Chapter 6

_Eug_. Why, _Clarence_ is your judgement bent to show A common lovers passion? let the World, That lives without a hart, and is but showe, Stand on her empty, and impoisoned forme, I knowe thy kindenesse and have seene thy hart Clest [Cleft?] in my uncles free and friendly lippes, And I am only now to speake and act The rite's due to thy love: oh, I cood weepe A bitter showre of teares for thy sicke state, I cood give passion all her blackest rites And make a thousand vowes to thy deserts. But these are common, knowledge is the bond, The seale, and crowne of our united mindes; And that is rare and constant, and for that, To my late written hand I give thee this. See, heaven, the soule thou gau'st is in this hand. This is the Knot of our eternitie, Which fortune, death, nor hell, shall ever loose.

_Enter Bullaker, Iack, Wil_.

_Ia_. What an unmannerly tricke is this of thy Countesse to give the noble count her uncle the slippe thus?

_Wil_. Vnmannerlie, you villaynes? O that I were worthy to weare a Dagger to any purpose for thy sake?

_Bul_. Why young Gentlemen, utter your anger with your fists.

_Wil_. That cannot be, man, for all fists are shut you know and utter nothing; and besides I doe not thinke my quarrell just for my Ladies protection in this cause, for I protest she does most abhominablie miscarrie her selfe.

_Ia_. Protest, you sawsie Iacke, you! I shood doe my country, and Court-ship good service to beare thy coalts teeth out of thy head, for suffering such a reverend word to passe their guarde; why, the oldest Courtier in the World, man, can doe noe more then protest.

_Bul_. Indeede, Page, if you were in _Fraunce_, you wood be broken upon a wheele for it, there is not the best _Dukes_ sonne in _France_ dares say I protest, till he be one and thirty yeere old at least, for the inheritance of that word is not to be possest before.

_Wil_. Well, I am sorry for my presumtion then, but more sory for my Ladies, marie most sorry for thee good Lord _Momford_, that will make us most of all sory for our selves, if wee doe not fynde her out.

_Ia_. Why, alas, what shood wee doe? all the starres of our heaven see, we seeke her as fast as we can if she be crept into a rush we will seeke her out or burne her.

_Enter Momford_.

_Mom_. Villaines, where are your Ladies? seeke them out. Hence, home ye monsters, and still keepe you there Where levity keepes, in her inconstant Spheare. [_Exeunt Pages_. Away, you pretious villaines! what a plague, Of varried tortures is a womans hart? How like a peacockes taile with different lightes, They differ from themselves; the very ayre Alter the aspen humors of their bloods. Now excellent good, now superexcellent badd: Some excellent good, some? but one of all: Wood any ignorant babie serue her friend Such an uncivill part? Sblood what is learning? An artificiall cobwebbe to catch _flies_, And nourish _Spiders_? cood she cut my throate With her departure, I had byn her calfe, And made a dish at supper for my guests Of her kinde charge; I am beholding to her. Puffe, is there not a feather in this ayre A man may challenge for her? what? a feather? So easie to be seene, so apt to trace, In the weake flight of her unconstant wings? A mote, man, at the most, that with the Sunne, Is onely seene, yet with his radiant eye, We cannot single so from other motes, To say this mote is she. Passion of death, She wrongs me past a death; come, come, my friend Is mine, she not her owne, and theres an end.

_Eug_. Come uncle shall we goe to supper now?

_Mom_. Zounes to supper? what a dorr is this?

_Eug_. Alas what ailes my uncle? Ladies, see.

_Hip_. Is not your Lordshippe well?

_Pene_. Good, speake my Lord.

_Mom_. A sweete plague on you all, ye witty rogues; Have you no pitty in your villanous jests, But runne a man quite from his fifteene witts?

_Hip_. Will not your Lordship see your friend, and Neece.

_Mom_. Wood I might sinke if I shame not to see her Tush t'was a passion of pure jealousie, Ile make her now amends with Adoration. Goddesse of learning, and of constancy, Of friendshippe, and of everie other vertue.

_Eug_. Come, come you have abus'de me now, I know, And now you plaister me with flatteries.

_Pene_. My Lord, the contract is knit fast betwixt them.

_Mom_. Now all heavens quire of Angels sing Amen, And blesse theis true borne nuptials with their blisse; And Neece tho you have cosind me in this, Ile uncle you yet in an other thing, And quite deceive your expectation. For where you thinke you have contracted harts With a poore gentleman, he is sole heire To all my Earledome, which to you and yours I freely and for ever here bequeath. Call forth the Lords, sweet Ladies; let them see This sodaine, and most welcome Noveltie; But cry you mercy, Neece, perhaps your modesty Will not have them partake this sodaine match.

_Eug_. O uncle, thinke you so? I hope I made My choyce with too much Judgment to take shame Of any forme I shall performe it with.

_Mom_. Said like my Neece, and worthy of my friend.

_Enter Furnifall, Tal: King: Goos: Rud: Foul: Ia: Will, Bullaker_.

_Mom_. My Lords, take witnes of an absolute wonder, A marriage made for vertue, onely vertue: My friend, and my deere Neece are man and wife.

_Fur_. A wonder of mine honour, and withall A worthy presedent for all the World; Heaven blesse you for it, Lady, and your choyce.

_Ambo_. Thankes, my good Lord.

_Ta_. An Accident that will make pollicie blush, And all the Complements of wealth and state, In the succesfull and unnumbred Race That shall flow from it, fild with fame and grace.

_Ki_. So may it speed deere Countesse, worthy _Clarence_.

_Ambo_. Thankes, good sir _Cuthberd_.

_Fur_. Captaine be not dismaid, Ile marrie thee, For while we live, thou shalt my consort be.

_Foul_. By _France_ my Lord, I am not griev'd a whit, Since _Clarence_ hath her; he hath bin in _Fraunce_, And therefore merits her if she were better.

_Mom_. Then, Knights, ile knit your happie nuptial knots. I know the Ladies minds better then you; Tho my rare Neece hath chose for vertue only, Yet some more wise then some, they chuse for both, Vertue and wealth.

_Eug_. Nay, uncle, then I plead This goes with my choise, _Some more wise then some_, For onely vertues choise is truest wisedome.

_Mom_. Take wealth, and vertue both amongst you then, They love ye, Knights, extreamely; and Sir _Cut_: I give the chast _Hippolita_ to you; Sir _Gyles_, this Ladie--

_Pen_. Nay, stay there, my Lord. I have not yet prov'd all his Knightly parts I heare he is an excellent Poet too.

_Tal_. That I forgot sweet Lady; good sir _Gyles_, Have you no sonnet of your penne about ye?

_Goos_. Yes, that I have I hope, my Lord, my Cosen.

_Fur_. Why, this is passing fit.

_Goos_. I'de be loth to goe without paper about me against my Mistris, hold my worke againe; a man knows not what neede he shall have perhaps.

_Mom_. Well remembred a mine honour sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. Pray read my Lord, I made this sonnet of my Mistris.

_Rud_. Nay reade thy selfe, man.

_Goos_. No intruth, sir _Cut_: I cannot reade mine owne hand.

_Mom_. Well I will reade it. _Three things there be which thou shouldst only crave, Thou Pomroy or thou apple of mine eye; Three things there be which thou shouldst long to have And for which three each modest dame wood crie; Three things there be that shood thine anger swage, An English mastife and a fine French page_.

_Rud_. Sblood, Asse, theres but two things, thou shamst thy selfe.

_Goos_. Why sir _Cut_. thats _Poetica licentia_, the verse wood have bin too long, and I had put in the third. Slight, you are no Poet I perceive.

_Pene_. Tis excellent, servant.

_Mom_. Keepe it Lady then, And take the onely Knight of mortall men.

_Goos_. Thanke you, good my Lord, as much as tho you had given me twenty shillings in truth; now I may take the married mens parts at football.

_Mom_. All comforts crowne you all; and you, Captaine, For merry forme sake let the willowe crowne: A wreath of willow bring us hither straite.

_Fur_. Not for a world shood that have bin forgot Captaine it is the fashion, take this Crowne.

_Foul_. With all my hart, my Lord, and thanke you too; I will thanke any man that gives me crownes.

_Mom_. Now will we consecrate our ready supper To honourd _Hymen_ as his nuptiall rite; In forme whereof first daunce, faire Lords and Ladies, And after sing, so we will sing, and daunce, And to the skies our vertuous joyes advance.

_The Measure_.

Now to the song and doe this garland grace.

_Canto.

Willowe, willowe, willowe, our Captaine goes downe: Willowe, willowe, willowe, his vallor doth crowne. The rest with Rosemary we grace; O Hymen let thy light With richest rayes guild every face, and feast harts with delight. Willowe, willowe, willowe, we chaunt to the skies; And with blacke, and yellowe, give courtship the prize_.

FINIS.

NOTE.--In a letter to the _Athenaeum_ of June 9, 1883, Mr. Fleay suggests that _Sir Giles Goosecap_ is the work of George Chapman. "It was produced by the Children of the Chapel, and must therefore date between 1599 and 1601. The only other plays known to have been represented by the Chapel Children are Lyly's _Love's Metamorphosis_ and the three _Comical Satires_ of Ben Jonson. The present play bears palpable marks of Jonson's influence.... The author, then, must have been a stage writer at the end of the sixteenth century, probably a friend of Jonson's, and not surviving 1636. The only known playwrights who fulfil the time conditions are Marston, Middleton, and Chapman. Internal evidence, to say nothing of Jonson's enmity, is conclusive against Marston and Middleton. Chapman, on the other hand, fulfils the conditions required. He was Jonson's intimate friend, and died in 1634. In 1598 he was writing plays for Henslow at the Rose Theatre; on July 17, 1599, his connexion with the Admiral's Company there performing ceased; and his next appearance in stage history is as a writer for the Children of Her Majesty's Revels, the very company that succeeded, and was, indeed, founded on that of the Children of the Chapel at Blackfriars. If Chapman was not writing for the Chapel boys from 1599 to 1601, we do not know what he was doing at all. The external evidence, then, clearly points to Chapman. The internal is still more decisive. To say nothing of metrical evidence, which seems just now out of fashion, probably on account of the manner in which it has been handled, can there be any doubt of the authorship of such lines as these:--

'According to my master Plato's mind,' &c.--iii. II.

And for the lower comedy, act iv., sc. 1, in which Momford makes Eugenia dictate a letter to Clarence, should be compared with the _Gentleman Usher_, iii. 1, and _Monsieur d'Olive_, iv. 1. These are clearly all from one mould." I, like Mr. Fleay, had been struck by the resemblance to Chapman's style in parts of _Sir Gyles Goosecappe_; but it seems to me that the likeness is stronger in the serious than in the comic scenes. If Chapman was the author, it is curious that his name did not appear on the title-page of the second edition. The reference to the Maréchal de Biron's visit, iii. 1, proves conclusively that the play cannot have been written earlier than the autumn of 1601.

INTRODUCTION TO _DOCTOR DODYPOLL_.

After reading the passages from "Dr. Dodypoll" in Lamb's "Extracts from the Garrick Plays," many students must have felt a desire to have the play in its entirety. I fear that in gratifying their desire I shall cause them some disappointment; and that, when they have read the play through, they will not care to remember much beyond what they knew already. "Dr. Dodypoll" affords a curious illustration of the astounding inequality in the work of the old dramatists. The opening scene, between Lucilia and Lord Lassenbergh, shows rich imagination and a worthy gift of expression. The writer, whoever he may have been, scatters his gold with a lavish hand. In the fine panegyric[47] on painting, there is a freedom of fancy that lifts us into the higher regions of poetry; and dull indeed must be the reader who can resist the contagion of Lassenbergh's enthusiasm. But this strain of charming poetry is brought too quickly to a close, and then begins the comic business. Haunce, the serving-man, is just tolerable, but the French doctor, with his broken English, is a desperate bore. Soon the stage is crowded with figures, and we have to set our wits on work to follow the intricacies of the plot. Flores, the jeweller, has two daughters, Cornelia and Lucilia. The elder of the two, Cornelia, an ill-favoured virgin, whose affections are fixed on the young Lord Alberdure, has two contending suitors in the doctor and the merchant. Alberdure is in love with Hyanth, but he has a rival in the person of his own father, the Duke of Saxony, who had been previously contracted to the Lady Catherine. Meanwhile Lord Lassenbergh, who is living disguised as a painter under Flores' roof, has gained the affections of Lucilia. In the conduct of the complicated plot no great dexterity is shown. There is a want of fusion and coherence. The reader jumbles the characters together, and would fain see at least one couple cleared off the stage in order to simplify matters. In making Earl Cassimeere marry the deformed Cornelia and share his estate with her father, the author (as Laugbaine observed) has followed Lucian's story of Zenothemis and Menecrates (in "Toxaris, vel De Amicitia"). The third scene of the third act, where Lassenbergh in the hearing of the enchanter chides Lucilia for following him, is obviously imitated from "Midsummer Night's Dream," and in single lines of other scenes we catch Shakespearean echoes. But the writer's power is shown at its highest in the scene (iii. 6) where Lucilia's faltering recollection strives to pierce the veil of her spell-bound senses, gains the light for an instant, and then is lost again in the tumult of contending emotions. The beauty of that scene is beyond the reach of any ordinary poet. And what shall be said of that exquisite description of the cameo in ii. 1?

"_Flores_. See, then, (my Lord) this Aggat that containes The image of that Goddesse and her sonne, Whom auncients held the Soveraignes of Love; See, naturally wrought out of the stone (Besides the perfect shape of every limme, Besides the wondrous life of her bright haire) A waving mantle of celestiall blew Imbroydering it selfe with flaming Starres.

_Alber_. Most excellent: and see besides (my Lords) How _Cupids_ wings do spring out of the stone As if they needed not the helpe of Art."

Is there in the whole Greek Anthology anything more absolutely flawless?

As to the authorship of "Dr. Dodypoll" I am unable to form a conjecture. We learn from Henslowe's Diary that a play called the "French Doctor" was popular in 1594; but we are not justified in identifying this piece with "Dr. Dodypoll." Steevens states that the present play was composed before 1596, but he gives no authority for the statement. The song on p. 102, "What thing is love"? is found in William Drummond's MS. extracts from Peele's "Hunting of Cupid" (apud Dyce's Peele).[48]

The Wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll.

_As it hath bene sundrie times Acted by the Children of Powles_.

LONDON Printed by _Thomas Creede_, for _Richard Oliue_, dwelling in Long Lane. 1600.

The Wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll.

_Actus Prima_.

_A Curtaine drawne, Earle_ Lassingbergh _is discovered (like a Painter) painting_ Lucilia, _who sits working on a piece of Cushion worke_.

_Lassinberge_.[49] Welcome, bright Morne, that with thy golden rayes Reveal'st the variant colours of the world, Looke here and see if thou canst finde disper'st The glorious parts of faire _Lucilia_: Take[50] them and joyne them in the heavenly Spheares, And fix them there as an eternall light For Lovers to adore and wonder at: And this (long since) the high Gods would have done, But that they could not bring it back againe When they had lost so great divinitie.

_Lu_. You paint your flattering words, [Lord] _Lassinbergh_, Making a curious pensill of your tongue; And that faire artificiall hand of yours Were fitter to have painted heavens faire storie Then here to worke on Antickes and on me. Thus for my sake you (of a noble Earle) Are glad to be a mercinary Painter.

_Lass_. A Painter, faire _Luci[li]a_? Why, the world With all her beautie was by painting made. Looke on the heavens colour'd with golden starres, The firmamentall ground of it all blew: Looke on the ayre where, with a hundred changes, The watry Rain-bow doth imbrace the earth: Looke on the sommer fields adorn'd with flowers,-- How much is natures painting honour'd there? Looke in the Mynes, and on the Easterne shore, Where all our Mettalls and deare Jems are drawne, Thogh faire themselves made better by their foiles: Looke on that little world, the twofold man, Whose fairer parcell is the weaker still, And see what azure vaines in stream-like forme Divide the Rosie beautie of the skin. I speake not of the sundry shapes of beasts, The severall colours of the Elements, Whose mixture shapes the worlds varietie In making all things by their colours knowne. And to conclude, Nature, her selfe divine, In all things she hath made is a meere Painter.

[_She kisses her hand_.

[_Lu_.] Now by this kisse, th'admirer of thy skill, Thou art well worthie th'onor thou hast given (With so sweet words) to thy eye-ravishing Art, Of which my beauties can deserve no part.

_Lass_. From[51] these base Anticks where my hand hath spearst Thy severall parts, if I uniting all Had figur'd there the true _Lucilia_, Then might'st thou justly wonder at mine Art And devout people would from farre repaire, Like Pilgrims, with there dutuous sacrifice, Adoring[52] thee as Regent of their loves. Here, in the Center of this Mary-gold, Like a bright Diamond I enchast thine eye; Here, underneath this little Rosie bush, Thy crimson cheekes peers forth more faire then it; Here _Cupid_ (hanging downe his wings) doth sit, Comparing Cherries to thy Ruby lippes: Here is thy browe, thy haire, thy neck, thy hand, Of purpose all in severall shrowds disper'st, Least ravisht I should dote on mine own worke Or Envy-burning eyes should malice it.

_Lu_. No more, my Lord; see, here comes _Haunce_ our man.

_Enter Haunce_.

_Haunce_. We have the finest Painter here at boord wages that ever made Flowerdelice, and the best bedfellow, too; for I may lie all night tryumphing from corner to corner while he goes to see the Fayries, but I for my part see nothing, but here [sic] a strange noyse sometimes. Well, I am glad we are haunted so with Fairies, for I cannot set a cleane pump down but I find a dollar in it in the morning. See, my Mistresse _Lucilia_, shee's never from him: I pray God he paints no pictures with her; but I hope my fellowe hireling will not be so sawcie. But we have such a wench a comming for you (Lordings) with her woers: A, the finest wench.

Wink, wink, deare people, and you be wise, And shut, O shut, your weeping eyes.

_Enter_ Cornelia _sola, looking upon the picture of_ Alberdure _in a little Jewell, and singing. Enter the Doctor and the Merchant following and hearkning to her_.

THE SONG.

_What thing is love? for sure I am it is a thing, It is a prick, it is a thing, it is a prettie, prettie thing; It is a fire, it is a cole, whose flame creeps in at every hoale; And as my wits do best devise Loves dwelling is in Ladies eies_.

_Haunce_. O rare wench!

_Cor_. Faire Prince, thy picture is not here imprest With such perfection as within my brest.

_Mar_. Soft, maister Doctor.

_Doct_. _Cornelia_, by garr dis paltry marshan be too bolde, is too sawcie by garr. Foole, holde off hand, foole; let de Doctor speake.

_Han_. Now my brave wooers, how they strive for a Jewes Trump.

_Doct_. Madam, me love you; me desire to marry you. Me pray you not to say no.

_Cor_. Maister Doctor, I think you do not love me; I am sure you shall not marry me, And (in good sadnes) I must needs say no.

_Mar_. What say you to this, maister Doctor. Mistresse, let me speake. That I do love you I dare not say, least I should offend you; that I would marry you I had rather you should conceive then I should utter: and I do live or die upon your _Monasi[la]ble_, I or no.

_Doct_. By gar if you will see de _Marshan_ hang himselfe, say no: a good shasse by garr.

_Han_. A filthy French jest as I am a Dutch gentleman.

_Mar_. Mistresse, Ile bring you from _Arabia_, _Turckie_, and _India_, where the Sunne doth rise, Miraculous Jemmes, rare stuffes of pretious worke, To beautifie you more then all the paintings Of women with their coullour-fading cheekes.

_Doct_. You bring stuffe for her? you bring pudding. Me vit one, two, tree pence more den de price buy it from dee and her too by garr: by garr dow sella' dy fader for two pence more. Madam, me gieve you restoratife; me give you tings (but toush you) make you faire; me gieve you tings make you strong; me make you live six, seaven, tree hundra yeere: you no point so, Marshan. Marshan run from you two, tree, foure yere together: who shall kisse you dan? Who shall embrace you dan? Who shall toush your fine hand? ô shall, ô sweete, by garr.

_Mar_. Indeed, M. Doctor, your commodities are rare; a guard of Urinals in the morning; a plaguie fellow at midnight; a fustie Potticarie ever at hand with his fustian drugges, attending your pispot worship.

_Doct_. By garr, skurvy marshan, me beat dee starck dead, and make dee live againe for sav'a de law.

_Han_. A plaguie marshan by gar, make the doctor angre.

_Doct_. Now, madam, by my trot you be very faire.

_Cor_. You mock me, M. Doct, I know the contrary.

_Doct_. Know? what you know? You no see your selfe, by garr me see you; me speake vatt me see; you no point speake so:

_Han_. Peace, Doctor, I vise you. Do not court in my maisters hearing, you were best.

_Enter Flores_.

_Flo_. Where are these wooers heere? poore sillie men, Highly deceiv'd to gape for marriage heere Onely for gaine: I have another reache More high then their base spirits can aspire: Yet must I use this Doctors secret aide, That hath alreadie promist me a drug Whose vertue shall effect my whole desires.

_Doct_. O _Monsieur Flores_, mee be your worships servant; mee lay my hand under your Lordships foote by my trot.

_Flo_. O maister Doctor, you are welcome to us, And you, _Albertus_, it doth please me much To see you vowed rivalls thus agree.

_Doct_. Agree? by my trot sheele not have him.

_Ma_. You finde not that in your urins, M. Doctor.

_Doct_. _Mounsieur Flores_, come hedder, pray.

_Flo_. What sayes maister Doctor? have you remembred me?

_Doct_. I, by garr: heere be de powdra, you give de halfe at once.

_Flo_. But are you sure it will worke the effect?

_Doct_. Me be sure? by garr she no sooner drinke but shee hang your neck about; she stroake your beard; she nippe your sheeke; she busse your lippe, by garr.

_Flo_. What, wilt thou eate me, Doctor?

_Doct_. By garr, mee must shew you de vertue by plaine demonstration.

_Flo_. Well, tell me, is it best in wine or no?

_Doct_. By garr de Marshan, de Marshan, I tinck he kisse my sweete mistresse.

_Flo_. Nay, pray thee, Doctor, speake; is't best in wine or no?

_Doct_. O, good Lort! in vyne: vat else I pray you? you give de vench to loove vatra? be garre me be ashame of you.

_Flo_. Well, thankes, gentle Doctor. And now (my friends) I looke to day for strangers of great state, And must crave libertie to provide for them. Painter, goe leave your worke, and you, _Lucilia_, Keepe you (I charge you) in your chamber close. [_Exeunt Cass. and Lucilia_. _Haunce_, see that all things be in order set Both for our Musicke and our large Carowse, That (after our best countrie fashion) I may give entertainment to the Prince.