Chapter 14

_King_. And upon your lives My longings feast with her, though her base limbes Be in a thousand pieces.

_Clown_. She shall be gathered up.

[_Exit. Epid. and Clowne_.

(_Victoria rises out of the cave, white_.)

_Vict_. What's the Kings will? I am here. Are your tormentors ready to give battaile? I am ready for them, and though I lose My life hope to winne the day.

_King_. What art thou?

_Vict_. An armed Christian.

_King_. What's thy name?

_Vict_. _Victoria_: in my name there's conquest writ: I therefore feare no threat[e]nings! but pray That thou maist dye a good king.

_Omnes_. This is not she, Sir.

_King_. It is, but on her brow some Deity sits. What are those Fayries dressing up her haire, Whilst sweeter spirits dancing in her eyes Bewitcheth me to them?

_Enter Epidophorus, Bellizarius, Eugenius, and Clowne_.

Oh _Victoria_, love me! And see, thy Husband, now a slave whose life Hangs at a needles poynt, shall live, so thou Breath but the doome.--Trayters! what sorcerous hand Has built upon this inchantment of a Christian To make me doat upon the beauty of it? How comes she to this habite? Went she thus in?

_Epi_. No, Sir, mine owne hande stript her into rags.

_Clown_. For any meat shee has eaten her face needes not make you doate; and for cleane linen Ile sweare it was not brought into the Iaile, for there they scorne to shift once a weeke.

_King_. _Bellizarius_, woe thy wife that she would love me, And thou shalt live.

_Belliz_. I will.--_Victoria_, By all those chaste fires kindled in our bosomes Through which pure love shin'd on our marriage night; Nay, with a bolder conjuration, By all those thornes and bryers which thy soft feet Tread boldly on to finde a path to heaven, I begge of thee, even on my knee I beg, That thou wouldst love this King, take him by th'hand, Warme his in thine, and hang about his necke, And seale ten thousand kisses on his cheeke, So he will tread his false gods under foote.

_Omnes_. Oh, horrible!

_King_. Bring tortures.

_Belliz_. So he will wash his soule white, as we doe, And fight under our Banner (bloody red), And hand in hand with us walke martyred.

_Anton_. They mocke you.

_King_. Stretch his body up by th'armes, And at his feete hang plummets.

_Clown_. He shall be well shod for stroveling, I warrant you.

_Cosmo_. _Eugenius_, bow thy knee before our _Jove_, And the King gives thee mercy.

_Dam_. Else stripes and death.

_Eugen_. We come into the world but at one doore, But twenty thousand gates stand open wide To give us passage hence: death then is easie, And I defie all tortures.

_King_. Then fasten the Cative; I care not for thy wife: Get from mine eyes Thou tempting _Lamia_. But, _Bellizarius_, Before thy bodyes frame be puld in pieces, Wilt thou forsake the errours thou art drencht in?

_Belliz_. Errours? thou blasphemous and godlesse man, From the great Axis maist thou as easie With one arme plucke the Universall Globe, As from my Center move me. There's my figure; They are waves that beat a rock insensible With an infatigable patience. My breast dares all your arrowes; shoote,--shoote, all; Your tortures are but struck against the wall, Which, backe rebounding, hit your selves.

_King_. Up with him.

_Belliz_. Lay on more waights; that hangman which more brings Addes active feathers to my soaring wings.

(_They draw him up_.)

_King_. _Victoria_, yet save him.

_Vict_. Keepe on thy flight, And be a bird of Paradise.

_Omnes_. Give him more Irons.

_Belliz_. More, more.

_King_. Let him then goe; love thou and be my Queene, Daine but to love me.

_Vict_. I am going to live with a farre greater King.

_King_. Binde the coy strumpet; she dyes, too. Let her braines be beaten on an Anvill: For some new plagues for her!

_Omnes_. Vexe him.

_Belliz_. Doe more.

_Vict_. Heavens, pardon you.

_Eugen_. And strengthen him in all his sufferings.

_Two Angels descend_.

2 ANGEL SINGS.

_Come, oh come, oh come away; A Quire of Angels for thee stay; A home where Diamonds borrow light, Open stands for thee this night, Night? no, no; here is ever day: Come, oh come, oh come, oh come away_.

1 _Ang_. This battaile is thy last; fight well, and winne A Crowne set full of Starres.

_Belliz_. I spy an arme Plucking [me] up to heaven; more waights, you are best; I shall be gone else.

_Vict_. Doe, Ile follow thee.

_King_. Is he not yet dispatcht?

_Belliz_. Yes, King, I thanke thee; I have all my life time trod on rotten ground, And still so deepe beene sinking that my soule Was oft like to bee lost; but now I see A guide, sweete guide, a blessed messenger Who having brought me up a little way Up yonder hill, I then am sure to buy For a few stripes here rich eternity.

2 ANGEL SINGS.

_Victory, victory! hell is beaten downe, The Martyr has put on a golden Crowne; Ring Bels of Heaven, him welcome hither, Circle him Angels round together_.

1 _Angel_. Follow!

_Vict_. I will; what sacred voice cryes 'follow'! I am ready: Oh send me after him.

_King_. Thou shalt not, Till thou hast fed my lust.

_Vict_. Thou foole, thou canst not; All my mortality is shaken off; My heart of flesh and blood is gone; my body Is chang'd; this face is not that once was mine. I am a Spirit, and no racke of thine Can touch me.

_King_. Not a racke of mine shall touch thee. Why should the world loose such a paire of Sunnes As shine out from thine eyes? Why art thou cruell, To make away thy selfe and murther mee? Since whirle-winds cannot shake thee thou shalt live, And Ile fanne gentle gales upon thy face. Fetch me a day bed, rob the earths perfumes Of all the ravishing sweetes to feast her sence; Pillowes of roses shall beare up her head; O would a thousand springs might grow in one To weave a flowry mantle o're her limbes As she lyes downe.

_Enter two Angels about the bed_.

_Vict_. O that some rocke of Ice Might fall on me and freeze me into nothing.

_King_. Enchant our [her?] eares with Musicke; would I had skill To call the winged musitians of the aire Into these roomes! they all should play to thee Till golden slumbers danc'd upon thy browes, Watching to close thine eye-lids.

_Ang_. These Starres must shine no more; soule, flye away. Tyrant, enioy but a cold lumpe of clay.

_King_. My charmes worke; shee sleepes, And lookes more lovely now she sleepes. Against she wakes, Invention, grow thou poore, Studying to finde a banquet which the gods Might be invited to. I need not court her now For a poor kisse; her lips are friendly now, And with the warme breath sweeting all the Aire, Draw mee thus to them.--Ha! the lips of Winter Are not so cold.

_Anton_. She's dead, Sir.

_King_. Dead?

_Dam_. As frozen as if the North-winde had in spight Snatcht her hence from you.

_King_. Oh; I have murthered her! Perfumes some creature kill: she has so long In that darke Dungeon suck't pestiferous breath, The sweete has stifled her. Take hence the body, Since me it hated it shall feele my hate: Cast her into the fire; I have lost her, And for her sake all Christians shall be lost That subjects are to me: massacre all, But thou, _Eugenius_, art the last shall fall This day; and in mine eye, though it nere see more, Call on thy helper which thou dost adore.

_A Thunder-bolt strikes him_.

_Omnes_. The King is strucke with thunder!

_Eugen_. Thankes, Divine Powers; Yours be the triumph and the wonder ours.

_Anton_. Unbinde him till a new King fill the throne; And he shall doome him.

_A Hubert, a Hubert, a Hubert_!

_Flourish: Enter Hubert, armed with shields and swords. Bellina and a company of Souldiers with him_.

_Hub_. What meanes this cry, 'a Hubert'? Where's your King?

_Omnes_. Strucke dead by thunder.

_Hub_. So I heare; you see, then, There is an arme more rigorous than your _Iove_, An arme stretcht from above to beate down Gyants, The mightiest Kings on _Earth_, for all their shoulders Carry _Colossi_ heads: the memory Of _Genzericks_ name dyes here: _Henricke_ gives buriall To the successive glory of that race Who had both voyce and title to the Crowne, And meanes to guard it.--Who must now be King?

_Anton_. We know not till we call the Lords together.

_Hub_. What Lords?

_Cosmo_. Our selves and others.

_Hub_. Who makes you Lords? The Tree upon whose boughs your honours grew, Your Lordships and your lives, is falne to th'ground.

_Dam_. We stand on our owne strength.

_Hub_. Who must be King?

_Within: A Hubert, a Hubert a Hubert_!

_Hub_. Deliver to my hand that reverent [_sic_] man.

_Epi_. Take him and torture him, for he cald down Vengeance On _Henricks_ head.

_Hub_. Good _Eugenius_, lift thy hands up, For thou art say'd from _Henricke_ and from these. You heare what ecchoes Rebound from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, Casting the name of King onely on me? This golden apple is a tempting fruit; It is within my reach; this sword can touch it, And lop the weake branch off on which it hangs. Which of you all would spurne at such a Starre, Lay it i'th the dust when 'tis let down from heaven For him to weare?

_Anton_. Who then must weare that Starre?

_Within: Hubert, Hubert, Hubert_!

_Hub_. The Oracle tells you; Oracle? 'tis a voyce From above tells you; for the peoples tongues, When they pronounce good things, are ty'd to chaines Of twenty thousand linkes, which chaines are held By one supernall hand, and cannot speake But what that hand will suffer. I have then The people on my side; I have the souldiers; I have that army which your rash young King Had bent against the Christians,--they now are mine: I am the Center, and they all are lines Meeting in me. If, therefore, these strong sinewes, The Souldiers and the Commons, have a vertue To lift me into the Throne, Ile leape into it. Will you consent or no? be quick in answer; I must be swift in execution else.

_Omnes_. Let us consult.

_Hub_. Doe, and doe't quickly.

_Eugen_. O noble Sir, if you be King shoot forth Bright as a Sunne-beame, and dry up these vapours That choake this kingdome; dry the seas of blood Flowing from Christians, and drinke up the teares Of those alive, halfe slaughter'd in their feares.

_Hub_. Father, Ile not offend you.--Have you done? So long chusing one Crowne?

_Anton_. Let Drums and Trumpets proclaime _Hubert_ our King!

_Omnes_. Sound Drummes and Trumpets!

_Hub_. I have it, then, as well by voyce as sword; For should you holde it backe it will be mine. I claime it, then, by conquest; fields are wonne By yeelding as by strokes: Yet, noble _Vandals_, I will lay by the Conquest and acknowledge That your hands and your hearts the pinnacles are On which my greatnesse mounts unto this height. And now in sight of you and heaven I sweare By those new sacred fires kindled within me, 'Tis not your ho[o]pe of Gold my brow desires; A thronging Court to me is but a Cell; These popular acclamations, which thus dance I'th Aire, should passe by me as whistling windes Playing with leaves of trees. I'me not ambitious Of Titles glorious and maiesticall; But what I doe is to save blood, save you; I meane to be a husband for you all, And fill you all with riches.

_Epi_. 'Tis that we thirst for; For all our bagges are emptied in these warres Rais'd by seditious Christians.

_Hub_. Peace, thou foole: They are not bags of gold, that melts in fire, Which I will fill your coffers with; my treasury Are riches for your soules; my armes are spread Like wings to protect Christians. What have you done? Proclaim'd a Christian King; and Christian Kings Should not be bloody.

_Omnes_. How? turn'd Christian?

_Eugen_. O blest King! happy day!

_Omnes_. Must we forsake our Gods then?

_Hub_. Violent streames Must not bee stopt by violence; there's an art To meete and put by the most boysterous wave; 'Tis now no policy for you to murmure Nor will I threaten. A great counsell by you Shall straight be cal'd to set this frame in order Of this great state.

_Omnes_. To that we all are willing.

_Hub_. Are you then willing this noble maid Shall be my Queene?

_Omnes_. With all our hearts.

_Hub_. By no hand but by thine will we be crown'd: Come, my _Bellina_.

_Bellina_. Your vow is past to me that I should ever Preserve my virgin honour, that you would never Tempt me unto your bed.

_Hub_. That vow I keepe: I vow'd so long as my knees bow'd to _Iove_ To let you be your selfe; but, excellent Lady, I now am seal'd a Christian as you are: And you have sworne oft that, when upon my forehead That glorious starre was stucke, you would be mine In holy wedlocke. Come, sweete, you and I Shall from our loynes produce a race of Kings, And ploughing up false gods set up one true; Christians unborne crowning both me and you With praise as now with gold.

_Bellina_. A fortunate day; A great power prompts me on and I obey.

(_Flourish_)

_Omnes_. Long live _Hubert_ and _Bellina_, King and Queene Of Goths and Vandals.

_Hub_. Two royall Iewels you give me, this and this: Father, your hand is lucky, I am covetous Of one Gift more: After your sacred way Make you this Queene a wife: our Coronation Is turn'd into a bridall.

_Omnes_. All ioy and happinesse.

_Hub_. To guard your lives will I lay out mine owne, And like Vines plant you round about my throne.

_The end of the fift and last Act_.

To the Reader of this Play now come in Print.

That this play's old 'tis true; but now if any Should for that cause despise it we have many Reasons, both iust and pregnant, to maintaine Antiquity, and those, too, not all vaine. We know (and not long since) there was a time Strong lines were not lookt after, but, if Rime, O then 'twas excellent. Who but beleeves That Doublets with stuft bellies and big sleeves And those Trunk-hose[177] which now our life doth scorne Were all in fashion and with custome worne? And what's now out of date who is't can tell But it may come in fashion and sute well? With rigour therefore iudge not but with reason, Since what you read was fitted to that season.

The Epilogue.

_As in a Feast, so in a Comedy, Two Sences must be pleas'd; in both the Eye; In Feasts the Eye and Taste must be invited, In Comedies the Eye and Eare delighted: And he that only seekes to please but either, While both he doth not please, he pleaseth neither. What ever Feast could every guest content, When as t'each man each Taste is different? But lesse a Scene, when nought but as 'tis newer Can please, where Guests are more and Dishes fewer. Yet in this thought, this thought the Author eas'd; Who once made all, all rules all never pleas'd.[178] Faine would we please the best, if not the many; And sooner will the best be pleas'd then any. Our rest we set[179] in pleasing of the best; So we wish you, what you may give us, Rest_.

FINIS.

INTRODUCTION TO THE NOBLE SOULDIER.

In December, 1633, Nicholas Vavasour entered the _Noble Spanish Souldier_ on the Stationers' Registers as a work of Dekker's; and in the following year the same publisher brought out the _Noble Soldier_ with the initials _S.R_. on the title-page. The running-title of the piece is _The Noble Spanish Souldier_. There is nothing to hinder us from supposing that Dekker, unwilling to take the credit due to his dead friend, informed the publisher of the mistake. Possibly the play had undergone some revision at Dekker's hands.

Samuel Rowley was at once an actor and a playwright. The first mention of him is in a list of the Lord Admiral's players, March 8, 1597-8 (Henslowe's _Diary_, ed. Collier, p. 120). On the sixteenth of November, 1599, Rowley bound himself to play solely for Henslowe 'for a year and as much as to Shraftide' (_Diary_, p. 260). In 1603 we find him among Prince Henry's players (Collier's _Annals of the Stage_, i. 351): he is still belonging to the same company in 1607 (Shakespeare Society's Papers, iv. 44). Six years later, 1613, he is among the Palsgrave's players (_Annals of the Stage_, i. 381).[180]

Francis Meres in _Palladis Tamia_ (1598), enumerating 'the best for comedy,' mentions a certain Maister _Rowley_ once a rare scholar of learned Pembrooke Hall in Cambridge. It has been conjectured that the allusion is to Samuel Rowley; but a more likely candidate for the honour is Ralph Rowley, who is known to have been a Fellow of Pembroke Hall. We do not learn from any other source that Ralph Rowley wrote plays; but, like another Academic worthy in whose company he is mentioned, 'Dr. Gager of Oxforde', he may have composed some Latin pieces that the world was content to let die. Of Samuel Rowley as a playwright we hear nothing before December, 1601, when he was writing for Henslowe a scriptural play on the subject of _Judas_ in company with his fellow-actor William Borne--or Birde, for the name is variously written (Henslowe's _Diary_, p. 205). In July of the following year an entry occurs in the _Diary_--'Lent unto Samwell Rowley and Edward Jewbe to paye for the Booke of Samson, vi 1.' Samuel Rowley and Edward Jewby often acted as paymasters for Henslowe; but I suspect that in the present instance the money went into their own pockets. Two months later we certainly find our author receiving the sum of seven pounds in full payment 'for his playe of Jhoshua' (Henslowe's _Diary_, p. 226). In November of the same year he was employed with William Birde to make additions to Marlowe's _Faustus_ (ibid. p. 228). On July 27, 1623, Sir Henry Herbert licensed 'for the Palsgrave's players a tragedy of Richard the Third, or the English Profit with the Reformation, by Samuel Rowley'; and, again, on October 29 of the same year 'for the Palsgrave players a new comedy called Hard Shifte for Husbands, or Bilboes the Best Blade, written by Samuel Rowley.' Another of our author's pieces, 'Hymen's Holiday, or Cupid's Fagaries,' is mentioned in a list of plays which belonged to the Cock-pit in 1639. None of these plays has come down; but in 1605 there was published 'When You See Me You Know Me; or the famous Chronicle Historic of King Henry VIII. with the Birth and virtuous Life of Edward Prince of Wales. By Samuel Rowley.' This play was again printed in 1632; and a few years ago it was elaborately edited by Prof. Karl Eltze, who--whatever may be his merits as a critic--is acknowledged on every hand to be a most accomplished scholar.

The piece now reprinted will need some indulgence at the reader's hands. Its blemishes are not a few; and no great exercise of critical ability is required to discover that the language is often strained and the drawing extravagant. The atmosphere in which the action of the piece moves is hot and heavy. Sebastian's presence in the third act brings with it a ray of sunlight; but he is quickly gone, and the gloom settles down more hopelessly than before. Onaelia, the forsaken lady, is so vixenish that she moves our sympathies only in a moderate degree. In both choices the King seems to have been equally unfortunate; and it may be doubted whether he could be 'happy with either were t'other fair charmer away.' Baltazar, the Noble Soldier, is something of a bore. At first we are a little suspicious of him, for he seems to 'protest too much'; and even when these suspicions are set at rest his strut and swagger continue to be offensive.

But though the _Noble Souldier_ is not a play over which one would linger long or to which one would care often to return, yet it is impossible not to be struck by the power that marks so much of the writing. Here is an example of our author at his best:--

'You should, my Lord, be like these robes you weare, Pure as the Dye and like that reverend shape; Nurse thoughts as full of honour, zeale and purity. You should be the Court-Diall and direct The king with constant motion; be ever beating (Like to Clocke-Hammers) on his Iron heart To make it sound cleere and to feel remorse: You should unlocke his soule, wake his dead conscience Which, like a drowsie Centinell, gives leave For sinnes vast army to beleaguer him: His ruines will be ask'd for at your hands.'--(i. 2.)

There is the true dramatic ring in those lines; the words come straight from the heart and strike home. The swift sudden menace in the last line is more effective than pages of rhetoric.

The _Noble Souldier_ affords a good illustration of the sanctity attached by our ancestors to marriage-contracts. On this subject the reader will find some interesting remarks in Mr. Spalding's _Elizabethan Demonology_ (pp. 3-7).

THE NOBLE SOVLDIER,

OR,

A CONTRACT BROKEN, JUSTLY REVENG'D.

_A TRAGEDY.

Written by_ S.R.

_Non est, Lex Iustior Ulla, Quam Nescis Artifices, Arte perire Sua.

LONDON_: Printed for _Nicholas Vavasour_, and are to be sold at his shop in the _Temple_, neere the Church. 1634.

_The_ Printer _to the_ Reader.

Understanding Reader, I present this to your view which has received applause in Action. The Poet might conceive a compleat satisfaction upon the Stages approbation. But the Printer rests not there, knowing that that which was acted and approved upon the Stage might be no less acceptable in Print. It is now communicated to you whose leisure and knowledge admits of reading and reason: Your Judgment now this _Posthumus_ assures himself will well attest his predecessors endevours to give content to men of the ablest quality, such as intelligent readers are here conceived to be. I could have troubled you with a longer epistle, but I feare to stay you from the booke, which affords better words and matter than I can. So, the work modestly depending in the skale of your Judgment, the Printer for his part craves your pardon, hoping by his promptness to doe you greater service as conveniency shall enable him to give you more or better testimony of his entirenesse towards you. N.V.

Dramatis Personae.

_King of Spaine. Cardinall. Duke of Medina_.

Marquesse _Daenia, | Alba, | Roderigo, | Dons of Spayne. Valasco, | Lopez_. |

_Queene_, A Florentine. _Onaelia_, Neece to _Medina_, the Contracted Lady. _Sebastian_, Her Sounne. _Malateste_, A Florentine. _Baltazar_, The Souldier. _A Poet_. _Cockadillio_, A foolish Courtier. _A Fryer_.

[To make the list complete we should add--

_Cornego. Carlo. Alanzo. Signer No_.]

THE NOBLE SPANISH SOULDIER.

_Actus Primus_.

SCAENA PRIMA.

_Enter in Magnificent state, to the sound of lowd musicke, the King and Queene as from Church, attended by the Cardinall, Count Malateste, Daenia, Roderigo, Valasco, Alba, Carlo, and some waiting Ladies. The King and Queen with Courtly Complements salute and part; she with one halfe attending her; King, Cardinall and th'other halfe stay, the King seeming angry and desirous to be rid of them too.--King, Cardinal, Daenia, &c_.

_King_. Give us what no man here is master of, Breath; leave us, pray: my father Cardinall Can by the Physicke of Philosophy Set al agen in order. Leave us, pray.

[_Exeunt_.

_Card_. How is it with you, Sir?

_King_. As with a Shippe Now beat with stormes, now safe the stormes are vanisht; And having you my Pylot I not onely See shore but harbour. I to you will open The booke of a blacke sinne deepe-printed in me. Oh, father, my disease lyes in my soule.

_Card_. The old wound, Sir?

_King_. Yes, that; it festers inward: For though I have a beauty to my bed That even Creation envies at, as wanting Stuffe to make such another, yet on her pillow I lye by her but an Adulterer And she as an Adulteresse. Shee's my Queene And wife, yet but my strumpet, tho the Church Set on the seale of Mariage: good _Onaelia_, Neece to our Lord high Constable of Spaine, Was precontracted mine.

_Card_. Yet when I stung Your Conscience with remembrance of the Act, Your eares were deafe to counsell.

_King_. I confesse it.

_Card_. Now to unty the knot with your new Queene Would shake the Crowne halfe from your head.