Directory (who are not very 
 fond of princes) should lay him by the 
 heels; for he has a wonderful wish to 
 keep up his rank, and scatters our gold 
 about with as much coolness as if he were 
 watering his own flower-pots. 
 
 Beau. True, he is damnably extravagant; 
 I think the sly dog does it out of malice. 
 However, it must be owned that he re- 
 flects credit on his loyal subjects, and 
 makes a very pretty figure in his fine 
 clothes, with my diamond snuff-box. 
 
 Gla. And my diamond ring ! But do you 
 think }ie will be firm to the last? I fancy 
 I see symptoms of relenting: he will 
 never keep up his rank, if he once let out 
 his conscience. 
 
 Beau. His oath binds him! he cannot re- 
 tract without being forsworn, and those 
 low fellows are always superstitious! 
 But, as it is, I tremble lest he be dis- 
 covered: that bluff Colonel Damas 
 (Madame Deschappelles' cousin) evi- 
 dently suspects him : we must make haste 
 and conclude the farce: I have thought 
 of a plan to end it this very day. 
 
 Gla. This very day! Poor Pauline: her 
 dream will be soon over. 
 
 Beau. Yes, this day they shall be mar- 
 ried; this evening, according to his oath, 
 he shall carry his bride to the Golden 
 Lion, and then pomp, equipage, retinue, 
 and title, all shall vanish at once ; and her 
 Highness the Princess shall find that she 
 
762 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 has refused the son of a Marquis, to 
 marry the son of the gardener. — Oh, 
 Pauline, once loved, now hated, yet still 
 not relinquished, thou shalt drain the cup 
 to the dregs, — thou shalt know what it is 
 to be humbled! 
 
 (Enter from the house, Melnotte, as the 
 Prince of Como, leading in Pauline; 
 Madame DeschappelleSj fanning herself; 
 aiid Colonel Bamas.) 
 
 {Beauseant and Glavis bow respectfully. 
 Pauline and Melnotte walk apart.) 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Good morning, gentlemen ; 
 really I am so fatigued with laughter; 
 the dear Prince is so entertaining. What 
 wit he has! Any one may see that he 
 has spent his whole life in courts. 
 
 Damas. And what the deuce do you know 
 about courts, cousin Deschappelles ? 
 You women regard men just as you buy 
 books — you never care about what is in 
 them, but how they are bound and let- 
 tered. 'Sdeath, I don't think you would 
 even look at your Bible if it had not a 
 title to it. 
 
 Mrs. Deschap. How coarse you are, cousin 
 Damas ! — quite the manners of a barrack 
 — you don't deserve to be one of our 
 family; really we must drop your ac- 
 quaintance when Pauline marries. I can- 
 not patronize any relations that would 
 discredit my future son-in-law, the Prince 
 of Como. 
 
 Mel. {Advancing.) These are beautiful 
 gardens, madame, (Beauseant and Glavis 
 retire.) — who planned them? 
 
 Mme. Deschap. A gardener named Mel- 
 notte, your highness — an honest man who 
 knew his station. I can't say as much 
 for his son — a presuming fellow, who — 
 ha ! ha ! actually wrote verses — such dog- 
 gerel ! — to my daughter. 
 
 Pauline. Yes, how you would have 
 laughed at them. Prince! — you, who 
 write such beautiful verses ! 
 
 Mel. This Melnotte must be a monstrous 
 impudent person! 
 
 Damas. Is he good-looking? 
 
 Mme. Deschap. I never notice such ca- 
 naille — an ugly, mean-looking clown, if I 
 remember right. 
 
 Damas. Yet I heard your porter say he 
 was wonderfully like his highness. 
 
 Mel. (Taking snuff.) You are compli- 
 mentary. 
 
 Mme. Deschap. For shame, cousin Damas ! 
 — like the Prince, indeed! 
 
 Pauline. Like you! Ah, mother, like our 
 
 beautiful prince ! I '11 never speak to 
 you again, cousin Damas. 
 
 Mel. (Aside.) Humph! — ^rank is a great 
 beautifler ! I never passed for an Apollo 
 while I was a peasant; if I am so band- 
 some as a prince, what should I be as 
 an emperor! (Aloud.) Monsieur Beau- 
 seant, will you honor me ? 
 (Offers snuff.) 
 
 Beau. No, your highness ; I have no small 
 vices. 
 
 Mel. Nay, if it were a vice, you 'd be sure 
 to have it, Monsieur Beauseant. 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Hal ha! — how very se- 
 vere ! — what wit ! 
 
 Beau. (In a rage and aside.) Curse his 
 impertinence ! 
 
 Mme. Deschap. What a superb snuff-box! 
 
 Pauline. And what a beautiful ring ! 
 
 Mel. You like the box — a trifle — interest- 
 ing perhaps from associations — a present 
 from Louis XIV. to my great-great- 
 grandmother. Honor me by accept- 
 ing it. 
 
 Beau. (Plucking him by the sleeve.) 
 How! — ^what the devil! My box — are 
 you mad? It is worth five hundred 
 louis. 
 
 Mel. (Unheeding him, and turning to 
 Pauline.) And you like tliis ring? Ah, 
 it has, indeed, a lustre since your eyes 
 have shone on it. (Placing it on her fin- 
 ger.) Henceforth hold me, sweet en- 
 chantress, the Slave of the Ring. 
 
 Gla. (Pulling him.) Stay, stay — ^what 
 are you about? My maiden aunt's 
 legacy — a diamond of the first water. 
 You shall be hanged for swindling, sir. 
 
 Mel. (Pretending not to hear.) It is curi- 
 ous, this ring; it is the one with which 
 my grandfather, the Doge of Venice, 
 married the Adriatic ! 
 
 ■ (Madame and Pauline examine the ring.) 
 Mel. (To Beauseant and Glavis.) Fie, 
 gentlemen! princes must be generous? — 
 (Turns to Damas, who watches them 
 closely.) These kind friends have my 
 interest so much at heart, that they are 
 as careful of my property as if it were 
 their own ! 
 Beau, and Gla. (Confusedly.) Ha! ha! 
 — ^very good joke that! 
 
 (Appear to remonstrate with Melnotte, in 
 dumb show.) 
 
 Damas. What's all that whispering? I 
 am sure there is some juggle here: hang 
 me, if I think he is an Italian after all. 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 763 
 
 Gad, I '11 try him. Servitore umillissimo, 
 Eceellenza.* 
 
 Mel. Hum — what does he mean, I won- 
 der? 
 
 Damas. Godo di vedervi in buona salute.** 
 
 Mel. Hem — hem ! 
 
 Damas. Pa bel tempo — che si dice di 
 nuovo?*** 
 
 Mel. Well, sir, what's all that gibberish? 
 
 Damas. Oh, oh ! — only Italian, your high- 
 ness! — The Prince of Como does not un- 
 derstand his own language! 
 
 Mel. Not as you pronounce it; who the 
 deuce could? 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Ha! ha! cousin Damas, 
 never pretend to what you don't know. 
 
 Pauline. Ha! ha! cousin Damas; you 
 speak Italian, indeed! 
 (Makes a mocking gesture at him.) 
 
 Beau. (To Glavis.) Clever dog! — how 
 ready! 
 
 Gla. Ready, yes; with my diamond ring! 
 — Damn his readiness! 
 
 Damas. Laugh at me! — ^laugh at a colonel 
 in the French army ! — ^the fellow 's an im- 
 postor; I know he is. I'll see if he un- 
 derstands fighting as well as he does 
 Italian. — (Goes up to him, and aside.) 
 Sir, you are a jackanapes! — Can you 
 construe that? 
 
 Mel. No, sir; I never construe affronts in 
 the presence of ladies; by-and-by I shall 
 be happy to take a lesson — or give one. 
 
 Damas. I '11 find the occasion, never fear ! 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Where are you going, 
 cousin ? 
 
 Damas. To correct my Italian. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Beau. (To Glavis.) Let us after, and 
 pacify him; he evidently suspects some- 
 thing. 
 
 Gla. Yes! — but my diamond ring! 
 
 Beau. And my box! — We are overtaxed, 
 fellow-subject! — ^we must stop the sup- 
 plies and dethrone the prince. 
 
 Gla. Prince! — he ought to be heir-appar- 
 ent to King Stork.* 
 
 (Exeunt Beauseant and Glavis.) 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Dare I ask your highness 
 to forgive my cousin's insufferable vul- 
 garity? 
 
 Pauline. Oh yes! — you will forgive his 
 manner for the sake of his heart. 
 
 Mel. And the sake of his cousin. — Ah, 
 
 * Tour Excellency's most humWe servant [note 
 in the original]. 
 
 ** I am glad to see you in good health. 
 *** Fine weather. What news is there! 
 
 madam, there is one comfort in rank, — 
 we are so sure of our position that we are 
 not easily affronted. Besides M. Damas 
 has bought the right of indulgence from 
 his friends, by never showing it to his 
 enemies. 
 
 Pauline. Ah! he is, indeed, as brave in 
 action as he is rude in speech. He rose 
 from the ranks to his present grade, and 
 in two years ! 
 
 Mel. In two years! — ^two years, did you 
 say? 
 
 Mme. Deschap. (Aside.) I don't like 
 leaving girls alone with their lovers; but, 
 with a prince, it would be so ill-bred to 
 be prudish. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Mel. You can be proud of your connec- 
 tion with one who owes his position to 
 merit, — not birth. 
 
 Pauline. Why, yes; but still — 
 
 Mel. Still what, Pauline! 
 
 Pauline. There is something glorious in the 
 'heritage of command. A man who has an- 
 cestors is like a representative of the past. 
 
 Mel. True ; but, like other representatives, 
 nine times out of ten he is a silent mem- 
 ber. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but 
 to the future, looks true nobility, and 
 finds its blazon in posterity. 
 
 Pauline. You say this to please me, who 
 have no ancestors; but you, prince, must 
 be proud of so illustrious a race ! 
 
 Mel. No, no! I would not, were I fifty 
 times a prince, be a pensioner on the 
 dead! I honor birth and ancestry when 
 they are regarded as the incentives to 
 exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I 
 honor the laurels that overshadow the 
 graves of our fathers; — it is our fathers 
 I emulate, when I desire that beneath the 
 evergreen I myself have planted my own 
 ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst 
 thou but see with my eyes! 
 
 Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I 
 look on thee, and think that thou lovest 
 me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy 
 palace by the Lake of Como; it is so 
 pleasant to hear of thy splendors since 
 thou didst swear to me that they would 
 be desolate without Pauline; and when 
 thou describest them, it is with a mock- 
 ing lip and a noble scorn, as if custom 
 had made thee disdain greatness. 
 
 Mel. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst 
 have me paint 
 The home to which, could love fulfil its 
 prayers. 
 
 3 A fabulous type of overactive ruler; as "King Log" is a type of inactivity. 
 
764 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 This hand would lead thee, listen! — A 
 
 deep vale 
 Shut out hy Alpine hills from the rude 
 
 world ; 
 Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of 
 
 gold 
 And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest 
 
 skies, 
 As cloudless, save with rare and roseate 
 
 shadows, 
 As I would have thy fate! 
 Pauline. My own dear love ! 
 
 Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer 
 Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower 
 Of coolest foliage musical with birds. 
 Whose songs should syllable thy name! 
 
 At noon 
 We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and 
 
 wonder 
 Why Earth could be unhappy, while the 
 
 Heavens 
 Still left us youth and love ! We 'd have 
 
 no friends 
 That were not lovers; no ambition, save 
 To excel them all in love ; we 'd read no 
 
 books 
 That were not tales of love — that we 
 
 might smile ■ 
 To think how poorly eloquence of words 
 Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 
 And when night came, amidst the breath- 
 less Heavens 
 We 'd guess what star should be our home 
 
 when love 
 Becomes immortal; while the perfumed 
 
 light 
 Stole through the mists of alabaster 
 
 lamps. 
 And every air was heavy with the sighs 
 Of orange-groves and music from sweet 
 
 lutes. 
 And murmurs of low fountains that gush 
 
 forth 
 F the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the 
 
 picture? 
 Pauline.^ Oh, as the bee upon the flower, 
 
 I hang 
 Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue ! 
 Am I not blest? And if I love too 
 
 wildly, 
 Who would not love thee like Pauline? 
 Mel. (Bitterly.) Oh, false one! 
 
 It is the prince thou lovest, not the man : 
 If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and 
 
 power, 
 I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, 
 Thou hadst found no honey on my 
 
 tongue ; — Pauline, 
 That is not love ! 
 
 Pauline. Thou wrong 'st me, cruel Prince ! 
 [At first, in truth,] I might not [have] 
 
 been won, 
 Save through the weakness of a flatter'd 
 
 pride; 
 But now, — oh! trust me, — couldst thou 
 
 fall from power 
 And sink — 
 Mel. As low as that poor gardener's 
 
 son 
 Who dared to lift his eyes to thee? — 
 PauUne. Even then, 
 
 Methinks thou wouldst be only made 
 
 more dear 
 By the sweet thought that I could prove 
 
 how deep 
 Is woman's love! We are like the in- 
 sects, caught 
 By the poor glittering of a garish flame ; 
 But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the 
 
 brightest star 
 Lures us no more; and by the fatal light 
 We cling till death ! 
 Mel. Angel ! 
 
 {Aside.) conscience !>f^onscience! 
 It must not be; — her love hath grown a 
 
 torture 
 Worse than her hate. I will at once to 
 
 Beauseant, 
 And — ha! he comes. Sweet love, one 
 
 moment leave me. 
 I have business with these gentlemen — 
 
 I— I 
 Will forthwith join you. • 
 Pauline. Do not tarry long ! 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 (Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 
 
 Mel. Release me from my oath, — I will 
 not marry her! 
 
 Beau. Then thou art perjured. 
 
 Mel. No, I was not in my senses when 
 I swore to thee to marry her! I was 
 blind to all but her scorn! — deaf to all 
 but my passion and my rage! Give me 
 back my poverty and my honor ! 
 
 Beau. It is too late, you must marry her! 
 and this day. I have a story already 
 coined, and sure to pass current. This 
 Damas suspects thee, — he wifl set the 
 police to work; — ^thon wilt be detected — 
 Pauline will despise and execrate thee. 
 Thou will be sent to the common jail as 
 a swindler. 
 
 Mel. Fiend! 
 
 Beau. And in the heat of the girl's resent- 
 ment (you know of what resentment is 
 capable), and the parents' shame, she 
 will be induced to marry the first that 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 765 
 
 offers — even perhaps your humble serv- 
 , ant. 
 
 Mel. You! No; that were worse — for 
 thou hast no mercy ! I will marry her — 
 I wiU keep my oath. Quick, then, with 
 the damnable invention thou are hatch- 
 ing; — quick, if thou wouldst not have me 
 strangle thee or myself. 
 
 Gla. What a tiger! Too fierce for a 
 prince ; — ^he ought to have been the Grand 
 Turk. 
 
 Beau. Enough — I will despatch; be pre- 
 pared. 
 
 (Exeunt Beauseant and Glavis.) 
 
 (Enter Bamas with two swords.) 
 
 Damas. Now, then, sir, the ladies are no 
 longer your excuse. I have brought you 
 a couple of dictionaries ; let us see if your 
 Highness can find out the Latin for bilbo. 
 
 Mel. Away, sir! I am in no humor for 
 jesting. 
 
 Damas. I see you understand something 
 of the grammar; you decline the noun- 
 substantive "small-sword" with great 
 ease; but that won't do — you must take 
 a lesson in parsing.* 
 
 Mel. Fool ! 
 
 Bamas. Sir, as sons take after their 
 mother, so the man who calls me a fool 
 insults the lady who bore me ; there 's no 
 escape for you — ^fight you shall, or — 
 
 Mel. Oh, enough! enough! — ^take your 
 ground. 
 
 (They fight; Bamas is disarmed. Melnotte 
 takes up the sword and returns it to 
 Bamas respectfully.) 
 A just punishment to the brave soldier 
 who robs the State of its best property — 
 the sole right to his valor and his life. 
 
 Bamas. Sir, you fence exceedingly well; 
 you must be a man of honor — ^I don't 
 care a jot whether you are a prince ; but 
 a man who has carte and tierce ° at his 
 fingers' ends must be a gentleman. 
 
 Mel. (Aside.) Gentleman! Ay, I was a 
 gentleman before I turned conspirator; 
 for honest men are the gentlemen of Na- 
 ture! — Colonel, they tell me you rose 
 from the ranks. 
 
 Bamas. I did. 
 
 Mel. And in two years? 
 
 Bamas. It is true; that's no wonder in 
 our army at present. Why the oldest 
 general in the service is scarcely thirty, 
 and we have some of two-and-twenty. 
 
 Mel. Two-and-twenty ! 
 
 Bamas. Yes; in the French army, now-a- 
 
 4 He means a pun on passing (a pass being a thrust ) . 
 
 days, promotion is not a matter of pur- 
 chase. We are all heroes, because we 
 may be all generals. We have no fear 
 of the cypress, because we may all hope 
 for the laurel. 
 
 Mel. A general at two-and-twenty! 
 (Turning away.) — Sir, I may ask you a 
 favor one of these days. 
 
 Bamas. Sir, I shall be proud to grant it. 
 It is astonishing how much I like a man 
 after I 've fought with him. 
 (Hides the swords.) 
 
 (Enter Madame Beschappelles and Beau- 
 seant.) 
 
 Mme. Beschap. Oh, prince, — prince! — 
 What do I hear? You must fly — you 
 must quit us ! 
 
 Mel. I— 
 
 Beau. Yes, prince: read this letter, just 
 received from my friend at Paris, one of 
 the Directory; they suspect you of de- 
 signs against the Republic : they are very 
 suspicious of princes, and your family 
 take part with the Austrians. Knowing 
 that I introduced your highness at 
 Lyons, my friend writes to me to say 
 that you must quit the town immediately, 
 or you will be arrested, — thrown into 
 prison, perhaps guillotined! Fly! — I 
 will order horses to your carriage in- 
 stantly. Fly to Marseilles ; there you can 
 take ship for Leghorn. 
 
 Mme. Beschap. And what 's to become of 
 Pauline? Am I not to be mother to a 
 princess, after all? 
 
 (Enter Pauline and M. Beschappelles.) 
 
 Pauline. (Throwing herself into Mel- 
 notte's arms.) You must leave us! — 
 Leave Pauline! 
 
 Beau. Not a moment is to be wasted. 
 
 M. Beschap. I will go to the magistrates 
 and inquire — 
 
 Beau. Then he is lost; the magistrates, 
 hearing he is suspected, will order his 
 arrest. 
 
 Mme. Beschap.. And I shall not be a prin- 
 cess-dowager ! 
 
 Beau. Why not? There is only one thing 
 to be done : — send for the priest — let the 
 marriage take place at once, and the 
 prince carry home a bride! 
 
 Mel. Impossible! — (Aside.) Villain! 
 
 Mme. Beschap. What, lose my child? 
 
 Beau. And gain a princess ! 
 
 Mme. Beschap. Oh, Monsieur Beauseant, 
 you are so veiy kind, it must be so, — ^we 
 
 B Positions in fencing. 
 
766 
 
 THE ISrtNETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ought not to be selfish, my daughter's 
 happiness at stake. She will go away, 
 too, in a carriage and six ! 
 
 Pauline. Thou art here still, — ^I cannot 
 part from thee, — my heart will break. 
 
 Mel. But thou wilt not consent to this 
 hasty union, — ^thou wilt not wed an out- 
 east — a fugitive. 
 
 Pauline. Ah! if thou art in danger, who 
 should share it but Pauline? 
 
 Mel. (Aside.) Distraction! — ^If the earth 
 could swallow me ! 
 
 M. Deschap. Gently! gently! The settle- 
 ments — the contracts — my daughter's 
 dowry! 
 
 Mel. The dowry! — ^I am not base enough 
 for that ; no, not one farthing ! 
 
 Beau. {To Madame.) Noble fellow! — 
 Really your good husband is too mer- 
 cantile in these matters. Monsieur Des- 
 chappelles, you hear his Highness: we 
 can arrange the settlements by proxy; 
 't is the way with people of quality. 
 
 M. Deschap. But — 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Hold your tongue ! — Don't 
 expose yourself ! 
 
 Beau. I will bring the priest in a trice. 
 Go in all of you and prepare; the car- 
 riage shall be at the door before the cere- 
 mony is over. 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Be sure there are six 
 horses, Beauseant! You are very good 
 to have forgiven us for refusing you ; but 
 you see — a prince*! 
 
 Beau. And such a prince ! Madame, I can- 
 not blush at the success of so illustrious 
 a rival. — (Aside.) Now will I follow 
 them to the village, enjoy my triumph, 
 and to-morrow, in the hour of thy shame 
 and grief, I think, proud girl, thou wilt 
 prefer even these arms to those of the 
 gardener's son. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Come, Monsieur Deschap- 
 pelles, give your arm to her highness that 
 is to be. 
 
 M. Deschap. I don't like doing business in 
 such a hurry; 'tis not the way with the 
 house of Deschappelles and Co. 
 
 Mme. Deschap. There, now, you fancy you 
 are in the counting-house, don't you? 
 (Pushes him to Pauline.) 
 
 Mel. Stay, stay, Pauline — one word. 
 Have you no scruple, no fear? Speak — 
 it is not yet too late. 
 
 Pauline. When I loved thee, thy fate be- 
 came mine. Triumph or danger — joy or 
 sorrow — I am by thy side. 
 
 Damas. Well, well, prince, thou art a 
 
 lucky man to be so loved. She is a good 
 little girl in spite of her foibles — make, 
 her as happy as if she were not to be a 
 princess. (Slapping him on the shoul- 
 der.) Come, sir, I wish you joy — ^young 
 — tender — lovely; — zounds, I envy you! 
 Mel. ( Who has stood apart in gloomy ab- 
 straction.) Do you? 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. The exterior of the Golden Lion 
 — time, twilight. The moon rises during 
 the scene. 
 
 (Enter Landlord and his Daughter from 
 the Inn.) 
 
 Land. Ha — ^ha — ha! Well, I never shall 
 get over it. Our Claude is a prince with 
 a vengeance now. His carriage breaks 
 down at my inn — ha — ha ! 
 
 Janet. And what airs the yoifng lady gives 
 herself! "Is this the best room you 
 have, young woman ?" with such a toss 
 of the head. 
 
 Land. Well, get in, Janet : get in and see 
 to the supper: the servants must sup be- 
 fore they go back. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 (Enter Beauseant and Glavis.) 
 
 Beau. You see our princess is lodged at 
 last — one stage more, and she'll be at 
 
 J her journey's end — ^the beautiful palace 
 at the foot of the Alps ! — ha — ^ha ! 
 
 Gla. Faith, I pity the poor Pauline — 
 especially if she's going to sup at the 
 Golden Lion. (Makes a wry face.) I 
 shall never forget that cursed ragout. 
 
 (Enter Melnotte from the Inn.) 
 
 Beau. Your servant, my prince; you 
 reigned most worthily. I condole with 
 you on your abdication. 1 am afraid 
 that your highness's retinue are not very 
 faithful servants. I think they will quit 
 you in the moment of your fall — 't is the 
 fate of greatness. But you are welcome 
 to your fine clothes — also the diamond 
 snuff-box, which Louis XIV. gave to your 
 great-great-grandmother. 
 
 Gla. And the ring, with which your grand- 
 father, the Doge of Venice, married the 
 Adriatic. 
 
 Mel. I have kept my oath, gentlemen- 
 say, have I kept my oath? 
 
 Beau. Most religiously. 
 
 Mel. Then you have done with me and 
 mine — away with you ! 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 767 
 
 Beau. How, knave? 
 
 Mel. Look you, our bond is over. Proud 
 conquerors that we are, we have won the 
 victory over a simple girl — compromised 
 her honor — embittered her life — ^blasted, 
 in their very blossoms, all the flowers of 
 her youth. This is your triumph, — ^it is 
 my shame! {Turns to Beauseant.) En- 
 joy thy triumph, but not in my sight. 
 I was her betrayer — I am her protector ! 
 Cross but her path — one word of scorn, 
 one look of insult — ^nay, but one quiver 
 of that mocking lip, and I will teach 
 thee that bitter word thou hast graven 
 eternally in this heart — Bepentance! 
 
 Beau. His highness is most grandiloquent. 
 
 Mel. Highness me no more! Beware! 
 Remorse has made me a new being. 
 Away with you ! There is danger in me. 
 Away! 
 
 Gla. (Aside.) He 's an awkward fellow 
 to deal with: come away, Beauseant. 
 
 Beau. I know the respect due to rank. 
 Adieu, my prince. Any commands at 
 Lyons? Yet hold — 1 promised you 200 
 louis on your wedding day ; here they are. 
 
 Mel. {Dashing the purse to the ground.) 
 I gave yoTi revenge, I did not sell it. 
 Take up your silver, Judas ; take it. — Ay, 
 it is fit you should learn to stoop. 
 
 Beau. You will beg my pardon for this 
 some day. {Aside to Glavis.) Come to 
 my chateau — 1 shall return hither to- 
 morrow, to learn how Pauline likes her 
 new dignity. 
 
 Mel. Are you not gone yet? 
 
 Beau. Your highness's most obedient, most 
 faithful— 
 
 Gla. And most humble servants. Ha ! ha ! 
 {Exeunt Beauseant and Glavis.) 
 
 Mel. Thank heaven I had no weapon, or 
 I should have slain them. Wretch ! what 
 can I say? Where turn? On all sides 
 mockery — the ' very boors within. — 
 {Laughter from the Inn.) — 'Sdeath, if 
 even in this short absence the exposure 
 should have chanced. I will call her. 
 We will go hence. I have already sent 
 one I can trust to my mother's house. 
 There, at least, none can insult her 
 agony — gloat upon her shame! There 
 alone must she learn what a villain she 
 has sworn to love. 
 
 {As he turns to the door enter Pauline from 
 the Inn.) 
 
 Pauline. Ah! my lord, what a place! I 
 never saw such rude people. They stare 
 and wink so. I think the very sight of a 
 prince, though he travels incognito, turns 
 
 their honest heads. What a pity the car- 
 riage should break down in such a spot ! 
 You are not well — the drops stand on 
 your brow — ^your hand is feverish. 
 Mel. Nay, it is but a passing spasm; the 
 
 air — 
 Pauline. Is not the soft air of your native 
 
 south — 
 How pale he is! — indeed thou art not 
 
 well. 
 Where are our people ? I will call them. 
 Mel. Hold! 
 
 I — I am well. 
 Pauline. Thou art! — Ah! now I know it. 
 Thou fanciest, my kind lord — I know 
 
 thou dost — 
 Thou fanciest these rude walls, these 
 
 rustic gossips, 
 Brick'd floors, sour wine, coarse viands, 
 
 vex Pauline; 
 And so they might, but thou art by my 
 
 side. 
 And I forget all else. 
 
 {Enter Landlord, the Servants peeping and 
 laughing over his shoulder.) 
 
 Land. My lord — your highness — 
 
 Will your most noble excellency choose — 
 Mel. Begone, sir! 
 
 {Exit Landlord laughing.) 
 Pauline. How could they have learn'd thy 
 
 rank? 
 One's servants are so vain! — nay, let it 
 
 not 
 Chafe thee, sweet prince! — a few short 
 
 days and we 
 Shall see thy palace by its lake of silver. 
 And — nay, nay, spendthrift, is thy wealth 
 
 of smiles 
 Already drain'd, or dost thou play the 
 
 miser? 
 Mel. Thine eyes would call up smiles in 
 
 deserts, fair one. 
 Let us escape these rustics : close at hand 
 There is a cot, where"! have bid prepare 
 Our evening lodgment — a rude, homely 
 
 roof. 
 But honest, where our welcome will not be 
 Made torture by the vulgar eyes and 
 
 tongues 
 That are as death to Love! A heavenly 
 
 night ! 
 The wooing air and the soft moon in- 
 vite us. 
 Wilt walk? I pray thee, now, — I know 
 
 the path. 
 Ay, every inch of it! 
 Pauline. What, thou! methought 
 
76S 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Thou wert a stranger in these parts'? 
 
 Ah, truant, 
 Some village beauty lured thee; — thou 
 
 art now 
 
 Grown constant. 
 
 Mel. Trust me. 
 
 Pauline. Princes are so changeful. 
 
 Mel. Come, dearest, come. 
 Pauline. Shall I not call our people 
 
 To light us? 
 Mel. Heaven will lend its stars for 
 
 torches ! 
 It is not far. 
 Pauline. The night breeze chills me. 
 Mel. Nay, 
 
 Let me thus mantle thee ; — it is not cold. 
 Pauline. • Never beneath thy smile ! 
 Mel. {Aside.) O Heaven! forgive me! 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. Melnotte's cottage — Widow bus- 
 tling about — a table spread for supper.) 
 
 Widow. So, I think that looks very neat. 
 He sent me a line, so blotted that I can 
 scarcely read it, to say he would be here 
 almost immediately. She must have 
 loved him well indeed to have forgotten 
 his birth; for though he was introduced 
 to her in disguise, he is too honorable 
 not to have revealed to her the artifice, 
 which her love only could forgive. Well, 
 I do not wonder at it; for though my 
 son is not a prince, he ought to be one, 
 and that 's almost as good. {Knock at 
 the door.) Ah! here they are. 
 
 {Enter Melnotte and Pauline.) 
 
 Widow. Oh, my boy — the pride of my 
 heart! — welcome, welcome! I beg par- 
 don, ma'am, but I do love him so! 
 
 Pauline. Good woman, I really — ^why 
 prince, what is this? — does the old lady 
 know you? Oh, I guess, you have done 
 her some service. Another proof of 
 your kind heart;, is it not? 
 
 Mel. Of my kind heart, ay! 
 
 Pauline. So you know the prince? 
 
 Widow. Know him, madam? — Ah, I be- 
 gin to fear it is you who know him not! 
 
 Pauline. Do you think she is mad? Can 
 we stay here, my lord ? I think there 's 
 something very wild about her. 
 
 Mel. Madam, I — ^no, I cannot tell her; 
 my knees knock together : what a coward 
 is a man who has lost his honor ! Speak 
 to her — speak to her {To his mother.) — 
 tell her that — Heaven, that I were 
 dead! 
 
 Pauline. How confused he looks!— t| 
 strange place! — this woman — what j 
 it mean?— I half suspect— Who are yoi 
 madam! — who are you? can't you speak 
 are you struck dumb? ,,,, 
 
 Widow. Claude, you have not decei*^ 
 her? — Ah, shame upon you! I thoiigl 
 that, before you went to the altar, sji 
 was to have known all. 
 
 Pauline. All! what? — My blood freezes! 
 my veins ! 
 
 Widow. Poor lady! — dare I tell ha 
 Claude? {Melnotte makes a sign of ai 
 sent.) Know you not then, madan 
 that this young man is of poor thoug 
 honest parents? KJnow you not tha 
 you are wedded to my son, Claude Mel 
 notte? 
 
 Pauline. Tour son! hold — ^hold! do no 
 speak to me. — {Approaches Melnottt 
 and lays her hand on his arm.) Is tU 
 a jest ? is it ? I know it is, only speak- 
 one word — one look — one smile. I can 
 not believe — I who loved thee so—! 
 cannot believe that thou art such a— No 
 I will not wrong thee by a harsh won 
 — speak ! 
 
 Mel. Leave us — ^have pity on her, on me 
 leave us. 
 
 Widow. Oh, Claude, that I should live t 
 see thee bowed by shame ! thee of whor 
 I was so proud! 
 
 {Exit by the staircase.) 
 
 Pauline. Her son — ^her son! 
 
 Mel. Now, lady, hear mi 
 
 Pauline. Hear thee 
 
 Ay, speak — ^her son! have fiends a pai 
 
 ent? speak, 
 That thou mayst silence curses — speak 
 
 Mel. No, curse me 
 
 Thy curse would blast me less than th 
 forgiveness. 
 
 Pauline. {Laughing wildly.) "This is th 
 
 palace, where the perfumed light 
 
 Steals through the mist of alabaste 
 
 lamps. 
 And every air is heavy with the sighs 
 Of orange-groves, and music from swe( 
 
 lutes. 
 And murmurs of low fountains, thi 
 
 gush forth 
 P the midst of roses! Dost thou lit 
 
 the picture?" 
 This is my bridal home, and thou m 
 
 bridegroom. 
 fool — dupe — wretch! — I see : 
 
 all— 
 The by- word and the jeer of ever 
 tongue 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PEIDE 
 
 769 
 
 In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one 
 
 touch 
 Of human kindness? if thou hast, why, 
 
 kill me, 
 And save thy wife from madness. No, 
 
 it cannot — 
 It cannot be : this is some horrid dream : 
 I shall wake soon. — (Touching Mm.) 
 
 Art flesh? art man? or but 
 The shadows seen in sleep? It is too 
 
 real. 
 What have I done to thee? how sinn'd 
 
 against thee. 
 That thou shouldst crush me thus? 
 Mel. Pauline, by pride 
 
 Angels have fallen ere thy time: by 
 
 pride — 
 That sole alloy of thy most lovely 
 
 mould — 
 The evil spirit of a bitter love. 
 And a revengeful heart, had power upon 
 
 thee. 
 From my first years my soul was flU'd 
 
 with thee: 
 I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly 
 
 boy 
 Tended, unmark'd by thee — a spirit of 
 
 bloom, 
 And joy, and freshness, as if Spring 
 
 itself 
 Were made a living thing, and wore thy 
 
 shape ! 
 I saw thee, and the passionate heart of 
 
 man 
 Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming 
 
 boy. 
 And from that hour I grew — ^what to the 
 
 last 
 I shall be — ^thine adorer! Well, this 
 
 love 
 Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became 
 A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; 
 I thought of tales that by the winter 
 
 hearth 
 Old gossips tell — ^how maidens sprung 
 
 from kings 
 Have stoop'd from their high sphere; 
 
 how love, like death. 
 Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's 
 
 crook 
 Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my 
 
 home 
 In the soft palace of a fairy Future! 
 My father died; and I, the peasant-bom, 
 Was my own lord. Then did I seek to 
 
 rise 
 Out of the prison of my mean estate; 
 And, with such jewels as the exploring 
 
 Blind 
 
 Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy 
 
 my ransom 
 From those twin jailers of the daring 
 
 heart — 
 Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright 
 
 image 
 Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of 
 
 glory. 
 And lured me on to those inspiring toils 
 By which man masters men! For thee 
 
 I grew 
 A midnight student o'er the dreams of 
 
 For thee I sought to borrow from each 
 grace. 
 
 And every muse, such attributes as lend 
 
 Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, 
 
 And passion taught me poesy — of thee, 
 
 And on the painter's canvas grew the life 
 
 Of beauty! Art became the shadow 
 
 Of the dear starlight of thy haunting 
 eyes! 
 
 Men call'd' me vain — some mad — I 
 heeded not; 
 
 But still toil'd on — ^hoped on — for it was 
 sweet. 
 
 If not to win, to feel more worthy thee ! 
 Pauline. Has he a magic to exorcise hate ! 
 Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to 
 pour 
 
 The thoughts that burst their channels 
 into song. 
 
 And sent them to thee — such a tribute, 
 lady, 
 
 As beauty rarely scorns, even from the 
 meanest. 
 
 The name — appended by the burning 
 heart 
 
 That long'd to show its idol what bright 
 things 
 
 It had created — ^yea, the enthusiast's 
 name. 
 
 That should have been thy triumph, was 
 thy scorn ! 
 
 That very hou? — ^when passion, turn'd to 
 wrath, 
 
 Resembled hatred most — when thy dis- 
 dain 
 
 Made my whole soul a chaos — in that 
 hour 
 
 The tempters found me a revengeful tool 
 
 For their revenge! Thou hadst tram- 
 pled on the worm — 
 
 It turn'd and stuiig thee! 
 Pauline. Love, sir, hath no sting. 
 
 What was the slight of a poor powerless 
 girl 
 
 To the deep wrong of this most vjle re- 
 venge? 
 
770 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Oh, how I loved this man! — a serf! — a 
 
 slave ! 
 Mel. Hold, lady! No, not slave! De- 
 spair is free ! 
 I will not tell thee of the throes — the 
 
 struggles — 
 The anguish — ^the remorse! No, let it 
 
 pass! 
 And let me come to such most poor 
 
 atonement 
 Yet in my power. Pauline! — 
 {Approaching her with great emotion, and 
 
 about to take her hand.) 
 Pauline. No, touch me not ! 
 
 I know my fate. You are, by law, my 
 
 tyrant; 
 And I — Heaven! a peasant's wife! 
 
 I '11 work- 
 Toil — drudge — do what thou wilt — but 
 
 touch me not; 
 Let my wrongs make me sacred ! 
 Mel. Do not fear me. 
 
 Thou dost not know me, madam: at the 
 
 altar 
 My vengeance ceased — ^my guilty oath 
 
 expired ! 
 Henceforth, no image of some marble 
 
 saint, 
 Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd 
 
 more 
 From the rude hand of sacrilegious 
 
 wrong. 
 I am thy husband — ^nay, thou need'st not 
 
 shudder ; — 
 Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's 
 
 rights. 
 A marriage thus unholy — ^unfulflU'd — 
 A bond of fraud — is, by the laws of 
 
 France, 
 Made void and null. To-night sleep — 
 
 sleep in peace. 
 To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn 
 I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the 
 
 shrine. 
 Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy 
 
 home. 
 The law shall do thee justice, and restore 
 Thy right to bless another with thy love. 
 And when thou art happy, and hast half 
 
 forgot 
 Him who so loved — so wrong'd thee, 
 
 think at least 
 Heaven left some remnant of the angel 
 
 still 
 In that poor peasant's nature! 
 
 Ho! my mother! 
 
 (Enter Widow.) 
 
 Conduct this lady — (she is not my wife; 
 
 She is our guest, — our honor'd guest, 
 
 my mother) — 
 To the poor chamber, where the sleep of 
 
 virtue. 
 Never, beneath my father's honest roof, 
 Ev'n villains dared to mar! Now, lady, 
 
 now, 
 I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my 
 mother ! 
 Widow. She is not thy wife! 
 Mel. Hush, hush! for mercy's sake! 
 
 Speak not, but go. 
 {Widow ascends the stairs; Pauline fol- 
 lows, weeping — turns to look hack.) 
 Mel. {Sinking down.) All angels bless 
 and guard her! 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENK 1. The cottage as before — Mel- 
 notte seated before a table — writing im- 
 plements, d'c. — {Day breaking.) 
 
 Mel. Hush, hush! — she sleeps at last! — 
 thank Heaven, for a while she forgets 
 even that I live! Her sobs, which have 
 gone to my- heart the whole, long, deso- 
 late night, have ceased! — all calm — all 
 still! I will go now; I will send this 
 letter to Pauline's father: when he ar- 
 rives, I will place in his hands my own 
 consent to the divorce, and then, 
 France! my country! accept among thy 
 protectors, thy defenders — ^the Peasant's 
 Son! Our country is less proud than 
 custom, and does not refuse the blood, 
 the heart, the right hand of the poor 
 man. 
 
 {Enter Widow.) 
 
 Widow. My son, thou hast acted ill; but 
 sin brings its own punishment. In the 
 hour of thy remorse, it is not for a 
 mother to reproach thee. 
 
 Mel. What is past is past. There is a 
 future left to all men, who have the vir- 
 tue to repent, and the energy to atone. 
 Thou shalt be proud of thy son yet. 
 Meanwhile, remember this poor lady has 
 been grievously injured. For the sake 
 of thy son's conscience, respect, honor, 
 bear with her. If she weep, console — if 
 she chide, be silent. 'T is but a Uttle 
 while more — I shall send an express fast 
 as horse can speed to her father. Fare- 
 well! I shall return shortly. 
 
 Widow. It is the only course left to thee 
 — thou wert led astray, but thou art not 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 771 
 
 hardened. Thy heart is right still, as 
 ever it was when, in thy most ambitious 
 hopes, thou wert never ashamed of thy 
 poor mother. 
 
 Mel. Ashamed of thee! No, if I yet en- 
 dure, yet live, yet hope — it is only be- 
 cause I would not die till I have 
 redeemed the noble heritage I have lost 
 — the heritage I took unstained from 
 thee and my dead father — a proud eon- 
 science and an honest name. I shall win 
 them back yet — Heaven bless you! 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Widow. My dear Claude ! How my heart 
 bleeds for him. 
 
 {Pauline looks down from above, and after 
 a pause descends.) 
 
 Pauline. Not here! — ^he spares me that 
 pain at least: so far he is considerate — 
 yet the place seems still more desolate 
 without him. Oh, that I could hate him 
 — the gardener's son! — and yet how 
 nobly he — no — ^no — no, I will not be so 
 mean a thing as to forgive him! 
 
 Widow. Good morning, madam; I would 
 have waited on you if I had known you 
 were stirring. 
 
 Pauline. It is no matter, ma'am — your 
 son's wife ought to wait on herself. 
 
 Widow. My son's wife — ^let not that 
 thought vex you, madam — he tells me 
 that you will have your divorce. And 
 I hope I shall live to see him smile again. 
 There are maidens in this village, young" 
 and fair, madam, who may yet console 
 him. 
 
 Pauline. I dare say — ^they are very wel- 
 come — and when the divorce is got, he 
 will marry again. I am sure I hope so. 
 {Weeps.) 
 
 Widow. He could have married the rich- 
 est girl in the province, if he had pleased 
 it; but his head was turned, poor child! 
 he could think of nothing but you. 
 ( Weeps. ) 
 
 Pauline. Don't weep, mother. 
 
 Widow. Ah, he has behaved very ill, I 
 know, but love is so headstrong in the 
 young. Don't weep, madam. 
 
 Pauline. So, as you were saying — go on. 
 
 Widow. Oh, I cannot excuse him, ma'am 
 — he was not in his right senses. 
 
 Pauline. But he always — always {Sob- 
 bing) loved — ^loved me then? 
 
 Widow. He thought of nothing else. See 
 here— he learnt to paint that he might 
 take your likeness {Uncovers the pic- 
 ture) . But that 's all over now — I trust 
 you have cured him of his folly; — but, 
 
 dear heart, you have had no breakfast! 
 
 Pauline. I can't take anything — don't 
 trouble yourself. 
 
 Widow. Nay, madam, be persuaded; a 
 little coffee wiU refresh you. Our milk 
 and eggs are excellent. I will get out 
 Claude's cofEee-cup — ^it is of real Sevres; 
 he saved up all his money to buy it three 
 years ago, because the name of Pauline 
 was inscribed on it. 
 
 Pauline. Three years ago! Poor Claude! 
 — Thank you; I think I will have some 
 coffee. Oh! if he were but a poor gen- 
 tleman, even a merchant: but a garden- 
 er's son — and what a home! — Oh no, it 
 is too dreadful! 
 
 {They seat themselves at the table, Beau- 
 seant opens the lattice and looks in.) 
 
 Beau. So — so — the coast is clear! I saw 
 Claude in the lane — I shall have an ex- 
 cellent opportunity. 
 
 {Shuts the lattice and knocks at the door.) 
 
 Pauline. {Starting.) Can it be my fa- 
 ther? — he has not sent for him yet? No, 
 he cannot be in such a hurry to get rid 
 of me. 
 
 Widow. It is not time for your father to 
 arrive yet; it must be some neighbor. 
 
 Pauline. Don't admit any one. 
 
 {Widow opens the door, Beauseant pushes 
 her aside and enters. ) 
 Ah! Heavens! that hateful Beauseant! 
 This is indeed bitter! 
 
 Beau. Good morning, madam! widow, 
 your son begs you will have the goodness 
 to go to him in the village — he wants to 
 speak to you on particular business; 
 you '11 find him at the inn, or the grocer's 
 shop, or the baker's, or at some other 
 friend's of your family — make haste. 
 
 Pauline. Don't leave me, mother! — don't 
 leave me. 
 
 Beau. {With great respect.) Be not 
 alarmed, madam. Believe me your 
 friend — ^your servant. 
 
 Pauline. Sir, I have no fear of you, even 
 in this house! Go, madam, if your son 
 wishes it; I will not contradict his com- 
 mands whilst, at least, he has still ' the 
 right to be obeyed. 
 
 Widow. I don't understand this; however, 
 I shan't be long gone. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Pauline. Sir, I divine the object of your 
 visit — ^you wish to exult in the humilia- 
 tion of one who humbled you. Be it so; 
 I am prepared to endure all — even your 
 presence ! 
 
 Beau. You mistake me, madam — Pauline, 
 
in 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 you mistake me ! I come to lay my for- 
 tune at your feet. You must already be 
 disenchanted with this impostor; these 
 ■walls are not worthy to be hallowed by 
 your beauty! Shall that form be 
 clasped in the arms of a base-born peas- 
 ant? Beloved, beautiful Pauline! fly 
 with me — my carriage waits without — I 
 will bear you to a home more meet for 
 your reception. Wealth, luxury, station 
 — all shall yet be yours. I forget your 
 past disdain — I remember only your 
 beauty and my unconquerable love! 
 
 Pauline. Sir! leave this house — it is hum- 
 ble : but a husband's roof, however lowly, 
 is, in the eyes of God and man, the 
 temple of a wife's honor! Know that 
 I would rather starve — yes — with him 
 who has betrayed me, than accept your 
 lawful hand, even were you the prince 
 whose name he bore! — Go. 
 
 Beau. What, is not your pride humbled 
 yet? 
 
 Pauline. Sir, what was pride in prosper- 
 ity in affliction becomes virtue. 
 
 Beau. Look round: these rugged floors — 
 these homely walls — ^this wretched strug- 
 gle of poverty for comfort — ^think of 
 this! and contrast with such a picture 
 the refinement, the luxury, the pomp, 
 that the wealthiest gentleman of Lyons 
 offers to the loveliest lady. Ah, hear 
 me! 
 
 Pauline. Oh! my father! — ^why did I 
 leave you? — ^why am I thus friendless? 
 Sir, you see before you a betrayed, in- 
 jured, miserable woman! — ^respect her 
 anguish ! 
 
 (Melnotte opens the door silently, and 
 pauses at the threshold.) 
 
 Beau. No! let me rather thus console it; 
 ■let me snatch from those lips one .breath 
 of that fragrance which never should be 
 wasted on the low churl thy husband. 
 
 Pauline. Help ! Claude ! — Claude ! — Have 
 I no protector? 
 
 Beau. Be silent! {Showing a pistol.) 
 See, I do not come unprepared even for 
 violence. 1 will brave all things — thy 
 husband and all his race — ^for thy sake. 
 Thus, then, I clasp thee! 
 
 Mel. (Bashing him to the other end of 
 the stage.) Pauline — ^look up, Pauline! 
 thou ait safe. 
 
 Beau. (Levelling his pistol.) Dare you 
 thus insult a man of my birth, ruffian? 
 
 PauUne. Oh, spare him — spare my hus- 
 band ! — Beauseant — Claude — no — no. 
 (Faints.) 
 
 Mel. Miserable trickster! shame upon 
 you! brave devices to terrify a woman! 
 Coward! — you tremble — you have out- 
 raged the laws — ^you know that your 
 weapon is harmless — you have the cour- 
 age of the mountebank, not the bravo! 
 — Pauline, there is no danger. 
 Beau. I wish thou wert a gentleman — as 
 it is, thou art beneath me. — Good day, 
 and a happy honeymoon. — (Aside.) I 
 ■will not die till I am avenged. 
 (Exit.) 
 Mel. I hold her in these arms — the last 
 
 embrace ! 
 Never, ah never more, shall this dear 
 
 head 
 Be pillow'd on the heart that should have 
 
 shelter'd 
 And has betray'd! — Soft — soft! one kiss 
 
 — poor ■wretch! 
 No scorn on that pale lip forbids me 
 
 now! 
 One kiss — so ends all record of my 
 
 crime! 
 It is the seal upon the tomb of hope. 
 By which, like some lost, sorro-wing 
 
 angel, sits 
 Sad memory evermore; — she breathes — 
 
 she moves — 
 She wakes to scorn, to hate, but not to 
 
 shudder 
 Beneath the touch of my abhorred love. 
 
 (Places her on a seat.) 
 There — we are strangers now! 
 Pauline. All gone — all calm — 
 
 Is every thing a dream? thou art safe, 
 
 unhurt — 
 I do not love thee; but — ^but I am 
 
 woman. 
 And — and — no blood is spilt? 
 Mel. No, lady, no; 
 
 My guilt hath not deserved so rich a 
 
 blessing 
 As even danger in thy cause. 
 
 (Enter Widow.) 
 
 Widow. My son, I have been everywhere 
 in search of you; why did you send for 
 me? 
 
 Mel. I did not send for you. 
 
 Widow. No ! but I must tell you your ex- 
 press has returned. 
 
 Mel. So soon! impossible! 
 
 Widow. Yes, he met the lady's father and 
 mother on the road ; they were going into 
 the country on a ■visit. Your messenger 
 says that Monsieur Desehappelles turned 
 almost white ■with anger when he read 
 your letter. They ■will be here almogt 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE ANt) PRIDE 
 
 773 
 
 immediately. Oh, Claude, Claude! what 
 will they do to you? How I tremble! 
 Ah, madam ! do not let them injure him 
 — if you knew how he doated on you. 
 
 Pauline. Injure him! no, ma'am, be not 
 afraid; — my father! how shall I meet 
 him? how go hack to Lyons? the scoff 
 of the whole city! Cruel, cruel, Claude. 
 {In great agitation.) Sir, you have 
 acted most treacherously. 
 
 Mel. I know it, madam. 
 
 Pauline. (Aside.) If he would but ask 
 me to forgive him! — I never can forgive 
 you, sir. 
 
 Mel. I never dared to hope it. 
 
 Pauline. But you are my husband now, 
 and I have sworn to — to love you, sir. 
 
 Mel. That was under a false belief, 
 madam; Heaven and the laws will re- 
 lease you from your vow. 
 
 Pauline. He will drive me mad! if he 
 were but less proud — if he would but ask 
 me to remain — hark, hark — I hear the 
 wheels of the carriage — Sir — Claude, 
 they are coming; have you no word to 
 say ere it is too late? Quick — speak. 
 
 Mel. I can only congratulate you on your 
 release. Behold your parents! 
 
 (Enter Monsieur and Madame Deschap- 
 pelles and Colonel Damas.) 
 
 M. Desehap. My child! my child! 
 
 Mme. Desehap. Oh, my poor Pauline! — 
 what a villainous hovel this is! Old 
 woman, get me a chair — ^I shall faint — 
 I certainly shall. What will the world 
 say? Child, you have been a fool. A 
 mother's heart is easily broken. 
 
 Damas. Ha, ha ! most noble Prince — I am 
 sorry to see a man of your quality in 
 such a condition; I am afraid your high- 
 ness will go to the House of Correction. 
 
 Mel. Taunt on, sir; I spared you when 
 you were unarmed — I am unarmed now. 
 A man who has no excuse for crime is 
 indeed defenceless ! 
 
 Dahas. There 's something fine in the ras- 
 cal, after all! 
 
 M. Desehap. Where is the impostor? — 
 Are you thus shameless, traitor? Can 
 you brave the presence of that girl's 
 father? 
 
 Mel. Strike me, if it please you — you are 
 her father. 
 
 Pauline. Sir — sir, for my sake; — what- 
 ever his guilt, he has acted nobly in 
 atonement. 
 
 Mme. Desehap. Nobly! Are you mad, 
 girl? I have no patience with you — to 
 
 disgrace all your family thus! — Nobly! 
 Oh you abominable, hardened, pitiful, 
 mean, ugly villain! 
 
 Damas. Ugly! Why he was beautiful 
 yesterday ! 
 
 Pauline. Madam, this is his roof, and he 
 is my husband. Respect your daughter, 
 or let blame fall alone on her. 
 
 Mme. Desehap. You — you — Oh, I 'm chok- 
 ing. 
 
 M. Desehap. Sir, it were idle to waste re- 
 proach upon a conscience like yours — 
 you renounce all pretensions to the per- 
 son of this lady? 
 
 Mel. 1 do. (Gives a paper.) Here is 
 my consent to a divorce — ^my full con- 
 fession of the fraud which annuls the 
 marriage. Your daughter has been 
 foully wronged — I grant it, sir; but her 
 own lips will tell you that, from the hour 
 in which she crossed this threshold, I 
 returned to my own station, and re- 
 spected hers. Pure and inviolate, as 
 when yestermom you laid your hand 
 upon her head, and blessed her, I yield 
 her back to you. For myself — I deliver 
 you for ever from my presence. An 
 outcast and a criminal, I seek some 
 distant land, where I may mourn my 
 sin, and pray for your daughter's 
 peace. Farewell — farewell to you all, 
 for ever! 
 
 Widow. Claude, Claude, you wiU not 
 leave your poor old mother? She does 
 not disown you in your sorrow — no, not 
 even in your guilt. No divorce can sep- 
 arate a mother from her son. 
 
 Pauline. This poor widow teaches me my 
 duty. No, mother, — no, for you are now 
 mi/ mother also ! — nor should any law, 
 human or divine, separate the wife from 
 her husband's sorrows. Claude — Claude 
 — all is forgotten — forgiven — I am thine 
 for ever! 
 
 Mme. Desehap. What do I hear? — Come 
 away, or never see my face again. 
 
 M. Desehap. Pauline, we never betrayed 
 you! — do you forsake us for him? 
 
 Pauline. (Going back to her father.) 
 Oh no — but you will forgive him too; 
 we will live together — he shall be your 
 son. 
 
 M. Desehap. Never! Cling to him and 
 forsake your parents! His home shall 
 be yours — his fortune yours — his fate 
 yours: the wealth I have acquired by 
 honest industry shall never enrich the 
 dishonest man. 
 
 Pauline. And you would have a wife en- 
 
774 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 joy luxury while a husband toils! 
 Claude, take me; thou canst not give me 
 wealth, titles, station — but thou canst 
 give me a true heart. I will work for 
 thee, tend thee, bear with thee, and 
 never, never shall these lips reproach 
 thee for the past. 
 
 Damas. I '11 be hanged if I am not going 
 to blubber! 
 
 Mel. This is the heaviest blow of all! — 
 What a heart I have wronged! — Do not 
 fear me, sir; I am not all hardened — I 
 will not rob her of a holier love than 
 mine. Pauline! — angel of love and 
 mercy! — your memory shall lead me 
 back to virtue ! — The husband of a being 
 so beautiful in her noble and sublime 
 tenderness may be poor — ^may be low- 
 bom; — (there is no guUt in the decrees 
 of Providence! — ^but he should be one 
 who can look thee in the face without a 
 blush, — ^to whom thy love does not bring 
 remorse, — ^who can fold thee to his heart, 
 and say, — "Here there is no deceit!" — 
 I am not that man ! 
 
 Damas. (Aside to Melnotte.) Thou art 
 a noble fellow, notwithstanding; and 
 wouldst make an excellent soldier. 
 Serve in my regiment. I have had a 
 letter from the Directory — our young 
 general takes the command of the army 
 in Italy, — I am to join him at Marseilles, 
 — I will depart this day, if thou wilt go 
 with me. 
 
 Mel. It is the favor I would have asked 
 thee, if I dared. Place me wherever a 
 foe is most dreaded, — ^wherever France 
 most needs a life! 
 
 Damas. There shall not be a forlorn hope 
 without thee! 
 
 Mel. There is my hand !-^mother, your 
 blessing. I shall see you again, — a bet- 
 ter man than a prince, — a man who has 
 bought the right to high thoughts by 
 brave deeds. And thou! — thou! so 
 wildly worshipped, so guiltily betrayed, 
 — all is not yet lost! — ^for thy memory, 
 at least, must be mine till death! If 
 I live, the name of him thou hast once 
 loved shall not rest dishonored; — if I 
 fall, amidst the carnage and the roar of 
 battle, my soul will fly back to thee, and 
 love shall share with death my last sigh! 
 — More — ^more would I speak to thee I — 
 to pray! — to bless! But no! — ^when I 
 am less unworthy I will utter it to 
 Heaven! — I cannot trust myself to — 
 (Turning to Deschappelles.) Your par- 
 
 don, sir; — ^they are my last words — 
 Farewell ! 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Damas. I will go after him. — France will 
 thank me for this. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Pauline. (Starting from her father's 
 arms. ) Claude ! — Claude !-Hiiy husband. 
 M. Deschap. You have a father still! 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Two years and a half from the date of 
 Act IV. 
 
 Scene 1. The Streets of Lyons. 
 
 (Enter First, Second, and Third Officers.) 
 
 First Officer. Well, here we are at Lyons, 
 with gallant old Damas: it is his native 
 place. 
 
 Second Officer. Yes ; he has gained a step 
 in the army since he was here last. The 
 Lyonnese ought to be very proud of 
 stout General Damas. 
 
 Third Officer. Promotion is quick in the 
 French army. This mysterious Morier, 
 — the hero of Lodi,^ and the favorite 
 of the commander-in-chief, — ^has risen to 
 a colonel's rank .in two years and a half. 
 
 (Enter Damas, as a General.) 
 
 Damas. Good morrow, gentlemen; I hope 
 you will amuse yourselves during our 
 short stay at Lyons. It is a fine city: 
 improved since I left it. Ah! it is a 
 pleasure to grow old, — ^when the years 
 that bring decay to ourselves do but 
 ripen the prosperity of our country. 
 You have not met with Morier? 
 
 First Officer. No: we were just speaking 
 of him. 
 
 Second Officer. Pray, general, can you 
 tell us who this Morier really is? 
 
 Damas. Is! — ^why a colonel in the French 
 army. 
 
 Third Officer. True. But what was he at 
 first? 
 
 Damas. At first? Why a baby in long 
 clothes, I suppose. 
 
 First Officer. Ha, ha! Ever facetious, 
 general. 
 
 Second Officer. (To Third.) The gen- 
 eral is sore upon this point; you will 
 only chafe him. — Any commands, gen- 
 eral? 
 
 Damas. None. Good day to you. 
 (Exeunt Second jmd Third Officers.) 
 
 9 At Lodi in Lombardy on the 10th May, 1796, Napoleon won « victory over the Austrians. 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 775 
 
 Damas. Our comrades are very inquisi- 
 tive. Poor Morier is the subject of a 
 vast deal of curiosity. 
 
 First Officer. Say interest, rather, gen- 
 eral. His constant melancholy, the lone- 
 liness of his habits, — ^his daring valor, 
 his brilliant rise in the profession, — ^your 
 friendship, and the favors of the com- 
 mander-in-chief, — all tend to make him 
 as much the matter of gossip as of 
 admiration. But where is he, general? 
 I have missed him all the morning. 
 
 Damas. Why, captain, I '11 let you into a 
 secret. My young friend has come with 
 me to Lyons in hopes of finding a mira- 
 cle. 
 
 First Officer. A miracle! 
 
 Damas. Yes, a miracle! in other words, — 
 a constant woman. 
 
 First Officer. Oh! an affair of love! 
 
 Damas. Exactly so. No sooner did he 
 enter Lyons than he waved his hand to 
 me, threw himself from his horse, and is 
 now, I warrant, asking every one who 
 can know anything about the matter, 
 whether a certain lady is still true to a 
 certain gentleman! 
 
 First Officer. Success to him! — and of 
 that success there can be no doubt. The 
 gallant Colonel Morier, the hero of Lodi, 
 might make his choice out of the proud- 
 est families in France. 
 
 Damas. Oh, if pride be a recommenda- 
 tion, the lady and her mother are most 
 handsomely endowed. By the way, cap- 
 tain, if you should chance to- meet with 
 Morier, tell him he will find me at the 
 hotel. 
 
 First Officer. I will, general. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Damas. Now will I go to the Deschap- 
 pelles, and make a report to my young 
 Colonel. Ha ! by Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, 
 Virorum, — here comes Monsieur Beau- 
 seant ! 
 
 {Enter Beauseant.) 
 
 Good morrow. Monsieur Beauseant ! How 
 fares it with you? 
 
 Beau. (Aside.) Damas! that is unfortu- 
 nate; — ^if the Italian campaign should 
 have filled his pockets, he may seek to 
 baffle me in the moment of my victory. 
 (Aloud.) Your servant, general, — for 
 such, I think, is your new distinction! 
 Just arrived in Lyons? 
 
 Damas. Not an hour ago. Well, how go 
 on the Deschappelles? Have they for- 
 
 given you in that affair of young Mel- 
 notte? You had some hand in that nota- 
 ble device, — eh? 
 
 Beau. Why, less than you think for! The 
 fellow imposed upon me. I have set it 
 all right now. What has become of 
 him? He could not have joined the 
 army, after all. There is no such name 
 " in the books. 
 
 Damas. 1 know nothing about Melnotte. 
 As you say, I never heard the name in 
 the Grand Army. 
 
 Beau. Hem! — You are not married, gen- 
 eral? 
 
 Damas. Do I look like a married man, 
 sir? — No, thank Heaven! My profes- 
 sion is to make widows, not wives. 
 
 Beau. You must have gained much booty 
 in Italy! Pauline will be your heiress 
 — eh?^ 
 
 Damas. Booty! Not I! Heiress to what ? 
 Two trunks and a portmanteau, — four 
 horses, — three swords, — two suits of regi- 
 mentals, and six pair of white leather 
 inexpressibles!^ A pretty fortune for 
 a young lady ! 
 
 Beau. (Aside.) Then all is safe. (Aloud.) 
 Ha ! ha ! Is that really all your capital, 
 General Damas? Why, I thought Italy 
 had been a second Mexico to you soldiers. 
 
 Damas. All a toss-up, sir. I was not one 
 of the lucky ones! My friend Morier, 
 indeed, saved something handsome. But 
 our commander-in-chief took care of 
 him, and Morier is a thrifty, economical 
 dog, — not like the rest of us soldiers, 
 who spend our money as carelessly as if 
 it were our blood. 
 
 Beau. Well, it is no matter! I do not 
 want fortune with Pauline. And you 
 must know. General Damas, that your 
 fair cousin has at length consented to 
 reward my long and ardent attachment. 
 
 Damas. You! — the devil! Why, she is 
 already married! There is no divorce! 
 
 Beau. True; but this very day she is for- 
 mally to authorize the necessary pro- 
 ceedings, — this very day she is to sign 
 the contract that is to make her mine 
 within one week from the day on which 
 her present illegal marriage is annulled. 
 
 Damas. You tell me wonders! — Wonders! 
 No ; I believe anything of women ! 
 
 Beau. I must wish you good morning. 
 (As he is going, enter Deschappelles.) 
 
 M. Deschap. Oh, Beauseant! well met. 
 Let us come to the notary at once. 
 
 Damas. (To Deschap.) Why, cousin! 
 
 7 Breeches. 
 
776 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTtTRY 
 
 M. Deschap. Damas, welcome to Lyons. 
 Pray caH on us ; my wife will be de- 
 lighted to see you. 
 
 Damas. Your wife be — blessed for her 
 condescension! But (taking him aside) 
 what do I hear? Is it possible that your 
 daughter has consented to a divorce? — 
 that she will marry Monsieur Beauseant ? 
 
 M. Deschap. Certainly! What have you 
 to say against it 1 A gentleman of birth, 
 fortune, character. We are not so 
 proud as we were ; even my wife has had 
 enough of nobility and princes ! 
 
 Damas. But Pauline loved that young 
 man so tenderly! 
 
 M. Deschap. {Taking snuff.) That was 
 two years and a half ago ! 
 
 Damas. Very true. Poor Melnotte! 
 
 M. Deschap. But do not talk of that im- 
 postor; I hope he is dead or has left the 
 country. Nay, even were he in Lyons 
 at this moment, he ought to rejoice that, 
 in an honorable and suitable alliance, 
 my daughter may forget her suflEerings 
 and his crime. 
 
 Damas. Nay, if it be all settled, I have 
 no more to say. Monsieur Beauseant 
 informs me that the contract is to be 
 signed this very day. 
 
 M. Deschap. It is; at one o'clock pre- 
 cisely. Will you be one of the wit- 
 nesses ? 
 
 Damas. I? — No; that is to say — yes, cer- 
 tainly! — at one o'clock I will wait on 
 you. 
 
 M. Deschap. Till then adieu — come, Beau- 
 seant. 
 {Exeunt Beauseant and Desehappelles.) 
 
 Damas. The man who sets his heart upon 
 a woman 
 Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air; 
 Prom air he takes his colors — ^liolds his 
 
 life,— 
 Changes with every wind, — grows lean 
 
 or fat, 
 Rosy with hope, or green with jealousy, 
 Or pallid with despair — just as the gale 
 Varies from north to south — from heat 
 
 to cold! 
 Oh,- woman ! woman ! thou shouldst have 
 
 few sins 
 Of thine own to answer for! Thou art 
 
 the author 
 Of such a book of follies in a man, 
 That it would need the tears of all the 
 
 angels 
 To blot the record out! 
 
 {Enter Melnotte, pale and agitated.) 
 
 I need not tell thee ! Thou hast heard — 
 Mel. The worst ! 
 
 I have! 
 Damas. Be eheer'd; others are fair as she 
 
 is! 
 Mel. Others! — The world is crumbled at 
 my feet! 
 She was my world; fiU'd up the whole of 
 
 being — 
 Smiled in the sunshine — walk'd the glo- 
 rious earth — 
 Sate in my heart — was the sweet life of 
 
 life. 
 The Past was hers; I dreamt not of a 
 
 Future 
 That did not wear her shape! Mem'ry 
 
 and Hope 
 Alike are gone. Pauline is faithless! 
 
 Henceforth 
 The universal space is desolate! 
 Damas. Hope yet. 
 
 Mel. Hope, yes! — one hope is left me 
 
 still— 
 A soldier's grave! Glory has died with 
 
 love. 
 I look into my heart, and, where I saw 
 Pauline, see Death! 
 
 {After a pause.) 
 — But am I not deceived? 
 I went but by the rumor of the town; 
 Rumor is false, — I was too hasty! 
 
 Damas, 
 Whom hast thou seen? 
 Damas. ^ Thy rival and her father. 
 
 Arm thyself for the truth. — He heeds 
 not— ^ 
 Mel. She 
 
 Will never know how deeply she was 
 
 loved ! 
 The charitable night, that wont to bring 
 Comfort to-day, in bright and eloquent 
 
 dreams. 
 Is henceforth leagued with misery! 
 
 Sleep, farewell, 
 Or else become eternal ! Oh, the waking 
 From false oblivion, and to see the 
 
 sun, 
 And know she is another's! 
 Damas. Be a man! 
 
 Mel. I am a man! — it is the sting of woe 
 
 Like mine that tells us we are men! 
 Damas. The false one 
 
 Did not deserve thee. 
 Mel. Hush — No word against her! 
 
 Why should she keep, through years and 
 
 silent absence, 
 The holy tablets of her Virgin faith 
 True to a traitor's name ! Oh, blame her 
 not; 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OB, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 777 
 
 It were a sharper grief to think her 
 
 worthless 
 Than to be what I am! To-day, — to- 
 day! 
 They said "To-day!" This day, so 
 
 wildly welcomed — 
 This day, my soul had singled out of 
 
 time 
 And mark'd for bliss! This day! oh, 
 
 could I see her. 
 See her once more unknown; but hear 
 
 her voice. 
 So that one echo of its music might 
 Make ruin less appalling in its silence. 
 Damas. Easily done! Come with me to 
 
 her house; 
 Your dress— your cloak — ^moustache — the 
 
 bronzed hues 
 Of time and toil — the name you bear — 
 
 belief 
 In your absence, all will ward away 
 
 suspicion. 
 Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have 
 
 .you come. 
 There may be hope! Pauline is yet so 
 
 young, 
 They may have forced her to these sec- 
 ond bridals 
 Out of mistaken love. 
 Mel. No, bid me hope not! 
 
 Bid me not hope! I could not bear 
 
 again 
 To fall from such a heaven ! One gleam 
 
 of sunshine, 
 And the ice breaks and' I am lost! Oh, 
 
 Damas, 
 There's no such thing as courage in a 
 
 man; 
 The veriest slave that ever crawl'd from 
 
 danger 
 Might spurn me now. When first I lost 
 
 her, Damas, 
 I bore it, did I not? I still had hope, 
 And now I — I — 
 
 {Bursts into an agony of grief.) 
 Damas. What, comrade! all the women 
 That ever smiled destruction on brave 
 
 hearts 
 Were not worth tears like these ! 
 Mel. 'T is past — forget it. 
 
 I am prepared; life has no farther ills! 
 The cloud has broken in that stormy 
 
 rain. 
 And on the waste I stand, alone with 
 
 Heaven. . . 
 
 Damas. His very face is changed; a 
 
 breaking heart 
 Does its work soon! — Come, Melnotte, 
 
 rouse thyself: 
 
 One effort more. Again thou 'It see her. 
 Mel. See her! 
 
 There is a passion in that simple sen- 
 tence 
 That shivers all the pride and power of 
 
 reason 
 Into a chaos! 
 Damas. Time wanes; — come, ere yet 
 
 It be too late. 
 Mel. Terrible words— "Too late!" 
 
 Lead on. One last look more, and 
 then — 
 Damas. Forget her! 
 
 Mel. Forget her! yes. — For death remem- 
 bers not. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. A room in the house of Mon- 
 sieur Deschappelles; Pauline seated in 
 great dejection.) 
 
 Pauline. It is so, then. I must be false 
 
 to Love, 
 Or sacrifice a father! Oh, my Claude, 
 My lover, and my husband! Have I 
 
 lived 
 To pray that thou mayst find some fairer 
 
 boon 
 Than the deep faith of this devoted 
 
 heart, 
 Nourish'd till now — ^now broken? 
 
 {Enter Monsieur Deschappelles.) 
 
 M. Desehap. My dear child, 
 
 How shall I thank — ^how bless thee? 
 Thou hast saved, 
 
 I will not say my fortune — ^I could bear 
 
 Reverse, and shrink not — but that 
 prouder wealth 
 
 Which merchants value most — ^my name, 
 my credit — 
 
 The hard-won honors of a toilsome 
 life:— 
 
 These thou hast saved, my child! 
 Pauline. Is there no hope? 
 
 No hope but this? 
 M. Desehap. None. If, without the sum 
 
 Which Beauseant offers for thy hand, 
 this day 
 
 Sinks to the west — to-morrow brings our 
 ruin! 
 
 And hundreds, mingled in that ruin, 
 curse 
 
 The bankrupt merchant! and the in- 
 solent herd 
 
 We feasted and made merry cry in scorn, 
 
 "How pride has fallen! — Lo, the bank- 
 rupt merchant!" 
 
778 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 My daughter, thou hast saved us! 
 Pauline. And am lost! 
 
 M. Beschap. Come, let me hope that 
 
 Beauseant's love — 
 Pauline. His love ! 
 
 Talk not of love. Love has no thought 
 
 of self! 
 Love buys not with the ruthless usurer's 
 
 gold 
 The loathsome prostitution of a hand 
 Without a heart! Love sacrifices all 
 
 things 
 To bless the thing it loves! He knows 
 
 not love. 
 Father, his love is hate — his hope re- 
 venge ! 
 My tears, my anguish, my remorse for 
 
 falsehood — 
 These are the joys he wrings from our 
 
 despair ! 
 M. Deschap. If thou deem'st thus, reject 
 
 him! Shame and ruin 
 Were better than thy misery; — ^think no 
 
 more on 't. 
 My sand is wellnigh run — ^what boots it 
 
 when 
 The glass is broken? We'll annul the 
 
 contract : 
 And if to-morrow in the prisoner's cell 
 These aged limbs are laid, why still, my 
 
 child, 
 I '11 think thou art spared ; and wait the 
 
 liberal hour 
 That lays the beggar by the side of 
 
 kings! 
 Pauline. No — ^no — forgive me! You, my 
 
 honor'd father, — 
 You, who so loved, so cherish'd me, 
 
 whose lips 
 Never knew one harsh word! I'm not 
 
 ungrateful ; 
 I am but human! — ^hush! Now, call the 
 
 bridegroom — 
 You see I am prepared — no tears — all 
 
 cahn; 
 But, father, talk no more of love! 
 M. Deschap. My child, 
 
 'Tis but one struggle; he is young, rich, 
 
 noble ; 
 Thy state will rank first 'mid the dames 
 
 of Lyons; 
 And when this heart can shelter thee no 
 
 more, 
 Thy youth will not be guardianless. 
 PauUne, I have set 
 
 My foot upon the ploughshare — I will 
 
 pass 
 The fiery ordeal. (Aside.) Merciful 
 
 Heaven, support me! 
 
 And on the absent wanderer shed the 
 
 light 
 Of happier stars — ^lost evermore to me. 
 
 (Enter Madame Desehappelles, Beauseant, 
 Glavis, and Notary.) 
 
 Mme. Deschap. Why, Pauline, you are 
 quite in deshabille — you ought to be 
 more alive to the importance of this joy- 
 ful occasion. We had once looked 
 higher, it is true; but you see, after all, 
 Monsieur Beauseant's father was a Mar- 
 quis, and that 's a g^reat comfort. Pedi- 
 gree and jointure! — ^you have them both 
 in Monsieur Beauseant. A young lady 
 decorously brought up should only have 
 two considerations in her choice of a 
 husband: first, is his birth honorable? 
 secondly, will his death be advantage- 
 ous? AH other trifling details should 
 be left to parental anxiety. 
 
 Beau. (Approaching and waving aside 
 Madame.) Ah, Pauline! let me hope 
 that you are reconciled to an event- which 
 confers such rapture upon me. 
 
 Pauline. 1 am reconciled to my doom. 
 
 Beau. Doom is a harsh word, sweet lady. 
 
 Pauline. (Aside.) This man must have 
 some mercy — his heart cannot be marble. 
 (Aloud.) Oh, sir, be just — ^be generous! 
 Seize a noble triumph — a great revenge. 
 Save the father, and spare the child. 
 
 Beau. (Aside.) Joy — joy alike to my 
 hatred and my passion! The haughty 
 Pauline is at last my suppliant. 
 (Aloud.) You ask from me what I have 
 not the sublime virtue to grant — a virr 
 tue reserved only for the gardener's son! 
 I cannot forego my hopes in the moment 
 of their fulfilment ! I adhere to the con- 
 tract — ^your father's ruin or your hand. 
 
 Pauline. Then all is over. Sir, I have 
 decided. 
 
 (The clock strikes one.) 
 
 (Enter Damas and Melnotte.) 
 
 Damas. Your servant, cousin Deschap- 
 pelles. Let me introduce Colonel Mo- 
 rier. 
 
 Mme. Deschap. (Curtsying very low.) 
 What, the celebrated hero? This is, in- 
 deed, an honor ! 
 
 (Melnotte bows, and remains in the baek- 
 grownd.) 
 
 Damas. (To Pauline.) My little cousin, 
 I congratulate you. What, no smile — ^no 
 blush? You are going to be divorced 
 from poor Melnotte, and marry this rich 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 779 
 
 gentleman. You ought to be excessively 
 happy ! 
 
 Pauline. Happy ! 
 
 Damas. Why, how pale you are, child! — 
 Poor Pauline! Hist — confide in me! 
 Do they force you to this 1 
 
 Pauline. No ! 
 
 Damas. You act with your own free con- 
 sent? 
 
 Pauline. My own consent — ^yes. 
 
 Damas. Then you are the most — I will 
 not say what you are. 
 
 Pauline. You think ill of me — be it so — 
 yet if you knew all — 
 
 Damas. There is some mystery — speak 
 out, Pauline. 
 
 Pauline. (Suddenly.) Oh, perhaps you 
 can save me! you are our relation — our 
 friend. My father is on the verge of 
 bankruptcy — this day he requires a large 
 sum to meet demands that cannot be de- 
 nied; that sum Beauseant will advance — 
 this hand the condition of the barter. 
 Save me if you have the means — save 
 me! You will be repaid above! 
 
 Damas. (Aside.) I recant — Women are 
 not so bad after all! (Aloud.) 
 Humph, child! I cannot help you — I 
 am too poor. 
 
 Pauline. The last plank to which I clung 
 is shivered! 
 
 Damas. Hold — ^you see my friend Morier: 
 Melnotte is his most intimate friend^ — 
 fought in the same fields — slept in the 
 same tent. Have you any message to 
 send to Melnotte? any word to soften 
 this blow? 
 
 Pauline. He knows Melnotte — he will see 
 him — he will bear to him my last fare- 
 well. — (Approaches Melnotte.) — He has 
 a stem air — he turns away from me — 
 he despises me ! — Sir, one word I beseech 
 you. 
 Mel. Her voice again ! How the old time 
 
 comes o'er me ! 
 Damas. (To Madame.) Don't interrupt 
 them. He is going to tell her what a 
 rascal young Melnotte is; he knows him 
 well, I promise you. 
 Mme. Deschap. So considerate in you, 
 cousin Damas! 
 
 (Damas approaches Deschappelles ; con- 
 verses apart with him in dumb show — 
 Deschappelles shows him a paper, which 
 he inspects and takes.) 
 Pauline. Thrice have I sought to speak; 
 my courage fails me. — 
 Sir, is it true that you have known — 
 nay, are 
 
 The friend of— Melnotte? 
 Mel. Lady, yes !— Myself 
 
 And misery know the man! 
 Pauline. And you will see him. 
 
 And you will bear to him — ay — ^word for 
 word. 
 
 All that this heart, which breaks in 
 parting from him. 
 
 Would send, ere still for ever. 
 Mel. He hath told me 
 
 You have the right to choose from out 
 the world 
 
 A worthier bridegroom; — he foregoes all 
 claim, 
 
 Even to murmur at his doom. Speak 
 on! 
 Pauline. Tell him, for years I never 
 nursed a thought 
 
 That was not his; — ^that on his wander- 
 ing way. 
 
 Daily and nightly, pour'd a mourner's 
 prayers. 
 
 Tell him ev'n now that I would rather 
 share 
 
 His lowliest lot, — walk by his side, an 
 outcast, — 
 
 Work for him, beg with him, — live upon 
 the light 
 
 Of one kind smile from him, — than wear 
 the crown 
 
 The Bourbon lost! 
 Mel. (Aside.) Am I already mad? 
 
 And does delirium utter such sweet 
 words 
 
 Into a dreamer's ear? (Aloud.) You 
 love him thus. 
 
 And yet desert him? 
 Pauline. Say, that, if his eye 
 
 Could read this heart, — its struggles, its 
 temptations, — 
 
 His love itself would pardon that deser- 
 tion! 
 
 Look on that poor old man, — he is my 
 father; 
 
 He stands upon the verge of an abyss ! — 
 
 He calls his child to save him! Shall I 
 shrink 
 
 From him who gave me birth? — with- 
 hold my hand. 
 
 And see a parent perish? Tell him this. 
 
 And say — that we shall meet again in 
 Heaven ! 
 Mel. (Aside.) The night is past — joy 
 Cometh with the morrow. 
 
 (Aloud.) Lady — I — I — what is this rid- 
 dle?— what 
 
 The nature of this saeriflee? 
 Pauline. (Pointing to Damas.) Go, ask 
 him! 
 
780 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Beau. {From the table.) The papers are 
 prepared — we only need 
 Tour hand and seal. 
 Mel. Stay, lady — one word more. 
 
 Were but your duty with your faith 
 
 united, 
 Would you still share the low-bom peas- 
 ant's lot? 
 Pauline. Would I? Ah, better death 
 with him I love 
 Than all the pomp — ^whieh is but as the 
 
 flowers 
 That crown the victim! — {Turning 
 away.) I am ready. 
 {Melnotte rushes to Damas.) 
 Damas. There — 
 
 This is the schedule — ^this the total. 
 Beau. {To Beschappelles, showing notes.) 
 These 
 Are yours the instant she has sign'd; 
 
 you are 
 Still the great House of Lyons! 
 {The Notary is about to hand the contract 
 to Pauline, when Melnotte seizes it and 
 tears it.) 
 Beau. Are you mad? 
 
 M. Deschap. How, sir ! What means this 
 
 insult? 
 Mel. Peace, old man ! 
 
 I have a prior claim. Before the face 
 Of man and Heaven I urge it; I out- 
 bid 
 Yon sordid huckster for your priceless 
 jewel. 
 
 {Giving a pocket-book.) 
 There is the sum twice told! Blush not 
 
 to take it: 
 There 's not a coin that is not bought 
 
 and hallow'd 
 In the cause of nations with a soldier's 
 blood! 
 Beau. Torments and death! 
 Pauline. That voice! Thou art — 
 
 Mel. Thy husband! 
 
 {Pauline rushes into his arms.) 
 Look up I Look up, Pauline ! — for I can 
 
 bear 
 Thine eyes! The stain is blotted from 
 
 my name. 
 I have redeem'd mine honor. I can 
 
 call 
 On Prance to sanction thy divine for- 
 giveness ! 
 Oh, joy! — Oh, rapture! By the mid- 
 night watehflres 
 Thus have I seen thee! thus foretold this 
 hourl 
 
 And 'midst the roar of battle, thus have 
 
 heard 
 The beating of thy heart against my 
 
 own! 
 Beau. Pool'd, duped, and triumph'd over 
 
 in the hour 
 Of mine own victory! Curses on ve 
 
 both! 
 May thorns be planted in the marriaee- 
 
 bed! 
 And love grow sour'd and blacken'd into 
 
 hate — 
 Such as the hate that gnaws me ! 
 Damas. Curse away! 
 
 And let me tell thee, Beauseant, a wise 
 
 proverb 
 The Arabs have, — "Curses are hke 
 
 young chickens, 
 {Solemnly.) And still come home to 
 
 roost !" 
 Beau. Their happiness 
 
 Maddens my soul! I am powerless and 
 
 revengeless ! 
 
 {To Madame.) 
 I wish you joy ! Ha ! ha ! the gardener's 
 
 son! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Damas. {To Glavis.) Your friend in- 
 tends to hang himself! Methinks 
 You ought to be his travelling com- 
 
 panion 
 
 Gla. Sir, you are exceedingly obliging! 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Pauline. Oh ! 
 
 My father, you are saved, — and by my 
 
 husband ! 
 Ah, blessed hour! 
 Mel. Yet you weep still, Pauline ! 
 Pauline. But on thy breast — these tears 
 
 are sweet and holy! 
 M. Deschap. You have won love and 
 honor nobly, sir! 
 Take her; — be happy both! 
 Mme. Deschap. I 'm all astonish'd ! 
 
 Who, then, is Colonel Morier? 
 Damas. You behold him! 
 
 Mel. Morier no more after this happy 
 day! 
 I would not bear again my father's name 
 Till I could deem it spotless! The 
 
 hour's come! 
 Heaven smiled on conscience! As the 
 
 soldier rose 
 Prom rank to rank, how sacred was the 
 
 fame 
 That caneell'd crime, and raised him 
 nearer thee! 
 
THE LADY OF LYONS, OR, LOVE AND PRIDE 
 
 781 
 
 Mme. Deschap. A colonel and a hero! 
 Well, that 's something ! 
 He 's_ wondrously improved ! I wish you 
 
 joy, sir 
 
 Mel. Ah! the same love that tempts us 
 into sin, 
 
 If it be true love, works out its redemp- 
 tion; 
 
 And he who seeks repentance for the 
 Past 
 
 Should woo the Angel Virtue in the Fu- 
 ture. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 Robert Browning (1812-1889), of a culti- 
 vated but unassuming family, was not a uni- 
 versity man, and gained his remarkably wide 
 knowledge, as Shakespeare did, by himself. 
 His early work he wrote especially under the 
 influence of Shelley. He published his first 
 poem, Pauline, in 1833, and The Ring and the 
 Book, his longest and greatest, in 1868-9, 
 and maintained his literary fertility till his 
 death. His most original and characteristic 
 poems are his dramatic lyrics, each the terse 
 revelation of a soul. In 1846 he married 
 Elizabeth Barrett, the poetess, and thereafter 
 lived most of the time in Florence and Venice. 
 
 A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, the most actable 
 of Browning's nine or so of dramas, was writ- 
 ten in 1843 with marvelous speed — in four 
 or five days — at the request of the actor and 
 theater-manager Macready. Owing to finan- 
 cial straits, when it came to the point the 
 latter was unwilling to put it on, but instead 
 of candidly telling Browning his difficulties, 
 behaved in an indirect and churlish manner 
 which was intended to give him a hint to with- 
 draw the play, but which Browning did not 
 understand. To foil Macready's attempts to 
 alter the play excessively, Browning had it 
 printed in a few hours, and published it as 
 No. V of Bells and Pomegranates. As a play 
 it was only moderately successful, owing 
 partly to Macready's negligence. His ill 
 conduct in the matter led to a breach in his 
 long friendship with Browning, and this re- 
 moved one of the poet's inducements to the 
 writing of drama. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 has been revived numerous times down to the 
 present, as in 1848, 1885 and 1888. 
 
 Browning had in high degree certain of 
 the qualifications of the dramatist, and 
 lacked others. Of the latter the chief is in 
 the construction of plots, which he usually, 
 as in the present case, invented. In A Blot 
 in the 'Scutcheon he admitted extraordinary 
 improbabilities. Certain of the lovers' 
 tragic errors are accounted for by their ex- 
 treme and thoughtless youth; but it is too 
 much that after Mildred had exclaimed (II. 
 i) that her lover was lost if he returned that 
 night, she should herself signal for him — 
 and' just as she was expecting him admit 
 her brother. Strange too that the keen- 
 witted Guendolen should not avert the lover's 
 coming; and that titled families with adjoin- 
 ing estates should barely know each other. 
 The song in act I, one of the very finest 
 of Browning's love-lyrics, becomes almost 
 
 ludicrous when we realize that it is sung at a 
 window-sill a great height above the groimd. 
 Elsewhere too the structure leaves something 
 to be desired. That admirable bit of insight 
 on Guendolen's part (one of the keenly 
 modern touches), her guessing that the lover 
 is Mertoun, leads to no result whatever. 
 There are also many long speeches and com- 
 paratively little action; Browning's like 
 Shelley's interest in a story was usually in 
 its psychology. The poet is not to be cen- 
 sured, though at first it shocks us, for mak- 
 ing Mildred only fourteen years old, ob- 
 viously in order to increase our tolerance 
 and sympathy for her; under former social 
 conditions people matured earlier than to- 
 day; in the Middle Ages canon law recog- 
 nized girls as marriageable at twelve. 
 
 That we notice some of these defects is al- 
 most a tribute to Browning's genius; they 
 stand out the more sharply against the 
 trenchant reality of the play. And at other 
 points it shows a wary foresight notable in a 
 work so rapidly written. There is a thrill 
 of dramatic irony in act II, scene i, where 
 the light-hearted Guendolen twice chaffs her 
 cousin in his hidden anguish about finding 
 an imaginary blot in Mertoun' s 'scutcheon; 
 and another in act I. iii., when Guendolen is 
 about to say that the women of their race are 
 all chaste, and Mildred pitifully interrupts. 
 Mildred's sudden death is made intelligible 
 by her heart-seizures earlier (I, iii, II). 
 In the first scene of all, the irascible indif- 
 ference to the approaching marriage shown 
 by old Gerard, the favorite of Mildred, who 
 used to care about the least thing " that 
 touched the House's honor," warns the seeing 
 eye that all is not sound. We are thus al- 
 lowed the pleasure, no small one, of pointed 
 surmise. But such subtleties in structure 
 are not what Browning chiefiy cared for; in 
 his dramas as in his other work, and as 
 Wordsworth said of his own poetry, it is the 
 feeling which gives importance to the inci- 
 dent, and not the incident to the feeling. 
 Emotion and personality, these are the two 
 things which made the world so inexhaustibly 
 interesting to Browning; that they are the 
 life and soul of drama, of which plot is only 
 the body, is what drew him now and again 
 to its stimulating domain. Whatever his 
 people do or leave undone, we certainly feel 
 their reality. Guendolen is the embodiment 
 of energetic sensitive life — with her merry 
 heart, her tart, chaffing tongue, her intuition, 
 
 782 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 783 
 
 her loyalty, almost a sister to Shakespeare's 
 Beatrice; alas that she had not Beatrice's 
 fortune! Thorold is the spring of the 
 action, with his nobility and love, his stiffness 
 and egoism, partly due to family pride, partly 
 adopted to hold in his nervous impulsive na- 
 ture, tense at times with the strain between 
 his agitation and his self-control. He de- 
 ceives himself; he is far less moved by 
 brotherly love than by his notion of dignity. 
 His worship of family honor is not intelli- 
 gently and reasonably woven into his whole 
 view of the world, it is a superstitious re- 
 ligion which must not be adapted or dis- 
 cussed. He had half-meant to expose his sis- 
 ter to Austin and Guendolen even before he 
 learned the supposed culmination of her 
 shame, her apparent resolve to marry yet to 
 keep her lover. His reckless impulsiveness 
 in calling in the two to face her makes in- 
 telligible his suddenness in killing Mertoun. 
 Mildred and Mertoun are far less individu- 
 alized, and justly so. They are high-bred 
 emotional youth, and nothing else, the em- 
 bodiment of an ever-recurring human tragedy : 
 
 Alas, alas, that ever love was sin I 
 Over and over again their youth wins our 
 compassion where they would excite only im- 
 patience if they were adult. Their hateful 
 false position requires of them the very thing 
 their lack of which got them into it — cool 
 wariness, worldly wisdom. They cannot nerve 
 themselves to the brief sharp necessities of 
 their situation. Mertoun at his first appear- 
 ance half-betrays himself to Austin, who sees 
 through his unskilful feigning. His boyish 
 hero-worship for Thorold, of which he tells 
 him as he is dying, makes the cool hypocrisy 
 required of him at their first meeting doubly 
 impossible to him. The lovers' childish wil- 
 fulness and impatience in planning another 
 secret meeting brings their death; Mildred's 
 childish timorous procrastination of her in- 
 terview with her brother brings their death. 
 Her moment of caution when she tries to call 
 Mertoun back is defeated by his being out of 
 hearing of her low voice. The play is wholly 
 a tragedy of human individualities, not of so- 
 cial conditions or of any particular age. It 
 is vaguely in the not very remote past, an 
 age of coaches ' and periwigs, long cloaks, 
 swords and even cross-bows; in the eighteenth 
 century, Browning says. But externals 
 are unimportant; there is nothing arbitrary. 
 The strength of the play as a tragedy is that 
 the ruin is not due to chance, but follows re- 
 morselessly from the personalities involved, 
 from the clash of Thorold's unthinking and 
 impetuous sense of honor with Mildred's, and 
 
 Mertoun's, unthinking youth and impetuous 
 love. Brother and sister have traits in com- 
 mon; the tragedy is a family tragedy. It is 
 the more intense because all the characters 
 have our sympathy, and all rise to the highest 
 dignity at their ending. We admire Mertoxm 
 for passing from submission to severity in his 
 last words to Thorold, and Mildred for pass- 
 ing from severity to submission. But the 
 intensity is most of all due to the sense of 
 the Heedlessness of the ruin. As in the tragic 
 story of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini in 
 the fifth canto of Dante's Inferno, a way- 
 ward twist has defeated what should have 
 been beauty and happiness. 
 
 In style the play shows Browning at his 
 simplest. Aware that he must be instantly 
 understood, he obviously strove to avoid the 
 close-packed intricacy ■ and subtlety of much 
 of his poetry. There is a little of it, as even 
 the actors have felt. Mr. Charles Fry, who 
 was concerned in one of the last revivals dur- 
 ing Browning's life, told the present editor in 
 1911 a characteristic anecdote. At a re- 
 hearsal Mr. Fry said to the poet, " Mr. 
 Browning, I fear you will think me very 
 stupid, but I don't understand the meaning 
 of this line I have to speak." Browning took 
 the book and looked at it, and said, " Dear me, 
 I don't know what it means." Browning 
 never liked to give the impression of taking 
 his own work over-seriously ; still, the re- 
 mark may console some of those whom he has 
 puzzled. There is but little, however, of such 
 trouble in this play. It abounds in passages 
 of significant brevity and simple distinction. 
 Few poets have oftener rivaled Shakespeare 
 in the dramatic nerve of his style. 
 
 There could hardly be a greater contrast 
 than between this play and The Lady of 
 ijjyons, even aside from their difference in ex- 
 cellence; yet both well illustrate the drama 
 of the nineteenth century. The interest of the 
 latter play is dispersed, is in the plot and 
 external showy incident; the characters are 
 little studied, the morals popular and super- 
 ficial, the style and the general type of play 
 unoriginal and traditional. The interest in 
 Browning's play is condensed, intense, and in- 
 ternal; is in the expression and clash of 
 personalities. As we see in The Lady of 
 Lyons certain of the literary currents and 
 tastes of the century, we see here its freedom 
 from the literary orthodoxies and compulsion 
 which have so largely controlled the earlier 
 drama, and withheld so many men trom fully 
 expressing their larger selves. We may see 
 here the modern. love of concrete truth rather 
 than of preconceived ideals. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 MlIJJRED TkESHAM. 
 GUENDOLEN TeESHAM. 
 
 Thobold, Earl Tresham. 
 Austin Teesham. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. The interior of a lodge in 
 Lord Tresham's park. Many Retainers 
 crowded at the window, supposed to com- 
 mand a view of the entrance to his man- 
 sion. Gerard, the warrener, his back to a 
 table on which are flagons, etc. 
 
 1st Retainer. Ay, do! push, friends, and 
 then you'll push down me! 
 
 —What for? Does any hear a runner's 
 foot 
 
 Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's 
 cry? 
 
 Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant? 
 
 But there 's no breeding in a man of you 
 
 Save Gerard yonder : here 's a half -place 
 
 yet, 
 
 Old Gerard! 
 Gerard. Save your courtesies, my friend. 
 
 Here is my place. 
 2nd Bet. Now, Gerard, out with it ! 
 
 What makes you sullen, this of all the 
 
 days 
 I' the year? To-day that young rich 
 
 bountiful 
 Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone 
 
 they match 
 With our Lord Tresham through the 
 
 countryside, 
 Is coming here in utmost bravery ^ 
 To ask our master's sister's hand ? 
 Ger. What then? 
 
 2nd Ret. What then? Why, you, she 
 
 speaks to, if she meets 
 Tour worship, smiles on as you hold 
 
 apart 
 The boughs to let her through her forest 
 
 walks, 
 You, always favorite for your no-deserts, 
 You 've heard, these three days, how Earl 
 
 Mertoun sues 
 
 1 splendor. 
 
 Henry, Earl Mertoun. 
 
 Gerabd, and other retainers of Lord Tresham. 
 
 Time, 17—. 
 
 To lay his heart and house and broad 
 
 lauds too 
 At Lady Mildred's feet: and while we 
 
 squeeze 
 Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss 
 One congee ^ of the least page in his 
 
 train, 
 You sit o' one side — "there's the Earl," 
 
 say I— 
 "What then?" say you! 
 3rd Ret. I '11 wager he has let 
 
 Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred 
 
 swim 
 Over the falls and gain the river! 
 Ger. Ralph, 
 
 Is not to-morrow my inspeeting-day 
 For you and for your hawks? 
 4th Ret. Let Gerard be ! 
 
 He 's coarse-grained, like his carved black 
 
 cross-bow stock. 
 Ha, look now, while we squabble with 
 
 him, look! 
 Well done, now — ^is not this beginning, 
 
 now. 
 To purpose? 
 1st Ret. Our retainers look as fine — 
 
 That's comfort. Lord, how. Richard 
 
 holds himself 
 With his white staff! Will not a knave 
 
 behind 
 Prick him upright? 
 4th Ret. He's only bowing, fool! 
 
 The Earl's man bent us lower by this 
 
 much. 
 1st Ret. That's comfort. Here's a very 
 
 cavalcade ! 
 3rd Ret. I don't see wherefore Richard, 
 
 and his troop 
 Of silk and silver varlets there, should 
 
 find 
 Their perfumed selves so indispensable 
 On high days, holidays! Would it so 
 
 disgrace 
 
 2 salutation, obeisance. 
 
 784 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 785 
 
 Our family, if I, for instance, stood — 
 In my right hand a cast of Swedish 
 
 hawks, 
 A- leash of greyhounds in my left? — 
 Ger. —With Hugh 
 
 The logman for supporter, in his right 
 The bill-hook, in his left the brushwood- 
 shears ! 
 3rd Bet. Out on you, crab ! What next, 
 
 what next? The Earl! 
 1st Bet. Oh Walter, groom, our horses, 
 
 do they match 
 The Earl's? Alas, that first pair of the 
 
 six — 
 They paw the ground — Ah Walter! and 
 
 that brute 
 Just on his haunches by the wheel ! 
 6th Bet. Ay— ay! 
 
 You, Philip, axe a special hand, I hear, 
 At soups and sauces : what 's a horse to 
 
 you? 
 D'ye mark that beast they've slid into 
 
 the midst 
 So cunningly? — ^then, Philip, mark this 
 
 further; 
 No leg has he to stand on ! 
 1st Bet. No? That's comfort. 
 
 2nd Bet. Peace, Cook! The Earl de- 
 scends. Well, Gerard, see 
 The Earl at least ! Come, there 's a 
 
 proper man, 
 I hope ! Why, Ealph, no falcon, Pole or 
 
 Swede, 
 Has got a starrier eye. 
 3rd Bet. His eyes are blue: 
 
 But leave my hawks alone ! 
 4th Bet. So young, and yet 
 
 So tall and shapely ! 
 Sth Bet. Here 's Lord Tresham's self ! 
 
 There now — there's what a nobleman 
 
 should be ! 
 He 's older, graver, loftier, he 's more like 
 A House's head. 
 2nd Bet. But you 'd not have a boy 
 
 — And what's the Earl beside? — possess 
 
 too soon 
 That stateliness? 
 1st Bet. Our master takes his hand- 
 Richard and his white staff are on the 
 
 move — 
 Back fall our people — (tsh! — there's 
 
 Timothy 
 Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties, 
 And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming 
 
 off!) 
 — ^At last I see our lord's back and his 
 
 friend's ; 
 And the whole beautiful bright company 
 Close round them — in they go ! 
 
 (Jumping down from the window-bench, 
 and making for the table and its jugs.) 
 
 Good health, long life, 
 Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his 
 House ! 
 6th Bet. My father drove his father first 
 to court. 
 After his marriage day — ay, did he ! 
 2nd Bet. God bless 
 
 Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the 
 
 Earl! 
 Here, Gerard, reach your beaker ! 
 Ger, Drink, my boys ! 
 
 Don't mind me — all 's not right about me 
 — drink ! 
 2nd Bet. [Aside.) He 's vexed, now, that 
 he let the show escape ! 
 (To Gerard.) Remember that the Earl 
 returns this way. 
 Ger. That way? 
 2nd Bet. Just so. 
 Ger. Then my way 's here. 
 
 (Goes.) 
 2nd Bet. Old Gerard 
 
 Will die soon — mind, I said it ! He was 
 
 used 
 To care about the pitifuUest thing 
 That touched the House's honor, not an 
 
 eye 
 But his could see wherein: and on a 
 
 cause 
 Of scarce a quarter this import^ce, 
 
 Gerard 
 Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away 
 In cares that this was right, nor that was 
 
 wrong, 
 Such point decorous, and such square by 
 
 rule — 
 He knew such niceties, no herald more: 
 And now — you see his humor: die he 
 wiU! 
 [1st] Bet. God help him ! Who 's for the 
 great servants'-hall 
 To hear what 's going on inside ? They 'd 
 follow 
 Lord Tresham into the saloon. 
 3rd Bet. I!— 
 
 4th Bet. I!— 
 
 Leave Frank alone for catching, at the 
 
 door. 
 Some hint of how the parley goes inside ! 
 Prosperity to the great House once more ! 
 Here 's the last drop ! 
 1st Bet. Have at you ! Boys, hurrah ! 
 
 Scene 2. A Saloon in the Mansion. 
 
 (Enter Lord Tresham, Lord Mertoun, Aus- 
 tin, and Guendolen.) 
 
786 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTTIRY 
 
 Tresham. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, 
 
 yet once more, 
 To this ancestral roof of mine. Your 
 
 name 
 — Noble among the noblest in itself, 
 Yet taking in your person, fame avers, 
 New price and lustre, — (as that gem you 
 
 wear. 
 Transmitted from a hundred knightly 
 
 breasts. 
 Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last 
 
 lord, 
 Seems to re-kindle at the core) — ^your 
 
 name 
 Would win you welcome! — 
 Mertoun. Thanks ! 
 
 Tres. — But add to that. 
 
 The worthiness and grace and dignity 
 Of your proposal for uniting both 
 Our Houses even closer than respect 
 Unites them now — add these, and you 
 
 must grant 
 One favor more, nor that the least, — ^to 
 
 think 
 The welcome I should give ; — 't is given ! 
 
 My lord. 
 My only brother, Austin : he 's the king's. 
 Our cousin, Lady Guendolen — ^betrothed 
 To Austin : all are yours. 
 Mert. I thank you — ^less 
 
 For the expressed commendings which 
 
 your seal. 
 And only that, authenticates — forbids 
 My putting from me ... to my heart I 
 
 take 
 Your praise . . . but praise less claims 
 
 my gratitude. 
 Than the indulgent insight it implies 
 Of what must needs be uppermost with 
 
 one 
 Who comes, like me, with the bare leave 
 
 to ask, 
 In weighed and measured unimpassioned 
 
 words, 
 A gift, which, if as calmly 't is denied. 
 He must withdraw, content upon his 
 
 cheek. 
 Despair within his soul. That I dare ask 
 Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence 
 That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, 
 
 Lord Tresham, 
 I love your sister — as you'd have one 
 
 love 
 That lady ... oh more, more I love her ! 
 
 Wealth, 
 Rank, all the world thinks me, they're 
 
 yours, you know, 
 To hold or part with, at your choice — 
 
 but grant 
 
 My true self, me without a rood of land, 
 A piece of gold, a name of yesterday, 
 Grant me that lady, and you . . . Death 
 or life? 
 Guendolen. {Apart to Austin.) Why, this 
 
 is loving, Austin! 
 
 Austin. He's so young! 
 
 Guen. Young? Old enough, I think, to 
 
 half surmise 
 
 He never had obtained an entrance here, 
 
 Were all this fear and trembling needed. 
 
 Aust. Hush! 
 
 He reddens. 
 Guen. Mark him, Austin; that's 
 
 true love ! 
 Ours must begin again. 
 Tres, We '11 sit, my lord. 
 
 Ever with best desert goes diffidence. 
 I may speak plainly nor be misconceived. 
 That I am wholly satisfied with you 
 On this occasion, when a falcon's eye 
 Were dull compared with mine to search 
 
 out faults. 
 Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to 
 
 give 
 Or to refuse. 
 Mert. But you, you grant my suit? 
 
 I have your word if hers ? 
 Tres. My best of words 
 
 If hers encourage you. I trust it will. 
 Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way ? 
 Mert. I . . . I . . . our two demesnes, re- 
 member, touch; 
 I have been used to wander carelessly 
 After my stricken game: the heron 
 
 roused 
 Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken 
 
 wing 
 Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours, — 
 
 or else 
 Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight 
 And lured me after her from tree to tree, 
 I marked not whither. I have come upon 
 The lady's wondrous beauty unaware. 
 And — and then ... I have seen her. 
 Guen. {Aside to Austin.) Note that mode 
 Of faltering out that, when a lady passed. 
 He, having eyes, did see her ! You had 
 
 "On such a day I scanned her, head to 
 
 foot; 
 Observed a red, where red should not 
 
 have been, 
 Outside her elbow; but was pleased 
 
 enough 
 Upon the whole." Let such irreverent 
 
 talk 
 Be lessoned for the future ! 
 Tres. What's to say 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 787 
 
 May be said briefly. She has never 
 
 known 
 A mother's care; I stand for father too. 
 Her beauty is not strange to you, it 
 
 seems — 
 You cannot know the good and tender 
 
 heart, 
 Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy. 
 How pure yet passionate, how calm yet 
 
 kind. 
 How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet 
 
 free 
 As light where friends are — ^how imbued 
 
 with lore 
 The world most prizes, yet the simplest, 
 
 yet 
 The . . . one might know I talked of 
 
 Mildred — thus 
 We brothers talk! 
 Mert. I thank you. 
 
 Tres. In a word, 
 
 Control 's not for this lady ; but her wish 
 To please me outstrips in its subtlety 
 My power of being pleased: herself 
 
 creates 
 The want she means to satisfy. My 
 
 heart 
 Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its 
 
 own. 
 Can I say more ? 
 Mert. No more — thanks, thanks 
 
 — no more! 
 Tres. This matter then discussed . . . 
 Mert. — We '11 waste no breath 
 
 On aught less precious. I 'm beneath 
 
 the roof 
 Which holds her : while I thought of that, 
 
 my speech 
 To you would wander — as it must not 
 
 do, 
 Since as you favor me I stand or fall, 
 I pray you suffer that I take my leave ! 
 Tres. With less regret 'tis suffered, that 
 
 again 
 We meet, I hope, so shortly. 
 Mert. Wei again? — 
 
 Ah, yes, forgive me — ^when shall . . . 
 
 you will crown 
 Your goodness by forthwith apprising me 
 When . . . if . . . the lady will appoint 
 
 a day 
 For me to wait on you — and her. 
 Tres. So soon 
 
 As I am made acquainted with her 
 
 thoughts 
 On your proposal— howsoe'er they lean — 
 A messenger shall bring you the result. 
 Mert. You cannot bind me more to you, 
 
 my lord. 
 
 Earewell till we renew ... I trust, re- 
 new 
 
 A converse ne'er to disunite again. 
 Tres. So may it prove! 
 Mert. You, lady, you, sir, take 
 
 My humble salutation ! 
 Guen. and Aust. Thanks ! 
 
 Tres. Within there ! 
 
 {Servants enter. Tresham conducts Mer- 
 toun to the door. Meantime Austin re- 
 marks,) 
 
 Well, 
 Here I have an advantage of the Earl, 
 Confess now ! I 'd not think that all was 
 
 Because my lady's brother stood my 
 
 friend ! 
 Why, he makes sure of her — "do you say, 
 
 yes- 
 She '11 not say, no," — what comes it to 
 
 beside ? 
 I should have prayed the brother, "speak 
 
 this speech. 
 For Heaven's sake urge this on her — 
 
 put in this — 
 Forget not, as you'd save me, t' other 
 
 thing,— 
 Then set down what she says, and how 
 
 she looks. 
 And if she smiles, and" (in an under 
 
 breath) 
 "Only let her accept me, and do you 
 And all the world refuse me, if you 
 
 dare !" 
 Guen. That way you'd take, friend 
 
 Austin? What a shame 
 I was your cousin, tamely from the first 
 Your bride, and all this fervor's run to 
 
 waste ! 
 Do you know you speak sensibly to-day? 
 The Earl 's a fool. 
 Aust. Here 's Thorold. Tell him so ! 
 
 Tres. {returning.) Now, voices, voices! 
 
 'St! the lady's first! 
 How seems he? — seems he not . . . 
 
 come, faith give fraud 
 The mercy-Stroke whenever they engage ! 
 Down with fraud, up with faith! How 
 
 seems the Earl? 
 A name! a blazon! if you knew their 
 
 worth, 
 As you will never! come — the Earl? 
 GMen. He's young. 
 
 Tres. What's she? an infant save in heart 
 
 and brain. 
 Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! 
 
 and you . . . 
 Austin, how old is she? 
 
788 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Guen. There 's tact for you ! 
 
 I meant that being young was good ex- 
 cuse 
 If one should tax him . . . 
 Tres. Well"? 
 
 Guen. — With lacking wit. 
 
 Tres. He lacked wit? Where might he 
 
 lack wit, so please you? 
 Guen. In standing straighter than the 
 steward's rod 
 And making you the tiresomest harangue, 
 Instead of slipping over to my side 
 And softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet 
 
 lady, 
 Your cousin there will do me detriment 
 He little dreams of: he's absorbed, I 
 
 see. 
 In my old name and fame — be- sure he '11 
 
 leave 
 My Mildred, when his best account of 
 
 me 
 Is ended, in full confidence I wear 
 My grandsire's periwig down either 
 
 cheek. 
 I'm lost unless your gentleness vouch- 
 safes" . . . 
 Tres. . . . "To give a best of best accounts, 
 yourself. 
 Of me and my demerits." You are 
 
 right! 
 He should have said what now I say for 
 
 him. 
 Yon golden creature, will you help us all? 
 Here 's Austin means to vouch for much, 
 
 but you 
 — You are . . . what Austin only knows ! 
 
 Come up. 
 All three of us : she 's in the library 
 No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. 
 Precede ! 
 Guen. Austin, how we must — ! 
 Tres. Must what? Must speak truth, 
 
 Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in 
 
 him! 
 I challenge you ! 
 Guen. Witchcraft's a fault in him. 
 
 For you 're bewitched. 
 Tres. What's urgent we obtain 
 
 Is, that she soon receive him — say, to- 
 morrow — 
 Next day at furthest. 
 Guen. Ne'er instruct me! 
 
 Tres. Come ! 
 
 — He's out of your good graces, s'ince 
 
 forsooth. 
 He stood not as he'd carry us by storm 
 With his perfections! You're for the 
 composed 
 
 Manly assured becoming confidence! 
 — Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I'll 
 
 give you . . . 
 I'll give you black Urganda, to be 
 
 spoiled 
 With petting and snail-paces. Will you? 
 
 Come! 
 
 Scene 3. Mildred's chamber. A painted 
 window overlooks the park. Mildred and 
 Gwendolen. 
 
 Guendolen. Now, Mildred, spare those 
 
 pains. I have not left 
 Our talkers in the library, and climbed 
 The wearisome ascent to this your bower 
 In company with you, — I have not 
 
 dared . . . 
 Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing 
 
 you 
 Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood. 
 Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell 
 — Or bringing Austin to pluck up that 
 
 most 
 Firm-rooted heresy — ^your suitor's eyes, 
 -He would maintain, were gray instead of 
 
 blue— 
 I think I brought him to contrition! — 
 
 Well, 
 I have not done such things, (all to de- 
 serve 
 A minute's quiet cousin's talk with you,) 
 To be dismissed so coolly. 
 Mildred. Guendolen ! 
 
 What have I done? what could sug- 
 
 Guen. There, there! 
 
 Do I not comprehend you 'd be alone 
 
 To throw those testimonies in a heap, 
 
 Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities. 
 
 With that poor silly heartless Guendo- 
 len's 
 
 Ill-timed misplaced attempted smart- 
 nesses — 
 
 And sift their sense out? now, I come to 
 spare you 
 
 Nearly a whole night's labor. Ask and 
 have! 
 
 Demand, be answered! Lack I ears and 
 eyes? 
 
 Am I perplexed which side of the rock- 
 table 
 
 The Conqueror dined on when he landed 
 first, 
 
 Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden 
 take — 
 
 The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great 
 meed ? ' 
 
 SI. e., did his ancestor sit on William the Conqueror's left or right hand at their first meal in Eng- 
 land, on the shore at Hastings? 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 789 
 
 Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes ! 
 Mil. My brother — 
 
 Did he . . . you said that he received 
 him well? 
 Guen. If I said only "well" I said not 
 much. 
 Oh, stay — ^which brother? 
 Mil. Thorold ! who — who else ? 
 
 Guen. Thorold (a secret) is too proud by 
 half,— 
 Nay, hear me out — with us he's even 
 
 gentler 
 Than we are with our birds. Of this 
 
 great House 
 The least retainer that e'er caught his 
 
 glance 
 Would die for him, real dying — no mere 
 
 talk: 
 And in the world, the court, if men 
 
 would cite 
 The perfect spirit of honor, Thorold's 
 
 name 
 Rises of its clear nature to their lips. 
 But he should take men's homage, trust 
 
 in it. 
 And care no more about what drew it 
 
 down. 
 He has desert, and that, acknowledg- 
 ment; 
 Is he content ? 
 Mil. You wrong him, Guendolen. 
 
 Guen. He 's proud, confess ; so proud with 
 brooding o'er 
 The light of his interminable Une, 
 An ancestry with men all paladins, 
 And women all . . . 
 Mil. Dear Guendolen, 't is late! 
 
 When yonder purple pane the climbing 
 
 moon 
 Pierces, I know 't is midnight. 
 Guen. Well, that Thorold 
 
 Should rise up from such musings, and 
 
 receive 
 One come audaciously to graft himself 
 Into this peerless stock, yet And no flaw. 
 No slightest spot in such an one . . . 
 Mil. Who finds 
 
 A spot in Mertoun? 
 Guen. Not your brother; therefore. 
 
 Not the whole world. 
 Mil. I am weary, Guendolen. 
 
 Bear with me ! 
 Guen. I am foolish^ 
 
 Mil. Oh no, kind ! 
 
 But I would rest. 
 Guen. Good night and rest to you ! 
 
 I said how gracefully his mantle lay 
 Beneath the rings of his light hair? 
 Mil. Brown hair. 
 
 Guen. Brown? why, it is brown: how 
 
 could you know that? 
 Mil. How? did not you — Oh, Austin 
 't was, declared 
 His hair was light, not brown — my head ! 
 
 — and look, 
 The moon-beam purpling the dark cham- 
 ber ! Sweet, 
 Good night ! 
 Guen. Forgive me — sleep the soundlier 
 for me ! . 
 
 (Going, she turns suddenly.) 
 Mildred ! 
 Perdition! all's discovered! Thorold. 
 
 finds 
 — That the Earl's greatest of all grand- 
 mothers 
 Was grander daughter still — to that fair 
 
 dame 
 Whose garter slipped down at the famous 
 dance ! 
 
 (Goes.) 
 Mil. Is she — can she be really gone at 
 last? 
 My heart! I shall not reach the window. 
 
 Needs 
 Must I have sinned much, so to suffer. 
 {She lifts the small lamp which is sus- 
 pended before the Virgin's image in the 
 window, and places it by the purple 
 pane.) , 
 
 There ! 
 (She returns to the seat in front.) 
 Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred, with 
 
 consent 
 Of all the world and Thorold, Mertoun's 
 
 bride! 
 Too late ! 'T is sweet to think of, sweeter 
 
 still 
 To hope for, that this blessed end soothes 
 
 up 
 The curse of the beginning; but I know 
 It comes too late: 'twill sweetest be of 
 
 all 
 To dream my soul away and die upon. 
 
 (A noise without.) 
 The voice! Oh why, why glided sin the 
 
 snake 
 Into the paradise Heaven meant us both ? 
 (The window opens softly. A low voice 
 ' '■) 
 
 There 's a woman like a dew-drop, she 's 
 
 so purer than the purest; 
 And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, 
 
 and her sure faith 's the surest : 
 And her eyes are dark and humid, like 
 
 the depth on depth of lustre 
 
790 
 
 THE NINETEENTH' CENTURY 
 
 Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, 
 sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, 
 
 Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her 
 neck's rose-misted marble: 
 
 Then her voice 's music . . . call it the 
 well's bubbling, the bird's warble! 
 
 (A figure wrapped in a mantle appears 
 (at the window.) 
 
 And this woman says, "My days were 
 sunless and my nights were moon- 
 less. 
 
 Parched the pleasant April herbage, and 
 the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless. 
 
 If you loved me not!" And I who — 
 (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, 
 
 Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate 
 palpably before her — 
 
 {He enters, approaches her seat, and 
 bends over her.) 
 
 I may enter at her portal soon, as now 
 
 her lattice takes me, 
 And by noontide as by midnight make 
 
 her mine, as hers she makes me! 
 
 (The Earl throws off his slouched hat 
 and long cloak.) 
 
 My very heart sings, so I sing, Beloved ! 
 Mil. Sit, Henry — do not take my hand! 
 Mertoun. 'T is mine. 
 
 The meeting that' appalled us both so 
 
 much 
 Is ended. 
 Mil. What begins now'! 
 Mert. Happiness 
 
 Such as the world contains not. 
 Mil. That is it. 
 
 Our happiness would, as you say, exceed 
 The whole world's best of blisses: we — 
 
 do we 
 Deserve that? Utter to your soul, what 
 
 mine 
 Long since, Beloved, has grown used to 
 
 hear, 
 Like a death-knell, so much regarded 
 
 once. 
 And so familiar now; this will not be! 
 Mert. Oh, Mildred, have I met your 
 
 brother's face? 
 Compelled myself — if not to speak un- 
 truth. 
 Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside 
 The truth, as — ^what had e'er prevailed 
 
 on me 
 Save you, to yenture? Have I gained at 
 
 last 
 Your brother, the one scarer of your 
 
 dreams, 
 
 And waking thoughts' sole apprehension 
 
 too? 
 Does a new life, like a young sunrise, 
 
 break 
 On the strange unrest of our night, con- 
 fused 
 With rain and stormy flaw — and will you 
 
 see 
 No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted 
 
 drops 
 On each live spray, no vapor steaming 
 
 up, . 
 And no expressless glory in the East ? 
 When I am by you, to be ever by you. 
 When I have won you and may worship 
 
 you, 
 Oh, Mildred, can you say "this will not 
 
 be"? 
 Mil. Sin has surprised us, so will punish- 
 ment. 
 Mert. No — me alone, who sinned alon«! 
 Mil. The night 
 
 You likened our past life to — ^was it 
 
 storm 
 Throughout to you then, Henry? 
 Mert. Of your life 
 
 I spoke — ^what am I, what my life, to 
 
 waste 
 A thought about when you are by me? — 
 
 you 
 It was, I said my folly called the storm 
 And pulled the night upon. 'Twas day 
 
 with me — 
 Perpetual dawn with me. 
 Mil. Come, what come wUl, 
 
 You have been happy : take my hand ! 
 Mert. (after a pause.) How good 
 
 Your brother is ! I figured him a cold — 
 Shall I say, haughty man? 
 Mil. They told me all. 
 
 I know all. 
 Mert. It will soon be over. 
 
 Mil. Over? 
 
 Oh, what is over? what must I live 
 
 through 
 And say, " 't is over" ? Is our meeting 
 
 over? 
 Have I received in presence of them all 
 The partner of my guilty love — with 
 
 brow 
 Trying to seem a maiden's brow — ^with 
 
 lips 
 Which make believe that when they strive 
 
 to form 
 Replies to you and tremble as they 
 
 strive. 
 It is the nearest ever they approached 
 A stranger's . . . Henry, yours that 
 
 stranger's . , . lip — 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 791 
 
 With cheek that looks a virgin's, and 
 
 that is . . . 
 Ah, God, some prodigy of thine will 
 
 stop 
 This planned piece of deliberate wicked- 
 ness 
 In its birth even ! some fierce leprous 
 
 spot 
 Will mar the brow's dissimulating! I 
 Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by 
 
 heart, 
 But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful 
 
 story, 
 The love, the shame, and the despair — 
 
 with them 
 Round me aghast as round some cursed 
 
 fount 
 That should spirt water, and spouts 
 
 blood. I '11 not 
 . . . Henry, you do not wish that I 
 
 should draw 
 This vengeance down? I'll not affect a 
 
 grace 
 That's gone from me — gone once, and 
 gone for ever ! 
 Mert. Mildred, my honor is your own. 
 I'll share 
 Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. 
 A word informs your brother I retract 
 This morning's offer; time will yet bring 
 
 forth 
 Some better way of saving both of us. 
 Mil. I '11 meet their faces, Henry ! 
 Mert. When? to-morrow! 
 
 Get done with it ! 
 Mil. Oh, Henry, not to-morrow! 
 
 Next day! I never shall prepare my 
 
 words 
 And looks and gestures sooner. — ^How 
 
 you must 
 Despise me ! 
 Mert. Mildred, break it if you choose, 
 
 A heart the love of you uplifted — still 
 Uplifts, thro' this protracted agony, 
 To heaven! but Mildred, answer me, — 
 
 first pace 
 The chamber with me — once again — 
 
 now, say 
 Calmly the part, the . . . what it is of 
 
 me 
 You see contempt (for you did say con- 
 tempt) 
 — Contempt for you in ! I will pluck 
 
 it off 
 And cast it from me ! — ^but no — no, you '11 
 
 not 
 Repeat that? — ^will you, Mildred, repeat 
 that? 
 Mil. Dear Henry ! 
 
 Mert. I was scarce a boy — e'en now 
 
 What am I more? And you were in- 
 fantine 
 When first I met you; why, your hair fell 
 
 loose 
 On either side ! My f ool's-eheek reddens 
 
 now 
 Only in the recalling how it burned 
 That morn to see the shape of many a 
 
 dream — 
 You know we boys are prodigal of 
 
 charms 
 To her we dream of — I had heard of 
 
 one, 
 Had dreamed of her, and I was close to 
 
 her, 
 Might speak to her, might live and die 
 
 her own. 
 Who knew ? I spoke. Oh, Mildred, feel 
 
 you not 
 That now, while I remember every 
 
 glance 
 Of yours, each word of yours, with 
 
 power to test 
 And weigh them in the diamond scales of 
 
 pride, 
 Resolved the treasure of a first and last 
 Heart's love shall have been bartered at 
 
 its worth, 
 — That now I think upon your purity 
 And utter ignorance of guilt — ^your own 
 Or other's guilt — the girlish undisguised 
 Delight at a strange novel prize — (I talk 
 A silly language, but interpret, you!) 
 If I, with fancy at its full, and reason 
 Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, 
 If you had pity on my passion, pity 
 On my protested sickness of the soul 
 To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and 
 
 watch 
 Your eyelids and the eyes beneath — ^if 
 
 you 
 Accorded gifts and knew not they were 
 
 gifts — 
 If I grew mad at last with enterprise 
 And must behold my beauty in her bower 
 Or perish — (I was ignorant of even 
 My own desires — ^what then were you?) 
 
 if sorrow — 
 Sin — if the end came — must I now re- 
 nounce 
 My reason, blind myself to light, say 
 
 truth 
 Is false and lie to God and my own 
 
 soul? 
 Contempt were all of this! 
 Mil. Do you believe. . . . 
 
 Or, Henry, I 'U pot wrong you — you be- 
 lieve 
 
792 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 
 
 That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve 
 
 o'er 
 The past. We'll love on; you will love 
 
 me still. 
 Mert. Oh, to love less what one has in- 
 jured! Dove, 
 Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my 
 
 breast — 
 Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee 
 
 into strength? 
 Flower I have crushed, shall I not care 
 
 for thee? 
 Bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark and 
 
 device ! 
 Mildred, I love you and you love me. 
 Mil. Go! 
 
 Be that your last word. I shall sleep to- 
 night. 
 Mert. This is not our last meeting? 
 Mil. One night more. 
 
 Mert. And then — think, then! 
 Mil. Then, no sweet courtship-days, 
 
 No dawning consciousness of love for 
 
 us, 
 No strange and palpitating births of 
 
 sense 
 From words and looks, no innocent fears 
 
 and hopes. 
 Reserves and confidences: morning's 
 
 over! 
 Mert. How else should love's perfected 
 
 noon-tide follow? 
 All the dawn promised shall the day per- 
 form. 
 
 Mil. So may it be! but 
 
 You are cautious. Love? 
 Are sure that unobserved yon scaled the 
 
 walls? 
 Mert. Oh, trust me! Then our final 
 
 meeting 's fixed 
 To-morrow night? 
 Mil. Farewell! Stay, Henry . . . 
 
 wherefore? 
 His foot is on the yew-tree bough; the 
 
 turf 
 Receives him; now the moonlight as he 
 
 runs 
 Embraces him — ^bnt he must go — is 
 
 gone. 
 Ah, once again he turns — thanks, thanks, 
 
 my Love ! 
 He's gone. Oh, I'll believe him every 
 
 word! 
 I was so young, I loved him so, I had 
 No mother, God forgot me, and I fell. 
 There may be pardon yet: all's doubt 
 
 beyond. 
 Surely the bitterness of death is 
 
 past. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 Scene. — The Library. Enter Lord Ires- 
 ham, hastily. 
 
 Tresham. This way! In, Gerard, quick! 
 
 (As Gerard enters, Tresham secures 
 the door.) 
 
 Now speak! or, wait — 
 I '11 bid you speak directly. 
 (Seats himself.) 
 
 Now repeat 
 Firmly and circumstantially the tale 
 You just now told me; it eludes me; 
 
 either 
 I did not listen, or the half is gone 
 Away from me. How long have you 
 
 lived here? 
 Here in my house, your father kept our 
 
 woods 
 Before you? 
 Gerard. — As his father did, my lord. 
 
 I have been eating, sixty years almost, 
 Your bread. 
 Tres. Yes, yes. You ever were of all 
 
 The servants in my father's house, I 
 
 know. 
 The trusted one. You '11 speak the 
 truth. 
 Ger. I '11 speak 
 
 God's truth. Night after night . . . 
 Tres. Since when? 
 
 Ger. At least 
 
 A month — each midnight has some man 
 
 access 
 To Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 Tres. Tush, "access" — 
 
 No wide words like "access" to me! 
 Ger. He runs 
 
 Along the woodside, crosses to the South, 
 Takes the left tree that ends the ave- 
 nue . . . 
 Tres. The last great yew-tree? 
 Ger. You might stand upon 
 
 The main boughs like a platform. Then 
 he . . . 
 Tres. Quick! 
 
 Ger. Climbs up, and, where they lessen at 
 the top, 
 — I cannot see distinctly, but he throws, 
 I think — for this I do not vouch — a line 
 That reaches to the lady's casement — 
 Tres. —Which 
 
 He enters not! Gerard, some wretched 
 
 fool 
 Dares pry into my sister's privacy! 
 When such are young, it seems a precious 
 thing 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 793 
 
 To have approached, — to merely have ap- 
 proached, 
 Got sight of, the abode of her they set 
 Their frantic thoughts upon. He does 
 
 not enter? 
 Gerard? 
 Ger. There is a lamp that's full i' the 
 midst. 
 Under a red square in the painted glass 
 Of Lady Mildred's . . . 
 Tres. Leave that name out ! Well? 
 
 That lamp? 
 Ger. — Is moved at midnight higher up 
 To one pane — a small dark-blue pane; he 
 
 waits 
 For that among the boughs: at sight of 
 
 that, 
 I see him, plain as I see you, my lord. 
 Open the lady's casement, enter there . . . 
 Tres. —And stay? 
 
 Ger. An hour, two hours. 
 
 Tres. And this you saw 
 
 Once ? — ^twice ? — quick ! 
 Ger. Twenty times. 
 
 Tres. And what brings you 
 
 Under the yew-trees? 
 Ger. The first night I left 
 
 My range so far, to track the stranger 
 
 stag 
 That broke the pale, I saw the man. 
 Tres. Yet sent 
 
 No cross-bow shaft through the marau- 
 der? 
 Ger. But 
 
 He came, my lord, the first time he was 
 
 seen. 
 In a great moonlight, light as any day, 
 From Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 Tres. {after a pause.) Ton have no 
 
 cause 
 — Who could liave cause to do my sister 
 wrong? 
 Ger. Oh, my lord, only once — let me this 
 once 
 Speak what is on my mind ! Since first I 
 
 noted 
 All this, I 've groaned as if a fiery net 
 Plucked me this way and that — fire if I 
 
 turned 
 To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire 
 If down I fiung myself and strove to die. 
 The lady could not have been seven years 
 
 old 
 When I was trusted to conduct her safe 
 Through the deer-herd to stroke the snow- 
 white fawn 
 I brought to eat bread from her tiny 
 
 hand 
 Within a month. She ever had a smile 
 
 To greet me with — she ... if it could 
 
 undo 
 What's done, to lop each limb from off 
 
 this trunk . . . 
 All that is foolish talk, not fit for you — 
 I mean, I could not speak and bring her 
 
 hurt 
 For Heaven's compelling. But when I 
 
 was fixed 
 To hold my peace, each morsel of your 
 
 food 
 Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place 
 
 too. 
 Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in 
 
 doubts 
 What it behoved me do. This mom it 
 
 seemed 
 Either I must confess to you, or die : 
 Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm 
 That crawls, to have betrayed my lady. 
 Tres. No— 
 
 No, Gerard! 
 Ger. Let me go ! 
 
 Tres. A man, you say: 
 
 What man? Young? Not a vulgar 
 
 hind? What dress? 
 Ger. A slouched hat and a large dark 
 
 foreign cloak 
 Wraps his whole form; even his face is 
 
 hid; 
 But I should judge him young: no hind, 
 
 be sure! 
 Tres. Why? 
 Ger. He is ever armed : his sword projects 
 
 Beneath the cloak. 
 Tres. Gerard — I will not say 
 
 No word, no breath of this ! 
 Ger. Thanks, thanks, my lord! 
 
 (Goes.) 
 Tres. {paces the room. After a pause.) 
 
 Oh, thought's absurd! — as with 
 
 some monstrous fact 
 Which, when ill thoughts beset us, seems 
 
 to give 
 Merciful God that made the sun and 
 
 stars, 
 The waters and the green delights of 
 
 earth. 
 The lie! I apprehend the monstrous 
 
 fact — 
 Yet know the maker of all worlds is 
 
 good, 
 And yield my reason up, inadequate 
 To reconcile what yet I do behold — 
 Blasting my sense ! There 's cheerful 
 
 day outside: 
 This is my library, and this the chair 
 My father used to sit in carelessly 
 After his soldier-fashion, while I stood 
 
794 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTUKY 
 
 Between his knees to question him: and 
 
 here 
 Gerard our gray retainer,- — as he says, 
 Fed with our food, from sire to son, an 
 
 age,— 
 Has told a story — I am to believe! 
 That Mildred ... oh, no, no! both tales 
 
 are true, 
 Her pure cheek's story and the forester's ! 
 Would she, or could she, err — ^much less, 
 
 confound 
 AU guilts of treachery, of craft, of . . . 
 
 Heaven 
 Keep me within its hand ! — I will sit here 
 Until thought settle and I see my course. 
 Avert, oh God, only this woe from me! 
 
 {As he sinks his head between his arms on 
 the table, Guendolen's voice is heard at 
 the door.) 
 
 Lord Tresham! 
 
 {She knocks.) 
 
 Is Lord Tresham there? 
 {Tresham, hastily turning, pulls down the 
 
 first book above him and opens it.) 
 Tres. Come in! 
 
 {She enters.) 
 
 Ha, Guendclen ! — good 
 morning. 
 Guen. Nothing more? 
 
 Tres. What should I say more? 
 Guen. Pleasant question! more? 
 
 This more. Did I besiege poor Mildred's 
 
 brain 
 Last night till close on morning with "the 
 
 Earl," 
 "The Earl" — ^whose worth did I assever- 
 ate 
 Till I am very fain to hope that . . . 
 
 Thorold, 
 What is all this? You are not well! 
 Tres. Who, I? 
 
 You laugh at me. 
 Guen. Has what I 'm fain to hope, 
 
 Arrived then? Does that huge tome 
 
 show some blot 
 In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer 
 
 back 
 Than Arthur's time? 
 Tres. When left you Mildred's chamber? 
 Guen. Oh, late enough, I told you! The 
 main thing 
 To ask is, how I left her chamber, — sure. 
 Content yourself, she '11 grant this para- 
 gon 
 Of Earls no such ungracious . . . 
 Tres. Send her here I 
 
 Guen. Thorold? 
 
 Tres. I mean — acquaint her, Guendclen, 
 
 —But mildly! 
 Guen. Mildly ? 
 
 Tres. Ah, you guessed aright! 
 
 I am not well : there is no hiding it. 
 But tell her I would see her at her 
 
 leisure — 
 That is, at once ! here in the library ! 
 The passage in that old Italian book 
 We hunted for so long is found, say, 
 
 found — 
 And if I let it slip again . . . you see, 
 That she must come — and instantly! 
 Guen. I '11 die 
 
 Piecemeal, record that, if there have not 
 
 gloomed 
 Some blot i' the 'scutcheon! 
 Tres. Go! or, Guendolen, 
 
 Be you at call, — with Austin, if you 
 
 choose, — 
 In the adjoining gallery! There, go! 
 
 {Chiendolen goes.) 
 Another lesson to me! You might bid 
 A child disguise his heart's sore, and con- 
 duct 
 Some sly investigation point by point 
 With a smooth brow, as well as bid me 
 
 catch 
 The inquisitorial cleverness some praise. 
 If you had told me yesterday, "There's 
 
 one 
 You needs must circumvent and practise 
 
 with. 
 Entrap by policies, if you would worm 
 The truth out: and that one is — ^Mil- 
 dred !" There, 
 There — reasoning is thrown away on it! 
 Prove she 's unchaste . . . why, you may 
 
 after prove 
 That she's a poisoner, traitress, what 
 
 you will! 
 Where I can comprehend nought, 
 
 nought 's to say. 
 Or do, or think. Force on me but the 
 
 first 
 Abomination, — ^then outpour all plagues, 
 And I shall ne'er make count of them. 
 
 {Enter Mildred.) 
 
 Mildred. What book 
 
 Is it I wanted, Thorold? Guendolen 
 Thought you were pale; you are not pale. 
 
 That book? 
 That's Latin surely. 
 Tres. Mildred, here 's a line, 
 
 (Don't lean on me: I'll English it foi 
 
 you) 
 "Love conquers all things," What love 
 
 conquers them? 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 795 
 
 What love should you esteem — ^best love? 
 Mil. True love. 
 
 Tres. I mean, and should have said, whose 
 
 love is best 
 Of all that love or that profess to love? 
 Mil. The list 's so long : there 's father's, 
 
 mother's, husband's . . . 
 Tres. Mildred, I do believe a brother's 
 
 love 
 For a sole sister must exceed them all. 
 For see now, only see ! there 's no alloy 
 Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st 
 
 gold 
 Of other loves — ^no gratitude to claim; 
 You never gave her life, not even aught 
 That keeps life — never tended her, in- 
 structed, 
 Enriched her — so, your love can claim no 
 
 right 
 O'er her save pure love's claim: that's 
 
 what I call 
 Freedom from earthUness. You '11 never 
 
 hope 
 To be such friends, for instance, she and 
 
 you. 
 As when you hunted cowslips in the 
 
 woods 
 Or played together in the meadow hay. 
 Oh, yes — with age, respect comes, and 
 
 your worth 
 Is felt, there's growing sympathy of 
 
 tastes. 
 There 's ripened friendship, there 's con- 
 firmed esteem: 
 — Much head these make against the new- 
 comer ! 
 The startling apparition, the strange 
 
 youth — 
 Whom one half-hour's conversing with, 
 
 or, say, 
 Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all 
 
 change 
 This Ovid ever sang about) your soul 
 . . . Her soul, that is, — the sister's soul ! 
 
 With her 
 'T was winter yesterday ; now, all is 
 
 warmth. 
 The green leaf's springing and the 
 
 turtle's voice, 
 "Arise and come away !" Come whither? 
 
 — far 
 Enough from the esteem, respect, and all 
 The brother's somewhat insignificant 
 Array of rights! All which he knows 
 
 before. 
 Has calculated on so long ago ! 
 I think such love, (apart from yours and 
 
 mine,) 
 Contented with its little term of life, 
 
 Intending to retire betimes, aware 
 
 How soon the background must be place 
 for it, 
 
 — I think, am sure, a brother's love ex- 
 ceeds 
 
 All the world's love in its unworldliness. 
 Mil. What is this for? 
 Tres. This, Mildred, is it for! 
 
 Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon ! 
 
 That 's one of many points my haste left 
 out — 
 
 Each day, each hour throws forth its 
 silk-slight film 
 
 Between the being tied to you by birth, 
 
 And you, until those slender threads com- 
 pose 
 
 A web that shrouds her daily life of 
 hopes 
 
 And fears and fancies, all her life, from 
 yours : 
 
 So close you live and yet so far apart ! 
 
 And must I rend this web, tear up, break 
 down 
 
 The sweet and palpitating mystery 
 
 That makes her sacred? You — for you 
 I mean. 
 
 Shall I speak, shall I not speak? 
 Mil Speak! 
 
 Tres. 1 will. 
 
 Is there a story men could — any man 
 
 Could tell of you, you would conceal 
 from me? 
 
 I '11 never think there 's falsehood on that 
 lip. 
 
 Say "There is no such story men could 
 tell," 
 
 And I '11 believe you, though I disbelieve 
 
 The world — the world of better men than 
 
 I, 
 And women such as I suppose you. 
 
 Speak ! 
 
 (After a pause.) 
 Not speak ? Explain then ! Clear it up 
 
 then ! Move 
 Some of the miserable weight away 
 That presses lower than the grave ! Not 
 
 speak? 
 Some of the dead weight, Mildred ! Ah, 
 
 if I 
 Could bring myself to plainly make their 
 
 charge 
 Against you! Must I, Mildred? Silent 
 
 still? 
 
 (After a pause.) 
 Is there a gallant that has night by night 
 Admittance to your chamber? 
 (After a pause.) 
 
 Then, his name! 
 Till now, I only had a thought for you : 
 
796 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 But now, — his name ! 
 MU. Thorold, do you devise 
 
 Fit expiation for my guilt, if fit 
 There be ! 'T is nought to say that I '11 
 
 endure 
 And bless you, — ^that my spirit yearns to 
 
 purge 
 Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire : 
 But do not plunge me into other guilt ! 
 Oh, guilt enough! I cannot tell his 
 
 name. 
 Tres. Then judge yourself! How should 
 
 I act? Pronounce! 
 Mil. Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt 
 
 me thus ! 
 To die here in this chamber by that 
 
 sword 
 Would seem like punishment: so should 
 
 I glide. 
 Like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss! 
 'T were easily arranged for me : but 
 
 you — 
 What would become of you? 
 Tres. And what will now 
 
 Become of me? I'll hide your shame 
 
 and mine 
 From every eye; the dead must heave 
 
 their hearts 
 Under the marble of our chapel-floor; 
 They cannot rise and blast you. You 
 
 may wed 
 Your paramour above our motfier's 
 
 tomb; 
 Our mother cannot move from 'neath 
 
 your foot. 
 We too will somehow wear this one day 
 
 out: 
 But with to-morrow hastens here — the 
 
 Earl! 
 The youth without suspicion face can 
 
 come 
 From Heaven, and heart * from . . . 
 
 whence proceed such hearts? 
 I have despatched last night at your 
 
 command 
 A missive bidding him present himself 
 To-morrow — here — thus much is said; 
 
 the rest 
 Is understood as if 'twere written 
 
 down — 
 "His suit finds favor in your eyes." 
 
 Now dictate 
 This morning's letter- that shall counter- 
 mand 
 Last night's — do dictate that! 
 Mil. But, Thorold— if 
 
 I will receive him as I said ? 
 Tres. The Earl? 
 
 Mil. I will receive him. 
 Tres. (starting up). Ho there! Guendo- '< 
 len! 
 
 {Gnendolen and Austin enter.) 
 
 And, Austin, you are welcome, too! 
 
 Look there! 
 The woman there ! 
 Austin and Guendolen. How? Mildred? [ 
 Tres. Mildred once! 
 
 Now the receiver night by night, when 
 
 sleep 
 Blesses the inmates of her father's house, 
 — I say, the soft sly wanton that receives 
 Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof 
 
 which holds 
 You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held 
 A thousand Treshams — ^never one Uke 
 
 her! 
 No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick 
 Foul breath near quenches in hot eager- 
 ness 
 To mix with breath as foul! no loosener 
 0' the lattice, practised in the stealthy 
 
 tread. 
 The low voice and the noiseless come-and- 
 go! 
 Not one composer of the bacchant's mien 
 Into — what you thought MUdred's, in a 
 
 word! 
 Know her! 
 Guen. Oh, Mildred, look to me, at least ! 
 Thorold — she's dead, I'd say, but that 
 
 she stands 
 Rigid as stone and whiter ! 
 Tres. You have heard . . . 
 
 Guen. Too much! You must proceed no 
 
 further. 
 MU. Yea- 
 
 Proceed! All's truth. Go from me! 
 Tres. All is truth. 
 
 She tells you ! Well, you know, or ought 
 
 to know. 
 All this I would forgive in her. I 'd con 
 Each precept the harsh world enjoins, 
 
 I 'd take 
 Our ancestors' stem verdicts one by one. 
 I 'd bind myself before them to exact 
 The prescribed vengeance — and one word 
 
 of hers, 
 The sight of her, the bare least memory 
 Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's 
 
 pride 
 Above all prides, my all in all so long, 
 Would scatter every trace of my resolve. 
 What were it silently to waste away 
 And see her waste away from this day 
 
 forth. 
 
 4 J. e., Mildred's face and heart. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 797 
 
 Two scathed things with leisure to re- 
 pent, 
 And grow acquainted with the grave, and 
 
 die 
 Tired out if not at peace, and be for- 
 gotten? 
 It were not so impossible to bear. 
 But this — that, fresh from last night's 
 
 pledge renewed 
 Of love with the successful gallant there. 
 She calmly bids me help her to entice, 
 Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth 
 Who thinks her all that's chaste and 
 
 good and pure, 
 — Invites me to betray him . . . who so 
 
 fit 
 As honor's self to cover shame's arch- 
 deed? 
 — That she'U receive Lord Mertoun — 
 
 (her own phrase) — 
 This, who could bear? Why, you have 
 
 heard of thieves, 
 Stabbers, the earth's disgrace, who yet 
 
 have laughed, 
 "Talk not to me of torture — I'U betray 
 No comrade I 've pledged faith to !" — 
 
 you have heard 
 Of wretched women — all but Mildreds — 
 
 tied 
 By wild illicit ties to losels vile 
 You'd tempt them to forsake; and 
 
 they'll reply 
 "Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I 
 
 find 
 In him, why should I leave him then for 
 
 gold. 
 Repute or friends?" — and you have felt 
 
 your heart 
 Respond to such poor outcasts of the 
 
 world 
 As to so many friends; bad as you 
 
 please. 
 You've felt they were God's men and 
 
 women still. 
 So, not to be disowned by you. But 
 
 she 
 That stands there, calmly gives her lover 
 
 up 
 As means to wed the Earl that she may 
 
 hide 
 Their intercourse the surelier: and, for 
 
 this, 
 I curse her to her face before you all. 
 Shame hunt her from the earth! Then 
 
 Heaven do right 
 To both ! It hears me now — shall judge 
 
 her then! 
 (As Mildred faints and falls, Tresham 
 rushes out.) 
 
 Aust. Stay, TreshUm, we '11 accompany 
 
 you! 
 Guen. We? 
 
 What, and leave Mildred? We? Why, 
 
 where 's 'my place 
 But by her side, and where yours but by 
 
 mine? 
 Mildred — one word! Only look at me, 
 
 then! 
 Aust. No, Giiendolen! I echo Thorold's 
 
 voice. 
 She is unworthy to behold . . . 
 Guen. Us two? 
 
 If you spoke on reflection, and if I 
 Approved your speech — if you (to put 
 
 the thing 
 At lowest) you the soldier, bound to 
 
 make 
 The king's cause yours and fight for it, 
 
 and throw 
 Regard to others of its right or wrong, 
 — If with a death-white woman you can 
 
 help. 
 Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, 
 You left her — or if I, her cousin, friend 
 This morning, playfellow but yesterday. 
 Who said, or thought at least a thousand 
 
 times, 
 "I'd serve you if I could," should now 
 
 face round 
 And say, "Ah, that's only to signify 
 I'd serve you while you're fit to serve 
 
 yourself : 
 So long as fifty eyes await the turn 
 Of yours to forestall its yet half -formed 
 
 wish, 
 I '11 proffer my assistance you '11 not 
 
 need — 
 When every tongue is praising you, I'll 
 
 join 
 The praisers' chorus — ^when you're 
 
 hemmed about 
 With lives between you and detraction — 
 
 lives 
 To be laid down if a rude voice, rash 
 
 eye, 
 Rough hand should violate the sacred 
 
 ring 
 Their worship throws about you, — then 
 
 indeed. 
 Who'll stand up for you stout as I?" 
 
 If so 
 We said, and so we did, — not Mildred 
 
 there 
 Would be unworthy to behold us both, 
 But we should be unworthy, both of us, 
 To be beheld by — ^by — your meanest dog. 
 Which, if that sword were broken in 
 
 your face 
 
798 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Before a crowd, that badge torn off your 
 breast, 
 
 And you cast out with hooting and con- 
 tempt, 
 
 — Would push his way thro' all the hoot- 
 ers, gain 
 
 Your side, go off with you and all your 
 
 To the next ditch you choose to die in! 
 
 Austin, 
 Do you love me? Here's Austin, Mil- 
 dred, — ^here 's 
 Your brother says he does not believe 
 
 half- 
 No, nor half that — of all he heard ! He 
 
 says. 
 Look up and take his hand! 
 Aust. Look up and take 
 
 My hand, dear Mildred! 
 Mil. I — I was so young! 
 
 Beside, I loved him, Thorold — and I had 
 No mother ; God forgot me : so, I fell. 
 Guen. Mildred ! 
 
 Mil. Require no further! Did I dream 
 That I could palliate what is done? 
 
 All's true. 
 Now, punish me! A woman takes my 
 
 hand? 
 Let go my hand! You do not know, I 
 
 see. 
 I thought that Thorold told you. 
 Guen. What is this? 
 
 Where start you to ? 
 Mil. Oh, Austin, loosen me ! 
 
 You heard the whole of it — ^your eyes 
 
 were worse, 
 In their surprise, than Thorold's! Oh, 
 
 unless 
 You stay to execute his sentence, loose 
 My hand! Has Thorold gone, and are 
 
 you here? 
 Guen. Here, Mildred, we two friends of 
 
 yours will wait 
 Your bidding; be you silent, sleep or 
 
 muse ! 
 Only, when you shall want your bidding 
 
 done, 
 How can we do it if we are not by? 
 Here's Austin waiting patiently your 
 
 will! 
 One spirit to command, and one to love 
 And to believe in it and do its best, 
 Poor as that is, to help it — ^why, the 
 
 world 
 Has been won many a time, its length 
 
 and breadth, 
 By just such a beginning! 
 Mil. I believe 
 
 If once I threw my arms about your neck 
 
 And sunk my head upon your breast, 
 
 that I 
 Should weep again. 
 Guen. Let go her hand now, Austin ! 
 
 Wait for me. Pace the gallery and 
 
 think 
 On the world's seemings and realities. 
 Until I call you. 
 
 {Austin goes.) 
 Mil. No — I cannot weep. 
 
 No more tears from this brain — ^no sleep 
 — no tears! 
 
 Guendolen, I love you! 
 
 Guen. Yes: and "love" 
 
 Is a short word that says so very much I 
 
 It says that you confide in me. 
 Mil. Confide! 
 
 Guen. Your lover's name, then ! I 've so 
 much to learn, 
 
 Ere I can work in your behalf! 
 Mil. My friend. 
 
 You know I cannot tell his name. 
 Guen. At least 
 
 He is your lover? and you love him too? 
 Mil. Ah, do you ask me that? — ^but I am 
 fallen 
 
 So low! 
 Guen. You love him still, then ? 
 
 Mil. My sole prop 
 
 Against the guilt that crushes me! I 
 say, 
 
 Each night ere I lie down, "I was so 
 young-- 
 
 1 had no mother, and I loved him so !" 
 And then God seems indulgent, and I 
 
 dare 
 Trust him my soul in sleep. 
 Guen. How could you let us 
 
 E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun 
 then? 
 Mil. There is a cloud around me. 
 Guen. But you said 
 
 You would receive his suit in spite of 
 this? 
 Mil. I say there is a cloud . . . 
 Guen. No cloud to me ! 
 
 Lord Mertoun and your lover are the 
 same! 
 Mil. What maddest fancy . . . 
 Guen. (CalUng aloud.) Austin! (spare 
 your pains — 
 When I have got a truth, that truth I 
 keep) — 
 Mil. By all you love, sweet Guendolen, for- 
 bear! 
 Have I confided in you . . . 
 Guen. Just for this ! 
 
 Austin! — Oh, not to guess it at the first! 
 But I did guess it — that is, I divined, 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 799 
 
 Felt by an instinct how it was : why else 
 Should I pronounce you free from all 
 
 that heap 
 Of sins which had been irredeemable 1 
 I felt they were not yours — what other 
 
 way 
 Than this, not yours? The secret's 
 wholly mine ! 
 Mil. If you would see me die before his 
 
 face . . . 
 Guen. I'd hold my peace! And if the 
 Earl returns 
 To-night? 
 Mil. Ah Heaven, he's lost! 
 Guen. I thought so. Austin ! 
 
 {Enter Austin.) 
 
 Oh, where have you been hiding? 
 Aust. Thorold 's gone, 
 
 I know not how, across the meadow-land. 
 I watched him till I lost him in the skirts 
 0' the beech-wood. 
 Guen. Gone? All thwarts us. 
 
 Mil. Thorold too? 
 
 Guen. I have thought. First lead this 
 Mildred to her room. 
 Go on the other side ; and then we '11 seek 
 Your brother: and I'll tell you, by the 
 
 way. 
 The greatest comfort in the world. You 
 
 said 
 There was a clue to all. Remember, 
 
 Sweet, 
 He said there was a clue! I hold it. 
 Come! 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene 1. The end of the Yew-tree Averme 
 under Mildred's window. A light seen 
 through a central red pane. 
 
 (Enter Tresham through the trees.) 
 
 Again here ! But I cannot lose myself. 
 The heath — the orchard — I have traversed 
 
 glades 
 And dells and bosky paths which used to 
 
 lead 
 Into green wild-wood depths, bewildering 
 My boy's adventurous step. And now 
 
 they tend 
 Hither or soon or late ; the blackest shade 
 Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the 
 
 trees ope wide, 
 And the dim turret I have fled from, 
 
 fronts 
 Again my step ; the very river put 
 Its arm about me and conducted me 
 
 To this detested spot. Why then, I'll 
 
 shun 
 Their will no longer: do your will with 
 
 me! 
 Oh, bitter! To have reared a towering 
 
 scheme 
 Of happiness, and to behold it razed. 
 Were nothing : all men hope, and see their 
 
 hopes 
 Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope 
 
 anew. _ 
 But I ..." to hope that from a line like 
 
 ours 
 No horrid prodigy like this would spring. 
 Were just as though I hoped that from 
 
 these old 
 Confederates against the sovereign day. 
 Children of older and yet older sires, 
 Whose living coral berries dropped, as 
 
 now 
 On me, on many a baron's surcoat once. 
 On many a beauty's wimple — ^would pro- 
 ceed 
 No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its 
 
 root. 
 Hither and thither its strange snaky 
 
 arms. 
 Why came I here? What must I do? 
 
 {A hell strikes.) A bell? 
 Midnight ! and 't is at midnight . . . Ah, 
 
 I catch 
 — Woods, river, plains, I catch your 
 
 meaning now. 
 And I obey you!. Hist! This tree will 
 
 serve. 
 {Se retires behind one of the trees. After 
 a pause, enter Mertoun cloaked as be- 
 fore.) 
 Mertoun. Not time! Beat out thy last 
 
 voluptuous beat 
 . Of hope and fear, my heart ! I thought 
 
 the clock 
 I' the chapel struck as I was pushing 
 
 through 
 The ferns. And so I shall no more see 
 
 rise 
 My love-star! Oh, no matter for the 
 
 past! 
 So much the more delicious task to watch 
 Mildred revive: to pluck out, thorn by 
 
 thorn. 
 All traces of the rough forbidden path 
 My rash love lured her to! Each day 
 
 must see 
 Some fear of hers effaced, some hope re- 
 newed : 
 Then there will be surprises, unforeseen 
 Delights in store. I'll not regret the 
 
 past. 
 
800 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 {The light is placed above in the purple 
 pane. ) 
 And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star! 
 I never saw it lovelier than now 
 It rises for the last time. If it sets, 
 'T is that the re-assuring sun may dawn. 
 {As he prepares to ascend the last tree of 
 the avenue, Tresham arrests his arm.) 
 Unhand me — peasant, 'by your grasp! 
 
 Here's gold. 
 'T was a mad freak of mine, I said I 'd 
 
 pluck 
 A branch from the white-blossomed shrub 
 
 beneath 
 The casement there. Take this, and hold 
 your peace. 
 Tres. Into the moonlight yonder, come 
 with me! 
 Out of the shadow ! 
 Mert. I am armed, fool! 
 
 Tres. Yes, 
 
 Or no? You'U come into the light, or 
 
 no? 
 My hand is on your throat — refuse ! — 
 Mert. That voice ! 
 
 Where have I heard . . . no — ^that was 
 
 mild and slow. 
 I 'U come with you. 
 
 {They advance.) 
 Tres. You're armed: that's 
 
 well. Declare 
 Your name: who are you? 
 Mert. (Tresham! — she is lost!) 
 
 Tres. Oh, silent? Do. you know, you bear 
 yourself 
 Exactly as, in curious dreams I've had 
 How felons, this wild earth is full of, 
 
 look 
 When they're detected, still your kind 
 
 has looked ! 
 The bravo holds an assured countenance. 
 The thief is voluble and plausible, 
 But silently the slave of lust has crouched 
 When I have fancied it before a man. 
 Your name ! 
 Mert., I do conjure Lord Tresham — ay, 
 Kisfeing his foot, if so I might prevail — 
 That he for his own sake forbear to ask 
 My name! As heaven's above, his 
 
 future weal 
 Or woe depends upon my silence ! Vain ! 
 I read your white inexorable face. 
 Know me. Lord Tresham ! 
 
 {He throws off his disguises.) 
 Tres. Mertonn ! 
 
 {After a pause.) 
 
 Draw now ! 
 Mert. Hear me 
 
 But speak first! 
 
 Tres. Not one least word on your life! 
 Be sure that I will strangle in your throat 
 The least word that informs me how you 
 
 live 
 And yet seem what you seem ! No doubt 
 
 'twas you 
 Taught Mildred still to keep that face 
 
 and sin. 
 We should join hands in frantic sym- 
 pathy 
 If you once taught me the unteachable, 
 Explained how you can live so, and so he. 
 With God's help I retain, despite my 
 
 sense. 
 The old belief — a life like yours is still 
 Impossible. Now draw! 
 Mert. Not for my sake, 
 
 Do I entreat a hearing — for your sake, 
 And most, for her sake ! 
 Tres. Ha ha, what should I 
 
 Know of your ways? A miscreant like 
 
 yourself. 
 How must one rouse his ire? A blow? 
 
 — that 's pride 
 No doubt, to him ! One spurns him, does 
 
 one not? 
 Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spits 
 Into his face ! Come ! Which, or all of 
 these? 
 Mert. 'Twixt him and me and Mildred, 
 Heaven be judge! 
 Can I avoid this? Have your will, my 
 lord! 
 {He draws and, after a few passes, falls.) 
 Tres. You are not hurt ? 
 Mert. You'll hear me now! 
 
 Tres. But rise! 
 
 Mert. Ah, Tresham, say I not "you '11 hear 
 me now!" 
 And what procures a man the right to 
 
 speak 
 In his defence before his fellow man, 
 But — I suppose — the thought that pres- 
 ently 
 He may have leave to speak before his 
 
 God 
 His whole defence? 
 Tres. Not hurt? It cannot be! 
 
 You made no effort to resist me. Where 
 Did my sword reach you? Why not 
 
 have returned 
 My thrusts? Hurt where? 
 Mert. My lord — 
 
 Tres. How young he is ! 
 
 Mert. Lord Tresham, I am very young, 
 and yet 
 I have entangled other lives with mine. 
 Do let me speak, and do believe my 
 speech! 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 801 
 
 That when I die before you presently, — 
 Tres. Can you stay here till I return with 
 
 help? 
 Mert. Oh, stay by me ! When I was less 
 
 than boy 
 I did you grievous wrong and knew it 
 
 not — 
 Upon my honor, knew it not ! Once 
 
 known, 
 I could not find what seemed a better way 
 To right you than I took: my life — ^you 
 
 feel 
 How less than nothing were the giving 
 
 you 
 The life you've taken! But I thought 
 
 my way 
 The better — only for your sake and hers : 
 And as you have decided otherwise. 
 Would I had an infinity of lives 
 To offer you! Now say — ^instruct me — 
 
 think! 
 Can you, from the brief minutes I have 
 
 left, 
 Eke out my reparation? Oh think — 
 
 think! 
 For I must wring a partial — dare I say, 
 Forgiveness from you, ere I die? 
 Tres. I do 
 
 Forgive you. 
 Mert. Wait and ponder that great word ! 
 Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope 
 To speak to you of — Mildred ! 
 Tres. Mertoun, haste 
 
 And anger have undone us. 'T is not 
 
 you 
 Should tell me for a novelty you're 
 
 young, 
 Thoughtless, unable to recall the past. 
 Be but your pardon ample as my own ! 
 Mert. Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke 
 
 and a drop 
 Of blood or two, should bring all this 
 
 about ! 
 Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my 
 
 love 
 Of you — (what passion like a boy's for 
 
 one 
 Like you?) — that ruined me ! I dreamed 
 
 of you — 
 You, all accomplished, courted every- 
 where, 
 The scholar and the gentleman. I burned 
 To knit myself to you : but I was young. 
 And your surpassing reputation kept me 
 So far aloof! Oh, wherefore all that 
 
 love? 
 With less of love, my glorious yesterday 
 Of praise and gentlest words and kindest 
 
 looks. 
 
 Had taken place perchance six months 
 
 ago. 
 Even now, how happy we had been! 
 
 And yet 
 I know the thought of this escaped you, 
 
 Tresham ! 
 Let me look up into your face; I feel 
 'T is changed above me : yet my eyes are 
 
 glazed. 
 Where? where? 
 {As he endeavors to raise himself, his eye 
 catches the lamp.) 
 Ah, Mildred ! What will Mildred do ? 
 Tresham, her life is bound up in the 
 
 life 
 That 's bleeding fast away ! I 'II live — 
 
 must live, — 
 There, if you 'U only turn me I shall live 
 And save her! Tresham — oh, had you 
 
 but heard ! 
 Had you but heard! What right was 
 
 yours to set 
 The thoughtless foot upon her life and 
 
 mine. 
 And then say, as we perish, "Had I 
 
 thought. 
 All had gone otherwise" ? We 've sinned 
 
 and die: 
 Never you sin, Lord Tresham ! for you '11 
 
 die, 
 And God will judge you. 
 Tres. Yes, be satisfied! 
 
 That process is beg^n. 
 Mert. And she sits there 
 
 Waiting for me ! Now, say you this to 
 
 her — 
 You, not another — say, I saw him die 
 As he breathed this, "I love her"— ^you 
 
 don't know 
 What those three small words mean ! 
 
 Say; loving her 
 Lowers me down the bloody slope to 
 
 death 
 With memories ... I speak to her, not 
 
 you. 
 Who had no pity, will have no remorse, 
 Perchance intend her . . . Die along with 
 
 me. 
 Dear Mildred ! 't is so easy, and you '11 
 
 'scape 
 So much unkindness ! Can I lie at rest. 
 With rude speech spoken to you, ruder 
 
 deeds 
 Done to you? — ^heartless men shall have 
 
 my heart. 
 And I tied down with grave-elothes and 
 
 the worm, 
 Aware, perhaps, of every blow — oh 
 
 God!— 
 
802 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Upon those lips — ^yet of no power to 
 tear 
 
 The felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mil- 
 dred ! Leave 
 
 Their honorable world to them! For 
 God 
 
 We're good enough, though the world 
 casts us out. 
 
 {A whistle is heard.) 
 Tres. Ho, Gerard ! 
 
 {Enter Gerard, Austin and Guendolen, tvith 
 lights.) 
 
 No one speak ! You see what 's done. 
 I cannot bear another voice. 
 Mert. There 's light — 
 
 Light all about me, and I move to it, 
 Tresham, did I not tell you — did you 
 
 not 
 Just promise to deliver words of mine 
 To Mildred? 
 Tres. I wiU bear those words to her. 
 
 Mert. Now? 
 
 Tres. Now. Lift you the body, 
 
 and leave me 
 The head. 
 {As they have half raised Mertoun, he 
 
 turns suddenly.) 
 Mert. I knew they turned me: turn me 
 not from her ! 
 There ! stay you ! there ! 
 {Dies.) 
 Guen. {After a pause.) Austin, remain 
 you here 
 With Thorold until Gerard comes with 
 
 help: 
 Then lead him to his chamber. I must 
 
 go 
 To Mildred. 
 Tres. Guendolen, I hear each word 
 
 You utter. Did you hear him bid me 
 
 give 
 His message? Did you hear my prom- 
 ise? I, 
 And only I, see Mildred. 
 Guen. • She will die. 
 
 Tres. Oh no, she will not die ! I dare not 
 hope 
 She'll die. What ground have you to 
 
 think she'll die? 
 Why, Austin 's with you ! 
 Aust. Had we but arrived 
 
 Before you fought ! 
 Tres. There was no fight at all. 
 
 He let me slaughter him — the boy ! I '11 
 
 trust 
 The body there to you and Gerard — ^thus ! 
 Now bear him on before me. 
 Aust, Whither hear him? 
 
 Tres. Oh, to my chamber ! When we meet 
 
 there next, 
 We shall be friends. 
 {They hear out the body of Mertoun.) 
 
 Will she die, Guendolen? 
 Gues. Where are you taldng me ? 
 Tres. He fell just here. 
 
 Now answer me. Shall you in your 
 
 whole life 
 — You who have nought to do with Mer- 
 
 toun's fate, 
 Now you have seen his breast upon the 
 
 turf. 
 Shall you e'er walk this way if you can 
 
 help? 
 When you and Austin, wander arm-in- 
 arm 
 Through our ancestral grounds, will not 
 
 a shade 
 Be ever on the meadow and the waste — 
 Another kind of shade than when the 
 
 night 
 Shuts the woodside with all its whispers 
 
 up? 
 But will you ever so forget his breast 
 As carelessly to cross this bloody turf 
 Under the black yew avenue? That's 
 
 weU! 
 You turn your head : and I then ? — 
 Guen. What is done 
 
 Is done. My care is for the living. 
 
 Thorold, 
 Bear up against this burden: more re- 
 mains 
 To set the neck to ! 
 Tres. Dear and ancient trees 
 
 My fathers planted, and I loved so well! 
 WTiat have I done that, like some fabled 
 
 crime 
 Of yore, lets loose a Fury leading thus 
 Her miserable dance amidst you all? 
 Oh, never more for me shall winds intone 
 With all your tops a vast antiphony, 
 Demanding and responding in God's 
 
 praise 
 
 Hers ye are now, not mine ! Farewell — 
 farewell ! 
 
 Scene 2. Mildred's chamber. 
 {Mildred alone.) 
 
 He comes not! I have heard of those 
 
 who seemed 
 Resourceless in prosperity, — ^you thought 
 Sorrow might slay them when she listed; 
 
 yet 
 Did they so gather up their diffused 
 
 strength 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 803 
 
 At her first menace, that they hade her 
 
 strike, 
 And stood and laughed her subtlest skill 
 
 to scorn. 
 Oh, 'tis not so with me! The first woe 
 
 fell, 
 And the rest fall upon it, not on me : 
 Else should I bear that Henry comes not ? 
 
 — fails 
 Just this first night out of so many 
 
 nights'? 
 Loving is done with. Were he sitting 
 
 now, 
 As so few hours since, on that seat, we 'd 
 
 love 
 No more — contrive no thousand happy 
 
 ways 
 To hide love from the loveless, any more. 
 I think I might have urged some little 
 
 point 
 In my defence, to Thorold; he was 
 
 breathless 
 For the least hint of a defence: but no, 
 The first shame over, all that would might 
 
 fall. 
 No Henry! Yet I merely sit and think 
 The mom's deed o'er and o'er. I must 
 
 have crept 
 Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost 
 Her lover — oh, I dare not look upon 
 Such woe! I crouch away from it! 
 
 'T is she, 
 Mildred, will break her heart, not I ! 
 
 The world 
 Forsakes me: only Henry's left me — 
 
 left? 
 When I have lost him, for he does not 
 
 come. 
 And I sit stupidly ... Oh Heaven, 
 
 break up 
 This worse than anguish, this mad 
 
 apathy. 
 By any means or any messenger! 
 Tres. {Without.) Mildred! 
 Mil. Come in ! Heaven hears me ! 
 
 (Enter Tresham.) 
 
 You? alone? 
 Oh, no more cursing! 
 Tres. Mildred, I must sit. 
 
 There — you sit ! 
 Mil. Say it, Thorold — do not look 
 
 The curse ! deliver all you come to say ! 
 What must become of me? Oh, speak 
 
 that thought 
 Which makes your brow and cheeks so 
 pale ! 
 Tres. My thought? 
 
 Mil. All of it! 
 
 Tres. How we waded — years ago — 
 
 After those water-lilies, till the plash, 
 I know not how, surprised us; and you 
 
 dared 
 Neither advance nor turn back: so, we 
 
 stood 
 Laughing and crying until Gerard came — 
 Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too. 
 For once more reaching the relinquished. 
 
 prize! 
 How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying 
 
 men's ! 
 Mildred ! 
 Mil. You call me kindlier by my name 
 
 Than even yesterday : what is in that ? 
 Tres. It weighs so much upon my mind 
 
 that I 
 This morning took an office not my own ! 
 I might ... of course, I must be glad 
 
 or grieved. 
 Content or not, at every little thing 
 That touches you. I may with a wrung 
 
 heart 
 Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more: 
 Will you forgive me ? 
 Mil. Thorold? do you mock? 
 
 Or no . . . and yet you bid me . . . say 
 
 that word! 
 Tres. Forgive me, Mildred! — ^are you 
 
 silent. Sweet? 
 Mil. (Starting up.) Why does not Henry 
 
 Mertoun come to-night? 
 Are you, too, silent? 
 (Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to 
 
 his scabbard, which is empty.) 
 
 Ah, this speaks for you ! 
 You 've murdered Henry Mertoun ! Now 
 
 proceed ! 
 What is it I must pardon? This and all? 
 Well, I do pardon you — ^I think I do. 
 Thorold, how very wretched you must 
 
 be! 
 Tres. He bade me tell you . . . 
 Mil. What I do forbid 
 
 Your utterance of! So much that you 
 
 may tell 
 And will not — how you murdered him 
 
 . . . but, no ! 
 You'll tell me that he loved me, never 
 
 more 
 Than bleeding ,out his life there : must I 
 
 say 
 "Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon 
 
 you. 
 Tres. You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh 
 
 words, yes : 
 Of this last deed Another 's judge ; whose 
 
 doom 
 I wait in doubt, despondency and fear. 
 
80^ 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Mil. Oh, true ! There 's nought for me to 
 pardon ! True ! 
 
 You loose my soul of all its cares at once. 
 
 Death makes me sure of him forever! 
 You 
 
 Tell me his last words'? He shall tell me 
 them, 
 
 And take my answer — not in words, but 
 reading 
 
 Himself the heart I had to read him late, 
 
 Which death . . . 
 Tres. Death? You are dy- 
 
 ing too t Well said 
 
 Of Guendolen ! I dared not hope you 'd 
 die: 
 
 But she was sure of it. 
 Mil. Tell Guendolen 
 
 I loved her, and tell Austin . . . 
 Tres. Him you loved : 
 
 And me? 
 Mil. Ah, Thorold ! Was 't not rashly done 
 
 To quench that blood, on fire with youth 
 and hope 
 
 And love of me — ^whom you loved too, 
 and yet 
 
 Suffered to sit here waiting his approach 
 
 While you were slaying him? Oh, doubt- 
 lessly 
 
 You let him speak his poor confused 
 boy's-speech 
 
 — Do his poor utmost to disarm your 
 wrath 
 
 And respite me ! — ^you let him try to give 
 
 The story of our love and ignorance. 
 
 And the brief madness and the long de- 
 spair — 
 
 You let him plead all this, because your 
 code 
 
 Of honor bids you hear before you strike : 
 
 But at the end, as he looked up for life 
 
 Into your eyes — ^you struck him down ! 
 Tres. No ! No ! 
 
 Had I but heard him— had I let him 
 speak 
 
 Half the truth— less— had I looked long 
 on him 
 
 I had desisted ! Why, as he lay there. 
 
 The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered 
 all 
 
 The story ere he told it : I saw through 
 
 The troubled surface of his crime and 
 yours 
 
 A depth of purity immovable. 
 
 Had I but glanced, where all seemed 
 turbidest 
 
 Had gleamed some inlet to the calm be- 
 neath ; 
 
 I would not glance : my punishment 's at 
 hand. 
 
 There, Mildred, is the truth! and you— 
 
 say on — 
 You curse me? 
 Mil. As I dare approach that Heaven 
 
 Which has not bade a living thing de- 
 spair. 
 Which needs no code to keep its grace 
 
 from stain, 
 But bids the vilest worm that turns on it 
 Desist and be forgiven, — I — ^forgive not, 
 But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of 
 
 souls ! 
 
 (Falls on his neck.) 
 There ! Do not think too much upon the 
 
 past! 
 The cloud that 's broke was all the same a 
 
 cloud 
 While it stood up between my friend and 
 
 you; 
 You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is 
 
 that 
 So past retrieve? I have his heart, you 
 
 know; 
 I may dispose of it : I give it you ! 
 It loves you as mine loves ! Confirm me, 
 
 Henry! 
 
 (Dies.) 
 Tres. I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am 
 
 glad 
 In thy full gladness! 
 Guen. {Without.) Mildred! Tresham! 
 
 (Entering with Austin.) 
 
 Thorold, 
 I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons ! 
 That 's well. 
 Tres. Oh, better far than that ! 
 
 Guen. She's dead! 
 
 Let me unlock her arms! 
 Tres. She threw them thus 
 
 About my neck, and blessed me, and then 
 
 died: 
 You '11 let them stay now, Guendolen ! 
 Aust. Leave her 
 
 And look to him! What ails you, 
 Thorold? 
 Guen. White 
 
 As she, and whiter! Austin! quick — 
 this side! 
 Aust. A froth is oozing through his 
 clenched teeth ; 
 Both lips, where they're not bitten 
 
 through, are black:. 
 Speak, dearest Thorold ! 
 Tres. Something does weigh down 
 
 My neck beside her weight: thanks: I 
 
 should fall 
 But for you, Austin, I believe! — ^there, 
 there. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 805 
 
 'T will pass away soon ! — ah, — I had for- 
 gotten : 
 I am dying. 
 Guen. Thorold — Thorold — ^why 
 
 was this? 
 Tres. I said, just as I drank the poison off, 
 The earth would be no longer earth to 
 
 me, 
 The life out of all life was gone from me. 
 There are blind ways provided, the fore- 
 done 
 Heart-weary player in this pageant- 
 world 
 Drops out by, letting the main masque 
 
 defile 
 By the conspicuous portal: I am 
 
 through — 
 Just through ! 
 Guen. Don't leave him, Austin ! 
 
 ■ Death is close. 
 Tres. Already Mildred's face is peace- 
 fuUer. 
 I see you, Austin — ^f eel you : here 's my 
 hand. 
 
 Put yours in it — you, Guendolen, yours 
 
 too! 
 You 're lord and lady now — ^you 're Tres- 
 
 hams; name 
 And fame are yours: you hold our 
 
 'scutcheon up. 
 Austin, no blot on it ! You see how blood 
 Must wash one blot away: the first blot 
 
 came 
 And the first blood came. To the vain 
 
 world's eye 
 All 's gules again : no care to the vain 
 
 world. 
 From whence the red was drawn ! 
 Aust. No blot shall come ! 
 
 Tres. I said that : yet it did come. Should 
 
 it come, 
 Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remem- 
 ber me ! 
 
 (Dies.) 
 Guen. (Letting fall the pulseless arm.) 
 
 Ah, Thorold, we can but — remember 
 
 you! 
 
OSCAR WILDE 
 
 LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 Oscar Wilde (1854H900), like so many 
 writers of comedy during the last two cen- 
 turies, was born in Ireland, the son of well- 
 known and brilliant, but somewhat ill-bal- 
 anced, parents. During the years 1874-8 he 
 made his mark in scholarship and literary 
 work at Oxford; and in the latter year began 
 a career of artistic pose, social conspicu- 
 ousness, and literary success in London. Be- 
 sides his plays he wrote poems, novels, essays, 
 and lectures; his first light comedy, the pres- 
 ent one, came out with great success in 1892. 
 He died in obscurity. 
 
 Wilde was a chief exponent of the so- 
 called esthetic movement among certain 
 clever young men in the eighties and nineties. 
 It began under the influence of such men as 
 Buskin, William Morris, and Pater; but 
 while their love of beauty broadened and 
 deepened into something more manful and 
 humane, high artistic creation land work to- 
 ward social betterment, Wilde's was too shal- 
 low and unstable a nature to drive him to 
 any more solid achievement than polished 
 literary form and superficial brilliance. His 
 plays are his best work, and are interesting 
 for two reasons. They are admirable so far 
 as they go, and indicate and helped on an im- 
 portant change in dramatic style. 
 
 Lady Windermer^s Fan is a comedy of 
 manners, brilliantly constructed and written, 
 with much clever satire on social vapidity, 
 some insight into human nature, and some 
 appearance of depth, sjonpathy, and earnest- 
 ness. When it first appeared, the influence 
 on it of such earlier dramatists as Congreve 
 and Sheridan was remarked at once, and 
 also (less obvious to the general reader) 
 that of nineteenth-century French comedy. 
 The sparkling dialogue is what especially re- 
 calls Sheridan and Congreve. Airy unex- 
 pectedness and paradox are even more essen- 
 tial in Wilde, especially that which consists 
 in contradicting or inverting a proverbial 
 saying or a social commonplace — " the youth 
 of the present have absolutely no respect for 
 dyed hair," " he has one of these weak na- 
 tures that are not susceptible to influence " 
 {An Ideal Husband), "1 can resist anything 
 except temptation." Some of his agile 
 twists passed from Wilde's plays into the 
 common talk. Further, no one can fail to 
 be reminded of the screen-scene in The School 
 for Scandal tiy the third act in Lady Winder- 
 mer^s Fan, where Mrs. Erlynne and Lady 
 
 Windermere are concealed in Lord Darling- 
 ton's rooms. It cannot be said that in 
 dramatic efl'ectiveness Wilde has fallen be- 
 hind his master. The situation is as prob- 
 able, the final sensation as well led up to, the 
 complication is greater yet as clear, the emo- 
 tional state of things is more intricate and 
 more serious — the conventionally good 
 woman shows her real flimsy character, and 
 the bad woman rises to the sort of self-sacri- 
 fice which meant most heroism for her. The 
 scene is masterly. It is admirably planned, 
 from the extraordinary meeting of the two 
 women, and Dumby's unconscious dramatic 
 irony (" The lively part of the evening ia 
 only just beginning ") , to the device by which 
 Lady Windermere escapes. The fine feeling 
 which the scene shows is rare in Wilde, whose 
 moral tone is not greatly different from Con- 
 greve's, and embodies that of the class of 
 social life which he constantly satirizes, but 
 really respected and chose to identify himself 
 with. One feels dissatisfaction with the end- 
 ing — that Lady Windermere's folly should 
 be huddled up from her husband, so that, in- 
 stead of facing it down, she may forget it, 
 precisely as any worldly and superficial 
 woman in the audience would have done. 
 The decent and satisfying ending Wilde prob- 
 ably rejected as too " obvious." This last 
 scene has the emotional complexity men- 
 tioned earlier, husband and wife each know- 
 ing something essential to the situation un- 
 known to the other, and all the threads cen- 
 tering in Mrs. Erlynne's hand. Again she 
 stands on a dramatic pedestal. She is the 
 sort of person in portraying whom Wilde 
 shows most insight and depth; the people in 
 whom he is most fond of showing possibilities 
 of goodness and sacrifice are women " with a 
 past" and languid dandies. He makes a 
 specialty of the heroism that may lurk behind 
 the rouged or expressionless face, and in this 
 he has been followed, by many a later play- 
 wright; for nothing makes less demand from 
 the moral feelings of the superficial, or ex- 
 cites more the genial mood of charity which 
 is one of the pleasantest products of a dra- 
 matic performance. 
 
 In dramatic history, Wilde and his first 
 comedy mark the rise of a realistic prose 
 drama of genuine literary worth. It was a 
 reaction against the literary mediocrity, the 
 sentimentality, the somewhat narrow con- 
 ventionalism, the moral primness, which are 
 
 806 
 
OSCAR WILDE 
 
 80? 
 
 sometimes associated with the middle part 
 of the reign of Queen Victoria. In Wilde, 
 and more or less in his like, we find in con- 
 trast a fine literary finish, more or less real- 
 ity, cynicism or an affectation of it, and an 
 inclination to treat the relations of the sexes 
 as freely as modern decorum will allow. 
 Dramatic writing refused longer to be bound, 
 it claimed more truth and more art. Much 
 of this is true of the entire prose drama 
 which was the form characteristic of the end 
 of the nineteenth century. Without imply- 
 ing that they were chiefly influenced by 
 Wilde, and without ignoring new influences, 
 like that of Ibsen, we find much the same 
 literary finish, the same or more freedom, 
 the same interest in the relations of the 
 sexes and in the woman " with a past," with 
 much more insight and moral earnestness in 
 their treatment, in the " problem plays " of 
 such men as Sir Arthur W. Pinero and Mr. 
 H. A. Jones. 
 
 Since the present collection stops at the 
 verge of the contemporary drama, it can do 
 no more than barely mention such new tend- 
 encies as those toward plays on living social 
 problems and issues, and toward a vitalized 
 poetic drama. The former style has been 
 most able and revolutionary, though not 
 most agreeable, with Mr. George Bernard 
 Shaw. Poetic drama in America has been 
 most worthy and significant in the hands of 
 Mr. Percy MacKaye and Mrs. Josephine Pea- 
 body Marks; in the British Isles (besides the 
 rather weak plays of the late Stephen 
 Phillips) with a school of Irish dramatists; 
 a most original form of imaginative drama 
 (not always in verse) has developed in Ire- 
 land, in the plays of Mr. W. B. Yeats, Lady 
 Gregory, and the late J. M. Synge, as a part 
 of the wonderful renascence of Irish na- 
 tional spirit which was one of the most 
 remarkable spectacles in the first decade of 
 the twentieth century. 
 
 LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 DRAMATIS PEESON.a; 
 
 LoBD Windermere 
 
 Lord Daklington 
 
 Lord Augustus Lorton 
 
 Mb. Cecil Graham 
 
 Mb. Dumbt 
 
 Me. Hopper 
 
 Paekee (Butler) 
 
 Lady Windebmebe 
 
 The Duchess of Berwick 
 
 Lady Agatha Carlisle 
 
 Lady Plymdale 
 
 Lady Jedburgh 
 
 Lady Stutfield 
 
 Mrs. Cowper-Cowpeb 
 
 Mrs. Eblynne 
 
 EosAUE (Maid) 
 
 The Scenes op the Play 
 
 Act 
 
 Lord Winder- 
 
 Winder- 
 
 Morning-room in 
 mere's House. 
 Act II. Drawing-room in Lord 
 
 mere's House. 
 Act hi. Lord Darlington's rooms. 
 Act IV. Same as Act I. 
 
 Time— The Present. 
 Place — London . 
 The Action of the Play takes place within 
 twenty-four hours, beginning on a Tues- 
 day afternoon at five o'clock, and ending 
 the next day at 1.30 p. m. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene — Mortnng-room of Lord Winder- 
 mere's house in Carlton House Terrace. 
 Boors c. and r. Bureau with books and 
 papers r. Sofa with small tea-table I. 
 Window opening on to terace I. 
 Table r. 
 
 (Lady Windermere is at table r. Ar- 
 ranging roses in a blue bowl.) 
 
 (Enter Parker.) 
 
 Parker. Is your ladyship at home this 
 afternoon? 
 
 Lady W. Yes — who has called? 
 Parker. Lord Darlington, my lady. 
 Lady W. (Hesitates for a moment.) 
 Show him up — and I 'm at home to any 
 one who calls. 
 Parker. Yes, my lady. 
 
 (Exit c.) 
 Lady W. It 's best for me to see him be- 
 fore to-night. I 'm glad he 's come. 
 (Enter Parker c.) 
 Parker. Lord Darlington. 
 
 (Enter Lord D. a. Exit Parker.) 
 Lord D. . How do you do, Lady Winder- 
 mere? 
 
808 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 
 
 Lady W. How do you do, Lord Darling- 
 ton? No, I can't shake hands with you. 
 My hands are all wet with these roses. 
 Aren't they lovely? They came up 
 from Selby this morning. 
 
 Lord T>. They are quite perfect. {Sees 
 a fan lying on the table.) And what a 
 wonderful fan! May I look at it? 
 
 Lady W. Do. Pretty, is n't it ! It's got 
 my name on it, and everything. I have 
 only just seen it myself. It 's my hus- 
 band's birthday present to me. You 
 know to-day is my birthday ? 
 
 Lord D. No? Is it really? 
 
 Lady W. Yes ; I 'm of age to-day. Quite 
 an important day in my Ufe, isn't it? 
 That is why I am giving this party to- 
 night. Do sit down. 
 
 {Still arranging flowers.) 
 
 Lord D. {Sitting down.) I wish I had 
 known it was your birthday. Lady Win- 
 dermere. I would have covered the 
 whole street in front of your house with 
 flowers for you to walk on. They are 
 made for you. 
 
 {A short pause.) 
 
 Lady W. Lord Darlington, you annoyed 
 me last night at the Foreign Office. I 
 am afraid you are going to annoy me 
 again. 
 
 Lord D. 1, Lady Windermere? 
 
 {Enter Parker and Footman c. with tray 
 and tea-things.) 
 
 Lady W. Put it there, Parker. That will 
 do. {Wipes her hands with her pocket- 
 handkerchief, goes to tea-table I. and 
 sits down.) Won't you come over, Lord 
 Darlington ? 
 
 {Exit Parker c.) 
 
 Lord D. {Takes chair and goes across 
 I. c.) I am quite miserable. Lady Win- 
 dermere. You must tell me what I did. 
 {Sits down at table I.) 
 
 Lady W. Well, you kept paying me 
 elaborate compliments the whole evening. 
 
 Lord D. {Smiling.) Ah, now-a-days we 
 are all of us so hard up, that the only 
 pleasant things to pay are ^compliments. 
 They 're the only thing we can pay. 
 
 Lady W. {Shaking her head.) No, I am 
 talking very seriously. You must n't 
 laugh, I am quite serious. I don't like 
 compliments, and I don't see why a man 
 should think he is pleasing a woman 
 enormously when he says to her a whole 
 heap of things that he does n't mean. 
 
 Lord D. Ah, but I did mean them. 
 {Takes tea which she offers him.) 
 
 Lady W. {Gravely.) I hope not. I 
 should be sorry to have to quarrel with 
 you, Lord Darlington. I like you very 
 much, you know that. But I shouldn't 
 like you at all if I thought you were 
 what most other men are. Believe me, 
 you are better than most other men, and 
 I sometimes think you pretend to be 
 worse. 
 
 Lord D. We all have our little vanities, 
 Lady Windermere. 
 
 Lady W. Why do you make that your 
 special one? 
 
 {Still seated at table I.) 
 
 Lord D. {Still seated I. c.) Oh, now- 
 a-days so many conceited people go 
 about Society pretending to be good, 
 that I think it shows rather a sweet and 
 modest disposition to pretend to be bad. 
 Besides, there is this to be said. If you 
 pretend to be good, the world takes you 
 very seriously. If you pretend to be 
 bad, it does n't. Such is the astounding 
 stupidity of optimism. 
 
 Lady W. Don't you want the world to 
 take you seriously then, Lord Darling- 
 ton? 
 
 Lord D. No, not the world. Who are 
 the people the world takes seriously? 
 All the dull people one can think of, 
 from the Bishops down to the bores. I 
 should like you to take me very seriously. 
 Lady Windermere, you more than any 
 one else in life. 
 
 Lady W. Why — why me? 
 
 Lord D. {After a slight hesitation.) Be- 
 cause I think we might be great friends. 
 Let us be great friends. You may want 
 a friend some day. 
 
 Lady W. Why do you say that? 
 
 Lord D. Oh! — we all want friends at 
 times. 
 
 Lady W, I think we 're very good friends 
 already, Lord Darlington. We can al- 
 ways remain so as long as you don't 
 
 Lord D. Don't what? 
 
 Lady W. Don't spoil it by saying ex- 
 travagant, silly things to me. You think 
 I am a Puritan, I suppose? Well, I 
 have something of the Puritan in me. I 
 was brought up like that. I am glad of 
 it. My mother died when I was a mere 
 child. I lived always with Lady Julia, 
 my father's eldest sister, you know. She 
 was stem to me, but she taught me, what 
 the world is forgetting, the difference 
 that there is between what is right and 
 what is wrong. She allowed of no com- 
 promise. I allow of none. 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 809 
 
 Lord T). My dear Lady Windermere! 
 Lady W. {Leaning hack on the sofa.) 
 
 You look on me as being behind the age. 
 
 — Well, I am! I should be sorry to be 
 
 on the same level as an age like this. 
 Lord D. You think the age very bad? 
 Lady W. Yes, now-a-days people seem 
 
 to look on life as a speculation. It is 
 
 not a speculation. It is a sacrament. 
 
 Its ideal is Love. Its purification is 
 
 saeriflee. 
 Lord D. (Smiling.) Oh, anything is 
 
 better than being sacrificed! 
 Lady W. (Leaning forward.) Don't say 
 
 that. 
 Lord D. I do say it. I feel it — I know it. 
 
 (Enter Parker c.) 
 
 Parker. The men want to know if they 
 are to put the carpets on the terrace for 
 to-night, my lady? 
 
 Lady W. You don't think it will rain, 
 Lord Darlington, do you? 
 
 Lord D. I won't hear of its raining on 
 your birthday! 
 
 Lady W. Tell them to do it at once, 
 Parker. 
 
 (Exit Parker c.) 
 
 Lord D. (Still seated.) Do you think 
 then — of course I am only putting an 
 imaginary instance — do you think, that 
 in the case of a young married couple, 
 say about two years married, if the hus- 
 band suddenly becomes the intimate 
 friend of a woman of — well, more than 
 doubtful character, is always calling 
 upon her, lunching with her, and prob- 
 ably paying her bills — do you think that 
 the wife should not console herself? 
 
 Lady W. (Frowning.) Console herself? 
 
 Lord D. Yes, I think she should — I think 
 she has the right. * 
 
 Lady W. Because the husband is vile 
 should the wife be vile also? 
 
 Lord D. Vileness is a terrible word. Lady 
 Windermere. 
 
 Lady W. It is a terrible thing. Lord Dar- 
 lington. 
 
 Lord D. Do you know I am afraid that 
 good people do a great deal of harm in 
 this world. Certainly the greatest harm 
 they do is that they make badness of 
 such extraordinary importance. It is 
 absurd to divide people into good and 
 bad. People are either charming or 
 tedious. I take the side of the charm- 
 ing, and you. Lady Windermere, can't 
 help belonging to them. 
 
 Lady W. Now, Lord Darlington. (Ris- 
 
 ing and crossing r., front of Mm.) 
 Don't stir, I am merely going to finish 
 my flowers. 
 
 (Goes to table r. o.) 
 
 Lord D. (Rising and moving chair.) 
 And I must say I think you are very 
 hard on modern life. Lady Windermere. 
 Of course there is much against it, I 
 admit. Most women, for instance, now- 
 a-days, are rather mercenary. 
 
 Lady W. Don't talk about such people. 
 
 Lord D. Well, then, setting mercenary 
 people aside, who, of course, are dread- 
 ful, do you think seriously that women 
 who have committed what the world calls 
 a fault should never be forgiven? 
 
 Lady W. (Standing at table.) I think 
 they should never be forgiven. 
 
 Lord D. And me? Do you think that 
 there should be the same laws for men 
 as there are for women? 
 
 Lady W. Certainly! 
 
 Lord D. I think life too complex a thing 
 to be settled by these hard and fast rules. 
 
 Lady W. If we had "these hard and fast 
 rules," we should find life much more 
 simple. 
 
 Lord D. You allow of no exceptions? 
 
 Lady W. None! 
 
 Lord D. Ah, what a fascinating Puritan 
 you are. Lady Windermere! 
 
 Lady W. The adjective was unnecessary. 
 Lord Darlington. 
 
 Lord D. I could n't help it. I can resist 
 everything except temptation. 
 
 Lady W. You have the nlodem affectation 
 of weakness. 
 
 Lord D. (Looking at her.) It's only an 
 affection, Lady Windermere. 
 
 (Enter Parker c.) 
 
 Parker. The Duchess of Berwick and 
 Lady Agatha Carlisle. 
 
 (Enter the Duchess of B. and Lady A. 
 C. c.) 
 
 (Exit Parker c.) 
 
 Duchess of B. (Coming down c. and 
 shaking hands.) Dear Margaret, I am 
 So pleased to see you. You remember 
 Agatha, don't you? (Grossing I. c.) 
 How do you do, Lord Darlington? I 
 won't let you know my daughter, you 
 are far too wicked. 
 
 Lord D. Don't say that. Duchess. As a 
 wicked man I am a complete failure. 
 Why, there are lots of people who say 
 I have never really done anything wrong 
 in the whole course of my life. Of 
 
810 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTDHY 
 
 course they only say it behind my 
 back. 
 
 Duchess of B. Isn't he dreadful? Aga- 
 tha, this is Lord Darlington. Mind 
 you don't believe a word he says. (Lord 
 Darlington crosses r. c.) No, no tea, 
 thank you, dear. {Crosses and sits on 
 sofa.) We have just had tea at Lady 
 Markby's. Such bad tea, too. It was 
 quite undrinkable. I was n't at all sur- 
 prised. Her own son-in-law supplies it. 
 Agatha is looking forward so much to 
 your ball to-night, dear Margaret. 
 
 Lady W. {Seated I. c.) Oh, you 
 mustn't think it is going to be a ball. 
 Duchess. It is only a dance in honor of 
 ■ my birthday. A small and early. 
 
 Lord D. {Standing I, c.) Very small, 
 very early, and very select. Duchess. 
 
 Duchess of B. {On sofa I.) Of course 
 it 's going to be select. But we know 
 that, dear Margaret, about your house. 
 It is really one of the few houses in 
 London where I can take Agatha, and 
 where I feel perfectly secure about poor 
 Berwick. I don't know what Society is 
 coming to. The most dreadful people 
 seem to go everywhere. They certainly 
 come to my parties — ^the men get quite 
 furious if one does n't ask them. Really, 
 some one should make a stand against it. 
 
 Lady W. I will, Duchess. I will have no 
 one in my house about whom there is any 
 scandal. 
 
 Lord D. (r. c.) Oh, don't say that. Lady 
 Windermere. I should never be admit- 
 ted! 
 
 {Sitting.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Oh, men don't matter. 
 With women it is different. We're 
 good. Some of us are, at least. But 
 we are positively getting elbowed into 
 the comer. Our husbands would really 
 forget our existence if we did n't nag at 
 them from time to time, just to remind 
 them that we have a perfect legal right 
 to do so. 
 
 Lord D. It 's a curious thing. Duchess, 
 about the game of marriage — a game, by 
 the way, that is going out of fashion — 
 the wives hold all the honors, and in- 
 variably lose the odd trick. 
 
 Duchess of B. The odd trick? Is that 
 the husband. Lord Darlington? 
 
 Lord D. It would be rather a good name 
 for the modem husband. 
 
 Duchess of B. Dear Lord Darlington, how 
 thoroughly depraved you are! 
 
 Lady W. Lord Darlington is trivial. 
 
 Lord D. Ah, don't say that. Lady Win- 
 dermere. 
 
 Lady W. Why do you talk so trivially 
 about life, then? ' 
 
 Lord D. Because I think that life is far 
 too important a thing ever to talk seri- 
 ously about it. 
 
 {Moves up c.) 
 
 Duchess of B. What does he mean? Do, 
 as a concession to my poor wits, Lord 
 Darlington, just explain to me what you 
 really mean? 
 
 Lord D. {Coming down hack of table.) 
 I think I had better not, Duchess. 
 Now-a-days to be intelligible is to be 
 found out. Good-bye! {Shakes hands 
 with Duchess.) And now {Goes up 
 stage.), Lady Windermere, good-bye. I 
 may come to-night, mayn't I? Do let 
 me come. 
 
 Lady W. {Standing up stage with Lord 
 D.) Yes, certainly. But you are not to 
 say fooHsh, insincere things to people. 
 
 Lord D. {Smiling.) Ah, you are be- 
 ginning to reform me. It is a dangerous 
 thing to reform any one. Lady Winder- 
 mere. 
 
 (Bows, and exit c.) 
 
 Duchess of B. {Who has risen, goes c.) 
 What a charming, wicked creature! I 
 like him so much. I'm quite delighted 
 he 's gone ! How sweet you 're looking ! 
 Where do you get your gowns? And 
 now I must tell you how sorry I am for 
 you, dear Margaret. {Crosses to sofa 
 and sits with Lady W.) Agatha, dar- 
 ling! 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 {Rises.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Will you go and look over 
 the photograph ^dbum that I see there? 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 {Goes to table L.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Dear girl ! She is so fond 
 of photographs of Switzerland. Such a 
 pure taste, I think. But I really am 
 so sorry for you, Margaret. • 
 
 Lady W. {Smiling.) Why, Duchess? 
 
 Duchess of B. Oh, on account of that hor- 
 rid woman. She dresses so well, too, 
 which makes it much worse, sets such a 
 dreadful example. Augustus — you know 
 my disreputable brother — such a trial to 
 us all — ^well, Augustus is completely in- 
 fatuated about her. It is quite scandal- 
 ous, for she is absolutely inadmissible into 
 society. Many a woman has a past, but 
 I am told that she has at least a dozen, 
 and that they all fit. 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 811 
 
 hady W. Whom are you talking about, 
 Duchess ? 
 
 Duchess of B. About Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Lady W. Mrs. Erlynne? I never heard 
 of her, Duchess. And what has she to 
 do with me? 
 
 Duchess of B. My poor child. Agatha, 
 darling ! 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 Duchess of B. Will you go out on the 
 terrace and look at the sunset ? 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 {Exit through window I.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Sweet girl! So devoted 
 to sunsets! Shows such refinement of 
 feeling, does it not? After all, there is 
 nothing like nature, is there? 
 
 Lady W. But what is it. Duchess? Why 
 do you talk to me about this person? 
 
 Duchess of B. Don't you really know? I 
 assure you we 're all so distressed about 
 it. Only last night at dear Lady Tan- 
 sen's every one was saying how extra- 
 ordinary it was that, of all men in Lon- 
 don, Windermere should behave in such 
 a way. 
 
 Lady W. My husband — ^what has he ggt 
 to do with any woman of that kind? 
 
 Duchess of B. Ah, what indeed, dear? 
 That is the point. He goes to see her 
 continually, and stops for hours at a 
 time, and while he is there she is not at 
 home to any one. Not that many ladies 
 call on her, dear, but she has a great 
 many disreputable men friends — my own 
 brother in particular, as I told you — 
 and that is what makes it so dreadful 
 about Windermere. We looked upon 
 him as being such a model husband, but 
 I am afraid there is no doubt about it. 
 My dear nieces — ^you know the Saville 
 girls, don't you? — such nice domestic 
 creatures — plain, dreadfully plain, but 
 so good — well, they're always at the 
 window doing fancy work, and making 
 ugly things for the poor, which I think 
 so useful of them in these dreadful so- 
 cialistic days, and this terrible woman 
 has taken a house in Curzon Street, right 
 opposite them — such a respectable street, 
 too. I don't know what we 're coming 
 to ! And they tell me that Windermere 
 goes there four and five times a week — 
 they see him. They can't help it — and 
 although they never talk scandal, they — 
 well, of course — ^they remark on it to 
 every one. And the worst of it all is, 
 that I have been told that this woman 
 has got a great deal of money out of 
 
 somebody, for it seems that she came to 
 London six months ago without anything 
 at all to speak of, and now she has this 
 charming house in Mayfair, drives her 
 pony in the Park every afternoon, and 
 all — ^well all — since she has known poor 
 dear Windermere. 
 
 Lady W. Oh, I can't believe it! 
 
 Duchess of B. But it's quite true, my 
 dear. The whole of London knows it. 
 That is why I felt it was better to come 
 and talk to you, and advise you to take 
 Windermere away at once to Homburg 
 or to Aix, where he '11 have something 
 to amuse him, and where you can watch 
 him all day long. I assure you, my 
 dear, that on several occasions after I 
 was first married I had to pretend to be 
 Very ill, and was obliged to drink the 
 most unpleasant mineral waters, merely 
 to get Berwick out of town. He was so 
 extremely susceptible. Though I am 
 bound to say he never gave away any 
 large sums of money to anybody. He 
 is far too high-principled for that. 
 
 Lady W. (Interrupting.) Duchess, Duch- 
 ess, it 's impossible ! (Rising and cross- 
 ing stage c.) We are only married two 
 years. Our child is but six months old. 
 (Sits in chair r. of I. table.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Ah, the dear, pretty baby! 
 How is the little darling? Is it a boy 
 or a girl? I hope a girl — Ah, no, I 
 remember it 's a boy ! I 'm so sorry. 
 Boys are so wicked. My boy is exces- 
 sively immoral. You wouldn't believe 
 at what hours he comes home. And he 's 
 only left Oxford a few months — I really 
 don't know what they teach them there. 
 
 Lady W. Are all men bad? 
 
 Duchess of B. Oh, all of them, my dear, 
 all of them, without any exception. And 
 they never grow any better. Men be- 
 come old, but they never become good. 
 
 Lady W. Windermere and I married for 
 love. 
 
 Duchess of B. Yes, we begin like that. 
 It was only Berwick's brutal and inces- 
 sant threats of suicide that made me ac- 
 cept him at all, and before the year was 
 out he was running after all kinds of 
 petticoats, every color, every shape, 
 every material. In fact, before the 
 honeymoon was over, I caught him wink- 
 ing at my maid, a most pretty, respect- 
 able girl. I disjnissed her at once with- 
 out a character. — No, I remember, I 
 passed her on to my sister ; poor dear Sir 
 Creorge is so short-sighted, I thought it 
 
812 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 would n't matter. But it did, though [ — ] 
 it was most unfortunate. (Bises.) And 
 now, my dear child, I must go, as we are 
 dining out. And mind you don't take 
 this little aberration of Windermere's too 
 much to heart. Just take him abroad, 
 and he'll come back to you all right. 
 
 "Lady W. Come back to me? (c.) 
 
 Duchess of B. {I. c.) Yes, dear, these 
 wicked women get our husbands away 
 from us, but they always come back, 
 slightly damaged, of course. And don't 
 make scenes, men hate them ! 
 
 Lady W. It is very kind of you Duchess, 
 to come and tell me all this. But I can't 
 believe that my husband is untrue to me. 
 
 Duchess of B. Pretty child! I was like 
 that once. Now I know that all men are 
 monsters. (Lady W. rings bell.) The 
 only thing to do is to feed the wretches 
 well. A good cook does wonders, and 
 that I know you have. My dear Mar- 
 garet, you are not going to cry? 
 
 Lady W. You needn't be afraid, Duch- 
 ess, I never cry. 
 
 Duchess of B. That's quite right, dear. 
 Crying is the refuge of plain women, but 
 the ruin of pretty ones. Agatha, dar- 
 ling! 
 
 Lady A. {Entering I.) Yes, mamma. 
 (Stands back of table I. c.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Come and bid good-bye to 
 Lady Windermere, and thank her for 
 your charming visit. (Coming down 
 again.) And by the way, I must thank 
 you for sending a card to Mr. Hopper — 
 he 's that rich young Australian, people 
 are taking such notice of just at present. 
 His father made a great fortune by sell- 
 ing some kind of food in circular tins — 
 most palatable, I believe — I fancy it is 
 the thing the servants always refuse to 
 eat. But the son is quite interesting. I 
 think he's attracted by dear Agatha's 
 clever talk. Of course, we should be 
 very sorry to lose her, but I think that a 
 mother who doesn't part with a daugh- 
 ter every season has no real affection. 
 We 're coming to-night, dear. (Parker 
 opens c. doors.) And remember my ad- 
 vice, take the poor fellow out of town at 
 once, it is the only thing to do. Good- 
 bye, once more; come, Agatha. 
 (Exeunt Duchess and Lady A. c.) 
 
 Lady W. How horrible! I understand 
 now what Lord Darlington meant by the 
 imaginary instance of the couple not two 
 years married. Oh ! it can't be true — she 
 spoke of enormous sums of money paid 
 
 to this woman. I know where Arthur 
 keeps his bank-book — in one of the draw- 
 ers of that desk. I might find out by 
 that. I will find out. (Opens drawer.) 
 No, it is some hideous mistake. (Bises 
 and goes c.) Some silly scandal! He 
 loves me! He loves me! But why 
 should I not look? I am his wife, I 
 have a right to look! (Beturns to bu- 
 reau, takes out book and examines it, 
 page by page, smiles and gives a sigh of 
 relief.) I knew it, there is not a word 
 of truth in this stupid story. (Puts 
 book back in drawer. As she does so, 
 starts and takes out another book.) A 
 second book — ^private — blocked! (Tries 
 to open it, but fails. Sees paper knife 
 on bureau, and with it cuts cover from 
 book. Begins to start at the first page.) 
 Mrs. Erlynne — £600 — Mrs. Erlynne — 
 £700— Mrs. Erlynne— £400. Oh! it is 
 true ! it is true ! How horrible ! 
 (Throws book on floor.) 
 
 (Enter Lord W. c.) 
 
 Lord W. Well, dear, has the fan been 
 sent home yet? (Going r. c. sees book.) 
 Margaret, you have cut open my bank 
 book. You have no right to do such a 
 thing ! 
 
 Lady W. You think it wrong that you are 
 found out, don't you? 
 
 Lord W. I think it wrong that a wife 
 should spy on her husband. 
 
 Lady W. I did not spy on you. I never 
 knew of this woman's existence till half 
 an hour ago. Some one who pitied me 
 was kind enough to tell me what every 
 one in London knows already — ^your 
 daily visits to Curzon Street, your mad 
 infatuation, the monstrous sums of 
 money you squander on this infamous 
 woman ! 
 
 (Crossing I.) 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, don't talk like that of 
 Mrs. Erlynne, you don't know how un- 
 just it is! 
 
 Lady W. (Turning to him.) You are 
 very jealous of Mrs. Erlynne's honor. I 
 wish you had been as jealous of mine. 
 
 Lord W. Your honor is untouched, Mar- 
 garet. You don't think for a moment 
 
 that 
 
 (Puts book back into desk.) 
 
 Lady W. I think that you spend your 
 money strangely. That is all. Oh, 
 don't imagine I mind about the money. 
 As far as I am concerned, you may 
 squander everything we have. But what 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 813 
 
 I do mind is that you who have loved 
 me, you who have taught me to love you, 
 should pass from the love that is given 
 to the love that is bought. Oh, it 's 
 horrible! {Sits on sofa.) And it is I 
 who feel degraded. You don't feel any- 
 thing. I feel stained, utterly stained. 
 You can't realize how hideous the last 
 six months seem to me now — every kiss 
 you have given me is tainted in my 
 memory. 
 
 Lord W. (Crossing to her.) Don't say 
 that, Margaret, I never loved any one in 
 the whole world but you. 
 
 Lady W. (Rises.) Who is this woman, 
 then? Why do you take a house for 
 her? 
 
 Lord W. I did not take a house for her. 
 
 Lady W. You gave her the money to do 
 it, which is the same thing. 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, as far as I have 
 known Mrs. Erlynne 
 
 Lady W. Is there a Mr. Erlynne — or is 
 he a mjrth? 
 
 Lord W. Her husband died many years 
 ago. She is alone in the world. 
 
 Lady W. No relations? 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Lord W. None. 
 
 Lady W. Rather curious, isn't it? (I.) 
 
 Lord W. (I. c.) Margaret, I was say- 
 ing to you — and I beg you to listen to me 
 — -that as far as I have known Mrs. Er- 
 lynne, she has conducted herself well. 
 If years ago 
 
 Lady W. Oh! (Crossing r.-c.) I don't 
 want details about her life. 
 
 Lord W. I am not going to give you any 
 details about her Uf e. I tell you simply 
 this — ^Mrs. Erlynne was once honored, 
 loved, respected. She was well bom, she 
 had a position — she lost everything — 
 threw it away, if you like. That makes 
 it all the more bitter. Misfortunes one 
 can endure — they come from outside, 
 they are accidents. But to suffer for 
 one's own faults — ah! there is the sting 
 of life. It was twenty years ago, too. 
 She was little more than a girl then. 
 She had been a wife for even less time 
 than you have. 
 
 Lady W. I am not interested in her — 
 and — you should not mention this woman 
 and me in the same breath. It is an 
 error of taste. 
 
 (Sitting r. at desk.) 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, you could save this 
 woman. She wants to get back into so- 
 ciety, and she wants you to help her. 
 
 (Crossing to her.) 
 
 Lady W. Me! 
 
 Lord W. Yes, you. 
 
 Lady W, How impertinent of her! 
 (A pause. ) 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, I came to ask you a 
 great favor, and I still ask it of you, 
 though you have discovered what I had 
 intended you should never have known, 
 that I have given Mrs. Erlynne a large 
 sum of money. I want you to send her 
 an invitation for our party to-night. 
 (Standing I. of her.) 
 
 Lady W. You are mad. 
 (Rises. ) 
 
 Lord W. I entreat you. People may 
 chatter about her, do chatter about her, 
 of course, but they don't know anything 
 definite against her. She has been to 
 several houses — not to houses where you 
 would go, I admit, but still to houses 
 where women who are in what is called 
 Society now-a-days do go. That does 
 not content her. She wants you to re- 
 ceive her once. 
 
 Lady W. As a triumph for her, I sup- 
 pose? 
 
 Lord W. No; but because she knows that 
 you are a good woman — and that if she 
 comes here once she will have a chance 
 of a happier^ a surer life, than she has 
 had. She will make no further effort to 
 know you. Won't you help a woman 
 who is trying to get back? 
 
 Lady W. No! If a woman really re- 
 pents, she never wishes to return to the 
 society that has made or seen her ruin. 
 
 Lord W. I beg of you. 
 
 Lady W. (Crossing to door r.) I am 
 going to dress for dinner, and don't men- 
 tion the subject again this evening. 
 Arthur (Going to him c), you fancy be- 
 cause I have no father or mother that I 
 am alone in the world and that you can 
 treat me as you choose. You are wrong, 
 I have friends, many friends. 
 
 Lord W. (I. b.) Margaret, you are talk- 
 ing foolishly, recklessly. I won't argue 
 with you, but I insist upon your asking 
 Mrs. Erlynne to-night. 
 
 Lady W. (r. c.) 1 shall do nothing of 
 the kind. 
 
 (Crossing I. c.) 
 
 Lord W. You refuse? 
 (c.) 
 
 Lady W. Absolutely! 
 
 Lord W. Ah, Margaret, do this for my 
 sake; it is her last chance. 
 
 Lady W. What has that to do with me? 
 
814 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Lord W, How hard good women are! 
 
 Lady W. How weak bad men are ! 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, none of us men may 
 be good enough for the women we marry 
 — that is quite true — but you <fon't 
 imagine I would ever — oh, the sugges- 
 tion is monstrous! 
 
 Lady W. Why should you be different 
 from other men? I am told that there 
 is hardly a husband in London who does 
 not waste his life over some shameful 
 passion. 
 
 Lord W. I am not one of them. 
 
 Lady W. I am not sure of that. 
 
 Lord W. You are sure in your heart. 
 But don't make chasm after chasm be- 
 tween us. God knows the last few min- 
 utes have thrust us wide enough apart. 
 Sit down and write the card. 
 
 Lady W. Nothing in the whole world 
 would induce me. 
 
 Lord W. (Crossing to the bureau.) 
 Then I will. 
 
 (Rings electric bell, sits down and writes 
 card.) 
 
 Lady W. You are going to invite this 
 woman? 
 
 (Crossing to him.) 
 
 Lord W. Yes. 
 
 (Pause.) 
 
 (Enter Parker.) 
 
 Lord W. Parker! 
 
 Parker. Yes, my lord. 
 
 (Comes down I. c.) 
 
 Lord W. Have this note sent to Mrs. Er- 
 lynne at No. 84a Curzon Street. ( Cross- 
 ing to I. c. and giving note to Parker.) 
 There is no answer. 
 
 (Enter Parker c.) 
 
 Lady W. Arthur, if that woman comes 
 here, I shall insult her. 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, don't say that. 
 
 Lady W. I mean it. 
 
 Lord W. Child, if you did such such a 
 thing, there's not a woman in London 
 who wouldn't pity you. 
 
 Lady W. There is not a good woman in 
 London who would not applaud me. 
 We have been too lax. We must make 
 an example. I propose to begin to- 
 night. (Picking up fan.) Yes, you 
 gave me this fan to-day; it was your 
 birthday present. If that woman crosses 
 my threshold, I shall strike her across 
 the face with it. 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, you couldn't dp such 
 a thing. 
 
 Lady W. You don't know me ! 
 (Moves r.) 
 
 (Enter Parker.) 
 
 Lady W. Parker! 
 
 Parker. Yes, my lady. 
 
 Lady W. I shall dine in my own room. 
 I don't want dinner, in fact. See that 
 everything is ready by half-past ten. 
 And, Parker, be sure you pronounce the 
 names of the guests very distinctly to- 
 night. Sometimes yon speak so fast 
 that I miss them. I am particularly 
 anxious to hear the names quite clearly, 
 so as to make no mistake. You under- 
 stand, Parker? 
 
 Parker. Yes, my lady. 
 
 Lady W. That will do! (Exit Parker 
 e.) (Speaking to Lord W.) Arthur, if 
 that woman comes here — I warn you — 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, you '11 ruin us ! 
 
 Lady W. Us ! From ' this moment my 
 life is separate from yours. But if you 
 wish to avoid a public scandal, write at 
 once to this wdinan, and tell her that I 
 forbid her to come here ! 
 
 Lord W. I will not — ^I cannot — she must 
 come ! 
 
 Lady W. Then I shall do exactly as I 
 have said. (Goes r.) You leave me no 
 choice. 
 
 (Exit r.) 
 
 Lord W. (Calling after her.) Margaret! 
 Margaret! (A pause.) My God! What 
 shall I do ! I dare not tell her who this 
 woman really is. The shame would kill 
 her. 
 
 (Sinks down into a chair and buries his 
 
 face in his hands.) 
 
 (Act-drop.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene — Drawing-room in Lord W.'s house. 
 Door r. u. opening into ball-room, where 
 band is playing. Door I. through which 
 guests are entering. Door I. u. opens on 
 an illuminated terrace. Palms, flowers, 
 and brilliant lights. Room crowded with 
 guests. Lady W. is receiving them. 
 
 Duchess of B. (Up c.) So strange Lord 
 Windermere is n't here. Mr. Hopper is 
 very late, too. You have kept those five 
 dances for him, Agatha! 
 (Comes down.) 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 Duchess of B. (Sitting on sofa.) Just 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 815 
 
 let me see your card. I 'm so glad Lady 
 Windermere has revived cards. — They 're 
 a mother's only safeguard. You dear 
 simple little thing! {Scratches out two 
 names.) No nice girl shouH ever waltz 
 with such particularly younger sons ! It 
 looks so fast! The last two dances you 
 must pass on the terrace with Mr. Hop- 
 per. 
 
 (Enter Mr. Dumby and Lady Plymdale 
 from the ball-room.) 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 Duehess of B. {Fanning herself.) The 
 air is so pleasant there. 
 
 Parker. Mrs. Cowper-Cowper. Lady Stut- 
 fleld. Sir James Royston. Mr. Guy 
 Berkeley. 
 {These people enter as announced.) 
 
 Dumby. Good evening, Lady Stutfleld. 
 I suppose this will be the last ball of the 
 season? 
 
 Lady 8. I suppose so, Mr. Dumby. It 's 
 been a delightful season, hasn't it? 
 
 Dumby. Quite delightful! Good evening. 
 Duchess. I suppose this wiU be the last 
 ball of the season? 
 
 Duchess of B. I suppose so, Mr. Dumby. 
 It has been a very dull season, has n't it? 
 
 Dumby. Dreadfully dull ! Dreadfully dull ! 
 
 Mrs. C.-C. Good evening, Mr. Dumby. 
 I suppose this wiU be the last ball of the 
 season? 
 
 Dumby. Oh, I think not. There'll prob- 
 ably be two more. {Wanders back to 
 Lady P.) 
 
 Parker. Mr. Rufford. Lady Jedburgh 
 and Miss Graham. Mr. Hopper. 
 {These people enter as announced.) 
 
 Hopper. How do you do, Lady Winder- 
 mere? How do you do, Duehess? 
 (Bows to Lady A.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Dear Mr. Hopper, how 
 nice of you to come so early. We all 
 know how you are run after in London. 
 
 Hopper. Capital place, London! They 
 are not nearly so exclusive in London as 
 they are in Sydney. 
 
 Duchess of B. Ah! we know your value, 
 Mr. Hopper. We wish there were more 
 like you. It would make life so much 
 easier. Do you know, Mr. Hopper, dear 
 Agatha and I are so much interested in 
 Australia. It must be so pretty with 
 all the dear little kangaroos flying about. 
 Agatha has found it on the map. What 
 a curious shape it is! Just like a large 
 packing case. However, it is a very 
 young country, isn't it? 
 
 Hopper. Wasn't it made at the same 
 
 time as the others. Duchess? 
 Duchess of B. How clever you are, Mr. 
 
 Hopper. You have a cleverness quite 
 
 of your own. Now I must n't keep you. 
 Hopper. But I should Uke to dance with 
 
 Lady Agatha, Duchess. 
 Duchess of B. Well, I hope she has a 
 
 dance left. Have you got a dance left, 
 
 Agatha? 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 Duchess of B. The next one? 
 Lady Agatha. Yes, mamma. 
 Hopper. May I have the pleasure? 
 
 {Lady Agatha bows.) 
 Duchess of B. Mind you take great care 
 
 of my little chatter-box, Mr. Hopper. 
 {Lady A. and Mr. H. pass into ball-room.) 
 
 {Enter Lord W. I.) 
 
 Lord W. Margaret, I want to speak to 
 
 you. 
 Lady W. In a moment. 
 
 {The music stops.) 
 Parker, Lord Augustus Lorton. 
 
 {Enter Lord A.) 
 
 Lord A. Good evening, Lady Winder- 
 mere. 
 
 Duchess of B. Sir James, will you take 
 me into the ball-room? Augustus has 
 been dining with us to-night. I really 
 have had quite enough of dear Augustus 
 for the moment. 
 
 {Sir James r. gives the Duchess his arm 
 and escorts her into the ball-room.) 
 
 Parker. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Bowden. 
 Lord and Lady Paisley. Lord Darling- 
 ton. 
 
 {These people enter as announced.) 
 
 Lord A. {Coming up to Lord W.) Want 
 to speak to you particularly, dear boy. 
 I'm worn to a shadow. Know I don't 
 look it. None of us men do look what 
 we really are. Demcihed good thing, too. 
 What I want to know is this. Who is 
 she? Where does she come from? 
 Why has n't she got any demmed rela- 
 
 - tions? Demmed nuisance, relations! 
 But they make one so demmed respecta- 
 ble. 
 
 Lord W. You are talking of Mrs. Er- 
 lynne, I suppose? I only met her six 
 months ago. Till then I never knew of 
 her existence. 
 
 Lord A. You have seen a good deal of 
 her since then. 
 
 Lord W. {Coldly.) Yes, I have seen a 
 
816 
 
 THE nineteenth;, century 
 
 good deal of her since then. I have just 
 seen her. 
 
 Lord A. Egad ! the women are very down 
 on her. I have been dining with Ara- 
 bella this evening ! By Jove ! you should 
 have heard what she said about Mrs. 
 Erlynne. She didn't leave a rag on 
 her. . . . {Aside.) Berwick and I told 
 her that didn't matter much, as the 
 lady in question must have an extremely 
 fine figure. You should have seen Arar 
 bella's expression! . . . But, look here, 
 dear boy. I don't know what to do 
 about Mrs. Erlynne. Egad! I might 
 be married to her; she treats me with 
 such demmed indifference. She 's deuced 
 clever, too ! She explains everything. 
 Egad! She explains you. She has got 
 any amount of explanations for you — 
 and all of them different. 
 
 Lord W. No explanations are necessary 
 about my friendship with Mrs. Erljmne. 
 
 Lord A. Hem ! Well, look here, dear old 
 fellow. Do you think she will ever get 
 into this demmed thiug called Society? 
 Would you introduce her to your wife? 
 No use beating about the confounded 
 bush. Would you do that? 
 
 Lord W. Mrs. Erlynne is coming here 
 to-night. 
 
 Lord A. Your wife has sent her a card? 
 
 Lord W. Mrs. Erlynne has received a 
 card. 
 
 Lord A. Then she's all right, dear boy. 
 But why did n't you tell me that before ? 
 It would have saved me a heap of worry 
 and demmed misunderstandings! 
 
 {Lady A. and Mr. H. cross and exit on 
 terrace I. u. e.) 
 
 Parker. Mr. Cecil Graham! 
 
 (Enter Mr. Cecil G.) 
 
 Cecil G. (Bows to Lady W., passes over 
 and shakes hands with Lord W.) Good 
 evening, Arthur. ' Why don't you ask 
 me how I am? I like people to ask me 
 how I am. It shows a wide-spread in- 
 terest in my health. Now to-night I am 
 not at all well. Been dining with my 
 people. Wonder why it is one's people 
 are always so tedious ? My father would 
 talk morality after dinner. I told him 
 he was old enough to know better. But 
 my experience is that as soon as people 
 are old enough to know better, they don't 
 know anything at all. Hullo, Tuppy! 
 Hear you 're going to be married again ; 
 thought you were tired of that game. 
 
 Lord 'A. You 're excessively trivial, my 
 dear boy, excessively trivial! 
 
 Cecil G. By the way, Tuppy, which is 
 it? Have you been twice married and 
 once divorced, or twice divorced and once 
 married? I say, you've been twice 
 divorced and once married. It seems so 
 much more probable. 
 
 Lord A. I have a very bad memory. I 
 really don't remember which. 
 (Moves away r.) 
 
 Lady P. Lord Windermere, I 've some- 
 thing most particular to ask you. 
 
 Lord W. I am afraid — if you will excuse 
 me — I must join my wife. 
 
 Lady P. Oh, you mustn't dream of such 
 a thing. It 's most dangerous now-a- 
 days for a husband to pay any attention 
 to his wife in public. It always makes 
 people think that he beats her when 
 they're alone. The world has grown so 
 suspicious of eaiything that looks like a 
 happy married life. But I '11 tell you 
 what it is at supper. 
 (Moves towards door of ball-room.) 
 
 Lord W. (c.) Margaret, I must speak 
 to you. 
 
 Lady W. Will you hold my fan for me, 
 Lord Darlington? Thanks. 
 
 (Comes down to him.) 
 
 Lord W. (Crossing to her.) Margaret, 
 what you said before dinner was, of 
 course, impossible? 
 
 Lady W. That woman is not coming here 
 to-night I 
 
 Lord W. (r. c.) Mrs. Erlynne is com- 
 ing here, and if you in any way annoy 
 or wound her, you will bring shame and 
 sorrow on us both. Remember that! 
 Ah, Margaret! only trust me! A wife 
 should trust her husband! 
 
 Lady W. (c.) London is fuU of women 
 who trust their husbands. One can al- 
 ways recognize them. They look so 
 thoroughly unhappy. I am not going to 
 be one of them. (Moves up.) Lord 
 Darlington, will you give me back my 
 fan, please? Thanks ... A useful 
 thing, a fan, isn't it? ... I want a 
 friend to-night. Lord Darlington. I 
 didn't know I would want one so soon. 
 
 Lord D. Lady Windermere! I knew the 
 time would come some day; but why to- 
 night? 
 
 Lord W. I will tell her. I must. It 
 would be terrible if there were any 
 scene. Margaret . . . 
 
 Parker. Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 (Lord W. starts. Mrs. E. enters, very 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 817 
 
 heautifully dressed and very dignified. 
 Lady W. clutches at her fan, then lets 
 it drop on the floor. She bows coldly to 
 Mrs. E., who bows to her sweetly in turn, 
 and sails into the room.) 
 
 Lord D. You have dropped your fan, 
 Lady Windermere. 
 
 {Picks it up and hands it to her.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (c.) How do you do, again, 
 Lord Windermere? How charming your 
 sweet wife looks! Quite a picture! 
 
 Lord W. (In a low voice.) It was ter- 
 ribly rash of you to come! 
 
 Mrs. E. (Smiling.) The wisest thing I 
 ever did in my life. And, by the way, 
 you must pay me a good deal of atten- 
 tion this evening. I am afraid of the 
 women. You must introduce me to some 
 of them. The men I can always man- 
 age. How do you do. Lord Augustus? 
 You have quite neglected me lately. I 
 have not seen you since yesterday. I am 
 afraid you're faithless. Every one told 
 me so. 
 
 Lord A. (r.) Now really, Mrs. Erlynne, 
 allow me to explain. 
 
 Mrs. E. (r. c.) No, dear Lord Augustus, 
 you can't explain anything. It is your 
 chief charm. 
 
 Lord A. Ah! if you find charms in me, 
 Mrs. Erlynne — 
 
 {They converse together. Lord W. moves 
 uneasily about the room watching Mrs. 
 E.) 
 
 Lord D. {To Lady W.) How pale you 
 are! 
 
 Lady W. Cowards are always pale. 
 
 Lord D. You look faint. Come out on 
 the terrace. 
 
 Lady W. Yes. {To Parker.) Parker, 
 send my cloak out. 
 
 Mrs. E. {Crossing to her.) Lady Win- 
 dermere, how beautifully your terrace is 
 illuminated. Reminds me of Prince 
 Doria's at Rome. {Lady W. bows 
 coldly, and goes off with Lord D.) Oh, 
 how do you do, Mr. Graham? Isn't 
 that your aunt. Lady Jedburgh? I 
 should so much like to know her. 
 
 Cecil G. {After a moment's hesitation 
 and embarrassment.) Oh, certainly, if 
 you wish it. Aunt Caroline, allow me to 
 introduce Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Mrs. E. So pleased to meet you. Lady 
 Jedburgh. {Sits beside her on the sofa.) 
 Your nephew and I are great friends. 
 I am so much interested in his political 
 career. I think he's sure to be a won- 
 derful success. He thinks like a Tory, 
 
 and talks like a Radical, and that 's so 
 important now-a-days. He's such a 
 brilliant talker, too. But we all know 
 from whom he inherits that. Lord Al- 
 lendale was saying to me only yesterday 
 in the Park, that Mr. Graham talks al- 
 most as well as his aunt. 
 
 Lady J. (r.) Most kind of you to say 
 these charming things to me ! 
 
 {Mrs. E. smiles and continues conversa- 
 tion. ) 
 
 Dumby. {To Cecil G.) Did you intro- 
 duce Mrs. Erlynne to Lady Jedburgh? 
 
 Cecil G. Had to, my dear fellow. 
 Couldn't help it. That woman can 
 make one do anything she wants. How, 
 I don't know. 
 
 Dumby. Hope to goodness she won't 
 speak to me ! 
 
 {Saunters towards Lady P.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (c. To Lady J.) On Thursday? 
 With great pleasure. {Rises and speaks 
 to Lord W., laughing.) What a bore it 
 is to have to be civil to these old dow- 
 agers. But they always insist on it. 
 
 Lady P. {To Mr. D.) Who is that well- 
 dressed woman talking to Windermere? 
 
 Dumby. Have n't got the slightest idea. 
 Looks like an edition de luxe of a wicked 
 French novel, meant specially for the 
 English market. 
 
 Mrs. E. So that is poor Dumby with 
 Lady Plymdale? I hear she is fright- 
 fully jealous of him. He doesn't seem 
 anxious to speak to me to-night. I sup- 
 pose he is afraid of her. Those straw- 
 colored women have dreadful tempers. 
 Do you know, I think I '11, dance with 
 you first, Windermere. {Lord W. bites 
 his lip and frowns.) It wiU make Lord 
 Augustus so jealous! Lord Augustus! 
 {Lord A. comes down.) Lord Winder- 
 mere insists on my dancing with him 
 first, and, as it 's his own house, I can't 
 well refuse. You know I would much 
 sooner dance with you. 
 
 Lord A. {With a low bow.) I wish I 
 could think so, Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Mrs. E. You know it far too well. I can 
 fancy a person dancing through life with 
 you and finding it charming. 
 
 Lord A. {Placing his hand on his white 
 
 " waistcoat.) Oh, thank yoii, thank you. 
 
 You are the most adorable of all ladies! 
 
 Mrs. E. What a nice speech! So simple 
 and so sincere! Just the sort of speech 
 I like. Well, you shall hold my bouquet. 
 {Goes towards ball-room on Lord W.'s 
 arm.) Ah, Mr. Dumby, how are you? 
 
818 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 I am so sorry I have been out the last 
 three times you have called. Come and 
 lunch on Friday. 
 
 Dumiy. {With perfect nonchalance.) 
 Delighted. 
 
 (Lady P. glares with indignation at Mr. 
 D. Lord A. follows Mrs. E. and Lord 
 W. into the ball-room holding bouquet.) 
 
 Lady P. (To Mr. D.) What an absolute 
 brute you are! I never can believe a 
 word you say! Why did you tell me 
 you didn't know her? What do you 
 mean by calling on her three times run- 
 ning ? You are not to go to lunch there ; 
 of course you understand that? 
 
 Bumby. My dear Laura, I wouldn't 
 dream of going ! 
 
 Lady P. You haven't told me her name 
 yet. Who is she? 
 
 Dumby. (Coughs slightly and smooths his 
 hair.) She 's a Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Lady P. That woman! 
 
 Dumby. Yes, that is what every one calls 
 her. 
 
 Lady P. How very interesting! How 
 intensely interesting! I really must 
 have a good stare at her. ( Goes to door 
 of ball-room and looks in.) I have 
 heard the most shocking things about 
 her. They say she is ruining poor Win- 
 dermere. And Lady Windermere, who 
 goes in for being so proper, invites her! 
 How extremely amusing! It takes a 
 thoroughly good woman to do a thor- 
 oughly stupid thing. You are to lunch 
 there on Friday. 
 
 Dumby. Why? 
 
 Lady P. Because I want you to take my 
 husband with you. He has been so at- 
 tentive lately, that he has become a per- 
 fect nuisance. Now, this woman is just 
 the thing for him. He '11 dance attend- 
 ance upon her as long as she lets him, 
 and won't bother me. I assure you, 
 women of that kind are most useful. 
 They form the basis of other people's 
 marriages. 
 
 Dumby. What a mystery you are ! 
 
 Lady P. (Looking at him.) I wish you 
 were! 
 
 Dumby. I am — ^to myself. I am the only 
 person in the world I should like to know 
 thoroughly; but I don't see any chance 
 of it just at present. 
 
 (They pass into the ball-room, and Lady 
 W. and Lord D. enter from the terrace. ) 
 
 Lady W. Yes. Her coming here is mon- 
 strous, unbearable. I know now what 
 
 you meant to-day at tea time. Why 
 didn't you tell me right out? You 
 should have! 
 
 Lord D. I couldn't! A man can't tell 
 these things about another man! But 
 if I had known he was going to make" 
 you ask her here to-night, I think I 
 would have told you. That insult, at 
 any rate, you would have been spared. 
 
 Lady W. I did not ask her. He insisted 
 on her coming — against my entreaties — 
 against my commands. Oh! the house 
 is tainted for me. I feel that every 
 woman here sneers at me as she dances 
 by with my husband. What have I done 
 to deserve this? I gave him all my life. 
 He took it — ^used it — spoiled it! I am 
 degraded in my own eyes; and I lack 
 courage — I am a coward! 
 
 (Sits down on sofa.) 
 
 Lord D. If I know you at all, I know 
 that you can't live with a man who treats 
 you like this! What sort of life would 
 you have with him? You would feel 
 that he was lying to you every moment 
 of the day. You would feel that the 
 look in his eyes was false, his voice false, 
 his touch false, his passion false. He 
 would come to you when he was weary 
 of others; you would have to comfort 
 him. He would come to you when he 
 was devoted to others; you would have 
 to charm him. You would have to be to 
 him the mask of his real life, the cloak 
 to hide his secret. 
 
 Lady W. You are right — you are terribly 
 right. But where am I to turn? You 
 said you would be my friend. Lord Dar- 
 lington. — Tell me, what am I to do? Be 
 my friend now. 
 
 Lord D. Between men and women there 
 is no friendship possible. There is pas- 
 sion, enmity, worship, love, but no 
 friendship. I love you 
 
 Lady W. No, no! 
 
 (Rises.) 
 
 Lord D. Yes, I love you! You are more 
 . to me than anything in the whole world. 
 What does your husband give you? 
 Nothing. Whatever is in him he gives 
 to this wretched woman, whom he has 
 thrust into your society, into your home, 
 to shame you before every one. I offer 
 you my life 
 
 Lady W. Lord Darlington! 
 
 Lord D. My life — ^my whole life. Take 
 it, and do with it what you will. ... I 
 love you — love you as I have never loved 
 any living thing. From the moment I 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 819 
 
 met you I loved you, loved you blindly, 
 adoringly, madly! You did not know 
 it then — ^you know it now! Leave this 
 house to-night. I won't tell you that the 
 world matters nothing, or the world's 
 voice, or the voice of society. They mat- 
 ter a good deal. They matter far too 
 much. But there are moments when one 
 has to choose between living one's own 
 life, fully, entirely, completely — or drag- 
 ging out some false, shallow, degrading 
 existence that the world in its hypocrisy 
 demands. You have that moment now. 
 Choose! O, my love, choose! 
 
 Lady W. (Moving slowly away from 
 him, and looking at him with startled 
 eyes.) I have not the courage. 
 
 Lord D. (Following her.) Yes; you 
 have the courage. There may be six 
 months of pain, of disgrace even, but 
 when you no longer bear his name, when 
 you bear mine, all will be well. Mar- 
 garet, my love, my wife that shall be 
 some day — ^yes, my wife ! You know it ! 
 What are you now? This woman has 
 the place that belongs by right to you. 
 Oh! go — ^go out of this house, with head 
 erect, with a smile upon your lips, with 
 courage in your eyes. All London will 
 know why you did it; and who will 
 blame you? No one. If they do, what 
 matter. Wrong? What is wrong? 
 It 's wrong for a man to abandon his 
 wife for a shameless woman. It is 
 wrong for a wife to remain with a man 
 who so dishonors her. You said once 
 you would make no compromise with 
 things. Make none now. Be brave! 
 Be yourself! 
 
 Lady W. I am afraid of being myself. 
 Let me think! Let me wait! My hus- 
 band may return to me. 
 
 (Sits down on sofa.) 
 
 Lord D. And you would take him back! 
 You are not what I thought you were. 
 You are just the same as every other 
 woman. You would stand anything 
 rather than face the censure of a world 
 whose praise you would despise. In a 
 week you will be driving with this 
 woman in the Park. She will be your 
 constant guest — your dearest friend. 
 You would endure anything rather than 
 break with one blow this monstrous tie. 
 You are right. You have no courage; 
 none! 
 
 Lady W. Ah, give me time to think. I 
 cannot answer you now. 
 
 (Passes her hand nervously over her hrow.) 
 
 Lord D. It must be now or not at all. 
 
 Lady W. (Rising from the sofa.) Then 
 not at all! 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Lord D. You break my heart! 
 
 Lady W. Mine is already broken. 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Lord D. To-morrow I leave England. 
 This is the last time I shall ever look on 
 you. You will never see me again. For 
 one moment our lives met — our souls 
 touched. They must never meet or touch 
 again. Good-bye, Margaret. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Lady W. How alone I am in life! How 
 terribly alone! 
 
 (The music stops. Enter the Duchess of 
 B. and Lord P. laughing and talking. 
 Other guests come on from ball-room.) 
 
 Duchess of B. Dear Margaret, I 've just 
 been having such a delightful chat with 
 Mrs. Erlynne. I am so sorry for what 
 I said to you this afternoon about her. 
 Of course, she must be all right if you 
 invite her. A most attractive woman, 
 and has such sensible views on life. 
 Told me she entirely disapproved of 
 people marrying more than once, so I 
 feel quite safe about poor Augustus. 
 Can't imagine why people speak against 
 her. It 's those horrid nieces of mine — 
 the Saville girls — they 're always talking 
 scandal. StiU, I should go to Homburg, 
 dear, I reallj- should. She is just a little 
 too attractive. But where is Agatha? 
 Oh, there she is. (Lady A. and Mr. H. 
 enter from the terrace I. u. e.) Mr. 
 Hopper, I am very angry with you. 
 You have taken Agatha out on the ter- 
 race, and she is so delicate. 
 
 Hopper. (I. c.) Awfully sorry, Duchess. 
 We went out for a moment and then got 
 chatting together. 
 
 Duchess of B. (e.) Ah, about dear Aus- 
 tralia, I suppose? 
 
 Hopper.' Yes. 
 
 Duchess of B. Agatha, darling ! 
 (Beckons her over.) 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma! 
 
 Duchess of B. (Aside.) Did Mr. Hopper 
 definitely 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 Duchess of B. And what answer did you 
 give him, dear child ? 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 Duchess of B. (Affectionately.) My dear 
 one! You always say the right thing. 
 Mr, Hopper ! James ! Agatha has tpld 
 
820 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 me everything. How cleverly you have 
 both kept your secret. 
 
 Hopper. You don't mind my taking 
 Agatha off to Australia, then, Duchess? 
 
 Duchess of B. {Indignantly.) To Aus- 
 traha? Oh, don't mention that dreadful 
 vulgar place. 
 
 Hopper. But she said she'd like to come 
 with me. 
 
 Duchess of B. {Severely.) Did you say 
 that, Agatha? 
 
 Lady A. Yes, mamma. 
 
 Duchess of B. Agatha, you say the most 
 silly things possible. I think on the 
 whole that Grosvenor Square would be a 
 more healthy place to reside in. There 
 are lots of vulgar people live in Grosve- 
 nor Square, but at any rate there are no 
 horrid kangaroos crawling about. But 
 we '11 talk about that to-morrow. James, 
 you can take Agatha down. You'll 
 come to lunch, of course, James. At 
 half -past one instead of two. The Duke 
 will wish to say a few words to you, I 
 am sure. 
 
 Hopper. I should like to have a chat with 
 the Duke, Duchess. He has not said a 
 single word to me yet. 
 
 Duchess of B. I think you '11 find he will 
 have a great deal to say to you to-mor- 
 row. {Exit Lady A. with Mr. H.) And 
 now good-night, Margaret. I'm afraid 
 it's the old, old story, dear. Love — 
 weU, not love at first sight, but love at 
 the end of the season, which is so much 
 more satisfactory. 
 
 Lady W. Good-night, Duchess. 
 
 {Exit the Duchess of B. on Lord P.'s arm.) 
 
 Lady P. My dear Margaret, what a hand- 
 some woman your husband has been 
 dancing with ! I should be quite jealous 
 if I were you ! Is she a great friend of 
 yours? 
 
 Lady W. No! 
 
 La^ P. Really? Good-night, dear. 
 {Looks at Mr. D. and exit.) 
 
 Durriby. Awful manners young Hopper 
 has! 
 
 Cecil G. Ah! Hopper is one of Nature's 
 gentlemen, the worst type of gentlemen 
 I know. 
 
 Dumby. Sensible woman, Lady Winder- 
 mere. Lots of wives would have ob- 
 jected to Mrs. Erlynne coming. But 
 Lady Windermere has that uncommon 
 thing called common sense. 
 
 Cecil O. And Windermere knows that 
 nothing looks so like innocence as an in- 
 discretion. 
 
 Dumby. Yes; dear Windermere is becom- 
 ing almost modern. Never thought he 
 would. 
 
 {Bows to Lady W. and exit.) 
 
 Lady J. Good-night, Lady Windermere. 
 What a fascinating woman Mrs. Erlynne 
 is! She is coming to lunch on Thurs- 
 day, won't you come too? I expect the 
 Bishop and dear Lady Merton. 
 
 Lady W. I am afraid I am engaged, 
 Lady Jedburgh. 
 
 Lady J. So sorry. Come, dear. 
 
 {Exeunt Lady J. and Miss G.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. E. and Lord W.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Charming ball it has. been! 
 Quite reminds me of old days. {Sits on 
 the sofa.) And I see that there are just 
 as many fools in society as there used to 
 be. So pleased to fhid that nothing 
 has altered ! Except Margaret. She 's 
 grown quite pretty. The last time I saw 
 her — ^twenty years ago, she was a fright 
 in flannel. Positive fright, I assure you. 
 The dear Duchess! and that sweet Lady 
 Agatha! Just the type of girl I like! 
 Well, really, Windermere, if I am to be 
 the Duchess's sister-in-law 
 
 Lord W. {Sitting I. of her.) But are 
 you ? 
 
 {Exit Mr. Cecil G. with rest of guests. 
 Lady W. watches, with a look of scorn 
 and pain, Mrs. E. and her husband. 
 They are unconscious of her presence.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh yes ! He 's to call to-morrow 
 at twelve o'clock. He wanted to propose 
 to-night. In fact he did. He kept on 
 proposing. Poor Augustus, you know 
 how he repeats himself. Such a bad 
 habit! But I told him I wouldn't give 
 him an answer till to-morrow. Of course 
 I am going to take him. And I dare say 
 I '11 make him an admirable wife, as 
 wives go. And there is a great deal of 
 good in Lord Augustus. Fortunately it 
 is all on the surface. Just where good 
 qualities should be. Of course you must 
 help me in this matter. 
 
 Lord W. I am not called on to encourage 
 Lord Augustus, I suppose? 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, no ! I do the encouraging. 
 But you will make me a handsome settle- 
 ment, Windermere, won't you ? 
 
 Lord W. {Frowning.) Is that what you 
 want to talk to me about to-night? 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes. 
 
 Lord W. {With a gesture of impatience.) 
 I will not talk of it here. 
 
 Mrs. E. {Laughing.) Then we will talk 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 821 
 
 of it on the terrace. Even business 
 should have a picturesque background. 
 Should it not, Windermere? With a 
 proper background women can do any- 
 thing. 
 
 Lord W. Won't to-morrow do as well? 
 
 Mrs. E. No; you see, to-morrow I am go- 
 ing to accept him. And I think it would 
 be a good thing if I was able to tell him 
 that — well, what shall I say — ^£2,000 a 
 year left to me by a third cousin — or a 
 second husband — or some distant relative 
 of that kind. It would be an additional 
 attraction, would n't it? You have a de- 
 lightful opportunity now of paying me a 
 compliment, Windermere. But you are 
 not very clever at paying compliments. 
 I am afraid Margaret does n't encourage 
 you in that excellent habit. It 's- a great 
 mistake on her part. When men give up 
 saying what is charming, they give up 
 thinking what is charming. But ser- 
 iously, what do you say to £2,000? 
 £2,500, I think. In modern life margin 
 is everything. Windermere, don't you 
 think the world an intensely amusing 
 place? I do! 
 
 {Exit on terrace with Lord W. Music 
 strikes up in ball-room.) 
 
 Lady W. To stay in this house any longer 
 is impossible. To-night a man who loves 
 me offered me his whole life. I refused 
 it. It was foolish of me. I will offer 
 him mine now. I will give him mine. I 
 will go to him ! (Puts on cloak and goes 
 to door, then turns back. Sits down at 
 table and writes a letter, puts it into an 
 envelope, and leaves it on table.) Arthur 
 has never . understood me. When he 
 reads this, he will. He may do as he 
 chooses now with his life. I have done 
 with mine as I think best, as I think right. 
 It is he who has broken the bond of mar- 
 riage — ^not I. I only break its bondage. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 (Parker enters I. and crosses towards the 
 ball-room r. Enter Mrs. E.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Is Lady Windermere in the ball- 
 room? 
 
 Parker. Her ladyship has just gone out. 
 
 Mrs. E. Gone out ? She 's not on the ter- 
 race? 
 
 Parker. No, madam. Her ladyship has 
 just gone out of the house. 
 
 Mrs. E. (Starts, and looks at the servant 
 with a puezled expression on her face.). 
 Out of the house? 
 
 Parker. Yes, madam — her ladyship told 
 me she had left a letter for his lordship 
 on the table. 
 
 Mrs. E. A letter for Lord Windermere? 
 
 Parker. Yes, madam. 
 
 Mrs. E. Thank you. (Exit Parker. The 
 music in the ball-room stops.) Gone out 
 of her house ! A letter addressed to her 
 husband! (Goes over to bureau and 
 looks at letter. Takes it up and lays it 
 down again with a shudder of fear.) 
 No, no! It would be impossible! Life 
 doesn't repeat its tragedies like that! 
 Oh, why does this horrible fancy come 
 across me? Why do I remember now the 
 one moment of my life I most wish to 
 forget? Does life repeat its tragedies? 
 (Tears letter open and reads it, then sinks 
 down into a chair with a gesture of an- 
 guish.) Oh, how terrible! the same 
 words that twenty years ago I wrote to 
 her father! and how bitterly I have been 
 punished for it! No; my punishment, 
 my real punishment is to-night, is now! 
 (Still seated r.) 
 
 (Enter Lord W. I. u. e.) 
 
 Lord W. Have you said good-night to my 
 wife? 
 
 (Comes c.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (Crushing letter in her hand.) 
 Yes. 
 
 Lord W. Where is she? 
 
 Mrs. E. She is very tired. She has gone 
 to bed. She said she had a headache. 
 
 Lord W. I must go to her. You '11 excuse 
 me? 
 
 Mrs. E. (Rising hurriedly.) Oh, no! 
 It's nothing serious. She's only very 
 tired, that is aU. Besides, there are peo- 
 ple stiU in the supper-room. She wants 
 you to make her apologies to them. She 
 said she didn't wish to be disturbed. 
 (Drops letter.) She asked me to tell you. 
 
 Lord W. (Picks up letter.) You have 
 dropped something. 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, yes, thank you, that is mine. 
 (Puts out her hand to take it.) 
 
 Lord W. (Still looking at letter.) But 
 it's my wife's handwriting, isn't it? 
 
 Mrs. E. (Takes the letter quickly.) Yes, 
 it 's — an address. Will you ask them to 
 call my carriage, please? 
 
 Lord W. Certainly. 
 
 (Goes I. and exit.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Thanks. What can I do? What 
 can I do? I feel a passion awakening 
 within me that I never felt before. What 
 can it mean? The daughter must not be 
 
822 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 like the mother — that would be terrible. 
 How can I save her? How can I save 
 my child? A moment may ruin a life. 
 Who knows that better than I? Winder- 
 mere must be got dut of the house ; that is 
 absolutely necessary. {Goes I.) But 
 how shall I do it? It must be done some- 
 how. Ah ! 
 
 {Enter Lord A. r. u. e. carrying bouquet.) 
 
 Lord A. Dear lady, I am in such suspense ! 
 May I not have an answer to my request ? 
 
 Mrs. E. Lord Augustus, listen to me. 
 You are to take Lord Windermere down 
 to your club at once, and keep him there 
 as long as possible. You understand? 
 
 Lord A. But you said you wished me to 
 keep early hours! 
 
 Mrs. E. {Nervously.) Do what I teU you. 
 Do what I tell you. 
 
 Lord A. And my reward? 
 
 Mrs. E. Your reward? Your reward? 
 Oh! ask me that to-morrow. But don't 
 let Windermere out of your sight to-night. 
 If you do I will never forgive you. I 
 will never speak to you again. I '11 have 
 nothing to do with you. Remember you 
 are to keep Windermere at your club, and 
 don't let him come back to-night. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Lord A. Well, really, I might be her hus- 
 band already. Positively I might. 
 {Follows her in a bewildered manner.) 
 Act-drop. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene — Lord Darlington's rooms. A large 
 sofa is in front of fireplace r. At the 
 back of the stage a curtain is drawn 
 across the window. Doors I. and r. 
 Table r. with writing materials. Table 
 c. with syphons, glasses, and Tantalus 
 frame. Table I. with cigar and cigarette 
 box. Lamps lit. 
 
 Lady W. {Standing by the fireplace.) 
 Why doesn't he come? This waiting is 
 horrible. He should be here. Why is 
 he not here, to wake by passionate words 
 some fire within me? I am cold — cold as 
 a loveless thing. Arthur must have read 
 my letter by this time. If he eared for 
 me, he would have come after me, would 
 have taken me back by force. But he 
 does n't care. He 's entrammelled by this 
 woman — fascinated by her — dominated 
 by her. If a woman wants to hold a 
 man, sh? has merely to appeal to what is 
 
 worst in him. We make gods of men, 
 and they leave us. Others make brutes 
 of them and they fawn and are faithful. 
 How hideous life is! ... Oh! it was 
 mad of me to come here, korribly mad. 
 And yet which is the worst, I wonder, to 
 be at the mercy of a man who loves one, 
 or the wife of a man who in one's own 
 house dishonors one? What woman 
 knows? What woman in the whole 
 world? But will he love me always, this 
 man to whom I am giving my life? 
 What do I bring him? Lips that have 
 lost the note of joy, eyes that are blighted 
 by tears, chill hands and icy heart. I 
 bring him nothing. I must go back — ^no; 
 I can't go back, my letter has put me in 
 their power — Arthur would not take me 
 back! That fatal letter! No! Lord 
 Darlington leaves England to-morrow. I 
 will go with him — I have no choice. 
 {Sits down for a few moments. Then 
 starts up arid puts on her cloak.) No, 
 no! I will go back, let Arthur do with 
 me what he pleases. I can't wait here. 
 It has been madness my coming. I must 
 go at once. As for Lord Darlington — 
 Oh! here he is! What shall I do? What, 
 can I say to him? Will he let me go 
 away at all? I have heard that men are 
 brutal, horrible. . . .Oh! 
 
 {Hides her face in her hands.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. E. I.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Lady Windermere! {Lady W, 
 starts and looks up. Then recoils in con- ■ 
 tempt.) Thank Heaven I am in time. 
 You must go back to your husband's 
 house immediately. 
 
 Lady W. Must? 
 
 Mrs. E. {Authoritatively.) Yes, you 
 must! There is not a second to be lost. 
 Lord Darlington may return at any mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Lady W. Don't come near me ! 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh! you are on the brink of 
 ruin; you are on the brink of a hideous 
 precipice. You must leave this place at 
 once, my carriage is waiting at the corner 
 of the street. You must come with me 
 and drive straight home. {Lady W. 
 throws off her cloak and flings it on the 
 sofa.) What are you doing? 
 
 Lady W. Mrs. Erlynne — ^if you had not 
 come here, I would have gone back. But 
 now that I see you, I feel that nothing in 
 the whole world would induce me to live 
 under the same roof as Lord Winder- 
 mere. You fill me with horror, There 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 823 
 
 is something about you that stirs the wild- 
 est rage within me. And I know why you 
 are here. My husband sent you to lure 
 me back thait I might serve as a blind to 
 whatever relations exist between you and 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh! you don't think that — you 
 can't. 
 
 Lady W. Go back to my husband, Mrs. 
 Eriynne. He belongs to you and not to 
 me. I suppose he is afraid of a scandal. 
 Men are such cowards. They outrage 
 every law of the world, and are afraid of 
 the world's tongue. But he had better 
 prepare himself. He shall have a scan- 
 dal. He shall have the worst scandal 
 there has been in London for years. He 
 shall see his name in every vile paper, 
 mine on evety hideous placard. 
 
 Mrs. E. No — no ' 
 
 Lady TF. Yes! he shall. Had he coihe 
 himself, I admit I would have gone back 
 to the life of degradation you and he had 
 prepared for me — I was going back — ^but 
 to stay himself at home, and to send you 
 as his messenger — oh ! it was infamous — 
 infamous. 
 
 Mrs. E. (c.) Lady Windermere, you 
 wrong me horribly — you wrong your hus- 
 band horribly. He does n't know you are 
 here — he thinks you are Safe in your own 
 house. He thinks you are asleep in yoUr 
 own room. He never read the mad letter 
 you wrote to him! 
 
 Lady W. (r.) Never read it! 
 
 Mrs. E. No — he knows nothing about it. 
 
 Lady W. How simple you think me! 
 {Going to her.) You are lying to me! 
 
 Mrs. E. (Restraining hefself.) I am not. 
 1 am telling you the truth. 
 
 Lady W. If my husband did n't read my 
 ■ letter, how is it that you are here 1 Who 
 told yon I had left the house you were 
 shameless enotigh to enter? Who told 
 you where I had gone to? My husband 
 told you, and sent you to decoy me back. 
 (Crosses I.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (r. c.) Your husband has never 
 seen the letter. I — saw it, I opened it. 
 I— read it. 
 
 Lady W. (Turning to her.) You opened 
 a letter of mine to my husband? You 
 wouldn't dare! 
 
 Mrs. E. Dare ! Oh ! to save yOu from the 
 abyss into which you are fafiing, there is 
 nothing in the world I would not dare, 
 nothing in the whole world. Here is the 
 letter. Your husband has never read it. 
 He never shall read it. '(Going to fife- 
 
 place.) It should never have been writ- 
 ten. (Tears it and throws it into the 
 fire.) 
 
 Lady W. (With infinite eontempt in her 
 voice and took.) How do I know that 
 that was my letter after all? You seem 
 to think the commonest device can take 
 me in! 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh ! why do you disbelieve every- 
 thing I tell you! What object do you 
 think I have in coming here, except to 
 save you from utter ruin, to save you 
 from the consequence of a hideous mis- 
 take? That letter that is burning now 
 was your letter. I swear it to you ! 
 
 Lady W. (Slowly.) You took good care 
 to burn it before I had examined it. I 
 cannot trust you. You, whose whole life 
 is a lie, how couM you speak the truth 
 about anything? 
 
 (Sits down.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (Hurriedly.) Think as you like 
 about me^say what you choose against 
 me, but go back, go back to the husband 
 you love. 
 
 Lady W. (Sullenly.) I do not love him! 
 
 Mrs. E. You do, and you know that he 
 loves you. 
 
 Lady W. He does not understand what 
 love is. He understands it as little as 
 you do — but I see what you want. It 
 would be a great advantage for you to 
 get me back. Dear Heaven! what a life 
 I would have then ! Living at the mercy 
 of a woman who has neither mercy nor 
 pity in her, a woman whoin it is an in- 
 famy to meet, a degradation to know, a 
 vile woman, a woman who comes between 
 husband and wife ! 
 
 Mrs. E. (With a gesture of despair.) 
 Lady Windermere, Lady Windermere, 
 don*t say such terrible things. You don't 
 know how terrible they are, how terrible 
 and howun just. Listen, you must listen ! 
 Only go back to your husband, and I 
 promise you never to communicate with 
 him again on any pretext — ^never to see 
 him — never to have anything to do with 
 his life or yours. The money that he 
 gave me, he gave me not through love, 
 but through hatred, not in worship, but 
 in eontempt. The hold I have over 
 him 
 
 Lady W. (Tlisimg.) Ah! you admit you 
 have A hold ! 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes, and I will tell you what it 
 is. It is his love for you. Lady Winder- 
 mere. 
 
 Lddy W. You expect me to believe thatl^ 
 
824 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Mrs. E. You must believe it ! It is true. 
 It is his love for you that has made him 
 submit to — oh! call it what you like, 
 tyranny, threats, anything you choose. 
 But it is his love for you. His desire to 
 spare you — shame, yes, shame and dis- 
 grace. 
 
 Lady W. What do you mean? You are 
 insolent! What have I to do with you? 
 
 Mrs. E. (Humbly.) Nothing. I" know it 
 — ^but I tell you that your husband loves 
 you — that you may never meet with such 
 love again in your whole life — ^that such 
 love you will never meet — and that if you 
 throw it away, the day may come when 
 you will starve for love and it will not be 
 given to you, beg for love and it will be 
 denied you — Oh ! Arthur loves you ! 
 
 Lady W. Arthur? And you tell me there 
 is nothing between you ? 
 
 Mrs. E. Lady Windermere, before Heaven 
 your husband is guiltless of all offence 
 towards you ! And I — I tell you that had 
 it ever occurred to me that such a mon- 
 strous suspicion would have entered your 
 mind, I would have died rather than have 
 crossed your life or his — oh ! died, gladly 
 died! 
 
 {Moves away to sofa r.) 
 
 Lady W. You talk as if you had a heart. 
 Women like you have no hearts. Heart 
 is not in you. You are bought and sold. 
 (Sits I. c.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (Starts, with, a gesture of pain. 
 Then restrains herself, and comes over to 
 where Lady W. is sitting. As she speaks, 
 she stretches out her hands towards her, 
 but does not dare to touch her.) Believe 
 what you choose about me. I am not 
 worth a moment's sorrow. But don't 
 spoil your beautiful young life on my ac- 
 count ! You don't know what may be in 
 store for you, unless you leave this house 
 at once. You don't know what it is to 
 fall into the pit, to be despised, mocked, 
 abandoned, sneered at — ^to be an outcast ! 
 to find the door shut against one, to have 
 to creep in by hideous byways, afraid 
 every moment lest the mask should be 
 stripped from one's face, and all the 
 while to hear the laughter, the horrible 
 laughter of the world, a thing more tragic 
 than all the tears the world has ever shed. 
 You don't know what it is. One pays for 
 one's sin, and then one pays again, and 
 all one's life one pays. You must never 
 know that. — As for me, if suffering be an 
 expiation, then at this moment I have ex- 
 
 H plated all my faults, whatever they have 
 
 been ; for to-night you have made a heart 
 in one who had it not, made it and broken 
 it.— But let that pass. I may have 
 wrecked my own life, but I •will not lei 
 you wreck yours. You— why, you are a 
 mere girl, you would be lost. You 
 haven't got the kind of brains that en- 
 ables a woman to get back. You have 
 neither the wit nor the courage. You 
 could n't stand dishonor. No ! Go back, 
 Lady Windermere, to the husband who 
 loves you, whom you love. You have a 
 child. Lady Windermere. Go back to 
 that child who even now, in pain or in 
 joy, may be jcaUing to you. (Lady W, 
 rises.) God gave you that child. He 
 will require from you that you make his 
 life fine, that you watch over him. What 
 answer will you make to God if his life 
 is ruined through you? Back to your 
 house. Lady Windermere — ^your husband 
 loves you. He has never swerved for a 
 moment from the love he bears you. But 
 even if he had a thousand loves, you must 
 stay with your child. If he was harsh to 
 you, you must stay with your child. If 
 he ill-treated you, you must stay with 
 your child. If he abandoned you, your 
 place is with your child. (Lady W. 
 bursts into tears and buries her face in 
 her hands.) (Bushing to her.) Lady 
 Windermere ! 
 
 Lady W. (Holding out her hands to her, 
 helplessly, as a child might do.) Take 
 me home. Take me home. 
 
 Mrs. E. (Is about to embrace her. Then 
 restrains herself. There is a look of 
 wonderful joy in her face.) Come! 
 Where is your cloak? (Getting it from 
 sofa.) Here. Put it on. Come at 
 once! (They go to the door.) 
 
 Lady W. Stop! Don't you hear voices? 
 
 Mrs. E. No, no! There is no one! 
 
 Lady W. Yes, there is! Listen! Oh! 
 that is my husband's voice! He is com- 
 ing in! Save me! Oh, it's some plot! 
 You have sent for him !_ 
 
 (Voices outside.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Silence! I am here to save you 
 if I can. But I fear it is too late I 
 There ! (Points to the curtain across the 
 window.) The first cbance you have, slip 
 out, if you ever get a chance ! 
 
 Lady W. But you I 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh! never mind me. I'll face 
 them. 
 
 (Lady W. hides herself behind the curtain.) 
 
 Lord A. (Outside.) Nonsense, dear Win- 
 dermere, you must not leave me ! 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 825 
 
 Mrs. E. Lord Augustus! Then it is I 
 
 ■who am lost ! 
 {Hesitates for a moment, then looks round 
 
 and sees door r,, and exit through it.) 
 
 (Enter Lord D., Mr. D., Lord W., Lord 
 A. L., and Mr. Cecil G.) 
 
 Dumby. What a nuisance their turning us 
 out of the club at this hour! It's only 
 two o'clock. {Sinks into a chair.) The 
 lively part of the evening is only just be- 
 ginning. 
 
 {Yawns and closes his eyes.) 
 
 Lord W. It is very good of you, Lord 
 Darlington, allowing Augustus to force 
 our company on you, but I'm afraid I 
 can't stay long. 
 
 Lord D. Really ! I am so sorry ! You '11 
 take a cigar, won't you? 
 
 Lord W. Thanks! 
 
 {Sits down.) 
 
 Lord A. {To Lord W.) My dear boy, 
 you must not dream of going. I have 
 a great deal to talk to you about, of 
 demmed importance, too. 
 
 {Sits down with him at I. table.) 
 
 Cecil G. Oh! we all know what that is! 
 Tuppy can't talk about anything but Mrs. 
 Erlynne ! 
 
 Lord W. Well, that is no business of 
 yours, is it, Cecil ? 
 
 Cecil G. None! That is why it interests 
 me. My own business always bores me 
 to death. I prefer other people's. 
 
 Lord D. Have something to drink, you 
 fellows. Cecil, you '11 have a whisky and 
 soda? 
 
 Cecil G. Thanks. {Goes to the table with 
 Lord B.) Mrs. Erlynne looked very 
 handsome to-night, didn't she? 
 
 Lord D. I am not one of her admirers. 
 
 Cecil G. I use n't to be, but I am now. 
 Why! she actually made me introduce 
 her to poor dear Aunt Caroline. I be- 
 lieve she is going to lunch there. 
 
 Lord B. {In surprise.) No? 
 
 Cecil G. She is, really. 
 
 Lord B. Excuse me, you fellows. I'm 
 going away to-morrow. And I have to 
 write a few letters. 
 {Goes to writing table and sits down.) 
 
 Dumby. Clever woman, Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Cecil G. Hallo, Dumby! I thought you 
 were asleep. 
 
 Dumby. I am, I usually am! 
 
 Lord A. A very clever woman. Knows 
 perfectly well what a demmed fool I am 
 — knows it as well as I do myself. {Cecil 
 G. comes towards him laughing.) Ah! 
 
 you may laugh, my boy, but it is a great 
 thing to come across a woman who thor- 
 oughly understands one. 
 
 Bumby. It is an awfully dangerous thing. 
 They always end by marrying one. 
 
 Cecil G. But I thought, Tuppy, you were 
 never going to see her again. Yes! you 
 told me so yesterday evening at the club. 
 You said you 'd heard — 
 
 {Whispering to him.) 
 
 Lord A. Oh, she 's explained that. 
 
 Cecil G. And the Wiesbaden affair? 
 
 Lord A. She 's explained that, too. 
 
 Bumby. And her income, Tuppy? Has 
 she explained that? 
 
 Lord A. {In a very serious voice.) She 's 
 going to explain that to-morrow. 
 {Cecil G. goes back to c. table.) 
 
 Bumby. Awfully commercial, women now- 
 a-days. Our grandmothers threw their 
 caps over the mills, of course, but, by 
 Jove, their granddaughters only throw 
 their caps over mills that can raise the 
 wmd for them. 
 
 Lord A. You want to make her out a 
 wicked woman. She is not ! 
 
 Cecil G. Oh ! Wicked women bother one. 
 Good women bore one. That is the only 
 difference between them. 
 
 Lord B. {Puffing a cigar.) Mrs. Erlynne 
 has a future before her. 
 
 Bumby. Mrs. Erlynne has a past before 
 her. 
 
 Lord A. I prefer women with a past. 
 They're always so demmed amusing to 
 talk to. 
 
 Cecil G. Well, you'll have lots of topics 
 of conversation with her, Tuppy. 
 {Rising and going to him.) 
 
 Lord A. You 're getting annoying, dear 
 boy ; you 're getting demmed annoying. 
 
 Cecil G. {Puts his hands on his shoul- 
 ders.) Now, Tuppy, you've lost your 
 figure and you've lost your character. 
 Don't lose your temper; you have only 
 got one. 
 
 Lord A. My dear boy, if I wasn't the 
 most good-natured man in London 
 
 Cecil G. We 'd treat you with more re- 
 spect, would n't we, Tuppy 1 
 {Strolls away.) 
 
 Bumby. The youth of the present day are 
 quite monstrous. They have absolutely 
 no respect for dyed hair. 
 
 {Lord A. looks round angrily.) 
 
 Cecil G. Mrs. Erlynne has* a very great 
 respect for dear Tuppy. 
 
 Bumby. Then Mrs. Erlynne sets an ad- 
 mirable example for the rest of her sex. 
 
826 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 It is perfectly brutal the way most women 
 now-a-days behave to men who are not 
 their husbands. 
 
 Lord W. Dumby, you are ridiculous, and 
 Cecil, you let your tongue run away with 
 you. You must leave Mrs. Erlynne 
 alone. You don't really know anything 
 about her, and you 're always talking 
 scandal against her. 
 
 Cecil G, {Coming towards Mm I. c.) 
 My dear Arthur, I never talk scandal. 1 
 only talk gossip. 
 
 Lord W, What is the difference between 
 scandal and gossip ? 
 
 Cecil G. Oh! gossip is charming! His- 
 tory is merely gossip. But scandal is 
 gossip made tedious by morality. Now I 
 never moralize. A man who moralizes is 
 usually a hjrpocrite, and a woman who 
 moralizes is invariably plain. There is 
 nothing in the whole world so unbecom- 
 ing to a woman as a Non-conformist con- 
 science. And most women know it, I 'm 
 glad to say. 
 
 Lord A. Just my sentiments, dear boy, 
 just my sentiments. 
 
 Cecil G. Sorry to hear it, Tuppy; when- 
 ever people agree with me, I always feel 
 I must be wrong. 
 
 Lord A. My dear boy, when I was your 
 age— 
 
 Cecil G. But you never were, Tuppy, and 
 you never will be. {Goes up c.) I say, 
 Darlington, let us have some cards. 
 You'll play, Arthur, won't you? 
 
 Lord W. No, thanks, Cecil. 
 
 Dumby. {With a sigJi.) Good heavens! 
 how marriage ruins a man ! It 's as de- 
 moralizing as cigarettes, and far more ex- 
 pensive. 
 
 Cecil G. You'll play, of course, Tuppy? 
 
 Lord A. {Pouring himself out a brandy 
 and soda at table.) Can't, dear boy. 
 Promised Mrs. Erlynne never to play or 
 drink again. 
 
 Cecil G. Now, my dear Tuppy, don't be 
 led astray into the paths rf virtue- Re- 
 formed, yon would be perfectly tedious. 
 That is the worst of women. They al- 
 ways want one to be good. And if we 
 are good, when they meet us, they don't 
 love us at all. They like to find us quite 
 irretrievably bad, and to leave us quite 
 unattractively good. 
 
 Lord I). (Rising from r. table, where he 
 has been writing letters.) They always 
 do find us bad ! 
 
 Dumby. I don't think we are bad. I think 
 we are all good except Tuppy, 
 
 Lord D. No, we are all in the gutter, but 
 some of us are looking at the stars. 
 {Sits down at c. table.) 
 
 Dumby. We are all in the gutter, but some 
 of us are looking at the stars ? Upon mjr , 
 word, you are very romantic to-ilight,*'' 
 Darlington. 
 
 CeM G. Too romantic! You must be in 
 love. Who is the girl? 
 
 Lord D, The woman I love is not free, or 
 thinks she is n't. 
 
 {Glances instinctively at Lord W. while he 
 speaks.) 
 
 Cecil G. A married woman, then ! Well, 
 there's nothing in the world like the 
 devotion of a married woman. It's a 
 thing no married man knows anything 
 about. 
 
 Lord D. Oh ! she does n't love me. She is 
 a good woman. She is the only good' 
 woman I have ever met in my life. 
 
 Cecil G. The only good woman you have 
 ever met in your life? 
 
 Lord D. Yes! 
 
 Cecil G. {Lighting a cigarette.) Well, 
 you are a lucky fellow! Why^ I have 
 met hundreds of good women. I never 
 seem to meet any but good women. The 
 world is perfectly packed with good 
 women. To know them is a middle-class 
 education. 
 
 Lord D. This woman has purity and inno- 
 cence. She has everything we men have 
 lost. 
 
 Cedl G. My dear fellow, what on earth 
 
 ' should we men do going about with purity 
 and innocence? A carefully thou^-out 
 buttonhole is much more effective. 
 
 Dumby. She does n't really love you then? 
 
 Lord D. No, she does not ! 
 
 Dumby. I congratulate you, my dear fel- 
 low. In this world there are only two 
 tragedies. One is not getting what one 
 wants, and the other is g'etting it. The 
 last is much the worst, the last is a real 
 tragedy! But I am interested to hear 
 she does not love you. How long could 
 you love a woman who did n't love you, 
 Cecil? 
 
 Cecil G. A woman who didn't love me? 
 Oh, all my life. 
 
 Dumby. So could I. But it's so difficult 
 to meet one. 
 
 Lord D. How can you be so conceited, 
 Dumby? 
 
 Dumby. I did n't say it as a matter of con- 
 ceit. I said it as a matter of regret. I 
 have been wildly, madly adored. I am 
 sorry I have. It has beem an immense 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 827 
 
 nuisance. I should like to be allowed a 
 little time to myself, now and then. 
 
 Lord A. (Looking round.) Time to edu- 
 cate yourself, I suppose. 
 
 Dumhy. No, time to forget all I have 
 learned. That is much more important, 
 dear Tuppy. 
 {Lord A. moves uneasily in his chair.) 
 
 Lord D. What cynics you fellows are! 
 
 Cecil G. What is a cynic? 
 
 (Sitting on the hack of the sofa.) 
 
 Lord D. A man who knows the price 
 of everything, and the value of noth- 
 ing. 
 
 Cecil G. And a ^sentimentalist, my dear 
 Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd 
 value in everything, and doesn't know 
 the market price of any single thing. 
 
 Lord D. You always amuse me, Cecil. 
 You talk as if you were a man of ex- 
 perience. 
 
 Cecil G. I am. 
 
 (Moves up to front of fireplace.) 
 
 Lord D. You are far too yoiang ! 
 
 Cecil G. That is a great error. Experi- 
 ence is a question of instinct about life. 
 I have got it. Tuppy hasn't. Experi- 
 ence is the name Tuppy gives to his mis- 
 takes. That is all. 
 (Lord A. looks round indignantly.) 
 
 Dumhy. Experience is the name every one 
 gives to their mistakes. 
 
 Cecil G. (Sta/nding with his hack to fire- 
 place.) One should n't commit any. 
 {Sees Lady W.'s fan on sofa.) 
 
 Dumhy. Life would be very dull without 
 them. 
 
 Cecil G. Of course you are quite faithful 
 to this woman you are in love with, Dar- 
 lington, to this good woman? 
 
 Lord D. Cecil, if one really loves , a 
 woman, all other women in the world be- 
 come absolutely meaningless to one. 
 Love changes one — I am changed. 
 
 Cecil G. Dear me! How very interest- 
 ing! Tuppy, I want to talk to you. 
 (Lord A. takes no notiee.) 
 
 Dumhy. It's no use talking to Tuppy. 
 Yon might just as well talk to a brick 
 wall. 
 
 Cecil G. But I like talking to a brick wall 
 -^it's the only thing in the world that 
 never contradicts Ine ! Tuppy! 
 Lord A. Well, what is it? What is it? 
 
 (Rising and going over to Cecil G.) 
 
 Cecil G. Come over here. I want you 
 
 particulariy. (Aside.) Darlington has 
 
 been moralizing and talking about the 
 
 purity of love, and that sort of thing, Apd 
 
 he has got some woman in his rooms all 
 
 the time. 
 Lord A. No, really ! really ! 
 Cecil G. (In a low voice.) Yes, here is 
 
 her fan. 
 
 (Points to the fan.) 
 Lord A. (Chuckling.) By Jove! By 
 
 Jove! 
 Lord W. (Up hy door.) I am really off 
 
 now. Lord Darlington. I am sorry you 
 
 are leaving England so soon. Pray call 
 
 on us when you come back ! My wife and 
 
 I will be charmed to see you ! 
 Lord D. (Up stage with Lord W.) I am 
 
 afraid J shall be away for many years. 
 
 Good-oight ! 
 Cecil G. Arthur! 
 Lord W. What? 
 Cecil G. I want to speak to you for a 
 
 moment. No, do come ! 
 Lord W. (Putting on his eoat.) I can't 
 
 —I'm off! 
 Cecil G. It is geroething very particular. 
 
 It will interest you enormously. 
 Lord W. (Smiling.) It is some of your 
 
 nonsense, Cecil, 
 Cecil G. It is n't ! It is n't really ! 
 Lord A. (Going to him.) My. dear fel- 
 low, you mustn't go yet. I Have a lot 
 
 to talk to you about. And Cecil has 
 
 something to show you. 
 Lord W. (Walking over.) Well, what is 
 
 it? 
 Cecil G. Darlington has got a woman here 
 
 in his rooms. Here is ker fan. Amus- 
 ing, isn't it? 
 
 (A pause.) 
 Lord W. Good God! 
 
 (Seines the fan — Dumhy rises.) 
 Cecil G. What is the matter? ' 
 Lord W. Lord Darlington ! 
 Lord D. (Turning round.) . Yes! 
 Lord W, What is my wife's fan doing 
 
 here in your rooms? Hands off, Cecil. 
 
 Don't touch me. 
 Lord D, Your wife's fan ? 
 Lord W. Yes, here it is ! 
 Lord D. (Walking towards him.) I 
 
 don't know! 
 Lord W. You must know. I demand an 
 
 explanation. Don't hold me, you fool. 
 
 (To Cecil G.) 
 
 Lord D. (Aside.) She is here after all! 
 
 Lord W. Speak, sir! Why is my wife's 
 
 fan here ? Answer me, by God ! I '11 
 search your rooms, and if my wife 's here, 
 
 I'll 
 
 (Moves.) 
 Lord D. You shall not search my rooms. 
 
828 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY 
 
 You have no right to do so. I forbid 
 you! 
 
 Lord W. You scoundrel ! I '11 not leave 
 your room till I have searched every cor- 
 ner of it! What moves behind that cur- 
 tain? 
 
 [Rushes towards the curtain c.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (Enters behind r.) Lord Win- 
 dermere ! 
 
 Lord W. Mrs. Erlynne ! 
 
 (Every one starts and turns round. Lady 
 W. slips out from behind the curtain and 
 glides from the room I.) 
 
 Mrs. E. I am afraid I took your wife's 
 fan in mistake for my own, when I was 
 leaving your house to-night. I am so 
 sorry. 
 
 (Takes fan from him. Lord W. looks at 
 her in contempt. Lord D. in mingled 
 astonishment and anger. Lord A. turns 
 away. The other men smile at each 
 other.) 
 
 Act-drop. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene — Same as in Act I. 
 
 Lady W. (Lying on sofa.) How can I 
 tell him? I can't tell him. It would kill 
 me. I wonder what happened after I 
 escaped from that horrible room. Per- 
 haps she told them the true reason of her 
 being there, and the real meaning of that 
 — fatal fan of mine. Oh, if he knows — 
 how can I look him in the face again? 
 He would never forgive me. (Touches 
 bell.) How securely one thinks one lives 
 — out 'of reach of temptation, sin, folly. 
 And then suddenly — Oh! Life is ter- 
 rible. It rules us, we do not rule it. 
 
 (Enter Bosalie r.) 
 
 Rosalie. Did your ladyship ring for me? 
 
 LadAj W. Yes. Have you found out at 
 what time Lord Windermere came in last 
 night? 
 
 Rosalie. His lordship did not come in till 
 five o'clock. 
 
 Lady W. Five o'clock! He knocked at 
 my door this morning, did n't he ? 
 
 Rosalie. Yes, my lady — at half-past nine. 
 I told him your ladyship was not awake 
 yet. 
 
 Lady W. Did he say anything? • 
 
 Rosalie. Something about your ladyship's 
 fan. I did n't quite catch what his lord- 
 ship said. Has the fan been lost, my 
 
 lady? I can't find it, and Parker says it 
 was not left in any of the rooms. He 
 has looked in all of them and on the ter- 
 race as well. 
 
 Lady W. It doesn't matter. Tell Par- 
 ker not to trouble. That will do. 
 (Exit Rosalie.) 
 
 Lady W. (Rising.) She is sure to tell 
 him. I can fancy a person doing a won- 
 derful act of self-sacrifice, doing it spon- 
 taneously, recklessly, nobly — and after- 
 wards finding out that it costs too much. 
 Why should she hesitate between her ruin 
 and mine? . . . How strange! I would 
 have publicly disgraced her in my own 
 house. She accepts public disgrace in 
 the house of another to save me. . . . 
 There is a bitter irony in things, a bitter 
 irony in the way we talk of good and bad 
 women. . . . Oh, what a lesson! and 
 what a pity that in life we only get our 
 lessons when they are of no use to us! 
 For even if she does n't tell, I must. Oh ! 
 the shame of it, the shame of it. To tell 
 it is to live through it all again. Actions 
 are the first tragedy in life, words are 
 the second. Words are perhaps the 
 worst. Words are merciless. ... Oh ! 
 (Starts as Lord W. enters.) 
 
 Lord W. (Kisses her.) Margaret — ^liow 
 pale you look! 
 
 Lady W. I slept very badly. 
 
 Lord W. (Sitting on sofa with her.) I 
 am so sorry. I came in dreadfully late, 
 and didn't like to wake you. You are 
 crying, dear. 
 
 Lady W. Yes, I am crying, for I have 
 something to tell you, Arthur. 
 
 Lord W. My dear child, you are not well. 
 You 've been doing too much. Let us go 
 ,away to the country. You'll be all right 
 at Selby. The season is almost over. 
 There is no use staying on. Poor dar- 
 ling ! We '11 go away to-day, if you like. 
 (Rises.) We can easily catch the 4.30. 
 I'll send a wire to Fannen. 
 (Crosses and sits down at table to write 
 a telegram.) 
 
 Lady W. Yes; let us go away to-day. 
 No ; I can't go to-day, Arthur. There is 
 some one I must see before I leave town 
 — some one who has been kind to me. 
 
 Lord W. (Rising and leaning over sofa.) 
 Kind to you? 
 
 Lady W. Far more than that. (Rises 
 and goes to him.) I will tell you, Ar- 
 thur, but only love me, love me as you 
 used to love me. 
 
 Lord W. Used to? You are not think- 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 829 
 
 ing of that wretched woman who came 
 here last night 1 ( Coming round and sit- 
 ting r. of her.) You don't still imagine 
 no, you couldn't. 
 
 Lady W. I don't. I know now I was 
 "wrong and foolish. 
 
 Lord W. It was very good of you to re- 
 ceive her last night — but you are never 
 to see her again. 
 
 Lady W. Why do you say that? 
 {A pause.) 
 
 Lord W. {Holding her hand.) Mar- 
 garet, I thought Mrs. Erlynne was a wo- 
 man more sinned against than sinning, as 
 the phrase goes. I thought she wanted to 
 be good, to get back into a place that she 
 had lost by a moment's folly, to lead 
 again a decent life. I believed what she 
 told me — I was mistaken in her. She is 
 bad — as bad as a woman can be. 
 
 Lady W. Arthur, Arthur, don't talk so 
 bitterly about any woman. I don't think 
 now that people can be divided into the 
 good and the bad, as though they were 
 two separate races or creations. What 
 are called good women may have terrible 
 
 - things in them, mad moods of reck- 
 lessness, assertion, jealousy, sin. Bad 
 women, as they are termed, may have in 
 them sorrow, repentance, pity, sacrifice. 
 And I don't think Mrs. Erlynne a bad 
 woman — I know she 's not. 
 
 Lord W. My dear child, the woman 's im- 
 possible. No matter what harm she tries 
 to do us, you must never see her again. 
 She is inadmissible anywhere. 
 
 Lady W. But I want to see her. I want 
 her to come here. 
 
 Lord W. Never! 
 
 Lady W. She came here once as your 
 guest. She must come now as mine. 
 That is but fair. 
 
 Lord W. She should never have come 
 here. 
 
 Lady W. (Rising.) It is too late, Ar- 
 thur, to say that now. 
 
 (Moves away.) 
 
 Lord W. (Bising.) Margaret, if you 
 knew where Mrs.' Erlynne went last 
 night, after she left this house, you 
 would not sit in the same room with her. 
 It was absolutely shameless, the whole 
 thing. 
 
 Lady W. Arthur, I can't bear it any 
 longer. I must tell you. Last night 
 
 (Enter Parker with a tray on which Me 
 Lady W.'s fan and a card.) 
 
 Parker. Mrs. Erlynne has called to re- 
 
 turn your ladyship's fan which she took 
 away by mistake last night. Mrs. Er- 
 lynne has written a message on the card. 
 
 Lady W. Oh, ask Mrs. Erlynne to be kind 
 enough to come up. (Beads card.) 
 Say I shall be very glad to see her. 
 (Exit Parker.) She wants to see me, 
 Arthur. 
 
 Lord W. (Takes card and looks at it.) 
 Margaret, I beg you not to. Let me see 
 her first, at any rate. She 's a very dan- 
 gerous woman. She is the most danger- 
 ous woman I know. You don't realize 
 what you 're doing. 
 
 Lady W. It is right that I should see her. 
 
 Lord W. My child, you may be on the 
 brink of a great sorrow. Don't go to 
 meet it. It is absolutely necessary that 
 I should see her before you do. 
 
 Lady W. Why should it be necessary? 
 
 (Enter Parker.) 
 Parker. Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. E. Exit Parker.) 
 
 Mrs. E. How do you do. Lady Winder- 
 mere? (To Lord W.) How do you do? 
 Do you know, Lady Windermere, I am 
 so sorry about your fan. I can't imagine 
 how I made such a silly mistake. Most 
 stupid of me.' And as I was driving in 
 your direction, I thought I would take the 
 opportunity of returning your property 
 in person, with many apologies for my 
 carelessness, and of bidding you good- 
 bye. 
 
 Lady W. Good-bye? (Moves towards 
 sofa with Mrs. E. and sits down beside 
 her.) Are you going away, then, Mrs. 
 Erlynne? 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes; I am going to live abroad 
 again. The English climate doesn't suit 
 me. My — heart is affected here, and 
 that I don't like. I prefer living in the 
 south. London is too full of fogs and — 
 and serious people. Lord Windermere. 
 Whether the fogs produce the serious 
 people or whether the serious people pro- 
 duce the fogs, I don't know, but the 
 whole thing rather gets on my nerves, 
 and so I 'm leaving this afternoon by the 
 Club Train. 
 
 Lady W. This afternoon? But I wanted 
 so much to come and see you. 
 
 Mrs. E. How kind of you! But I am 
 afraid I have to go. 
 
 Lady W. Shall I never see you again, 
 Mrs. Erlynne? 
 
 Mrs. E. I am afraid not. Our lives lie 
 
830 
 
 THE NINETEEMTH CENTURY 
 
 too far apart. But there is a little thing 
 I would like you to do for me. I want 
 a photograph of you, Lady Windermere 
 — would you give me one? You don't 
 know how gTatified I should be. 
 
 Lady W. Oh, with pleasure. There is one 
 on that table. I 'IJ ghow it to you. 
 (Goes across to the table.) 
 
 Lord W. {Coraing up to Mrs. E. and 
 speaking in a low voice.) It is mon- 
 strous your intruding yourself here after 
 your conduct last night. 
 
 Mrs. E. (With an amused smile.) My 
 dear Windermere, manners before 
 morals ! 
 
 Lady W. {Returning.) I'm afraid it is 
 very flattering — I am not so pretty as 
 that. 
 
 (^Showing photograph.) 
 
 Mrs. E, You are much prettier. But 
 haven't you got one of yourself with 
 your little boy? 
 
 Lady W. I have. Would you prefer one 
 of those? 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes. 
 
 Lady W, I'll go and get it for you, if 
 you'll excuse me for a moment. I have 
 one upstairs. 
 
 Mrs. E. So sorry, Lady Windermere, to 
 give you so much trouble. 
 
 Lady W. {Moves to door r.) No trouble 
 at all, Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Mrs. E. Thanks so much. {Exit Lady W. 
 r.) You seem rather out of temper this 
 morning, Windermere. Why should you 
 be? Margaret and I get on charmingly 
 together. 
 
 Lord W. I can't bear to see you with her. 
 Besides, you have not told me the truth, 
 Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Mrs. E. I have not told Jier the truth, 
 you mean. 
 
 Lord W. {Standing e.) I sometimes wish 
 you had. I should have been spared 
 then the misery, the anxiety, the annoy- 
 ance of the last six months. But rather 
 than my wife should know — ^that the 
 mother whom she was taught to consider 
 as dead, the mother whom she has 
 mourned as dead, is living — a divorced 
 woman going about under an assumed 
 name, a bad woman preying upon life, 
 as I know you now to be-^rather than 
 that, I was ready to supply you with 
 money to pay bill after bill, extravagance 
 after extravagance, to risk what occurred 
 yesterday, the first quarrel I have ever 
 had with my wife. You don't under- 
 stand what that means to me. How 
 
 eould you?_ But I tell you that the only :. 
 
 , bitter words that ever came from those 
 sweet lips p£ hers were on your account, 
 and I hate to see you next her. You 
 ?uljy the innocence that is in her. 
 {Moves I. c.) And then I used to think 
 tk^t with all your faults you were frank 
 and honest. You are not. 
 
 Mrs. E. Why do you say that? 
 
 Lord W, You made me get you an in- 
 vitation to my wife's ball. 
 
 Mrs. E. For my daughter's ball-:^yes. 
 
 Lord W, You came, and within, an hour 
 of your leaving the house, you are found 
 in a man's rooms — you are disgraced be- 
 fore every one. 
 
 {Goes up stage c.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes. 
 
 Lord W. {Turning round on her.) 
 Therefore I have a ri^t to look upon 
 you as what you are — a worthless, vicious 
 woman. I have the right to tell yon 
 never to enter this house, never to at- 
 tempt to come near my wif e^- — 
 
 Mrs. E. {Coldly.) My daughter, you 
 mean. 
 
 Lord W. You have no right to claim her 
 as your danghtep. You left her, aban- 
 doned her, when she was but a child in 
 the cradle, abandoned her for your lover, 
 who abandoned you in turn. 
 
 Mrs. E. {Rising.) Do you count that to 
 his credit, Lord Windermere— ror to 
 mine? 
 
 Lard W. To his, now that I know you. 
 
 Mrs. E. Take care — you had better be 
 careful. 
 
 Lord W. Oh, I am not going to mince 
 words for you. I know you thoroughly. 
 
 Mrs. E. {Looking steadily at him.) I 
 question that. 
 
 Lord W. I do know you. For twenty 
 years of your life you lived without your 
 child, without a thought of your child. 
 One day you read in. the papers that she 
 had married a rich man. You saw your 
 hideous chance. You knew that to spare 
 her the ignominy of learning that a 
 woman like you was her mother, I would 
 endure anything. You began your 
 blackmailing. 
 
 Mrs. E. {Shrugging her shoulders.) 
 Don't use ugly words, Windermere. 
 They are vulgar. I saw my chance, it is 
 true, and took it. 
 
 Lprd iv. Tes, ygu topk it — and spoiled it 
 all last night by being found out. 
 
 Mrs. E. {With a strange smile.) You 
 are quite right, I spoiled it all last night. 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 831 
 
 Lord W. And as for your blunder in tak- 
 ing- my wife's fan from here, and then 
 leaving- it about in Darlington's rooms, it 
 is unpardonable. I can't bear the sight 
 of it now. I shall never let my wife use 
 it again. The thing is soiled for me. 
 You should have kept it, and not brought 
 it back. 
 
 Mrs. E. I think I shall keep it. (Goes 
 up.) It's extremely pretty. {Takes up 
 fan.) I shall ask Margaret to give it to 
 me. 
 
 Lord W. I hope my wife will give it you, 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, I'm sure she will have no 
 objection. 
 
 Lord W. I wish that at the same time she 
 would give you a miniature she kisses 
 every night before she prays — It's the 
 miniature of a young, innoeent-lgoking 
 girl with beautiful dark hair. 
 
 Mrs. E. Ah, yes, I remember. How long 
 ago that seems! (Goes to sofa and sits 
 down.) It was done before t was mar- 
 ried. Dark hair and an innocent ex- 
 pression were the fashion then, Winder- 
 mere! 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Lord W. What do you mean by coming 
 here this morning? What is your ob- 
 ject? 
 
 (Crossing I. c. and sitting.) 
 
 Mrs. E. (With a note of irony in her 
 voice.) To bid good-bye to my dear 
 daughter, of course. (Lord W. bites his 
 underlip in anger. Mrs. E. looks at him, 
 and her voice and manner become serious. 
 In her accents as she talks there is a note 
 of deep tragedy. For a moment she re- 
 veals herself.) Oh, don't imagine I am 
 going to have a pathetic scene with her, 
 weep on her neck and tell her who I am, 
 and all that kind of thing. I have no 
 ambition to play the part of a mothei*. 
 Only once in my life have I known a 
 mother's feelings. That was last night. 
 They were terrible — ^tliey made me suffer 
 — they made me suffer too much. For 
 twenty years, as you say, I have lived 
 childless— I want to live childless still. 
 (Hiding her feelings with a trivial 
 laugh.) Besides, my dear Windermere, 
 how on earth could I pose as a mother 
 with a grown-up daughter? Margaret is 
 twenty-rone, and I have never admitted 
 that I am more than twenty-nine, or 
 thirty at the most. Twenty-nine when 
 there are pink shades, thirty when there 
 are not. So you see what difficulties it 
 would involve. No, as far as I am con- 
 
 cerned, let your wife cherish the memory 
 of this dead, stainless mother. Why 
 should I interfere with her illusions? I 
 find it hard enough to keep my own. I 
 lost one illusion last night. I thought I 
 had no heart. I find I have, and a heart 
 does n't suit me, Windermere. Somehow 
 it does n't go with modern dress. It 
 makes one look old. (Takes up hand- 
 mirror fronp table and looks into it.) 
 And it spoils one's career at critical mo- 
 ments. 
 
 Lord W. You fill nje with horror — ^with 
 absolute horror. 
 
 Mrs. E, (Rising.) I suppose, Winder- 
 mere, you would like me to retire into a 
 convent or become a hospital nurse or 
 something of that kind, as people do in 
 silly modern novels. That is stupid of 
 you, Arthur; in real life we don't do such 
 things — not as long as we have any good 
 looks left, at any rate. No — ^what con- 
 soles one now-a-days is not repentance, 
 but pleasure. Repentance is quite out of 
 date. And besides, if a woman really re- 
 pents, she has to go to a bad dressmaker, 
 otherwise no one believes in her. And 
 nothing in the world would induce me to 
 do'that. No ; I am going to pass entirely 
 out of your two lives. My coming into 
 them has been a mistake — ^I discovered 
 that last night. 
 
 Lord W. A fatal mistake. 
 
 Mrs. E. (Smiling.) Almost fatal. 
 
 Lord W. I am sorry now I did not tell 
 my wife the whole thing at once. 
 
 Mrs. E. I regret my bad actions. You 
 regret your good ones^that is the differ- 
 ence between us. 
 
 Lord W. I don't trust you. I will tell 
 my wife. It's better for her to know, 
 and from me. It will cause her infinite 
 pain — it will humiliate her terribly, but 
 it's right that she should know. 
 
 Mrs. E. You propose to tell her? 
 
 Lord W. I am going to tell her. 
 
 Mrs. E. (Going up to him.) If you do, 
 I will make my name so infamous that 
 it will mar every moment of her life. It 
 will ruin her and make her wretched. 
 If you dare to tell her, there is no depth 
 of degradation I will not sink to, no pit 
 of shame I will not enter. Yon shall not 
 tell her — I forbid you. 
 
 Lord W. Why? 
 
 Mrs. E. (After a pause.) If I said to 
 you that I cared for her, perhaps loved 
 her even — you would sneer at me, 
 wouldn't you? 
 
832 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Lord W. I should feel it was not true. 
 A mother's love means devotion, unself- 
 ishness, sacrifice. What could you know 
 of such things? 
 
 Mrs. E. You are right. What could I 
 know of such things? Don't let us talk 
 any more about it, as for telling my 
 daughter who I am, that I do not allow. 
 It is my secret, it is not yours. If I 
 make up my mind to tell her, and I think 
 I will, I shall tell her before I leave this 
 house — if not, I shall never tell her. 
 
 Lord W. {Angrily.) Then let me beg of 
 you to leave our house at once. I will 
 make your excuses to Margaret. 
 
 {Enter Lady W. r. She goes over to Mrs. 
 E. with the photograph in her hand. 
 Lord W. moves to back of sofa, and anx- 
 iously watches Mrs. E. as the scene pro- 
 gresses.) 
 
 Lady W. I am so sorry, Mrs. Erlynne, to 
 have kept you waiting. I couldn't find 
 the photograph anywhere. At last I 
 discovered it in my husband's dressing- 
 room — he had stolen it. 
 
 Mrs. E. {Takes the photograph from her 
 and looks at it.) I am not surprised — 
 it is charming. {Goes over to sofa with 
 Lady W. and sits down beside her. 
 Looks again at the photograph.) And 
 so that is your little boy! What is he 
 called? 
 
 Lady W. Gerard, after my dear father. 
 
 Mrs. E. {Laying the photograph down.) 
 Really? 
 
 Lady W. Yes. If it had been a girl, I 
 would have called it after my mother. 
 My mother had the same name as myself, 
 Margaret. 
 
 Mrs. E. My name is Margaret, too. 
 
 Lady W. Indeed! 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes. {Pause.) You are devoted 
 to your mother's memory, Lady Winder- 
 mere, your husband tells me. 
 
 Lady W. We all have ideals in life. At 
 least we all should have. Mine is my 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. E. Ideals are dangerous things. 
 Realities are better. They wound, but 
 they are better. 
 
 Lady W. {Shaking her head.) If I lost 
 my ideals, I should lose everything. 
 
 Mrs. E. Everything? 
 
 Lady W. Yes. 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Did your father often speak to 
 you of your mother? 
 
 Lady W. No, it gave him too much pain. 
 He told me how my mother had died a 
 few months after I was born. His eyes 
 filled with tears as he spoke. Then he 
 begged me never to mention her name to 
 him agam. It made him suffer even to 
 hear it. My father— my father really 
 died of a broken heart. His was the 
 most ruined life I know. 
 
 Mrs.E. {Rising.) I am afraid I must go 
 now, Lady Windermere. 
 
 Lady W. {Rising.) Oh no, don't. 
 
 Mrs. E. I think I had better. My car- 
 riage must have come back by this time. 
 I sent it to Lady Jedburgh's with a note. 
 
 Lady W. Arthur, would you mind seeing 
 if Mrs. Erlynne's carriage has come 
 back? 
 
 Mrs. E. Pray don't trouble Lord Winder- 
 mere, Lady Windermere. 
 
 Lady W. Yes, Arthur, do go, please. 
 {Lord W. hesitates for a moment and 
 looks at Mrs. E. She remains quite im- 
 passive. He leaves the room.) {To 
 Mrs. E.) Oh, what am I to say to ycu? 
 You saved me last night ! 
 
 {Goes toward her.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Hush — don't speak of it. 
 
 Lady W. I must speak of it. I can't let 
 you think that I am going to accept this 
 sacrifice. I am not. It is too great. I 
 am going to teU my husband everything. 
 It is my duty. 
 
 Mrs. E. It is not your duty — at least you 
 have duties to others besides him. You 
 say you owe me something? 
 
 Lady Wl I owe you everything. 
 
 Mrs. E. Then pay your debt by silence. 
 That is the only way in which it can be 
 paid. Don't spoil the one good thing I 
 have done in my life by telling it to any 
 one. Promise me that what passed last 
 night will remain a secret between us. 
 You must not bring misery into your hus- 
 band's life. Why spoil his love? You 
 must not spoil it. Love is easily killed. 
 Oh, how easily love is killed! Pledge 
 me your word, Lady Windermere, that 
 you will never tell him. I insist upon 
 it. 
 
 Lad/y W. {With bowed head.) It is your 
 will, not mine. 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes, it is my will. And never 
 forget your child — I like to think of you 
 as a mother. I like you to think of your- 
 self as one. 
 
 Lady W. {Looking up.) I always will 
 now. Only once in my life I have for- 
 gotten my own mother — that was last 
 
LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN 
 
 833 
 
 night. Ob, if I had remembered her, I 
 should not have been so foolish, so 
 wicked. 
 Mrs. E. {With a slight shudder.) Hush, 
 last night is quite over. 
 
 {Enter Lord W.) 
 
 Lord W. Your carriage has not come back 
 yet, Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Mrs. E. It makes no matter. I '11 take a 
 hansom. There is nothing in the world 
 so respectable as a good Shrewsbury and 
 Talbot. And now, dear Lady Winder- 
 mere, I am afraid it is really good-bye. 
 (Moves up c.) Oh, I remember. 
 You'll think me absurd, but do you 
 know, I've taken a great fancy to this 
 fan that I was silly enough to run away 
 with last night from your ball. Now, I 
 wonder would you give it to me? Lord 
 Windermere says you may. I know it is 
 his present. 
 
 Lady W. Oh, certainly, if it will give you 
 any pleasure. But it has my name on it. 
 It has "Margaret" on it. 
 
 Mrs. E. But we have the same Christian 
 name. 
 
 Lady W. Oh, I forgot. Of course, do 
 have it. What a wonderful chance our 
 names being the same ! 
 
 Mrs. E. Quite wonderful. Thanks — it 
 will always remind me of you. 
 (Shakes hands with her.) 
 
 (Enter Parker.) 
 
 Parker. Lord Augustus Lorton. Mrs. 
 Erlynne's carriage has come. 
 
 (Enter Lord A.) 
 
 Lord A. Good-morning, dear boy. Good- 
 moming," Lady Windermere. (Sees 
 Mrs. E.) Mrs. Erlynne! 
 
 Mrs. E. How do you do. Lord Augustus? 
 Are you quite well this morning? 
 
 Lord A. (Coldly.) Quite well, thank you, 
 Mrs. Erlynne. 
 
 Mrs. E. You don't look at all well, Lord 
 Augustus. You stop up too late — ^it is 
 so bad for you. You really should take 
 more care of yourself. Good-bye, Lord 
 Windermere. (Goes towards door wifh 
 a how to Lord A. Suddenly smiles, and 
 looks hack at him.) Lord Augustus! 
 Won't you see me to my carriage? You 
 might carry the fan. 
 
 Lord W. Allow me! . 
 
 Mrs. E. No, I want Lord Augustus. I 
 have a special message for the dear 
 
 Duchess. Won't you carry the fan. Lord 
 Augustus? 
 
 Lord A. If you reaUy desire it, Mrs. Er- 
 lynne. 
 
 Mrs. E. (Laughing.) Of course I do. 
 You'll carry it so gracefully. You 
 would carry off anj^hing gracefully, 
 dear Lord Augustus. 
 
 (When she reaches the door she looks hack 
 for a moment at Lady W. Their eyes 
 meet. Then she turns, and exit c, fol- 
 lowed by Lord A.) 
 
 Lady W. You will never speak against 
 Mrs. Erlynne again, Arthur, will you? 
 
 Lord W. (Gravely.) She is better than 
 one thought her. 
 
 Lady W. She is better than I am. 
 
 Lord W. (Smiling as he strokes her hair.) 
 Child, ■ you and she belong to different 
 worlds. Into your world evil has never 
 entered. 
 
 Lady W. Don't say that, Arthur. There 
 is the same world for all of us, and good 
 and evil, sin and innocence, go through 
 it hand in hand. To shut one's eyes to 
 half of life that one may live securely is 
 as though one blinded oneself that one 
 might walk with more safety in a land 
 of pit and precipice. 
 
 Lord W. (Moves down with her.) Dar- 
 ling, why do you say that? 
 
 Lady W. (Sits on sofa.) Because I, who 
 had shut my eyes to life, came to the 
 brink. And one who had separated 
 us 
 
 Lord W. We were never parted. 
 
 Lady W. We never must be again. Oh, 
 Arthur, don't love me less, and I will 
 trust you more. I will trust you abso- 
 lutely. Let us go to Selby. In the Rose 
 Garden at Selby, the roses are white and 
 red. 
 
 (Enter Lord A. c.) 
 
 Lord A. Arthur, she has explained every- 
 thing! (Lady W. looks horribly fright- 
 ened. Lord W. starts. Lord A. takes 
 Lord W. by the firm, and brings him to 
 front of stage. ) My dear fellow, she has 
 explained every demned thing. We all 
 wronged her immensely. It was entirely 
 for my sake she went to Darlington's 
 rooms — called first at the club. Fact is, 
 wanted to put me out of suspense, and 
 being told I had gone on, followed — ^nat- 
 urally — frightened when she heard a lot 
 of men coming in — retired to another 
 room — I assure you, most gratifjdng to 
 me, the whole thing. We all behaved 
 
834 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 brutally to her. She is just the woman 
 for me. Suits me down to the ground. 
 All the condition she makes is that we 
 live out of England — a very good thing, 
 too! — Demmed clubs, dammed climate, 
 demmed cooks, demmed everything! 
 Sick of it all. 
 Lady W. {Frightened.) Has Mrs. Er- 
 lynne f 
 
 Lord A. (Advancing towards her with a 
 bow.) Yes; Lady Windermere, Mrs. Er- 
 lynne has done me the honor of accepting 
 my hand. 
 
 Lord W. Well, you are certainly marry- 
 ing a very clever woman. 
 
 Lady W. (Talcing her husband's hand.) 
 Ah I you're marr3^ng a very good 
 woman. 
 
 CUETAIN. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 GENERAL WORKS 
 
 Cambridge History of English Literature. 
 
 Chambers, E. K. The Mediwval IStage. 
 2 vols. 1903. 
 
 Clarence, -R. Stage Cyclopcedia. 1909 (on 
 stage history and perfoTmaneea of plays). 
 
 Collier, J. P. History of English Dramatic 
 Poetry. New ed. 3 vols. 1879. 
 
 Dictionary of National Biography (for 
 biography and bibliography ) . 
 
 rieSy, 5'. G. A Biographical Chronicle of 
 the English Dratna, 1559-16^3. 2 vols. 
 1891. 
 
 Fleay, F. G. A Chronicle History of the 
 English Stage, 1559-16^2. 1890. 
 
 Gayley, C. M. Representative English 
 Comedies. 3 vols. 1903 (a collection of 
 plays; in progress). 
 
 Murray, J. T. English Dramatic Com- 
 panies, 1558-16iS. 1910. 
 
 Neilson, W. A. The Chief Elimabethan 
 Dramatists. 1911 (a collection). 
 
 Nettleton, G. H. English Drama of the 
 Restoration and Eighteenth Century. 
 1914. 
 
 Schelling, F. B. Elinmbethan Drama. 2 
 vols. 1908. 
 
 Sharp, E. F. A Short History of the Eng- 
 lish Stage. 1909. 
 
 Swinburne, A. 0. The Age of Shakespeare. 
 1908. 
 
 Symdnds, J. A. ShakespeO/re's Predecessors 
 in the English Drama. 1884. 
 
 Thorndike, A. H. Shakespeare's Theatre. 
 1916. 
 
 Thorndike, A. H. Tragedy. 1908. 
 
 Tupper, F. and J. W. Representative Eng- 
 lish Dramas from Dryden to Sheridan. 
 1914 (a collection). 
 
 Ward, A. W. A History of EngUs% Dra- 
 matic Literature to the Death of Queen 
 Anne. Second ed. 3 vols. 1899. 
 
 THE MIRACLE PLAT , 
 
 Bates, K. L. The English Religious Drama. 
 
 1893. 
 Deimling, G. Chester Plays (first 13). 
 
 Early English Text Society. Ex. Ser. 
 
 LXXII 1893. 
 England, G. Towneley Plays. E. E. T. S. 
 
 Ex. Ser. LXXI. 1897. 
 Gayley, C. M. Plays of Our Forefathers. 
 
 1907. 
 Halliwell-PhilHppSj J. O. Ludus Coventriw. 
 
 Shakespeare Society Publications. 1841. 
 
 Manly, J. M. Specimens of Pre-Shaket- 
 pearean Drama. 2 vols. 1897 (the 
 source of the present texts) . 
 
 Pollard, A. W. English Miracle Plays 
 Moralities, amd Interludes. Fifth ed 
 1909. 
 
 Smith, L. T. Ytyrk Mystery Plays. 1885. 
 
 Wright, T. Chester Plays, Shakespeare 
 Soc. PubL 2 vols. 1843-7. 
 
 Interesting examples of the miracle 
 play, other thain the three herein printed, 
 may be found in Manly. Modernized ver- 
 sions of Abraham and Isaac and The 
 Second Shepherds' Play may be found in 
 No. 191 of the Riverside Literature Seriea 
 (Houghton, Mifflin), edited by C. G. Child, 
 with a good introduction. 
 
 THE MORALITY 
 
 Mackenzie, W. R. The English Moralities. 
 1914. 
 
 Mackenzie, W. R. The Origin of the Eng- 
 lish Morality. Washington Univ. Studies: 
 Vol. II. Pt. ii. No. 2. 1915. 
 
 Everyman. Ed. W. W. Greg. Bang's 
 Materialen mur kunde des alteren eng- 
 lischen Dramas. Vol. IV. 1904 (the 
 source of the. present text) . Ed. F. 
 Sidgwiek. 1902. Also in the Every- 
 man's Library, vol. 381. Modernized by 
 C. G. Child in Early Plays (see above). 
 For the relations between Everyman 
 and the Dutch play ElOkerUjo, see two 
 articles by J. M. Manly and F. A. Wood 
 on Elckerlijc-Everyman : The Question 
 of Priority, in Modern Philology, Oct. 1900, 
 Vol. VIII. Other works are mentioned 
 under the preceding heading. 
 
 Other good moralities may be found in 
 Manly; also other short early plays ("In- 
 tei'ludes " ) of a more secular character. 
 
 II 
 
 JOHN LTLT 
 Bond, R. W. The Complete Works of John 
 Lyly. 3 vOls. 1902 (the source of the 
 present text ) . 
 Child, C. G. John Lyly and Euphuism. 
 
 MUnchener BeitrSge. Vol. VII. 1904. 
 Feuillerat, A. John Lyly. 1910. 
 
 Other ijlays of Lyly to be recommended 
 are Endymion and Sapho and Phao. 
 
 Other plays showing the new classical 
 influence are Sackville and Norton's 
 (lorhodMc, and TJdall's Ralph Roister 
 Doister, 
 
 CHEISTOPHEK MARLOWE 
 Collected Editions: A. H. BuUen. 3 vols. 
 
 835 
 
836 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 1884-5. Brooke, C. P. T. 1910. Ellis, 
 H. Mermaid ed. 1887. Phelps, W. L. 
 Masterpieces of the English Drama. 1912. 
 Plays and Poems in the Everyman's Li- 
 brary, vol. 383. 
 
 Edward, II. Ed. Verity, A. W. Temple Dra- 
 matists. 1896. Briggs, W. D. 1914. 
 
 Ingram, J. H. Christopher Marlotce and his 
 Associates. 1904. 
 
 Baker, G. P. Dramatic Technique in Mar- 
 lowe, in Essays and Studies by Members of 
 the English Association, Vol. IV. 1913. 
 
 Sehelling, F. E. The English Chronicle 
 Play. 1902. 
 
 (Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
 lated with Brooke's.) 
 
 Other chronicle-plays are Bale's Eyng 
 Johan and Sackville and Norton's Oor- 
 boduo (forerunners of the type), the 
 anonymous Trovblesome Reign of King 
 John, Heywood's Edward IV and If You 
 Know not Me You Know Nobody, Ford's 
 Perkin Warbeck. 
 
 THOMAS DBKKER 
 
 Collected Editions: Pearson,' J. 4 vols. 
 
 1873. Rhys, E. Mermaid ed. 1895. 
 
 The Shoemakers' Holiday, Lange, A. F. 
 (in Gay ley's Representative English 
 Comedies. Vol. III. 1914). 
 
 Grosart, A. B. The Non-Dra/matic Works 
 of Thomas Dekker. 5 vols. 1884-6. 
 
 Hunt, Mary L. Thomas Dekker: A Study. 
 1911. 
 
 (Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
 lated with Lange's.) 
 
 Other comedies of London life are East- 
 WKird Ho! by Jonson, Chapman and Mars- 
 ton, Middleton's A Mad World My Mas- 
 ters, A Chaste Maid in Cheapside, A Trick 
 to Catch the Old One, Fletcher's Monsieur 
 Thomas and Wit Without Money. 
 
 THOMAS HETWOOD 
 
 Collected Editions: Pearson, J. 6 vols. 
 
 1874. Verity, A. W. Mermaid ed. 1888. 
 The Captives. In Bullen's Old Plays. Vol. 
 
 IV. 1883.' 
 A Woman Killed with Kindness. Ed. A. 
 W. Ward, Temple Dramatists. 1897. 
 (Present text based on Neilson's, collated 
 with Pearson's and Verity's.) 
 
 Other examples of domestic drama are: 
 Arden of Feiersham, How a Man May 
 Choose a Good Wife from a Bad, Hey- 
 wood's The English Traveller and For- 
 tune by Land und Sea, Middleton and 
 Rowley's A Fair Quarrel. 
 
 BEN JONSON 
 Collected Editions: Gifford, W. 9 vols. 
 1816. Cunningham, F. 9 vols. 1871-5. 
 Nicholson, B. Mermaid ed. 3 vols. 
 1803-4. Rhys, E. Masterpieces of The 
 English Drama. Everyman's Library, 
 vols. 489, 490. Several of the plays have 
 
 been edited in Yale Studies in English. <. 
 
 The Alchemist. Ed. Hathaway, C. H. * ' 
 Yale Studies in English. 1903. Ed. 
 with Eastward Ho! by Sehelling, F. E, 
 Belles Lettres Series. 1903. 
 
 Gastelain, M. Ben Jonson: L'Homme et 
 I'Oeuvre. 1907. 
 
 Koeppel, E. Ben Jonson's Wirkung auf 
 zeitgenossische Dramatiker. Anglistische 
 Forsohungen. 1906. 
 
 Koeppel, E. Quellenstudien zu den Dramen 
 Ben Jonson's. 1895. 
 
 Swinburne, A. C. A Study of Ben Jonson. 
 1889. 
 
 Symonds, J. A. Ben Jonson. 1886. 
 
 Woodbridge, E. Studies in Jonson's 
 Comedy. 1898. 
 
 (Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
 lated with Schelling's. ) 
 
 A reading of The Alchemist may be 
 supplemented by that of others of Jon- 
 son's plays: Every Man in His Humor, 
 Sejanus, Volpone, Epicene, Bartholomew , 
 Fair. Massinger's New Way to Pay Old 
 Debts shows his influence. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 
 
 Collected Editions. Bullen, A. H. Va- 
 riorum ed. (4 vols, published; in prog- 
 ress). 1904, etc. Glover, A. and Waller, 
 A. R. 10 vols. 1905-12. Sehelling, F. 
 E. Masterpieces of the English Drama. 
 1912. Select Plays, in Everyman's Li- 
 brary, vol. 506. Strachey, J. St. L. Mer- 
 maid ed. 2 vols. 1887. 
 
 Philaster. Ed. Boas, F. S. Temple Dra- 
 nvatists. 1898. Thorndike, A. H. Belles 
 Lettres Series. 1906. 
 
 Gayley, C. M. Beaumont the Dramatist. 
 1914. 
 
 Hatcher, O. L. John Fletcher, a Study in 
 Dramatic Method. 1905. 
 
 Maoaulay, G. C. Francis Beaumont, a 
 Critical Study. 1883. 
 
 Thorndike, A. H. The Influence of Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher on Shakespeare. 1901. 
 (Both present texts are based on Neil- 
 son's, collated with Thorndike's for Phil- 
 aster, and Glover and Waller's for Wild 
 Ooose Chase.) 
 
 Other good examples of tragi-comedy 
 are: The Two Noble Kinsmen, at- 
 tributed to Shakespeare and Fletcher, 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's King and No 
 King, Fletcher's The Chances and The 
 Loyal Subject, Heywood's A Challenge 
 for Beauty, Massinger's The Maid of 
 Honor and The Great Duke of Florence, 
 Middleton and Rowley's The Spanish 
 Gipsy, Shirley's The Coronation and The 
 Royal Master, D'Avenant's Love and 
 Honor. 
 
 Other good examples of high comedy, 
 pointing toward Restoration comedy, are 
 Shirley's Lady of Pleavwe and Hyde 
 Park. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 837 
 
 JOHN WEBSTBE 
 
 Collected Editions: Dyce, A. 4 vols. 
 1830. Hazlitt, W. 4 vols. 1857. 
 
 The Duchess of Malfi and The White Devil. 
 Ed. Sampson, M. W. Belles Lettres Se- 
 ries. 1904. Symonds, J. A. Mermaid 
 ed. 1888. Thorndike, A. H. Master- 
 pieces of the English Drama. 1912. 
 
 Gosse, E. John Webster, in Seventeenth 
 Century Studies. 1883. 
 
 Stoll, E. E. John Webster, the Periods of 
 His Work. 1905. 
 
 (Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
 lated with Sampson's and Thorndike's. ) 
 The most important early tragedy of 
 blood or revenge is Kyd's Spanish Tragedy. 
 Other examples of' romantic tragedy are 
 the following: Beaumont and Fletcher's 
 The Maid's Tragedy, Fletcher's Bonduca 
 and Valentinian, Maraton's The Insatiate 
 Countess, Tourneur's The Revenger's 
 Tragedy, Middleton's Women Beware 
 Women, Webster's The White Devil, Mas- 
 singer's The Virgin, Martyr and The Bond- 
 m,an, Ford's The Broken Eea/rt, Shirley's 
 The Traitor and The Cardinal. 
 
 MIDDLETON AND ROWLEY 
 
 Collected Editions of Middleton: BuUen, 
 A. H. 8 vols. 1885-6. Ellis, H. Mer- 
 maid ed. 2 vols. 1887. Sampson, M. 
 W. Masterpieces of the English Drama. 
 
 Middleton and Rowley. The Spanish Gipsy 
 and All's Lost by Lust. Ed. Morris, F. 
 C. Belles Lettres Series. 1908. 
 
 Eowley. All's Lost by Lust, and A Shoe- 
 maker a Gentleman. Ed. Stork, C. W. 
 1910. 
 
 Wiggin, P. G. An Inquiry into the Author- 
 ship of the Middleton-Rotcley Plays. 1897. 
 (Present text based on Neilson's, col- 
 lated with Ellis'.) 
 
 For similar plays see the list for Web- 
 ster. 
 
 Ill 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN 
 
 Collected editions: Scott and Saintsbury. 
 18 vols. 1882-1893. Selected Dramas, 
 ed. G. E. Noyes, 1910 (the source of the 
 present text). Ed. G. Saintsbury (Mer- 
 maid ed.), 2 vols. 
 
 Dryden's Essay on Heroic Plays, in Scott- 
 Saintsbury, Vol. IV. and in Noyes. 
 
 Chase, L. N. The English Heroic Play. 
 1903. 
 
 Sherwood, M. Dryden's Dra/matic Theory 
 omd Practice (Yale Stud, in Engl. No. 4). 
 
 Verrall, A. W. Lectures on Dryden, 1914. 
 
 Saintsbury, G. Dryden (Engl. Men of Let- 
 ters Ser.), 1881. 
 
 The other play of Dryden's best to read 
 is All for Love, " regularized " from 
 Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra. 
 
 THOMAS OTWAY 
 
 Collected editions: T. Thornton, 3 vols., 
 1813. Roden Noel. Mermaid ed. 
 
 Venice Preserved. Ed. C. F. McClum- 
 pha (with The Orphan and the essential 
 parts of St. Real's narrative). Belles 
 Lettres Ser. 1908 (the source of the pres- 
 ent text). Ed. I. Gollancz, Temple 
 Dramatists. 
 
 Gosse, E. W. Seventeenth Century Studies. 
 1883. 
 
 Brown, H. F. Studies in Venetian History, 
 I. 245-295. 
 
 Otway's The Orphan is also character- 
 istic. 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE 
 
 Collected editions: G. S. Street, 1895. W. 
 Archer, 1912. A. C. Ewald (Mermaid 
 ed.). 
 
 Lamb, Charles. Essay On the Artificial 
 Comedy of the Last Century. 
 
 Thackeray, W. M. English Humorists. 
 
 Macaulay, T. B. Essay on Leigh Hunt's 
 Comic Dramatists of the Restoration. 
 
 Gosse, E. W. Life of Gongreve. 1888. 
 The present text is founded on the first 
 edition, 1700. Other similar comedies 
 are Congreve's Love for Love, Wycherley's 
 Country Wife, Farquhar's Beauae Strata- 
 gem, and The Recruiting Officer. 
 
 IV 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 Works, ed. G. W. Greene, 6 vols., 1858. 
 
 Life, Lucy Aikin, 2 vols., 1843. 
 
 Life, W. J. Courthope (English Men of Let- 
 ters Ser.), 1886. 
 
 Oliphant, M. Historical Characters of the 
 Reign of Queen Anne, 1894. 
 
 The present text is founded on the ed- 
 ition of 1721. Another celebrated 18th- 
 century tragedy, in verse, but romantic in 
 character, is John Home's Douglas; influ- 
 ential bourgeois tragedies in prose are 
 George Lillo's London Merchant, or 
 George Ba/rrmell, and Edward Moore's 
 Gamester. 
 
 SIR RICHARD STEELE 
 Plays. 4 vols. London, 1734-40. Ed. G. A. 
 
 Aitken (Mermaid ed., Unwin, London, and 
 
 Scribner's, New York). 
 Life. Aitken, G. A. 2 vols. 1889. 
 Life. Dobson, A. (English Men of Letters 
 
 Ser.) 1888. 
 Watcrhouse, O. The Development of English 
 
 Sentimental Comedy in the Eighteenth 
 
 Century. Anglia, XXX. 137-172, 269- 
 
 305. 
 The present text is founded on Aitken's, 
 
 but with collations (badly needed) from 
 
 the edition of Edinburgh, 1755. 
 
 Later sentimental comedies are Sir Rich- 
 ard Cumberland's West Indian, and Hugh 
 
 Kelly's False Delicacy. 
 
838 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 HBNEY FIELDING 
 
 Works, 12 vols. Ed. W. E. Henley. 1902. 
 Ed. G. H. Maynardier. 1903. 
 
 Tom Thumb, ed. by Felix Lindner {Eng- 
 lische Textbibliothek) , 1899 (the source of 
 the present text). 
 
 Lindner, P. Henry Fieldings dramatische 
 Werke. Litterarische Studie. 1895. 
 
 Godden, G. M. Memoir, 1910. 
 
 Dobson, A. Memoir, 1900. 
 
 Other burlesques are the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham's Rehearsal (earlier) and Sheri- 
 dan's Critic (later). 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 Miscellaneous Works, ed. David Masson 
 
 (Globe edition). 1869. 
 Poems and Plays. Everyman's Library, vol. 
 
 415. 
 The Good Natur'd Man and She Stoops to 
 
 Conquer, ed.- A. Dobson and G. P. Baker 
 
 {Belles Lettres Ser.), 1905. 
 She Stoops to Conquer. Tem^ple Dramatists. 
 Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith, 
 
 Forster, J. 1848. 
 Life. Moore, F. F. 1910. 
 Life. King, R. A. 1910. 
 Memoir. Dobson, A. 1899. 
 Buckland, E. S. L. (a short monograph) 
 
 1910. 
 
 The present text is founded on the fifth 
 
 edition (1773), probably the most authen- ' 
 
 tic. The Good Natur'd Man, may also be 
 
 mentioned. 
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN 
 Collected editions: Sheridan's Plays now 
 Printed as he Wrote them, W. F. Eae, 1902 
 (the source of the present text). The 
 Major Dramas of Sheridan, G. H. Nettle- 
 ton, 1906. 
 Everyman's Library, Vol. 95. 
 The School for Scandal. Temple Dramatists. 
 Sichel, W. S. Sheridan, from New and Or- 
 iginal Material, 2 vols. 1909. 
 Eae, W. F. Biography, 2 vols., 1896. 
 Oliphant, M. Life (Engl. Men of Letters 
 Ser.), 1898. 
 
 The Rivals may also be mentioned. 
 
 P. B. SHELLEY 
 Works. Ed. H. B. Forman, 8 vols., 1880. 
 
 Ed. G. E. Woodberry, 1901. Everyman's 
 
 Library, Vols. 257, 258. 
 The Genci. Ed. G. E. Woodberry (Belles- 
 
 Tettres Ser.), 1909. 
 Crawford, F. Marion. Beatrice Cenci; the 
 
 True Story of a Misunderstood Tragedy. 
 
 The Century Magazine, LXXV. 449-466 
 
 (Jan. 190S). 
 
 A Study of The Cenci, E. S. Bates (Colum- 
 bia dissertation). 1908. 
 
 Dowden, Eu Life, 2 vols., 1886. 
 
 The present text iB> founded on A. and 
 H. B. Forman's' edition^ published by the 
 Shelley Society, 1886. 
 
 Another fine poetic tragedy of the early 
 part of the century ia Sir T. N. Talfourd's 
 Ion. 
 
 EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON 
 
 Works. 1840, 1848, 1850. Dramatic Works, 
 now First Collected, 1841 (the source of 
 the present text). 
 
 The Lady of Lyons. 1st ed. 1838. Ed. vfith 
 others of Bulwer's plays, by K. F. Sharp, 
 1904. 
 
 Life. By his son, 2 vols. 1883. By his 
 grandson, the Earl of Lytton. 2 vols. 
 191». 
 
 Bulwer's best other play is Richelieu. 
 Later influential sentimental prose come- 
 dies, " realistic " and moralistic rather 
 than romantic, are T. W. Robertson's 
 Caste and Society. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Works. Riverside ed., 6 vols., 1888. Smith, 
 Elder and Co., London, 1888-9, 17 vols, 
 (the source of the present text). 
 
 Ed. H. E. Seudder (Cambridge ed.) 1895. 
 Everyman's Library, Vols. 41, 42. 
 
 Bells and Pomegranates, 1st Ser. Reissued 
 in an exact reprint (Ward, Lock and Co., 
 London). 
 
 Life and Letters, Mrs. Sutherland Orr, 2 
 vols,, 1891. 
 
 Biography, Edward Dowden, 1904; C. H. Her- 
 ford, 1905. 
 
 B. C. Mayne, Browning's Heroines, 1913. 
 Tennyson's Becket may be mentioned 
 also. 
 
 OSCAR WILDE 
 
 Works (Sunflower ed.), 1909. 
 
 Lacly Windermere's Fan (Ariel Booklets), 
 Putnam's, New York. 
 
 Life, R. H. Sherard, 1906. 
 
 Oscar Wilde (a study), L. C. Ingleby, 1907. 
 
 Oscar Wilde: A Critical Study, A. Ransome, 
 1912. 
 
 The English Stage of To-day, Mario Borsa 
 (English translation by Brinton), 1908. 
 
 Others of Wilde's comedies are The Im- 
 portance of Being Ernest, A Woman of 
 No Importance, and An Ideal Husband. 
 For the best plays of contemporary drama- 
 tists the reader is referred to those printed 
 in Professor T. H. Dickinson's Chief Con- 
 tempora/ry Dramatists (Houghton, Mifflin 
 and Co., 1915). Of Mr. Percy MacKaye's 
 poetic dramas the chief are The Canterbury, 
 Pilgrims, Jeanne d'Arc, and Sapho and 
 Phaon: of his prose plays, The Scarecrow 
 and Anti-Matrimony.