CYNTHIA.
ECHO.
MERCURY.
ARETE.
HESPERUS.
PHANTASTE.
CRITES.
ARGURION.
AMORPHUS.
PHILAUTIA.
ASOTUS.
MORIA.
HEDON.
COS.
ANAIDES.
GELAIA.
MORPHIDES.
PROSAITES.
MORUS.
CUPID.

MUTES.—PHRONESIS, THAUMA, TIME

INDUCTION.

THE STAGE.

AFTER THE SECOND SOUNDING.

ENTER THREE OF THE CHILDREN, STRUGGLING.

1 CHILD. Pray you away; why, fellows! Gods so, what do you mean?

2 CHILD. Marry, that you shall not speak the prologue sir.

3 CHILD. Why, do you hope to speak it?

2 CHILD. Ay, and I think I have most right to it: I am sure I
studied it first.

3 CHILD. That's all one, if the author think I can speak it
better.

1 CHILD. I plead possession of the cloak: gentles, your suffrages,
I pray you.

[WITHIN.] Why children! are you not ashamed? come in there.

3 CHILD. Slid, I'll play nothing in the play: unless I speak it.

1 CHILD. Why, will you stand to most voices of the gentlemen? let
that decide it.

3 CHILD. O, no, sir gallant; you presume to have the start of us
there, and that makes you offer so prodigally.

1 CHILD. No, would I were whipped if I had any such thought; try
it by lots either.

2 CHILD. Faith, I dare tempt my fortune in a greater venture than
this.

3 CHILD. Well said, resolute Jack! I am content too; so we draw
first. Make the cuts.

1 CHILD. But will you not snatch my cloak while I am stooping?

3 CHILD. No, we scorn treachery.

2 CHILD. Which cut shall speak it?

3 CHILD. The shortest.

1 CHILD. Agreed: draw. [THEY DRAW CUTS.] The shortest is come
to the shortest. Fortune was not altogether blind in this. Now,
sir, I hope I shall go forward without your envy.

2 CHILD. A spite of all mischievous luck! I was once plucking at
the other.

3 CHILD. Stay Jack: 'slid I'll do somewhat now afore I go in,
though it be nothing but to revenge myself on the author; since I
speak not his prologue, I'll go tell all the argument of his play
afore-hand, and so stale his invention to the auditory, before it
come forth.

1 CHILD. O, do not so.

2 CHILD. By no means.

3 CHILD. [ADVANCING TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE.] First, the title
of his play is "Cynthia's Revels," as any man that hath hope to be
saved by his book can witness; the scene, Gargaphie, which I do
vehemently suspect for some fustian country; but let that vanish.
Here is the court of Cynthia whither he brings Cupid travelling on
foot, resolved to turn page. By the way Cupid meets with Mercury,
(as that's a thing to be noted); take any of our play-books without
a Cupid or a Mercury in it, and burn it for an heretic in poetry.
—[IN THESE AND THE SUBSEQUENT SPEECHES, AT EVERY BREAK, THE OTHER
TWO INTERRUPT, AND ENDEAVOUR TO STOP HIM.] Pray thee, let me
alone. Mercury, he in the nature of a conjurer, raises up Echo, who
weeps over her love, or daffodil, Narcissus, a little; sings;
curses the spring wherein the pretty foolish gentleman melted
himself away: and there's an end of her.—Now I am to inform
you, that Cupid and Mercury do both become pages. Cupid attends on
Philautia, or Self-love, a court lady: Mercury follows Hedon, the
Voluptuous, and a courtier; one that ranks himself even with
Anaides, or the Impudent, a gallant, and, that's my part; one that
keeps Laughter, Gelaia, the daughter of Folly, a wench in boy's
attire, to wait on him—These, in the court, meet with Amorphus,
or the deformed, a traveller that hath drunk of the fountain, and
there tells the wonders of the water. They presently dispatch away
their pages with bottles to fetch of it, and themselves go to visit
the ladies. But I should have told you—Look, these emmets put
me out here—that with this Amorphus, there comes along a
citizen's heir, Asotus, or the Prodigal, who, in imitation of the
traveller, who hath the Whetstone following him, entertains the
Beggar, to be his attendant.—Now, the nymphs who are mistresses
to these gallants, are Philautia, Self-love; Phantaste, a light
Wittiness; Argurion, Money; and their guardian, mother Moria; or
mistress Folly.

1 CHILD. Pray thee, no more.

3 CHILD. There Cupid strikes Money in love with the Prodigal,
makes her dote upon him, give him jewels, bracelets, carcanets,
etc. All which he most ingeniously departs withal to be made
known to the other ladies and gallants; and in the heat of this,
increases his train with the Fool to follow him, as well as the
Beggar—By this time, your Beggar begins to wait close, who is
returned with the rest of his fellow bottlemen.—There they all
drink, save Argurion, who is fallen into a sudden apoplexy—

1 CHILD. Stop his mouth.

3 CHILD. And then there's a retired scholar there, you would not
wish a thing to be better contemn'd of a society of gallants, than
it is; and he applies his service, good gentleman, to the Lady
Arete, or Virtue, a poor nymph of Cynthia's train, that's scarce
able to buy herself a gown; you shall see her play in a black robe
anon: a creature, that, I assure you, is no less scorn'd than
himself. Where am I now? at a stand!

2 CHILD. Come, leave at last, yet.

3 CHILD. O, the night is come ('twas somewhat dark, methought),
and Cynthia intends to come forth; that helps it a little yet. All
the courtiers must provide for revels; they conclude upon a masque,
the device of which is—What, will you ravish me?—that each of
these Vices, being to appear before Cynthia, would seem other than
indeed they are; and therefore assume the most neighbouring Virtues
as their masking habit—I'd cry a rape, but that you are
children.

2 CHILD. Come, we'll have no more of this anticipation; to give
them the inventory of their cates aforehand, were the discipline of
a tavern, and not fitting this presence.

1 CHILD. Tut, this was but to shew us the happiness of his memory.
I thought at first he would have plaid the ignorant critic with
everything along as he had gone; I expected some such device.

3 CHILD. O, you shall see me do that rarely; lend me thy cloak.

1 CHILD. Soft sir, you'll speak my prologue in it.

3 CHILD. No, would I might never stir then.

2 CHILD. Lend it him, lend it him:

1 CHILD. Well, you have sworn. [GIVES HIM THE CLOAK.]

3 CHILD. I have. Now, sir; suppose I am one of your genteel
auditors, that am come in, having paid my money at the door, with
much ado, and here I take my place and sit down: I have my three
sorts of tobacco in my pocket, my light by me, and thus I begin.
[AT THE BREAKS HE TAKES HIS TOBACCO.] By this light, I wonder that
any man is so mad, to come to see these rascally tits play here—
They do act like so many wrens or pismires—not the fifth part of
a good face amongst them all.—And then their music is abominable
—able to stretch a man's ears worse then ten—pillories and their
ditties—most lamentable things, like the pitiful fellows that
make them—poets. By this vapour, an 'twere not for tobacco—
I think—the very stench of 'em would poison me, I should not
dare to come in at their gates—A man were better visit fifteen
jails—or a dozen or two of hospitals—than once adventure to
come near them. How is't? well?

1 CHILD. Excellent; give me my cloak.

3 CHILD. Stay; you shall see me do another now: but a more sober,
or better-gather'd gallant; that is, as it may be thought, some
friend, or well-wisher to the house: and here I enter.

1 CHILD. What? upon the stage too?

2 CHILD. Yes; and I step forth like one of the children, and ask
you. Would you have a stool sir?

3 CHILD. A stool, boy!

2 CHILD. Ay, sir, if you'll give me sixpence, I'll fetch you one.

3 CHILD. For what, I pray thee? what shall I do with it?

2 CHILD. O lord, sir! will you betray your ignorance so much?
why throne yourself in state on the stage, as other gentlemen use,
sir.

3 CHILD. Away, wag; what would'st thou make an implement of me?
'Slid, the boy takes me for a piece of perspective, I hold my life,
or some silk curtain, come to hang the stage here! Sir crack, I am
none of your fresh pictures, that use to beautify the decayed dead
arras in a public theatre.

2 CHILD. 'Tis a sign, sir, you put not that confidence in your
good clothes, and your better face, that a gentleman should do,
sir. But I pray you sir, let me be a suitor to you, that you will
quit our stage then, and take a place; the play is instantly to
begin.

3 CHILD. Most willingly, my good wag; but I would speak with your
author: where is he?

2 CHILD. Not this way, I assure you sir; we are not so officiously
befriended by him, as to have his presence in the tiring-house, to
prompt us aloud, stamp at the book-holder, swear for our
properties, curse the poor tireman, rail the music out of tune, and
sweat for every venial trespass we commit, as some author would, if
he had such fine enghles as we. Well, 'tis but our hard fortune!

3 CHILD. Nay, crack, be not disheartened.

2 CHILD. Not I sir; but if you please to confer with our author, by
attorney, you may, sir; our proper self here, stands for him.

3 CHILD. Troth, I have no such serious affair to negotiate with
him; but what may very safely be turn'd upon thy trust. It is in
the general behalf of this fair society here that I am to speak;
at least the more judicious part of it: which seems much distasted
with the immodest and obscene writing of many in their plays.
Besides, they could wish your poets would leave to be promoters of
other men's jests, and to way-lay all the stale apothegms, or old
books they can hear of, in print or otherwise, to farce their
scenes withal. That they would not so penuriously glean wit from
every laundress or hackney-man; or derive their best grace, with
servile imitation, from common stages, or observation of the
company they converse with; as if their invention lived wholly
upon another man's trencher. Again, that feeding their friends
with nothing of their own, but what they have twice or thrice
cooked, they should not wantonly give out, how soon they had drest
it; nor how many coaches came to carry away the broken meat,
besides hobby-horses and foot-cloth nags.

2 CHILD. So, sir, this is all the reformation you seek?

3 CHILD. It is; do not you think it necessary to be practised, my
little wag?

2 CHILD. Yes, where any such ill-habited custom is received.

3 CHILD. O (I had almost forgot it too), they say, the umbrae, or
ghosts of some three or four plays departed a dozen years since,
have been seen walking on your stage here; take heed boy, if your
house be haunted with such hobgoblins, 'twill fright away all your
spectators quickly.

2 CHILD. Good, sir; but what will you say now, if a poet, untouch'd
with any breath of this disease, find the tokens upon you, that are
of the auditory? As some one civet-wit among you, that knows no
other learning, than the price of satin and velvets: nor other
perfection than the wearing of a neat suit; and yet will censure
as desperately as the most profess'd critic in the house, presuming
his clothes should bear him out in it. Another, whom it hath
pleased nature to furnish with more beard than brain, prunes his
mustaccio; lisps, and, with some score of affected oaths, swears
down all that sit about him; "That the old Hieronimo, as it was
first acted, was the only best, and judiciously penn'd play of
Europe". A third great-bellied juggler talks of twenty years
since, and when Monsieur was here, and would enforce all wits to be
of that fashion, because his doublet is still so. A fourth
miscalls all by the name of fustian, that his grounded capacity
cannot aspire to. A fifth only shakes his bottle head, and out of
his corky brain squeezeth out a pitiful learned face, and is
silent.

3 CHILD. By my faith, Jack, you have put me down: I would I knew
how to get off with any indifferent grace! here take your cloak,
and promise some satisfaction in your prologue, or, I'll be sworn
we have marr'd all.

2 CHILD. Tut, fear not, child, this will never distaste a true
sense: be not out, and good enough. I would thou hadst some sugar
candied to sweeten thy mouth.

THE THIRD SOUNDING.

PROLOGUE.

If gracious silence, sweet attention,
Quick sight, and quicker apprehension,
The lights of judgment's throne, shine any where,
Our doubtful author hopes this is their sphere;
And therefore opens he himself to those,
To other weaker beams his labours close,
As loth to prostitute their virgin-strain,
To every vulgar and adulterate brain.
In this alone, his Muse her sweetness hath,
She shuns the print of any beaten path;
And proves new ways to come to learned ears:
Pied ignorance she neither loves, nor fears.
Nor hunts she after popular applause,
Or foamy praise, that drops from common jaws
The garland that she wears, their hands must twine,
Who can both censure, understand, define
What merit is: then cast those piercing rays,
Round as a crown, instead of honour'd bays,
About his poesy; which, he knows, affords
Words, above action; matter, above words.