Enter BOMELIO solus, like an HERMIT.

BOMELIO.
He that hath lost his hope, and yet desires to live,
He that is overwhelm'd with woe, and yet would counsel give;
He that delights to sigh, to walk abroad alone,
To drive away the weary time with his lamenting moan;
He that in his distress despaireth of relief,
Let him begin to tell his tale, to rip up all his grief,
And if that wretched man can more than I recite
Of fickle Fortune's froward check and her continual spite,
Of her inconstant change, of her discourtesy,
I will be partner with that man to live in misery.
When first my flow'ring years began to bud their prime,
Even in the April of mine age and May-month of my time;
When, like the tender kid new-weaned from the teat,
In every pleasant springing mead I took my choice of meat;
When simple youth devis'd to length[en] his delight,
Even then, not dreaming I on her, she poured out her spite:
Even then she took her key, and tuned[90] all her strings
To sing my woe: list, lordings, now my tragedy begins.
Behold me, wretched man, that serv'd his prince with pain,
That in the honour of his praise esteem'd my greatest gain:
Behold me, wretched man, that for his public weal
Refused not with thousand foes in bloody wars to deal:
Behold me, wretched man, whose travail, pain, and toil
Was ever prest to save my friends from force of foreign spoil;
And see my just reward, look on my recompense:
Behold by this for labours past what guerdon cometh thence!
Not by my fiercest foes in doubtful fight with us,
But by my fawning friend[91] I was confounded thus.
One word of his despite in question call'd my name;
Two words of his untrusty tongue brought me to open shame.
Then was I banished the city, court and town;
Then every hand that held me up began to pull me down.
O, that the righteous gods should ever grant the power,
That smoothest sands and greenest bogs should soonest me devour.
Yet that I might descry the better their device,
Here have I liv'd almost five years, disguis'd in secret wise:
And now somewhat it is, but what I cannot tell,
Provokes me forward more than wont to leave my darksome cell,
And in my crooked age, instead of mirth and joy,
With broken sighs in doleful tunes to sing of mine annoy.

[Song.

Go walk the path of plaint, go wander, wretched, now
In uncouth ways, blind corners fit for such a wretch as thou.
There feed upon thy woe; fresh[92] thoughts shall be thy fare,
Musing shall be thy waiting-maid, thy carver shall be care;
Thy dainty dish shall be of fretting melancholy,
And broken sobs with hollow sighs thy savoury sauce shall be.
But further ere I walk, my servant I will send
Into the town to buy such things as now he can intend.

What, Lentulo! [To LENTULO within.

LENTULO.
Anon, forsooth.

BOMELIO.
What, Lentulo, come forth.

LENTULO.
Anon, forsooth.

BOMELIO.
Why, when? I say!

LENTULO.
Anon, forsooth.

BOMELIO.
You naughty lout; come out, sir knave, come away.

LENTULO. Will you not give one leave to pull down his points? what, an a should his breeches beray?

[Enter LENTULO.]

BOMELIO.
Get you to the market, and buy such things as needful are for us.

LENTULO.
Such things as needful are for us! and what are those, I pray?
First, there is needful for us a pot of porridge, for I had none this
many a day;
And then, there are needful for us a feather-bed, for I lie on a
bottle of hay;
And then there is most needful for us a pretty proper wench for to
laugh and play.

BOMELIO. Go, buy us some victuals, and hie thee home. [Exit.

LENTULO.
Now, farewell, master mine, good gentle master mome.
Have you seen such a logger-headed fool, to say:
Go, go, good Lentulo, to buy my victuals so, and give me money?—no!
But for the name's sake, swounds, I were as good serve a master
of clouts.
He'll do nothing all day long but sit on his arse, as my mother did
when she made pouts:
And then a' looks a' this fashion, and thus and thus again; and then,
what do ye?
By my troth, I stand even thus at him, and laugh at his simplismity.
Hath the best manners in the world to bid a man fall to his meat,
And then I say: I thank you forsooth, master, and I could tell
what to eat.
We two, look you—that's I and he—can lie a-bed a whole night and a day,
And we eat, and we had it: it vattens a man; look on my cheeks, else,
are they not fall'n away?
Well, I must jog to the town, and I'll tell you what shift I make there.
Marry, ye shall promise me not to steal it away.
When I come to a rich man's gate, I make a low leg, and then
I knock there;
And then I begin to cry in at the keyhole, that I may be sure they
shall hear:
God save my good master and my good mistress, a poor boy, a piece of
bread and meat for God's sake!

Enter PENULO.

Heigh! merrily trick'd! am I not a knave for the nonce,
That can despatch two errands at once?
I have both told her even as I should do,
And told my young master to meet with him too.
Now he, like a gentleman, for the valour of his mind
Hath sworn by his honour not to stay long behind.
The desire of revenge pricketh him forward so,
That I am sure he'll not let but to go,
And that with all haste possible he may.
Then, tantara-tara, we shall have good play.
I like such a knave so can tickle them all,
To set noblemen at brabble and brawl.

LENTULO.
Save you, sir, young master, and you be a gentleman?

PENULO.
Whoreson peasant, seest thou not what I am?

LENTULO.
Troth, sir, I see you have a good doublet and a pair of hose;
But now-a-days there is so many goes
So like gentlemen, that such a poor fellow as I
Know not how a gentleman from a knave to spy.

PENULO.
Thou may'st perceive I am no such companion:[93]
I am a gentleman, a courtier, and a merry frank franion.[94]

LENTULO.
Then, thou merry companion, thou whoreson frank franion,
Why hast thou abused the law?
What, good skipjack, in faith with thwick-thwack your bones I will claw.
Come about, sir knave.

PENULO.
Cot's my passion, what a merry mate have we here?

LENTULO.
Give me your hand, sir: faith, I was bold to brush the dust out
of your gear.
Pray, sir, tell me: they say in the country 'tis a common guise,
That gentlemen now-a-days cannot see with both eyes.

PENULO.
It's a lie, knave: I know[95] few gentlemen blind.

LENTULO.
No, sir? what will you lay, and I can find
One with a wet finger[96], that is stark blind?

PENULO.
It may be so, but I think thou canst not.

LENTULO.
Will you lay? do wager on it.

PENULO.
What should I lay?
Thou hast no money, I am sure, to pay.

LENTULO.
No, faith, sir; but I'll tell you what our wager shall be;
Because I am not able to lay any money,
I'll lay three round raps on the ribs with my cudgel here.

PENULO.
Soft, let me look first if there be no blind man near.
Content, i'faith: that bargain shall stand.

LENTULO.
Then, sir, I must be so bold as to search your purse out of hand.

PENULO.
My purse, sir? wherefore?

LENTULO.
By my troth, sir, no more but to try,
If you be not as blind a gentleman in the purse as I.

PENULO.
I use not to carry my money in a purse.

LENTULO.
All in a pocket? well, never a whit the worse;
I must search your pocket.

PENULO.
What, if it be elsewhere?

LENTULO.
Wheresoever it is, I must seek out this gear,
I'll not lose my wager, that's certain.
Very well, sir; will you put me to pain?

PENULO.
Have I never a weapon?—I'll look—I pray thee, be content.

LENTULO.
You shall have your wager, sir, as it was meant.

PENULO.
Hold thy hands, good fellow: I'll do anything for thee.
I perceive a wise man of a fool overtaken may be.

LENTULO.
Thou blind gentleman! unless it be for my commodiosity,
I'll teach thee to be blind, and go so bravely.

PENULO.
I'll do anything for thee, if thou strike me no more,
Because I perceive thou art almost as poor
As myself am, and yet there is somewhat in thee:
I'll prefer thee to a service in the Court presently.

LENTULO.
Ha! wilt thou do so?

PENULO.
That I will.

LENTULO.
Wilt thou do so, indeed?
Swear to me by thy ten commandments in thy creed.

PENULO.
I do so.

LENTULO.
Troth, then, we are friends: say nothing, I pray,
And you shall see me prove a rank runaway.
Why, when a man may be a courtier, and live at ease,
Should a' not leave his old master to please?
Sirrah blind gentleman, we two blind gentlemen, and [you] do
as thou promis'd here,
Perhaps I may be as good to thee as two pots of beer.
I'll go with thee, i'faith; gaw, let's be gone.

PENULO.
Soft; tarry a while: I'll go with thee anon.

Enter ARMENIO.

ARMENIO.
How thinkest thou, Penulo, am I not provided now?

LENTULO.
I warrant, sir, a' shall have a cold pull of you,
And a' begin to make another brawl.

ARMENIO.
Farewell, when thou wilt; I trust I shall
Meet with him: am I not almost at the tree?

PENULO.
That same is it, sir.

LENTULO.
Sirrah, what's he?

PENULO.
What car'st thou I come, go thou with me.
Why, I shall have but an ill-favoured courtier of ye.

LENTULO.
Now, for a runaway, God send us good chance.
Then, maids, at your marriage I mean me to dance.
[Exit.

ARMENIO.
Now serves the time to wreak me of my foe—
My bastard foe—that to dishonour me
In privy corners seeks to shame me so,
That my discredit might his credit be.
And hath my father from his tender youth
Vouchsaf'd to bring thee up? did I therefore
Believe so earnestly thy perjur'd truth,
Advancing still thine honour evermore,
That, not contented with a common wrack,
Thou shouldst intend the ruin of us all;
And when thou seemd'st afraid to turn thy back,
To make a glory of our greater fall?
Before thou triumph in thy treachery,
Before thou 'scape untouched for thy sin,
Let never Fates nor Fortune favour me,
But wretched let me live and die therein.
Few words shall serve, my deeds shall prove it now
That, ere I sleep, I mean to meet with you.
[Exit.
Enter FIDELIA.

FIDELIA.
Behold the shifts that faithful love can make;
See what I dare adventure for thy sake.
In case extreme make virtue of a need,
But hence the grief which maketh my heart to bleed.
My love and life, wherever that thou be,
I am in dole constrain'd to follow thee:
Hence sprung the hell of my tormented mind,
The fear of some misfortune yet behind.
If thou escape the peril of distress,
My fear and care is twenty times more less.
No reason 'tis that I should live in joy,
When thou art wrapt in fetters of annoy;
Nor to that end I swear to be thy wife,
To live in peace with thee and state of life;
But as to dwell at ease in pleasure's lap,
Even so to bear some part of thy mishap,
And so to draw in equal portion still
Of both our fortunes, either good or ill.
And sith the lots of our unconstant fate
Have turn'd our former bliss to wretched state,
I am content to tread the woful dance,
That sounds the measure of our hapless chance.
I'll wait thy coming; long thou wilt not stay:
High Jove defend and keep thee in the way!

Enter BOMELIO.

BOMELIO.
Now weary lay thee down, thy fortune to fulfil:
Go, yield thee captive to thy care, to save thy life or spill.
The pleasures of the field, the prospect of delight,
The blooming trees, the chirping birds, are grievous to thy sight.
The hollow, craggy rock, the shrieking owl to see,
To hear the noise of serpent's hiss, that is thy harmony.
For as unto the sick all pleasure is in vain,
So mirth unto the wounded mind increaseth but his pain.
But, heavens! what do I see? thou nymph or lady fair,
Or else thou goddess of the grove, what mak'st thee to repair
To this unhaunted place, thy presence here unfit?

FIDELIA.
Ancient father, let it not offend thee any whit,
To find me here alone. I am no goddess, I,
But a mortal maid, subject to misery.
And better that I might lament my heavy moan,
I secret came abroad to recreate myself awhile alone.

BOMELIO.
Take comfort, daughter mine, for thou hast found him then,
That is of others all that live the most accursed'st man.
O, I have heard it said, our sorrows are the less,
If in our anguish we may find a partner in distress.

FIDELIA.
O father! but my grief relieved cannot be:
My hope is fled, my help in vain, my hurt my death must be.
Yet not the common death of life that here is led,
But such a death as ever kills, and yet is never dead.

BOMELIO.
Fair maid, I have been well acquainted with that fit:
Sometime injured with the like, I learn to comfort it.
Come, rest thee here with me, with[in] this hollow cave;
There will I reckon up at large the horrors that I have.

FIDELIA.
I thank you, father; but I must needs walk another way.

BOMELIO.
Nay, gentle damsel, be content a while with me to stay.

FIDELIA.
The longer that I stay with you, the greater is my grief.

BOMELIO.
The longer that you stay with me, the sooner is relief.

FIDELIA.
I am provided other ways; good father, let me go.

BOMELIO.
To him that off'reth thee no wrong, be not uncourteous so.

FIDELIA.
Perhaps another time I'll come, and visit thee.

BOMELIO.
Both then and now, if so you please, you shall right welcome be.

[Enter ARMENIO.

ARMENIO.
Shall she be welcome unto thee, old wretch, indeed?
I'll welcome both of you: come, maid, away with speed.

FIDELIA.
O brother!

ARMENIO.
Brother! Peace!

FIDELIA.
Good father, help me now.

BOMELIO.
Have I no weapons, wretch that I am? Well, youth, I'll meet with you.

ARMENIO.
Must you be gone? is this your meeting-place?
Come, get you home; and pack you, sir, apace.
Were't not for reverence of thine age, I swear,
Thou should'st accurse the time I met thee here.
But, i'faith, sister, my father shall welcome you.

BOMELIO.
Go tell thine errand, if thou canst.

FIDELIA.
Hermione, adieu;
Ten times adieu: farewell for ever now.

ARMENIO. I thank thee. Fortune, that thou didst this deed allow. [Exeunt.

BOMELIO.
Thou heaven and earth, and ye eternal lamps
That restless keep his course in order due;
Thou, Phoebe bright, that scatterest the damps
Of darksome night, I make my plaints to you.
And thou, Alecto, hearken to my call;
Let fall a serpent from thy snaky hair;
Tisiphone, be swift to plague them all,
That make a pastime of my care and fear!
And thou, O Jove, that by thy great foresight
Rulest the earth and reign'st above the skies;
That wreak'st the wrongs of them that master right
Against the wretches that thy name despise.
And Rhadamanth, thou judge of hateful hell,
Where damned ghosts continual moaning make,
Send forth a fury that may further well
The just revenge that here I undertake.
Henceforth accursed be thou evermore,
Accursed all thou tak'st in hand to do,
The time, the day, accursed be the hour,
The earth, the air, and all that 'long thereto!
Dole and despair henceforth be thy delight,
Wrapped now in present and woes to come,
To wail the day and weep the weary night;
And from this time henceforth I strike thee dumb.
Think'st thou I knew thee not? Yes, well, i-wis,
And that thy sister, daughter to my prince.
Now brag abroad what thou hast got by this:
So live thou dumb: that be thy recompense;
And when thy ghost forsakes thy body quite,
Vengeance I wish upon thy soul to light.

Enter HERMIONE.

HERMIONE.
Good even, good father: pardon my rudeness here.

BOMELIO.
O joy and grief! I will dissemble yet my cheer. [Aside.

HERMIONE.
Good sir, methought I heard you speak of one right now,
Daughter unto a prince: that made me bold to trouble you.

BOMELIO.
I spake of such an one indeed.

HERMIONE.
Why, do you know her name?

BOMELIO.
Fidelia. Why do you ask? What, do you know the same?

HERMIONE.
Yea, father, that I do: I know, and knew her well.
But did you wish those plagues to light on her, I pray you tell?

BOMELIO.
On her! the gods forbid; but on that wretched wight
Her brother, that from hence right now perforce convey'd her quite.

HERMIONE.
Alas! what do I hear? Good father, tell me true,
Hath she been here?

BOMELIO.
She was.

HERMIONE.
She was! Where is she now?

BOMELIO.
Gone back again.

HERMIONE.
Gone back! With whom?

BOMELIO.
Her brother.

HERMIONE.
Her brother! How?

BOMELIO.
He secret watched here; and when she should have stay'd
Awhile with me, he rushed out and her from hence convey'd.

HERMIONE.
Confounded in my grief! And can it suff'red be?
And shall he make a brag at home of his despite to me?
First let me die a thousand deaths; draw, run and meet with him.

BOMELIO.
Tarry, my son; it is in vain: they are now[97] at home, I ween.
Let him alone; he will not make great reck'ning of his gain.

HERMIONE.
Wretch that thou art for lingering! everlasting shall be thy pain;
Continual thy complaint, aye-during still thy woe,
Why mad'st thou not more haste to come, and first of all to know?

BOMELIO.
Content thyself, my son; torment not so thy mind:
Assuage the sorrows of thy heart, in hope some help to find.

HERMIONE.
Some help! O father, no; all help comes too late.
I am the man of all alive[98] the most unfortunate.

BOMELIO.
I[99] see thy loyalty, I see thy faithful love,
Else never durst thou this attempt adventured to prove.
Take comfort thereby, my son.

HERMIONE.
I am the man, I say,
That Love and Fortune once advanc'd, but now have cast away.
The joy, the sweet delight, the rest I had before,
Fell to my lot that now the loss, my plague, might be the more.
O Fortune! froward dame, wilt thou be never sure?
Most constant in inconstancy I see thou wilt endure.

BOMELIO.
Accuse not Fortune, son, but blame thy love therefor;
For I perceive thou art in love, and then[ce] thy trouble is more.

HERMIONE.
Father, if this be love: to lead a life in thrall,
To think the rankest poison sweet, to feed on honey-gall;
To be at war and peace, to be in joy and grief,
Then farthest from the hope of help, where nearest is relief;
To live and die, to freeze and sweat, to melt and not to move;
If it be this to live in love, father, I am in love.

BOMELIO.
Why did you not possess your lady then at home?

HERMIONE.
At home! where is it, sir? alas! for I have none.
Brought up I know not how, and born I know not where,
When I was in my childhood given unto my prince, then here,
Of[100] whom I cannot tell, wherefore I little know.
But now cast out to seek my fate, unhappy where I go.
Then dare I not be seen; here must I not abide.
Did ever more calamities unto a man betide?

BOMELIO.
My heart will burst, if I forbear amidst this misery.
Behold, thy father thou hast found, my son Hermione!
Thy father thou hast found, thy father—I am he.

HERMIONE.
But is it possible my father you should be?

BOMELIO.
Even from my first exile here have I liv'd forlorn,
And once I gave thee to my prince, for thou wast noble-born;
And now he gives me thee, and welcome home again!

HERMIONE.
This is my recompense for all my former pain.
Dear father, glad I am to find you here alive:
By your example I may learn with froward chance to strive.

BOMELIO.
Come, son, content thee now within a cave to dwell.
I will provide for thy redress, and all things shall be well.
A darksome den must be thy lofty lodging now.

HERMIONE.
Father, I am well content to take such part as you.
Here is a breathing-fit[101] after hard mischance.
O gracious Venus! once vouchsafe thy servants to advance.

Strike up a noise of viols: VENUS' triumph.

[Enter VENUS.]

VENUS.
Behold what Love can work for their delight
That put affiance in her deity.
Though heaven and earth against them bend their might,
Yet in the end theirs is the victory:
I will in them, and they triumph in me.
Let Fortune frown, I will uphold their state,
Yea, seem they never so unfortunate.

FORTUNE.
Brag not too much: what, think'st thou I have done?
Nay, soft, not yet: my sport is not begun.

[Music, Music.