  THE PLEASANT COMEDY OF OLD FORTUNATUS. decoration The Pleasant Comedy of Old Fortunatus was first published in 1600, having been produced at Court on the Christmas before. The play as it stands is an amplification and a recast of an earlier play, The First Part of Fortunatus, which had been performed at Henslowe’s Theatre about four years previously. This had long been laid aside, when the idea seems to have occurred to Henslowe to revive it in fuller form, and Dekker was commissioned to write a second part, with the result that he recast the whole in one play instead, adding the episode of the sons of Fortunatus to the original version. So far, the whole play was taken from the same source, the old Volksbuch of “Fortunatus,” which, first published at Augsburg in 1509, was popular in various languages in the sixteenth century. An interesting account of this legend and of its connection with the play, is given in Professor Herford’s “Studies in the Literary Relations of England and Germany in the Sixteenth Century,” from which the present note on the play is largely drawn. When Dekker had completed his recast of the play, it was immediately ordered for performance at Court, and further scenes, in this case altogether extraneous to the original story—those, namely, in which Virtue and Vice are introduced as rivals to Fortune—were added with a special view to this end. Otherwise the play is pretty faithful to the story, even in its absurdities. It is worth mention that Hans Sachs had already dramatized the subject in 1553, which may have had something to do indirectly with the production of the first English version. In the original quarto of 1600, Old Fortunatus is not divided into acts and scenes, and the division is here attempted for the first time. It has been necessary also in some instances to supply stage directions. THE PROLOGUE AT COURT. |
| Cornwall, | } | English Nobles. |
| Chester, | ||
| Lincoln, |
| Montrose, | } | Scotch Nobles. |
| Galloway, |
| Orleans, | } | French Nobles. |
| Longaville, |
Fortunatus.
| Ampedo, | } | Sons of Fortunatus. |
| Andelocia, |
Kings, Nobles, Soldiers, Satyrs, a Carter, a Tailor, a Monk, a Shepherd, Chorus, Boys and other Attendants.
Agripyne, Daughter of Athelstane.
| Fortune, | } | Goddesses. |
| Virtue, | ||
| Vice, |
Nymphs, Ladies, &c.
OLD FORTUNATUS.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—A Wood in Cyprus.
Enter Fortunatus meanly attired; he walks about cracking nuts ere he speaks.
Fort. So, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Echo [Within.]. Ho, ho, ho, ho.
Fort. There, boy.
Echo. There, boy.
Fort. An thou bee’st a good fellow, tell me how call’st this wood.
Echo. This wood.
Fort. Ay, this wood, and which is my best way out.
Echo. Best way out.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, that’s true, my best way out is my best way out, but how that out will come in, by this maggot I know not. I see by this we are all worms’ meat. Well, I am very poor and very patient; Patience is a virtue: would I were not virtuous, that’s to say, not poor, but full of vice, that’s to say, full of chinks. Ha, ha, so I am, for I am so full of chinks, that a horse with one eye may look through and through me. I have sighed long, and that makes me windy; I have fasted long, and that makes me chaste; marry, I have prayed
Echo. Sirrah Echo.
Fort. Here’s a nut.
Echo. Here’s a nut.
Fort. Crack it.
Echo. Crack it.
Fort. Hang thyself.
Echo. Hang thyself.
Fort. Th’art a knave, a knave.
Echo. A knave, a knave.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Echo. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Fort. Why so, two fools laugh at one another, I at my tittle tattle gammer Echo, and she at me. Shortly there will creep out in print some filthy book of the old hoary wandering knight, meaning me: would I were that book, for then I should be sure to creep out from hence. I should be a good soldier, for I traverse my ground rarely; marry I see neither enemy nor friends, but popinjays, and squirrels, and apes, and owls, and daws, and wagtails, and the spite is that none of these grass-eaters can speak my language, but this fool that mocks me, and swears to have the last word, in spite of my teeth, ay, and she shall have it because she is a woman, which kind of cattle are indeed all echo, nothing but tongue, and are like the great bell of St. Michael’s
Echo. A pox on thee for mocking me.
Fort. Why so, Snip snap, this war is at an end, but
Echo. Farewell, fool.
Fort. Are not these comfortable words to a wise man? All hail, signor tree, by your leave I’ll sleep under your leaves. I pray bow to me, and I’ll bend to you, for your back and my brows must, I doubt, have a game or two at noddy ere I wake again: down, great heart, down. Hey, ho, well, well. [He lies down and sleeps.
Enter a Shepherd, a Carter,
Song.
The Kings. We dwell with cares, yet cannot quickly die. [Exeunt all singing, except Fortunatus.
Fort. But now go dwell with cares and quickly die? How quickly? if I die to-morrow, I’ll be merry to-day: if next day, I’ll be merry to-morrow. Go dwell with cares? Where dwells Care? Hum ha, in what house dwells Care, that I may choose an honester neighbour? In princes’ courts? No. Among fair ladies? Neither: there’s no care dwells with them, but care how to be most gallant. Among gallants then? Fie, fie, no! Care is afraid sure of a gilt rapier, the scent of musk is her prison, tobacco chokes her, rich attire presseth her to death. Princes, fair ladies and gallants, have amongst you then, for this wet-eyed wench Care dwells with wretches: they are wretches that feel want, I shall feel none if I be never poor; therefore, Care, I cashier you my company. I wonder what blind gossip this minx is that is so prodigal; she should be a good one by her open dealing: her name’s Fortune: it’s no matter what she is, so she does as she says. “Thou shalt spend ever, and be never poor.” Mass, yet I feel nothing here to make me rich:—here’s no sweet music with her silver sound. Try deeper: ho God be here: ha, ha, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten, good, just ten. It’s gold sure, it’s so heavy, try again, one, two, &c. Good again, just ten, and just ten. Ha, ha, ha, this is rare: a leather mint, admirable: an Indian mine in a lamb’s skin, miraculous! I’ll fill three or four bags full for my sons, but keep this for myself. If that lean tawny face tobacconist Death, that turns all into smoke, must turn me so quickly into ashes, yet I will not mourn in ashes, but in music, hey, old lad, be merry. Here’s riches, wisdom, strength, health, beauty, and long life (if I die not quickly). Sweet purse, I kiss thee; Fortune, I adore thee; Care, I despise thee; Death, I defy thee.
SCENE II.—Outside the House of Fortunatus.
Enter Ampedo, Shadow after him, both sad: then Andelocia.
Andel. ’Sheart,
Shad. Ay, master, and we are both forsworn, as all such wooden knights be, for we both took an oath—marry it was not corporal, you may see by our cheeks, that we would not fast twenty-four hours to amend, and we have tasted no meat since the clock told two dozen.
Andel. That lacks not much of twenty-four, but I wonder when that half-faced moon of thine will be at the full.
Shad. The next quarter, not this, when the sign is in Taurus.
But, Shadow, what day is to-day?
Shad. Fasting day.
Andel. What day was yesterday?
Shad. Fasting day too.
Andel. Will to-morrow be so too?
Shad. Ay, and next day too.
For a lean diet makes a fat wit.
Shad. I had rather be a fool and wear a fat pair of cheeks.
Andel. Now I am prouder of this poverty, which I know is mine own, than a waiting gentlewoman is of a frizzled groatsworth of hair, that never grew on her head. Sir Shadow, now we can all three swear like Puritans at one bare word: this want makes us like good bowlers, we are able to rub out and shift in every place.
Shad. That’s not so, we have shifted ourselves in no
Andel. Why, brother Ampedo, art thou not yet tired with riding post? Come, come, ’light from this logger-headed jade, and walk afoot, and talk with your poor friends.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, he is like me: if his belly be empty, his heart is full.
Andel. The famine of gold gnaws his covetous stomach, more than the want of good victuals: thou hast looked very devilishly ever since the good angel
Infect my taste, I could paint o’er my cheeks
With ruddy-coloured smiles: ’tis not the want
Of costly diet or desire of gold
Enforces rupture in my wounded breast.
Oh no, our father—if he live—doth lie
Under the iron foot of misery,
And, as a dove gripped in a falcon’s claw,
There pant’th for life being most assured of death.
Brother, for him my soul thus languisheth.
This strumpet World; for her most beauteous looks
Are poisoned baits, hung upon golden hooks:
When fools do swim in wealth, her Cynthian beams
Will wantonly dance on the silver streams;
But when this squint-eyed age sees Virtue poor,
And by a little spark sits shivering,
Begging at all, relieved at no man’s door,
She smiles on her, as the sun shines on fire,
To kill that little heat, and, with her little frown,
Therefore her wrinkled brow makes not mine sour,
Her gifts are toys, and I desire her power.
Shad. ’Tis not the crab-tree faced World neither that makes mine sour.
Andel. Her gifts toys! Well, brother Virtue, we have let slip the ripe plucking of those toys so long, that we flourish like apple-trees in September, which, having the falling sickness, bear neither fruit nor leaves.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, master, none flourish in these withering times, but ancient bearers
Andel. Shadow, when thou provest a substance, then the tree of virtue and honesty, and such fruit of Heaven, shall flourish upon earth.
Shad. True; or when the sun shines at midnight, or women fly, and yet they are light enough.
Andel. ’Twas never merry world with us, since purses and bags were invented, for now men set lime-twigs to catch wealth: and gold, which riseth like the sun out of the East Indies, to shine upon every one, is like a cony taken napping in a pursenet,
Shad. Snudges
Andel. Doth it not vex thee, Shadow, to stalk up and down Cyprus, and to meet the outside of a man, lapped all in damask, his head and beard as white as milk, only with conjuring in the snowy circles of the field argent, and his nose as red as scarlet, only with kissing
Shad. And you his brother Vice!
Andel. Most true, my little lean Iniquity—whilst we three, if we should starve, cannot borrow five shillings of him neither in word nor deed: does not this vex thee, Shadow?
Shad. Not me; it vexes me no more to see such a picture, than to see an ass laden with riches, because I know when he can bear no longer, he must leave his burthen to some other beast.
Andel. Art not thou mad, to see money on goldsmiths’ stalls, and none in our purses?
Shad. It mads not me, I thank the destinies.
Andel. By my poverty, and that’s but a thread-bare oath, I am more than mad to see silks and velvets lie crowding together in mercers’ shops, as in prisons, only for fear of the smell of wax—they cannot abide to see a man made out of wax, for these satin commodities have such smooth consciences that they’ll have no man give his word for them or stand bound for their coming forth, but vow to lie till they rot in those shop counters, except Monsieur Money bail them. Shadow, I am out of my little wits to see this.
Shad. So is not Shadow: I am out of my wits, to see fat gluttons feed all day long, whilst I that am lean fast every day: I am out of my wits, to see our Famagosta fools turn half a shop of wares into a suit of gay apparel, only to make other idiots laugh, and wise men to cry, who’s the fool now? I am mad, to see soldiers beg, and cowards brave: I am mad, to see scholars in the broker’s shop, and dunces in the mercer’s: I am mad, to see men that have no more fashion in them than poor Shadow, yet must leap thrice a day into three orders of fashions:
I am glad to see thee thus mad.
Thus to repine at others’ happiness:
But fools have always this loose garment wore,
Being poor themselves, they wish all others poor.
Fie, brother Andelocia, hate this madness,
Turn your eyes inward, and behold your soul,
That wants more than your body; burnish that
With glittering virtue, and make idiots grieve
To see your beauteous mind in wisdom shine,
As you at their rich poverty repine.
Enter Fortunatus, gallant.
Andel. Peace, good Virtue; Shadow, here comes another shadow.
Shad. It should be a chameleon: for he is all in colours.
My love and duty greet your fair return!
A double gladness hath refreshed my soul;
One, that you live, and one, to see your fate
Looks freshly howsoever poor in state.
Andel. My father Fortunatus, and thus brave?
Shad. ’Tis no wonder to see a man brave, but a wonder how he comes brave.
And my poor servant Shadow, plume your spirits
With light-winged mirth; for Fortunatus’ hand
Can now pour golden showers into their laps
That sometimes scorned him for his want of gold.
Boys, I am rich, and you shall ne’er be poor;
Wear gold, spend gold, we all in gold will feed,
Now is your father Fortunate indeed.
Andel. Father, be not angry, if I set open the windows of my mind: I doubt for all your bragging, you’ll prove like most of our gallants in Famagosta, that have a rich outside and a beggarly inside, and like mules wear gay trappings, and good velvet foot-cloths
Of gold’s sweet music: tell me what you hear?
Amp. Believe me, sir, I hear not any thing.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. ’Sheart, I thought as much; if I hear any jingling, but of the purse strings that go flip flap, flip flap, flip flap, would I were turned into a flip-flap,
Fort. Shadow, I’ll try thine ears; hark, dost rattle?
Shad. Yes, like three blue beans in a blue bladder, rattle bladder, rattle: your purse is like my belly, th’ one’s without money, th’ other without meat.
You misbelieving pagans, see, here’s gold—
Ten golden pieces: take them, Ampedo.
Hold, Andelocia, here are ten for thee.
Amp. Shadow, there’s one for thee, provide thee food.
Fort. Stay, boy: hold, Shadow, here are ten for thee.
Shad. Ten, master? then defiance to fortune, and a fig for famine.
Fort. Now tell me, wags, hath my purse gold or no?
Andel. We the wags have gold, father; but I think there’s not one angel more wagging in this sacred temple. Why, this is rare: Shadow, five will serve thy turn, give me th’ other five.
Shad. Nay, soft, master, liberality died long ago. I see some rich beggars are never well, but when they be
Let not an open hand disperse that store,
Which gone, life’s gone; for all tread down the poor.
Disdain, my boys, to kiss the tawny cheeks
Of lean necessity: make not inquiry
How I came rich; I am rich, let that suffice.
There are four leathern bags trussed full of gold:
Those spent, I’ll fill you more. Go, lads, be gallant:
Shine in the streets of Cyprus like two stars,
And make them bow their knees that once did spurn you;
For, to effect such wonders, gold can turn you.
Brave it in Famagosta, or elsewhere;
I’ll travel to the Turkish Emperor,
And then I’ll revel it with Prester John,
Or banquet with great Cham
And try what frolic court the Soldan keeps.
I’ll leave you presently. Tear off these rags;
Glitter, my boys, like angels,
May, whilst our life in pleasure’s circle roams,
Wonder at Fortunatus and his sons.
SCENE III.—A Wood in Cyprus.
Music sounds. Enter Vice with a gilded face, and horns on her head; her garments long, painted before with silver half-moons, increasing by little and little till they come to the full; while in the midst of them is written in capital letters, “Crescit Eundo.” Behind her garments are painted with fools’ faces and heads; and in the midst is written, “Ha, Ha, He.” She, and others wearing gilded vizards and attired like devils, bring out a fair tree of gold with apples on it.
After her comes Virtue, with a coxcomb on her head, and her attire all in white before; about the middle is written “Sibi sapit.” Her attire behind is painted with crowns and laurel garlands, stuck full of stars held by hands thrust out of bright clouds, and among them is written, “Dominabitur astris.” She and other nymphs, all in white with coxcombs on their heads, bring a tree with green and withered leaves mingled together, and with little fruit on it.
After her comes Fortune, with two Nymphs, one bearing her wheel, another her globe.
And last, the Priest.
Tear off this upper garment of the earth,
And in her naked bosom stick these trees.
Only to find a climate, apt to cherish
These withering branches? But no ground can prove
So happy; ay me, none do Virtue love.
I’ll try this soil; if here I likewise fade,
To Heaven I’ll fly, from whence I took my birth,
And tell the Gods, I am banished from the earth.
Here, opposite to thine, my tree shall flourish,
And as the running wood-bine spreads her arms,
To choke thy withering boughs in their embrace,
Vice as an angel should be honourÈd.
Apply your task whilst you are labouring:
To make your pains seem short our priest shall sing.
[Whilst the Priest sings, the rest set the trees into the earth.
Song.
O pity, pity, and alack the time,
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb.
Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity,
She in every land doth monarchize.
Virtue is exiled from every city,
Virtue is a fool, Vice only wise.
O pity, pity, Virtue weeping dies.
Vice laughs to see her faint,—alack the time.
This sinks; with painted wings the other flies:
Alack that best should fall, and bad should climb.
O pity, pity, pity, mourn, not sing,
Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling.
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Virtue’s branches wither, Virtue pines.
Want cunning to entice: why hang these leaves,
As loose as autumn’s hair which every wind
In mockery blows from his rotten brows?
Why like a drunkard art thou pointed at?
Why is this motley-scorn
Why stands thy court wide open, but none in it?
Why are the crystal pavements of thy temple,
Not worn, not trod upon? All is for this,
Because thy pride is to wear base attire,
Because thine eyes flame not with amorous fire.
Nor Sibi sapit, painted on thy breast,
Allures mortality to seek thy love.
No: now the great wheel of thy globe hath run,
And met this first point of creation.
On crutches went this world but yesterday,
Now it lies bed-rid, and is grown so old,
That it’s grown young; for ’tis a child again,
A childish soul it hath, ’tis a mere fool:
And fools and children are well pleased with toys.
So must this world, with shows it must be pleased,
Then, Virtue, buy a golden face like Vice,
And hang thy bosom full of silver moons,
To tell the credulous world, As those increase,
As the bright moon swells in her pearlÈd sphere,
So wealth and pleasures them to Heaven shall rear.
And I am proud to wear the scorn of fools.
Fled to some bosom: if I meet that breast,
There I’ll erect my temple, and there rest.
Fortune nor Vice shall then e’er have the power
By their loose eyes to entice my paramour.
Then will I cast off this deformity,
And shine in glory, and triumph to see
You conquered at my feet, that tread on me.
If my angelical and saint-like form
Can win some amorous fool to wanton here,
And taste the fruit of this alluring tree,
Thus shall his saucy brows adornÈd be,
To make us laugh. [Makes horns.
If any be enamoured of thine eyes,
Their love must needs beget deformities.
Men are transformed to beasts, feasting with sin;
But if in spite of thee their souls I win,
To taste this fruit, though thou disguise their head,
Their shapes shall be re-metamorphosÈd.
ACT THE SECOND
Enter Chorus.
Is as a small point in geometry,
Whose greatness is so little, that a less
Cannot be made: into that narrow room,
Your quick imaginations we must charm,
To turn that world: and turned, again to part it
Into large kingdoms, and within one moment
To carry Fortunatus on the wings
Of active thought, many a thousand miles.
Suppose then, since you last beheld him here,
That you have sailed with him upon the seas,
And leapt with him upon the Asian shores,
Been feasted with him in the Tartar’s palace,
And all the courts of each barbarian king:
From whence being called by some unlucky star,—
For happiness never continues long,
Help me to bring him back to Arragon,
Where for his pride—riches make all men proud—
On slight quarrel, by a covetous Earl,
Fortune’s dear minion is imprisonÈd.
There think you see him sit with folded arms,
Tears dropping down his cheeks, his white hairs torn,
His legs in rusty fetters, and his tongue
Bitterly cursing that his squint-eyed soul
Fortune, to triumph in inconstancy,
From prison bails him: liberty is wild,
For being set free, he like a lusty eagle
Cut with his vent’rous feathers through the sky,
And ’lights not till he find the Turkish court.
Thither transport your eyes, and there behold him,
Revelling with the Emperor of the East,
From whence through fear, for safeguard of his life,
Flying into the arms of ugly Night,
Suppose you see him brought to Babylon;
And that the sun clothed all in fire hath rid
One quarter of his hot celestial way
With the bright morning, and that in this instant,
He and the Soldan meet, but what they say,
Listen you—the talk of kings none dare bewray. [Exit.
SCENE I.—The Court at Babylon.
Enter the Soldan, Noblemen, and Fortunatus.
Being carried in the chariot of the winds,
Hast filled the courts of all our Asian kings
With love and envy, whose dear presence ties
The eyes of admiration to thine eyes?
Art thou that Jove that in a shower of gold
Appeared’st before the Turkish Emperor?
A second I bestowed on Prester John,
A third the great Tartarian Cham received:
For with these monarchs have I banqueted,
And rid with them in triumph through their courts,
In crystal chariots drawn by unicorns.
England, France, Spain, and wealthy Belgia,
And all the rest of Europe’s blessed daughters,
Have made my covetous eye rich in th’ embrace
Of their celestial beauties; now I come
To see the glory of fair Babylon.
Is Fortunatus welcome to the Soldan?
For I am like the sun, if Jove once chide,
My gilded brows from amorous Heaven I hide.
In circling such an earthly deity;
But will not Fortunatus make me blessed
By sight of such a purse?
The Soldan shall receive one at my hands:
For I must spend some time in framing it,
And then some time to breathe that virtuous spirit
Into the heart thereof, all which is done
By a most sacred inspiration.
Stay here and be the King of Babylon:
Stay here, I will more amaze thine eyes
With wondrous sights, than can all Asia.
Behold yon town, there stands mine armoury,
In which are corselets forged of beaten gold,
To arm ten hundred thousand fighting men,
Whose glittering squadrons when the sun beholds,
They seem like to ten hundred thousand Joves,
When Jove on the proud back of thunder rides,
Trapped all in lightning flames: there can I show thee
There shalt thou see the scarf of Cupid’s mother,
Snatched from the soft moist ivory of her arm,
To wrap about Adonis’ wounded thigh;
There shalt thou see a wheel of Titan’s care,
Which dropped from Heaven when Phaeton fired the world:
I’ll give thee, if thou wilt, two silver doves
Composed by magic to divide the air,
Who, as they fly, shall clap their silver wings,
And give strange music to the elements;
I’ll give thee else the fan of Proserpine,
Which in reward for a sweet Thracian song,
The black-browed Empress threw to Orpheus,
Being come to fetch Eurydice from hell.
So thou wilt give the Soldan such a purse.
The mighty Soldan shall have such a purse,
Provided I may see these priceless wonders.
Acquainted with the virtue of a jewel,
Which now I’ll show, out-valuing all the rest.
Fettered in golden chains, the lock pure gold,
The key of solid gold, which myself keep,
And here’s the treasure that’s contained in it. [Takes out the hat.
On pain of death, none listen to our talk.
Of this inestimable ornament,
But you: and yet not you, but that you swear
By her white hand, that lent you such a name,
To leave a wondrous purse in Babylon.
But now uncover the virtues of this hat.
Gold could beget them, but the wide world’s wealth
Buys not this hat: this clapped upon my head,
I, only with a wish, am through the air
Transported in a moment over seas
And over lands to any secret place;
By this I steal to every prince’s court,
And hear their private counsels and prevent
All dangers which to Babylon are meant;
By help of this I oft see armies join,
Though when the dreadful Alvarado
I am distant from the place a thousand leagues.
Oh, had I such a purse and such a hat,
The Soldan were, of all, most fortunate.
Where’s he that made it?
Yields not a workman that can frame the like.
Methinks, methinks, when you are borne o’er seas,
Should weigh you down, drown you, or break your neck.
Your hand shall peise
Treason, lords, treason, get me wings, I’ll fly
After this damnÈd traitor through the air.
Re-enter Nobles.
Like a magician breaks he through the clouds,
Bearing my soul with him, for that jewel gone,
I am dead, and all is dross in Babylon.
Fly after him!—’tis vain: on the wind’s wings,
He’ll ride through all the courts of earthly kings.
For I’ll consume my life in sorrowing. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Outside the House of Fortunatus.
Enter Andelocia, very gallant,
Andel. Shadow? what have I lost to-day at dice?
Shad. More than you will win again in a month.
Andel. Why, sir, how much comes it to?
Shad. It comes to nothing, sir, for you have lost your wits; and when a man’s wits are lost, the man is like twenty pounds’ worth of tobacco, which mounts into th’ air, and proves nothing but one thing.
Andel. And what thing is that, you ass?
Shad. Marry, sir, that he is an ass that melts so much money in smoke.
Andel. ’Twere a charitable deed to hang thee a smoking.
Shad. I should never make good bacon, because I am not fat.
Andel. I’ll be sworn thy wit is lean.
Shad. It’s happy I have a lean wit: but, master, you have none; for when your money tripped away, that went after it, and ever since you have been mad. Here comes your brother.
Enter Ampedo.
Borrow a dram of him, if his be not mouldy: for men’s wits in these days are like the cuckoo, bald once a year, and that makes motley so dear, and fools so good cheap.
Andel. Brother, all hail.
Shad. There’s a rattling salutation.
Andel. You must lend me some more money. Nay, never look so strange, an you will come off, so; if you will bar me from square play, do. Come, come, when the old traveller my father comes home, like a young ape, full of fantastic tricks, or a painted parrot stuck full of outlandish feathers, he’ll lead the world in a string, and then like a hot shot I’ll charge and discharge all.
Shad. I would be loth, master, to see that day: for he leads the world in a string that goes to hanging.
Brother wilt be? Ha’ ye any ends of gold or silver?
Want would make wisdom rich: but when your coffers
Swell to the brim, then riot sets up sails,
And like a desperate unskilled mariner
Drives your unsteady fortunes on the point
Of wreck inevitable. Of all the wealth
Left by our father, when he left us last,
This little is unspent, and this being wasted,
Your riot ends; therefore consume it all.
I’ll live; or dying, find some burial.
Andel. Thanks for my crowns.
Shad. I am a villain, master, if I am not hungry.
Andel. Because I’ll save this gold, sirrah Shadow, we’ll feed ourselves with paradoxes.
Shad. Oh rare: what meat’s that?
Andel. Meat, you gull: ’tis no meat: a dish of paradoxes is a feast of strange opinion, ’tis an ordinary that our greatest gallants haunt nowadays, because they would be held for statesmen.
Shad. I shall never fill my belly with opinions.
Andel. In despite of sway-bellies, gluttons, and sweet mouthed epicures, I’ll have thee maintain a paradox in commendations of hunger.
Shad. I shall never have the stomach to do’t.
Andel. See’st thou this crusado?
Shad. Covetousness and lechery are two devils, they’ll tempt a man to wade through deep matters: I’ll do’t though good cheer conspire my death, for speaking treason against her.
Andel. Fall to it then with a full mouth.
I begin, master.
Amp. O miserable invocation.
Andel. Silence!
Shad. There’s no man but loves one of these three beasts, a horse, a hound, or a whore; the horse by his goodwill has his head ever in the manger; the whore with your ill will has her hand ever in your purse; and a hungry dog eats dirty puddings.
Andel. This is profound, forward: the conclusion of this now.
Shad. The conclusion is plain: for since all men love one of these three monsters, being such terrible eaters, therefore all men love hunger.
Amp. A very lean argument.
Shad. I can make it no fatter.
Andel. Proceed, good Shadow; this fats me.
Shad. Hunger is made of gunpowder.
Andel. Give fire to that opinion.
Shad. Stand by, lest it blow you up. Hunger is made of gunpowder, or gunpowder of hunger, for they both eat through stone walls; hunger is a grindstone, it sharpens wit; hunger is fuller of love than Cupid, for it makes a man eat himself; hunger was the first that ever opened a cook shop, cooks the first that ever made sauce, sauce being liquorish, licks up good meat; good meat preserves life: hunger therefore preserves life.
Amp. By my consent thou shouldst still live by hunger.
Shad. Not so, hunger makes no man mortal: hunger is an excellent physician, for he dares kill any body. Hunger is one of the seven liberal sciences.
Andel. Oh learned! Which of the seven?
Shad. Music, for she’ll make a man leap at a crust; but as few care for her six sisters, so none love to dance after her pipe. Hunger, master, is hungry and covetous; therefore the crusado.
Andel. But hast thou no sharper reasons than this?
Shad. Yes, one: the dagger of Cyprus had never stabbed out such six penny pipes, but for hunger.
Andel. Why, you dolt, these pipes
Shad. My belly and my purse have been twenty times at dagger’s drawing, with parting the little urchins.
Enter Fortunatus.
Amp. Peace, idiot, peace, my father is returned.
Fort. Touch me not, boys, I am nothing but air; let none speak to me, till you have marked me well.
Shad. (Chalking Fortunatus’ back.) Now speak your mind.
Amp. Villain, why hast thou chalked my father’s back?
Shad. Only to mark him, and to try what colour air is of.
Fort. Regard him not, Ampedo: Andelocia, Shadow, view me, am I as you are, or am I transformed?
Andel. I thought travel would turn my father madman or fool.
Amp. How should you be transformed? I see no change.
Shad. If your wits be not planet stricken, if your brains lie in their right place, you are well enough; for your body is little mended by your fetching vagaries.
Andel. Methinks, father, you look as you did, only your face is more withered.
Fort. That’s not my fault; age is like love, it cannot be hid.
Shad. Or like gunpowder a-fire, or like a fool, or like a young novice new come to his lands: for all these will show of what house they come. Now, sir, you may amplify.
Fort. Shadow, turn thy tongue to a shadow, be silent! Boys, be proud, your father hath the whole world in this compass, I am all felicity, up to the brims. In a minute
Andel. How? in a minute, father? Ha, ha, I see travellers must lie.
Shad. ’Tis their destiny: the Fates do so conspire.
Fort. I have cut through the air like a falcon; I would have it seem strange to you.
Shad. So it does, sir.
Fort. But ’tis true: I would not have you believe it neither.
Shad. No more we do not, sir.
Fort. But ’tis miraculous and true. Desire to see you, brought me to Cyprus. I’ll leave you more gold, and go visit more countries.
Shad. Leave us gold enough, and we’ll make all countries come visit us.
And strews her snowy flowers upon your head,
And gives you warning that within few years,
Death needs must marry you: those short-lived minutes,
That dribble out your life, must needs be spent
In peace, not travel: rest in Cyprus then.
Could you survey ten worlds, yet you must die;
And bitter is the sweet that’s reaped thereby.
Andel. Faith, father, what pleasure have you met by walking your stations?
Fort. What pleasure, boy? I have revelled with kings, danced with queens, dallied with ladies, worn strange attires, seen fantasticos, conversed with humorists, been ravished with divine raptures of Doric, Lydian and Phrygian harmonies. I have spent the day in triumphs, and the night in banqueting.
Andel. Oh rare: this was heavenly.
Shad. Methinks ’twas horrible.
Andel. He that would not be an Arabian phoenix to burn in these sweet fires, let him live like an owl for the world to wonder at.
Amp. Why, brother, are not all these vanities?
Fort. Vanities? Ampedo, thy soul is made of lead, too dull, too ponderous to mount up to the incomprehensible glory that travel lifts men to.
Shad. My old master’s soul is cork and feathers, and being so light doth easily mount up.
Andel. Sweeten mine ears, good father, with some more.
We yawned like sluggards, when this small horizon
Imprisoned up my body, then mine eyes
Worshipped these clouds as brightest; but, my boys,
The glist’ring beams which do abroad appear
In other heavens,—fire is not half so clear.
Shad. Why, sir, are there other heavens in other countries?
Andel. Peace; interrupt him not upon thy life.
I scorned to crowd among the muddy throng
Of the rank multitude, whose thickened breath,
Like to condensÈd fogs, do choke that beauty,
Which else would dwell in every kingdom’s cheek.
No, I still boldly stept into their courts,
For there to live ’tis rare, O ’tis divine;
There shall you see faces angelical,
There shall you see troops of chaste goddesses,
Whose star-like eyes have power, might they still shine,
To make night day, and day more crystalline.
Near these you shall behold great heroes,
White-headed counsellors and jovial spirits,
Standing like fiery cherubims to guard
The monarch, who in god-like glory sits
In midst of these, as if this deity
Had with a look created a new world,
The standers by being the fair workmanship.
Andel. Oh how my soul is rapt to a third heaven. I’ll travel sure, and live with none but kings.
Shad. Then Shadow must die among knaves; and yet why so? In a bunch of cards, knaves wait upon the kings.
Andel. When I turn king, then shalt thou wait on me.
Shad. Well, there’s nothing impossible: a dog has his day, and so have you.
Beheld such glory, so majestical
In all perfection, no way blemishÈd?
Sit piercing Dedalus’ old waxen wings,
But being clapped on, and they about to fly,
Even when their hopes are busied in the clouds,
They melt against the sun of majesty,
And down they tumble to destruction:
For since the Heaven’s strong arms teach kings to stand,
Angels are placed about their glorious throne,
To guard it from the strokes of trait’rous hands.
By travel, boys, I have seen all these things.
Fantastic compliment stalks up and down,
Tricked in outlandish feathers, all his words,
His looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous,
All apish, childish, and Italianate.
Enter Fortune in the background: after her The Three Destinies,
Shad. I know a medicine for that malady.
Fort. By travel, boys, I have seen all these things.
Andel. And these are sights for none but gods and kings.
Shad. Yes, and for Christian creatures, if they be not blind.
This leather purse, and this bald woollen hat
Make me a monarch. Here’s my crown and sceptre!
In progress will I now go through the world.
I’ll crack your shoulders, boys, with bags of gold
Ere I depart; on Fortune’s wings I ride,
And now sit in the height of human pride.
These shall throw down thy cold and breathless head.
That Death’s iron fist should wrestle with thy son? [All kneel.
Thy cedar hath aspired to his full height.
Thy sun-like glory hath advanced herself
Into the top of pride’s meridian,
And down amain it comes. From beggary
I plumed thee like an ostrich, like that ostrich
Thou hast eaten metals, and abused my gifts,
Hast played the ruffian, wasted that in riots
Which as a blessing I bestowed on thee.
Thou hadst thy fancy, I must have thy fate,
Which is, to die when th’art most fortunate.
This inky thread, thy ugly sins have spun,
Black life, black death; faster! that it were done.
And Death’s stern brow could not thy soul affright.
So shall their ends sudden and wretched be.
Jove’s daughters—righteous Destinies—make haste!
His life hath wasteful been, and let it waste.
[Exeunt Fortune and The Three Destinies.
Andel. Why the pox dost thou sweat so?
Shad. For anger to see any of God’s creatures have such filthy faces as these sempsters
Andel. Sempsters? why, you ass, they are Destinies.
Shad. Indeed, if it be one’s destiny to have a filthy face, I know no remedy but to go masked and cry “Woe worth the Fates.”
Raised by the malice of some enemy,
To fright your life, o’er which they have no power.
Shad. Shadows? I defy their kindred.
Fort. O Ampedo, I faint; help me, my sons.
Andel. Shadow, I pray thee run and call more help.
Shad. If that desperate Don Dego
Andel. Run, villain, call more help.
Shad. Bid him thank the Destinies for this. [Exit.
Help comes in vain. No hand can conquer fate,
This instant is the last of my life’s date.
This goddess, if at least she be a goddess,
Names herself Fortune: wand’ring in a wood,
Half famished, her I met. I have, quoth she,
Six gifts to spend upon mortality,
Out of my bounty one of these is thine.
Andel. How, father? jewel? call you this a jewel? it’s coarse wool, a bald fashion, and greasy to the brim; I have bought a better felt for a French crown forty times: of what virtuous block is this hat, I pray?
Thou in the moment, on the wind’s swift wings,
Shalt be transported into any place.
Sounds his third summons, I must hence! These jewels
To both I do bequeath; divide them not,
But use them equally: never bewray
What virtues are in them; for if you do,
Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you.
The rotten strength of proud mortality. [Dies.
Brother, close you down his eyes, because you were his eldest; and with them close up your tears, whilst I as all younger brothers do, shift for myself: let us mourn, because he’s dead, but mourn the less, because he cannot revive. The honour we can do him, is to bury him royally; let’s about it then, for I’ll not melt myself to death with scalding sighs, nor drop my soul out at mine eyes, were my father an emperor.
True grief is dumb, though it hath open ears.
Andel. Yet God send my grief a tongue, that I may have good utterance for it: sob on, brother mine, whilst you sigh there, I’ll sit and read what story my father has written here.
[They both fall asleep: Fortune and a company of Satyrs enter with music, and playing about Fortunatus’ body, take it away. Afterwards Shadow enters running.
Shad. I can get none, I can find none: where are you, master? Have I ta’en you napping? and you too? I see sorrow’s eye-lids are made of a dormouse skin, they seldom open, or of a miser’s purse, that’s always shut. So ho, master.
Andel. Shadow, why how now? what’s the matter?
Shad. I can get none, sir, ’tis impossible.
Amp. What is impossible? what canst not get?
Shad. No help for my old master.
Andel. Hast thou been all this while calling for help?
Shad. Yes, sir: he scorned all Famagosta when he was in his huffing,
He wants no help. See where he breathless lies:
Brother, to what place have you borne his body?
Andel. I bear it? I touched it not.
Amp. Nor I: a leaden slumber pressed mine eyes.
Shad. Whether it were lead or latten
Of sullen passions apt for funerals,
And saw my father’s lifeless body borne
By Satyrs: O I fear that deity
Hath stolen him hence!—that snudge, his destiny.
Andel. I fear he’s risen again; didst not thou meet him?
Shad. I, sir? do you think this white and red durst have kissed my sweet cheeks, if they had seen a ghost? But, master, if the Destinies, or Fortune, or the Fates, or the Fairies have stolen him, never indict them for the felony: for by this means the charges of a tomb is saved, and you being his heirs, may do as many rich executors do, put that money in your purses, and give out that he died a beggar.
I’ll build a tomb for him of massy gold.
Shad. Methinks, master, it were better to let the memory of him shine in his own virtues, if he had any, than in alabaster.
Andel. I shall mangle that alabaster face, you whoreson virtuous vice.
Shad. He has a marble heart, that can mangle a face of alabaster.
Andel. Brother, come, come, mourn not; our father is but stepped to agree with Charon for his boat hire to Elysium. See, here’s a story of all his travels; this book shall come out with a new addition: I’ll tread after my
Amp. Will you then violate our father’s will?
Andel. A Puritan!—keep a dead man’s will? Indeed in the old time, when men were buried in soft church-yards, that their ghosts might rise, it was good: but, brother, now they are imprisoned in strong brick and marble, they are fast. Fear not: away, away, these are fooleries, gulleries, trumperies; here’s this or this, or I am gone with both!
Amp. Do you as you please, the sin shall not be mine. Fools call those things profane that are divine.
Andel. Are you content to wear the jewels by turns? I’ll have the purse for a year, you the hat, and as much gold as you’ll ask; and when my pursership ends, I’ll resign, and cap you.
Amp. I am content to bear all discontents. [Exit.
Andel. I should serve this bearing ass rarely now, if I should load him, but I will not. Though conscience be like physic, seldom used, for so it does least hurt, yet I’ll take a dram of it. This for him, and some gold: this for me; for having this mint about me, I shall want no wishing cap. Gold is an eagle, that can fly to any place, and, like death, that dares enter all places. Shadow, wilt thou travel with me?
Shad. I shall never fadge
Andel. Thou dolt, we’ll visit all the kings’ courts in the world.
Shad. So we may, and return dolts home, but what shall we learn by travel?
Andel. Fashions.
Shad. That’s a beastly disease: methinks it’s better staying in your own country.
Andel. How? In mine own country—like a cage-bird, and see nothing?
Shad. Nothing? yes, you may see things enough, for what can you see abroad that is not at home? The same sun calls you up in the morning, and the same man in the moon lights you to bed at night; our fields are as green as theirs in summer, and their frosts will nip us more in winter: our birds sing as sweetly and our women are as fair: in other countries you shall have one drink to you; whilst you kiss your hand, and duck,
To England shall our stars direct our course;
Thither the Prince of Cyprus, our king’s son,
Is gone to see the lovely Agripyne.
Shadow, we’ll gaze upon that English dame,
And try what virtue gold has to inflame.
First to my brother, then away let’s fly;
Shadow must be a courtier ere he die. [Exit.
Shad. If I must, the Fates shall be served: I have seen many clowns courtiers, then why not Shadow? Fortune, I am for thee. [Exit.
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—London. The Court of Athelstane.
Enter Orleans melancholy, Galloway with him; a Boy after them with a lute.
Orle. Begone: leave that with me, and leave me to myself; if the king ask for me, swear to him I am sick, and thou shalt not lie; pray thee leave me.
Boy. I am gone, sir. [Exit.
O, Agripyne.
Thou sayest love is a madness, hate it then,
Even for the name’s sake.
Even for the name’s sake.
By telling thee thou art a prisoner here,
By telling thee she’s daughter to a king,
By telling thee the King of Cyprus’ son
Shines like a sun, between her looks and thine,
Whilst thou seem’st but a star to Agripyne:
He loves her.
As sweetly in a beggar as a king.
Lift up her intellectual eyes to Heaven,
And in this ample book of wonders read,
Of what celestial mould, what sacred essence,
Herself is formed, the search whereof will drive
Sounds musical among the jarring spirits,
And in sweet tune set that which none inherits.
If not: fa, la, la, sol, la, &c.
Of every eye derision thrusts out cheeks,
Wrinkled with idiot laughter; every finger
Is like a dart shot from the hand of scorn,
By which thy name is hurt, thine honour torn.
That let my true true sorrow make them glad?
I dance and sing only to anger grief,
That in that anger, he might smite life down
With his iron fist. Good heart, it seemeth then,
They laugh to see grief kill me: O, fond men,
You laugh at others’ tears; when others smile,
You tear yourselves in pieces: vile, vile, vile!
Ha, ha, when I behold a swarm of fools,
Crowding together to be counted wise,
I laugh because sweet Agripyne’s not there,
But weep because she is not anywhere,
And weep because whether she be or not,
My love was ever, and is still, forgot: forgot, forgot, forgot.
Ere he be two hours older, all that glory
Is banished Heaven, and then for grief this sky,
That’s now so jocund, will mourn all in black,
And shall not Orleans mourn? Alack, alack!
O what a savage tyranny it were
T’enforce care laugh, and woe not shed a tear!
Dead is my love, I am buried in her scorn,
That is my sunset, and shall I not mourn?
Yes, by my troth I will.
Beauty, like sorrow, dwelleth everywhere.
Rase out this strong idea of her face,
As fair as hers shineth in any place.
Which, sitting on her cheeks, being Cupid’s throne,
Is my heart’s sovereign: O, when she is dead,
This wonder, beauty, shall be found in none.
Now Agripyne’s not mine, I vow to be
In love with nothing but deformity.
O fair Deformity, I muse all eyes
Are not enamoured of thee: thou didst never
Murder men’s hearts, or let them pine like wax,
Melting against the sun of destiny;
Thou art a faithful nurse to chastity;
Thy beauty is not like to Agripyne’s,
For cares, and age, and sickness hers deface,
But thine’s eternal. O Deformity,
Thy fairness is not like to Agripyne’s,
For dead, her beauty will no beauty have,
But thy face looks most lovely in the grave.
Enter the Prince of Cyprus and Agripyne.
Between them shalt thou find my murdered heart.
Cypr. By this then it seems a thing impossible, to know when an English lady loves truly.
Agrip. Not so, for when her soul steals into her heart, and her heart leaps up to her eyes, and her eyes drop into her hands, then if she say, Here’s my hand! she’s your own,—else never.
Cyp. Here’s a pair of your prisoners, let’s try their opinion.
Agrip. My kind prisoners, well encountered; the Prince of Cyprus here and myself have been wrangling about a question of love: my lord of Orleans, you look lean, and likest a lover—Whether is it more torment to love a lady and never enjoy her, or always to enjoy a lady whom you cannot choose but hate?
Orle. To hold her ever in mine arms whom I loath in my heart, were some plague, yet the punishment were no more than to be enjoined to keep poison in my hand, yet never to taste it.
Agrip. But say you should be compelled to swallow the poison?
Orle. Then a speedy death would end a speeding misery. But to love a lady and never enjoy her, oh it is not death, but worse than damnation; ’tis hell, ’tis——
Agrip. No more, no more, good Orleans; nay then, I see my prisoner is in love too.
Cypr. Methinks, soldiers cannot fall into the fashion of love.
Agrip. Methinks a soldier is the most faithful lover of all men else; for his affection stands not upon compliment. His wooing is plain home-spun stuff; there’s no outlandish thread in it, no rhetoric. A soldier casts no figures to get his mistress’ heart; his love is like his valour in the field, when he pays downright blows.
Gall. True, madam, but would you receive such payment?
Agrip. No, but I mean, I love a soldier best for his plain dealing.
Cypr. That’s as good as the first.
Agrip. Be it so, that goodness I like: for what lady can abide to love a spruce silken-face courtier, that stands every morning two or three hours learning how to look by his glass, how to speak by his glass, how to sigh by his glass, how to court his mistress by his glass? I would wish him no other plague, but to have a mistress as brittle as glass.
Gall. And that were as bad as the horn plague.
Cypr. Are any lovers possessed with this madness?
Agrip. What madmen are not possessed with this love? Yet by my troth, we poor women do but smile in our sleeves to see all this foppery: yet we all desire to see our lovers attired gallantly, to hear them sing sweetly, to behold them dance comely and such like. But this apish monkey fashion of effeminate niceness, out upon it! Oh, I hate it worse than to be counted a scold.
Cypr. Indeed, men are most regarded, when they least regard themselves.
Gall. And women most honoured, when they show most mercy to their lovers.
Orle. But is’t not a miserable tyranny, to see a lady triumph in the passions of a soul languishing through her cruelty?
Cypr. Methinks it is.
Gall. Methinks ’tis more than tyranny.
Agrip. So think not I; for as there is no reason to hate any that love us, so it were madness to love all that do not hate us; women are created beautiful, only because men should woo them; for ’twere miserable tyranny to enjoin poor women to woo men: I would not hear of a woman in love, for my father’s kingdom.
Cypr. I never heard of any woman that hated love.
Agrip. Nor I: but we had all rather die than confess we love; our glory is to hear men sigh whilst we smile, to kill them with a frown, to strike them dead with a sharp eye, to make you this day wear a feather, and to-morrow
Orle. Sweet friend, she speaks this but to torture me.
Gall. I’ll teach thee how to plague her: love her not.
Agrip. Poor Orleans, how lamentably he looks: if he stay, he’ll make me surely love him for pure pity. I must send him hence, for of all sorts of love, I hate the French; I pray thee, sweet prisoner, entreat Lord Longaville to come to me presently.
Orle. I will, and esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me. [Exit.
Agrip. Watch him, watch him for God’s sake, if he sigh not or look not back.
Cypr. He does both: but what mystery lies in this?
Agrip. Nay, no mystery, ’tis as plain as Cupid’s forehead: why this is as it should be.—“And esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me.” My French prisoner is in love over head and ears.
Cypr. It’s wonder how he ’scapes drowning.
Gall. With whom, think you?
Agrip. With his keeper, for a good wager: Ah, how glad is he to obey! And how proud am I to command in this empire of affection! Over him and such spongy-livered youths, that lie soaking in love, I triumph more with mine eye, than ever he did over a soldier with his sword. Is’t not a gallant victory for me to subdue my father’s enemy with a look? Prince of Cyprus, you were best take heed, how you encounter an English lady.
Cypr. God bless me from loving any of you, if all be so cruel.
Agrip. God bless me from suffering you to love me, if you be not so formable.
Cypr. Will you command me any service, as you have done Orleans?
Agrip. No other service but this, that, as Orleans, you love me, for no other reason, but that I may torment you.
Cypr. I will: conditionally, that in all company I may call you my tormentor.
Agrip. You shall: conditionally, that you never beg for mercy. Come, my Lord of Galloway.
Gall. Come, sweet madam.
[Exeunt all except the Prince of Cyprus.
Were closed by mercy: but upon her eye,
Attired in frowns, sat murdering cruelty.
Re-enter Agripyne and listens.
O, she disdains that any stranger’s breast
Should be a temple for her deity:
She’s full of beauty, full of bitterness.
Till now, I did not dally with love’s fire:
And when I thought to try his flames indeed,
I burnt me even to cinders. O, my stars,
Why from my native shore did your beams guide me,
To make me dote on her that doth deride me?
[Agripyne kneels: Cyprus walks musing.
Agrip. Hold him in this mind, sweet Cupid, I conjure thee. O, what music these hey-hos make! I was about to cast my little self into a great love trance for him, fearing his heart had been flint: but since I see ’tis pure virgin wax, he shall melt his bellyful: for now I know how to temper him. [Exit; as she departs Cyprus spies her.
I hope she heard me not: doubtless she did,
And now will she insult upon my passions,
And vex my constant love with mockeries.
Nay, then I’ll be mine own physician,
And outface love, and make her think that I
Mourned thus, because I saw her standing by.
What news, my Lord of Cornwall?
Enter Cornwall.
One of your countrymen, is come to court,
A lusty gallant brave, in Cyprus’ isle,
With fifty bard
Backed by as many strong-limbed Cypriots,
All whom he keeps in pay: whose offered service,
Our king with arms of gladness hath embraced.
Enter Longaville, Galloway, and Chester with jewels.
Yet would he needs bestow this gift on me.
To every lady hath he given rich jewels,
And sent to every servant in the court
Twenty fair English angels.
Enter Lincoln.
’Tis the king’s pleasure that this day be spent
In royal pastimes, that this golden lord,
For so all that behold him, christen him,
May taste the pleasures of our English court.
Here comes the gallant, shining like the sun. [Trumpets sound.
Enter Athelstane, Andelocia, Agripyne, Orleans, Ladies, and other Attendants, also Insultado. Music sounds within.
Being a poor stranger, my best powers shall prove,
By acts of worth, the soundness of my love.
By staying with us: if our English isle
Hold any object welcome to your eyes,
Do but make choice, and claim it as your prize. [The King and Cyprus confer aside.
I know what I would claim. Tush, man, be bold,
Were she a saint, she may be won with gold.
His father Fortunatus, if he live,
Consumes his life in Cyprus: still he spends,
And still his coffers with abundance swell,
But how he gets these riches none can tell. [The King and Agripyne confer aside.
To wander hither?
My sovereign’s son, the wonder of the place.
Gave him, he gave me, and by Venus’ hand,
The warlike Amorato needs would swear,
He left his country Cyprus for my love.
Thou canst enchant his looks to keep the circles
Of thy fair cheeks, be bold to try their charms,
Feed him with hopes, and find the royal vein,
That leads this Cypriot to his golden mine.
Here’s music spent in vain, lords, fall to dancing.
To shame himself for such a lady’s love?
He courts her, and she smiles, but I am born
To be her beauty’s slave, and her love’s scorn.
Andel. Neither: but ’tis the fashion of us Cypriots, both men and women, to yield at first assault, and we expect others should do the like.
Agrip. It’s a sign, that either your women are very black, and are glad to be sped, or your men very fond, and will take no denial.
Andel. Indeed our ladies are not so fair as you.
Agrip. But your men more venturous at a breach than you, or else they are all dastardly soldiers.
Andel. He that fights under these sweet colours, and yet turns coward, let him be shot to death with the terrible arrows of fair ladies’ eyes.
Athelst. Nay, Insultado, you must not deny us.
Insultad. Mi corazon es muy pesado, mi anima muy atormentada. No por los Cielos: El pie de EspaÑol no hace musica en tierra ingles.
I have heard the Spanish dance is full of state.
Majestica, y para monarcas: vuestra Inglesa,
Baja, fantastica, y muy humilde.
Agrip. Doth my Spanish prisoner deny to dance? He has sworn to me by the cross of his pure Toledo, to be my servant: by that oath, my Castilian prisoner, I conjure you to show your cunning; though all your body be not free, I am sure your heels are at liberty.
Insultad. Nolo quiero contra deseo; vuestro ojo hace conquista Á su prisionero: Oyerer la a pavan espaÑola; sea vuestra musica y gravidad, y majestad: Paje, daime tabacco, toma my capa, y my espada. Mas alta, mas alta: Desviaios, desviaios, compaÑeros, mas alta, mas alta.
Athelst. Thanks, Insultado.
Cypr. ’Tis most excellent.
Agrip. The Spaniard’s dance is as his deeds be, full of pride.
Shall be consumed in banquets. Agripyne,
Leave us a while, if Andelocia please,
Go bear our beauteous daughter company.
My lord, of what birth is your countryman?
Think not, sweet prince, that I propound this question,
To wrong you in your love to Agripyne:
Our favours grace him to another end.
Nor let the wings of your affection droop,
Because she seems to shun love’s gentle lure.
Believe it on our word, her beauty’s prize
Only shall yield a conquest to your eyes.
But tell me what’s this Fortunatus’ son?
In foreign kingdoms, whither his proud spirit,
Plumed with ambitious feathers, carries him,
Than in his native country; but last day
The father and the sons were, through their riots,
Poor and disdained of all, but now they glister
More bright than Midas: if some damnÈd fiend
Fed not his bags, this golden pride would end.
Of his rebellious prodigality:
He hath invited us, and all our peers,
To feast with him to-morrow; his provision,
I understand, may entertain three kings.
But Lincoln, let our subjects secretly
Be charged on pain of life that not a man
Sell any kind of fuel to his servants.
And teach his pride what ’tis to strive with kings.
None filled his hands with gold, for we set spies,
To watch who fed his prodigality:
He hung the marble bosom of our court,
As thick with glist’ring spangles of pure gold,
As e’er the spring hath stuck the earth with flowers.
Unless he melt himself to liquid gold,
Or be some god, some devil, or can transport
A mint about him, by enchanted power,
He cannot rain such showers. With his own hands
He threw more wealth about in every street,
Than could be thrust into a chariot.
He’s a magician sure, and to some fiend,
His soul by infernal covenants has he sold,
Always to swim up to the chin in gold.
Be what he can be, if those doting fires,
Wherein he burns for Agripyne’s love,
Then like a slave we’ll chain him in our tower,
Where tortures shall compel his sweating hands
To cast rich heaps into our treasury. [Exit.
Music sounding still; a curtain being drawn, Andelocia is discovered sleeping in Agripyne’s lap; she has his purse, and she and another lady tie another like it in its place, and then rise from him. Enter Athelstane.
Leave us: [Exit Lady.] But I’ll not show’t your majesty
Till you have sworn by England’s royal crown,
To let me keep it.
None but fair Agripyne the gem shall wear.
Whose gilded beams still burn, this is the sun
That ever shines, the tree that never dies,
Here grows the Garden of Hesperides;
The outside mocks you, makes you think ’tis poor,
But entering it, you find eternal store.
That soporiferous juice which was composed
To make the queen,
When her last sickness summoned her to Heaven.
He sleeps profoundly: when his amorous eyes
Had singed their wings in Cupid’s wanton flames,
I set him all on fire, and promised love,
And swore, by this he multiplied his gold.
I tried and found it true: and secretly
Commanded music with her silver tongue,
To chime soft lullabies into his soul,
And whilst my fingers wantoned with his hair,
T’entice the sleepy juice to charm his eyes,
In all points was there made a purse, like his,
Which counterfeit is hung in place of this.
Leave him, that when he wakes he may suspect,
Some else has robbed him; come, dear Agripyne,
If this strange purse his sacred virtues hold,
We’ll circle England with a wall of gold. [Exeunt.
Music still: Enter Shadow very gallant, reading a bill, with empty bags in his hand, singing.
Shad. These English occupiers are mad Trojans: let a man pay them never so much, they’ll give him nothing but the bag. Since my master created me steward over his fifty men, and his one-and-fifty horse, I have rid over much business, yet never was galled, I thank the destinies. Music? O delicate warble: O these courtiers are most sweet triumphant creatures! Seignior, sir, monsieur, sweet seignior: this is the language of the accomplishment. O delicious strings; these heavenly wire-drawers have stretched my master even out at length: yet at length he must wake. Master?
Andel. Wake me not yet, my gentle Agripyne.
Shad. One word, sir, for the billets, and I vanish.
A bounteous largesse of three hundred angels. [Andelocia starts up.
Shad. Why, sir, I have but ten pounds left.
Andel. Ha, Shadow? where’s the Princess Agripyne?
Shad. I am not Apollo, I cannot reveal.
Andel. Was not the princess here, when thou cam’st in?
Shad. Here was no princess but my princely self.
Andel. In faith?
Shad. No, in faith, sir.
Andel. Where are you hid? where stand you wantoning? Not here? gone, i’faith? have you given me the slip? Well, ’tis but an amorous trick, and so I embrace it: my horse, Shadow, how fares my horse?
Shad. Upon the best oats my under-steward can buy.
Andel. I mean, are they lusty, sprightly, gallant, wanton, fiery?
Shad. They are as all horses are, caterpillars to the commonwealth, they are ever munching: but, sir, for these billets, and these fagots and bavins?
Andel. ’Sheart, what billets, what fagots? dost make me a woodmonger?
Shad. No, sweet seignior, but you have bid the king and his peers to dinner, and he has commanded that no woodmonger sell you a stick of wood, and that no collier shall cozn you of your measure, but must tie up the mouth of their sacks, lest their coals kindle your choler.
Andel. Is’t possible? is’t true, or hast thou learnt of the English gallants to gull?
Shad. He’s a gull that would be taught by such gulls.
Andel. Not a stick of wood? Some child of envy has buzzed this stratagem into the king’s ear, of purpose to disgrace me. I have invited his majesty, and though it cost me a million, I’ll feast him. Shadow, thou shalt hire a hundred or two of carts, with them post to all the grocers in London, buy up all the cinnamon, cloves, nutmegs, liquorice and all other spices, that have any strong heart, and with them make fires to prepare our cookery.
He’ll dress a king’s feast in a spicÈd flame.
Shad. This device, sir, will be somewhat akin to Lady Pride, ’twill ask cost.
Andel. Fetch twenty porters, I’ll lade all with gold.
Shad. First, master, fill these bags.
Andel. Come then, hold up. How now? tricks, new crotchets, Madame Fortune? Dry as an eel-skin? Shadow, take thou my gold out.
Shad. Why, sir, here’s none in.
I see now ’tis not mine; ’tis counterfeit,
’Tis so! Slave, thou hast robbed thy master.
Shad. Not of a penny, I have been as true a steward—
Yet wherefore curse I thee? thy leaden soul
Had never power to mount up to the knowledge
Of the rich mystery closed in my purse.
Oh no, I’ll curse myself, mine eyes I’ll curse,
They have betrayed me; I will curse my tongue,
That hath betrayed me; I’ll curse Agripyne,
She hath betrayed me. Sirens, cease to sing,
Your charms have ta’en effect, for now I see,
All your enchantments were, to cozen me. [Music ceases.
Shad. What shall I do with this ten pound, sir?
Now think I on my father’s prophecy.
Tell none, quoth he, the virtue, if you do,
Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you.
With tears I credit his divinity.
O fingers, were you upright justices,
You would tear out mine eyes! had not they gazed
On the frail colour of a painted cheek,
None had betrayed me: henceforth I’ll defy
All beauty, and will call a lovely eye,
A sun whose scorching beams burn up our joys,
Or turn them black like Ethiopians.
O women, wherefore are you born men’s woe,
Why are your faces framed angelical?
Your hearts of sponges, soft and smooth in show,
But touched, with poison they do overflow.
He had died happy, I lived fortunate.
Shadow, bear this to beauteous Agripyne,
With it this message, tell her, I’ll reprove
Her covetous sin the less, because for gold,
I see that most men’s souls too cheap are sold.
Shad. Shall I buy these spices to-day or to-morrow?
To-morrow tell the princess I will love her,
To-morrow tell the king I’ll banquet him,
To-morrow, Shadow, will I give thee gold;
To-morrow pride goes bare and lust acold.
To-morrow will the rich man feed the poor,
And vice to-morrow virtue will adore.
To-morrow beggars shall be crownÈd kings,
This no-time, morrow’s-time, no sweetness sings:
I pray thee hence; bear that to Agripyne.
Shad. I’ll go hence, because you send me; but I’ll go weeping hence, for grief that I must turn villain as many do, and leave you when you are up to the ears in adversity. [Exit.
Ay, steal from hence to Cyprus, for black shame
Here, through my riots, brands my lofty name.
I’ll sell this pride for help to bear me thither,
So pride and beggary shall walk together.
This world is but a school of villany,
Therefore I’ll rob my brother, not of gold,
Nor of his virtues, virtue none will steal—
But, if I can, I’ll steal his wishing hat,
And with that, wandering round about the world,
I’ll search all corners to find Misery,
And where she dwells, I’ll dwell, languish and die. [Exit.
ACT THE FOURTH.
The combats of his soul, who being a king,
By some usurping hand hath been deposed
From all his royalties: even such a soul,
Such eyes, such heart swol’n big with sighs and tears,
The star-crossed son of Fortunatus wears.
His thoughts crowned him a monarch in the morn,
Yet now he’s bandied by the seas in scorn
From wave to wave: his golden treasure’s spoil
Makes him in desperate language to entreat
The winds to spend their fury on his life:
But they, being mild in tyranny, or scorning
To triumph in a wretch’s funeral,
Toss him to Cyprus. Oh, what treachery
Cannot this serpent gold entice us to?
He robs his brother of the Soldan’s prize,
And having got his wish, the wishing hat,
He does not, as he vowed, seek misery,
But hopes by that to win his purse again,
And in that hope from Cyprus is he fled.
If your swift thoughts clap on their wonted wings,
In Genoa may you take this fugitive,
Where having cozened many jewellers,
And there disguised you find him bargaining
For jewels with the beauteous Agripyne,
Who wearing at her side the virtuous purse,
He clasps her in his arms, and as a raven,
Griping the tender-hearted nightingale,
So flies he with her, wishing in the air
To be transported to some wilderness:
Imagine this the place; see, here they come!
Since they themselves have tongues, mine shall be dumb. [Exit.
SCENE I.—A Wilderness.
Enter Andelocia with the wishing hat on, and dragging Agripyne by the hand.
Haling a princess from her father’s court,
To spoil her in this savage wilderness?
Andel. Indeed the devil and the pick-purse should always fly together, for they are sworn brothers: but Madam Covetousness, I am neither a devil as you call me, nor a jeweller as I call myself; no, nor a juggler,—yet ere you and I part, we’ll have some legerdemain together. Do you know me?
Forgive me, ’twas not I that changed thy purse,
But Athelstane my father; send me home,
And here’s thy purse again: here are thy jewels,
And I in satisfaction of all wrongs—
Andel. Talk not you of satisfaction, this is some recompense, that I have you. ’Tis not the purse I regard: put it off, and I’ll mince it as small as pie meat. The purse? hang the purse: were that gone, I can make another,
So thou wilt send me to my father’s court.
Andel. Nay God’s lid, y’are not gone so: set your heart at rest, for I have set up my rest, that except you can run swifter than a hart, home you go not. What pains shall I lay upon you? Let me see: I could serve you now but a slippery touch: I could get a young king or two, or three, of you, and then send you home, and bid their grandsire king nurse them: I could pepper you, but I will not.
Andel. No, why I tell you I am not given to the flesh, though I savour in your nose a little of the devil, I could run away else, and starve you here.
Andel. Or transform you, because you love picking, into a squirrel, and make you pick out a poor living here among the nut trees: but I will not neither.
Andel. Oh, now you come to your old bias of cogging.
Send me to England, and by Heaven I swear,
Thou from all kings on earth my love shalt bear.
Andel. Shall I in faith?
Agrip. In faith, in faith thou shalt.
Andel. Hear, God a mercy: now thou shalt not go.
Agrip. Oh God.
Andel. Nay, do you hear, lady? Cry not, y’are best; no
Between my sorrow, and the scalding sun
I faint, and quickly will my life be done,
My mouth is like a furnace, and dry heat
Drinks up my blood. O God, my heart will burst,
I die, unless some moisture quench my thirst.
For half the world I would not have her die.
Here’s neither spring nor ditch, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor bread nor drink: my lovely Agripyne,
Be comforted, see here are apple trees.
Not that, my sorrows are too sour already.
Ay me, would God I were at home again!
Oh here be rare apples, rare red-cheeked apples, that cry come kiss me: apples, hold your peace, I’ll teach you to cry. [Eats one.
Andel. Agripyne, ’tis a most sugared delicious taste in one’s mouth, but when ’tis down, ’tis as bitter as gall.
Should pine for food: were I at home again,
I should disdain to stand thus and complain.
Andel. Here’s one apple that grows highest, Agripyne; an’ I could reach that, I’ll come down. [Fishes with his girdle for it.
Andel. The sun kiss thee? hold, catch, put on my hat, I will have yonder highest apple, though I die for’t.
O England, would I were again in thee! [Exit.
Andelocia leaps down.
Sweet Agripyne, if thou hear’st my voice,
Take pity of me, and return again.
She flies like lightning: Oh she hears me not!
I wish myself into a wilderness,
And now I shall turn wild: here I shall famish,
Here die, here cursing die, here raving die,
And thus will wound my breast, and rend mine hair.
What hills of flint are grown upon my brows?
O me, two forkÈd horns, I am turned beast,
I have abused two blessings, wealth and knowledge,
Wealth in my purse, and knowledge in my hat,
By which being borne into the courts of kings,
I might have seen the wondrous works of Jove,
Acquired experience, learning, wisdom, truth,
But I in wildness tottered out my youth,
And therefore must turn wild, must be a beast,
An ugly beast: my body horns must bear,
Because my soul deformity doth wear.
Lives none within this wood? If none but I
Live here,—thanks Heaven! for here none else shall die. [Lies down and sleeps under the tree.
Enter Fortune, Vice, Virtue, the Priest: and Satyrs with music, playing before Fortune.
Vice. Virtue, who conquers now? the fool is ta’en.
Virtue. O sleepy sin.
Vice. Sweet tunes, wake him again. [Music sounds awhile, and then ceases.
Music’s sweet concord cannot pierce his ear.
Sing, and amongst your songs mix bitter scorn.
Song.
Laugh to see him, laugh aloud to wake him;
Folly’s nets are wide, and neatly wrought,
Mock his horns, and laugh to see Vice take him.
Who’s the fool? the fool, he wears a horn. [Andelocia wakens and stands up.
Laugh aloud to see him, call him fool.
Error gave him suck, now sorrows rock him,
Send the riotous beast to madness’ school.
Who’s the fool? the fool, he wears a horn.
Laugh aloud to see him, mock, mock, mock him.
Vanity and hell keep open gates,
He’s in, and a new nurse, Despair, must rock him.
Fool, fool, fool, fool, fool, wear still the horn.
[Vice and Virtue hold apples out to Andelocia, Vice laughing, Virtue grieving.
Thou glorious devil, hence. O now I see,
This fruit is thine, thou hast deformÈd me:
Idiot, avoid, thy gifts I loathe to taste.
As good to be a beast, as be a fool.
Away, why tempt you me? some powerful grace
Come and redeem me from this hideous place.
Sworn fealty; would’st thou forsake her now?
Shortened thy father’s life, and lengthens thine.
Else let thy deity take off this shame.
O bid the Fates work fast, and stop my breath.
Worse torments, for thy follies, light on thee.
This golden tree, which did thine eyes entice,
Was planted here by Vice: lo, here stands Vice:
How often hast thou sued to win her grace?
When thou in scorn didst violate his will;
Thou didst behold her, when thy stretched-out arm
Catched at the highest bough, the loftiest vice,
The fairest apple, but the foulest price;
Thou didst behold her, when thy liquorish eye
Fed on the beauty of fair Agripyne;
Because th’ hadst gold, thou thought’st all women thine.
When look’st thou off from her? for they whose souls
Still revel in the nights of vanity,
On the fair cheeks of Vice still fix their eye.
Because her face doth shine, and all her bosom
Bears silver moons, thou wast enamoured of her.
But hadst thou upward looked, and seen these shames,
Seen idiots’ faces, heads of devils and hell,
And read this “Ha, ha, he,” this merry story,
Thou wouldst have loathed her: where, by loving her,
Thou bear’st this face, and wear’st this ugly head,
And if she once can bring thee to this place,
Loud sounds these “Ha, ha, he!” She’ll laugh apace.
And I will learn how I may love to hate her.
To find out wisdom, to a fool must fly.
This is poor virtue, care not how the world
Doth crown her head, the world laughs her to scorn,
Yet “Sibi sapit,” Virtue knows her worth.
Run after her, she’ll give thee these and these,
Crowns and bay-garlands, honour’s victories:
Serve her, and she will fetch thee pay from Heaven,
Or give thee some bright office in the stars.
O smile on me, and I will still be thine.
Though I am jealous of thy apostasy,
I’ll entertain thee: here, come taste this tree,
Here’s physic for thy sick deformity.
And mine being down has a delicious taste.
The path that leads to Virtue’s court is narrow,
Thorny and up a hill, a bitter journey,
But being gone through, you find all heavenly sweets,
The entrance is all flinty, but at th’ end,
To towers of pearl and crystal you ascend.
And see, my ugliness drops from my brows,
Thanks, beauteous AretË: O had I now
My hat and purse again, how I would shine,
And gild my soul with none but thoughts divine.
By help of them, win both thy purse and hat,
I will instruct thee how, for on my wings
To England shalt thou ride; thy virtuous brother
Is, with that Shadow who attends on thee,
In London, there I’ll set thee presently.
But if thou lose our favours once again,
To taste her sweets, those sweets must prove thy bane.
SCENE II.—London. The Court of Athelstane.
Enter Athelstane, Lincoln with Agripyne, Cyprus, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Longaville and Montrose.
There in her chamber hath she hid herself
These two days, only to shake off that fear,
Which her late violent rapture cast upon her.
I know not which, for as I oft have seen,
When angry Thamesis hath curled her locks,
A whirlwind come, and from her frizzled brows,
Snatch up a handful of those sweaty pearls,
That stood upon her forehead, which awhile,
At length hath flung them down and raised a storm,—
Even with such fury was I wherried up,
And by such force held prisoner in the clouds,
And thrown by such a tempest down again.
Shall hear the wondrous history at full.
Without more difference be now christened mine!
Before the sun shall six times more arise,
His royal marriage will we solemnise.
Proclaim this honoured match! Come, Agripyne,
I am glad th’ art here, more glad the purse is mine.
[As they are going in, enter Andelocia and Shadow, disguised as Irish coster-mongers. Agripyne, Longaville, and Montrose stay listening to them, the rest exeunt.
Both. Buy any apples, feene apples of Tamasco,
Call yonder fellows.
Montr. Sirrah coster-monger.
Shad. Who calls: peeps of Tamasco, feene peeps: Ay, fat ’tis de sweetest apple in de world, ’tis better den de Pome water,
Andel. By my trat, madam, ’tis reet Tamasco peepins, look here els.
Shad. I dare not say, as de Irishman my countryman say, taste de goodness of de fruit: no, sayt, ’tis farie teere, mistriss, by Saint Patrick’s hand ’tis teere Tamasco apple.
Damasco apples, wherefore are they good?
Longa. What is your price of half a score of these?
Both. Half a score, half a score? dat is doos many, mester.
Longa. Ay, ay, ten, half a score, that’s five and five.
Andel. Feeve and feeve? By my trat and as Creeze save me la, I cannot tell wat be de price of feeve and feeve, but ’tis tree crown for one peepin, dat is de preez if you take ’em.
Shad. Ay fat, ’tis no less for Tamasco.
Agrip. Three crowns for one? what wondrous virtues have they?
Shad. O, ’tis feene Tamasco apple, and shall make you a great teal wise, and make you no fool, and make feene memory.
Andel. And make dis fash be more fair and amiable, and make dis eyes look always lovely, and make all de court and country burn in desire to kiss di none sweet countenance.
Madam, that’s excellent.
Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear
These two the badge of their own country wear.
Andel. By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt
Shad. As Creez save me la, he speaks true: Peeps feene.
Here are ten crowns for three. So fare you well.
Hang them, they are toys; come, madam, let us go. [Exeunt Agripyne, Longaville and Montrose.
Both. Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels look upon dat fash and make it fair.
Re-enter Montrose softly.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! she’s sped, I warrant.
Andel. Peace, Shadow, buy any peepins, buy.
Both. Peeps feene, feene Tamasco apples.
Montr. Came not Lord Longaville to buy some fruit?
Andel. No fat, master, here came no lords nor ladies, but di none sweet self.
Re-enter Longaville.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha! why this is rare.
Shad. Peace, master, here comes another fool.
Both. Peepes feene, buy any peepes of Tamasco?
Longa. Did not the Lord Montrose return to you?
Both. No fat, sweet master, no lord did turn to us: peepes feene!
What are the virtues besides making fair?
Andel. O, ’twill make thee wondrous wise.
Shad. And dow shall be no more a fool, but sweet face and wise.
None loves me: now I’ll try what these can do. [Exit.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. So, this is admirable, Shadow, here end my torments in Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, but thine shall continue longer.
Shad. Did I not clap on a good false Irish face?
Andel. It became thee rarely.
Shad. Yet that’s lamentable, that a false face should become any man.
Andel. Thou art a gull,
Shad. I fear nothing, but that whilst we strive to make others fools, we shall wear the cock’s combs ourselves. Pips fine. [Exit Shadow.
Enter Ampedo.
His presence makes me blush, it strikes me dead,
To think how I am metamorphosÈd.
Feene peepins of Tamasco!
With idle apparitions: many a land
Have I with weary feet and a sick soul
Measured to find thee; and when thou art found,
My greatest grief is that thou art not lost.
Yet lost thou art, thy fame, thy wealth are lost,
Thy wits are lost, and thou hast in their stead,
With shame and cares, and misery crowned thy head.
That Shadow that pursues thee, filled mine ears
With sad relation of thy wretchedness,
Where is the purse, and where my wishing hat?
Andel. Where, and where? are you created constable? You stand so much upon interrogatories. The purse is gone, let that fret you, and the hat is gone, let that mad you: I run thus through all trades to overtake them, if you be quiet, follow me, and help, if not, fly from me, and hang yourself. Wilt thou buy any pippins? [Exit.
Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes
He shall not start, till he have repossessed
Those virtuous jewels, which found once again,
More cause they ne’er shall give me to complain,
Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames,
And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. [Exit.
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—London. The Court of Athelstane.
Enter Athelstane, followed by Agripyne, Montrose, and Longaville with horns; then Lincoln and Cornwall.
Try once more in contempt of all damned spells.
Shame, and not conquest, hangs upon this strife.
O, touch me not, you add but pain to pain,
The more you cut, the more they grow again.
I ne’er knew physic yet against the horn.
Enter Cyprus.
Hath turned her beauty to deformity.
You have mocked me long; in scorn I’ll now mock you.
I came to see how the Lord Longaville
Was turned into a monster, and I find
An object, which both strikes me dumb and blind.
To-morrow should have been our marriage morn,
tell me yet, is there no art, no charms,
No desperate physic for this desperate wound?
Through spiteful influence set our hearts at wars.
I am enforced to leave thee, and resign
My love to grief.
Enter Orleans and Galloway.
Able to help his master: mighty king,
I humbly take my leave; to Cyprus I;
My father’s son must all such shame defy. [Exit.
That love not Agripyne, and him defy,
That dares but love her half so well as I.
O pardon me! I have in sorrow’s jail
Been long tormented, long this mangled bosom
Hath bled, and never durst expose her wounds,
Till now, till now, when at thy beauteous feet
I offer love and life. Oh, cast an eye
Of mercy on me, this deformÈd face
Cannot affright my soul from loving thee.
He’s mad, whose eyes on painted cheeks do doat,
O Galloway, such read beauty’s book by rote.
He’s mad, that pines for want of a gay flower,
Which fades when grief doth blast, or sickness lower,
Which heat doth wither, and white age’s frost
Nips dead: such fairness, when ’tis found, ’tis lost.
My love looks on her eyes with eyes divine;
I doat on the rich brightness of her mind,
That sacred beauty strikes all other blind.
O make me happy then, since my desires
Are set a burning by love’s purest fires.
Enjoy thy wishes.
Where staring wonder’s eye shall not be guilty
To my abhorrÈd looks, and I will die
To thee, as full of love as misery.
Lies pawned for this in hell, without redemption,
Some fiend deludes us all.
Why do you hide from us this mystery?
This fashion? these two feather springs of horn?
Some two hours since, and like a credulous fool—
He swearing to me that they had this power
To make me strong in body, rich in mind—
I did believe his words, tasted his fruit,
And since have been attired in this disguise.
You have it soundly.
One apple of Damasco would inspire
My thoughts with wisdom, and upon my cheeks
Would cast such beauty that each lady’s eye,
Which looked on me, should love me presently.
To be enamoured of deformity.
Those that would seem most wise, do turn most fools.
For hornÈd foreheads swarm in every place.
Enter Chester, with Andelocia disguised as a French Soldier.
To tame such wild diseases: yet here’s one,
A doctor and a Frenchman, whom report
Of Agripyne’s grief hath drawn to court.
As free for thee to use, as rain from Heaven.
More gold from Scotland than thy life can spend.
Andel. He Monsieur Long-villain,
Linc. This doctor comes to mock your majesty.
Andel. No, by my trat la, but me lova musha musha merymant: come, madam, pre-artely stand still, and letta
In compass of a thought they rise again.
Andel. It’s true, ’tis no easy mattra, to pull horn off, ’tis easy to pull on, but hard for pull off; some horn be so good fellow, he will still inhabit in de man’s pate, but ’tis all one for tat, I shall snap away all dis. Madam, trust dis down into your little belly.
First let him work experiments on those.
In no place can I spy my wishing hat. [Aside.
More ugly than I am, I cannot be.
Andel. ’Tis all one for dat! Shall do presently, madam, prea mark me. Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur Long-villain; dis so; now dis; fear noting, ’tis eshelent medicine! so, now cram dis into your guts, and belly; so, now snap away dis whoreson four divela; Ha, ha, is no point good? [Pulls Longaville’s horns off.
Was’t painful, Longaville?
Andel. No by my trat, ’tis no possibla, ’tis no possibla, al de mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine, be among his and his belly: ’tis no possibla, till me prepare more.
From England’s coffers, than thy life can waste.
Andel. I must buy many costly tings, dat grow in Arabia, in Asia, and America, by my trat ’tis no possibla till anoder time, no point.
Be bought in England; hold your lap, I’ll rain
A shower of angels.
Andel. Fie, fie, fie, fie, you no credit le dockature? Ha, but vel, ’tis all one for tat: ’tis no mattera for gold! vel, vel, vel, vel, vel, me have some more, prea say noting, shall be presently prepara for your horns.
Work, brains, and once more make me fortunate.—
Vel, vel, vel, vel, be patient, madam, presently, presently! Be patient, me have two, tree, four and five medicines for de horn: presently, madam, stand you der, prea wid all my art, stand you all der, and say noting,—so! nor look noting dis vey. So, presently, presently, madam, snip dis horn off wid de rushes and anoder ting by and by, by and by, by and by. Prea look none dis vey, and say noting. [Takes his hat.
Doctor, none here shall rob thee of thy skill.
Andel. So, taka dis hand: winck now prea artely with your two nyes: why so.
Stay the French doctor, stay the doctor there. [Cornwall and others run out, and presently re-enter.
In likeness of a Frenchman, of a doctor.
Look how a rascal kite having swept up
A chicken in his claws, so flies this hell-hound
In th’ air with Agripyne in his arms.
Fly several ways, he cannot bear her far.
No matter which way, to seek misery. [Exit.
Doubtless this doctor was that Irish devil,
That cozened us, the medicine which he gave us
Tasted like his Damasco villany.
To horse, to horse, if we can catch this fiend,
Our forkÈd shame shall in his heart blood end.
Which way soe’er I ride, cry, ’ware the horn! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of Stocks in the background.
Enter Andelocia with Agripyne, Ampedo and Shadow following.
Take off this infamy, or take my life.
Andel. Your life? you think then that I am a true doctor indeed, that tie up my living in the knots of winding sheets: your life? no, keep your life, but deliver your purse: you know the thief’s salutation,—“Stand and deliver.” So, this is mine, and these yours: I’ll teach you to live by the sweat of other men’s brows.
Shad. And to strive to be fairer than God made her.
Andel. Right, Shadow: therefore vanish, you have made me turn juggler, and cry “hey-pass,” but your horns shall not repass.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Andelocia is a nettle: if you touch him gently, he’ll sting you.
Shad. Or a rose: if you pull his sweet stalk he’ll prick you.
Andel. Therefore not a word; go, trudge to your father. Sigh not for your purse, money may be got by you, as well as by the little Welshwoman in Cyprus, that had but one horn in her head;
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Nay, away, not a word.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! ’Ware horns! [Exit Agripyne, weeping.
Andel. Why dost thou laugh, Shadow?
Shad. To see what a horn plague follows covetousness and pride.
Amp. Brother, what mysteries lie in all this?
Andel. Tricks, Ampedo, tricks, devices, and mad hieroglyphics, mirth, mirth, and melody. O, there’s more music in this, than all the gamut airs, and sol fa res, in the world; here’s the purse, and here’s the hat: because you shall be sure I’ll not start, wear you this, you know its virtue. If danger beset you, fly and away: a sort of
Shad. And when we are fat, master, we’ll do as all gluttons do, laugh and lie down.
Andel. Hie thee to my chamber, make ready my richest attire, I’ll to court presently.
Shad. I’ll go to court in this attire, for apparel is but the shadow of a man, but shadow is the substance of his apparel. [Exit Shadow.
Away, away with this wild lunacy,
Away with riots.
Andel. Away with your purity, brother, y’are an ass. Why doth this purse spit out gold but to be spent? why lives a man in this world, to dwell in the suburbs of it, as you do? Away, foreign simplicity, away: are not eyes made to see fair ladies? hearts to love them? tongues to court them, and hands to feel them? Out, you stock, you stone, you log’s end: Are not legs made to dance, and shall mine limp up and down the world after your cloth-stocking-heels? You have the hat, keep it. Anon I’ll visit your virtuous countenance again; adieu! Pleasure is my sweet mistress, I wear her love in my hat, and her soul in my heart: I have sworn to be merry, and in spite of Fortune and the black-browed Destinies, I’ll never be sad. [Exit.
I’ll bury half thy pleasures in a grave
Of hungry flames; this fire I did ordain
To burn both purse and hat: as this doth perish,
So shall the other; count what good and bad
They both have wrought, the good is to the ill
As a small pebble to a mighty hill.
Thy glory and thy mischiefs here shall burn;
Good gifts abused to man’s confusion turn.
Enter Longaville and Montrose with Soldiers.
This way he’ll come anon to pass to court.
Alas, that sin should make men’s hearts so bold,
To kill their souls for the base thirst of gold.
The wishing hat is burnt.
Tortures shall wring both hat and purse from you.
Villain, I’ll be revenged for that base scorn
Thy hell-hound brother clapped upon my head.
Away with him!
And in a pair of stocks lock up his heels,
And bid your wishing cap deliver you.
Give us the purse and hat, we’ll set thee free,
Else rot to death and starve.
Beasts would you be, though horns you did not wear.
One’s sure, and were the other fiend as fast,
Their pride should cost their lives: their purse and hat
Shall both be ours, we’ll share them equally.
Enter Andelocia, and Shadow after him.
Montr. Peace, Longaville, yonder the gallant comes.
Longa. Y’are well encountered.
Andel. Thanks, Lord Longaville.
Longa. The king expects your presence at the court.
Andel. And thither am I going.
Shad. Pips fine, fine apples of Tamasco, ha, ha, ha!
Montr. Wert thou that Irishman that cozened us?
Shad. Pips fine, ha, ha, ha! no not I: not Shadow.
Andel. Were not your apples delicate and rare?
Longa. The worst that e’er you sold; sirs, bind him fast.
Andel. What, will you murder me? help, help, some help!
Shad. Help, help, help! [Exit Shadow.
Montr. Follow that dog, and stop his bawling throat.
Andel. Villains, what means this barbarous treachery?
Longa. We mean to be revenged for our disgrace.
Montr. And stop the golden current of thy waste.
Andel. Murder! they murder me, O call for help.
This well-spring of your prodigality.
Andel. Are you appointed by the king to this?
Montr. No, no; rise, spurn him up! know you who’s this?
Hath made thy virtues so unfortunate?
Who causeless thus do starve
Question thy brother with what cost he’s fed,
And so assure thou shall be banqueted. [Exeunt Longaville and Montrose.
Poor Ampedo his fill hath surfeited:
My care and woe should be thy portion.
Shall spend it freely, and make bankrupt
The proudest woe that ever wet man’s eyes.
Care, with a mischief! wherefore should I care?
Have I rid side by side by mighty kings,
Yet be thus bridled now? I’ll tear these fetters,
Murder! cry, murder! Ampedo, aloud.
To bear this scorn our fortunes are too proud.
When the rich soul in wretchedness is clad.
These bands are but one wrinkle of her frown,
This is her evening mask, her next morn’s eye
Shall overshine the sun in majesty.
Brother, farewell; grief, famine, sorrow, want,
Have made an end of wretched Ampedo.
That would redeem us, did we now enjoy it.
Congeals life’s little river in my breast.
No man before his end is truly blest. [Dies.
Thus a foul life makes death to look more foul.
Re-enter Longaville and Montrose with a halter.
One day for you, another day for me.
Shall they have liberty, or shall they die?
Had Fortunatus been enamourÈd
Had shined like two bright suns.
Hell-hounds, y’are damned for this impiety.
Fortune, forgive me! I deserve thy hate;
Myself have made myself a reprobate.
Virtue, forgive me! for I have transgressed
Against thy laws; my vows are quite forgot,
And therefore shame is fallen to my sin’s lot.
Riches and knowledge are two gifts divine.
They that abuse them both as I have done,
To shame, to beggary, to hell must run.
O conscience, hold thy sting, cease to afflict me.
Be quick, tormentors, I desire to die;
No death is equal to my misery.
Cyprus, vain world and vanity, farewell.
Who builds his Heaven on earth, is sure of hell. [Dies.
Scot, thou hast cozened me, give me the right,
Else shall thy bosom be my weapon’s grave.
Enter Athelstane, Agripyne, Orleans, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Lincoln, and Shadow with weapons at one door: Fortune, Vice, and their Attendants at the other.
Shad. O see, see, O my two masters, poor Shadow’s substances; what shall I do? Whose body shall Shadow now follow?
That will be proud to entertain a shadow.
I charm thy babbling lips from troubling me.
You need not hold them, see, I smite them down
Lower than hell: base souls, sink to your heaven.
She that arresteth these two fools is Vice,
They have broke Virtue’s laws, Vice is her sergeant,
Her jailer and her executioner.
Look on those Cypriots, Fortunatus’ sons,
They and their father were my minions,
My name is Fortune.
You need not fall down, for she’ll spurn you down;
Arise! but, fools, on you I’ll triumph thus:
What have you gained by being covetous?
This prodigal purse did Fortune’s bounteous hand
Bestow on them, their riots made them poor,
And set these marks of miserable death
On all their pride, the famine of base gold
Hath made your souls to murder’s hands be sold,
Only to be called rich. But, idiots, see
The virtues to be fled, Fortune hath caused it so;
Those that will all devour, must all forego.
Enter Virtue, crowned: Nymphs and Kings attending on her, crowned with olive branches and laurels; music sounding.
Thus tricked in gaudy feathers, and thus guarded
With crownÈd kings and Muses, when thy foe
Hath trod thus on thee, and now triumphs so?
Where’s virtuous Ampedo? See, he’s her slave;
For following thee, this recompense they have.
The idiot’s cap I once wore on my head,
Did figure him; those that like him do muffle
Virtue in clouds, and care not how she shine,
I’ll make their glory like to his decline.
He made no use of me, but like a miser,
Locked up his wealth in rusty bars of sloth;
His face was beautiful, but wore a mask,
And in the world’s eyes seemed a blackamoor:
So perish they that so keep Virtue poor.
And greater than thyself; then, Virtue, fly,
And hide thy face, yield me the victory.
The world will love me for my comeliness.
Of Agripyne, Montrose, and Longaville,—
English, Scot, French—did Vice clap ugly horns,
But to approve that English, French and Scot,
And all the world else, kneel and honour Vice;
But in no country, Virtue is of price!
In every kingdom some diviner breast
Is more enamoured of me than the rest.
Have English, Scot and French bowed knees to thee?
Why that’s my glory too, for by their shame,
Men will abhor thee and adore my name.
Fortune, thou art too weak, Vice, th’art a fool
To fight with me; I suffered you awhile
T’eclipse my brightness, but I now will shine,
And make you swear your beauty’s base to mine.
Of mortal judges; let’s by them be tried,
Which of us three shall most be deified.
My judge shall be your sacred deity.
Fortune, who conquers now?
Thou wilt triumph both over her and me.
Kneel not to me, to her transfer your eyes,
There sits the Queen of Chance, I bend my knees
Lower than yours. Dread goddess, ’tis most meet
That Fortune fall down at thy conquering feet.
Thou sacred Empress that command’st the Fates,
Forgive what I have to thy handmaid done,
And at thy chariot wheels Fortune shall run,
And be thy captive, and to thee resign
All powers which Heaven’s large patent have made mine.
O now pronounce who wins the victory,
And yet that sentence needs not, since alone,
Your virtuous presence Vice hath overthrown,
Yet to confirm the conquest on your side,
Look but on Fortunatus and his sons;
Of all the wealth those gallants did possess,
Only poor Shadow is left, comfortless:
Their glory’s faded and their golden pride.
Sends only but a Shadow from the grave.
Virtue alone lives still, and lives in you;
I am a counterfeit, you are the true;
I am a shadow, at your feet I fall,
Begging for these, and these, myself and all.
All these that thus do kneel before your eyes,
Are shadows like myself: dread nymph, it lies
In you to make us substances. O do it!
Virtue I am sure you love, she wooes you to it.
I read a verdict in your sun-like eyes,
And this it is: Virtue the victory.
Those self-same hymns which you to Fortune sung
Let them be now in Virtue’s honour rung.
Song.
Dimples on her cheeks do dwell,
Virtue frowns, cry welladay,
Her love is Heaven, her hate is hell.
Since Heaven and hell obey her power,
Tremble when her eyes do lower.
Since Heaven and hell her power obey,
Where she smiles, cry holiday.
And bend, and bend, and merrily,
Sing hymns to Virtue’s deity:
Sing hymns to Virtue’s deity.
As they are about to depart, enter Two Old Men.
THE EPILOGUE AT COURT.
The circle of this bright celestial sphere,
I wept for joy, now I could weep for fear.
Weak, not in love, but in expressing love.
One pardon for himself, and one for me;
For I enticed you hither. O dear Goddess,
Breathe life in our numbed spirits with one smile,
And from this cold earth, we with lively souls,
Shall rise like men new-born, and make Heaven sound
May once a year so oft enjoy this sight,
Till these young boys change their curled locks to white,
And when gray-wingÈd age sits on their heads,
That so their children may supply their steads,
And that Heaven’s great arithmetician,
Who in the scales of number weighs the world,
May still to forty-two add one year more,
And still add one to one, that went before,
And multiply four tens by many a ten:
To this I cry, Amen.
Thus let them stoop under destruction’s arm.
