Most of the Plays in the present Collection have not been reprinted, and some have not been printed at all. In the second volume there will be published for the first time a fine tragedy (hitherto quite unknown) by Massinger and Fletcher, and a lively comedy (also quite unknown) by James Shirley. The recovery of these two pieces should be of considerable interest to all students of dramatic literature.

The Editor hopes to give in Vol. III. an unpublished play of Thomas
Heywood. In the fourth volume there will be a reprint of the Arden of
Feversham, from the excessively rare quarto of 1592.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TRAGEDY OF NERO.

Of the many irreparable losses sustained by classical literature few are more to be deplored than the loss of the closing chapters of Tacitus' Annals. Nero, it is true, is a far less complex character than Tiberius; and there can be no question that Tacitus' sketch of Nero is less elaborate than his study of the elder tyrant. Indeed, no historical figure stands out for all time with features of such hideous vividness as Tacitus' portrait of Tiberius; nowhere do we find emphasised with such terrible earnestness, the stoical poet's anathema against tyrants "Virtutem videant intabescantque relicta." Other writers would have turned back sickened from the task of following Tiberius through mazes of cruelty and craft. But Tacitus pursues his victim with the patience of a sleuth-hound; he seems to find a ruthless satisfaction in stripping the soul of its coverings; he treads the floor of hell and watches with equanimity the writhings of the damned. The reader is at once strangely attracted and repelled by the pages of Tacitus; there is a weird fascination that holds him fast, as the glittering eye of the Ancient Mariner held the Wedding Guest. It was owing partly, no doubt, to the hideousness of the subject that the Elizabethan Dramatists shrank from seeking materials in the Annals; but hardly the abominations of Nero or Tiberius could daunt such daring spirits as Webster or Ford. Rather we must impute their silence to the powerful mastery of Tacitus; it was awe that held them from treading in the historian's steps. Ben Jonson ventured on the enchanted ground; but not all the fine old poet's wealth of classical learning, not his observance of the dramatic proprieties nor his masculine intellect, could put life into the dead bones of Sejanus or conjure up the muffled sinister figure of Tiberius. Where Ben Jonson failed, the unknown author of the Tragedy of Nero has, to some extent, succeeded.

After reading the first few opening-lines the reader feels at once that this forgotten old play is the work of no ordinary man. The brilliant scornful figure of Petronius, a character admirably sustained throughout, rivets his attention from the first. In the blank verse there is the true dramatic ring, and the style is "full and heightened." As we read on we have no cause for disappointment. The second scene which shows us the citizens hurrying to witness the triumphant entry of Nero, is vigorous and animated. Nero's boasting is pitched in just the right key; bombast and eloquence are equally mixt. If he had been living in our own day Nero might possibly have made an ephemeral name for himself among the writers of the Sub-Swinburnian School. His longer poems were, no doubt, nerveless and insipid, deserving the scornful criticism of Tacitus and Persius; but the fragments preserved by Seneca shew that he had some skill in polishing far-fetched conceits. Our playwright has not fallen into the error of making Nero "out-Herod Herod"; through the crazy raptures we see the ruins of a nobler nature. Poppaea's arrowy sarcasms, her contemptuous impatience and adroit tact are admirable. The fine irony of the following passage is certainly noticeable:—

"Pop. I prayse your witt, my Lord, that choose such safe Honors, safe spoyles, worm without dust or blood.

Nero. What, mocke ye me, Poppaea.

Pop. Nay, in good faith, my Lord, I speake in earnest:
I hate that headie and adventurous crew
That goe to loose their owne to purchase but
The breath of others and the common voyce;
Them that will loose their hearing for a sound,
That by death onely seeke to get a living,
Make skarres their beautie and count losse of Limmes
The commendation of a proper man,
And so goe halting to immortality,—
Such fooles I love worse then they doe their lives."

It is indeed strange to find such lines as those in the work of an unknown author. The verses gain strength as they advance, and the diction is terse and keen. This one short extract would suffice to show that the writer was a literary craftsman of a very high order.

In the fourth scene, where the conspirators are met, the writer's power is no less strikingly shown. Here, if anywhere, his evil genius might have led him astray; for no temptation is stronger than the desire to indulge in rhetorical displays. Even the author of Bothwell, despite his wonderful command of language, wearies us at times by his vehement iteration. Our unknown playwright has guarded himself against this fault; and, steeped as he was to the lips in classical learning, his abstinence must have cost him some trouble. My notes will shew that he had not confined himself to Tacitus, but had studied Suetonius and Dion Cassius, Juvenal and Persius. He makes no parade of his learning, but we see that he has lived among his characters, leaving no source of information unexplored. The meeting of the conspirators is brought before our eyes with wonderful vividness. Scevinus' opening speech glows and rings with indignation. Seneca, in more temperate language, bewails the fall of the high hopes that he had conceived of his former pupil, finely moralizing that "High fortunes, like strong wines, do trie their vessels." Some spirited lines are put into Lucan's mouth:—

"But to throw downe the walls and Gates of Rome
To make an entrance for an Hobby-horse;
To vaunt to th'people his ridiculous spoyles;
To come with Lawrell and with Olyves crown'd
For having been the worst of all the singers,
Is beyond Patience!"

In another passage the grandiloquence and the vanity of the poet of the Pharsalia are well depicted.

The second act opens with Antonius' suit to Poppaea, which is full of passion and poetry, but is not allowed to usurp too much room in the progress of the play. Then, in fine contrast to the grovelling servility of the Emperor's creatures, we see the erect figure of the grand stoic philosopher, Persius' tutor, Cornutus, whose free-spokenness procures him banishment. Afterwards follows a second conference of the conspirators, in which scene the author has followed closely in the steps of Tacitus.

One of the most life-like passages in the play is at the beginning of the third act, where Nimphidius describes to Poppaea how the weary audience were imprisoned in the theatre during Nero's performance, with guards stationed at the doors, and spies on all sides scanning each man's face to note down every smile or frown. Our author draws largely upon Tacitus and the highly-coloured account of Suetonius; but he has, besides, a telling way of his own, and some of his lines are very happy. Poppaea's wit bites shrewdly; and even Nimphidius' wicked breast must have been chilled at such bitter jesting as:—

"How did our Princely husband act Orestes?
Did he not wish againe his Mother living?
Her death would add great life unto his part."

As Nero approaches his crowning act of wickedness, the burning of Rome, his words assume a grim intensity. The invocation to the severe powers is the language of a man at strife at once with the whole world and himself. In the representation of the burning of Rome it will perhaps be thought that the author hardly rises to the height of his theme. The Vergilian simile put into the mouth of Antonius is distinctly misplaced; but as our author so seldom offends in this respect he may be pardoned for the nonce. It may seem a somewhat crude treatment to introduce a mother mourning for her burnt child, and a son weeping over the body of his father; but the naturalness of the language and the absence of extravagance must be commended. Some of the lines have the ring of genuine pathos, as here:—

"Where are thy counsels, where thy good examples? And that kind roughness of a Father's anger?"

The scene immediately preceding contains the noble speech of Petronius quoted by Charles Lamb in the Specimens. In a space of twenty lines the author has concentrated a world of wisdom. One knows not whether to admire more the justness of the thought or the exquisite finish of the diction. Few finer things have been said on the raison d'Être of tragedy from the time when Aristotle in the Poetics formulated his memorable dictum. The admirable rhythmical flow should be noted. There is a rare suppleness and strength in the verses; we could not put one line before another without destroying the effect of the whole; no verse stands out obstinately from its fellows, but all are knit firmly, yet lightly, together: and a line of magnificent strength fitly closes a magnificent passage. Hardly a sonnet of Shakespeare or Mr. Rossetti could be more perfect.

At the beginning of the fourth act, when the freedman Milichus discloses Piso's conspiracy, Nero's trepidation is well depicted. It is curious that among the conspirators the author should not have introduced the dauntless woman, Epicharis, who refused under the most cruel tortures to betray the names of her accomplices, and after biting out her tongue died from the sufferings that she had endured on the rack. "There," as mad Hieronymo said, "you could show a passion." Even Tacitus, who upbraids the other conspirators with pusillanimity, marks his admiration of this noble woman. No reader will quarrel with the playwright if he has thought fit to paint the conspirators in brighter colours than the historian had done. When Scevinus is speaking we seem to be listening to the voice of Shakespeare's Cassius: witness the exhortation to Piso,—

"O Piso thinke,
Thinke on that day when in the Parthian fields
Thou cryedst to th'flying Legions to turne
And looke Death in the face; he was not grim,
But faire and lovely when he came in armes."

The character of Piso, for whom Tacitus shows such undisguised contempt, is drawn with kindliness and sympathy. Seneca, too, who meets with grudging praise from the stern historian, stands out ennobled in the play. His bearing in the presence of death is admirably dignified; and the polite philosopher, whose words were so faultless and whose deeds were so faulty, could hardly have improved upon the chaste diction of the farewell address assigned him by the playwright.

While Seneca's grave wise words are still ringing in our ears we are called to watch a leave-taking of a different kind. No reader of the Annals can ever forget the strange description of the end of Petronius;—how the man whose whole life had "gone, like a revel, by" neither faltered, when he heard his doom pronounced, nor changed a whit his wonted gaiety; but dying, as he had lived, in abandoned luxury, sent under seal to the emperor, in lieu of flatteries, the unblushing record of their common vices. The obscure playwright is no less impressive than the world-renowned historian. While Antonius and Enanthe are picturing to themselves the consternation into which Petronius will be thrown by the emperor's edict, the object of their commiseration presents himself. Briefly dismissing the centurion, he turns with kindling cheek to his scared mistress—"Come, let us drink and dash the posts with wine!" Then he discourses on the blessings of death; he begins in a semi-ironical vein, but soon, forgetful of his auditors, is borne away on the wings of ecstacy. The intense realism of the writing is appalling. He speaks as a "prophet new inspired," and we listen in wonderment and awe. The language is amazingly strong and rich, and the imagination gorgeous.

At the beginning of the fifth act comes the news of the rising of Julius Vindex. Like a true coward Nero makes light of the distant danger; but when the rumours fly thick and fast he gives way to womanish passionateness, idly upbraiding the gods instead of consulting for his own safety. His despair and terror when he perceives the inevitable doom are powerfully rendered. The fear of the after-world makes him long for annihilation; his imagination presents to him "the furies arm'd with linkes, with whippes, with snakes," and he dreads to meet his mother and those "troopes of slaughtered friends" before the tribunal of the Judge

"That will not leave unto authoritie,
Nor favour the oppressions of the great."

But, fine as it undoubtedly is, the closing scene of the play bears no comparison with the pathetic narrative of Suetonius. Riding out, muffled, from Rome amid thunder and lightning, attended but by four followers, the doomed emperor hears from the neighbouring camp the shouts of the soldiers cursing the name of Nero and calling down blessings on Galba. Passing some wayfarers on the road, he hears one of them whisper, "Hi Neronem persequuntur;" and another asks, "Ecquid in urbe novi de Nerone?" Further on his horse takes fright, terrified by the stench from a corpse that lay in the road-side: in the confusion the emperor's face is uncovered, and at that moment he is recognized and saluted by a Praetorian soldier who is riding towards the City. Reaching a by-path, they dismount and make their way hardly through reeds and thickets. When his attendant, Phaon, urged him to conceal himself in a sandpit, Nero "negavit se vivum sub terram iturum;" but soon, creeping on hands and knees into a cavern's mouth, he spread a tattered coverlet over himself and lay down to rest. And now the pangs of hunger and thirst racked him; but he refused the coarse bread that his attendants offered, only taking a draught of warm water. Then he bade his attendants dig his grave and get faggots and fire, that his body might be saved from indignities; and while these preparations were being made he kept moaning "qualis artifex pereo!" Presently comes a messenger bringing news that Nero had been adjudged an "enemy" by the senate and sentenced to be punished "more majorum." Enquiring the nature of the punishment, and learning that it consisted in fastening the criminal's neck to a fork and scourging him, naked, to death, the wretched emperor hastily snatched a pair of daggers and tried the edges; but his courage failed him and he put them by, saying that "not yet was the fatal moment at hand." At one time he begged some one of his attendants to show him an example of fortitude by dying first; at another he chid himself for his own irresolution, exclaiming: [Greek: "ou prepei Neroni, ou prepei—naephein dei en tois toioutois—age, egeire seauton."] But now were heard approaching the horsemen who had been commissioned to bring back the emperor alive. The time for wavering was over: hurriedly ejaculating the line of Homer,

[Greek: "Hippon m'okypodon amphi ktypos ouata ballei,"]

he drove the steel into his throat. To the centurion, who pretended that he had come to his aid and who vainly tried to stanch the wound, he replied "Sero, et Haec est fides!" and expired.

Such is the tragic tale of horror told by Suetonius. Nero's last words in the play "O Rome, farewell," &c., seem very poor to "Sero et Haec est fides"; but, if the playwright was young and inexperienced, we can hardly wonder that his strength failed him at this supreme moment. Surely the wonder should rather be that we find so many noble passages throughout this anonymous play. Who the writer may have been I dare not conjecture. In his fine rhetorical power he resembles Chapman; but he had a far truer dramatic gift than that great but chaotic writer. He is never tiresome as Chapman is, who, when he has said a fine thing, seems often to set himself to undo the effect. His gorgeous imagination and his daring remind us of Marlowe; the leave-taking of Petronius is certainly worthy of Marlowe. He is like Marlowe, too, in another way,—he has no comic power and (wiser, in this respect, than Ford) is aware of his deficiency. We find in Nero none of those touches of swift subtle pathos that dazzle us in the Duchess of Malfy; but we find strokes of sarcasm no less keen and trenchant. Sometimes in the ring of the verse and in turns of expression, we seem to catch Shakespearian echoes; as here—

"Staid men suspect their wisedome or their faith,
To whom our counsels we have not reveald;
And while (our party seeking to disgrace)
They traitors call us, each man treason praiseth
And hateth faith, when Piso is a traitor." (iv. i);

or here—

"'Cause you were lovely therefore did I love:
O, if to Love you anger you so much,
You should not have such cheekes nor lips to touch:
You should not have your snow nor curral spy'd;—
If you but look on us, in vain you chide:
We must not see your Face, nor heare your speech:
Now, while you Love forbid, you Love doe teach."

I am inclined to think that the tragedy of Nero was the first and last attempt of some young student, steeped in classical learning and attracted by the strange fascination of the Annals,—of one who, failing to gain a hearing at first, never courted the breath of popularity again; just as the author of Joseph and his Brethren, when his noble poem fell still-born from the press, turned contemptuously away and preserved thenceforward an unbroken silence. It should be noticed that the 4to. of 1633 is not really a new edition; it is merely the 4to. of 1624, with a new title-page. In a copy bearing the later date I found a few unimportant differences of reading; but no student of the Elizabethan drama needs to be reminded that variae lectiones not uncommonly occur in copies of the same edition. The words "newly written" on the title-page are meant to distinguish the Tragedy of Nero from the wretched Tragedy of Claudius Tiberius Nero published in 1607.

But now I will bring my remarks to a close. It has been at once a pride and a pleasure to me to rescue this fine old play from undeserved oblivion. There is but one living poet whose genius could treat worthily the tragical story of Nero's life and death. In his three noble sonnets, "The Emperor's Progress," Mr. Swinburne shows that he has pondered the subject deeply: if ever he should give us a Tragedy of Nero, we may be sure that one more deathless contribution would be added to our dramatic literature.

Addenda and Corrigenda.

After Nero had been printed I found among the Egerton MSS. (No. 1994), in the British Museum, a transcript in a contemporary hand. The precious folio to which it belongs contains fifteen plays: of these some will be printed entire in Vols. II and III, and a full account of the other pieces will be given in an appendix to Vol. II. The transcript of Nero is not by any means so accurate as the printed copy; and sometimes we meet with the most ridiculous mistakes. For instance, on p. 82 for "Beauties sweet Scarres" the MS. gives "Starres"; on p. 19 for "Nisa" ("not Bacchus drawn from Nisa") we find "Nilus"; and in the line "Nor us, though Romane, Lais will refuse" (p. 81) the MS. pointlessly reads "Ladies will refuse." On the other hand, many of the readings are a distinct improvement, and I am glad to find some of my own emendations confirmed. But let us start ab initio:—

p. 13, l. 4. 4to. Imperiall tytles; MS. Imperial stuffe.

p. 14, l. 3. 4to. small grace; MS. sale grace.—The allusion in the following line to the notorious "dark lights" makes the MS. reading certain.—Lower down for "and other of thy blindnesses" the MS. gives "another": neither reading is intelligible.

p. 17, l. 5. MS. rightly gives "cleave the ayre."

p. 30, l. 2. "Fatu[m']st in partibus illis "" Quas sinus abscondit. Petron."—added in margin of MS.

p. 31, l. 17. 4to. or bruised in my fall; MS. I bruised in my fall!

p. 32, l. 4. 4to. Shoulder pack't Peleus; MS. Shoulder peac'd. The MS. confirms my emendation "shoulder-piec'd."

p. 32, l. 13. 4to. shoutes and noyse; MS. shoutes and triumphs.—From this point to p. 39 (last line but one) the MS. is defective.

p. 40, l. 8. 4to. our visitation; MS. or visitation.

p. 42, l. 11. 4to. others; MS. ours.

p. 46, l. 22. 4to. Wracke out; MS. wreake not.

p. 47, l. 17. 4to. Toth' the point of Agrippa; MS. tooth' prince [sic] of Agrippinas.

p. 54, l. 2. 4to. Pleides burnes; Jupiter Saturne burnes; MS. Alcides burnes, Jupiter Stator burnes.

p. 54, l. 23. 4to. thee gets; in MS. gets has been corrected, by a different hand, into Getes.

p. 54, l. 26. 4to. the most condemned; MS. the ——— condemned: a blank is unfortunately left in the MS.

p. 56, l. 20. 4to. writhes; MS. wreathes.

p. 59, l. 1. MS. I now command the souldyer of the Cyttie.

p. 61, l. 13. The MS. preserves the three following lines, not found in the printed copy—

"High spirits soaring still at great attempts,
And such whose wisdomes, to their other wrongs,
Distaste the basenesse of the government."

p. 62, l. 15. 4to. are we; MS. arowe.

p. 66, l. 4 "Sed quis custodiet ipsos "" Custodes. Juvenal"—noted in margin of MS.

p. 68, l. 15. 4to. Galley-asses? MS. gallowses.

p. 69, l. 1. The MS. makes the difficulty even greater by reading—

"Silver colour [sic] on the Medaean fields
Not Tiber colour."

p. 75, l. 2. 4to. One that in whispering oreheard; MS. one that this fellow whispring I oreharde.

p. 78, l. 22. 4to. from whence it first let down; MS. from whence at first let down.

p. 80. In note (1) for "Eilius Italicus" read "Silius Italicus."

p. 127. In note (2) for "Henry IV" read I Henry IV.

p. 182, l. 6. Dele [?]. The sense is quite plain if we remember that soldiers degraded on account of misconduct were made "pioners": vid. commentators on Othello, iii. 3. Hence "pioner" is used for "the meanest, most ignorant soldier."

p. 228. In note (2) for "earlle good wine" read "Earlle good-wine."

p. 236. In note (2) after "[Greek: staphis] and" add "[Greek: agria]."

p. 255. The lines "To the reader of this Play" are also found at the end of T. Heywood's "Royal King and Loyal Subject."

p. 257, l. 1. I find (on turning to Mr. Arbor's Transcript) that the Noble Spanish Souldier had been previously entered on the Stationers' Registers (16 May, 1631), by John Jackman, as a work of Dekker's. Since the sheets have been passing through the press, I have become convinced that Dekker's share was more considerable than I was willing to allow in the prefatory Note.

p. 276. Note (2) is misleading; the reading of the 4to "flye-boat" is no doubt right. "Fly-boat" comes from Span. filibote, flibote—a fast-sailing vessel. The Dons hastily steer clear of the rude soldier.

p. 294. In note (1) for "Bayford ballads" read "Bagford Ballads."

aine?
Ile haue a guard to wayt vpon her traine,
Of gallant woodmen clad in comely greene,
The like whereof hath seldome yet bene seene.

Ge. And I of shepheards such a lustie crew
As neuer Forrester the like yet knew,
Who for their persons and their neate aray
Shal be as fresh as is the moneth of May.
Where are ye there, ye merry noted swaines?
Draw neare a while, and whilst vpon the plaines
Your flocks do gently feed, lets see your skill
How you with chaunting can sad sorrow kill.

Enter shepheards singing.

Sil. Thinks Gemulo to beare the bell away
By singing of a simple Rundelay?
No, I have fellowes whose melodious throats
Shall euen as far exceed those homely notes
As doth the Nightingale in musicke passe
The most melodious bird that euer was:
And, for an instance, here they are at hand;
When they have done let our deserts be scand.

Enter woodmen and sing.

Eu. Thanks to you both; you both deserue so well
As I want skill your worthinesse to tell.
And both do I commend for your good will,
And both Ile honor, loue, and reuerence still;
For neuer virgin had such kindnes showne
Of straungers, yea, and men to her vnknowne.
But more, to end this sudden controuersie,
Since I am made an Vmpire in the plea,
This is my verdite: Ile intreate of you
A Cottage for my dwelling, and of you
A flocke to tend; and so, indifferent,
My gratefull paines on either shal be spent.

Sil. I am agreed, and, for the loue I beare, Ile boast I haue a Tenant is so faire.

Ge. And I will hold it as a rich possession That she vouchsafes to be of my profession.

Sil. Then, for a sign that no man here hath wrong, From hence lets all conduct her with a song.

The end of the First Act.

Actus Secundus.

Enter Ascanio, and Ioculo his Page.

Asca. Away, Ioculo.

Io. Here, sir, at hand.

Asca. Ioculo, where is she?

Io. I know not.

Asca. When went she?

Io. I know not.

Asca. Which way went she?

Io. I know not.

Asca. Where should I seeke her?

Io. I know not.

Asca. When shall I find her?

Io. I know not.

Asca. A vengeance take thee, slaue, what dost thou know?

Io. Marry, sir, that I doo know.

Asca. What, villiane?

Io. And[102] you be so testie, go looke. What a coyles here with you? If we knew where she were what need we seeke her? I think you are a lunaticke: where were you when you should haue lookt after her? now you go crying vp and downe after your wench like a boy that had lost his horne booke.

Asca. Ah, my sweet Boy!

Io. Ah, my sweet maister! nay, I can giue you as good words as you can giue me; alls one for that.

Asca. What canst thou giue me no reliefe?

Io. Faith, sir, there comes not one morsel of comfort from my lips to sustaine that hungry mawe of your miserie: there is such a dearth at this time. God amend it!

Asca. Ah, Ioculo, my brest is full of griefe, And yet my hope that only wants reliefe.

Io. Your brest and my belly are in two contrary kaies; you walke to get stomacke to your meate, and I walke to get meate to my stomacke; your brest's full and my belli's emptie. If they chance to part in this case, God send them merry meeting,—that my belly be ful and your brest empty.

Asca. Boy, for the loue that euer thou didst owe
To thy deare master, poore Ascanio.
Racke thy proou'd wits vnto the highest straine,
To bring me backe Eurymine againe.

Io. Nay, master, if wit could do it I could tell you more; but if it euer be done the very legeritie[103] of the feete must do it; these ten nimble bones must do the deed. Ile trot like a little dog; theres not a bush so big as my beard, but Ile be peeping in it; theres not a coate[104] but Ile search every corner; if she be aboue, or beneath, ouer the ground or vnder, Ile finde her out.

Asca. Stay, Ioculo; alas, it cannot be:
If we should parte I loose both her and thee.
The woods are wide; and, wandering thus about,
Thou maist be lost and not my loue found out.

Io. I pray thee let me goe.

Asca. I pray thee stay.

Io. I faith Ile runne.

Asca. And doest not know which way.

Io. Any way, alls one; Ile drawe drie foote;[105] if you send not to seeke her you may lye here long enough before she comes to seeke you. She little thinkes that you are hunting for her in these quarters.

Asca. Ah, Ioculo, before I leaue my Boy,
Of this worlds comfort now my only ioy.
Seest thou this place? vpon this grassie bed,
With summers gawdie dyaper bespred, (He lyes downe.)
Vnder these shadowes shall my dwelling be,
Till thou returne, sweet Ioculo, to me.

Io. And, if my conuoy be not cut off by the way, it shall not be long before I be with you. (He speakes to the people.) Well, I pray you looke to my maister, for here I leaue him amongst you; and if I chaunce to light vpon the wench, you shall heare of me by the next winde. [Exit Ioculo.

Ascanio solus.

Asca. In vaine I feare, I beate my braines about,
Proouing by search to finde my mistresse out.
Eurymine, Eurymine, retorne,
And with thy presence guild the beautious morne!
And yet I feare to call vpon thy name:
The pratling Eccho, should she learne the same,
The last words accent shiele no more prolong
But beare that sound vpon her airie tong.
Adorned with the presence of my loue
The woods, I feare, such secret power shal proue
As they'll shut vp each path, hide euery way,
Because they still would haue her go astray,
And in that place would alwaies haue her seene
Only because they would be euer greene,
And keepe the wingged Quiristers still there
To banish winter cleane out of the yeare.
But why persist I to bemone my state,
When she is gone and my complaint too late?
A drowsie dulnes closeth vp my sight;
O powerfull sleepe, I yeeld vnto thy might.
(He falls asleepe.)

Enter Iuno and Iris.

Iuno. Come hither, Iris.

Iris. Iris is at hand, To attend Ioues wife, great Iunos hie command.

Iuno. Iris, I know I do thy seruice proue,
And euer since I was the wife of Ioue
Thou hast bene readie when I called still,
And alwayes most obedient to my will:
Thou seest how that imperiall Queene of loue
With all the Gods how she preuailes aboue,
And still against great Iunos hests doth stand
To haue all stoupe and bowe at her command;
Her Doues and Swannes and Sparrowes must be graced
And on Loues Aultar must be highly placed;
My starry Peacocks which doth beare my state,
Scaresly alowd within his pallace gate.
And since herselfe she doth preferd doth see,
Now the proud huswife will contend with mee,
And practiseth her wanton pranckes to play
With this Ascanio and Eurymine.
But Loue shall know, in spight of all his skill,
Iuno's a woman and will haue her will.

Iris. What is my Goddesse will? may Iris aske?

Iuno. Iris, on thee I do impose this taske
To crosse proud Venus and her purblind Lad
Vntill the mother and her brat be mad;
And with each other set them so at ods
Till to their teeth they curse and ban the Gods.

Iris. Goddes, the graunt consists alone in you.

Iuno. Then mark the course which now you must pursue.
Within this ore-growne Forrest there is found
A duskie Caue[106], thrust lowe into the ground,
So vgly darke, so dampie and [so] steepe
As, for his life, the sunne durst neuer peepe
Into the entrance; which doth so afright
The very day that halfe the world is night.
Where fennish fogges and vapours do abound
There Morpheus doth dwell within the ground;
No crowing Cocke or waking bell doth call,
Nor watchful dogge disturbeth sleepe at all;
No sound is heard in compasse of the hill;
But euery thing is quiet, whisht,[107] and still.
Amid the caue vpon the ground doth lie
A hollow plancher,[108] all of Ebonie,
Couer'd with blacke, whereon the drowsie God
Drowned in sleepe continually doth nod.
Go, Iris, go and my commandment take
And beate against the doores till sleepe awake:
Bid him from me in vision to appeare
Vnto Ascanio, that lieth slumbring heare,
And in that vision to reueale the way,
How he may finde the faire Eurymine.

Iris. Madam, my service is at your command.

Iuno. Dispatch it then, good Iris, out of hand, My Peacocks and my Charriot shall remaine About the shore till thou returne againe. [Exit Iuno.

Iris. About the businesse now that I am sent,
To sleepes black Caue I will incontinent;[109]
And his darke cabine boldly will I shake
Vntill the drowsie lumpish God awake,
And such a bounsing at his Caue Ile keepe
That if pale death seaz'd on the eyes of sleepe
Ile rowse him up; that when he shall me heare
He make his locks stand vp on end with feare.
Be silent, aire, whilst Iris in her pride
Swifter than thought vpon the windes doth ride.
What Somnus! what Somnus, Somnus!
(Strikes. Pauses a little)
What, wilt thou not awake? art thou still so fast?
Nay then, yfaith, Ile haue another cast.
What, Somnus! Somnus! I say.
(Strikes againe)

Som. Who calles at this time of the day? What a balling dost thou keepe! A vengeance take thee, let me sleepe.

Iris. Vp thou drowsie God I say
And come presently away,
Or I will beate vpon this doore
That after this thou sleep'st no more.

Som. Ile take a nap and come annon.

Iris. Out, you beast, you blocke, you stone! Come or at thy doore Ile thunder Til both heaven and hel do wonder. Somnus, I say!

Som. A vengeance split thy chaps asunder!

Enter Somnus.

Iris. What, Somnus!

Som. Iris, I thought it should be thee. How now, mad wench? what wouldst with me?

Iris. From mightie Iuno, Ioues immortall wife, Somnus, I come to charge thee on thy life That thou vnto this Gentleman appeere And in this place, thus as he lyeth heere, Present his mistres to his inward eies In as true manner as thou canst deuise.

Som. I would thou wert hangd for waking me. Three sonnes I haue; the eldest Morpheus hight, He shewes of man the shape or sight; The second, Icelor, whose beheasts Doth shewe the formes of birds and beasts; Phantasor for the third, things lifeles hee: Chuse which like thee of these three.

Iris. Morpheus; if he in humane shape appeare.

Som. Morpheus, come forth in perfect likenes heere Of—how call ye the Gentlewoman?

Iris. Eurymine.

Som. Of Eurymine; and shewe this Gentleman What of his mistres is become. (Kneeling downe by Ascanio.)

Enter Eurymine, to be supposed Morpheus.

Mor. My deare Ascanio, in this vision see
Eurymine doth thus appeare to thee.
As soone as sleepe hath left thy drowsie eies
Follow the path that on thy right hand lies:
An aged Hermit thou by chaunce shalt find
That there hath bene time almost out of mind,
This holy man, this aged reuerent Father,
There in the woods doth rootes and simples gather;
His wrinckled browe tells strenghts past long ago,
His beard as white as winters driuen snow.
He shall discourse the troubles I haue past,
And bring vs both together at the last
Thus she presents her shadow to thy sight
That would her person gladly if she might.

Iris. See how he catches to embrace the shade.

Mor. This vision fully doth his powers inuade; And, when the heate shall but a little slake, Thou then shalt see him presently awake.

Som. Hast thou ought else that I may stand in sted?

Iris. No, Somnus, no; go back unto thy bed; Iuno, she shall reward thee for thy paine.

Som. Then good night, Iris; Ile to rest againe.

Iris. Morpheus, farewell; to Iuno I will flie.

Mor. And I to sleepe as fast as I can hie.

[Exeunt.

Ascanio starting sayes.

Eurymine! Ah, my good Angell, stay!
O vanish not so suddenly away;
O stay, my Goddess; whither doest thou flie?
Returne, my sweet Eurymine, tis I.
Where art thou? speake; Let me behold thy face.
Did I not see thee in this very place,
Euen now? Here did I not see thee stand?
And heere thy feete did blesse the happie land?
Eurymine, Oh wilt thou not attend?
Flie from thy foe, Ascanio is thy friend:
The fearfull hare so shuns the labouring hound,
And so the Dear eschues the Huntsman wound;
The trembling Foule so flies the Falcons gripe,
The Bond-man so his angry maisters stripe.
I follow not as Phoebus Daphne did,
Nor as the Dog pursues the trembling Kid.
Thy shape it was; alas, I saw not thee!
That sight were fitter for the Gods then mee.
But, if in dreames there any truth be found,
Thou art within the compas of this ground.
Ile raunge the woods and all the groues about,
And neuer rest vntill I find thee out. [Exit.

Enter at one doore Mopso singing.

Mop. Terlitelo,[110] Terlitelo, tertitelee, terlo.
So merrily this sheapheards Boy
His home that he can blow,
Early in a morning, late, late in an euening;
And euer sat this little Boy
So merrily piping.

Enter at the other doore Frisco singing.

Fris. Can you blow the little home?
Weell, weell and very weell;
And can you blow the little home
Amongst the leaues greene?

Enter Ioculo in the midst singing.

Io. Fortune,[111] my foe, why doest thou frowne on mee?
And will my fortune neuer better bee?
Wilt thou, I say, for euer breed my paine,
And wilt thou not restore my Ioyes againe?

Frisco. Cannot a man be merry in his owne walke But a must be thus encombred?

Io. I am disposed to be melancholly, And I cannot be priuate for one villaine or other.

Mop. How the deuel stumbled this case of rope-ripes[112] into my way?

Fris. Sirrha what art thou? and thou?

Io. I am a page to a Courtier.

Mop. And I a Boy to a Shepheard.

Fris. Thou art the Apple-Squier[113] to an Eawe, And thou sworne brother to a bale[114] of false dice.

Io. What art thou?

Fris. I am Boy to a Raunger.

Io. An Out-lawe by authoritie, one that neuer sets marke of his own goods nor neuer knowes how he comes by other mens.

Mop. That neuer knowes his cattell but by their hornes.

Fris. Sirrha, so you might haue said of your maister sheep.

Io. I, marry, this takes fier like touch powder, and goes off with a huffe.

Fris. They come of crick-cracks, and shake their tayles like a squib.

Io. Ha, you Rogues, the very steele of my wit shall strike fier from the flint of your vnderstandings; haue you not heard of me?

Mop. Yes, if you be the Ioculo that I take you for, we haue heard of your exployts for cosoning of some seuen and thirtie Alewiues in the Villages here about.

Io. A wit as nimble as a Sempsters needle or a girles finger at her Buske poynt.

Mop. Your iest goes too low, sir.

Fris. O but tis a tickling iest.

Io. Who wold haue thought to haue found this in a plaine villaine that neuer woare better garment than a greene Ierkin?

Fris. O Sir, though you Courtiers haue all the honour you haue not all the wit.

Mop. Soft sir, tis not your witte can carry it away in this company.

Io. Sweet Rogues, your companie to me is like musick to a wench at midnight when she lies alone and could wish,—yea, marry could she.

Fris. And thou art as welcome to me as a new poking stick to a Chamber mayd.

Mop. But, soft; who comes here?

Enter the Faieries, singing and dauncing.

By the moone we sport and play,
With the night begins our day;
As we daunce, the deaw doth fall;
Trip it little vrchins all,
Lightly as the little Bee,
Two by two and three by three:
And about go wee, and about go wee.[115]

Io. What Mawmets[116] are these?

Fris. O they be the Fayries that haunt these woods.

Mop. O we shall be pincht most cruelly.

1 Fay. Will you haue any musick sir?

2 Fay. Will you haue any fine musicke?

3 Fay. Most daintie musicke?

Mop. We must set a face on't now; there's no flying; no, Sir, we are very merrie, I thanke you.

1 Fay. O but you shall, Sir.

Fris. No, I pray you, saue your labour.

2 Fay. O, Sir, it shall not cost you a penny.

Io. Where be your Fiddles?

3 Fay. You shall haue most daintie Instruments, Sir.

Mop. I pray you, what might I call you?

1 Fay. My name is Penny.

Mop. I am sorry I cannot purse you.

Fris. I pray you sir what might I call you?

2 Fay. My name is Cricket.[117]

Fris. I would I were a chimney for your sake.

Io. I pray you, you prettie little fellow, whats your name?

3 Fay. My name is little, little Pricke.

Io. Little, little Pricke? Ô you are a daungerous Fayrie, and fright all little wenches in the country out of their beds. I care not whose hand I were in, so I were out of yours.

1 Fay. I do come about the coppes
Leaping vpon flowers toppes;
Then I get vpon a Flie,
Shee carries me aboue the skie,
And trip and goe.

2 Fay. When a deaw drop falleth downe
And doth light vpon my crowne,
Then I shake my head and skip
And about I trip.

3 Fay. When I feele a girle a sleepe
Vnderneath her frock I peepe.
There to sport, and there I play,
Then I byte her like a flea;
And about I skip.

Io. I, I thought where I should haue you.

1 Fay. Wilt please you daunce, sir.

Io. Indeed, sir, I cannot handle my legges.

2 Fay. O you must needs daunce and sing,
Which if you refuse to doe
We will pinch you blacke and blew;
And about we goe.

They all daunce in a ring and sing, as followeth.

Round about, round about, in a fine ring a,
Thus we daunce, thus we daunce, and thus we sing a:
Trip and go, too and fro, ouer this Greene a,
All about, in and out, for our braue Queene a.

Round about, round about, in a fine Ring a,
Thus we daunce, thus we daunce, and thus we sing a:
Trip and go, too and fro, ouer this Greene a,
All about, in and out, for our braue Queene a.

We haue daunc't round about in a fine Ring a,
We haue daunc't lustily and thus we sing a;
All about, in and out, ouer this Greene a,
Too and fro, trip and go, to our braue Queene a.

Actus Tertius.

(SCENE I.)

Enter Appollo and three Charites.

1 Cha. No, No, great Phoebus; this your silence tends
To hide your griefe from knowledge of your friends,
Who, if they knew the cause in each respect,
Would shewe their utmost skill to cure th'effect:

Ap. Good Ladyes, your conceites in iudgement erre:
Because you see me dumpish, you referre
The reason to some secret griefe of mine:
But you haue seene me melancholy many a time:
Perhaps it is the glowing weather now
That makes me seeme so ill at ease to you.

1 Cha. Fine shifts to cover that you cannot hide!
No, Phoebus; by your looks may be discride
Some hid conceit that harbors in your thought
Which hath therein some straunge impression wrought,
That by the course thereof you seeme to mee
An other man then you were wont to bee.

Ap. No, Ladies; you deceiue yourselues in mee: What likelihood or token do ye see That may perswade it true that you suppose?

2 Cha. Appollo hence a great suspition growes:—
Yeare not so pleasaunt now as earst in companie;
Ye walke alone and wander solitarie;
The pleasaunt toyes we did frequent sometime
Are worne away and growne out of prime;
Your Instrument hath lost his siluer sound,
That rang of late through all this grouie ground;
Your bowe, wherwith the chace you did frequent,
Is closde in case and long hath been unbent.
How differ you from that Appollo now
That whilom sat in shade of Lawrell bowe,
And with the warbling of your Iuorie Lute
T'alure the Fairies for to daunce about!
Or from th'Appollo that with bended bowe
Did many a sharp and wounding shaft bestowe
Amidst the Dragon Pithons scalie wings,
And forc't his dying blood to spout in springs!
Beleeue me, Phebus, who sawe you then and now
Would thinke there were a wondrous change in you.

Ap. Alas, faire dames, to make my sorows plain
Would but reuiue an auncient wound again,
Which grating presently vpon my minde
Doth leaue a fear of former woes behinde.

3 Cha. Phoebus, if you account vs for the same
That tender thee and loue Appollo's name,
Poure forth to vs the fountaine of your woe
Fro whence the spring of these your sorows flowe;
If we may any way redresse your mone
Commaund our best, harme we will do you none.

Ap. Good Ladies, though I hope for no reliefe
He shewe the ground of this my present griefe:
This time of yeare, or there about it was,
(Accursed be the time, tenne times, alas!)
When I from Delphos tooke my iourney downe
To see the games in noble Sparta Towne.
There saw I that wherein I gan to ioy,
Amilchars sonne, a gallant comely boy
(Hight Hiacinth), full fifteene yeares of age,
Whom I intended to haue made my Page;
And bare as great affection to the boy
As euer Ioue in Ganimede did ioy.
Among the games my selfe put in a pledge,
To trie my strength in throwing of the sledge;
Which, poysing with my strained arme, I threw
So farre that it beyond the other flew:
My Hiacinth, delighting in the game,
Desierd to proue his manhood in the same,
And, catching ere the sledge lay still on ground,
With violent force aloft it did rebound
Against his head and battered out his braine;
And so alas my louely boy was slaine.

1 Cha. Hard hap, O Phoebus; but, sieth it's past & gone, We wish ye to forbeare this frustrate mone.

Ap. Ladies, I knowe my sorrowes are in vaine, And yet from mourning can I not refraine.

1 Cha. Eurania some pleasant song shall sing To put ye from your dumps.

Ap. Alas, no song will bring The least reliefe to my perplexed minde.

2 Cha. No, Phoebus? what other pastime shall we finde To make ye merry with?

Ap. Faire dames, I thanke you all;
No sport nor pastime can release my thrall.
My grief's of course; when it the course hath had,
I shall be merrie and no longer sad.

1 Cha. What will ye then we doo?

Ap. And please ye, you may goe, And leaue me here to feed vpon my woe.

2 Cha. Then, _Phoebus, we can but wish ye wel againe.

[Exeunt Charites.

Ap. I thanke ye, gentle Ladies, for your paine.—
O Phoebus, wretched thou, thus art thou faine
With forg'de excuses to conceale thy paine.
O, Hyacinth, I suffer not these fits
For thee, my Boy; no, no, another sits
Deeper then thou in closet of my brest,
Whose sight so late hath wrought me this unrest.
And yet no Goddesse nor of heauenly kinde
She is, whose beautie thus torments my minde;
No Fayrie Nymph that haunts these pleasaunt woods,
No Goddesse of the flowres, the fields, nor floods:
Yet such an one whom iustly I may call
A Nymph as well as any of them all.
Eurymine, what heauen affoords thee heere?
So may I say, because thou com'st so neere,
And neerer far vnto a heauenly shape
Than she of whom Ioue triumph't in the Rape.
Ile sit me downe and wake my griefe againe
To sing a while in honour of thy name.

THE SONG.

Amidst the mountaine Ida groues,
Where Paris kept his Heard,
Before the other Ladies all
He would haue thee prefer'd.
Pallas, for all her painting, than
Her face would seeme but pale,
Then Iuno would haue blush't for shame
And Venus looked stale.
Eurymine, thy selfe alone
Shouldst beare the golden ball;
So far would thy most heauenly forme
Excell the others all;
O happie Phoebus! happie then,
Most happie should I bee
If faire Eurymine would please
To ioyne in loue with mee.

Enter Eurymine.

Eu. Although there be such difference in the chaunge
To Hue in Court and desart woods to raunge,
Yet in extremes, wherein we cannot chuse,
An extreame refuge is not to refuse.
Good gentlemen, did any see my heard?
I shall not finde them out I am afeard;
And yet my maister wayteth with his bowe
Within a standeing, for to strike a Doe.
You saw them not, your silence makes me doubt;
I must goe further till I finde them out.

Ap. What seeke you, prettie mayde?

Eu. Forsooth, my heard of Deere.

Ap. I sawe them lately, but they are not heere.

Eu. I pray, sir, where?

Ap. An houre agoe, or twaine, I sawe them feeding all aboue the plaine.

Eu. So much the more the toile to fetch them in. I thanke you, sir.

Ap. Nay, stay, sweet Nymph, with mee.

Eu. My busines cannot so dispatched bee.

Ap. But pray ye, Maide, it will be verie good
To take the shade in this vnhaunted wood.
This flouring bay, with branches large and great,
Will shrowd ye safely from the parching heat.

Eu. Good sir, my busines calls me hence in haste.

Ap. O stay with him who conquered thou hast,
With him whose restles thoughts do beat on thee,
With him that ioyes thy wished face to see,
With him whose ioyes surmount all ioyes aboue
If thou wouldst thinke him worthie of thy loue.

Eu. Why, Sir, would you desire another make, And weare that garland for your mistres sake?

Ap. No, Nymph; although I loue this laurel tree,
My fancy ten times more affecteth thee:
And, as the bay is alwaies fresh and greene,
So shall my loue as fresh to thee be seene.

Eu. Now truly, sir, you offer me great wrong To hold me from my busines here so long.

Ap. O stay, sweet Nymph; with more aduisement view
What one he is that for thy grace doth sue.
I am not one that haunts on hills or Rocks,
I am no shepheard wayting on my flocks,
I am no boystrous Satyre, no nor Faune,
That am with pleasure of thy beautie drawne:
Thou dost not know, God wot, thou dost not know
The wight whose presence thou disdainest so.

Eu. But I may know, if you wold please to tell.

Ap. My father in the highest heauen doth dwell
And I am knowne the sonne of Ioue to bee,
Whereon the folke of Delphos honor mee.
By me is knowne what is, what was, and what shall bee;
By me are learnde the Rules of harmonie;
By me the depth of Phisicks lore is found,
And power of Hearbes that grow vpon the ground;
And thus, by circumstances maist thou see
That I am Phoebus who doth fancie thee.

Eu. No, sir; by these discourses may I see
You mock me with a forged pedegree.
If sonne you bee to Ioue, as erst ye said,
In making loue vnto a mortall maide
You work dishonour to your deitie.
I must be gonne; I thanke ye for your curtesie.

Ap. Alas, abandon not thy Louer so!

Eu. I pray, sir, hartily giue me leaue to goe.

Ap. The way ore growne with shrubs and bushes thick,
The sharpened thornes your tender feete will pricke,
The brambles round about your traine will lappe,
The burs and briers about your skirts will wrappe.

Eu. If, Phoebus, thou of Ioue the ofspring be,
Dishonor not thy deitie so much
With profered force a silly mayd to touch;
For doing so, although a god thou bee,
The earth and men on earth shall ring thy infamie.

Ap. Hard speech to him that loueth thee so well.

Eu. What know I that?

Ap. I know it and can tell, And feel it, too.

Eu. If that your loue be such As you pretend, so feruent and so much, For proofe thereof graunt me but one request.

Ap. I will, by Ioue my father, I protest,
Provided first that thy petition bee
Not hurtfull to thy selfe, nor harme to mee.
For so sometimes did Phaeton my sonne
Request a thing whereby he was vndone;
He lost his life through craving it, and I
Through graunting it lost him, my sonne, thereby.

Eu. Thus, Phoebus, thus it is; if thou be hee
That art pretended in thy pedegree,
If sonne thou be to Iove, as thou doest fame,
And chalengest that tytle not in vaine,
Now heer bewray some signe of godhead than,
And chaunge me straight from shape of mayd to man.

Ap. Alas! what fond desire doth moue thy minde
To wish thee altered from thy native kinde,
If thou in this thy womans form canst move
Not men but gods to sue and seeke thy love?
Content thyselfe with natures bountie than,
And covet not to beare the shape of man.
And this moreover will I say to thee:
Fairer man then mayde thou shalt neuer bee.

Eu. These vaine excuses manifestly showe
Whether you usurp Appollos name or no.
Sith my demaund so far surmounts your art,
Ye ioyne exceptions on the other part.

Ap. Nay, then, my doubtles Deitie to prove,
Although thereby for ever I loose my Love,
I graunt thy wish: thou art become a man,
I speake no more then well perform I can.
And, though thou walke in chaunged bodie now,
This penance shall be added to thy vowe:
Thyself a man shalt love a man in vaine,
And, loving, wish to be a maide againe.

Eu. Appollo, whether I love a man or not, I thanke ye: now I will accept my lot; And, sith my chaunge hath disappointed you, Ye are at libertie to love anew. [Exit.

Ap. If ever I love, sith now I am forsaken, Where next I love it shall be better taken. But, what so ere my fate in loving bee, Yet thou maist vaunt that Phoebus loved thee. [Exit Appollo.

Enter Ioculo, Frisco, and Mopso, at three severall doores.

Mop. Ioculo, whither iettest thou? Hast thou found thy maister?

Io. Mopso, wel met; hast thou found thy mistresse?

Mop. Not I, by Pan.

Io. Nor I, by Pot.

Mop. Pot? what god's that?

Io. The next god to Pan; and such a pot it may be as he shall haue more servants then all the Pannes in a Tinker's shop.

Mop. Frisco, where hast thou beene frisking? hast thou found—

Fris. I haue found,—

Io. What hast thou found, Frisco?

Fris. A couple of crack-roapes.

Io. And I.

Mop. And I.

Fris. I meane you two.

Io. I you two.

Mop. And I you two.

Fris. Come, a trebble conjunction: all three, all three.

(They all imbrace each other)

Mop. But Frisco, hast not found the faire shepheardesse, thy maister's mistresse?

Fris. Not I, by God,—Priapus, I meane.

Io. Priapus, quoth a? Whatt'in[118] a God might that bee?

Fris. A plaine God, with a good peg to hang a shepheardesse bottle vpon.

Io. Thou, being a Forrester's Boy, shouldst sweare by the God of the woods.

Fris. My Maister sweares by Siluanus; I must sweare by his poore neighbour.

Io. And heer's a shepheard's swaine sweares by a Kitchen God, Pan.

Mop. Pan's the shepheardes God; but thou swearest by Pot: what God's that?

Io. The God of good-fellowship. Well, you haue wicked maisters, that teach such little Boyes to sweare so young.

Fris. Alas, good old great man, wil not your maister swear?

Io. I neuer heard him sweare six sound oaths in all my life.

Mop. May hap he cannot because hee's diseas'd.

Fris. Peace, Mopso. I will stand too't hee's neither brave Courtier, bouncing Cavalier, nor boone Companion if he sweare not some time; for they will sweare, forsweare, and sweare.

Io. How sweare, forsweare, and sweare? how is that?

Fris. They'll sweare at dyce, forsweare their debts, and sweare when they loose their labour in love.

Io. Well, your maisters have much to answer for that bring ye up so wickedly.

Fris. Nay, my maister is damn'd, I'll be sworne, for his verie soule burnes in the firie eye of his faire mistresse.

Io. My maister is neither damnde nor dead, and yet is in the case of both your maisters, like a woodden shepheard and a sheepish woodman; for he is lost in seeking of a lost sheepe and spent in hunting a Doe that hee would faine strike.

Fris. Faith, and I am founderd with slinging to and fro with Chesnuts, Hazel-nuts, Bullaze and wildings[119] for presents from my maister to the faire shepheardesse.

Mop. And I am tierd like a Calf with carrying a Kidde every weeke to the cottage of my maister's sweet Lambkin.

Io. I am not tierd, but so wearie I cannot goe with following a maister that followes his mistresse, that followes her shadow, that followes the sunne, that followes his course.

Fris. That follows the colt, that followed the mare the man rode on to Midleton. Shall I speake a wise word?

Mop. Do, and wee will burne our caps.

Fris. Are not we fooles?

Io. Is that a wise word?

Fris. Giue me leave; are not we fooles to weare our young feete to old stumps, when there dwells a cunning man in a Cave hereby who for a bunch of rootes, a bagge of nuts, or a bushell of crabs will tell us where thou shalt find thy maister, and which of our maisters shall win the wenche's favour?

Io. Bring me to him, Frisco: I'll give him all the poynts at my hose to poynt me right to my maister.

Mop. A bottle of whey shall be his meed if he save me labour for posting with presents.

Enter Aramanthus with his Globe, &c.

Fris. Here he comes: offend him not, Ioculo, for feare he turne thee to a Iacke an apes.

Mop. And thee to an Owle.

Io. And thee to a wood-cocke.

Fris. A wood-cocke an Owle and an Ape.

Mop. A long bill a broade face and no tayle.

Io. Kisse it, Mopso, and be quiet: Ile salute him civilly. Good speed, good man.

Aram. Welcome, bad boy.

Fris. He speakes to thee, Ioculo.

Io. Meaning thee, Frisco.

Aram. I speake and meane not him, nor him, nor thee; But speaking so, I speake and meane all three.

Io. If ye be good at Rimes and Riddles, old man, expound me this:—

These two serve two, those two serve one;
Assoyle[120] me this and I am gone.

Aram. You three serve three; those three do seeke to one; One shall her finde; he comes, and she is gone.

Io. This is a wise answer: her going caused his comming; For if she had nere gone he had nere come.

Mop. Good maister wizard, leave these murlemewes and tel Mopso plainly whether Gemulo my maister, that gentle shepheard, shall win the love of the faire shepheardesse, his flocke-keeper, or not; and Ile give ye a bottle of as good whey as ere ye laid lips to.

Fris. And good father Fortune-teller, let Frisco knowe whether Siluio my maister, that lustie Forrester, shall gaine that same gay shepheardesse or no. Ile promise ye nothing for your paines but a bag full of nuts, and if I bring a crab or two in my pocket take them for advantage.

Io. And gentle maister wise-man, tell Ioculo if his noble maister Ascanio, that gallant courtier, shal be found by me, and she found by him for whom he hath lost his father's favour and his owne libertie and I my labour; and Ile give ye thankes, for we courtiers neither giue nor take bribes.

Aram. I take your meaning better then your speech,
And I will graunt the thing you doo beseech.
But, for the teares of Lovers be no toyes,
He tell their chaunce in parables to boyes.

Fris. In what ye will lets heare our maisters' luck.

Aram. Thy maister's Doe shall turne unto a Buck; (To Frisco.)
Thy maister's Eawe be chaunged to a Ram; (To Mopso.)
Thy maister seeks a maide and findes a man, (To Ioculo.)
Yet for his labor shall he gaine his meede;
The other two shall sigh to see him speede.

Mop. Then my maister shall not win the shepheardesse?

Aram. No, hast thee home and bid him right his wrong, The shepheardesse will leave his flock ere long.

Mop. Ile run to warne my master of that.
[Exit.

Fris. My maister wood-man takes but woodden paines to no purpose, I thinke: what say ye, shall he speed?

Aram. No, tell him so, and bid him tend his Deare And cease to woe: he shall not wed this yeare.

Fris. I am not sorie for it; farewell, Ioculo.
[Exit.

Io. I may goe with thee, for I shall speed even so too by staying behinde.

Aram. Better, my Boy, thou shalt thy maister finde
And he shall finde the partie he requires,
And yet not find the summe of his desires.
Keep on that way; thy maister walkes before,
Whom, when thou findst, loose him good Boy no more.

[Exit ambo.

Actus Quartus.

Enter Ascanio and Ioculo.

Asca. Shall then my travell ever endles prove,
That I can heare no tydings of my Love?
In neither desart, grove, nor shadie wood
Nor obscure thicket where my foote hath trod?
But every plough-man and rude shepheard swain
Doth still reply unto my greater paine?
Some Satyre, then, or Godesse of this place,
Some water Nymph vouchsafed me so much grace
As by some view, some signe, or other sho,
I may haue knowledge if she lives or no.

Eccho. No.

Asca. Then my poore hart is buried too in wo: Record it once more if the truth be so.

Eccho. So.

Asca. How? that Eurymine is dead, or lives?

Eccho. Lives.

Asca. Now, gentle Goddesse, thou redeem'st my soule From death to life: Oh tell me quickly, where?

Eccho. Where?

Asca. In some remote far region or else neere?

Eccho. Neere.

Asca. Oh, what conceales her from my thirstie eyes? Is it restraint or some unknown disguise?

Eccho. Disguise.

Io. Let me be hang'd my Lord, but all is lyes.

Eccho. Lyes.

Io. True we are both perswaded thou doest lye.

Eccho. Thou doest lye.

Io. Who? I?

Eccho. Who? I?

Io. I, thou.

Eccho. I, thou.

Io. Thou dar'st not come and say so to my face.

Eccho. Thy face.

Io. He make you then for ever prating more.

Eccho. More.

Io. Will ye prate more? Ile see that presently.

Asca. Stay, Ioculo, it is the Eccho, Boy,
That mocks our griefe and laughes at our annoy.
Hard by this grove there is a goodly plaine
Betwixt two hils, still fresh with drops of raine,
Where never spreading Oake nor Poplar grew
Might hinder the prospect or other view,
But all the country that about it lyes
Presents it selfe vnto our mortall eyes;
Save that vpon each hill, by leavie trees,
The Sun at highest his scorching heat may leese:
There, languishing, my selfe I will betake
As heaven shal please and only for her sake.

Io. Stay, maister; I have spied the fellow that mocks vs all this while: see where he sits.

Aramanthus sitting.

Asca. The very shape my vision told me off, That I should meet with as I strayed this way.

Io. What lynes he drawes? best go not over farre.

Asca. Let me alone; thou doest but trouble mee.

Io. Youle trouble vs all annon, ye shall see.

Asca. God speed, faire Sir.

Io. My Lord, do ye not mark How the skie thickens and begins to darke?

Asca. Health to ye, Sir.

Io. Nay, then, God be our speed.

Ara. Forgive me, Sir; I sawe ye not indeed.

Asca. Pardon me rather for molesting you.

Io. Such another face I never knew.

Ara. Thus, studious, I am wont to passe the time By true proportion of each line from line.

Io. Oh now I see he was learning to spell: Theres A. B. C. in midst of his table.

Asca. Tell me, I pray ye, sir, may I be bold to crave. The cause of your abode within this cave?

Ara. To tell you that, in this extreme distresse,
Were but a tale of Fortunes ficklenesse.
Sometime I was a Prince of Lesbos Ile
And liv'd beloved, whilst my good stars did smile;
But clowded once with this world's bitter crosse
My joy to grife, my gaine converts to losse.

Asca. Forward, I pray ye; faint not in your tale.

Io. It will not all be worth a cup of Ale.

Ara. A short discourse of that which is too long,
How ever pleasing, can never seeme but wrong;
Yet would my tragicke story fit the stage:
Pleasaunt in youth but wretched in mine age,
Blinde fortune setting vp and pulling downe,
Abusde by those my selfe raisde to renowne:
But that which wrings me neer and wounds my hart,
Is a false brothers base vnthankfull part.

Asca. A smal offence comparde with my disease;
No doubt ingratitude in time may cease
And be forgot: my grief out lives all howres,
Raining on my head continual, haplesse showers.

Ara. You sing of yours and I of mine relate,
To every one seemes worst his owne estate.
But to proceed: exiled thus by spight,
Both country I forgoe and brothers sight,
And comming hither, where I thought to live,
Yet here I cannot but lament and greeve.

Asca. Some comfort yet in this there doth remaine, That you have found a partner in your paine.

Ara. How are your sorrowes subiect? let me heare.

Asca. More overthrowne and deeper in dispaire
Than is the manner of your heavie smart,
My carelesse griefe doth ranckle at my hart;
And, in a word to heare the summe of all,
I love and am beloved, but there-withall
The sweetnesse of that banquet must forgo,
Whose pleasant tast is chaungde with bitter wo.

Ara. A conflict but to try your noble minde; As common vnto youth as raine to winde.

Asca. But hence it is that doth me treble wrong, Expected good that is forborne so long Doth loose the vertue which the vse would prove.

Ara. Are you then, sir, despised of your Love?

Asca. No; but deprived of her company,
And for my careles negligence therein
Am bound to doo this penaunce for my sin;
That, if I never finde where she remaines,
I vowe a yeare shal be my end of paines.

Ara. Was she then lost within this forrest here?

Asca. Lost or forlorn, to me she was right deere:
And this is certaine; vnto him that could
The place where she abides to me vnfold
For ever I would vow my selfe his friend,
Never revolting till my life did end.
And there fore, sir (as well I know your skill)
If you will give me physicke for this ill
And shewe me if Eurymine do live,
It were a recompence for all my paine,
And I should thinke my ioyes were full againe.

Ara. They know the want of health that have bene sick:
My selfe, sometimes acquainted with the like,
Do learne in dutie of a kinde regard
To pittie him whose hap hath bene so hard,
How long, I pray ye, hath she absent bene?

Asca. Three days it is since that my Love was seene.

Io. Heer's learning for the nonce that stands on ioynts; For all his cunning Ile scarse give two poynts.

Ara. Mercurio regnante virum, sub-sequente Luna Faeminum designat.

Io. Nay, and you go to Latin, then tis sure my maister shall finde her if he could tell where.

Ara. I cannot tell what reason it should bee,
But love and reason here doo disagree:
By proofe of learned principles I finde
The manner of your love's against all kinde;
And, not to feede ye with uncertaine ioy,
Whom you affect so much is but a Boy.

Io. A Riddle for my life, some antick Iest? Did I not tell ye what his cunning was?

Asca. I love a Boy?

Ara. Mine art doth tell me so.

Asca. Adde not a fresh increase vnto my woe.

Ara. I dare avouch, what lately I have saide, The love that troubles you is for no maide.

Asca. As well I might be said to touch the skie,
Or darke the horizon with tapestrie,
Or walke upon the waters of the sea,
As to be haunted with such lunacie.

Ara. If it be false mine Art I will defie.

Asca. Amazed with grief my love is then transform'd.

Io. Maister, be contented; this is leape yeare: Women weare breetches, petticoats are deare; And thats his meaning, on my life it is.

Asca. Oh God, and shal my torments never cease?

Ara. Represse the fury of your troubled minde; Walke here a while, your Lady you may finde.

Io. A Lady and a Boy, this hangs wel together, Like snow in harvest, sun-shine and foule weather.

Enter Eurymine singing.

Eu. Since[121] hope of helpe my froward starres denie,
Come, sweetest death, and end my miserie;
He left his countrie, I my shape have lost;
Deare is the love that hath so dearly cost.

Yet can I boast, though Phoebus were uniust,
This shift did serve to barre him from his lust.
But who are these alone? I cannot chuse
But blush for shame that anyone should see
Eurymine in this disguise to bee.

Asca. It is (is't[122] not?) my love Eurymine.

Eury. Hark, some one hallows: gentlemen, adieu; In this attire I dare not stay their view. [Exit.

Asca. My love, my ioy, my life! By eye, by face, by tongue it should be shee: Oh I, it was my love; Ile after her, And though she passe the eagle in her flight Ile never rest till I have gain'd her sight. [Exit.

Ara. Love carries him and so retains his minde That he forgets how I am left behind. Yet will I follow softly, as I can, In hope to see the fortune of the man. [Exit.

Io. Nay let them go, a Gods name, one by one; With all my heart I am glad to be alone. Here's old[123] transforming! would with all his art He could transform this tree into a tart: See then if I would flinch from hence or no; But, for it is not so, I needs must go. [Exit.

Enter Silvio and Gemulo.

Sil. Is it a bargaine Gemulo or not?

Ge. Thou never knew'st me breake my word, I wot, Nor will I now, betide me bale or blis.

Sil. Nor I breake mine: and here her cottage is, Ile call her forth.

Ge. Will Silvio be so rude?

Sil. Never shall we betwixt ourselves conclude Our controversie, for we overweene.

Ge. Not I but thou; for though thou iet'st in greene,
As fresh as meadow in a morne of May,
And scorn'st the shepheard for he goes in gray.
But, Forrester, beleeve it as thy creede,
My mistresse mindes my person not my weede.

Sil. So 'twas I thought: because she tends thy sheepe
Thou thinkst in love of thee she taketh keepe;
That is as townish damzels, lend the hand
But send the heart to him aloofe doth stande:
So deales Eurymine with Silvio.

Ge. Al be she looke more blithe on Gemulo Her heart is in the dyall of her eye, That poynts me hers.

Sil. That shall we quickly trye. Eurymine!

Ge. Erynnis, stop thy throte;
Unto thy hound thou hallowst such a note.
I thought that shepheards had bene mannerlesse,
But wood-men are the ruder groomes I guesse.

Sil. How shall I call her swaine but by her name?

Ge. So Hobinoll the plowman calls his dame. Call her in Carroll from her quiet coate.

Sil. Agreed; but whether shall begin his note?

Ge. Draw cuttes.

Sil. Content; the longest shall begin.

Ge. Tis mine.

Sil. Sing loude, for she is farre within.

Ge. Instruct thy singing in thy forrest waies, Shepheards know how to chant their roundelaies.

Sil. Repeat our bargain ere we sing our song,
Least after wrangling should our mistresse wrong:
If me she chuse thou must be well content,
If thee she chuse I give the like consent.

Ge. Tis done: now, Pan pipe, on thy sweetest reede, And as I love so let thy servaunt speede.—

_As little Lambes lift up their snowie sides
When mounting Lark salutes the gray eyed morne—

Sil. As from the Oaken leaves the honie glides
Where nightingales record upon the thorne—

Ge. So rise my thoughts—

Sil. So all my sences cheere—

Ge. When she surveyes my flocks

Sil. And she my Deare.

Ge. Eurymine!

Sil. Eurymine!

Ge. Come foorth—

Sil. Come foorth—

Ge. Come foorth and cheere these plaines—

(And both sing this together when they have sung it single.)

Sil. The wood-mans Love

Ge. And Lady of the Swaynes.

Enter Eurymine_.

Faire Forester and lovely shepheard Swaine,
Your Carrolls call Eurymine in vaine,
For she is gone: her Cottage and her sheepe
With me, her brother, hath she left to keepe,
And made me sweare by Pan, ere she did go,
To see them safely kept for Gemulo.

(They both looke straungely upon her, apart each from other.)

Ge. What, hath my Love a new come Lover than?

Sil. What, hath my mistresse got another man?

Ge. This Swayne will rob me of Eurymine.

Sil. This youth hath power to win Eurymine.

Ge. This straungers beautie beares away my prize.

Sil. This straunger will bewitch her with his eies.

Ge. It is Adonis.

Sil. It is Ganymede.

Ge. My blood is chill.

Sil. My hearte is colde as Leade.

Eu. Faire youthes, you have forgot for what ye came: You seeke your Love, shee's gone.

Ge. The more to blame.

Eu. Not so; my sister had no will to go But that our parents dread commaund was so.

Sil. It is thy sense: thou art not of her kin, But as my Ryvall com'ste my Love to win.

Eu. By great Appollos sacred Deitie,
That shepheardesse so neare is Sib[124] to me
As I ne may (for all the world) her wed;
For she and I in one selfe wombe were bred.
But she is gone, her flocke is left to mee.

Ge. The shepcoat's mine and I will in and see.

Sil. And I.

[Exeunt Silvio and Gemulo.

Eu. Go both, cold comfort shall you finde:
My manly shape hath yet a womans minde,
Prone to reveale what secret she doth know.
God pardon me, I was about to show
My transformation: peace, they come againe.

Enter Silvio and Gemulo.

Sil. Have ye found her?

Ge. No, we looke in vaine.

Eu. I told ye so.

Ge. Yet heare me, new come Swayne.
Albe thy seemly feature set no sale
But honest truth vpon thy novell tale,
Yet (for this world is full of subtiltee)
We wish ye go with vs for companie
Unto a wise man wonning[125] in this wood,
Hight Aramanth, whose wit and skill is good,
That he may certifie our mazing doubt
How this straunge chaunce and chaunge hath fallen out.

Eu. I am content; have with ye when ye will.

Sil. Even now.

Eu. Hee'le make ye muse if he have any skill.

[Exeunt.

Actus Quintus.

Enter Ascanio and Eurymine.

Asca. Eurymine, I pray, if thou be shee,
Refraine thy haste and doo not flie from mee.
The time hath bene my words thou would'st allow
And am I growne so loathsome to thee now?

Eu. Ascanio, time hath bene, I must confesse,
When in thy presence was my happinesse,
But now the manner of my miserie
Hath chaung'd that course that so it cannot be.

Asca. What wrong have I contrived, what iniurie
To alienate thy liking so from mee?
If thou be she whom sometime thou didst faine,
And bearest not the name of friend in vaine,
Let not thy borrowed guise of altred kinde
Alter the wonted liking of thy minde,
But though in habit of a man thou goest
Yet be the same Eurymine thou wast.

Eu. How gladly would I be thy Lady still, If earnest vowes might answere to my will.

Asca. And is thy fancie alterd with thy guise?

Eu. My kinde, but not my minde in any wise.

Asca. What though thy habit differ from thy kinde, Thou maiest retain thy wonted loving minde.

Eu. And so I doo.

Asca. Then why art thou so straunge, Or wherefore doth thy plighted fancie chaunge?

Eu. Ascanio, my heart doth honor thee.

Asca. And yet continuest stil so strange to me?

Eu. Not strange, so far as kind will give me leave.

Asca. Unkind that kind that kindnesse doth bereave: Thou saist thou lovest me?

Eu. As a friend his friend, And so I vowe to love thee to the end.

Asca. I wreake not of such love; love me but so As faire Eurymine loved Ascanio.

Eu. That love's denide vnto my present kinde.

Asca. In kindely shewes vnkinde I doo thee finde: I see thou art as constant as the winde.

Eu. Doth kinde allow a man to love a man?

Asca. Why, art thou not Eurymine?

Eu. I am.

Asca. Eurymine my love?

Eu. The very same.

Asca. And wast thou not a woman then?

Eu. Most true.

Asca. And art thou changed from a woman now?

Eu. Too true.

Asca. These tales my minde perplex. Thou art Eurymine?

Eu. In name, but not in sexe.

Asca. What then?

Eu. A man.

Asca. In guise thou art, I see.

Eu. The guise thou seest doth with my kinde agree.

Asca. Before thy flight thou wast a woman tho?

Eu. True, Ascanio.

Asca. And since thou art a man?

Eu. Too true, deare friend.

Asca. Then I have lost a wife.

Eu. But found a friend whose dearest blood and life Shal be as readie as thine owne for thee; In place of wife such friend thou hast of mee.

Enter Ioculo and Aramanthus.

Io. There they are: maister, well overtane,
I thought we two should never meete againe:
You went so fast that I to follow thee
Slipt over hedge and ditch and many a tall tree.

Ara. Well said, my Boy: thou knowest not how to lie.

Io. To lye, Sir? how say you, was it not so?
You were at my heeles, though farre off, ye know.
For, maister, not to counterfayt with ye now,
Hee's as good a footeman as a shackeld sow.

Asca. Good, Sir, y'are welcome: sirrha, hold your prate.

Ara. What speed in that I told to you of late?

Asca. Both good and bad, as doth the sequel prove: For (wretched) I have found and lost my love, If that be lost which I can nere enjoy.

Io. Faith, mistresse, y'are too blame to be so coy The day hath bene—but what is that to mee!— When more familiar with a man you'ld bee.

Ara. I told ye you should finde a man of her, Or else my rule did very strangely erre.

Asca. Father, the triall of your skill I finde: My Love's transformde into another kinde: And so I finde and yet have lost my love.

Io. Ye cannot tell, take her aside and prove.

Asca. But, sweet Eurymine, make some report
Why thou departedst from my father's court,
And how this straunge mishap to thee befell:
Let me entreat thou wouldst the processe tell.

Eu. To shew how I arrived in this ground
Were but renewing of an auncient wound,—
Another time that office Ile fulfill;
Let it suffice, I came against my will,
And wand'ring here, about this forrest side,
It was my chaunce of Phoebus to be spide;
Whose love, because I chastly did withstand,
He thought to offer me a violent hand;
But for a present shift, to shun his rape,
I wisht myself transformde into this shape,
Which he perform'd (God knowes) against his will:
And I since then have wayld my fortune still,
Not for misliking ought I finde in mee,
But for thy sake whose wife I meant to bee.

Asca. Thus have you heard our woful destenie, Which I in heart lament and so doth shee.

Ara. The fittest remedie that I can finde
Is this, to ease the torment of your minde:
Perswade yourselves the great Apollo can
As easily make a woman of a man
As contrariwise he made a man of her.

Asca. I think no lesse.

Ara. Then humble suite preferre To him; perhaps our prayers may attaine To have her turn'd into her forme againe.

Eu. But Phoebus such disdain to me doth beare As hardly we shal win his graunt I feare.

Ara. Then in these verdant fields, al richly dide
With natures gifts and Floras painted pride,
There is a goodly spring whose crystall streames,
Beset with myrtles, keepe backe Phoebus beames:
There in rich seates all wrought of Ivory
The Graces sit, listening the melodye,
The warbling Birds doo from their prettie billes
Vnite in concord as the brooke distilles,[126]
Whose gentle murmure with his buzzing noates
Is as a base unto their hollow throates:
Garlands beside they weare upon their browes,
Made of all sorts of flowers earth allowes,
From whence such fragrant sweet perfumes arise
As you would sweare that place is Paradise.
To them let us repaire with humble hart,
And meekly show the manner of your smart:
So gratious are they in Apollos eies
As their intreatie quickly may suffice
In your behalfe. Ile tell them of your states
And crave their aides to stand your advocates.

Asca. For ever you shall bind us to you than.

Ara. Come, go with me; Ile doo the best I can.

Io. Is not this hard luck, to wander so long And in the end to finde his wife markt wrong!

Enter Phylander.

Phy. A proper iest as ever I heard tell!
In sooth me thinkes the breech becomes her well;
And might it not make their husbands feare them[127]
Wold all the wives in our town might weare them.
Tell me, youth, art a straunger here or no?

Io. Is your commission, sir, to examine me so?

Phy. What, is it thou? now, by my troth, wel met.

Io. By your leave it's well overtaken yet.

Phy. I litle thought I should a found thee here.

Io. Perhaps so, sir.

Phy. I prethee speake: what cheere?

Io. What cheere can here be hopte for in these woods, Except trees, stones, bryars, bushes or buddes?

Phy. My meaning is, I fane would heare thee say How thou doest, man: why, thou tak'st this another way.

Io. Why, then, sir, I doo as well as I may: And, to perswade ye that welcome ye bee, Wilt please ye sir to eate a crab with mee?

Phy. Beleeve me, Ioculo, reasonable hard cheere.

Io. Phylander, tis the best we can get here. But when returne ye to the court againe?

Phy. Shortly, now I have found thee.

Io. To requite your paine Shall I intreat you beare a present from me?

Phy. To whom?

Io. To the Duke.

Phy. What shall it be?

Io. Because Venson so convenient doth not fall, A pecke of Acornes to make merry withal.

Phy. What meanst thou by that?

Io. By my troth, sir, as ye see,
Acornes are good enough for such as hee.
I wish his honour well, and to doo him good,
Would he had eaten all the acorns in the wood.

Phy. Good word, Ioculo, of your Lord and mine.

Io. As may agree with such a churlish swine. How dooes his honor?

Phy. Indifferently well.

Io. I wish him better.

Phy. How?

Io. Vice-gerent in Hell.

Phy. Doest thou wish so for ought that he hath done?

Io. I, for the love he beares unto his sonne.

Phy. Hees growne of late as fatherly and milde
As ever father was unto his childe,
And sent me forth to search the coast about
If so my hap might be to finde him out;
And if Eurymine alive remaine
To bring them both vnto the Court againe.
Where is thy maister?

Io. Walking about the ground.

Phy. Oh that his Love Eurymine were found.

Io. Why, so she is; come follow me and see; He bring ye strait where they remaining bee.

[Exeunt.

Enter three or foure Muses, Aramanthus, Ascanio,
Silvio, and Gemulo.

Asca. Cease your contention for Eurymine,
Nor word nor vowes can helpe her miserie;
But he it is, that did her first transform,
Must calme the gloomy rigor of this storme,
Great Phoebus whose pallace we are neere.
Salute him, then, in his celestiall sphere,
That with the notes of cheerful harmonie
He may be mov'd to shewe his Deitie.

Sil. But wheres Eurymine? have we lost her sight?

As. Poore soule! within a cave, with feare affright,
She sits to shun Appollos angry view
Until she sees what of our prayers ensue,
If we can reconcile his love or no,
Or that she must continue in her woe.

1 Mu. Once have we tried, Ascanio, for thy sake,
And once againe we will his power awake,
Not doubting but, as he is of heavenly race,
At length he will take pitie on her case.
Sing therefore, and each partie, from his heart,
In this our musicke beare a chearfull part.

SONG.

All haile, faire Phoebus, in thy purple throne!
Vouchsafe the regarding of our deep mone;
Hide not, oh hide not, thy comfortable face,
But pittie, but pittie, a virgins poore case.

Phoebus appeares.

1 Mu. Illustrate bewtie, Chrystall heavens eye,
Once more we do entreat thy clemencie
That, as thou art the power of us all,
Thou wouldst redeeme Eurymine from thrall.
Graunt, gentle God, graunt this our small request,
And, if abilitie in us do rest,
Whereby we ever may deserve the same,
It shall be seene we reverence Phoebus name.

Phoe. You sacred sisters of faire Helli[c]on,
On whom my favours evermore have shone,
In this you must have patience with my vow:
I cannot graunt what you aspire unto,
Nor wast my fault she was transformed so,
But her own fond desire, as ye well know.
We told her, too, before her vow was past
That cold repentance would ensue at last;
And, sith herselfe did wish the shape of man,
She causde the abuse, digest it how she can.

2 Mu. Alas, if unto her you be so hard,
Yet of Ascanio have some more regard,
And let him not endure such endlesse wrong
That hath pursude her constant love so long.

Asca. Great God, the greevous travells I have past
In restlesse search to finde her out at last;
My plaints, my toiles, in lieu of my annoy
Have well deserv'd my Lady to enjoy.
Penance too much I have sustaind before;
Oh Phoebus, plague me not with any more,
Nor be thou so extreame now at the worst
To make my torments greater than at the first.
My father's late displeasure is forgot,
And there's no let nor any churlish blot
To interrupt our ioyes from being compleat,
But only thy good favour to intreat.
In thy great grace it lyes to make my state
Most happie now or most infortunate.

1 Mu. Heavenly Apollo, on our knees I pray
Vouchsafe thy great displeasure to allay.
What honor to thy Godhead will arise
To plague a silly Lady in this wise?
Beside it is a staine unto thy Deitie
To yeeld thine owne desires the soveraigntie:
Then shew some grace vnto a wofull Dame,
And in these groves our tongues shall sound thy fame.

Phoe. Arise, deare Nourses of divinest skill, You sacred Muses of Pernassus hill; Phoebus is conquerd by your deare respect And will no longer clemency neglect. You have not sude nor praide to me in vaine; I graunt your willes: she is a mayde againe.

Asca. Thy praise shal never die whilst I do live.

2 Mu. Nor will we slack perpetual thankes to give.

Phoe. Thalia, neare the cave where she remaines
The Fayries keepe: request them of their paines,
And in my name bid them forthwith provide
From that darke place to be the Ladies guide;
And in the bountie of their liberall minde
To give her cloathes according to her kinde.

1 Mu. I goe, divine Apollo.
[Exit.

Phoe. Haste againe: No time too swift to ease a Lovers paine.

Asca. Most sacred Phoebus, endles thankes to thee
That doest vouchsafe so much to pittie mee;
And, aged father, for your kindnesse showne
Imagine not your friendship ill bestowne:
The earth shall sooner vanish and decay
Than I will prove unthankfull any way.

Ara. It is sufficient recompence to me
If that my silly helpe have pleasurde thee;
If you enioy your Love and hearts desire
It is enough, nor doo I more require.

Phoe. Grave Aramanthus, now I see thy face,
I call to minde how tedious a long space
Thou hast frequented these sad desarts here;
Thy time imployed in heedful minde I bear,
The patient sufferance of thy former wrong,
Thy poore estate and sharpe exile so long,
The honourable port thou bor'st some time
Till wrongd thou wast with undeserved crime
By them whom thou to honour didst advaunce:
The memory of which thy heavy chaunce
Provokes my minde to take remorse on thee.
Father, henceforth my clyent shalt thou bee
And passe the remnant of thy fleeting time
With Lawrell wreath among the Muses nine;
And, when thy age hath given place to fate,
Thou shalt exchange thy former mortall state
And after death a palme of fame shalt weare,
Amongst the rest that live in honor here.
And, lastly, know that faire Eurymine,
Redeemed now from former miserie,
Thy daughter is, whom I for that intent
Did hide from thee in this thy banishment
That so she might the greater scourge sustaine
In putting Phoebus to so great a paine.
But freely now enioy each others sight:
No more Eurymine: abandon quite
That borrowed name, as Atlanta she is calde.—
And here's the[128] woman, in her right shape instalde.

Asca. Is then my Love deriv'de of noble race?

Phoe. No more of that; but mutually imbrace.

Ara. Lives my Atlanta whom the rough seas wave I thought had brought unto a timelesse grave?

Phoe. Looke not so straunge; it is thy father's voyce, And this thy Love; Atlanta, now rejoice.

Eu. As in another world of greater blis
My daunted spirits doo stand amazde at this.
So great a tyde of comfort overflowes
As what to say my faltering tongue scarse knowes,
But only this, vnperfect though it bee;—
Immortall thankes, great Phoebus, unto thee.

Phoe. Well, Lady, you are retransformed now, But I am sure you did repent your vow.

Eury. Bright Lampe of glory, pardon my rashenesse past.

Phoe. The penance was your owne though I did fast.

Enter Phylander and Ioculo.

Asca. Behold, deare Love, to make your ioyes abound, Yonder Phylander comes.

Io. Oh, sir, well found; But most especially it glads my minde To see my mistresse restorde to kinde.

Phy. My Lord & Madame, to requite your pain, Telemachus hath sent for you againe: All former quarrels now are trodden doune, And he doth smile that heretofore did frowne.

Asca. Thankes, kinde Phylander, for thy friendly newes, Like Junos balme that our lifes blood renewes.

Phoe. But, Lady, first ere you your iourney take, Vouchsafe at my request one grant to make.

Eu. Most willingly.

Phoe. The matter is but small:
To wear a bunch of Lawrell in your Caull[129]
For Phoebus sake, least else I be forgot;
And thinke vpon me when you see me not.

Eu. Here while I live a solemn oath I make To Love the Lawrell for Appollo's sake.

Ge. Our suite is dasht; we may depart, I see.

Phoe. Nay Gemulo and Silvio, contented bee:
This night let me intreate ye you will take
Such cheare as I and these poore Dames can make:
To morrow morne weele bring you on your way.

Sil. Your Godhead shall commaund vs all to stay.

Phoe. Then, Ladies, gratulate this happie chaunce With some delightful tune and pleasaunt daunce, Meane-space upon his Harpe will Phoebus play; So both of them may boast another day And make report that, when their wedding chaunc'te, Phoebus gave musicke and the Muses daunc'te.

THE SONG.

Since painfull sorrowes date hath end
And time hath coupled friend with friend,
Reioyce we all, reioyce and sing,
Let all these groaves of Phoebus ring:
Hope having wonne, dispaire is vanisht,
Pleasure revives and care is banisht:
Then trip we all this Roundelay,
And still be mindful of the bay.

[Exeunt.

FINIS.

INTRODUCTION TO THE MARTYR'D SOULDIER.

Anthony A. Wood, in his Athenae Oxonienses (ed. Bliss, III., 740), after giving an account of James Shirley, adds:—"I find one Henry Shirley, gent., author of a play called the Martyr'd Souldier, London, 1638, 4to.; which Henry I take to be brother or near kinsman to James." Possibly a minute investigation might discover some connection between Henry Shirley and the admirable writer who closes with dignity the long line of our Old Dramatists; but hitherto Wood's conjecture remains unsupported. On Sept. 9, 1653, four plays of Henry Shirley's were entered on the Stationers' Lists, but they were never published: the names of these are,—

1. The Spanish Duke of Lerma. 2. The Duke of Guise. 3. The Dumb Bawd. 4. Giraldo the Constant Lover.

Among the Ashmolean MSS. (Vol. 38. No. 88) are preserved forty-six lines[130] signed with the name of "Henrye Sherley." They begin thus:—

"Loe, Amorous style, affect my pen:
For why? I wright of fighting men;
The bloody storye of a fight
Betwixt a Bayliffe and a Knight," &c.

My good friend Mr. S.L. Lee, of Balliol, kindly took the trouble to transcribe the forty-six lines; but he agrees with me that they are not worth printing.

The Martyr'd Souldier, then, being his sole extant production, it must be confessed that Henry Shirley's claim to attention is not a very pressing one. Yet there is a certain dignity of language in this old play that should redeem it from utter oblivion. It was unfortunate for Henry Shirley that one of the same name should have been writing at the same time; for in such cases the weakest must go to the wall. Mr. Frederick Tennyson's fame has been eclipsed by the Laureate's; and there was little chance of a hearing for the author of the Martyr'd Souldier when James Shirley was at work. From the address To the Courteous Reader, it would seem that Henry Shirley did not seek for popularity: "his Muse," we are told, was "seldome seene abroad." Evidently he was not a professional playwright. In his attempts to gain the ear of the groundlings he is often coarse without being comic; and sometimes (a less pardonable fault) he is tedious. But in the person of Hubert we have an attractive portrait of an impetuous soldier, buoyed up with self-confidence and hugging perils with a frolic gaiety; yet with springs of tenderness and pity ready to leap to light. The writer exhibits some skill in showing how this fiery spirit is tamed by the gentle maiden, Bellina. When the news comes that Hubert has been made commander of the King's forces against the Christians, we feel no surprise to see that in the ecstacy of the moment he has forgotten his former vows. It is quite a touch of nature to represent him hastening to acquaint Bellina with his newly-conferred honour and expecting her to share his exultation. But the maiden's entreaties quickly wake his slumbering conscience; and, indeed, such earnestness is in her words that a heart more stubborn than Hubert's might well have been moved:—

"You courted me to love you; now I woe thee
To love thy selfe, to love a thing within thee
More curious than the frame of all this world,
More lasting than this Engine o're our heads
Whose wheeles have mov'd so many thousand yeeres:
This thing is thy soule for which I woe thee!"

Henceforward his resolution is fixed: he is no longer a soldier of fortune, "seeking the bubble reputation," but the champion of the weak against the strong, the lively image of a Christian Hero warring steadfastly against the powers of evil.

Though the chief interest of the play is centred in Hubert the other characters, also, are fairly well drawn. There is ample matter for cogitation in watching the peaceful end of Genzerick, who spends his dying moments in steeling his son's heart against the Christians. The consultation between the physicians, in Act 3, amusingly ridicules the pomposity of by-gone medical professors. Eugenius, the good bishop, is a model of patience and piety; and all respect is due to the Saintly Victoria and her heroic husband. The songs, too, are smoothly written.

ents, And grind me into powder!

Corn. What powder? come, what powder? when did you ever see a woman grinded into powder? I am sure some of your sex powder men and pepper 'em too.

Onae. Is there a vengeance Yet lacking to my ruine? let it fall, Now let it fall upon me!

Corn. No, there has too much falne upon you already.

Onae. Thou villaine, leave thy hold! Ile follow him:
Like a rais'd ghost I'le haunt him, breake his sleepe,
Fright him as hee's embracing his new Leman
Till want of rest bids him runne mad and dye,
For making oathes Bawds to his perjury.

Corn. Pray be more reason'd: if he made any Bawdes he did ill, for there is enough of that fly-blowne flesh already.

Onae. I'me now left naked quite: All's gone, all, all!

Corn. No, Madam, not all; for you cannot be rid of me.—Here comes your Uncle.

Enter Medina.

Onae. Attir'd in robes of vengeance are you, Uncle?

Med. More horrors yet?

Onae. 'Twas never full till now: And in this torrent all my hopes lye drown'd.

Med. Instruct me in this cause.

Onae. The King! the Contract!
[Exit.

Corn. There's cud enough for you to chew upon.
[Exit.

Med. What's this? a riddle? how? the King, the Contract? The mischiefe I divine which, proving true, Shall kindle fires in Spaine to melt his Crowne Even from his head: here's the decree of fate,— A blacke deed must a blacke deed expiate. [Exit.

Actus Secundus.

SCAENA PRIMA[186].

Enter Baltazar, slighted by Dons.

Bal. Thou god of good Apparell, what strange fellowes
Are bound to do thee honour! Mercers books
Shew mens devotions to thee; heaven cannot hold
A Saint so stately. Do not my Dons know
Because I'me poor in clothes? stood my beaten Taylor
Playting my rich hose, my silke stocking-man
Drawing upon my Lordships Courtly calfe
Payres of Imbroydered things whose golden clockes
Strike deeper to the faithfull shop-keepers heart
Than into mine to pay him;—had my Barbour
Perfum'd my louzy thatch here and poak'd out
My Tuskes more stiffe than are a cats muschatoes—
These pide-winged Butterflyes had known me then.
Another flye-boat?[187] save thee, Illustrious Don.

Enter Don Roderigo.

Sir, is the king at leisure to speake Spanish
With a poore Souldier?

Ro. No.

Bal. No! sirrah you, no;
You Don with th'oaker face, I wish to ha thee
But on a Breach, stifling with smoke and fire,
And for thy 'No' but whiffing Gunpowder
Out of an Iron pipe, I woo'd but ask thee
If thou wood'st on, and if thou didst cry No
Thou shudst read Canon-Law; I'de make thee roare
And weare cut-beaten-sattyn: I woo'd pay thee
Though thou payst not thy mercer,—meere Spanish Jennets!

Enter Cockadillio.

Signeor, is the king at leisure?

Cock. To doe what?

Balt. To heare a Souldier speake.

Cock. I am no eare-picker To sound his hearing that way.

Bal. Are you of Court, Sir?

Cock. Yes, the kings Barber.

Bal. That's his eare picker.—Your name, I pray?

Cock. Don Cockadillio.
If, Souldier, thou hast suits to begge at Court
I shall descend so low as to betray
Thy paper to the hand Royall.

Bal. I begge, you whorson muscod! my petition Is written on my bosome in red wounds.

Cock. I am no Barbar-Surgeon.
[Exit.

Bal. You yellow-hammer! why, shaver!
That such poore things as these, onely made up
Of Taylors shreds and Merchants Silken rags
And Pothecary drugs (to lend their breaths
Sophisticated smells, when their ranke guts
Stink worse than cowards in the heat of battaile)
—Such whalebond-doublet-rascals that owe more
To Landresses and Sempstress for laced Linnen
Then all their race, from their great grand-father
To this their reigne, in clothes were ever worth;
These excrements of Silke-wormes! oh that such flyes
Doe buzze about the beames of Majesty!
Like earwigs tickling a kings yeelding eare
With that Court-Organ (Flattery), when a souldier
Must not come neere the Court gates twenty score,
But stand for want of clothes (tho he win Towns)
Amongst the Almesbasket-men! his best reward
Being scorn'd to be a fellow to the blacke gard[188].
Why shud a Souldier, being the worlds right arme,
Be cut thus by the left, a Courtier?
Is the world all Ruffe and Feather and nothing else?
Shall I never see a Taylor give his coat with a difference from a
gentleman?

Enter King, Alanzo, Carlo, Cockadillio.

King. My Baltazar! Let us make haste to meet thee: how art thou alter'd! Doe you not know him?

Alanz. Yes, Sir; the brave Souldier Employed against the Moores.

King. Halfe turn'd Moore!
I'le honour thee: reach him a chair—that Table:
And now Aeneas-like let thine own Trumpet
Sound forth thy battell with those slavish Moores.

Bal. My musicke is a Canon; a pitcht field my stage; Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scaene; death the story; a sword imbrued with blood the pen that writes; and the Poet a terrible buskind Tragical fellow with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of Bayes.

King. On to the Battaile!

Bal. 'Tis here, without bloud-shed: This our maine Battalia, this the Van, this the Vaw[189], these the wings: here we fight, there they flye; here they insconce, and here our sconces lay 17 Moours on the cold earth.

King. This satisfies mine eye, but now mine eare Must have his musicke too; describe the battaile.

Bal. The Battaile? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon; these are our Roarers; the Clockes which wee goe by are our hands: thus we reckon tenne, our swords strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one against another, then 'tis noone; that's the height and the heat of the day of battaile.

King. So.

Bal. To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and shiver'd, swords and Targets clash'd and clatter'd, Muskets ratled, Canons roar'd, men dyed groaning, brave laced Jerkings and Feathers looked pale, totter'd[190] rascals fought pell mell; here fell a wing, there heads were tost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell'd in the ayre and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of carkasses, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we besiege Moores and famine us; Mutinies bluster and are calme. I vow'd not to doff mine Armour, tho my flesh were frozen too't and turn'd into Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and oath are of one length, for (with Caesar) thus write I mine owne story, Veni, vidi, vici.

King. A pitch'd field quickly fought: our hand is thine
And 'cause thou shalt not murmur that thy blood
Was lavish'd forth for an ingrateful man,
Demand what we can give thee and 'tis thine.

(Onaelia beats at the doore.)

Onae. Let me come in! I'le kill that treacherous king, The murderer of mine honour: let me come in!

King. What womans voyce is that?

Omnes. Medina's Neece.

King. Bar out that fiend.

Onae. I'le teare him with my nayles! Let me come in, let me come in! helpe, helpe me!

King. Keepe her from following me: a gard!

Alanz. They are ready, Sir.

King. Let a quicke summons call our Lords together; This disease kills me.

Bal. Sir, I would be private with you.

King. Forbear us, but see the dores well guarded.

[Exeunt.

Bal. Will you, Sir, promise to give me freedome of speech?

King. Yes, I will; take it, speake any thing: 'tis pardoned.

Bal. You are a whoremaster: doe you send me to winne Townes for you abroad, and you lose a kingdome at home?

King. What kingdome?

Bal. The fayrest in the world, the kingdom of your Fame, your honour.

King. Wherein?

Bal. I'le be plaine with you: much mischiefe is done by the mouth of a Canon, but the fire begins at a little touch-hole: you heard what Nightingale sung to you even now?

King. Ha, ha, ha!

Bal. Angels err'd but once and fell; but you, Sir, spit in heaven's face every minute and laugh at it. Laugh still and follow your courses; doe; let your vices run like your kennels of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the fayrest head in the heard, everlasting bliss.

King. Any more?

Bal. Take sinne as the English Snuffe Tobacco, and scornfully blow the smoke in the eyes of heaven; the vapour flyes up in clowds of bravery, but when 'tis out the coal is blacke (your conscience) and the pipe stinkes: a sea of Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome.

King. Nay, spit thy venome.

Bal. 'Tis Aqua Coelestis, no venome; for, when you shall claspe up those wo books, never to be open'd againe; when by letting fall that Anchor, which can never more bee weighed up, your mortall Navigation ends: then there's no playing at spurne-point[191] with thunderbolts: a Vintner then for unconscionable reckoning or a Taylor for unreasonable Items shall not answer in halfe that feare you must.

King. No more.

Bal. I will follow Truth at the heels, tho her foot beat my gums in peeces.

King. The Barber that drawes out a Lion's tooth Curseth his Trade; and so shalt thou.

Bal. I care not.

King. Because you have beaten a few base-borne Moores
Me think'st thou to chastise? what's past I pardon,
Because I made the key to unlocke thy railing.
But if thou dar'st once more be so untun'd,
Ile send thee to the Gallies.—Who are without, there?
How now?

Enter Lords drawne.

Omnes. In danger, Sir?

King. Yes, yes, I am; but 'tis no point of weapon
Can rescue me. Goe presently and summon
All our chiefe Grandoes[192], Cardinals and Lords
Of Spaine to meet in counsell instantly.
We call'd you forth to execute a businesse
Of another straine,—but 'tis no matter now.
Thou dyest when next thou furrowest up our brow.

Bal. Go! dye! [Exit.

Enter Cardinal, Roderigo, Alba,[193] Dania, Valasco.

King. I find my Scepter shaken by enchantments Charactred in this parchment, which to unloose I'le practise only counter-charmes of fire And blow the spells of lightning into smoake: Fetch burning Tapers. [Exeunt.

Card. Give me Audience, Sir;
My apprehension opens me a way
To a close fatall mischiefe worse then this
You strive to murder: O this act of yours
Alone shall give your dangers life, which else
Can never grow to height; doe, Sir, but read
A booke here claspt up, which too late you open'd,
Now blotted by you with foul marginall notes.

King. Art fratricide?

Car. You are so, Sir.

King. If I be, Then here's my first mad fit.

Card. For Honours sake, For love you beare to conscience—

King. Reach the flames: Grandoes and Lords of Spaine be witnesse all What here I cancell; read, doe you know this bond?

Omnes. Our hands are too't.

Daen. 'Tis your confirmed contract
With my sad kinswoman: but wherefore, Sir,
Now is your rage on fire, in such a presence
To have it mourne in ashes?

King. Marquesse Daenia, Wee'll lend that tongue when this no more can speake.

Car. Deare Sir.

King. I am deafe,
Playd the full consort of the Spheares unto me
Vpon their lowdest strings.—Go; burne that witch
Who would dry up the tree of all Spaines Glories
But that I purge her sorceries by fire:
Troy lyes in Cinders; let your Oracles
Now laugh at me if I have beene deceiv'd
By their ridiculous riddles. Why, good father,
(Now you may freely chide) why was your zeale
Ready to burst in showres to quench our fury?

Card. Fury, indeed; you give it a proper name.
What have you done? clos'd up a festering wound
Which rots the heart: like a bad Surgeon,
Labouring to plucke out from your eye a moate,
You thrust the eye clean out.

King. Th'art mad ex tempore: What eye? which is that wound?

Car. That Scrowle, which now
You make the blacke Indenture of your lust,
Altho eat up in flames, is printed here,
In me, in him, in these, in all that saw it,
In all that ever did but heare 'twas yours:
That scold of the whole world (Fame) will anon
Raile with her thousand tongues at this poore Shift
Which gives your sinne a flame greater than that
You lent the paper; you to quench a wild fire
Cast oyle upon it.

King. Oyle to blood shall turne; I'le lose a limbe before the heart shall mourne.

[Exeunt.

Manent Daenia, Alba.

Daen. Hee's mad with rage or joy.

Alb. With both; with rage
To see his follies check'd, with fruitlesse joy
Because he hopes his Contract is cut off
Which Divine Justice more exemplifies.

Enter Medina.

Med. Where's the king?

Daen. Wrapt up in clouds of lightning.

Med. What has he done? saw you the Contract torne, As I did heare a minion sweare he threatened?

Alb. He tore it not but burnt it.

Med. Openly?

Daen. And heaven with us to witnesse.

Med. Well, that fire Will prove a catching flame to burne his kingdome.

Alb. Meet and consult.

Med. No more, trust not the ayre
With our projections, let us all revenge
Wrongs done to our most noble kinswoman:
Action is honours language, swords are tongues,
Which both speake best and best do right our wrongs.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Onaelia one way, Cornego another.

Cor. Madam, there's a beare without to speake with you.

Onae. A Beare.

Cor. Its a Man all hairye and thats as bad.

Onae. Who ist?

Cor. Tis one Master Captaine Baltazar.

Onae. I doe not know that Baltazar.

Cor. He desires to see you; and if you love a water-spaniel before he be shorne, see him.

Onae. Let him come in.

Enter Baltazar.

Cor. Hist; a ducke, a ducke[194]; there she is, Sir.

Bal. A Souldiers good wish blesse you, Lady.

Onae. Good wishes are most welcome, Sir, to me; So many bad ones blast me.

Bal. Doe you not know me?

Onae. I scarce know my selfe.

Bal. I ha beene at Tennis, Madam, with the king. I gave him 15 and all his faults, which is much, and now I come to tosse a ball with you.

Onae. I am bandyed too much up and downe already.

Cor. Yes, she has beene strucke under line, master Souldier.

Bal. I conceit you: dare you trust your selfe along with me?

Onae. I have been laden with such weights of wrong That heavier cannot presse me: hence, Cornego.

Corn. Hence Cornego, stay Captaine! when man and woman are put together some egge of villany is sure to be sate upon. [Exit.

Bal. What would you say to him should kill this man that hath you so dishonoured?

Onae. Oh, I woo'd crowne him With thanks, praise, gold, and tender of my life.

Bal. Shall I bee that Germane Fencer[195] and beat all the knocking boyes before me? shall I kill him?

Onae. There's musick in the tongue that dares but speak it.

Bal. That fiddle then is in me; this arme can doo't by ponyard, poyson, or pistoll; but shall I doo't indeed?

Onae. One step to humane blisse is sweet revenge.

Bal. Stay; what made you love him?

Onae. His most goodly shape Married to royall virtues of his mind.

Bal. Yet now you would divorce all that goodnesse; and why? for a little letchery of revenge? it's a lye: the Burre that stickes in your throat is a throane: let him out of his messe of Kingdomes cut out but one, and lay Sicilia, Arragon, Naples or any else upon your trencher, and you'll prayse Bastard[196] for the sweetest wine in the world and call for another quart of it. 'Tis not because the man has left you but because you are not the woman you would be, that mads you: a shee-cuckold is an untameable monster.

Onae. Monster of men thou art: thou bloudy villaine,
Traytor to him who never injur'd thee,
Dost thou professe Armes and art bound in honour
To stand up like a brazen wall to guard
Thy King and Country, and wood'st thou ruine both?

Bal. You spurre me on too't.

Onae. True;
Worse am I then the horrid'st fiend in hell
To murder him whom once I lov'd too well:
For tho I could runne mad, and teare my haire,
And kill that godlesse man that turn'd me vile;
Though I am cheated by a perjurous Prince
Who has done wickednesse at which even heaven
Shakes when the Sunne beholds it; O yet I'de rather
Ten thousand poyson'd ponyards stab'd my brest
Then one should touch his: bloudy slave! I'le play
My selfe the Hangman and will Butcher thee
If thou but prick'st his finger.

Bal. Saist thou me so? give me thy goll[197], thou art a noble girle: I did play the Devils part and roare in a feigned voyce, but I am the honestest Devill that ever spet fire. I would not drinke that infernall draught of a kings blood, to goe reeling to damnation, for the weight of the world in Diamonds.

Onae. Art thou not counterfeit?

Bal. Now, by my skarres, I am not.

Onae. I'le call thee honest Souldier, then, and woo thee To be an often Visitant.

Bal. Your servant: Yet must I be a stone upon a hill, For tho I doe no good I'le not lye still.

[Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter Malateste and the Queene.

Mal. When first you came from Florence wud the world
Had with an universal dire eclipse
Bin overwhelm'd, no more to gaze on day,
That you to Spaine had never found the way,
Here to be lost for ever.

Queen. We from one climate
Drew suspiration: as thou then hast eyes
To read my wrongs, so be thy head an Engine
To raise up ponderous mischiefe to the height,
And then thy hands the Executioners.
A true Italian Spirit is a ball
Of Wild-fire, hurting most when it seemes spent;
Great ships on small rocks beating oft are rent;
And so let Spaine by us. But, Malateste,
Why from the Presence did you single me
Into this Gallery?

Mal. To shew you, Madam,
The picture of your selfe, but so defac'd
And mangled by proud Spanyards it woo'd whet
A sword to arme the poorest Florentine
In your just wrongs.

Queen. As how? let's see that picture.

Mal. Here 'tis then: Time is not scarce foure dayes old
Since I and certaine Dons (sharp-witted fellowes
And of good ranke) were with two Jesuits
(Grave profound Schollers) in deepe argument
Of various propositions; at the last
Question was mov'd touching your marriage
And the Kings precontract.

Queen. So; and what followed?

Mal. Whether it were a question mov'd by chance
Or spitefully of purpose (I being there
And your own Country-man) I cannot tell;
But when much tossing
Had bandyed both the King and you, as pleas'd
Those that tooke up the Rackets, in conclusion
The Father Jesuits (to whose subtile Musicke
Every eare there was tyed) stood with their lives
In stiffe defence of this opinion—
Oh, pardon me if I must speake their language.

Queen. Say on.

Mal. That the most Catholike King in marrying you Keepes you but as his whore.

Queen. Are we their Theames?

Mal. And that Medina's Neece, Onaelia,
Is his true wife: her bastard sonne, they said,
(The King being dead) should claim and weare the Crowne;
And whatsoever children you shall beare
To be but bastards in the highest degree,
As being begotten in Adultery.

Queen. We will not grieve at this, but with hot vengeance
Beat down this armed mischiefe. Malateste,
What whirlewinds can we raise to blow this storme
Backe in their faces who thus shoot at me?

Mal. If I were fit to be your Counsellor
Thus would I speake: feigne that you are with childe,—
The mother of the Maids, and some worne Ladies
Who oft have guilty beene to court great bellies,
May (tho it be not so) get you with childe
With swearing that 'tis true.

Queen. Say 'tis beleev'd, Or that it so doth prove.

Mal. The joy thereof,
Together with these earth-quakes which will shake
All Spaine if they their Prince doe dis-inherit,
So borne, of such a Queene, being onely daughter
To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence;—
All this buzz'd into the King, he cannot chuse
But charge that all the Bels in Spaine eccho up
This joy to heaven; that Bone-fires change the night
To a high Noone with beames of sparkling flames;
And that in Churches Organs (charm'd with prayers)
Speake lowd for your most safe delivery.

Queen. What fruits grow out of these?

Mal. These; you must sticke
(As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers)
Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their eares
To every mouth and steale to you their whisperings.

Queen. So.

Mal. 'Tis a plummet to sound Spanish hearts
How deeply they are yours: besides a ghesse
Is hereby made of any faction
That shall combine against you; which the King seeing,
If then he will not rouze him like a Dragon
To guard his golden fleece and rid his Harlot
And her base bastard hence, either by death
Or in some traps of state insnare them both,—
Let his owne ruines crush him.

Queen. This goes to tryall;
Be thou my Magicke booke, which reading o're
Their counterspells wee'll breake; or if the King
Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne
But that I must be held Spaines blazing Starre,
Be it an ominous charme to call up warre.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Onaelia.

Corn. Here's a parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up and downe all this morning to speake with you.

Onae. Is't not some executioner?

Corn. I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters.

Onae. Sent from the king to warne me of my death: I prethe bid him welcome.

Cor. He says he is a Poet.

Onae. Then bid him better welcome: Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,— Some[198] scurvy thing, I warrant: welcome, Sir.

Enter Poet.

Poet. Madam[199], my love presents this book unto you.

Onae. To me? I am not worthy of a line,
Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me.
'To the most honoured Lady—Onaelia'
Fellow, thou lyest, I'me most dishonoured:
Thou shouldst have writ 'To the most wronged Lady':
The Title of this booke is not to me;
I teare it therefore as mine Honour's torne.

Cor. Your Verses are lam'd in some of their feet, Master Poet.

Onae. What does it treate of?

Poet. Of the sollemne Triumphs Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.

Onae. Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines! Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?

Poet. 'Las, Madam!

Onae. When her funerals are past Crowne thou a Dedication to my joyes, And thou shalt sweare each line a golden verse. —Cornego, burne this Idoll.

Cor. Your booke shall come to light, Sir. [Exit.

Onae. I have read legends of disastrous Dames:
Will none set pen to paper for poore me?
Canst write a bitter Satyre? brainlesse people
Doe call 'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libell?

Poet. I dare mix gall and poyson with my Inke.

Onae. Doe it then for me.

Poet. And every line must be A whip to draw blood.

Onae. Better.

Poet. And to dare
The stab from him it touches. He that writes
Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lance[200] wide
The sores of mens corruptions, and even search
To'th quicke for dead flesh or for rotten cores:
A Poets Inke can better cure some sores
Then Surgeons Balsum.

Onae. Vndertake that Cure And crowne thy verse with Bayes.

Poet. Madam, I'le doo't; But I must have the parties Character.

Onae. The king.

Poet. I doe not love to pluck the quils
With which I make pens, out of a Lions claw.
The King! shoo'd I be bitter 'gainst the king
I shall have scurvy ballads made of me
Sung to the Hanging Tune[201]. I dare not, Madam.

Onae. This basenesse follows your profession:
You are like common Beadles, apt to lash
Almost to death poore wretches not worth striking,
But fawne with slavish flattery on damn'd vices,
So great men act them: you clap hands at those,
Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guild
A gawdy Tombe with glory of his Verse
Which coffins stinking Carrion; no, his lines
Are free as his Invention; no base feare
Can shape his penne to Temporize even with Kings;
The blacker are their crimes he lowder sings.
Goe, goe, thou canst not write; 'tis but my calling
The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd.
Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir?

Poet. Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie Is but a feigning; feigning is to lye, And women practise lying more than men.

Onae. Nay, but if I shoo'd write I woo'd tell truth: How might I reach a lofty straine?

Poet. Thus, Madam: Bookes, Musick, Wine, brave Company and good Cheere Make Poets to soare high and sing most cleare.

Onae. Are they borne Poets?

Poet. Yes.

Onae. Dye they?

Poet. Oh, never dye.

Onae. My misery is then a Poet sure, For time has given it an Eternity.— What sorts of Poets are there?

Poet. Two sorts, Lady; The great Poets and the small Poets.

Onae. Great and small! Which doe you call the great? the fat ones?

Poet. No, but such as have great heads, which, emptied forth,
Fill all the world with wonder at their lines—
Fellowes which swell big with the wind of praise:
The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie.

Onae. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet?

Poet. Emulation.

Onae. Which the next?

Poet. Necessity.

Onae. And which the worst?

Poet. Selfe-love.

Onae. Say I turne Poet, what should I get?

Poet. Opinion.

Onae. 'Las I have got too much of that already.
Opinion is my Evidence, Judge and Jury;
Mine owne guilt and opinion now condemne me.
I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make
Ten Muses of your nine, I sweare, for this;
Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold;
I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold:
So fare thou well.

Poet. Our pen shall honour you. [Exit.

Enter Cornego.

Cor. The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Feaver.

Onae. What shall I doe, Cornego? for this Poet
Has fill'd me with a fury: I could write
Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers
And Marriage-breakers.

Cor. I beleeve you, Madam.—But here comes your Vncle.

Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Daenia.

Med. Where's our Neece?
Turne your braines round and recollect your spirits,
And see your Noble friends and kinsmen ready
To pay revenge his due.

Onae. That word Revenge
Startles my sleepy Soule, now thoroughly wakend
By the fresh object of my haplesse childe
Whose wrongs reach beyond mine.

Seb. How doth my sweet mother?

Onae. How doth my prettiest boy?

Alanz. Wrongs, like greate whirlewinds,
Shake highest Battlements? few for heaven woo'd care
Shoo'd they be ever happy; they are halfe gods
Who both in good dayes and good fortune share.

Onae. I have no part in either.

Carl. You shall in both, Can Swords but cut the way.

Onae. I care not much, so you but gently strike him, And that my Child escape the light[e]ning.

Med. For that our Nerves are knit: is there not here
A promising face of manly princely vertues?
And shall so sweet a plant be rooted out
By him that ought to fix it fast i'the ground?
Sebastian,
What will you doe to him that hurts your mother?

Seb. The King my father shall kill him, I trow.

Daen. But, sweet Coozen, the King loves not your mother.

Seb. I'le make him love her when I am a King.

Med. La you, there's in him a Kings heart already.
As, therefore, we before together vow'd,
Lay all your warlike hands upon my Sword
And sweare.

Seb. Will you sweare to kill me, Vncle?

Med. Oh, not for twenty worlds.

Seb. Nay, then, draw and spare not, for I love fighting.

Med. Stand in the midst, sweet Cooz; we are your guard;
These Hammers shall for thee beat out a Crowne,
If hit all right. Sweare therefore, noble friends
By your high bloods, by true Nobility,
By what you owe Religion, owe to your Country,
Owe to the raising your posterity;
By love you beare to vertue and to Armes
(The shield of Innocence) sweare not to sheath
Your Swords, when once drawne forth—

Onae. Oh, not to kill him For twenty thousand worlds!

Med. Will you be quiet?— Your Swords, when once drawne forth, till they ha forc'd Yon godlesse, perjurous, perfidious man—

Onae. Pray raile not at him so.

Med. Art mad? y'are idle:—till they ha forc'd him
To cancell his late lawlesse bond he seal'd
At the high Altar to his Florentine Strumpet,
And in his bed lay this his troth-plight wife.

Onae. I, I, that's well; pray sweare.

Omnes. To this we sweare.

Seb. Vncle, I sweare too.

Med. Our forces let's unite; be bold and secret, And Lion-like with open eyes let's sleepe: Streames smooth and slowly running are most deep. [Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter King; Queen, Malateste, Valesco, Lopez.

King. The Presence doore be guarded; let none enter
On forfeit of your lives without our knowledge.
Oh, you are false physitians all unto me,
You bring me poyson but no antidotes.

Queen. Your selfe that poyson brewes.

King. Prethe, no more.

Queen. I will, I must speake more.

King. Thunder aloud.

Queen. My child, yet newly quickened in my wombe, Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy.

King. Who? who dares once but thinke so in his dreame?

Mal. Medina's faction preached it openly.

King. Be curst he and his Faction: oh, how I labour
For these preventions! but, so crosse is Fate,
My ills are ne're hid from me but their Cures.
What's to be done?

Queen. That which being left undone, Your life lyes at the stake: let 'em be breathlesse, Both brat and mother.

King. Ha!

Mal. She playes true Musicke, Sir:
The mischiefes you are drench'd in are so full
You need not feare to add to 'em; since now
No way is left to guard thy rest secure
But by a meanes like this.

Lop. All Spaine rings forth Medina's name and his Confederates.

Rod. All his Allyes and friends rush into troopes Like raging Torrents.

Val. And lowd Trumpet forth Your perjuries; seducing the wild people And with rebellious faces threatning all.

King. I shall be massacred in this their spleene E're I have time to guard my selfe; I feele The fire already falling: where's our guard?

Mal. Planted at Garden gate, with a strict charge That none shall enter but by your command.

King. Let 'em be doubled: I am full of thoughts,
A thousand wheeles tosse my incertaine feares;
There is a storme in my hot boyling braines
Which rises without wind; a horrid one.
What clamor's that?

Queen. Some treason: guard the King!

Enter Baltazar drawne; one of the Guard fals.

Bal. Not in?

Mal. One of your guard's slaine: keepe off the murderer!

Bal. I am none, Sir.

Val. There's a man drop'd down by thee.

King. Thou desperate fellow, thus presse in upon us!
Is murder all the story we shall read?
What King can stand when thus his subjects bleed!
What hast thou done?

Bal. No hurt.

King. Plaid even the Wolfe And from a fold committed to my charge Stolne and devour'd one of the flocke.

Bal. Y'ave sheepe enow for all that, Sir; I have kill'd none tho; or, if I have, mine owne blood shed in your quarrels may begge my pardon; my businesse was in haste to you.

King. I woo'd not have thy sinne scoar'd on my head
For all the Indian Treasury. I prethee tell me,
Suppose thou hast our pardon, O, can that cure
Thy wounded conscience? can there my pardon helpe thee?
Yet, having deserv'd well both of Spaine and us,
We will not pay thy worth with losse of life,
But banish thee for ever.

Bal. For a Groomes death?

King. No more; we banish thee our Court and kingdome:
A King that fosters men so dipt in blood
May be call'd mercifull but never good:
Begone upon thy life.

Bal. Well: farewell. [Exit.

Val. The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir.

Queen. After him, Malateste; in our lodging
Stay that rough fellow; hee's the man shall doo't:
Haste, or my hopes are lost. [Exit Mal.
Why are you sad, Sir?

King. For thee, Paullina, swell my troubled thoughts, Like billowes beaten by too (two?) warring winds.

Queen. Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme Smooth as the brest of heaven.

King. Instruct me how.

Queen. You (as your fortunes tye you) are inclin'd To have the blow given.

King. Where's the Instrument?

Queen. 'Tis found in Baltazar.

King. Hee's banished.

Queen. True, But staid by me for this.

King. His spirit is hot And rugged, but so honest that his soule Will ne're turn devill to do it.

Queen. Put it to tryall:
Retire a little: hither I'le send for him,
Offer repeale and favours if he doe it;
But if deny, you have no finger in't,
And then his doome of banishment stands good.

King. Be happy in thy workings; I obey. [Exit.

Queen. Stay, Lopez.

Lop. Madam.

Queen. Step to our Lodging, Lopez, And instantly bid Malateste bring The banish'd Baltazar to us.

Lop. I shall. [Exit.

Queen. Thrive my blacke plots; the mischiefes I have set Must not so dye; Ills must new Ills beget.

Enter Malateste and Baltazar.

Bal. Now! what hot poyson'd Custard must I put my Spoone into now?

Queen. None, for mine honour now is thy protection.

Mal. Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawn for thee But never forfeit.

Bal. 'Tis a faire gage; keepe it.

Queen. Oh, Baltazar, I am thy friend, and mark'd thee
When the King sentenc'd thee to banishment:
Fire sparkled from thine eyes of rage and griefe;
Rage to be doom'd so for a Groome so base,
And griefe to lose thy country. Thou hast kill'd none:
The Milke-sop is but wounded, thou art not banish'd.

Bal. If I were I lose nothing; I can make any Countrey mine. I have a private Coat for Italian Steeletto's, I can be treacherous with the Wallowne, drunke with the Dutch, a Chimney-sweeper with the Irish, a Gentleman with the Welsh[202] and turne arrant theefe with the English: what then is my Country to me?

Queen. The King, who (rap'd with fury) banish'd thee, Shall give thee favours, yeeld but to destroy What him distempers.

Bal. So; and what's the dish I must dresse?

Queen. Onely the cutting off a paire of lives.

Bal. I love no Red-wine healths.

Mal. The King commands it; you are but Executioner.

Bal. The Hang-man? An office that will hold as long as hempe lasts: why doe not you begge the office, Sir?

Queen. Thy victories in field shall never crowne thee As this one Act shall.

Bal. Prove but that, 'tis done.

Queen. Follow him close; hee's yeelding.

Mal. Thou shalt be call'd thy Countries Patriot
For quenching out a fire now newly kindling
In factious bosomes; and shalt thereby save
More Noble Spanyards lives than thou slew'st Moores.

Queen. Art thou not yet converted?

Bal. No point.

Queen. Read me then: Medina's Neece, by a contract from the King, Layes clayme to all that's mine, my Crowne, my bed; A sonne she has by him must fill the Throne If her great faction can but worke that wonder. Now heare me—

Bal. I doe with gaping eares.

Queen. I swell with hopefull issue to the King.

Bal. A brave Don call you mother.

Mal. Of this danger The feare afflicts the King.

Bal. Cannot much blame him.

Queen. If therefore by the riddance of this Dame—

Bal. Riddance? oh! the meaning on't is murder.

Mal. Stab her or so, that's all.

Queen. That Spaine be free from frights, the King from feares,
And I, now held his Infamy, be called Queene;
The Treasure of the kingdome shall lye open
To pay thy Noble darings.

Bal. Come, Ile doo't, provided I heare Jove call to me tho he rores; I must have the King's hand to this warrant, else I dare not serve it upon my Conscience.

Queen. Be firme, then; behold the King is come.

Enter King.

Bal. Acquaint him.

Queen. I found the metal hard, but with oft beating Hees now so softened he shall take impression From any seale you give him.

King. Baltazar,
Come hither, listen; whatsoe're our Queene
Has importun'd thee to, touching Onaelia
(Neece to the Constable) and her young sonne,
My voyce shall second it and signe her promise.

Bal. Their riddance?

King. That.

Bal. What way? by poyson?

King. So.

Bal. Starving, or strangling, stabbing, smothering?

Queen. Good.

King. Any way, so 'tis done.

Bal. But I will have, Sir, This under your owne hand; that you desire it, You plot it, set me on too't.

King. Penne, Inke and paper.

Bal. And then as large a pardon as law and wit Can engrosse for me.

King. Thou shalt ha my pardon.

Bal. A word more, Sir; pray will you tell me one thing?

King. Yes, any thing, deare Baltazar.

Bal. Suppose I have your strongest pardon, can that cure my wounded
Conscience? can there your pardon help me? You not onely knocke the
Ewe a'th head, but cut the Innocent Lambes throat too: yet you are no
Butcher!

Queen. Is this thy promis'd yeelding to an Act So wholesome for thy Country?

King. Chide him not.

Bal. I woo'd not have this sinne scor'd on my head For all the Indaean Treasury.

King. That song no more: Doe this and I will make thee a great man.

Bal. Is there no farther trick in't, but my blow, your purse, and my pardon?

Mal. No nets upon my life to entrap thee.

Bal. Then trust me, these knuckles worke it.

King. Farewell, be confident and sudden.

Bal. Yes;
Subjects may stumble when Kings walk astray:
Thine Acts shall be a new Apocrypha.

[Exeunt.

Actus Quartus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter Medina, Alba and Daenia, met by Baltazar with a Ponyard and a Pistoll.

Bal. You meet a Hydra; see, if one head failes; Another with a sulphurous beake stands yawning.

Med. What hath rais'd up this Devill?

Bal. A great mans vices, that can raise all hell.
What woo'd you call that man, who under-saile
In a most goodly ship wherein he ventures
His life, fortunes and honours, yet in a fury
Should hew the Mast downe, cast Sayles over-boord,
Fire all the Tacklings, and to crowne this madnesse
Shoo'd blow up all the Deckes, burne th'oaken ribbes
And in that Combat 'twixt two Elements
Leape desperately and drowne himselfe i'th Seas,—
What were so brave a fellow?

Omnes. A brave blacke villaine.

Bal. That's I; all that brave blacke villaine dwels in me,
If I be that blacke villaine; but I am not:
A Nobler Character prints out my brow,
Which you may thus read: I was banish'd Spaine
For emptying a Court-Hogshead, but repeal'd
So I woo'd (e're my reeking Iron was cold)
Promise to give it a deepe crimson dye
In—none heare?—stay—no, none heare.

Med. Whom then?

Bal. Basely to stab a woman, your wrong'd Neece, And her most innocent sonne Sebastian.

Alb. The Boare now foames with whetting.

Daen. What has blunted Thy weapons point at these?

Bal. My honesty,
A signe at which few dwell, pure honesty.
I am a vassaile to Medina's house;
He taught me first the A, B, C of warre[203]
E're I was Truncheon-high I had the stile
Of beardlesse Captaine, writing then but boy:
And shall I now turne slave to him that fed me
With Cannon-bullets, and taught me, Estridge[204]-like,
To digest Iron and Steele? no: yet I yeelded
With willow-bendings to commanding breaths.

Med. Of whom?

Bal. Of King and Queene: with supple Hams
And an ill-boading looke I vow'd to doo't;
Yet, lest some choake-peare[205] of State-policy
Shoo'd stop my throat and spoyle my drinking-pipe,
See (like his cloake) I hung at the Kings elbow
Till I had got his hand to signe my life.

Daen. Shall we see this and sleepe?

Alb. No, whilst these wake.

Med. 'Tis the Kings hand.

Bal. Thinke you me a quoyner?

Med. No, no, thou art thy selfe still, Noble Baltazar; I ever knew thee honest, and the marke Stands still upon thy forehead.

Bal. Else flea the skin off.

Med. I ever knew thee valiant and to scorne
All acts of basenesse: I have seene this man
Write in the field such stories with his sword
That our best chiefetaines swore there was in him
As 'twere a new Philosophy of fighting,
His deeds were so Puntillious. In one battell,
When death so nearely mist my ribs, he strucke
Three horses stone-dead under me: this man
Three times that day (even through the jawes of danger)
Redeem'd me up, and (I shall print it ever)
Stood o're my body with Colossus thighes
Whilst all the Thunder-bolts which warre could throw
Fell on his head; and, Baltazar, thou canst not
Be now but honest still and valiant still
Not to kill boyes and women.

Bal. My byter here eats no such meat.

Med. Goe, fetch the mark'd-out Lambe for slaughter hither;
Good fellow souldier, ayd him—and stay—marke,
Give this false fire to the beleeving King,
That the child's sent to heaven but that the mother
Stands rock'd so strong with friends ten thousand billowes
Cannot once shake her.

Bal. This I'le doe.

Med. Away;
Yet one word more; your Counsel, Noble friends;
Harke, Baltazar, because nor eyes nor tongues
Shall by loud Larums that the poore boy lives
Question thy false report, the child shall closely,
Mantled in darknesse, forthwith be conveyed
To the Monastery of Saint Paul.

Omnes. Good.

Med. Dispatch then; be quicke.

Bal. As Lightning. [Exit.

Alb. This fellow is some Angell drop'd from heaven To preserve Innocence.

Med. He is a wheele
Of swift and turbulent motion; I have trusted him,
Yet will not hang on him to many plummets
Lest with a headlong Cyre (Gyre?) he ruines all.
In these State-consternations, when a kingdome
Stands tottering at the Center, out of suspition
Safety growes often. Let us suspect this fellow;
And that, albeit he shew us the Kings hand,
It may be but a tricke.

Daen. Your Lordship hits
A poyson'd nayle i'th head: this waxen fellow
(By the Kings hand so bribing him with gold)
Is set on skrews, perhaps is made his Creature
To turne round every way.

Med. Out of that feare Will I beget truth; for my selfe in person Will sound the Kings brest.

Carl. How! your selfe in person.

Alb. That's half the prize he gapes for.

Med. I'le venture it,
And come off well, I warrant you, and rip up
His very entrailes, cut in two his heart
And search each corner in't; yet shall not he
Know who it is cuts up th'Anatomy.

Daen. 'Tis an exploit worth wonder.

Carl. Put the worst; Say some Infernall voyce shoo'd rore from hell The Infant's cloystering up.

Alb. 'Tis not our danger Nor the imprison'd Prince's, for what Theefe Dares by base sacrilege rob the Church of him?

Carl. At worst none can be lost but this slight fellow.

Med. All build on this as on a stable Cube:
If we our footing keepe we fetch him forth
And Crowne him King; if up we fly i'th ayre
We for his soules health a broad way prepare.

Daen. They come.

Enter Baltazar and Sebastian.

Med. Thou knowest where To bestow him, Baltazar.

Bal. Come Noble[206] Boy.

Alb. Hide him from being discovered.

Bal. Discover'd? woo'd there stood a troope of Moores
Thrusting the pawes of hungry Lions forth
To seize this prey, and this but in my hand;
I should doe something.

Seb. Must I goe with this blacke fellow, Vncle?

Med. Yes, pretty Coz; hence with him, Baltazar.

Bal. Sweet child, within few minutes I'le change thy fate And take thee hence, but set thee at heavens gate. [Exeunt Bal. and Seb.

Med. Some keepe aloof and watch this Souldier.

Carl. I'le doo't.

Daen. What's to be done now?

Med. First to plant strong guard About the mother, then into some snare To hunt this spotted Panther and there kill him.

Daen. What snares have we can hold him?

Med. Be that care mine: Dangers (like Starres) in darke attempts best shine.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Cornego, Baltazar.

Cor. The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead[207] of her commendations in the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth'd with, from her selfe to you by me.

Bal. So, Sir; and what disease troubles her now?

Cor. The King's Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap'd up in a white sheet; you need not feare to open it, 'tis no coarse.

Bal. What's here? a letter minc'd into five morsels? What was she doing when thou camest from her?

Cor. At the pricke-song[208].

Bal. So methinks, for here's nothing but sol-Re-fa-mi. What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell?

Cor. No Crochets, 'tis onely the Cliffe has made her mad.

Bal. What instrument playd she upon?

Cor. A wind instrument, she did nothing but sigh.

Bal. Sol, Ra, me, Fa, Mi.

Cor. My wit has alwayes had a singing head; I have found out her Note, Captaine.

Bal. The tune? come.

Cor. Sol, my soule; re, is all rent and torne like a raggamuffin; me, mend it, good Captaine; fa, fa,—whats fa, Captaine?

Bal. Fa? why, farewell and be hang'd.

Cor. Mi, Captaine, with all my heart. Have I tickled my Ladies Fiddle well?

Bal. Oh, but your sticke wants Rozen to make the string sound clearely. No, this double Virginall being cunningly touch'd, another manner of Jacke[209] leaps up then is now in mine eye. Sol, Re, me, fa, mi—I have it now; Solus Rex me facit miseram. Alas, poore Lady! tell her no Pothecary in Spaine has any of that Assa Fetida she writes for.

Cor. Assa Fetida? what's that?

Bal. A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe?

Cor. Why, what ayles my Lady?

Bal. What ayles she? why, when she cryes out Solus Rex me facit miseram, she sayes in the Hypocronicall language that she is so miserably tormented with the wind-Chollicke that it rackes her very soule.

Cor. I said somewhat cut her soule in pieces.

Bal. But goe to her and say the oven is heating.

Cor. And what shall be bak'd in't?

Bal. Carpe pies, and besides tell her the hole in her Coat shall be mended; and tell her if the Dyall of good dayes goe true, why then bounce Buckrum.

Cor. The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs.

Bal. Or the Cony is dub'd, and three sheepskins—

Cor. With the wrong side outward.

Bal. Shall make the Fox a Night-cap.

Cor. So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard.

Bal. But, Sir, if evill dayes justle our prognostication to the wall, then say there's a fire in the whore-masters Cod-peece.

Cor. And a poyson'd Bagge-pudding in Tom Thumbes belly.

Bal. The first cut be thine: farewell!

Cor. Is this all?

Bal. Woo't not trust an Almanacke?

Cor. Nor a Coranta[210] neither, tho it were seal'd with Butter; and yet I know where they both lye passing well.

Enter Lopez.

Lop. The King sends round about the Court to seek you.

Bal. Away, Otterhound.

Cor. Dancing Beare, I'me gone. [Exit.

Enter King attended.

King. A private roome.— [Exeunt Omnes. Is't done? hast drawne thy two edg'd sword out yet?

Bal. No, I was striking at the two Iron Barres that hinder your passage; and see, Sir. [Drawes.

King. What meanst thou?

Bal. The edge abated? feele.

King. No, no, I see it.

Bal. As blunt as Ignorance.

King. How? put up—So—how?

Bal. I saw by chance, hanging in Cardinall Alvarez Gallery, a picture of hell.

King. So; what of that?

Bal. There lay upon burnt straw ten thousand brave fellowes, all starke naked, some leaning upon Crownes, some on Miters, some on bags of gold; Glory in another Corner lay like a feather beaten in the raine; Beauty was turn'd into a watching Candle that went out stinking; Ambition went upon a huge high paire of stilts but horribly rotten; some in another nooke were killing Kings, and some having their elbowes shov'd forward by Kings to murther others: I was (methought) halfe in hell my selfe whilst I stood to view this peece.

King. Was this all?

Bal. Was't not enough to see that? a man is more healthfull that eats dirty puddings than he that feeds on a corrupted Conscience.

King. Conscience! what's that? a Conjuring booke ne're open'd
Without the readers danger: 'tis indeed
A scare-crow set i'th world to fright weake fooles.
Hast thou seene fields pav'd o're with carkasses
Now to be tender-footed, not to tread
On a boyes mangled quarters and a womans?

Bal. Nay, Sir, I have search'd the records of the Low-Countries and finde that by your pardon I need not care a pinne for Goblins; and therefore I will doo't, Sir: I did but recoyle because I was double charg'd.

King. No more; here comes a Satyre with sharpe hornes.

Enter Cardinall, and Medina like a French Doctor.

Car. Sir, here's a Frenchman charg'd with some strange businesse Which to your close eare onely hee'll deliver, Or else to none.

King. A Frenchman?

Med. We, Mounsire.

King. Cannot he speake the Spanish?

Med. Si Signior, vr Poco:—Monsir, Acoutez in de Corner; me come for offer to your Bon gace mi trez humble service. By gar no John fidleco shall put into your neare braver Melody dan dis vn petite pipe shall play upon to your great bon Grace.

King. What is the tune you'll strike up? touch the string.

Med. Dis; me ha run up and downe mane Countrie and learne many fine ting and mush knavery; now more and all dis me know you ha jumbla de fine vench and fill her belly wid a Garsoone: her name is le Madame—

King. Onaelia.

Med. She by gar: Now, Monsire, dis Madam send for me to helpe her Malady, being very naught of her corpes (her body). Me know you no point love a dis vensh; but, royall Monsire, donne Moy ten towsand French Crownes, she shall kicke up her taile, by gar, and beshide lye dead as dog in the shannell.

King. Speake low.

Med. As de bagge-pipe when the winde is puff, Garbeigh.

King. Thou nam'st ten thousand Crownes; I'le treble them, Rid me but of this leprosie: thy name?

Med. Monsire Doctor Devile.

King. Shall I a second wheele adde to this mischiefe To set it faster going? if one breake, Th'other may keepe his motion.

Med. Esselent fort boone.

King. Baltazar,
To give thy Sword an edge againe, this Frenchman
Shall whet thee on, that if thy pistoll faile,
Or ponyard, this can send the poyson home.

Bal. Brother Cain, wee'll shake hands.

Med. In de bowle of de bloody busher: tis very fine wholesome.

King. And more to arme your resolution,
I'le tune this Churchman so that he shall chime
In sounds harmonious. Merit to that man
Whose hand has but a finger in that act.

Bal. That musicke were worth hearing.

King. Holy Father,
You must give pardon to me in unlocking
A Cave stuft full with Serpents which my State
Threaten to poyson; and it lyes in you
To breake their bed with thunder of your voyce.

Car. How, princely sonne?

King. Suppose an universall
Hot Pestilence beat her mortiferous wings
Ore all my Kingdome, am I not bound in soule
To empty all our Achademes of Doctors
And Aesculapian Spirits to charme this plague?

Car. You are.

King. Or had the Canon made a breach
Into our rich Escuriall, down to beat it
About our eares, shoo'd I to stop this breach
Spare even our richest Ornaments, nay our Crowne,
Could it keepe bullets off?

Car. No, Sir, you should not.

King. This Linstocke[211] gives you fire: shall then that strumpet
And bastard breathe quicke vengeance in my face,
Making my kingdome reele, my subjects stagger
In their obedience, and yet live?

Car. How? live! Shed not their bloods to gaine a kingdome greater Then ten times this.

Med. Pishe, not mattera how Red-cap and his wit run.

King. As I am Catholike King I'le have their hearts Panting in these two hands.

Car. Dare you turne Hang-man?
Is this Religion Catholicke, to kill,
What even bruit beasts abhorre to doe, your owne!
To cut in sunder wedlockes sacred knot
Tyed by heavens fingers! to make Spaine a Bonfire
To quench which must a second Deluge raine
In showres of blood, no water! If you doe this
There is an Arme Armipotent that can fling you
Into a base grave, and your Pallaces
With Lightning strike and of their Ruines make
A Tombe for you, unpitied and abhorr'd.
Beare witnesse, all you Lamps Coelestiall,
I wash my hands of this. (Kneeling.)

King. Rise, my goon Angell, Whose holy tunes beat from me that evill spirit Which jogs mine elbow.—Hence, thou dog of hell!

Med. Baw wawghe.

King. Barke out no more, thou Mastiffe; get you all gone, And let my soule sleepe.—There's gold; peace, see it done. [Exit.

Manent Medina, Baltazar, Cardinall.

Bal. Sirra, you Salsa-Perilla Rascall, Toads-guts, you whorson pockey French Spawne of a bursten-bellyed Spyder, doe you heare, Monsire?

Med. Why doe you barke and snap at my Narcissus as if I were de Frenshe doag?

Bal. You Curre of Cerberus litter, (strikes him), you'll poyson the honest Lady? doe but once toot[212] into her chamber-pot and I'll make thee looke worse then a witch does upon a close-stoole.

Car. You shall not dare to touch him, stood he here Single before thee.

Bal. I'le cut the Rat into Anchovies.

Car. I'le make thee kisse his hand, imbrace him, love him, And call him— (Medina discovers)

Bal. The perfection of all Spanyards; Mars in little; the best booke of the art of Warre printed in these Times: as a French Doctor I woo'd have given you pellets for pills, but as my noblest Lord rip my heart out in your service.

Med. Thou art the truest Clocke
That e're to time paidst tribute, honest Souldier.
I lost mine owne shape and put on a French
Onely to try thy truth and the kings falshood,
Both which I find. Now this great Spanish volume
Is open'd to me, I read him o're and o're,
Oh what blacke Characters are printed in him!

Car. Nothing but certaine ruine threat your Neece,
Without prevention; well this plot was laid
In such disguise to sound him; they that know
How to meet dangers are the lesse afraid:
Yet let me counsell you not to text downe
These wrongs in red lines.

Med. No, I will not, father:
Now that I have Anatomiz'd his thoughts
I'le read a lecture on 'em that shall save
Many mens lives, and to the kingdome Minister
Most wholesome Surgery: here's our Aphorisme,[213]—
These letters from us in our Neeces name,
You know, treat of a marriage.

Car. There's the strong Anchor To stay all in this tempest.

Med. Holy Sir, With these worke you the King and so prevaile That all these mischiefes Hull with Flagging saile.

Car. My best in this I'le doe.

Med. Souldier, thy brest I must locke better things in.

Bal. Tis your chest with 3 good keyes to keep it from opening, an honest hart, a daring hand and a pocket which scornes money.

[Exeunt.

Actus Quintus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Enter King, Cardinall with letters, [Valasco and Lopez.]

King. Commend us to Medina, say his letters
Right pleasing are, and that (except himselfe)
Nothing could be more welcome: counsell him
(To blot the opinion out of factious numbers)
Onely to have his ordinary traine
Waiting upon him; for, to quit all feares
Vpon his side of us, our very Court
Shall even but dimly shine with some few Dons,
Freely to prove our longings great to peace.

Car. The Constable expects some pawne from you That in this Fairy circle shall rise up No Fury to confound his Neece nor him.

King. A King's word is engag'd.

Car. It shall be taken. [Exit.

King. Valasco, call the Captaine of our Guard, Bid him attend us instantly.

Val. I shall. [Exit.

King. Lopez, come hither: see
Letters from Duke Medina, both in the name
Of him and all his Faction, offering peace,
And our old love (his Neece) Onaelia
In Marriage with her free and faire consent
To Cockadillio, a Don of Spaine.

Lop. Will you refuse this?

King. My Crowne as soone: they feele their sinowy plots
Belike to shrinke i'th joynts, and fearing Ruine
Have found this Cement out to piece up all,
Which more endangers all.

Lop. How, Sir! endangers?

King. Lyons may hunted be into the snare,
But if they once breake loose woe be to him
That first seiz'd on 'em. A poore prisoner scornes
To kisse his Jaylor; and shall a King be choak'd
With sweete-meats by false Traytors! no, I will fawne
On them as they stroake me, till they are fast
But in this paw, and then—

Lop. A brave revenge.— The Captaine of your Guard.

Enter Captaine.

King. Vpon thy life
Double our Guard this day, let every man
Beare a charg'd Pistoll hid; and at a watch-word
Given by a Musket, when our selfe sees Time,
Rush in; and if Medina's Faction wrastle
Against your forces, kill; but if yeeld, save.
Be secret.

Alanz. I am charm'd, Sir.
[Exit.

King. Watch, Valasco;
If any weare a Crosse, Feather or Glove
Or such prodigious signes of a knit Faction,
Table their names up; at our Court-gate plant
Good strength to barre them out if once they swarme:
Doe this upon thy life.

Val. Not death shall fright me.

[Exeunt Valasco and Lopez.

Enter Baltazar.

Bal. 'Tis done, Sir.

King. Death! what's done?

Bal. Young Cub's flayd, But the shee-fox shifting her hole is fled; The little Iackanapes the boy's braind.

King. Sebastian?

Bal. He shall ne're speake more Spanish.

King. Thou teachest me to curse thee.

Bal. For a bargaine you set your hand to?

King. Halfe my Crowne I'de lose were it undone.

Bal. But half a Crowne? that's nothing: His braines sticke in my conscience more than yours.

King. How lost I the French Doctor?

Bal. As French-men lose their haire: here was too hot staying for him.

King. Get thou, too, from my sight: the Queen wu'd see thee.

Bal. Your gold, Sir.

King. Goe with Judas and repent.

Bal. So men hate whores after lusts heat is spent; I'me gone, Sir.

King. Tell me true,—is he dead?

Bal. Dead.

King. No matter; 'tis but morning of revenge; The Sun-set shall be red and Tragicall. [Exit.

Bal. Sinne is a Raven croaking[214] her owne fall. [Exit.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Medina, Daenia, Alba, Carlo and the Faction, with Rosemary in their hats.

Med. Keepe lock'd the doore and let none enter to us But who shares in our fortunes.

Daen. Locke the dores.

Alb. What entertainment did the King bestow Vpon your letters and the Cardinals?

Med. With a devouring eye he read 'em o're
Swallowing our offers into his empty bosome
As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths
Out of the cup of heaven.

Carl. Little suspecting What dangers closely lye enambushed.

Daen. Let not us trust to that; there's in his brest
Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite:
We must not now behold the narrowest loope-hole
But presently suspect a winged bullet
Flyes whizzing by our eares.

Med. For when I let
The plummet fall to sound his very soule
In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor-like,
He to the Cardinals eare sung sorcerous notes;
The burthen of his song to mine was death,
Onaelia's murder and Sebastians.
And thinke you his voyce alters now? 'Tis strange
To see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court,
Throan'd like a god: great men are petty starres
Where his rayes shine; wonder fills up all eyes
By sight of him: let him but once checke sinne,
About him round all cry "oh excellent king!
Oh Saint-like man!" but let this King retire
Into his Closet to put off his robes,
He like a Player leaves his parte off, too:
Open his brest and with a Sunne-beame search it,
There's no such man; this King of gilded clay
Within is uglinesse, lust, treachery,
And a base soule tho reard Colossus-high.

(Baltazar beats to come in.)

Daen. None till he speakes and that we know his voyce: Who are you?

Within Bal. An honest house-keeper in Rosemary-lane, too, If you dwell in the same parish.

Med. Oh 'tis our honest Souldier, give him entrance.

Enter Baltazar.

Bal. Men show like coarses[215] for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary: everyone ask'd mee who was married to-day, and I told 'em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hangman followed 'em to Church.

Med. There's but two parts to play: shame has done hers
But execution must close up the Scaene,
And for that cause these sprigs are worne by all,
Badges of Mariage, now of Funerall,
For death this day turns Courtier.

Bal. Who must dance with him?

Med. The King, and all that are our opposites;
That dart or this must flye into the Court,
Either to shoote this blazing starre from Spaine
Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds
Till all the fatall fires in him burne out,
Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubt
Of following uprores.

Alb. Kill not but surprize him.

Carl. Thats my voyce still.

Med. Thine, Souldier.

Bal. Oh, this Collicke of a kingdome! when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes! and yet, make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking. Kill a King! King!

Daen. Why?

Bal. If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time 'tis ecclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make us Candles for one yeare.

Med. No way to purge the sicke State but by opening a veine.

Bal. Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a flea-biting.

Enter Signeor No:[216] Whispers Medina.

Med. What are you? come you from the King?

No. No.

Bal. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter.

Med. Signeor, I thanke your kind Intelligence. The newes long since was sent into our eares, Yet we embrace your love; so fare you well.

Carl. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary?

No. No.

Bal. Will you be hang'd?

No. No.

Bal. This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor.

Med. He makes his love to us a warning-peece To arme our selves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled.

Omnes. Tush, we care not.

Bal. If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, let him first plucke out my throat. In any Noble Act Ile wade chin-deepe with you: but to kill a King!

Med. No, heare me—

Bal. You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to Bantam[217] in the West-Indies than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries. It's hot going under the line there; the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse.

Med. Turne, then, this wheele of Fate from shedding blood, Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all.

Bal. Good.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

Queen. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in Court
To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses?
And I like moaping Iuno sit whilst Iove
Varies his lust into five hundred shapes
To steale to his whores bed? No, Malateste;
Italian fires of Iealousie burn my marrow:
For to delude my hopes the leacherous King
Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage
To cover his Incontinence, which flames
Hot (as my fury) in his black desires.
I am swolne big with child of vengeance now,
And, till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell.

Mal. Iust is your Indignation, high and noble,
And the brave heat of a true Florentine.
For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest
In the Kings heart, and with a black cole drawes
On every wall your scoff'd at injuries.
As one that has the refuse of her sheets,
And the sick Autumne of the weakned King,
Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring.

Queen. That, Malateste, That, That Torrent wracks me;
But Hymens Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out,
And for it the mad Furies swing their brands
About the Bride-chamber.

Mal. The Priest that joyns them Our Twin-borne malediction.

Queen. Lowd may it speake.

Mal. The herbs and flowers to strew the wedding way Be Cypresse, Eugh, cold Colloquintida.

Queen. Henbane and Poppey, and that magicall weed[218] Which Hags at midnight watch to catch the seed.

Mal. To these our execrations, and what mischiefe
Hell can but hatch in a distracted braine
Ile be the Executioner, tho it looke
So horrid it can fright e'ne murder backe.

Queen. Poyson his whore to day, for thou shalt wait
On the Kings Cup, and when, heated with wine,
He cals to drinke the Brides health, Marry her
Alive to a gaping grave.

Mal. At board?

Queen. At board.

Mal. When she being guarded round about with friends, Like a faire Iland hem'd with Rocks and Seas,— What rescue shall I find?

Queen. Mine armes? dost faint?
Stood all the Pyrenaean hills, that part
Spaine and our Country, on each others shoulders,
Burning with Aetnean flame, yet thou shouldst on,
As being my steele of resolution
First striking sparkles from my flinty brest.
Wert thou to catch the horses of the Sunne
Fast by their bridles and to turne back day,
Wood'st thou not doo't (base coward) to make way
To the Italians second blisse, revenge?

Mal. Were my bones threatned to the wheele of torture, Ile doo't.

Enter Lopes.

Queen. A ravens voyce, and it likes me well.

Lop. The King expects your presence.

Mal. So, so, we come, To turne this Brides day to a day of doome.

[Exeunt.

A Banquet set out, Cornets sounding; Enter at one
dore Lopez, Valasco, Alanzo, No: after them King,
Cardinall, with Don Cockadillio, Bridegroome;
Queene and Malateste after. At the other dore
Alba, Carlo, Roderigo, Medina and Daenia, leading
Onaelia as Bride, Cornego and Iuanna after;
Baltazar alone; Bride and Bridegroome kisse,
and by the Cardinall are join'd hand in hand:
King is very merry, hugging Medina very lovingly.

King. For halfe Spaines weight in Ingots I'de not lose This little man to day.

Med. Nor for so much
Twice told, Sir, would I misse your kingly presence,
Mine eyes have lost th'acquaintance of your face
So long, and I so little late read o're
That Index of the royall book your mind,
That scarce (without your Comment) can I tell
When in those leaves you turne o're smiles or frownes.

King. 'Tis dimnesse of your sight, no fault i'th letter;
Medina, you shall find that free from Errata's:
And for a proofe,
If I could breath my heart in welcomes forth,
This Hall should ring naught else. Welcome, Medina;
Good Marquesse Daenia, Dons of Spaine all welcome!
My dearest love and Queene, be it your place
To entertaine the Bride and doe her grace.

Queen. With all the love I can, whose fire is such, To give her heat, I cannot burne too much.

King. Contracted Bride and Bridegroome sit;
Sweet flowres not pluck'd in season lose their scent,
So will our pleasures. Father Cardinall,
Methinkes this morning new begins our reigne.

Car. Peace had her Sabbath ne're till now in Spaine.

King. Where is our noble Souldier, Baltazar? So close in conference with that Signior?

No. No.

King. What think'st thou of this great day Baltazar?

Bal. Of this day? why, as of a new play, if it ends well all's well. All men are but Actors; now if you, being the King, should be out of your part, or the Queene out of hers or your Dons out of theirs, here's No wil never be out of his.

No. No.

Bal. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your Eyes.

King. Mine, I protest, are free.

Queen. And mine, by heaven!

Mal. Free from one goode looke till the blow be given.

King. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to Medina's health!

Med. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me That I, to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it.

Daen. So shall mine.

King. Onaelia, you are sad: why frownes your brow?

Onae. A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir.

King. Which mirth to heighten Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable.

(Three Cups fild: 1 to the King, 2 to the Bridegroome, 3 to Onaelia, with whom the King complements.)

Queen. Is't speeding?

Mal. As all our Spanish figs[219] are.

King. Here's to Medina's heart with all my heart.

Med. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke.

King. Medina mockes me Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle: Ile change with thee, Onaelia.

(Mal. rages)

Queen. Sir, you shall not.

King. Feare you I cannot fetch it off?

Queen. Malateste!

King. This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her.—Musicke sound! It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground.

Cornets. King drinkes; Queen and Mal. storms.

Mal. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon.

Queen. Sweet royall Sir, no more: it is too deepe.

Mal. Twill hurt your health, Sir.

King. Interrupt me in my drinke! 'tis off.

Mal. Alas, Sir,
You have drunke your last: that poyson'd bowle I fill'd,
Not to be put into your hand but hers.

King. Poyson'd?

Omnes. Descend black speckled soule to hell. (kil Mal. dyes.)

Mal. The Queene has sent me thither?

Card. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks?

Queen. I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home.

Car. More Murders? save the lady.

Balt. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus.

Med. Keepe 'em asunder.

Car. How is it royall sonne?

King. I feele no poyson yet; only mine eyes
Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele
Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face;
And now I'me in a mortall cold sweat.

Queen. Deare my Lord.

King. Hence! call in my Physicians.

Med. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder: call on him or none.

King. Bloody Medina! stab'st thou, Brutus, too?

Daen. As hee is so are we all.

King. I burne; My braines boyle in a Caldron: O, one drop Of water now to coole me!

Onae. Oh, let him have Physicians!

Med. Keepe her backe.

King. Physicians for my soule: I need none else.
You'll not deny me those? Oh, holy Father,
Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud
For me, a miserable King, so drench'd
In perjury and murder?

Car. Oh, Sir, great store.

King. Come downe, come quickly downe.

Car. I'll forthwith send For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor.

King. Doe, doe.

Car. And he shall cure your wounded soule: —Fetch him, good Souldier.

Bal. So good a work I'le hasten.

King. Onaelia! oh, shee's drown'd in tears. Onaelia! Let me not dye unpardoned at thy hands.

Enter Baltazar, Sebastian as a Fryer, with others.

Car. Here comes a better Surgeon.

Seb. Haile my good Sonne! I come to be thy ghostly Father.

King. Ha!
My child? tis my Sebastian, or some spirit
Sent in his shape to fright me.

Bal. 'Tis no gobling, Sir, feele: your owne flesh and blood, and much younger than you tho he be bald, and calls you son. Had I bin as ready to cut his sheeps throat as you were to send him to the shambles, he had bleated no more. There's lesse chalke upon you[r] score of sinnes by these round o'es.

King. Oh, my dul soule, looke up; thou art somewhat lighter. Noble Medina, see, Sebastian lives: Onaelia, cease to weepe, Sebastian lives. Fetch me my Crowne: my sweetest pretty Fryer, Can my hands doo't, He raise thee one step higher. Th'ast beene in heavens house all this while, sweet boy?

Seb. I had but coarse cheere.

King. Thou couldst nere fare better:
Religious houses are those hyves where Bees
Make honey for mens soules. I tell thee, Boy,
A Fryery is a Cube which strongly stands,
Fashioned by men, supported by heavens hands:
Orders of holy Priest-hood are as high,
I'th eyes of Angels, as a Kings dignity.
Both these unto a Crowne give the full weight,
And both are thine: you that our Contract know,
See how I scale it with this Marriage;
My blessing and Spaines kingdome both be thine.

Omnes. Long live Sebastian!

Onae. Doff that Fryers course gray, And since hee's crown'd a king, clothe him like one.

King. Oh no; those are right Soveraigne Ornaments:
Had I been cloth'd so I had never fill'd
Spaine's Chronicle with my blacke Calumny.
My worke is almost finish'd: where's my Queene?

Queen. Heere, peece-meale torne by Furies.

King. Onaelia!
Your hand, Paulina, too; Onaelia, yours:
This hand (the pledge of my twice broken faith),
By you usurp'd, is her Inheritance.
My love is turn'd, see, as my fate is turn'd:
Thus they to day laugh, yesterday which mourn'd:
I pardon thee my death. Let her be sent
Backe into Florence with a trebled dowry.
Death comes: oh, now I see what late I fear'd;
A Contract broke, tho piec'd up ne're so well,
Heaven sees, earth suffers, but it ends in hell.
(Moritur.)

Onae. Oh, I could dye with him!

Queen. Since the bright spheare I mov'd in falls, alas, what make I here? [Exit.

Med. The hammers of blacke mischiefe now cease beating,
Yet some irons still are heating. You, Sir Bridegroome,
(Set all this while up as a marke to shoot at)
We here discharge you of your bed fellow:
She loves no Barbars washing.

Cock. My Balls are sav'd then.

Med. Be it your charge, so please you, reverend Sir,
To see the late Queene safely sent to Florence:
My Neece Onaelia, and that trusty Souldier,
We doe appoint to guard the infant King.
Other distractions Time must reconcile;
The State is poyson'd like a Crocodile.

[Exeunt.

FINIS.