Preface
Two Tragedies in One. By Robert Yarington
The Captives, or the Lost Recovered. By Thomas Heywood
The Costlie Whore.
Everie Woman in her Humor.
Appendix
Index
Footnotes

PREFACE.

The fourth and final volume of this Collection of Old Plays ought to have been issued many months ago. I dare not attempt to offer any excuses for the wholly unwarrantable delay.

In the preface to the third volume I stated that I hoped to be able to procure a transcript of an unpublished play (preserved in Eg. MS. 1,994) of Thomas Heywood. It affords me no slight pleasure to include this play in the present volume. Mr. JEAVES, of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum, undertook the labour of transcription and persevered to the end. As I have elsewhere stated, the play is written in a detestable hand; and few can appreciate the immense trouble that it cost Mr. JEAVES to make his transcript. Where Mr. JEAVES' labours ended mine began; I spent many days in minutely comparing the transcript with the original. There are still left passages that neither of us could decipher, but they are not numerous.

I may be pardoned for regarding the Collection with some pride. Six of the sixteen plays are absolutely new, printed for the first time; and I am speaking within bounds when I declare that no addition so substantial has been made to the Jacobean drama since the days of Humphrey Moseley and Francis Kirkman. Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt has been styled by Mr. Swinburne a "noble poem." Professor Delius urged that it should be translated into German; and I understand that an accomplished scholar, Dr. Gelbeke of St. Petersburg, has just completed an admirable translation. Meanwhile the English edition[1] has been reproduced in Holland.

In the original announcement of this Collection I promised a reprint of Arden of Feversham from the quarto of 1592; I also proposed to include plays by Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes. After I had transcribed Arden of Feversham I determined not to include it in the present series. It occurred to me that I should enhance the value of these volumes by excluding such plays as were already accessible in modern editions. Accordingly I rejected Arden of Feversham, Sir John Oldcastle, Patient Grissel, and The Yorkshire Tragedy. The plays of Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes were excluded on other grounds. Several correspondents suggested to me that I should issue separately the complete works of each of these three dramatists; and, not without some misgivings, I adopted this suggestion.

I acknowledge with regret that the printing has not been as accurate as I should have desired. There have been too many misprints, especially in the first two volumes;[2] but in the eyes of generous and competent readers these blemishes (trivial for the most part) will not detract from the solid value of the Collection.

It remains that I should thank Mr. BERNARD QUARITCH, the most famous bibliopole of our age (or any age), for the kind interest that he has shewn in the progress of my undertaking. Of his own accord Mr. QUARITCH offered to subscribe for one third of the impression,—an offer which I gratefully accepted. I have to thank Mr. FLEAY for looking over the proof-sheets of a great part of the present volume and for aiding me with suggestions and corrections. To Dr. KÖHLER, librarian to the Grand Duke of Weimar, I am indebted for the true solution (see Appendix) of the rebus at the end of The Distracted Emperor. Mr. EBSWORTH, with his usual kindness, helped me to identify some of the songs mentioned in Everie Woman in Her Humor (see Appendix).

17, SUMATRA ROAD, WEST HAMPSTEAD, N.W.

8th October, 1885.

INTRODUCTION TO TWO TRAGEDIES IN ONE.

Of Robert Yarington, the author of Two Tragedies in One absolutely nothing is known. There is no mention of him in Henslowe's Diary, and none of his contemporaries (so far as I can discover) make the slightest allusion to him. The Two Tragedies is of the highest rarity and has never been reprinted before.

There are two distinct plots in the present play. The one relates to the murder of Robert Beech, a chandler of Thames Street, and his boy, by a tavern-keeper named Thomas Merry; and the other is founded on a story which bears some resemblance to the well-known ballad of The Babes in the Wood. I have not been able to discover the source from which the playwright drew his account of the Thames Street murder. Holinshed and Stow are silent; and I have consulted without avail Antony Munday's "View of Sundry Examples," 1580, and "Sundry strange and inhumaine Murthers lately committed," 1591 (an excessively rare, if not unique, tract preserved at Lambeth). Yet the murder must have created some stir and was not lightly forgotten. From Henslowe's Diary[3] (ed. Collier, pp. 92-3) we learn that in 1599 Haughton and Day wrote a tragedy on the subject,—"the Tragedy of Thomas Merrye." The second plot was derived, I suppose, from some Italian story; and it is not improbable that the ballad of the Babes in the Wood (which was entered in the Stationers' Books in 1595, tho' the earliest printed copy extant is the black-letter broadside—circ. 1640?—in the Roxburghe Collection) was adapted from Yarington's play.

Although not published until 1601, the Two Tragedies would seem from internal evidence to have been written some years earlier. The language has a bald, antiquated look, and the stage-directions are amusingly simple. I once entertained a theory (which I cannot bring myself to wholly discard) that Arden of Feversham, 1592, Warning for Fair Women, 1599, and Two Tragedies in One, 1601, are all by the same hand; that the Warning and Two Tragedies, though published later, were early essays by the author whose genius displayed its full power in Arden of Feversham. A reader who will take the trouble to read the three plays together will discover many points of similarity between them. Arden is far more powerful than the two other plays; but I venture to think that the superiority lies rather in single scenes and detached passages than in general dramatic treatment. The noble scene of the quarrel and reconciliation between Alice Arden and Mosbie is incomparably finer than any scene in the Warning or Two Tragedies; but I am not sure that Arden contains another scene which can be definitely pronounced to be beyond Yarington's ability, though there are many scattered passages displaying such poetry as we find nowhere in the Two Tragedies. That Yarington could write vigorously is shown in the scene where Fallerio hires the two murderers (who remind us of Shagbag and Black Will in Arden) to murder his nephew; and again in the quarrel between these two ruffians. Allenso's affection for his little cousin and solicitude at their parting are tenderly portrayed with homely touches of quiet pathos. The diction of the Two Tragedies is plain and unadorned. In reading Arden we sometimes feel that the simplicity of language has been deliberately adopted for artistic purposes; that the author held plenty of strength in reserve, and would not have been wanting if the argument had demanded a loftier style. In Yarington's case we have no such feeling. He seems to be giving us the best that he had to give; and it must be confessed that he is intolerably flat at times. It is difficult to resist a smile when the compassionate Neighbour (in his shirt), discovering poor Thomas Winchester with the hammer sticking in his head, delivers himself after this fashion:—

"What cruell hand hath done so foule a deede,
Thus to bemangle a distressed youth
Without all pittie or a due remorse!
See how the hammer sticketh in his head
Wherewith this honest youth is done to death!
Speak, honest Thomas, if any speach remaine:
What cruell hand hath done this villanie?"

Merry's "last dying speech and confession" is as nasty as such things usually are.

In the introduction to Arden of Feversham I intend to return to the consideration of Yarington's Two Tragedies.

Two Lamentable Tragedies.

The one, of the Murther of Maister Beech A Chaundler in
Thames-streete, and his boye, done by Thomas Merry.

The other of a Young childe murthered in a Wood by two Ruffins, with the consent of his Vnckle.

By ROB. YARINGTON.

LONDON.

Printed for _Mathew Lawe, and are to be solde at his Shop in Paules Church-yarde neere vnto S. Austines Gate, at the signe of the Foxe. 1601.

Two Tragedies in One.

Enter Homicide, solus.

I have in vaine past through each stately streete,
And blinde-fold turning of this happie towne,
For wealth, for peace, and goodlie government,
Yet can I not finde out a minde, a heart
For blood and causelesse death to harbour in;
They all are bent with vertuous gainefull trade,
To get their needmentes for this mortall life,
And will not soile their well-addicted harts
With rape, extortion, murther, or the death
Of friend or foe, to gaine an Empery.
I cannot glut my blood-delighted eye
With mangled bodies which do gaspe and grone,
Readie to passe to faire Elizium,
Nor bath my greedie handes in reeking blood
Of fathers by their children murthered:
When all men else do weepe, lament and waile,
The sad exploites of fearefull tragedies,
It glads me so, that it delightes my heart,
To ad new tormentes to their bleeding smartes.

Enter Avarice.

But here comes Avarice, as if he sought,
Some busie worke for his pernicious thought:
Whether so fast, all-griping Avarice?

Ava. Why, what carst thou? I seeke for one I misse.

Ho. I may supplie the man you wish to have.

Ava. Thou seemes to be a bold audatious knave; I doe not like intruding companie, That seeke to undermine my secrecie.

Ho. Mistrust me not; I am thy faithfull friend.

Ava. Many say so, that prove false in the end.

Ho. But turne about and thou wilt know my face.

Ava. It may be so, and know thy want of grace.
What! Homicide? thou art the man I seeke:
I reconcile me thus upon thy cheeke. [Kisse, imbrace.
Hadst thou nam'd blood and damn'd iniquitie,
I had forborne to bight so bitterlie.

Hom. Knowst thou a hart wide open to receive,
A plot of horred desolation?
Tell me of this, thou art my cheefest good,
And I will quaffe thy health in bowles of blood.

Ava. I know two men, that seem two innocents,
Whose lookes, surveied with iuditiall eyes,
Would seeme to beare the markes of honestie;
But snakes finde harbour mongst the fairest flowers,
Then never credit outward semblaunces.

Enter[4] Trueth.

I know their harts relentlesse, mercilesse,
And will performe through hope of benefit:
More dreadfull things then can be thought upon.

Hom. If gaine will draw, I prethy then allure
Their hungrie harts with hope of recompence,
But tye dispaire unto those mooving hopes,
Unleast a deed of murther farther it,
Then blood on blood, shall overtake them all,
And we will make a bloodie feastivall.

Cove. The plots are laide, the keyes of golden coine,
Hath op'd the secret closets of their harts.
Inter [sic], insult, make captive at thy will,
Themselves, and friends, with deedes of damned ill:
Yonder is Truth, she commeth to bewaile,
The times and parties that we worke upon.

Hom. Why, let her weepe, lament and morne for me, We are right bred of damn'd iniquitie, And will go make a two-folde Tragedie. [Exeunt.

Truth. Goe you disturbers of a quiet soule,
Sad, greedy, gaping, hungrie Canibals,
That ioy to practise others miseries.
Gentles, prepare your teare-bedecked eyes,
To see two shewes of lamentation,
Besprinckled every where with guiltlesse blood,
Of harmlesse youth, and pretie innocents.
Our Stage doth weare habilliments of woe,
Truth rues to tell the truth of these laments:
The one was done in famous London late,
Within that streete whose side the River Thames
Doth strive to wash from all impuritie:
But yet that silver stream can never wash,
The sad remembrance of that cursed deede,
Perform'd by cruell Merry on iust Beech,
And his true boye poore Thomas Winchester.
The most here present, know this to be true:
Would Truth were false, so this were but a tale!
The other further off, but yet too neere,
To those that felt and did the crueltie:
Neere Padua this wicked deed was done,
By a false Uncle, on his brothers sonne,
Left to his carefull education
By dying Parents, with as strict a charge
As ever yet death-breathing brother gave.
Looke for no mirth, unlesse you take delight,
In mangled bodies, and in gaping wounds,
Bloodily made by mercy-wanting hands.
Truth will not faine, but yet doth grieve to showe,
This deed of ruthe and miserable woe.

[Exit.

[ACT THE FIRST.]

[SCENE I.]

Enter Merry.

I live in meane and discontented state,
But wherefore should I think of discontent?
I am belov'd, I have a pretty house,
A loving sister, and a carefull man,
That doe not thinke their dayes worke well at end,
Except it bring me in some benefit:
And well frequented is my little house
With many guestes and honest passengers,

Enter Beech and a friend.

Which may in time advance my humble state
To greater wealth and reputation.
And here comes friends to drinke some beare or ale; [Sit in his Shop.
They are my neighbours, they shall have the best.

Ne. Come neighbour Beech, lets have our mornings draught
And wele go drinke it at yong Merries house:
They say he hath the best in all this towne,
Besides they say he is an honest man,
And keepes good rule and orders in his house.

Beech. He's so indeede; his conversation
Is full of honest harmlesse curtesie:
I dare presume, if that he be within,
Hele serve us well, and keepe us company.
See where he is, go in, ile follow you; [Strive curtesies.
Nay straine no curtesie, you shall goe before.

Mer. Your welcome, neighbour, you are welcome, sir; I praie sit downe, your verie welcome both.

Beech. We thanke you for it, and we thinke no lesse.
Now fill two cans of your ould strongest beare;
That make so manie loose their little wits,
And make indentures as they go along.

Mer. Hoe, sister Rachell!

Rach. I come presently,

Enter Rachell.

Mer. Goe draw these gentlemen two cans of beare.
Your negligence that cannot tend the shop,
Will make our customers forsake the house.
Wheres Harry Williams that he staies not here?

Rach. My selfe was busie dressing up the house: As for your man he is not verie well, But sitteth sleeping by the kitchen fier.

Mer. If you are busie, get you up againe; [Exit. Ile draw my neighbours then their drinke my selfe, Ile warrant you as good as any mans,— And yet no better; many have the like. [Exit for Beare.

Neigh. This showes him for a plain and honest man,
That will not flatter with too many wordes;
Some shriltong'd fellowes would have cogd and faind,
Saying, ile draw the best in Christendome.

Beech. Hees none of those, but beares an honest minde, And shames to utter what he cannot prove.

Enter Merry.

But here he comes: is that the best you have?

Mer. It is the best upon mine honest worde.

Beech. Then drinke to us.

Mer. I drinke unto you both.

Nei. Beech. We pledge you both, and thanke you hartelie.

Beech. Heres to you sir.

Neigh. I thank you.

[Maister Beech drinkes; drinke Neighbour.

Neigh. Tis good indeed and I had rather drinke
Such beare as this as any Gascoine Wine:
But tis our English manner to affect
Strange things, and price them at a greater rate,
Then home-bred things of better consequence.

Mer. Tis true indeede; if all were of your mind, My poore estate would sooner be advanc'd, And our French Marchants seeke some other trade.

Beech. Your poore estate! nay, neighbour, say not so, For God be thanked you are well to live.

Mer. Not so good neighbour, but a poore young man,
That would live better if I had the meanes:
But as I am I can content myselfe,
Till God amend my poore abilitie.

Neigh. In time no doubt; why, man, you are but young, And God, assure your selfe, hath wealth in store, If you awaight his will with patience.

Beech. Thankes be to God I live contentedlie,
And yet I cannot boast of mightie wealth:
But yet Gods blessings have beene infinit,
And farre beyond my expectations.
My shop is stor'd, I am not much in debt;
And here I speake it where I may be bold,
I have a score of poundes to helpe my neede,
If God should stretch his hand to visit me
With sicknesse or such like adversity.

Neigh. Enough for this; now, neighbour, whats to pay?

Mer. Two pence, good sir.

Beech. Nay, pray, sir, forbeare; Ile pay this reckoning, for it is but small.

Neigh. I will not strive since yee will have it so.

Beech. Neighbour, farewell.

[Exit Beech and Neigh.

Mer. Farewell unto you both.
His shop is stor'd, he is not much in debt,
He hath a score of poundes to helpe his neede:
I and a score too if the trueth were known.
I would I had a shop so stor'd with wares,
And fortie poundes to buy a bargain with,
When as occasion should be offered me;
Ide live as merrie as the wealthiest man
That hath his being within London walles.
I cannot buy my beare, my bread, my meate,
My fagots, coales, and such like necessaries,
At the best hand, because I want the coine,
That manie misers cofer up in bagges,
Having enough to serve their turnes besides.
Ah for a tricke to make this Beeches trash
Forsake his cofer and to rest in mine!
I, marrie, sir, how may that tricke be done?
Marrie, with ease and great facilitie.
I will invent some new-found stratagem,
To bring his coyne to my possession.
What though his death relieve my povertie?
Gaine waites on courage, losse on cowardice.

[Exit.

[SCENE II.]

Enter Pandino and Armenia sicke on a bed, Pertillo
their Sonne, Falleria his Brother, Sostrato his Wife,
Alinso their Sonne, and a Scrivener with a Will, &c.

Pan. Brother and sister, pray you both drawe neere,
And heere my will which you have promised
Shall be performde with wished providence.
This little Orphant I must leave behinde,
By your direction to be governed.
As for my wife and I, we do awaite
The blessed houre when it shall please the Lord,
To take us to the iust Ierusalem.
Our chiefest care is for that tender boye,
Which we should leave discomfortlesse behinde,
But that we do assure us of your love
And care to guide his weake unhable youth
In pathes of knowledge, grace, and godlinesse.
As for the riches of this mortall life,
We leave enough; foure hundreth pounds a yeare,
Besides two thousand pounds to make a stocke,
In money, iewels, plate, and houshold stuffe,—
Which yearly rents and goods we leave to you,
To be surrendered into his hands,
When he attaines to yeeres of discreation.
My Will imports thus much, which you shall heare;
And you shall be my sole Executor.

Fall. Brother and sister, how my hart laments
To see your weake and sicke afflicted limmes
Neere overcome with dyrefull malladies,
The God of heaven can truly testifie,—
Which, to speake plaine, is nere a whit at all—
[To the people.
Which knowes the secret corners of my heart;
But for the care you do impose on me,
For the tuition of your little sonne,
Thinke, my kinde brother, I will meditate,
Both day and night, how I may best fulfill,
The care and trust, reposed in your Will,—
And see him posted quickly after you. [To the people.

Arm. Enough, kinde brother; we assure us so,
Else would we seeke another friend abroade,
To do our willes and dying Testament.
Nature and love will have a double care
To bring him up with carefull diligence,
As best beseemes one of such parentage.

Fall. Assure your selfe, the safest course I can, Shall be provided for your little sonne,— He shall be sent unto the King of Heaven. [To the people.

Sostr. Feare not, good brother, and my loving sister,
But we will have as tender care of him
As if he were our owne ten thousand times:
God will be father of the fatherlesse,
And keepe him from all care and wretchednesse.

Allenso. Unckle and Aunt take comfort, I will see My little coozen have no injurie.

Pan. Ar. We thanke you all, come let the Will be read,

Fall.—If it were seald, I would you both were dead.

Scrive. Then give attention, I will read the Will. Reade the Will. In the name of God. Amen.—I, &c.

Pan. Thus, if my Sonne miscarry, my deare brother, You and your sonne shall then enjoy the land And all the goods which he should have possess'd.

Fall. If he miscarry, brother! God forbid!
God blesse mine Nephew, that thine eyes may see
Thy childrens children with prosperity!
I had rather see the little urchin hang'd [To the people.
Then he should live and I forgoe the land.

Ar. Thankes, gentle brother; husband seale the will.

Pand. Give me a Pen and Inke first to subscribe;
I write so ill through very feeblenesse,
That I can scarcely know this hand for mine,
But that you all can witnesse that it is.

Scri. Give me the seale: I pray, sir, take it of. This you deliver for your latest will, And do confirme it for your Testament?

Pand. With all my hart; here, brother, keepe my Will,
And I referre me to the will of God,
Praying him deale as well with you and yours,
As you no doubt will deale with my poore child.
Come, my Pertillo, let me blesse thee, boy,
And lay my halfe-dead hand upon thy head.
God graunt those days that are cut off in me,
With ioy and peace may multiply in thee.
Be slowe to wrath, obey thy Unckle still,
Submit thy selfe unto Gods holy will,
In deede and word see thou be ever true;
So brother, childe, and kinsfolkes, all adue. [He dyeth.

Per. Ah my deere Mother, is my father dead?

Ar. I, my sweete boye, his soule to heaven is fled,
But I shall after him immediatly.
Then take my latest blessing ere I dye:
Come, let me kisse thy little tender lips,
Cold death hath tane possession of thy mother;
Let me imbrace thee in my dying armes,
And pray the Lord protect thee from al harmes.
Brother, I feare, this Child when I am gone,
Wil have great cause of griefe and hideous feare:
You will protect him, but I prophecie,
His share will be of woe and misery:
But mothers feares do make these cares arise;
Come, boye, and close thy mothers dying eyes.
Brother and sister, here [sic] the latest words,
That your dead sister leaves for memory:
If you deale ill with this distressed boye,
God will revenge poore orphants iniuries,
If you deale well, as I do hope you will,
God will defend both you and yours from ill.
Farewell, farewell, now let me breath my last,
Into his dearest mouth, that wanteth breath,
And as we lov'd in life imbrace in death.
Brother and sister this is all I pray,
Tender my boye when we are laide in clay. [Dyeth.

Allen. Gods holy Angell guide your loving soules Unto a place of endlesse happinesse.

Sostr. Amen, Amen. Ah, what a care she had Of her small Orphant! She did dying pray, To love her Childe when she was laide in claye.

Scr. Ah blame her not although she held it deare; She left him yonge, the greater cause of feare.

Fall. Knew she my mind, it would recall her life, [To the people.
And like a staring Commet she would moove
Our harts to think of desolation.—
Scrivenor, have you certified the Will?

Scri. I have.

Fall. Then theres two Duckets for your paines.

Scri. Thankes, gentle sir, and for this time farewell. [Exit.

Sost. Come pretty coozen, cozened by grim death
Of thy most carefull parents all too soone;
Weepe not, sweete boye, thou shalt have cause to say,
Thy Aunt was kinde, though parents lye in claye.

Pert. But give me leave first to lament the losse,
Of my deere parents, nature bindeth me,
To waile the death of those that gave me life,
And if I live untill I be a man,
I will erect a sumptuous monument,
And leave remembrance to ensuing times
Of kind Pandino and Armenia.

Allen. That shall not neede; my father will erect
That sad memoriall of their timeles[5] death,
And at that tombe we will lament and say
Soft lye the bones of faire Armenia.

Fall. Surcease, Allenso; thats a booteless cost,
The Will imports no such iniunction:
I will not spend my little Nephewes wealth,
In such vaine toyes; they shall have funerall,
But with no stately ceremoniall pompe,
Thats good for nought but fooles to gase uppon.
Live thou in hope to have thine unckles land.

Allen. His land! why, father, you have land enough,
And more by much then I do know to use:
I would his vertues would in me survive,
So should my Unckle seeme in me alive.
But to your will I doe submit my selfe;
Do what you please concerning funeralls.

Fall. Come then, away, that we may take in hand,
To have possession of my brothers land,
His goods and all untill he come of age
To rule and governe such possessions.—
That shalbe never, or ile misse my marke,
Till I surrender up my life to death:
And then my Sonne shalbe his fathers heire,
And mount aloft to honors happy chaire.

[Exeunt omnes.

[SCENE III.]

Enter Merry, solus.

Beech hath a score of pounds to helpe his neede,
And I may starve ere he will lend it me:
But in dispight ile have it ere I sleepe,
Although I send him to eternall rest.
But, shallow foole, thou talkst of mighty things,
And canst not compasse what thou dost conceive.
Stay, let me see, ile fetch him to my house,
And in my garret quickly murther him:
The night conceales all in her pitchie cloake,
And none can open what I meane to hide.
But then his boy will say I fetcht him foorth:
I am resolv'd he shall be murthered to [sic];
This toole shall write, subscribe, and seale their death
And send them safely to another world.
But then my sister, and my man at home,
Will not conceale it when the deede is done.
Tush, one for love, the other for reward,
Will never tell the world my close intent.
My conscience saith it is a damned deede
To traine one foorth, and slay him privily.
Peace, conscience, peace, thou art too scripulous [sic];
Gaine doth attend[6] this resolution.
Hence, dastard feare! I must, I can, I will,
Kill my best friend to get a bag of gold.
They shall dye both, had they a thousand lives;
And therefore I will place this hammer here,
And take it as I follow Beech up staires,
That suddenlie, before he is aware,
I may with blowes dash out his hatefull braines.—
Hoe, Rachell, bring my cloake; look to the house,
I will returne againe immediately.

Rach. Here it is brother, I pray you stay not long; Guesse[7] will come in, 'tis almost supper time. [Ex. Ra.

Mer. Let others suppe, ile make a bloudier feast
Then ever yet was drest in Merryes house.
Be like thy selfe then, have a merrie hart,
Thou shalt have gold to mend thy povertie,
And after this live ever wealthilie.

Then Merry must passe to Beeches shoppe, who must sit in his shop, and Winchester his boy stand by: Beech reading.

What, neighbour Beech, so godly occupied?

Beech. I, maister Merry; it were better reade, Then meditate on idle fantasies.

Mer. You speake the trueth; there is a friend or two Of yours making merry in my house, And would desire to have your company.

Beech. Know you their names?

Mer. No truely, nor the men. I never stoode to question them of that, But they desire your presence earnestlie.

Beech. I pray you tell them that I cannot come,
Tis supper time, and many will resort
For ware at this time, above all other times;
Tis Friday night besides, and Bartholomew eve,
Therefore good neighbour make my just excuse.

Mer. In trueth they told me that you should not stay, Goe but to drinke, you may come quick againe,— But not and if my hand and hammer hold. [(To the) people.

Beech. I am unwilling, but I do not care, And if I go to see the Company.

Mer. Come quickly then, they think we stay too long.

Beech. Ile cut a peece of cheese to drink withall.

Mer. I, take the farewell of your cutting knife,
Here is a hand shall helpe to cut your throate,
And give my selfe a fairing[8] from your chest.—
What are you ready, will you goe along?

Beech. I, now I am; boy, looke you tend the shoppe; If any aske, come for me to the Bull. I wonder who they are that aske for me.

Mer. I know not that, you shall see presentlie.
Goe up those staires, your friends do stay above.—
Here is that friend shall shake you by the head,
And make you stagger ere he speake to you.

Then being in the upper Rome Merry strickes
him in the head fifteene times.

Now you are safe, I would the boy were so;
But wherefore wish I, for he shall not live?
For if he doe, I shall not live myselfe.

[Merry wiped [sic] his face from blood.

Lets see what mony he hath in his purse.
Masse heres ten groates, heres something for my pains.
But I must be rewarded better yet.

Enter Rachell and Harry Williams.

Wil. Who was it, Rachell, that went up the staires?

Rach. It was my brother, and a little man Of black complexion, but I know him not.

Wil. Why do you not then carry up a light, But suffer them to tarry in the darke?

Rach. I had forgot, but I will beare one up. [Exit up.

Wil. Do so, I prethee; he will chide anon. [Exit.

[Rachell speaketh to her Brother.

Rach. Oh brother, brother, what have you done?

Mer. Why, murtherd one that would have murtherd me.

Rach. We are undone, brother, we are undone. What shall I say, for we are quite undone?

Mer. Quiet thy selfe, sister; all shalbe well. But see in any case you do not tell, This deede to Williams nor to any one.

Rach. No, no, I will not; was't not maister Beech?

Mer. It was, it is, and I will kill his man, [Exit Rach. Or in attempting doe the best I can.

Enter Williams and Rachell.

Wil. What was the matter that you cride so lowde?

Rach. I must not tell you, but we are undone.

Wil. You must not tell me, but we are undone! Ile know the cause wherefore we are undone. [Exit up.

Rach. Oh would the thing were but to doe againe! The thought thereof doth rent my hart in twaine. [She goes up.

Williams to Merry above.

Wil. Oh maister, maister, what have you done?

Mer. Why slaine a knave that would have murtherd me; Better to kill, then to be kild my selfe.

Wil. With what? wherewith? how have you slaine the man?

Mer. Why, with this hammer I knockt out his braines.

Wil. Oh it was beastly so to butcher him.
If any quarrell were twixt him and you,
You should have bad him meete you in the field,
Not like a coward under your owne roofe
To knock him downe as he had bin an oxe,
Or silly sheepe prepard for slaughter house.
The Lord is just, and will revenge his blood,
On you and yours for this extremitie.
I will not stay an hower within your house,
It is the wickedst deed that ere was done.

Mer. Oh, sir, content your selfe, all shall be well; Whats done already cannot be undone.

Rach. Oh would to God, the deed were now to do,
And I were privie to your ill intent,
You should not do it then for all the world.
But prethie, Harry, do not leave the house,
For then suspition will arise thereof,
And if the thing be knowne we are undone.

Wil. Forsake the house! I will not stay all night, Though you will give the wealth of Christendome.

Mer. But yet conceale it, for the love of God; If otherwise, I know not what to do.

Wil. Here is my hand, ile never utter it; Assure your selfe of that, and so farewell.

Mer. But sweare to me, as God shall help thy soule, Thou wilt not tell it unto any one.

Wil. I will not sweare, but take my honest worde,
And so farewell. My soule assureth me [Exit Merry and Rach.
God will revenge this damn'd iniquitie.
What shall become of me unhappie wretch?
I dare not lodge within my Maisters house,
For feare his murthrous hand should kill me too.
I will go walke and wander up and downe,
And seeke some rest, untill the day appeare.
At the Three Cranes,[9] in some Haye loft ile lye,
And waile my maisters comming miserie.

[Exit.

[SCENE IV.]

Enter Fallerio solus.

Fall. I have possession of my brothers goods;
His tennants pay me rent, acknowledge me
To be their Landlord; they frequent my house,
With Turkeys, Capons, Pigeons, Pigges and Geese,
And all to game my favour and goodwill.
His plate, his iewels, hangings, household stuffe,
May well beseeme to fit a demie King;
His stately buildings, his delightfull walkes,
His fertile meadowes, and rich ploughed lands,
His well-growne woods and stor'd fishing ponds,
Brings endlesse wealth, besides continuall helpe,
To keepe a good and hospitable house:
And shall I ioy these pleasures but a time?
Nay brother, sister, all shall pardon me,
Before ile sell my selfe to penurie.
The world doth know thy brother but resigned
The lands and goods untill his sonne attain'de
To riper years to weld [sic] and governe them.
Then openly thou canst not do him wrong,
He living: theres the burthen of the song.
Call it a burthen, for it seemes so great
And heavie burthen, that the boy should live
And thrust me from this height of happinesse,
That I will not indure so heavie waight,
But shake it off, and live at libertie,
Free from the yoake of such subjection.
The boy shall dye, were he my fathers sonne,
Before ile part with my possession.
Ile call my sonne, and aske his good advice,
How I may best dispatch this serious cause.—
Hoe, sir, Allenso!

Alle. Father.

Fall. Hearken, sonne.
I must intreate your furtherance and advise
About a thing that doth concerne us neere.
First tell me how thou doost affect in heart
Little Pertillo, thy dead Unckles sonne.

Allen. So well, good father, that I cannot tell,
Whether I love him dearer then my selfe;
And yet if that my heart were calde to count,
I thinke it would surrender me to death,
Ere young Pertillo should sustain a wrong.

Fall. How got his safetie such a deepe regarde Within your heart, that you affect it so?

Allen. Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge,
Of his dead father, gives such store of sap
Unto this tree of my affection
That it will never wither till I dye.

Fall. But nature, love, and reason, tells thee thus, Thy selfe must yet be neerest to thyselfe.

Allen. His love dooth not estrange me from my selfe, But doth confirme my strength with multitudes Of benefits his love will yeelde to me.

Fall. Beware to foster such pernicious snakes Within thy bosome, which will poyson thee.

Allen. He is a Dove, a childe, an innocent, And cannot poyson, father, though he would.

Fall. I will be plainer: know, Pertillos life,
Which thou doost call a dove, an innocent,
A harmlesse childe, and, and I know not what,
Will harm thee more, than any Serpent can,
I, then the very sight of Basiliskes.

Allen. Father you tell me of a strange discourse. How can his life produce such detriment, As Basiliskes, whose only sight is death?

Fall. Hearken to me, and I will tell thee how;
Thou knowst his fathers goods, his houses, lands,
Have much advaunc'd our reputation,
In having but their usage for a time.
If the boy live, then like to sencelesse beasts,
Like longd-eard Asses and riche-laden Mules,
We must resign these treasures to a boye,
And we like Asses feede on simple haye:
Make him away, they shall continue ours
By vertue of his fathers Testament,—
The iewels, castles, medowes, houses, lands,
Which thy small cozen should defeate thee of,
Be still thine owne, and thou advance thy selfe,
Above the height of all thine Auncestours.

Allen. But if I mount by murther and deceite,
Iustice will thrust aspiring thoughts belowe,
And make me caper for to breake my neck,
After some wofull lamentation
Of my obedience to unlawfulnesse.
I tell you plaine, I would not have him dye,
Might I enjoy the Soldans Emperie.

Fall. What, wilt thou barre thy selfe of happinesse?
Stop the large streame of pleasures which would flowe,
And still attend on thee like Servingmen?
Preferre the life of him that loves thee not
Before thine owne and my felicitie?

Allen. Ide rather choose to feede on carefulnesse, To ditche, to delve, and labour for my bread, Nay rather choose to begge from doore to doore, Then condiscend to offer violence To young Pertillo in his innocence. I know you speake, to sound what mightie share Pertillo hath in my affection.

Fall. In faith I do not; therefore, prethie, say, Wilt thou consent to have him made away?

Allen. Why, then in faithe I am ashamde to think,
I had my being from so foule a lumpe
Of adulation and unthankfulnesse.
Ah, had their dying praiers no availe
Within your hart? no, damnd extorcion
Hath left no roome for grace to harbor in!
Audacious sinne, how canst thou make him say
Consent to make my brothers sonne away?

Fall. Nay if you ginne to brawle, withdrawe your selfe, But utter not the motion[10] that I made, As you love me, or do regarde your life.

Allen. And as you love my safetie and your soule, Let grace and feare of God, such thoughts controule.

Fall. Still pratling! let your grace and feare alone,
And leave me quickly to my private thoughts,
Or with my sword ile open wide a gate,
For wrath and bloudie death to enter in.

Allen. Better you gave me death and buriall, Then such foule deeds should overthrow us all.

Fall. Still are you wagging that rebellious tounge!
Ile dig it out for Crowes to feede upon,
If thou continue longer in my sight. [Exit Allenso.
He loves him better then he loves his life!
Heres repetition of my brothers care,
Of sisters chardge, of grace, and feare of God.
Feare dastards, cowards, faint hart runawayes!
Ile feare no coulours[11] to obteine my will,
Though all the fiends in hell were opposite.
Ide rather loose mine eye, my hand, my foote,
Be blinde, wante senses, and be ever lame,
Then be tormented with such discontent
This resignation would afflict me with.
Be blithe, my boy, thy life shall sure be done,
Before the setting of the morrowe sunne.
[Exit.

Enter Avarice and Homicide bloody.

Hom. Make hast, runne headlong to destruction!
I like thy temper that canst change a heart
From yeelding flesh to Flinte and Adamant.
Thou hitst it home, where thou doost fasten holde;
Nothing can separate the love of golde.

Ava. Feare no relenting, I dare pawne my soule,
(And thats no gadge, it is the divels due)
He shall imbrew his greedie griping hands
In the dead bosome of the bloodie boy,
And winde himselfe, his sonne, and harmlesse wife,
In endlesse foldes of sure destruction.
Now, Homicide, thy lookes are like thyselfe,
For blood and death are thy companions.
Let my confounding plots but goe before,
And thou shalt wade up to the chin in gore.

Homi. I finde it true, for where thou art let in,
There is no scruple made of any sinne;
The world may see thou art the roote of ill,
For but for thee poore Beech had lived still.

[Exeunt.