SCENE XI.

TRINCALO, CRICCA.

TRI. Cricca, I overheard your news: all parts are pleas'd Except myself. Is there no news for Trincalo?

CRI. Know'st it not? in and see: Antonio Hath given thee Armellina with a portion-- Two hundred crowns; and old Pandolfo bound By oath t' assure thee twenty pounds a year For three lives.

TRIN. Ha!

CRI. Come in.

TRIN. I'll follow.

FOOTNOTES:

[346] The salt-cellar which used to be set on tables was generally large. Sometimes, however, a smaller sort would be used, and then several were employed, which were set nearer the trenchers, and therefore called _trencher-salts_, as here.--_Pegge._

[347] [Compare p. 302.]

[348] A term of falconry. Latham says, "It is taken for the fowle which is flowne at and slaine at any time."

[349] This is a term of the chase. Gascoigne, in his book of hunting, 1575, p. 242, enumerates it among "other generall termes of the hart and his properties. When he (the hart) is foamy at the mouth, we saye that _he is embost_." So in "The Shoemakers' Holiday; or, The Gentle Craft," 1610, sig. C 3--

"Besides, the miller's boy told me even now, He saw him take soile, and he hallowed him, Affirming him so _embost_, That long he could not hold."

See also Mr Steevens's note to "All's Well that Ends Well," act iii. sc. 6.

[350] St Paul's, at this time, was constantly open, and the resort equally of the busy and the idle. A contemporary writer thus describes _Paul's Walke:_ It "is the land's epitome, or you may call it the lesser ile of Great Brittaine. It is more than this, the whole world's map, which you may here discerne in it's perfect'st motion, justling and turning. It is a heape of stones and men, with a vast confusion of languages; and, were the steeple not sanctified, nothing liker Babel. The noyse in it is like that of bees, a strange humming or buzze, mixt of walking, tongues, and feet. It is a kind of still roare, or loud whisper. It is the great exchange of all discourse, and no busines whatsoever but is here stirring and afoot. It is the synod of all pates politicke, joynted and laid together in the most serious posture; and they are not halfe so busie at the Parliament. It is the anticke of tailes to tailes, and backes to backes, and for vizards, you need goe no further than faces. It is the market of young lecturers, whom you may cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the generall mint of all famous lies, which are here, like the legends popery first coyned and stampt in the church. All inventions are emptyed here, and not few pockets. The best signe of a temple in it is, that it is the theeves sanctuary, which robbe more safely in the croud then a wildernesse, whilst every searcher is a bush to hide them. It is the other expence of the day, after playes, taverne, and a baudy house, and men have still some oathes left to sweare here. It is the eares brothell, and satisfies their lust and ytch. The visitants are all men, without exceptions; but the principall inhabitants and possessors are stale knights, and captaines out of service; men of long rapiers and breeches, which after all turne merchants here, and trafficke for newes. Some make it a preface to their dinner, and travell for a stomacke: but thriftier men make it their ordinarie, and boord here verie cheape. Of all such places it is least haunted with hobgoblins, for if a ghost would walke more, he could not."--_Earle's "Microcosmographie_," 1628.

[351] The division of this scene is not marked in the old copies, but it is decidedly right, and the numbers of the scenes in the quartos are from two to four, omitting three.--_Collier._

[352] [Old copy, _powr'd._]

[353] Pandolfo's name is omitted in the quartos before the following lines, which are certainly meant to be spoken by him.--_Collier._

[354] _i.e._, Because you know--a very common mode of expression.

[355] _i.e._, When you are declining like the sun, which sets in the west.--_Steevens._

[356] The instances are very numerous throughout this play where Mr Dodsley, and after him Mr Reed, omitted syllables, and thereby spoiled the measure: thus this line ran till now--

"With discontent unrecoverable,"

instead, of _discontentment_.

[357] Old copy, _must_.

EPILOGUE

[_Spoken by Trincalo_].

Two hundred crowns? and twenty pound a year For three good lives? Cargo[358] hai, Trincalo! My wife's extremely busy, dressing the supper For these great marriages, and I not idle, So that I cannot entertain you here, As I would elsewhere. But if you come to Totnam Some four days hence, and ask for Trincalo, At th' sign o' th' Hogshead, I'll mortgage all my lives To bid you welcome. You that love Trincalo, And mean to meet, clap hands, and make 't a bargain.[359]

[358] A corruption of _corragio!_ Ital. courage! a hortatory exclamation.--_Steevens._

A cant word, meaning a good round sum of money. "Canting Dictionary," _in voce_.--_Pegge._

[359] Thus in "A Woman Kill'd with Kindness," 1607, the first scene we have, on a wager being laid--

"What, _clap ye hands_, Or is't no bargain?"

--_Collier._

THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL.

_EDITION._

_The Hogge hath lost his Pearle. A Comedy. Divers times Publicely acted, by certaine London Prentices. By Robert Tailor. London, Printed for Richard Redmer, and are to be solde at the West-dore of Paules at the of the Starre._ 1614. 4º.

INTRODUCTION.

Robert Tailor, the author of this play, is entirely unknown[360]. The title-page of it says it was divers times publicly acted by certain London Prentices; and Sir Henry Wotton[361], in a letter to Sir Edmund Bacon, dated 1612-13, gives the following account of its first performance: "On Sunday last at night, and no longer, some sixteen Apprentices (of what sort you shall guess by the rest of the Story), having secretly learnt a new play without book, intituled, _The Hog hath lost His Pearl;_ took up the _White Fryers_ for their Theater: and having invited thither (as it should seem) rather their Mistresses than their Masters, who were all to enter _per buletini_ for a note of distinction from ordinary Comedians. Towards the end of the Play, the sheriffs (who by chance had heard of it) came in (as they say) and carried some six or seven of them to perform the last Act at _Bridewel;_ the rest are fled. Now it is strange to hear how sharp-witted the City is, for they will needs have Sir _John Swinerton_, the Lord Major, be meant by the _Hog_, and the late Lord Treasurer by the _Pearl_." [362]

FOOTNOTES:

[360] In addition to this play, Robert Tailor was author of "Sacred Hymns," 4º, 1615.--_Gilchrist._ [No. This was a different person. But the author of the present play has some complimentary lines before Taylor the Water-poet's "Whipping and Snipping of Abuses," 1614.]

[361] "Reliquiæ Wottonianæ," fourth edit., 1685, p. 402.

[362] [A story perhaps originating in Swinnerton's name.

W. Smith dedicates his "Hector of Germaine; or, The Palsgrave Prince Elector," 1615, "To the right worshipfull the great Favourer of the Muses, Syr John Swinnerton, Knight, sometimes Lord Mayor of this honourable Cittie of London." He adds that the play was expressly written for citizens.--_Collier._

THE ACTORS' NAMES.

OLD LORD WEALTHY. YOUNG LORD, _his son_. MARIA, _his daughter_. CARRACUS, } } _two gentlemen, near friends_. ALBERT, } LIGHTFOOT, _a country gentleman_. HADDIT, _a youthful gallant_. HOG, _an usurer_. REBECCA, _his daughter_. PETER SERVITUDE, _his man_. ATLAS, _a porter_. _A Priest._ _A Player._ _A Serving-man._ _A Nurse._

PROLOGUE

Our long-time-rumour'd Hog, so often cross'd By unexpected accidents, and toss'd From one house to another: still deceiving Many men's expectations, and bequeathing To some lost labour: is at length got loose, Leaving his servile yoke-stick to the goose; Hath a knight's license, and may range at pleasure, Spite of all those that envy our Hog's treasure. And thus much let me tell you, that our swine Is not, as divers critics did define, Grunting at state-affairs, or invecting Much at our city vices; no, nor detecting The pride or fraud in it; but, were it now He had his first birth, wit should teach him how To tax these times' abuses, and tell some How ill they did in running oft from home; For to prevent (O men more hard than flint!) A matter, that shall laugh at them in print. Once to proceed in this play we were mindless, Thinking we liv'd 'mongst Jews, that lov'd no swine's flesh: But now that trouble's past, if it deserve a hiss (As questionless it will through our amiss), Let it be favour'd by your gentle sufferance: Wise men are still indu'd with patience: We are not half so skill'd as strolling players, Who could not please here, as at country fairs: We may be pelted off, for aught we know, With apples, eggs, or stones, from thence below; In which we'll crave your friendship, if we may, And you shall have a dance worth all the play: And if it prove so happy as to please, We'll say 'tis fortunate, like Pericles.[363]

[363] _i.e._, The play of that name attributed to Shakespeare. Perhaps a sneer was designed. To say that a dramatic piece was _fortunate_, is not to say that it was _deserving;_ and why of all the pieces supposed to be written by our great author was this particularised?--_Steevens._

There is good reason to dispute this interpretation of the word _fortunate_, but Mr Steevens seems to have discovered many sneers at Shakespeare that were never intended. Mr Malone, quoting the two last lines from the above prologue, observes: "By _fortunate_ I understand _highly successful_," and he is warranted in this understanding by the following passage directly in point, which he might have quoted from lines prefixed by Richard Woolfall to Lewis Sharpe's "Noble Stranger," 1640--

"Yet do not feare the danger Of critick readers, since thy 'Noble Stranger,' With pleasing strains has smooth'd the rugged fate Of oft cram'd Theatres, and prov'd _fortunate_."

--_Collier._

Malone, after quoting a passage from "Pymlico or Runne Red-cap," 1609, disputes the notion that a sneer at "Pericles" was intended by Tailor. It appears that "Pericles" drew crowds, and that it was as successful as a play called "Shore." See Malone's Shakespeare, xxi. p. 4, edit. 1821.--_Idem_ (_additional notes to Dodsley_).

THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL.

ACTUS PRIMI, SCENA PRIMA.

_Enter_ LIGHTFOOT, _a country gentleman, passing over the stage, and knocks at the other door_.

LIGHT. Ho! who's within here?

_Enter_ ATLAS, _a porter_.

ATLAS. Ha' ye any money to pay, you knock with such authority, sir?

LIGHT. What if I have not? may not a man knock without money, sir?

ATLAS. Seldom; women and servants will not put it up so, sir.

LIGHT. How say you by that, sir? but, I prythee, is not this one Atlas's house, a porter?

ATLAS. I am the rent-payer thereof.

LIGHT. In good time, sir.

ATLAS. Not in good time neither, sir, for I am behind with my landlord a year and three-quarters at least.

LIGHT. Now, if a man would give but observance to this fellow's prating, he would weary his ears sooner than a barber. Do y' hear, sir? lies there not one Haddit, a gentleman, at this house?

ATLAS. Here lies such a gentleman, sir, whose clothes (were they not greasy) would bespeak him so.

LIGHT. Then I pray, sir, when your leisure shall permit, that you would vouchsafe to help me to the speech of him.

ATLAS. We must first crave your oath, sir, that you come not with intent to molest, perturb, or endanger him; for he is a gentleman, whom it hath pleased fortune to make her tennis-ball of, and therefore subject to be struck by every fool into hazard.

LIGHT. In that I commend thy care of him, for which friendship here's a slight reward; tell him a countryman of his, one Lightfoot, is here, and[364] [he] will not any way despair of his safety.

ATLAS. With all respect, sir; pray, command my house. [_Exit_ ATLAS.

LIGHT. So now I shall have a sight of my cousin gallant: he that hath consumed £800 a year in as few years as he hath ears on his head: he that was wont never to be found without three or four pair of red breeches running before his horse or coach: he that at a meal hath had more several kinds than, I think, the ark contained: he that was admired by niters[365] for his robes of gallantry, and was indeed all that an elder brother might be--prodigal; yet he, whose unthriftiness kept many a house, is now glad to keep house in a house that keeps him, the poor tenant of a porter. And see his appearance! I'll seem strange to him.

_Enter_ HADDIT, _in poor array_.

HAD. Cousin Lightfoot, how dost? welcome to the city.

LIGHT. Who calls me cousin? where's my cousin Haddit? he's surely putting on some rich apparel for me to see him in. I ha' been thinking all the way I came up, how much his company will credit me.

HAD. My name is Haddit, sir, and your kinsman, if parents may be trusted; and therefore you may please to know me better when you see me next.

LIGHT. I prythee, fellow, stay: is it possible thou shouldst be he? why, he was the generous spark of men's admiration.

HAD. I am that spark, sir, though now raked up in ashes; Yet when it pleaseth fortune's chaps to blow Some gentler gale upon me, I may then From forth of embers rise and shine again.

LIGHT. O, by your versifying I know you now, sir: how dost? I knew thee not at first, thou'rt very much altered.

HAD. Faith, and so I am, exceeding much since you saw me last--about £800 a year; but let it pass, for passage[366] carried away the most part of it: a plague of fortune.

LIGHT. Thou'st more need to pray to Fortune than curse her: she may be kind to thee when thou art penitent: but that, I fear, will be never.

HAD. O, no, if she be a woman, she'll ever love those that hate her. But, cousin, thou art thy father's firstborn; help me but to some means, and I'll redeem my mortgag'd lands, with a wench to boot.

LIGHT. As how, I pray thee?

HAD. Marry thus: Hog the usurer hath one only daughter.

LIGHT. Is his name Hog? It fits him exceeding well; for as a hog in his lifetime is always devouring, and never commodious in aught till his death; even so is he, whose goods at that time may be put to many good uses.

HAD. And so I hope they shall before his death. This daughter of his did, and I think doth, love me; but I, then thinking myself worthy of an empress, gave but slight respect unto her favour, for that her parentage seemed not to equal my high thoughts, puffed up----

LIGHT. With tobacco, surely.

HAD. No; but with as bad a weed--vainglory.

LIGHT. And you could now be content to put your lofty spirits into the lowest pit of her favour. Why, what means will serve, man? 'Sfoot, if all I have will repair thy fortune, it shall fly at thy command.

HAD. Thanks, good coz, the means shall not be great, only that I may first be clad in a generous outside, for that is the chief attraction that draws female affection. Good parts, without habiliments of gallantry, are no more set by in these times than a good leg in a woollen stocking. No, 'tis a glistering presence and audacity brings women into fool's felicity.

LIGHT. You've a good confidence, coz; but what do ye think your brave outside shall effect?

HAD. That being had, we'll to the usurer, where you shall offer some slight piece of land to mortgage, and if you do it to bring ourselves into cash, it shall be ne'er the farther from you, for here's a project will not be frustrate of this purpose.

LIGHT. That shall be shortly tried. I'll instantly go seek for a habit for thee, and that of the richest too; that which shall not be subject to the scoff of any gallant, though to the accomplishing thereof all my means go. Alas! what's a man unless he wear good clothes?

[_Exit_ LIGHTFOOT.

HAD. Good speed attend my suit! Here's a never-seen nephew kind in distress; this gives me more cause of admiration than the loss of thirty-five settings together at passage. Ay, when 'tis performed--but words and deeds are now more different than puritans and players.

_Enter_ ATLAS.

ATLAS. Here's the player would speak with you.

HAD. About the jig I promised him. My pen and ink! I prythee, let him in, there may be some cash rhymed out of him.

_Enter_ PLAYER.

PLAYER. The Muses assist you, sir: what, at your study so early?

HAD. O, chiefly now, sir: for _Aurora Musis amica_.

PLAYER. Indeed, I understand not Latin, sir.

HAD. You must then pardon me, good Master Change-coat; for I protest unto you, it is so much my often converse that, if there be none but women in my company, yet cannot I forbear it.

PLAYER. That shows your more learning, sir; but, I pray you, is that small matter done I entreated for?

HAD. A small matter! you'll find it worth Meg of Westminster,[367] although it be but a bare jig.

PLAYER. O Lord, sir, I would it had but half the taste of garlic.[368]

HAD. Garlic stinks to this; if it prove that you have not more whores than e'er garlic had, say I am a boaster of my own works, disgrace me on the open stage, and bob me off with ne'er a penny.

PLAYER. O Lord, sir, far be it from us to debar any worthy writer of his merit; but I pray you, sir, what is the title you bestow upon it?

HAD. Marry, that which is full as forcible as garlic: the name of it is, _Who buys my four ropes of hard onions?_ by which four ropes is meant, four several kind of livers; by the onions, hangers-on--as at some convenient time I will more particularly inform you in so rare a hidden and obscure mystery.

PLAYER. I pray, let me see the beginning of it. I hope you have made no dark sentence in't; for, I'll assure you, our audience commonly are very simple, idle-headed[369] people, and if they should hear what they understand not, they would quite forsake our house.

HAD. O, ne'er fear it; for what I have writ is both witty to the wise, and pleasing to the ignorant: for you shall have those laugh at it far more heartily that understand it not, than those that do.

PLAYER. Methinks the end of this stave is a foot too long.

HAD. O no, sing it but in tune, and I dare warrant you.

PLAYER. Why, hear ye. [_He sings._ _And you that delight in trulls and minions, Come buy my four ropes of hard St Thomas's onions_.[370]

Look ye there, _St Thomas_ might very well have been left out; besides, _hard_ should have come next the _onions_.

HAD. Fie! no; the dismembering of a rhyme to bring in reason shows the more efficacy in the writer.

PLAYER. Well, as you please; I pray you, sir, what will the gratuity be? I would content you as near hand as I could.

HAD. So I believe. [_Aside._] Why, Master Change-coat, I do not suppose we shall differ many pounds; pray, make your offer: if you give me too much, I will, most doctor-of-physic-like, restore.

PLAYER. You say well; look you, sir, there's a brace of angels, besides much drink of free-cost, if it be liked.

HAD. How, Master Change-coat! a brace of angels, besides much drink of free-cost, if it be liked! I fear you have learned it by heart; if you have powdered up my plot in your sconce, you may home, sir, and instruct your poet over a pot of ale the whole method on't. But if you do so juggle, look to't. Shrove-Tuesday[371] is at hand, and I have some acquaintance with bricklayers and plasterers.

PLAYER. Nay, I pray, sir, be not angry; for as I am a true stage-trotter, I mean honestly; and look ye, more for your love than otherwise, I give you a brace more.

HAD. Well, good words do much; I cannot now be angry with you, but see henceforward you do like him that would please a new-married wife, show your most at first, lest some other come between you and your desires; for I protest, had you not suddenly shown your good-nature, another should have had it, though it had been for nothing.

PLAYER. Troth, I'm sorry I gave you such cause of impatiency; but you shall see hereafter, if your invention take, I will not stand off for a brace more or less, desiring I may see your works before another.

HAD. Nay, before all others; and shortly expect a notable piece of matter, such a jig whose tune, with the natural whistle of a carman, shall be more ravishing to the ears of shopkeepers than a whole consort of barbers at midnight.

PLAYER. I am your man for't; I pray you, command all the kindness belongs to my function, as a box for your friend at a new play, although I procure the hate of all my company.

HAD. No, I'll pay for it rather; that may breed a mutiny in your whole house.

PLAYER. I care not, I ha' played a king's part any time these ten years; and if I cannot command such a matter, 'twere poor, faith.

HAD. Well, Master Change-coat, you shall now leave me, for I'll to my study; the morning hours are precious, and my Muse meditates most upon an empty stomach.

PLAYER. I pray, sir, when this new invention is produced, let me not be forgotten.

HAD. I'll sooner forget to be a jig-maker. [_Exit_ PLAYER.] So, here's four angels I little dreamt of. Nay, and there be money to be gotten by foolery, I hope fortune will not see me want. Atlas, Atlas!

_Enter_ ATLAS.

What, was my country coz here since?

ATLAS. Why, did he promise to come again, seeing how the case stood wi' ye?

HAD. Yea, and to advance my downfallen fortunes, Atlas.

ATLAS. But ye are not sure he meant it ye, when he spake it.

HAD. No, nor is it in man to conjecture rightly the thought by the tongue.

ATLAS. Why, then, I'll believe it when I see it. If you had been in prosperity when he had promised you this kindness----

HAD. I had not needed it.

ATLAS. But being now you do, I fear you must go without it.

HAD. If I do, Atlas, be it so: I'll e'en go write this rhyme over my bed's head--

_Undone by folly; fortune, lend me more. Canst thou, and wilt not? pox on such a whore!_

and so I'll set up my rest. But see, Atlas, here's a little of that that damns lawyers; take it in part of a further recompense.

ATLAS. No, pray keep it; I am conceited of your better fortunes, and therefore will stay out that expectation.

HAD. Why, if you will, you may; but the surmounting of my fortunes is as much to be doubted as he whose estate lies in the lottery--desperate.

ATLAS. But ne'er despair. 'Sfoot, why should not you live as well as a thousand others that wear change of taffata, whose means were never anything?

HAD. Yes, cheating, theft and panderising, or, maybe, flattery: I have maintained some of them myself. But come, hast aught to breakfast?

ATLAS. Yes, there's the fag-end of a leg of mutton.

HAD. There cannot be a sweeter dish; it has cost money the dressing.

ATLAS. At the barber's, you mean. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ ALBERT _solus_.

ALB. This is the green, and this the chamber-window: And see, the appointed light stands in the casement, The ladder of ropes set orderly; yet he That should ascend, slow in his haste, is not As yet come hither. Were't any friend that lives but Carracus, I'd try the bliss which this fine time presents. Appoint to carry hence so rare an heir, And be so slack! 'sfoot, it doth move my patience. Would any man, that is not void of sense, Not have watch'd night by night for such a prize? Her beauty's so attractive that, by heav'n, My heart half grants to do my friend a wrong. Forego these thoughts; for,[372] Albert, be not slave To thy affection; do not falsify Thy faith to him, whose only friendship's worth A world of women. He is such a one, Thou canst not live without his good: A' is and was ever as thine own heart's blood. [MARIA _beckons him in the window_. 'Sfoot, see, she beckons me for Carracus: Shall my base purity cause me neglect This present happiness? I will obtain it, Spite of my timorous conscience. I am in person, Habit, and all so like to Carracus, It may be acted, and ne'er call'd in question.

MARIA _calls_. Hist! Carracus, ascend: All is as clear as in our hearts we wish'd.

ALB. Nay, if I go not now, I might be gelded, i' faith! [ALBERT _ascends; and, being on the top of the ladder, puts out the candle_.

MAR. O love, why do you so?

ALB. I heard the steps of some coming this way. Did you not hear Albert pass by as yet?

MAR. [No;] nor any creature pass this way this hour.

ALB. Then he intends, just at the break of day, To lend his trusty help to our departure. 'Tis yet two hours' time thither, till when, let's rest. For that our speedy flight will not yield any.

MAR. But I fear, We, possessing of each other's presence, Shall overslip the time. Will your friend call?

ALB. Just at the instant: fear not of his care.

MAR. Come then, dear Carracus, thou now shalt rest Upon that bed, where fancy oft hath thought thee; Which kindness until now I ne'er did grant thee, Nor would I now, but that thy loyal faith I have so often tried; even now Seeing thee come to that most honour'd end, Through all the dangers which black night presents, For to convey me hence and marry me.

ALB. If I do not do so, then hate me ever.

MAR. I do believe thee, and will hate thee never. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

How pleasing are the steps we lovers make, When in the paths of our content we pace, To meet our longings! What happiness it is For man to love! But O, what greater bliss To love and be belov'd! O, what one virtue E'er reign'd in me, that I should be enrich'd With all earth's good at once! I have a friend, Selected by the heavens as a gift To make me happy, whilst I live on earth: A man so rare of goodness, firm of faith, That earth's content must vanish in his death. Then for my love and mistress of my soul, A maid of rich endowments, beautifi'd[373] With all the virtues nature could bestow Upon mortality, who this happy night Will make me gainer of her heav'nly self. And see, how suddenly I have attain'd To the abode of my desired wishes! This is the green; how dark the night appears! I cannot hear the tread of my true friend. Albert! hist, Albert!--he's not come as yet, Nor is th' appointed light set in the window. What, if I call Maria? it may be She fear'd to set a light, and only hark'neth To hear my steps; and yet I dare not call, Lest I betray myself, and that my voice, Thinking to enter in the ears of her, Be of some other heard: no, I will stay, Until the coming of my dear friend Albert. But now think, Carracus, what the end will be Of this thou dost determine: thou art come Hither to rob a father of that wealth, That solely lengthens his now drooping years, His virtuous daughter, and all of that sex left, To make him happy in his aged days: The loss of her may cause him to despair, Transport his near-decaying sense to frenzy, Or to some such abhorred inconveniency, Whereto frail age is subject. I do too ill in this, And must not think, but that a father's plaint Will move the heavens to pour forth misery Upon the head of disobediency. Yet reason tells us, parents are o'erseen, When with too strict a rein they do hold in Their child's affections, and control that love, Which the high pow'rs divine inspire them with, When in their shallowest judgments they may know, Affection cross'd brings misery and woe. But whilst I run contemplating on this, I softly pace to my desired bliss. I'll go into the next field, where my friend Told me the horses were in readiness. [_Exit._

ALBERT _descending from_ MARIA.

MARIA. But do not stay. What, if you find not Albert?

ALB. I'll then return alone to fetch you hence.

MARIA. If you should now deceive me, having gain'd What you men seek for----

ALB. Sooner I'll deceive My soul--and so, I fear, I have. [_Aside._

MARIA. At your first call, I will descend.

ALB. Till when this touch of lips be the true pledge Of Carracus' constant true devoted love.

MARIA. Be sure you stay not long; farewell; I cannot lend an ear to hear you part. [_Exit_ MARIA.

ALB. But you did lend a hand unto my entrance. [_He descends._ How have I wrong'd my friend, my faithful friend! Robb'd him of what's more precious than his blood, His earthly heaven, the unspotted honour Of his soul-joying mistress! the fruition of whose bed I yet am warm of; whilst dear Carracus Wanders this cold night through th' unshelt'ring field, Seeking me, treacherous man; yet no man neither, Though in an outward show of such appearance, But am a devil indeed; for so this deed Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me. I may compare my friend to one that's sick, Who, lying on his deathbed, calls to him His dearest-thought friend, and bids him go To some rare-gifted man, that can restore His former health: this his friend sadly hears, And vows with protestations to fulfil His wish'd desires with his best performance; But then, no sooner seeing that the death Of his sick friend would add to him some gain, Goes not to seek a remedy to save, But, like a wretch, hies[374] him to dig his grave; As I have done for virtuous Carracus. Yet, Albert, be not reasonless, to endanger What thou may'st yet secure; who can detect The crime of thy licentious appetite?-- I hear one's pace! 'tis surely Carracus.

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. Not find my friend! sure, some malignant planet Rules o'er this night, and, envying the content Which I in thought possess, debars me thus From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence Of a dear friend and love.

ALB. 'Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness: I have no power now to reveal myself.

CAR. The horses stand at the appointed place, And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety. My friend is surely fall'n into a slumber On some bank hereabouts; I will call him. Friend Albert, Albert!

ALB. Whate'er you are that call, you know my name.

CAR. Ay, and thy heart, dear friend.

ALB. O Carracus, you are a slow-pac'd lover! Your credit had been touch'd, had I not been.

CAR. As how, I prythee, Albert?

ALB. Why, I excus'd you to the fair Maria; Who would have thought you else a slack performer. For coming first under her chamber-window, She heard me tread, and call'd upon your name; To which I answer'd with a tongue like yours, And told her I would go to seek for Albert, And straight return.

CAR. Whom I have found; thanks to thy faith and heav'n. But had not she a light when you came first?

ALB. Yes, but hearing of some company, She at my warning was forc'd to put it out. And had I been so too, you and I too Had still been happy. [_Aside._

CAR. See, we are now come to the chamber-window.

ALB. Then you must call, for so I said I would.

CAR. Maria.

MARIA. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd? I see you'll keep your promise.

CAR. Who would not do so, having pass'd it thee, Cannot be fram'd of aught but treachery: Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing We may make firm the bliss of our content.

MARIA. Is your friend Albert with you?

ALB. Yes, and your servant, honoured lady.

MARIA. Hold me from falling, Carracus. [_She descends._

CAR. I will do now so, but not at other times.

MARIA. You are merry, sir: But what d' y' intend with this your scaling-ladder, To leave it thus, or put it forth of sight?

CAR. Faith, 'tis no great matter which: Yet we will take it hence, that it may breed Many confus'd opinions in the house Of your escape. Here, Albert, you shall bear it; It may be you may chance to practise that way; Which when you do, may your attempts so prove, As mine have done--most fortunate in love.

ALB. May you continue ever so! But it's time now to make some haste to horse; Night soon will vanish. O, that it had power For ever to exclude day from our eyes, For my looks, then, will show my villany. [_Aside._

CAR. Come, fair Maria, the troubles of this night Are as forerunners to ensuing pleasures. And, noble friend, although now Carracus Seems, in the gaining of this beauteous prize, To keep from you so much of his lov'd treasure, Which ought not to be mixed; yet this heart Shall so far strive in your wish'd happiness, That if the loss and ruin of itself Can but avail your good----

ALB. O friend! no more; come, you are slow in haste; Friendship ought never be discuss'd in words, Till all her deeds be finish'd. Who, looking in a book, And reads but some part only, cannot judge What praise the whole deserves, because his knowledge Is grounded but on part. As thine, friend, is Ignorant of that black mischief I have done thee. [_Aside._

MAR. Carracus, I am weary; are the horses far?

CAR. No, fairest, we are now even at them: Come, do you follow, Albert?

ALB. Yes, I do follow; would I had done so ever, And ne'er had gone before. [_Aside. Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[364] The pronoun _he_ seems wanting here, but the old 4º omits it.--_Collier._

[365] If this be not a corrupted, it must be an affected, word, coined from the Latin word _niteo_, to shine or be splendid. He was admired by those who _shone_ most in the article of dress.--_Steevens._

So in Marston's "Satires," printed with "Pygmalion," 1598--

"O dapper, rare, compleat, sweet _nittie_ youth! Jesu Maria! how his clothes appeare Crost and re-crost with lace," &c.

_Niters_, however, may be a corruption of _niflers_. Chaucer uses _nifles_ for _trifles_. See "Sompnour's Tale," Tyrwhitt's edit. v. 7342--

"He served him with _nifles_ and with fables."

[_Knights_ would be a bold emendation, and perhaps not very successful.]

[366] "Passage is a game at dice to be played at but by two, and it is performed with three dice. The caster throws continually till he hath thrown dubblets under ten, and then he is out and loseth; or dubblets above ten, and then he _passeth_ and wins."--_Compleat Gamester_, 1680, p. 119.

[367] A play called "Long Meg of Westminster," according to Henslowe, was performed at Newington by the Lord Admiral's and Lord Chamberlain's men, the 14th February 1594; and a ballad on the same subject was entered on the Stationers' books in the same year. Meg of Westminster is mentioned in "The Roaring Girl."--_Gilchrist._

The play of "Long Meg" is mentioned in Field's "Amends for Ladies," 1618, with another called "The Ship," as being played at the Fortune theatre. Feesimple says, "Faith, I have a great mind to see 'Long Meg' and 'The Ship' at the Fortune," which would seem to show in opposition to Mr Malone's opinion (see Malone's Shakespeare by Boswell, iii. 304), that more than one piece was played on the same occasion. Long Meg of Westminster's "pranks" were detailed in a tract published in [1582], and reprinted in the "Miscellanea Antiqua Anglicana." The introduction contains some further notices of this conspicuous damsel.--_Collier._

[368] Perhaps this was the title of some play or ballad that was very successful, though it is not easy to explain the allusion. Dekker, in his "If it be not good, the Devil is in it," seems to refer to the same piece to nearly the same purpose. Scumbroth observes, "No, no, if fortune favoured me, I should be full; but fortune favours nobody but garlick, nor garlick neither now, yet she hath strong reason to love it; for though garlick made her smell abominably in the nostrils of the gallants, yet she had smelt and stunk worse but for garlick." It may be, that such a play was produced at the Fortune theatre, and met with general approbation.

This conjecture is supported by the following passage from "The World's Folly; or, A Warning-Peece Discharged upon the Wickedness thereof," by I.H., 1615: "I will not particularize those _blitea dramata_, (as Laberius tearmes another sort), those _Fortune_-fatted fooles and Times Ideots, whose garbe is the Tootheache of witte, the Plague-sore of Judgement, the Common-sewer of Obscoenities, and the very Traine-powder that dischargeth the roaring _Meg_ (not _Mol_) of all scurrile villainies upon the Cities face; who are faine to produce blinde * _Impudence_ ['Garlicke' inserted in the margin, against the asterisk] to personate himselfe upon their stage, behung with chaynes of garlicke, as an antidote against their owne infectious breaths, lest it should kill their Oyster-crying Audience."--_Collier._

[369] [So in old copy, but query, _addle-headed_.]

[370] This was one of the cries of London at the time: "_Buy my rope of onions--white Sir Thomas's onions_." It was also liable to the hypercriticism of the player. What St Thomas had to do with onions does not appear; but the saint here meant was perhaps St Thomas of Trunnions--

"Nay, softe, my maisters, by _Saincte Thomas of Trunions_, I am not disposed to buy of your _onions_."

--"Apius and Virginia," 1575, sig. E 2. These lines are spoken by Haphazard, the Vice, and are used as if the expression were proverbial.

[371] Shrove-Tuesday was a holiday for apprentices and working people, as appears by several contemporary writers. So in Dekker's "Seven Deadly Sinnes of London," 1606, p. 35: "They presently (like prentises upon _Shrove-Tuesday_) take the lawe into their owne handes, and doe what they list."

[372] The omission of the preposition by Mr Reed spoiled the metre of the line.--_Collier._

[373] So in "Hamlet," act ii. sc. 2: "To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most _beautified_ Ophelia." See the notes of Mr Theobald, Dr Johnson, and Mr Steevens, thereon. [See also Dyce's "Shakespeare Glossary," 1868, _in voce_.]

[374] [Old copy, _hides_.]

ACTUS SECUNDUS.

_Enter_ HOG _the usurer; with_ PETER SERVITUDE, _trussing his points_.

HOG. What, hath not my young Lord Wealthy been here this morning?

P. SER. No, in very deed, sir; he is a towardly young gentleman; shall he have my young mistress, your daughter, I pray you, sir?

HOG. Ay, that he shall, Peter; she cannot be matched to greater honour and riches in all this country: yet the peevish girl makes coy of it, she had rather affect a prodigal; as there was Haddit, one that by this time cannot be otherwise than hanged, or in some worse estate; yet she would have had him: but I praise my stars she went without him, though I did not without his lands. 'Twas a rare mortgage, Peter.

P. SER. As e'er came in parchment: but see, here comes my young lord.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

Y. LORD W. Morrow, father Hog; I come to tell you strange news; my sister is stol'n away to-night, 'tis thought by necromancy. What necromancy is, I leave to the readers of the "Seven Champions of Christendom."[375]

HOG. But is it possible your sister should be stolen? sure, some of the household servants were confederates in't.

Y. LORD W. Faith, I think they would have confessed, then; for I am sure my lord and father hath put them all to the bastinado twice this morning already: not a waiting-woman, but has been stowed, i' faith.

P. SER. Trust me, he says well for the most part.

HOG. Then, my lord, your father is far impatient.

Y. LORD W. Impatient! I ha' seen the picture of Hector[376] in a haberdasher's shop not look half so furious; he appears more terrible than wildfire at a play. But, father Hog, when is the time your daughter and I shall to this wedlock-drudgery?

HOG. Troth, my lord, when you please; she's at your disposure, and I rest much thankful that your lordship will so highly honour me. She shall have a good portion, my lord, though nothing in respect of your large revenues. Call her in, Peter; tell her my most respected Lord Wealthy is here, to whose presence I will now commit her [_Exit_ PETER]; and I pray you, my lord, prosecute the gain of her affection with the best affecting words you may, and so I bid good morrow to your lordship.

[_Exit_ HOG.

Y. LORD W. Morrow,[377] father Hog. To prosecute the gain of her affection with the best affecting words; as I am a lord, a most rare phrase! well, I perceive age is not altogether ignorant, though many an old justice is so.

_Enter_ PETER SERVITUDE.

How now, Peter, is thy young mistress up yet?

P. SER. Yes, indeed, she's an early stirrer; and I doubt not hereafter but that your lordship may say, she's abroad before you can rise.

Y. LORD W. Faith, and so she may, for 'tis long ere I can get up, when I go foxed to bed. But, Peter, has she no other suitors besides myself?

P. SER. No, and it like your lordship; nor is it fit she should.

Y. LORD W. Not fit she should? I tell thee, Peter, I would give away as much as some knights are worth, and that's not much, only to wipe the noses of some dozen or two of gallants, and to see how pitifully those parcels of men's flesh would look, when I had caught the bird which they had beaten the bush for.

P. SER. Indeed, your lordship's conquest would have seemed the greater.

Y. LORD W. Foot, as I am a lord, it angers me to the guts, that nobody hath been about her.

P. SER. For anything I know, your lordship may go without her.

Y. LORD W. An' I could have enjoyed her to some pale-faced lover's distraction, or been envied for my happiness, it had been somewhat.

_Enter_ REBECCA, HOG'S _daughter_.

But see where she comes! I knew she had not power enough to stay another sending for. O lords! what are we? our names enforce beauty to fly, being sent for. [_Aside._] Morrow, pretty Beck: how dost?

REB. I rather should enquire your lordship's health, seeing you up at such an early hour. Was it the toothache, or else fleas disturbed you?

Y. LORD W. Do you think I am subject to such common infirmities? Nay, were I diseased, I'd scorn but to be diseased like a lord, i' faith. But I can tell you news, your fellow virgin-hole player,[378] my sister, is stolen away to-night.

REB. In truth. I am glad on't; she is now free from the jealous eye of a father. Do not ye suspect, my lord, who it should be that has carried her away?

Y. LORD W. No, nor care not; as she brews, so let her bake; so said the ancient proverb. But, lady, mine that shall be, your father hath wished[379] me to appoint the day with you.

REB. What day, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Why, of marriage; or as the learned historiographer[380] writes, Hymen's holidays, or nuptial ceremonious rites.

REB. Why, when would you appoint that, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Why, let me see, I think the tailor may despatch all our vestures in a week: therefore, it shall be directly this day se'ennight.

P. SER. God give you joy!

REB. Of what, I pray, you impudence? This fellow will go near to take his oath that he hath seen us plight faiths together; my father keeps him for no other cause than to outswear the truth. My lord, not to hold you any longer in a fool's paradise, nor to blind you with the hopes I never intend to accomplish, know, I neither do, can, or will love you.

Y. LORD W. How! not love a lord? O indiscreet young woman! Indeed, your father told me how unripe I should find you: but all's one, unripe fruit will ask more shaking before they fall than those that are; and my conquest will seem the greater still. [_Aside._]

P. SER. Afore God, he is a most unanswerable lord, and holds her to't, i' faith.

Y. LORD W. Nay, you could not have pleased me better, than seeing you so invincible, and of such difficult attaining to. I would not give a pin for the society of a female that should seem willing; but give me a wench that hath disdainful looks;

For 'tis denial whets an appetite, When proffer'd service doth allay delight.

REB. The fool's well-read in vice. [_Aside._] My lord, I hope you hereafter will no farther insinuate in the course of your affections; and, for the better withdrawing from them, you may please to know, I have irrevocably decreed never to marry.

Y. LORD W. Never to marry! Peter, I pray bear witness of her words that, when I have attained her, it may add to my fame and conquest.

REB. Yes, indeed, an't like your lordship.

Y. LORD W. Nay, ye must think, Beck, I know how to woo; ye shall find no bashful university-man of me.

REB. Indeed, I think y' had ne'er that bringing up. Did you ever study, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Yes, faith, that I have, and, the last week too, three days and a night together.

REB. About what, I pray?

Y. LORD W. Only to find out why a woman, going on the right side of her husband in the daytime, should lie on his left side at night; and, as I am a lord, I never knew the meaning on't till yesterday. Malapert, my father's butler, being a witty jackanapes, told me why it was.

REB. By'r Lady, my lord, 'twas a shrewd study, and I fear hath altered the property of your good parts; for, I'll assure you, I loved you a fortnight ago far better.

Y. LORD W. Nay, 'tis all one, whether you do or no: 'tis but a little more trouble to bring ye about again; and no question, but a man may do't, I am he. 'Tis true, as your father said, the black ox hath not trod upon that foot of yours.

REB. No, but the white calf hath; and so I leave your lordship.

[_Exit_ REBECCA.

Y. LORD W. Well, go thy ways, th' art as witty a marmalade-eater as ever I conversed with. Now, as I am a lord, I love her better and better; I'll home and poetise upon her good parts presently. Peter, here's a preparative to my farther applications; and, Peter, be circumspect in giving me diligent notice what suitors seem to be peeping.

P. SER. I'll warrant you, my lord, she's your own; for I'll give out to all that come near her that she is betrothed to you; and if the worst come to the worst, I'll swear it.

Y. LORD W. Why, godamercy; And if ever I do gain my request, Thou shalt in braver clothes be shortly dress'd. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ OLD LORD WEALTHY, _solus_.

Have the fates then conspir'd, and quite bereft My drooping years of all the bless'd content That age partakes of, by the sweet aspect Of their well-nurtur'd issue; whose obedience, Discreet and duteous 'haviour, only lengthens The thread of age; when on the contrary, By rude demeanour and their headstrong wills, That thread's soon ravell'd out. O, why, Maria, Couldst thou abandon me now at this time, When my grey head's declining to the grave? Could any masculine flatterer on earth So far bewitch thee to forget thyself, As now to leave me? did nature solely give thee me, As my chief, inestimable treasure, Whereby my age might pass in quiet to rest; And art thou prov'd to be the only curse, Which heav'n could throw upon mortality? Yet I'll not curse thee, though I fear the fates Will on thy head inflict some punishment, Which I will daily pray they may withhold. Although thy disobediency deserves Extremest rigour, yet I wish to thee Content in love, full of tranquillity.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

But see where stands my shame, whose indiscretion Doth seem to bury all the living honours Of all our ancestors; but 'tis the fates' decree, That men might know their weak mortality.

Y. LORD W. Sir, I cannot find my sister.

O. LORD W. I know thou canst not: 'twere too rare to see Wisdom found out by ignorance.

Y. LORD W. How, father! is it not possible that wisdom should be found out by ignorance? I pray, then, how do many magnificoes come by it?

O. LORD W. They buy it, son, as you had need to do. Yet wealth without that may live more content Than wit's enjoyers can, debarr'd of wealth. All pray for wealth, but I never heard yet Of any but one that e'er pray'd for wit. He's counted wise enough in these vain times, That hath but means enough to wear gay clothes, And be an outside of humanity. What matters it a pin, How indiscreet soe'er a natural be, So that his wealth be great? that's it doth cause Wisdom in these days to give fools applause. And when gay folly speaks, how vain soe'er, Wisdom must silent sit, and speech forbear.

Y. LORD W. Then wisdom must sit as mute as learning among many courtiers. But, father, I partly suspect that Carracus hath got my sister.

O. LORD W. With child, I fear, ere this.

Y. LORD W. By'r Lady, and that may be true. But, whether he has or no, it's all one: if you please, I'll take her from under his nose, in spite on's teeth, and ask him no leave.

O. LORD W. That were too headstrong, son; We'll rather leave them to the will of heaven, To fall or prosper; and though young Carracus Be but a gentleman of small revenues, Yet he deserves my daughter for his virtues: And, had I thought she could not be withdrawn From th' affecting of him, I had, ere this, Made them both happy by my free consent; Which now I wish I had granted, and still pray, If any have her, it may be Carracus.

Y. LORD W. Troth, and I wish so too; for, in my mind, he's a gentleman of a good house, and speaks true Latin.

O. LORD W. To-morrow, son, you shall ride to his house, And there inquire of your sister's being. But, as you tender me and your own good, Use no rough language savouring of distaste, Or any uncivil terms.

Y. LORD W. Why, do you take me for a midwife?

O. LORD W. But tell young Carracus these words from me, That if he hath, with safeguard of her honour, Espons'd my daughter, that I then forgive His rash offence, and will accept of him In all the fatherly love I owe a child.

Y. LORD W. I am sure my sister will be glad to hear it, and I cannot blame her; for she'll then enjoy that with quietness which many a wench in these days does scratch for.

O. LORD W. Come, son, I'll write To Carracus, that my own hand may witness, How much I stand affected to his worth. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT, _in his gay apparel, making him ready, and with him_ LIGHTFOOT.

HAD. By this light, coz, this suit does rarely! The tailor that made it may hap to be saved, an't be but for his good works: I think I shall be proud of 'em, and so I was never yet of any clothes.

LIGHT. How! not of your clothes? why then you were never proud of anything, for therein chiefly consisteth pride; for you never saw pride pictured but in gay attire.

HAD. True; but, in my opinion, pride might as well be portrayed in any other shape, as to seem to be an affecter of gallantry, being the causes thereof are so several and divers. As, some are proud of their strength, although that pride cost them the loss of a limb or two by over-daring; likewise, some are proud of their humour, although in that humour they be often knocked for being so; some are proud of their drink, although that liquid operation cause them to wear a nightcap three weeks after; some are proud of their good parts, although they never put them to better uses than the enjoying of a common strumpet's company, and are only made proud by the favour of a waiting-woman; others are proud----

LIGHT. Nay, I prythee, coz, enough of pride; but when do you intend to go yonder to Covetousness the usurer, that we may see how near your plot will take for the releasing of your mortgaged lands?

HAD. Why, now presently; and, if I do not accomplish my projects to a wished end, I wish my fortunes may be like some scraping tradesman, that never embraceth true pleasure till he be threescore and ten.

LIGHT. But say Hog's daughter, on whom all your hopes depend, by this be betrothed to some other.

HAD. Why, say she were; nay more, married to another, I would be ne'er the farther from effecting my intents. No, coz, I partly know her inward disposition; and, did I but only know her to be womankind, I think it were sufficient.

LIGHT. Sufficient for what?

HAD. Why, to obtain a grant of the best thing she had, chastity. Man, 'tis not here as 'tis with you in the country, not to be had without father's and mother's goodwill; no, the city is a place of more traffic, where each one learns by example of their elders to make the most of their own, either for profit or pleasure.

LIGHT. 'Tis but your misbelieving thoughts make you surmise so: if women were so kind, how haps you had not by their favours kept yourself out of the claws of poverty?

HAD. O, but, coz, can a ship sail without water? had I had but such a suit as this to set myself afloat, I would not have feared sinking. But come, no more of need; now to the usurer: and though

All hopes do fail, a man can want no living, So long as sweet desire reigns in women.

LIGHT. But then yourself must able be in giving. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ ALBERT, _solus_.

Conscience, thou horror unto wicked men, When wilt thou cease thy all-afflicting wrath,[381] And set my soul free from the labyrinth Of thy tormenting terror? O, but it fits not! Should I desire redress, or wish for comfort, That have committed an act so inhumane, Able to fill shame's spacious chronicle? Who but a damn'd one could have done like me? Robb'd my dear friend, in a short moment's time, Of his love's high-priz'd gem of chastity: That which so many years himself hath stay'd for? How often hath he, as he lay in bed, Sweetly discours'd to me of his Maria? And with what pleasing passions did he suffer Love's gentle war-siege? Then he would relate, How he first came unto her fair eyes' view; How long it was ere she could brook affection; And then how constant she did still abide. I then, at this, would joy, as if my breast Had sympathis'd in equal happiness With my true friend: but now, when joy should be, Who but a damn'd one would have done like me? He hath been married now, at least, a month; In all which time I have not once beheld him. This is his house-- I'll call to know his health, but will not see him, My looks would then betray me; for, should he ask My cause of seeming sadness or the like, I could not but reveal, and so pour'd on Worse unto ill, which breeds confusion. [_He knocks._

_Enter_ SERVINGMAN.

SER. To what intent d'ye knock, sir?

ALB. Because I would be heard, sir: is the master of this house within?

SER. Yes, marry is he, sir: would you speak with him?

ALB. My business is not so troublesome: Is he in health, with his late espoused wife?

SER. Both are exceeding well, sir.

ALB. I'm truly glad on't: farewell, good friend.

SER. I pray you, let's crave your name, sir; I may else have anger.

ALB. You may say one Albert, riding by this way, only inquired their health.

SER. I will acquaint so much. [_Exit_ SERVINGMAN.

ALB. How like a poisonous doctor have I come, To inquire their welfare, knowing that myself Have given the potion[382] of their ne'er recovery; For which I will afflict myself with torture ever. And, since the earth yields not a remedy Able to salve the sores my lust hath made, I'll now take farewell of society And th' abode of men, to entertain a life Fitting my fellowship in desert woods, Where beasts like me consort; there may I live Far off from wronging virtuous Carracus. There's no Maria that shall satisfy My hateful lust: the trees shall shelter This wretched trunk of mine, upon whose barks I will engrave the story of my sin. And there this short breath of mortality I'll finish up in that repentant state, Where not th' allurements of earth's vanities Can e'er o'ertake me: there's no baits for lust, No friend to ruin; I shall then be free From practising the art of treachery: Thither then, steps, where such content abides, Where penitency, not disturb'd, may grieve, Where on each tree and springing plant I'll carve This heavy motto of my misery, _Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?_ Carracus, farewell, if e'er thou see'st me more, Shalt find me curing of a soul-sick sore. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[375] A very popular book, which is still reprinted.

[376] Hector is one of the Seven Worthies. He appears as such in "Love's Labour's Lost." Nothing was once more common than the portraits of these heroes; and therefore they might have found their way occasionally into shops which we know to have been anciently decorated with pictures for the amusement of some customers whilst others were served. Of the Seven Worthies, the Ten Sibyls, and the Twelve Cæsars, I have seen many complete sets in old halls and on old staircases.--_Steevens._

[377] The 4º reads _Moreover_. The alteration was made by Mr Reed.--_Collier._

[378] A designed play on the word _virginal_, a spinnet.--_Steevens._

[379] Desired or recommended.

[380] This was Samuel Daniel, who was an historian as well as a poet. The work above alluded to is probably "Hymen's Triumph," a pastoral tragi-comedy, acted at the Queen's Court in the Strand, at the nuptials of Lord Roxburgh.

[381] The 4º has it _all-afflicted wrath_.--_Collier._

[382] The old copy has it _portion_, which is most likely wrong.--_Collier._

ACTUS TERTIUS.

_Enter_ CARRACUS, _driving his man before him_.

CAR. Why, thou base villain! was my dearest Friend here, and couldst not make him stay?

SER. 'Sfoot, sir, I could not force him 'gainst his will: An' he had been a woman----

CAR. Hence, thou untutor'd slave! [_Exit_ SERVANT.

But couldst thou, Albert, come so near my door, And not vouchsafe the comfort of thy presence? Hath my good fortune caus'd thee to repine? And, seeing my state so full replete with good, Canst thou withdraw thy love to lessen it? What could so move thee? was't because I married? Didst thou imagine I infring'd my faith, For that a woman did participate In equal share with thee? cannot my friendship Be firm to thee because 'tis dear to her? Yet no more dear to her than firm to thee. Believe me, Albert, thou dost little think How much thy absence gives cause of discontent. But I'll impute it only to neglect: It is neglect indeed when friends neglect The sight of friends, and say 'tis troublesome: Only ask how they do, and so farewell, Showing an outward kind of seeming duty, Which in the rules of manhood is observ'd, And think full well they have perform'd their task, When of their friend's health they do only ask; Not caring how they are, or how distress'd-- It is enough they have their loves express'd In bare inquiry; and, in these times, too, Friendship's so cold, that few so much will do. And am not I beholden then to Albert? He, after knowledge of our being well, Said he was truly glad on't: O rare friend! If he be unkind, how many more may mend? But whither am I carried by unkindness? Why should not I as well set light by friendship, Since I have seen a man, whom I late thought Had been compos'd of nothing but of faith, Prove so regardless of his friend's content?

_Enter_ MARIA.

MARIA. Come, Carracus, I have sought you all about: Your servant told me you were much disquieted Prythee, love, be not so; come, [come,] walk in; I'll charm thee with my lute from forth disturbance.

CAR. I am not angry, sweet; though, if I were, Thy bright aspect would soon allay my rage. But, my Maria, it doth something move me That our friend Albert so forgets himself.

MARIA. It may be, 'tis nothing else; and there's no doubt He'll soon remember his accustom'd friendship. He thinks as yet, peradventure, that his presence Will but offend, for that our marriage rites Are but so newly pass'd.

CAR. I will surmise so too, and only think Some serious business hinders Albert's presence. But what ring's that, Maria, on your finger?

MARIA. 'Tis one you lost, love, when I did bestow A jewel of far greater worth on you.

CAR. At what time, fairest?

MARIA. As if you knew not! why d'ye make't so strange?

CAR. You are dispos'd to riddle; pray, let's see't. I partly know it: where was't you found it?

MARIA. Why, in my chamber, that most gladsome night, When you enrich'd your love by my escape.

CAR. How! in your chamber?

MARIA. Sure, Carracus, I will be angry with you, If you seem so forgetful. I took it up, Then when you left my lodge, and went away, Glad of your conquest, for to seek your friend, Why stand you so amaz'd, sir? I hope that kindness, Which then you reap'd, doth not prevail So in your thoughts, as that you think me light.

CAR. O, think thyself, Maria, what thou art! This is the ring of Albert, treacherous man! He that enjoy'd thy virgin chastity. I never did ascend into thy chamber. But all that cold night, through the frozen field, Went seeking of that wretch, who ne'er sought me; But found what his lust sought for, dearest thee.

MARIA. I have heard enough, my Carracus, to bereave Me of this little breath. [_She swoons._

CAR. All breath be first Extinguished. Within there, ho!

_Enter_ NURSE _and_ SERVANTS.

O nurse! see here, Maria says she'll die.

NURSE. Marry, God forbid! O mistress, mistress, mistress! she has breath yet; she's but in a trance: good sir, take comfort, she'll recover by and by.

CAR. No, no, she'll die, nurse, for she said she would, an' she had not said so, 't had been another matter; but you know, nurse, she ne'er told a lie: I will believe her, for she speaks all truth.

NURSE. His memory begin's to fail him. Come, let's bear This heavy spectacle from forth his presence; The heavens will lend a hand, I hope, of comfort. [_Exeunt._

CARRACUS _manet_.

CAR. See, how they steal away my fair Maria! But I will follow after her, as far As Orpheus did to gain his soul's delight; And Pluto's self shall know, although I am not Skilful in music, yet I can be mad, And force my love's enjoyment, in despite Of hell's black fury. But stay, stay, Carracus. Where is thy knowledge and that rational sense, Which heaven's great architect endued thee with? All sunk beneath the weight of lumpish nature? Are our diviner parts no noblier free, Than to be tortur'd by the weak assailments Of earthsprung griefs? Why is man, then, accounted The head commander of this universe, Next the Creator, when a little storm Of nature's fury straight o'erwhelms his judgment? But mine's no little storm, it is a tempest So full of raging, self-consuming woe, That nought but ruin follows expectation. O my Maria, what unheard-of sin Have any of thine ancestors enacted, That all their shame should be pour'd thus on thee? Or what incestuous spirit, cruel Albert, Left hell's vast womb for to enter thee, And do a mischief of such treachery?

_Enter_ NURSE, _weeping_.

O nurse, how is it with Maria? If e'er thy tongue did utter pleasing words, Let it now do so, or hereafter e'er Be dumb in sorrow.

NURSE. Good sir, take comfort; I am forced to speak What will not please: your chaste wife, sir, is dead.

CAR. 'Tis dead, indeed! how did you know 'twas so, nurse?

NURSE. What, sir?

CAR. That my heart was dead: sure, thou hast serv'd Dame Nature's self, and know'st the inward secrets Of all our hidden powers: I'll love thee for't; And, if thou wilt teach me that unknown skill, Shalt see what wonders Carracus will do: I'll dive into the breast of hateful Albert, And see how his black soul is round encompass'd By fearful fiends. O, I would do strange things! I'd know to whose cause lawyers will incline When they have[383] fees on both sides; view the thoughts Of forlorn widows, when their knights have left them; Search through the guts of greatness, and behold What several sin best pleased them: thence I'd descend Into the bowels of some pocky sir, And tell to lechers all the pains he felt, That they thereby might warned be from lust. Troth, 'twill be rare! I'll study it presently.

NURSE. Alas! he is distracted! what a sin Am I partaker of, by telling him So curs'd an untruth? But 'twas my mistress' will. Who is recovered; though her griefs never Can be recover'd. She hath vow'd with tears Her own perpetual banishment; therefore to him Death were not more displeasing than if I Had told her lasting absence.

CAR. I find my brain's too shallow far for study. What need I care for being a 'rithmetician? Let citizens' sons stand, an' they will, for cyphers: Why should I teach them, and go beat my brains To instruct unapt and unconceiving dolts; And, when all's done, my art, that should be fam'd, Will by gross imitation be but sham'd? Your judgment, madam?

NURSE. Good sir, walk in; we'll send for learned men, That can allay your frenzy.

CAR. But can Maria so forget herself, As to debar us thus of her attendance?

NURSE. She's within, sir, pray you, will you walk to her?

CAR. O, is she so! Come, then, let's softly steal Into her chamber; if she be asleep, I'll laugh, shalt see, enough, and thou shalt weep. Softly, good long-coat, softly. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MARIA _in page's apparel_.

MAR. Cease now thy steps, Maria, and look back Upon that place where distress'd Carracus Hath his sad being; from whose virtuous bosom Shame hath constrained me fly, ne'er to return. I will go seek some unfrequented path Either in desert woods or wilderness, There to bewail my innocent mishaps, Which heaven hath justly poured down on me, In punishing my disobediency.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

O, see my brother! [_Exit_ MARIA.

Y. LORD W. Ho, you three-foot-and-a-half! Why, page, I say! 'Sfoot, he is vanished as suddenly as a dumb show.[384] If a lord had lost his way now, so he had been served. But let me see: as I take it, this is the house of Carracus. A very fair building, but it looks as if 'twere dead; I can see no breath come out of the chimneys. But I shall know the state on't by and by, by the looks of some servingman. What ho, within here! [_Beats at the door._

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. Good sir, you have your arms at liberty. Wilt please you to withdraw your action of battery?

Y. LORD W. Yes, indeed, now you have made your appearance. Is thy living-giver within, sir?

SER. You mean my master, sir?

Y. LORD W. You have hit it, sir, praised be your understanding. I am to have conference with him; would you admit my presence?

SER. Indeed, sir, he is at this time not in health, and may not be disturbed.

Y. LORD W. Sir, if he were in the pangs of childbed, I'd speak with him.

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. Upon what cause, gay man?

Y. LORD W. 'Sfoot, I think he be disturbed indeed; he speaks more commanding than a constable at midnight. Sir, my lord and father, by me (a lord) hath sent these lines enclosed, which show his whole intent.

CAR. Let me peruse them; if they do portend To the state's good, your answer shall be sudden, Your entertainment friendly; but if otherwise, Our meanest subject shall divide thy greatness. You'd best look to't, ambassador.

Y. LORD W. Is your master a statesman, friend?

SER. Alas! no, sir; he understands not what he speaks.

Y. LORD W. Ay, but when my father dies, I am to be called in for one myself, and I hope to bear the place as gravely as my successors have done before me.

CAR. Ambassador, I find your master's will Treats to the good of somewhat, what it is-- You have your answer, and may now depart.

Y. LORD W. I will relate as much, sir; fare ye well.

CAR. But stay, I had forgotten quite our chief'st affairs: Your master father writes, some three lines lower, Of one Maria, that is wife to me: That she and I should travel now with you Unto his presence.

Y. LORD W. Why, now I understand you, sir: that Maria is my sister, by whose conjunction you are created brother to me a lord.

CAR. But, brother lord, we cannot go this journey.

Y. LORD W. Alas! no, sir? We mean to do it. My sister shall ride upon my nag.

CAR. Come, then, we'll in and strive to woo your sister. I have not seen her, sir, at least these three days. They keep her in a chamber, and tell me She's fast asleep still: you and I'll go see.

Y. LORD W. Content, sir.

SER. Madmen and fools agree. [_Aside Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT _and_ REBECCA.

REB. When you have got this prize, you mean to lose me.

HAD. Nay, prythee, do not think so. If I do not marry thee this instant night, may I never enjoy breath a minute after! By heaven, I respect not his pelf thus much, but only that I may have wherewith to maintain thee.

REB. O, but to rob my father, though he be bad, the world will think ill of me.

HAD. Think ill of thee! Can the world pity him that ne'er pitied any? besides, since there is no end of his goods nor beginning of his goodness, had not we as good share his dross in his lifetime, as let controversy and lawyers devour it at his death?

REB. You have prevailed. At what hour is't you intend to have entrance into his chamber?

HAD. Why, just at midnight; for then our apparition will seem most fearful. You'll make a way that we may ascend up like spirits?

REB. I will; but how many have you made instruments herein?

HAD. Faith, none but my cousin Lightfoot and a player.

REB. But may you trust the player?

HAD. O, exceeding well. We'll give him a speech he understands not. But, now I think on't, what's to be done with your father's man Peter?

REB. Why, the least quantity of drink will lay him dead asleep. But hark, I hear my father coming. Soon in the evening I'll convey you in.

HAD. Till when, let this outward ceremony be a true pledge of our inward affections. [_Kisses her. Exit_ REBECCA.] Lo, this goes better forward than the plantation in Virginia: but see, here comes half the West Indies, whose rich mines this night I mean to be ransacking.

_Enter_ HOG, LIGHTFOOT, _and_ PETER.

HOG. Then you'll seal for this small lordship, you say? To-morrow your money shall be rightly told up for you to a penny.

LIGHT. I pray, let it, and that your man may set contents upon every bag.

HAD. Indeed, by that we may know what we steal, without labour for the telling on't over. [_Aside._] How now, gentlemen, are ye agreed upon the price of this earth and clay?

HOG. Yes, faith, Master Haddit, the gentleman your friend here makes me pay sweetly for't; but let it go, I hope to inherit heaven, if it be but for doing gentlemen pleasure.

HOG. Peter!

P. SER. Anon, sir.

HOG. I wonder how Haddit came by that gay suit of clothes; all his means were consumed long since.

P. SER. Why, sir, being undone himself, he lives by the undoing, or (by Lady!) it may be by the doing, of others--or peradventure both. A decayed gallant may live by anything, if he keep one thing safe.

HOG. Gentlemen, I'll to the scrivener's, to cause these writings to be drawn.

LIGHT. Pray do, sir; we'll now leave you till the morning.

HOG. Nay, you shall stay dinner; I'll return presently. Peter, some beer here for these worshipful gentlemen.

[_Exeunt_ HOG _and_ PETER.

HAD. We shall be bold, no doubt; and that, old penny-father, you'll confess by to-morrow morning.

LIGHT. Then his daughter is certainly thine, and condescends to all thy wishes?

HAD. And yet you would not once believe it; as if a female's favour could not be obtained by any but he that wears the cap of maintenance;

When 'tis nothing but acquaintance and a bold spirit, That may the chiefest prize 'mongst all of them inherit.

LIGHT. Well, thou hast got one deserves the bringing home with trumpets, and falls to thee as miraculously as the £1000 did to the tailor. Thank your good fortune. But must Hog's man be made drunk?

HAD. By all means; and thus it shall be effected: when he comes in with beer, do you upon some slight occasion fall out with him, and if you give him a cuff or two, it will give him cause to know you are the more angry, then will I slip in and take up the matter, and, striving to make you two friends, we'll make him drunk.

LIGHT. It's done in conceit already. See where he comes.

_Enter_ PETER.

P. SER. Wilt please you to taste a cup of September beer, gentlemen?

LIGHT. Pray, begin: we'll pledge you, sir.

P. SER. It's out, sir.

LIGHT. Then my hand is in, sir. [LIGHTFOOT _cuffs him_.] Why goodman Hobby-horse, if we out of our gentility offered you to begin, must you out of your rascality needs take it?

HAD. Why, how now, sirs, what's the matter?

P. SER. The gentleman here falls out with me upon nothing in the world but mere courtesy.

HAD. By this light, but he shall not; why, cousin Lightfoot!

P. SER. Is his name Lightfoot? a plague on him, he has a heavy hand.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

Y. LORD W. Peace be here; for I came late enough from a madman.

HAD. My young lord, God save you.

Y. LORD W. And you also: I could speak it in Latin, but the phrase is common.[385]

HAD. True, my lord, and what's common ought not much to be dealt withal; but I must desire your help, my lord, to end a controversy here between this gentleman my friend and honest Peter who, [_Aside_] I dare be sworn, is as ignorant as your lordship.

Y. LORD W. That I will; but, my masters, this much I'll say unto you--if so be this quarrel may be taken up peaceably without the endangering of my own person, well and good: otherwise I will not meddle therewith, for I have been vexed late enough already.

HAD. Why then, my lord, if it please you, let me, being your inferior, decree the cause between them.

Y. LORD W. I do give leave or permit.

HAD. Then thus I will propound a reasonable motion; how many cuffs, Peter, did this gentleman out of his fury make thee partaker of.

P. SER. Three, at the least, sir.

HAD. All which were bestowed upon you for beginning first, Peter.

P. SER. Yes, indeed, sir.

HAD. Why then, hear the sentence of your suffering. You shall both down into Master Hog's cellar, Peter; and whereas you began first to him, so shall he there to you; and as he gave you three cuffs, so shall you retort off, in defiance of him, three black-jacks, which if he deny to pledge, then the glory is thine, and he accounted by the wise discretion of my lord here a flincher.

OMNES. A reasonable motion.

Y. LORD W. Why so; this is better than being among madmen yet.

HAD. Were you so lately with any, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Yes, faith; I'll tell you all in the cellar, how I was taken for an ambassador; and being no sooner in the house, but the madman carries me up into the garret for a spy, and very roundly bad me untruss; and, had not a courteous servingman conveyed me away whilst he went to fetch whips, I think in my conscience, not respecting my honour, he would have breech'd me.[386]

HAD. By Lady, and 'twas to be fear'd; but come, my lord, we'll hear the rest in the cellar.

And honest Peter, thou that hast been griev'd, My lord and I will see thee well-reliev'd. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[383] Old copy, _had_.

[384] _i.e._, One of those _inexplicable dumb shows_ ridiculed by "Hamlet." See edition of Shakespeare 1778, x.p. 284.--_Steevens._

[385] Alluding to the use of it in Cooke's "City Gallant," commonly called "Green's Tu quoque," printed in the present volume.

[386] _i.e._, Whipped me.

ACTUS QUARTUS.

_Enter_ ALBERT _in the woods_.

How full of sweet content had this life been, If it had been embraced but before My burthenous conscience was so fraught with sin! But now my griefs o'ersway that happiness. O, that some lecher or accurs'd betrayer Of sacred friendship might but here arrive, And read the lines repentant on each tree That I have carv'd t' express my misery! My admonitions now would sure convert The sinful'st creature; I could tell them now, How idly vain those humans spend their lives That daily grieve, not for offences pass'd, But to enjoy some wanton's company; Which when obtain'd, what is it but a blot, Which their whole life's repentance scarce can clear? I could now tell to friend-betraying man, How black a sin is hateful treachery, How heavy on their wretched souls 'twill sit, When fearful death will plant his siege but near them, How heavy and affrighted will their end Seem to approach them, as if then they knew The full beginning of their endless woe Were then appointed; which astonishment, O blest repentance, keep me Albert from! And suffer not despair to overwhelm, And make a shipwreck of my heavy soul.

_Enter_ MARIA, _like a page_.

Who's here? a page? what black disastrous fate Can be so cruel to his pleasing youth?

MARIA. So now, Maria, here thou must forego What nature lent thee to repay to death! Famine, I thank thee, I have found thee kindest; Thou sett'st a period to my misery. [_Faints._

ALB. It is Maria, that fair innocent, Whom my abhorred lust hath brought to this; I'll go for sustenance: and, O ye powers! If ever true repentance wan acceptance, O, show it Albert now, and let him save This[387] wronged beauty from untimely grave. [_Exit_ ALBERT.

MARIA. Sure, something spake, or else my feebled sense Hath lost the use of its due property; Which is more likely, than that in this place The voice of human creature should be heard. This is far distant from the paths of men: Nothing breathes here but wild and ravening beasts, With airy monsters, whose shadowing wings do seem To cast a veil of death on wicked livers;[388] Which I live dreadless of, and every hour Strive to meet death, who still unkind avoids me: But that now gentle famine doth begin For to give end to my calamities. See, here is carv'd upon this tree's smooth bark Lines knit in verse, a chance far unexpected! Assist me, breath, a little to unfold What they include.

_The Writing._

_I that have writ these lines am one, whose sin Is more than grievous; for know, that I have been A breaker of my faith with one, whose breast Was all compos'd of truth: but I digress'd, And fled th' embrace[389] of his dear friendship's love, Clasping to falsehood, did a villain prove; As thus shall be express'd. My worthy friend Lov'd a fair beauty, who did condescend In dearest affection to his virtuous will; He then a night appointed to fulfil Hymen's bless'd rites, and to convey away His love's fair person, to which peerless prey I was acquainted made, and when the hour Of her escape drew on, then lust did pour Enraged appetite through all my veins, And base desires in me let loose the reins To my licentious will: and that black night, When my friend should have had his chaste delight, I feign'd his presence, and (by her thought him), Robb'd that fair virgin of her honour's gem: For which most heinous crime upon each tree I write this story, that men's eyes may see None but a damn'd one would have done like me._ Is Albert then become so penitent, As in these deserts to deplore his facts, Which his unfeign'd repentance seems to clear? How good man is when he laments his ill! Who would not pardon now that man's misdeeds, Whose griefs bewail them thus? could I now live, I would remit thy fault with Carracus: But death no longer will afford reprieve Of my abundant woes: wrong'd Carracus, farewell; Live, and forgive thy wrongs, for the repentance Of him that caused them so deserves from thee; And since my eyes do witness Albert's grief, I pardon Albert, in my wrongs the chief.

_Enter_ ALBERT, _like a hermit_.

ALB. How! pardon me? O sound angelical! But see, she faints. O heavens! now show your power, That these distilled waters, made in grief, May add some comfort to affliction: Look up, fair youth, and see a remedy.

MAR. O, who disturbs me? I was hand in hand, Walking with death unto the house of rest.

ALB. Let death walk by himself; if he want company, There's many thousands, boy, whose aged years Have ta'en a surfeit of earth's vanities; They will go with him when he please to call. Do drink, my boy; thy pleasing, tender youth Cannot deserve to die; no, it is for us, Whose years are laden by our often sins, Singing the last part of our bless'd repentance, Are fit for death; and none but such as we Death ought to claim; for when a' snatcheth youth, It shows him but a tyrant; but when age, Then is he just, and not compos'd of rage. How fares my lad?

MAR. Like one embracing death with all his parts, Reaching at life but with one little finger; His mind so firmly knit unto the first, That unto him the latter seems to be, What may be pointed at, but not possess'd.

ALB. O, but thou shalt possess it. If thou didst fear thy death but as I do, Thou wouldst take pity: though not of thyself, Yet of my aged years. Trust me, my boy, Thou'st struck such deep compassion in my breast, That all the moisture which prolongs my life Will from my eyes gush forth, if now thou leav'st me.

MAR. But can we live here in this desert wood? If not, I'll die, for other places seem Like tortures to my griefs. May I live here?

ALB. Ay, thou shalt live with me, and I will tell thee Such strange occurrents of my fore-pass'd life, That all thy young-sprung griefs shall seem but sparks To the great fire of my calamities.

MAR. Then I'll live only with you for to hear, If any human woes can be like mine. Yet, since my being in this darksome desert, I have read on trees most lamentable stories.[390]

ALB. 'Tis true indeed, there's one within these woods Whose name is Albert; a man so full of sorrow, That on each tree he passes by he carves Such doleful lines for his rash follies pass'd, That whoso reads them, and not drown'd in tears, Must have a heart fram'd forth of adamant.

MAR. And can you help me to the sight of him?

ALB. Ay, when thou wilt; he'll often come to me, And at my cave sit a whole winter's night, Recounting of his stories. I tell thee, boy, Had he offended more than did that man, Who stole the fire from heaven, his contrition Would appease all the gods, and quite revert Their wrath to mercy. But come, my pretty boy, We'll to my cave, and after some repose Relate the sequel of each other's woes. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. What a way have I come, yet I know not Whither: the air's so cold this winter season, I'm sure a fool--would any but an ass Leave a warm-matted chamber and a bed, To run thus in the cold? and (which is more) To seek a woman--a slight thing call'd woman? Creatures, which curious nature fram'd, as I suppose, For rent-receivers to her treasury. And why I think so now, I'll give you instance; Most men do know that nature's self hath made them Most profitable members; then if so, By often trading in the commonwealth They needs must be enrich'd; why, very good! To whom ought beauty then repay this gain, Which she by nature's gift hath profited, But unto nature? why, all this I grant. Why then they shall no more be called women, For I will style them thus, scorning their leave, Those that for nature do much rent receive. This is a wood, sure; and, as I have read, In woods are echoes which will answer men To every question which they do propound. Echo.[391]

ECHO. _Echo._

CAR. O, are you there? have at ye then, i' faith. Echo, canst tell me whether men or women Are for the most part damn'd?

ECHO. _Most part damn'd._

CAR. O,[392] both indeed; how true this echo speaks! Echo, now tell me, if amongst a thousand women There be one chaste or none?

ECHO. _None._

CAR. Why, so I think; better and better still. Now farther: Echo, in the world of men, Is there one faithful to his friend, or no?

ECHO. _No._

CAR. Thou speak'st most true, for I have found it so. Who said thou wast a woman, Echo, lies; Thou couldst not then answer so much of truth. Once more, good Echo; Was my Maria false by her own desire, Or was't against her will?

ECHO. _Against her will._

CAR. Troth, it may be so; but canst thou tell, Whether she be dead or not?

ECHO. _Not._

CAR. Not dead!

ECHO. _Not dead._

CAR. Then without question she doth surely live. But I do trouble thee too much; therefore, Good speak-truth, farewell.

ECHO. _Farewell._

CAR. How quick it answers! O, that councillors Would thus resolve men's doubts without a fee! How many country clients then might rest Free from undoing! no plodding pleader then Would purchase great possessions with his tongue. Were I some demigod, or had that power, I would straight make this echo here a judge: He'd spend his judgment in the open court, As now to me, without being once solicited In his private chamber; 'tis not bribes could win Him to o'ersway men's right, nor could he be Led to damnation for a little pelf; He would not harbour malice in his heart, Or envious hatred, base despite, or grudge, But be an upright, just, and equal judge. But now imagine that I should confront Treacherous Albert, who hath rais'd my front! But I fear this idle prate hath made me Quite forget my _cinque pace_.[393] [_He danceth._

_Enter_ ALBERT.

ALB. I heard the echo answer unto one, That by his speech cannot be far remote From off this ground; and see, I have descri'd him: O heavens! it's Carracus, whose reason's seat Is now usurp'd by madness and distraction; Which I, the author of confusion, Have planted here by my accursed deeds.

CAR. O, are you come, sir! I was sending The tavern-boy for you; I have been practising Here, and can do none of my lofty tricks.

ALB. Good sir, if any spark do yet remain Of your consumed reason, let me strive----

CAR. To blow it out? troth, I most kindly thank you, Here's friendship to the life. But, Father Wheybeard, Why should you think me void of reason's fire, My youthful days being in the height of knowledge? I must confess your old years gain experience; But that so much o'errul'd by dotage, That what you think experience shall effect, Short memory destroys. What say you now, sir? Am I mad now, that can answer thus To all interrogatories?

ALB. But though your words do savour, sir, of judgment, Yet when they derogate from the due observance Of fitting times, they ought to be respected No more than if a man should tell a tale Of feigned mirth in midst of extreme sorrows.

CAR. How did you know My sorrows, sir? what though I have lost a wife, Must I be therefore griev'd? am I not happy To be so freed of a continual trouble? Had many a man such fortune as I, In what a heaven would they think themselves, Being releas'd of all those threat'ning clouds, Which in the angry skies call'd women's brows Sit, ever menacing tempestuous storms? But yet I needs must tell you, old December, My wife was clear of this; within her brow She had not a wrinkle nor a storming frown: But, like a smooth well-polish'd ivory, It seem'd so pleasant to the looker-on: She was so kind, of nature so gentle, That if she'd done a fault, she'd straight go die for't: Was not she then a rare one? What, weep'st thou, aged Nestor? Take comfort, man! Troy was ordain'd by fate To yield to us, which we will ruinate.

ALB. Good sir, walk with me but where you [may] see The shadowing elms, within whose circling round There is a holy spring about encompass'd By dandling sycamores and violets, Whose waters cure all human maladies. Few drops thereof, being sprinkl'd on your temples, Revives your fading memory, and restores Your senses lost unto their perfect being.

CAR. Is it clear water, sir, and very fresh? For I am thirsty, [which] gives it a better relish Than a cup of dead wine with flies in't?

ALB. Most pleasant to the taste; pray, will you go?

CAR. Faster than you, I believe, sir. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MARIA.

MAR. I am walk'd forth from my preserver's cave, To search about these woods, only to see The penitent Albert, whose repentant mind Each tree expresseth. O, that some power divine Would hither send my virtuous Carracus! Not for my own content, but that he might See how his distress'd friend repents the wrong, Which his rash folly, most unfortunate, Acted 'gainst him and me; which I forgive A hundred times a day, for that more often My eyes are witness to his sad complaints. How the good hermit seems to share his moans, Which in the daytime he deplores 'mongst trees, And in the night his cave is fill'd with sighs; No other bed doth his weak limbs support Than the cold earth; no other harmony To rock his cares asleep but blustering winds, Or some swift current, headlong rushing down From a high mountain's top, pouring his force Into the ocean's gulf, where being swallow'd, Seems to bewail his fall with hideous words: No other sustentation to suffice, What nature claims, but raw, unsavoury roots With troubled waters, where untamed beasts Do bathe themselves.

_Enter Satyrs, dance, et exeunt._

Ah me! what things are these? What pretty harmless things they seem to be! As if delight had nowhere made abode, But in their nimble sport.

_Enter_ ALBERT [_and_ CARRACUS.]

Yonder's the courteous hermit, and with him Albert, it seems. O, see, 'tis Carracus! Joy, do not now confound me!

CAR. Thanks unto heavens and thee, thou holy man, I have attain'd what doth adorn man's being, That precious gem of reason, by which solely We are discern'd from rude and brutish beasts, No other difference being 'twixt us and them. How to repay this more than earthly kindness Lies not within my power, but in his, That hath indu'd thee with celestial gifts, To whom I'll pray, he may bestow on thee What thou deserv'st, bless'd immortality.

ALB. Which unto you befall, thereof most worthy. But, virtuous sir, what I will now request From your true generous nature is, that you would Be pleas'd to pardon that repentant wight, Whose sinful story upon yon tree's bark Yourself did read, for that you say, to you Those wrongs were done.

CAR. Indeed they were, and to a dear wife lost; Yet I forgive him, as I wish the heavens May pardon me.

MAR. So doth Maria too. [_She discovers herself._

CAR. Lives my Maria, then? what gracious planet Gave thee safe conduct to these desert woods?

MAR. My late mishap (repented now by all, And therefore pardon'd) compell'd me to fly, Where I had perished for want of food, Had not this courteous man awak'd my sense, In which death's self had partly interest.

CAR. Alas, Maria! I am so far indebted To him already for the late recovery of My own weakness, that 'tis impossible For us to attribute sufficient thanks For such abundant good.

ALB. I rather ought to thank the heaven's Creator That he vouchsaf'd me such especial grace, In doing so small a good; which could I hourly Bestow on all, yet could I not assuage The swelling rancour of my fore-pass'd crimes.

CAR. O sir, despair not; for your course of life (Were your sins far more odious than they be) Doth move compassion and pure clemency In the all-ruling judge, whose powerful mercy O'ersways his justice, and extends itself To all repentant minds. He's happier far That sins, and can repent him of his sin, Than the self-justifier, who doth surmise By his own works to gain salvation; Seeming to reach at heaven, he clasps damnation. You then are happy, and our penitent friend, To whose wish'd presence please you now to bring us, That in our gladsome arms we may enfold His much-esteemed person, and forgive The injuries of his rash follies pass'd.

ALB. Then see false Albert prostrate at your feet, [_He discovers himself._ Desiring justice for his heinous ill.

CAR. Is it you? Albert's self that hath preserv'd us? O bless'd bewailer of thy misery!

MARIA. And wofull'st liver in calamity!

CAR. From which, right worthy friend, 'tis now high time You be releas'd; come then, you shall with us. Our first and chiefest welcome, my Maria, We shall receive at your good father's house; Who, as I do remember, in my frenzy Sent a kind letter, which desir'd our presence.

ALB. So please you, virtuous pair, Albert will stay, And spend the remnant of this wearisome life In these dark woods.

CAR. Then you neglect the comforts heav'n doth send To your abode on earth. If you stay here, Your life may end in torture by the cruelty Of some wild ravenous beasts; but if 'mongst men, When you depart, the faithful prayers of many Will much avail to crown your soul with bliss.

ALB. Lov'd Carracus, I have found in thy converse Comfort so bless'd, that nothing now but death Shall cause a separation in our being.

MARIA. Which heaven confirm!

CAR. Thus by the breach of faith our friendship's knit In stronger bonds of love.

ALB. Heaven so continue it! [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[387] The 4º reads _His_.

[388] The 4º has it literally thus--

"To _taste_ a _vale_ of death _in_ wicked livers,"

which Mr Reed altered to _cast a veil_, &c; but ought we not rather to read--

"To _cast_ a _veil_ of death _on_ wicked livers."

--_Collier._

[389] [Old copy, _them brats_.]

[390] These four lines, which decidedly belong to Maria, in the old copy are assigned to Albert, and form a part of what he says before.--_Collier._

[391: The idea of these answers from an echo seems to have been taken from Lord Stirling's "Aurora," 4º, 1604, sig. K 4. One of the triumvirate, Pope, Gay, or Arbuthnot, but which of them is not known, in a piece printed in Swift's "Miscellanies," may have been indebted for the same thought to either Lord Stirling or the present writer.

Since this note was written, I find nothing was more common than these answers of echoes in the works of contemporary and earlier writers. Many instances might be produced. Amongst others, those who can be pleased with such kind of performances may be referred to Sir P. Sidney's "Arcadia," or Lodge's "Wounds of Civil War," 1594, act iii. The folly of them is admirably ridiculed by the author of "Hudibras."--_Reed._

[392] [Edit., _Of_.]

[393] A dance.

ACTUS QUINTUS.

_Enter_ HOG _in his chamber, with_ REBECCA _laying down his bed, and, seeming to put the keys under his bolster, conveyeth them into her pocket_.

HOG. So, have you laid the keys of the outward doors Under my bolster?

REB. Yes, forsooth.

HOG. Go your way to bed then. [_Exit_ REBECCA. I wonder who did at the first invent These beds, the breeders of disease and sloth: He was no soldier, sure, nor no scholar, And yet he might be very well a courtier; For no good husband would have been so idle, No usurer neither: yet here the bed affords [_Discovers his gold._ Store of sweet golden slumbers unto him. Here sleeps command in war; Cæsar by this Obtain'd his triumphs; this will fight man's cause, When fathers, brethren, and the near'st of friends Leave to assist him; all content to this Is merely vain; the lovers, whose affections Do sympathise together in full pleasure, Debarr'd of this, their summer sudden ends; And care, the winter to their former joys, Breathes such a cold blast on their turtles' bills: Having not this, to shroud them[394] forth his storms, They straight are forc'd to make a separation, And so live under those that rule o'er this. The gallant, whose illustrious outside draws The eyes of wantons to behold with wonder His rare-shap'd parts, for so he thinks they be, Deck'd in the robes of glistering gallantry; Having not this attendant on his person, Walks with a cloudy brow, and seems to all A great contemner of society; Not for the hate he bears to company, But for the want of this ability. O silver! thou that art the basest captive Kept in this prison, how many pale offenders For thee have suffer'd ruin? But, O my gold! Thy sight's more pleasing than the seemly locks Of yellow-hair'd Apollo; and thy touch More smooth and dainty than the down-soft white Of lady's tempting breast: thy bright aspect Dims the great'st lustre of heaven's waggoner. But why go I about to extol thy worth, Knowing that poets cannot compass it? But now give place, my gold; for here's a power Of greater glory and supremacy Obscures thy being; here sits enthronis'd The sparkling diamond, whose bright reflection Casts such a splendour on these other gems, 'Mongst which he so majestical appears, As if---- Now my good angels guard me! [_A flash of fire, and_ LIGHTFOOT _ascends like a spirit_.

LIGHT. _Melior vigilantia somno_. Stand not amaz'd, good man, for what appears Shall add to thy content; be void of fears: I am the shadow of rich kingly Croesus, Sent by his greatness from the lower world To make thee mighty, and to sway on earth By thy abundant store, as he himself doth In Elysium; how he reigneth there, His shadow will unfold; give thou then ear. In under-air, where fair Elysium stands, Beyond the river styled Acheron, He hath a castle built of adamant; Not fram'd by vain enchantment, but there fix'd By the all-burning hands of warlike spirits: Whose windows are compos'd of purest crystal, And deck'd within with oriental pearls: There the great spirit of Croesus' royal self Keeps his abode in joyous happiness. He is not tortur'd there, as poets feign, With molten gold and sulphury flames of fire, Or any such molesting perturbation; But there reputed as a demigod, Feasting with Pluto and his Proserpine, Night after night with all delicious cates, With greater glory than seven kingdoms' states. Now farther know the cause of my appearance-- The kingly Croesus having by fame's trump Heard that thy lov'd desires stand affected To the obtaining of abundant wealth, Sends me, his shade, thus much to signify, That if thou wilt become famous on earth, He'll give to thee even more than infinite; And after death with him thou shalt partake The rare delights beyond the Stygian lake.

HOG. Great Croesus' shadow may dispose of me To what he pleaseth.

LIGHT. So speaks obediency. For which I'll raise thy lowly thoughts as high, As Croesus's were in his mortality. Stand then undaunted, whilst I raise those spirits, By whose laborious task and industry Thy treasure shall abound and multiply. _Ascend, Ascarion, thou that art A powerful spirit, and dost convert Silver to gold; I say, ascend And on me, Croesus' shade, attend, To work the pleasure of his will._

_The_ PLAYER _appears_.

PLAYER. What, would then Croesus list to fill Some mortal's coffers up with gold, Changing the silver it doth hold? By that pure metal, if't be so, By the infernal gates I swear, Where Rhadamanth doth domineer; By Croesus' name and by his castle, Where winter nights he keepeth wassail;[395] By Demogorgon and the fates, And by all these low-country states; That after knowledge of thy mind, Ascarion, like the swift-pac'd wind, Will fly to finish thy command.

LIGHT. Take, then, this silver out of hand, And bear it to the river Tagus, Beyond th' abode of Archi-Magus; Whose golden sands upon it cast, Transform it into gold at last: Which being effected straight return, And sudden, too, or I will spurn This trunk of thine into the pit, Where all the hellish furies sit, Scratching their eyes out. Quick, begone!

PLAYER. Swifter in course than doth the sun. [_Exit_ PLAYER.

LIGHT. How far'st thou, mortal? be not terrifi'd At these infernal motions; know that shortly Great Croesus' ghost shall, in the love he bears thee, Give thee sufficient power by thy own worth To raise such spirits.

HOG. Croesus is much too liberal in his favour To one so far desertless as poor Hog.

LIGHT. Poor Hog! O, speak not that word poor again, Lest the whole apple-tree of Croesus' bounty, Crack'd into shivers, overthrow thy fortunes! For he abhors the name of poverty, And will grow sick to hear it spoke by those Whom he intends to raise. But see, the twilight, Posting before the chariot of the sun, Brings word of his approach: We must be sudden, and with speed raise up The spirit Bazan, that can straight transform Gold into pearl; be still and circumspect. _Bazan, ascend up from the treasure Of Pluto, where thou dost[396] at pleasure Metamorphose all his gold Into pearl, which 'bove a thousand-fold Exceeds the value: quickly rise To Croesus' shade, who hath a prize To be performed by thy strength._

[BAZAN _or_] HADDIT _ascends_.

HAD. I am no fencer, yet at length From Pluto's presence and the hall, Where Proserpine keeps festival, I'm hither come; and now I see, To what intent I'm rais'd by thee; It is to make that mortal rich, That at his fame men's ears may itch, When they do hear but of his store. He hath one daughter and no more, Which all the lower powers decree, She to one Wealthy wedded be; By which conjunction there shall spring Young heirs to Hog, whereon to fling His mass of treasure when he dies; Thus Bazan truly prophesies. But come, my task! I long to rear His fame above the hemisphere.

LIGHT. Take then the gold which here doth lie, And quick return it by and by All in choice pearl. Whither to go, I need not tell you, for you know.

HAD. Indeed I do, and Hog shall find it so. [_Exit_ HADDIT.

LIGHT. Now, mortal, there is nothing doth remain 'Twixt thee and thine abundance, only this: Turn thy eyes eastward, for from thence appears Ascarion with thy gold, which having brought And at thy foot surrender'd, make obeisance; Then turn about, and fix thy tapers westward, From whence great Bazan brings thy orient pearl; Who'll lay it at thy feet much like the former.

HOG. Then I must make to him obeisance thus?

LIGHT. Why, so; in meantime, Croesus' shade will rest Upon thy bed: but above all, take heed You suffer not your eyes to stray aside From the direct point I have set thee at: For though the spirit do delay the time, And not return your treasure speedily----

HOG. Let the loss light on me, if I neglect Or overslip what Croesus' shade commands.[397]

LIGHT. [_Aside._] So, now practise standing, though it be nothing agreeable to your Hog's age. Let me see, among these writings is my nephew Haddit's mortgage; but in taking that it may breed suspect on us; wherefore this box of jewels will stand far better, and let that alone. It is now break of day, and near by this the marriage is confirmed betwixt my cousin and great Croesus's friend's daughter here, whom I will now leave to his most weighty cogitations.

So, gentle sir, adieu; time not permits To hear those passions and those frantic fits You're subject to, when you shall find how true Great Croesus' shade hath made an ass of you. [_Exit._

HOG. Let me now ruminate to myself why Croesus should be so great a favourer to me. And yet to what end should I desire to know? I think it is sufficient it is so. And I would he had been so sooner, for he and his spirits would have saved me much labour in the purchasing of wealth; but then indeed it would have been the confusion of two or three scriveners which, by my means, have been properly raised. But now imagine this only a trick, whereby I may be gulled! But how can that be? Are not my doors locked? Have I not seen with my own eyes the ascending of the spirits? Have I not heard with my own ears the invocation wherewith they were raised? Could any but spirits appear through so firm a floor as this is? 'Tis impossible. But hark! I hear the spirit Ascarion coming with my gold. O bountiful Croesus! I'll build a temple to thy mightiness!

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY _and_ PETER SERVITUDE.

Y. LORD W. O Peter, how long have we slept upon the hogshead?

P. SER. I think a dozen hours, my lord, and 'tis nothing. I'll undertake to sleep sixteen, upon the receipt of two cups of muskadine.[398]

Y. LORD W. I marvel what's become of Haddit and Lightfoot!

P. SER. Hang 'em, flinchers; they slunk away as soon as they had drank as much as they were able to carry, which no generous spirit would ha' done, indeed.

Y. LORD W. Yet I believe Haddit had his part, for, to my thinking, the cellar went round with him when he left us. But are we come to a bed yet? I must needs sleep.

P. SER. Come softly by any means, for we are now upon the threshold of my master's chamber, through which I'll bring you to Mistress Rebecca's lodging. Give me your hand, and come very nicely.

[PETER _falls into the hole_.

Y. LORD W. Where art, Peter?

P. SER. O, O!

Y. LORD W. Where's this noise, Peter? canst tell?

HOG. I hear the voice of my adopted son-in-law.

Y. LORD W. Why, Peter, wilt not answer me?

P. SER. O, my Lord above, stand still; I'm fallen down at least thirty fathom deep. If you stand not still till I recover, and have lighted a candle, you're but a dead man.

HOG. I am robb'd, I am undone, I am deluded! Who's in my chamber?

Y. LORD W. 'Tis I, the lord your son, that shall be; upon my honour, I came not to rob you.

HOG. I shall run mad! I shall run mad!

Y. LORD W. Why, then, 'tis my fortune to be terrified with madmen.

_Enter_ PETER SERVITUDE, _with a candle_.

P. SER. Where are you, my lord?

HOG. Here, my lady. Where are you, rogue, when thieves break into my house?

P. SER. Breaking my neck in your service--a plague on't!

Y. LORD W. But are you robbed, indeed, father Hog? Of how much, I pray?

HOG. Of all, of all! See here, they have left me nothing but two or three rolls of parchment; here they came up like spirits, and took my silver, gold, and jewels. Where's my daughter?

P. SER. She's not in the house, sir. The street-doors are wide open.

Y. LORD W. Nay, 'tis no matter where she is now. She'll scarce be worth a thousand pound, and that's but a tailor's prize.[399]

HOG. Then you'll not have her, sir?

Y. LORD W. No, as I hope to live in peace.

HOG. Why, be't so, be't so; confusion cannot come in a fitter time on all of us. O bountiful Croesus! how fine thy shadow hath devoured my substance!

P. SER. Good my lord, promise him to marry his daughter, or he will be mad presently, though you never intend to have her.

Y. LORD W. Well, father Hog, though you are undone, your daughter shall not be, so long as a lord can stand her in any stead. Come, you shall with me to my lord and father, whose warrants we will have for the apprehending of all suspicious livers; and, though the labour be infinite, you must consider your loss is so.

HOG. Come, I'll do anything to gain my gold.

P. SER. Till which be had, my fare will be but cold. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT, REBECCA, LIGHTFOOT, _and_ PRIEST.

HAD. Now, Master Parson, we will no further trouble you; and, for the tying of our true love-knot, here's a small amends.

PRIEST. 'Tis more than due, sir; yet I'll take it all. Should kindness be despis'd, goodwill would fall Unto a lower ebb, should we detest The grateful giver's gift, _verissimo est_.

HAD. It's true, indeed; good morrow, honest parson.

PRIEST. Yet, if you please, sir John will back surrender The overplus of what you now did tender.

HAD. O, by no means; I prythee, friend, good morrow.

LIGHT. Why. if you please, sir John, to me restore The overplus: I'll give it to the poor.

PRIEST. O, pardon, sir, for, by your worship's leave, We ought to give from whence we do receive.

HAD. Why, then, to me, sir John.

PRIEST. To all a kind good-morrow. [_Exit_ PRIEST.

HAD. A most fine vicar; there was no other means to be rid of him. But why are you so sad, Rebecca?

REB. To think in what estate my father is, When he beholds that he is merely gull'd.

HAD. Nay, be not grieved for that which should rather give you cause of content; for 'twill be a means to make him abandon his avarice, and save a soul almost incurable. But now to our own affairs: this marriage of ours must not yet be known, lest it breed suspicion. We will bring you, Rebecca, unto Atlas's house, whilst we two go unto the old Lord Wealthy's, having some acquaintance with his son-in-law Carracus, who I understand is there; where no question but we shall find your father proclaiming his loss: thither you shall come somewhat after us, as it were to seek him; where I doubt not but so to order the matter, that I will receive you as my wife from his own hands.

REB. May it so happy prove!

LIGHT. Amen, say I; for, should our last trick be known, great Croesus's shade would have a conjured time on't.

HAD. 'Tis true, his castle of adamant would scarce hold him; but come, this will be good cause for laughter hereafter.

Then we'll relate how this great bird was pull'd Of his rich feathers, and most finely gull'd. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ OLD LORD WEALTHY, _with_ CARRACUS, MARIA, _and_ ALBERT.

O. LORD W. More welcome, Carracus, than friendly truce To a besieged city all distress'd: How early this glad morning are you come To make me happy? for pardon of your offence I've given a blessing, which may heaven confirm In treble manner on your virtuous lives!

CAR. And may our lives and duty daily strive To be found worthy of that loving favour, Which from your reverend age we now receive Without desert or merit!

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY, HOG, _and_ PETER.

Y. LORD W. Room for a desirer of justice! what, my sister Maria! who thought to have met you here.

MARIA. You may see, brother, unlooked-for guests prove often troublesome.

Y. LORD W. Well, but is your husband there any quieter than he was?

CAR. Sir, I must desire you to forget all injuries, if, in not being myself, I offered you any.

ALB. I'll see that peace concluded.

Y. LORD W. Which I agree to; For patience is a virtue, father Hog.

O. LORD W. Was it you, son, that cried so loud for justice?

Y. LORD W. Yes, marry was it, and this the party to whom it appertains.

HOG. O, my most honoured lord, I am undone, robbed, this black night, of all the wealth and treasure which these many years I have hourly laboured for.

O. LORD W. And who are those have done this outrage to you?

HOG. O, knew I that, I then, my lord, were happy.

O. LORD W. Come you for justice then, not knowing 'gainst whom the course of justice should extend itself? Nor yet suspect you none?

HOG. None but the devil.

Y. LORD W. I thought he was a cheater, e'er since I heard two or three Templars[400] swear at dice, the last Christmas, that the devil had got all.

_Enter_ HADDIT _and_ LIGHTFOOT.

HAD. My kind acquaintance, joy to thy good success.

CAR. Noble and freeborn Haddit, welcome.

LIGHT. Master Hog, good day.

HOG. [Good day], for I have had a bad night on't.

LIGHT. Sickness is incident to age: what, be the writings ready to be sealed we entreated last day?

HOG. Yes, I think they are; would the scrivener were paid for making them.

LIGHT. He shall be so, though I do't myself. Is the money put up, as I appointed?

HOG. Yes, 'tis put up: confusion seize the receivers!

LIGHT. Heaven bless us all! what mean you, sir?

HOG. O sir, I was robb'd this night of all I had; My daughter too is lost, and I undone.

LIGHT. Marry, God forbid! after what manner, I pray?

HOG. O, to recount, sir, will breed more ruth Than did the tale of that high Trojan duke[401] To the sad-fated Carthaginian queen.

HAD. What exclamation's that?

LIGHT. What you will grieve at, coz; Your worshipful friend, Master Hog, is robb'd.

HAD. Robb'd! by whom, or how?

LIGHT. O, there's the grief: he knows not whom to suspect.

HAD. The fear of hell o'ertake them, whosoe'er they be. But where's your daughter? I hope she is safe.

_Enter_ REBECCA.

HOG. Thank heaven, I see she's now so. Where hast thou been, my girl?

REB. Alas! sir, carried by amazement I know not where; pursued by the robbers, forced to fly amazed, affrighted, through the city streets, to seek redress; but that lay fast asleep in all men's houses, nor would lend an ear to the distressed.

HAD. O heavy accident! but see, you grieve too much, Being your daughter's found, for th' other loss, Since 'tis the will of heaven to give and take, Value it as nothing: you have yet sufficient To live in bless'd content, had you no more But my small mortgage for your daughter here, Whom I have ever lov'd in dear'st affection. If so you please so much to favour me, I will accept her, spite of poverty, And make her jointure of some store of land, Which, by the loss of a good aged friend, Late fell to me: what, is't a match or no?

HOG. It is.

HAD. Then I'll have witness on't: my lord and gentlemen, Please you draw near to be here witnesses To a wish'd contract 'twixt this maid and I.

OMNES. We are all willing.

HOG. Then, in the presence of you all, I give my daughter freely to this gentleman as wife; and to show how much I stand affected to him, for dowry with her, I do back restore his mortgaged lands; and, for their loves, I vow ever hereafter to detest, renounce, loathe, and abhor all slavish avarice,

Which doth ascend from hell, sent by the devil, To be 'mongst men the actor of all evil.

OMNES. A bless'd conversion.

O. LORD W. A good far unexpected. And now, gentlemen, I do invite you all to feast with me This happy day, that we may all together Applaud his good success: and let this day be spent In sports and shows, with gladsome merriment. Come, bless'd converted man,[402] we'll lead the way, As unto heaven I hope we shall.

HOG. Heaven grant we may!

CAR. Come, my Maria and repentant friend, We three have tasted worst of misery, Which now adds joy to our felicity.

HAD. We three are happy we have gain'd much wealth, And though we have done it by a trick of stealth, Yet all, I trust, are pleased, and will our ills acquit, Since it hath sav'd a soul was hell's by right.

Y. LORD W. To follow after, then, our lot doth fall; Now rhyme it, Peter.

P. SER. A good night to all. [_Exeunt omnes._

FOOTNOTES:

[394] [Old copy, _him_.]

[395] Verstegan, in his "Restitution of Decayed Intelligence," 1634, p. 126, gives the following account of the origin of this term: "As this Lady (_i.e._, Rowena) was very beautiful, so was she of a very comely deportment, and Hingistus, having invited King Vortiger to a supper at his new-builded castle, caused that after supper she came foorth of her chamber into the King's presence, with a cup of gold filled with wine in her hand, and making in very seemly manner a low reverence unto the King, sayd, with a pleasing grace and countenance, in our ancient language, _Waes heal hlaford Cyning,_ which is, being rightly expounded according to our present speech, _Be of health, Lord King_, for as _was_ is our verbe of the preterimperfect tense, or preterperfect tense, signifying _have bin_, so _was_ being the same verb in the imperative mood, and now pronounced _wax_, is as much as to say _grow, be_, or _become;_ and _waes-heal_, by corruption of pronunciation, afterwards became to be _wassaile_. The King not understanding what shee said, demaunded it of his chamberlaine, who was his interpreter, and when he knew what it was, he asked him how he might againe answer her in her owne language, whereof being informed, he sayd unto her _Drinc heal_, that is to say, _Drink health_."--See also a note to "The Ordinary," in vol. xii.

[396] _Didst_ in the old copy, where these lines are printed as a stage direction.

[397] The 4º reads--

"I overslip what Croesus _suit_ command."

--_Collier._

[398] Or muscadel. A kind of wine so called, because for sweetness and smell it resembles musk. "From Bosco Helerno we soon came to Montefiascone, standing upon a hill. It's a bishop's seate, and _famous for excellent Muscatello wine_," &c.--Lassells' "Voiage of Italy," 8º, 1670, 244.--_Gilchrist._

[399] [Referring to some tale of the day. Compare p. 468.]

[400] See note to "A Match at Midnight," act i. sc. i. (vol. xiii.)

[401] Æneas.

[402] [Meaning Hog.]

EPILOGUE

Now expectation hath, at full receiv'd, What we late promised; if in aught we've pleas'd, 'Tis all we sought t'accomplish; and much more Than our weak merit dares to attribute Unto itself, till you vouchsafe to deign, In your kind censure, so to gratify Our trivial labours.---- If it hath pleased the judicial ear, We have our author's wish; and, void of fear, Dare ignorant men to show their worst of hate, It not detracts, but adds unto that state Where desert flourisheth. We'll rest applauded in their derogation, Though with a hiss they crown that confirmation. For this our author saith, if't prove distasteful, He only grieves you spent two hours so wasteful; But if it like,[403] and you affect his pen, You may command it, when you please, again.

[403] _If it like_ is a very common old expression for _if it please;_ but Mr Reed allowed it to be altered to the vulgarism of _if it's liked_.

THE HEIR.

_EDITION._

_The Heire. A Comedie. As it was acted by the Company of the Revels. 1620. Written by T.M. London, Printed by Augustine Mathewes, for Thomas Iones, and are to be sold at his shop in S. Dunstans Church-yard in Fleetstreet._ 1633. 4º.[404]

[404] There are two title-pages to this comedy in the year 1633, but they are both the same edition. The one has the words _the second impression_ upon it; the other is without them; but in all other respects they are precisely similar. Whether the performance did not sell well in the first instance, and the stationer resorted to this expedient to get rid of copies remaining on hand, must be matter of conjecture only.--_Collier._

INTRODUCTION TO THE FORMER EDITION.

Thomas May was the son of Sir Thomas May, of Mayfield, in the county of Sussex, Knight, a gentleman of an ancient and honourable family.[405] He was born in the year 1595, and received his early education in the neighbourhood of his birthplace; thence he was removed to Sidney-Sussex College in Cambridge, and took the degree of B.A. in 1612. On the 6th of August 1615, he was admitted into the society of Gray's-Inn, and soon after became celebrated for his poetical performances.

Lord Clarendon,[406] with whom he was intimately acquainted, says "that his father spent the fortune which he was born to, so that he had only an annuity left him not proportionable to a liberal education; yet, since his fortune could not raise his mind, he brought his mind down to his fortune by a great modesty and humility in his nature, which was not affected, but very well became an imperfection in his speech, which was a great mortification to him, and kept him from entering upon any discourse but in the company of his very friends. His parts of nature and art were very good, as appears by his translation of Lucan (none of the easiest work of that kind), and more by his Supplement to Lucan which, being entirely his own, for the learning, the wit and the language, may be well looked upon as one of the best epic poems in the English language. He writ some other commendable pieces of the reign of some of our kings. He was cherished by many persons of honour, and very acceptable in all places; yet (to show that pride and envy have their influences upon the narrowest minds, and which have the greatest semblance of humility) though he had received much countenance, and a very considerable donative from the king, upon his majesty's refusing to give him a small pension,[407] which he had designed and promised to another very ingenious person, whose qualities he thought inferior to his own, he fell from his duty and all his former friends, and prostituted himself to the vile office[408] of celebrating the infamous acts of those who were in rebellion against the king; which he did so meanly, that he seemed to all men to have lost his wits when he left his honesty, and shortly after died miserable and neglected, and deserves to be forgotten."

He died suddenly on the night of the 13th of November 1650, after having drank his cheerful bottle as usual. The cause of his death is said to have arisen from the tying of his nightcap too close under his chin, which occasioned a suffocation when he turned himself about.

He was buried, by appointment of the Parliament, in a splendid manner, in the south aisle of Westminster Abbey, where a monument to his memory was erected, with a Latin inscription thereon, composed by Marchemont Needham, which remained there until the Restoration, when it was destroyed, and his body dug up, and buried in a large pit belonging to St Margaret's Church, with many others who had been interred in the abbey during the Interregnum.

He was the author of the following dramatic pieces--

1. "The Tragedy of Antigone the Theban princesse." 8º. 1631.

2. "The Heire: a Comedy: acted by the Company of the Revels, 1620." 4º. 1633.

3. "The Tragedy of Julia Agrippina, Empress of Rome." 12º. 1639. 12º. 1654.

4. "The Tragedy of Cleopatra, Queen of Ægypt." 12º. 1639. 12º. 1654.

5. "The Old Couple: a Comedy." 4º. 1658.

He also wrote "The reign of king Henry the Second," and "The victorious reign of Edward the Third,"[409] both in English verse; and translated, besides Lucan, the "Georgics" of Virgil, the "Epigrams" of Martial, the "Icon Animorum" by Barclay, and the verses in the "Argenis" of the same author. He likewise was the author of "The History of the Parliament of England, which began November 3, 1640, with a short and necessary view of some precedent years." Folio. 1647.[410]

The following inscription[411] was made upon him by one of the Cavalier party, which he had abused--

Adsta, Viator, et Poetam legas Lucani interpretem, Quem ita feliciter Anglicanum fecerat, Ut Mayus simul et Lucanus videretur, Et sane credas Metempsuchosin: Nam uterque ingratus Principis sui Proditor; Hic Neronis Tyranni, ille Caroli Regum optimi, At fata planè diversa; Lucanum enim ante obitum poenitentem legis, Mayus vero repentina morte occubuit, Ne forsan poeniteret. Parliamentia Rebellis tam pertinax adstipulator, Ut Musarum, quas olim religiose coluerat, Sacrilegus Hostis evaserit: Attamen fingendi artem non penitus amisit, Nam gesta eorum scripsit et typis mandavit In prosâ mendax Poeta. Inter tot Heroas Poetarum, Nobiliumque, Quod tam indigni sepeliantur Cineres, Videntur fiere Marmora. Nec tamen mirere cum hic Rebelles posuisse, Qui tot sacras Ædes, et Dei delubra, Equis fecere Stabula.

[A MS. note in one of the former editions says: "This comedy is full of most palpable imitations of Shakespeare and others, but it is very pleasingly, and even elegantly, written in many parts."]

FOOTNOTES:

[405] "Thomas May, father of the poet, purchased Mayfield Place, in Sussex (formerly an archiepiscopal palace, and afterwards the seat of the Greshams), of Henry Neville, of Billingbere, Berks, in 1597. He was knighted at Greenwich, July 3, 1603, and died 1616. He was father to Thomas May, the celebrated poet and historian, by whom Mayfield was aliened from the family in 1617: his mother, Joan May, and cousin, Richard May, of Islington, gent. joining with him in the conveyance to John Baker, Esq., whose descendants have ever since enjoyed it."--Nichols's "Leicestershire," iii. 156, note.--_Gilchrist._]

[406] Life, edit. 1759, p. 35.]

[407] Some writers suppose he was disgusted that Sir William Davenant was appointed to succeed Ben Jonson as poet laureate, in the year 1637.]

[408] He was appointed to the post of Historiographer by the Parliament.]

[409] This poem was dedicated to Charles I. in 1635; hence it appears that he wrote it by command of the king. "Those defects," he says, "whatsoever they be, can be imputed only to insufficiency, for neither was there argument wanting nor yet endeavour, since I had the actions of a great king to require my skill, and the command of a greater king to oblige my care."--_Collier._]

[410] Thomas May has a complimentary poem prefixed to Pilkinton's "Tournament of Tottenham," &c. 4º. 1631.--_Gilchrist._]

[411] The subsequent lines are found in "Wit's Recreations," 1641--

"TO MR. THOMAS MAY.

"Thou son of Mercury, whose fluent tongue Made Lucan finish his Pharsalian song, Thy fame is equal, better is thy fate, Thou hast got Charles his love, he Nero's hate."

Of course this was before (as Lord Clarendon expresses it) "he fell from his duty."--_Collier._

THE NAMES OF THE ACTORS.

THE KING. VIRRO, _an old rich count._ POLYMETES, _an old lord_. EUGENIO, _his son_. LEOCOTHOE, _his daughter_. ROSCIO, _his man_. EUPHUES, _another lord_. PHILOCLES, _his son_. CLERIMONT, _a gentleman, friend to Philocles_. FRANKLIN, _an old rich gentleman_. LUCE,[412] _his daughter_. FRANCISCO, _a young man_. ALPHONSO. SHALLOW, _a foolish gentleman_. NICANOR, _a courtier_. MATHO, _a lawyer_. PSECTAS,[413] _a waiting gentlewoman_. _A Parson._ _A Sumner._ _A Constable and Watch._ _Servants._

_Scene, Sicily._

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND

MASTER THOMAS MAY,

UPON HIS COMEDY, THE HEIR.

The Heir being born, was in his tender age Rock'd in the cradle of a private stage, Where, lifted up by many a willing hand, The child did from the first day fairly stand; Since having gather'd strength, he dares prefer His steps into the public theatre-- The world: where he despairs not but to find A doom from men more able, not less kind. I but his usher am; yet, if my word May pass, I dare be bound he will afford Things must deserve a welcome, if well known, Such as best writers would have wish'd their own. You shall observe his words in order meet, And, softly stealing on with equal feet, Slide into even numbers with such grace, As each word had been moulded for that place. You shall perceive an amorous passion, spun Into so smooth a web as, had the Sun, When he pursu'd the swiftly-flying maid, Courted her in such language, she had stay'd: A love so well express'd must be the same The author felt himself from his fair flame. The whole plot doth alike itself disclose Through the five acts, as doth a lock, that goes With letters; for, till every one be known, The lock's as fast as if you had found none; And, where his sportive Muse doth draw a thread Of mirth, chaste matrons may not blush to read. Thus have I thought it fitter to reveal My want of art (dear friend) than to conceal My love. It did appear I did not mean So to commend thy well-wrought comic scene, As men might judge my aim rather to be To gain praise to myself than give it thee; Though I can give thee none but what thou hast Deserv'd, and what must my faint breath outlast. Yet was this garment (though I skill-less be To take thy measure) only made for thee; And, if it prove too scant, 'tis 'cause the stuff Nature allow'd me was not large enough.

THOMAS CAREW.[414]

FOOTNOTES:

[412] The author calls her _Luce_ throughout, which the modern editor changed to Lucy. As a matter of taste, _Lucy_ may be preferable to _Luce;_ but the author ought to be allowed to judge for himself, and sometimes the measure of the lines has been spoiled by the needless alteration.--_Collier._

[413] _i.e., Vituperator_, which answers to her character. Former editions read _Psecas_.--_Pegge._

[414] "Carew was the younger brother of a good family, and of excellent parts, and had spent many years of his youth in France and Italy; and, returning from travel, followed the court, which the modesty of that time disposed men to do sometime, before they pretended to be of it; and he was very much esteemed by the most eminent persons in the court, and well looked upon by the king himself, some years before he could obtain to be sewer to the king; and when the king conferred that place upon him, it was not without the regret even of the whole Scotch nation, which united themselves in recommending another gentleman to it; and of so great value were those relations held in that age, when majesty was beheld with the reverence it ought to be. He was a person of a pleasant and facetious wit, and made many poems, especially in the amorous way, which, for the sharpness of the fancy, and the elegancy of the language in which that fancy was spread, were at least equal, if not superior, to any of that time; but his glory was, that after fifty years of his life, spent with less severity or exactness than it ought to have been, he died with the greatest remorse for that license, and with the greatest manifestation of Christianity, that his best friends could desire."--"Life of Clarendon," edit. 1759, i. 36. He died in the year 1639. [But see Hazlitt's edit. of Carew, Introductory Memoir.]

PROLOGUS.

Judicious friends, if what shall here be seen May taste your sense, or ope your tickled spleen, Our author has his wish: he does not mean To rub your galls with a satiric scene; Nor toil your brains, to find the fustian sense Of those poor lines that cannot recompense The pains of study: Comedy's soft strain Should not perplex, but recreate the brain; His strain is such, he hopes it, but refers That to the test of your judicious ears.

THE HEIR.