ACT I.

_Enter_ POLYMETES, ROSCIO.

POL. Roscio.

ROS. My lord.

POL. Hast thou divulg'd the news, That my son died at Athens?

ROS. Yes, my lord, With every circumstance: the time, the place, And manner of his death; that 'tis believed, And told for news with as much confidence, As if 'twere writ in Gallo-belgicus.[415]

POL. That's well, that's very well: now, Roscio, Follows my part; I must express a grief Not usual; not like a well-left heir For his dead father, or a lusty widow For her old husband, must I counterfeit: But in a deeper, a far deeper strain, Weep like a father for his only son. Is not that hard to do, ha! Roscio?

ROS. O, no, my lord, Not for your skill; has not your lordship seen A player personate Hieronimo?[416]

POL. By th' mass, 'tis true, I have seen the knave paint grief In such a lively colour, that for false And acted passion he has drawn true tears From the spectators. Ladies in the boxes Kept time with sighs and tears to his sad accents, As he had truly been the man he seem'd. Well, then, I'll ne'er despair: but tell me thou-- Thou that hast still been privy to my bosom, How will this project take?

ROS. Rarely, my lord, Even now, methinks, I see your lordship's house Haunted with suitors of the noblest rank, And my young lady, your supposed heir, Tir'd more with wooing than the Grecian queen[417] In the long absence of her wandering lord. There's not a ruinous nobility In all this kingdom, but conceives a hope Now to rebuild his fortunes on this match.

POL. Those are not they I look for: no, my nets Are spread for other game; the rich and greedy-- Those that have wealth enough, yet gape for more-- They are for me.

ROS. Others will come, my lord: All sorts of fish will press upon your nets; Then in your lordship's wisdom it must lie To cull the great ones, and reject the fry.

POL. Nay, fear not that; there's none shall have access To see my daughter, or to speak to her, But such as I approve, and aim to catch.

ROS. The jest will be, my lord, when you shall see, How your aspiring suitors will put on The face of greatness, and belie their fortunes, Consume themselves in show, wasting (like merchants) Their present wealth in rigging a fair ship For some ill-ventur'd voyage that undoes 'em. Here comes a youth with letters from the court, Bought of some favourite, at such a price As will for ever sink him; yet, alas! All's to no purpose, he must lose the prize.

POL. 'Twill feed me fat with sport, that it shall make, Besides the large adventures it brings home Unto my daughter. How now!

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. My lord, Count Virro is come to see you.

POL. Conduct him in. So, so, it takes already! See, Roscio, see, this is the very man My project aim'd at, the rich count that knows No end of his large wealth, yet gapes for more. There was no other loadstone could attract His iron heart; for could beauty have mov'd him, Nature has been no niggard to my girl. But I must to my grief; here comes the count.

_Enter_ COUNT VIRRO.

VIR. Is your lord asleep?

ROS. No, sir, I think not. My lord, Count Virro!

VIR. How do you, sir?

POL. I do entreat your lordship pardon me: Grief and some want of sleep have made me at This time unmannerly, not fit to entertain Guests of your worth.

VIR. Alas, sir! I know your grief.

ROS. 'Twas that that fetch'd you hither. [_Aside._

VIR. Y' have lost a worthy and a hopeful son; But heaven, that always gives, will sometimes take, And that the best. There is no balsam left us To cure such wounds as these but patience; There is no disputing with the acts of heaven; But, if there were, in what could you accuse Those powers that else have been so liberal to you, And left you yet one comfort in your age, A fair and virtuous daughter.

ROS. Now it begins. [_Aside._

VIR. Your blood is not extinct, nor your age childless: From that fair branch that's left may come much fruit To glad posterity: think on that, my lord.

POL. Nay, heaven forbid I should repine, At what the justice of those powers ordain; It has pleased them to confine my care Only to one; and to see her well bestow'd Is all the comfort that I now must look for; But if it had pleas'd heaven that my son-- Ah, my Eugenio! [_He weeps._

VIR. Alas, good gentleman!

ROS. 'Fore heaven, he does it rarely! [_Aside._

VIR. But, sir, remember yourself, remember your daughter; let not your grief for the dead make you forget the living, whose hopes and fortunes depend upon your safety.

POL. O my good lord, you never had a son.

ROS. Unless they were bastards, and for them no doubt but he has done as other lords do. [_Aside._

POL. And therefore cannot tell what 'tis to lose A son, a good son, and an only son.

VIR. I would, my lord, I could as well redress, As I can take compassion of your grief: You should soon find an ease.

POL. Pray pardon me, my lord, If I forget myself toward you at this time; If it please you to visit my house ofter, You shall be welcome.

VIR. You would fain sleep, my lord, I'll take my leave. Heaven send you comfort! I shall make bold shortly To visit you.

POL. You shall be wondrous welcome. Wait on my lord, out there. [_To Attend. Exit_ VIRRO. So, now he's gone: how thinkest thou, Roscio, Will not this gudgeon bite?

ROS. No doubt, my lord, So fair a bait would catch a cunning fish.

POL. And such a one is he; he ever lov'd The beauty of my girl, but that's not it Can draw the earthbred thoughts of his gross soul. Gold is the god of his idolatry, With hope of which I'll feed him, till at length I make him fasten, and, Ixion-like, For his lov'd Juno grasp an empty cloud.

ROS. How stands my young lady affected to him?

POL. There's all the difficulty; we must win her to love him. I doubt the peevish girl will think him too old; he's well near fifty. In this business I must leave somewhat to thy wit and care: praise him beyond all measure.

ROS. Your lordship ever found me trusty.

POL. If thou effect it, I will make thee happy. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ PHILOCLES, CLERIMONT.

PHIL. Eugenio's sister, then, is the rich heir By his decease?

CLER. Yes, and the fair one too: She needs no gloss that fortune can set on her; Her beauty of itself were prize enough To make a king turn beggar for.

PHIL. Heyday! What, in love, Clerimont? I lay my life 'tis so; Thou couldst not praise her with such passion else.

CLER. I know not; I slept well enough last night: But if thou saw'st her once, I would not give A farthing for thy life; I tell thee, Philocles, One sight of her would make thee cry, _ah me!_ Sigh, and look pale: methinks I do imagine How like an idolatrous lover thou wouldst look Through the eyelids; know nobody.

PHIL. 'Tis very well. But how did your worship 'scape? You have seen her?

CLER. True, but I have an antidote, and I can teach it thee.

PHIL. When I have need on't, I'll desire it.

CLER. And 'twill be worth thy learning, when thou shalt see the tyranny of that same scurvy boy, and what fools he makes of us. Shall I describe the beast?

PHIL. What beast?

CLER. A lover.

PHIL. Do.

CLER. Then, to be brief, I will pass over the opinion of your ancient fathers, as likewise those strange loves spoken of in the authentic histories of chivalry, Amadis de Gaul, Parismus, the Knight of the Sun, or the witty knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, where those brave men, whom neither enchantments, giants, windmills, nor flocks of sheep, could vanquish, are made the trophies of triumphing love.

PHIL. Prythee, come to the matter.

CLER. Neither will I mention the complaints of Sir Guy for the fair Felice, nor the travels of Parismus for the love of the beauteous Laurana; nor, lastly, the most sad penance of the ingenious knight Don Quixote upon the mountains of Sierra Morena,[418] moved by the unjust disdain of the lady Dulcina del Toboso. As for our modern authors, I will not so much as name them; no, not that excellent treatise of Tully's love, written by the master of art.[419]

PHIL. I would thou wouldst pass over this passing over of authors, and speak thine own judgment.

CLER. Why, then, to be brief, I think a lover looks like an ass.

PHIL. I can describe him better than so myself. He looks like a man that had sitten up at cards all night, or a stale drunkard wakened in the midst of his sleep.

CLER. But, Philocles, I would not have thee see this lady; she has a bewitching look.

PHIL. How darest thou venture, man? What strange medicine hast thou found? Ovid ne'er taught it thee. I doubt I guess thy remedy for love: go to a bawdy-house or so, is it not?

CLER. Faith, and that's a good way, I can tell you; we younger brothers are beholden to it. Alas! we must not fall in love, and choose whom we like best; we have no jointures for them, as you blessed heirs can have.

PHIL. Well, I have found you, sir. And prythee, tell me how gettest thou wenches?

CLER. Why, I can want no panders. I lie in the constable's house.

PHIL. And there you may whore by authority. But, Clerimont, I doubt this paragon That thou so praisest is some ill-favoured wench Whom thou wouldst have me laugh'd at for commending.

CLER. Believe it, I spoke in earnest: trust your eyes: I'll show you her.

PHIL. How canst thou do it? Thou know'st this lady's father is to mine A deadly enemy; nor is his house Open to any of our kindred.

CLER. That's no matter: My lodging's the next door to this lord's house, And my back-window looks into his garden; There every morning fair Leucothoë (For so I hear her nam'd) walking alone To please her senses, makes Aurora blush, To see one brighter than herself appear.

PHIL. Well, I will see her then. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ FRANKLIN, FRANCISCO, _and_ LUCE _gravida_.[420]

FRANC. Yet for her sake be advis'd better, sir.

FRANK. Impudent rascal! canst look me i' th' face, And know how thou hast wronged me? Thou Hast dishonour'd my daughter--made a whore of her.

FRANC. Gentle sir, The wrong my love has made to your fair daughter 'Tis now too late to wish undone again: But, if you please, it may be yet clos'd up Without dishonour: I wi

FRANK. Impudent rascal! canst look me i' th' face, And know how thou hast wronged me? Thou Hast dishonour'd my daughter--made a whore of her.

FRANC. Gentle sir, The wrong my love has made to your fair daughter 'Tis now too late to wish undone again: But, if you please, it may be yet clos'd up Without dishonour: I will marry her.

FRANK. Marry her! she has a hot catch of that. Marry a beggar! What jointure canst thou make her?

FRANC. Sir, I am poor, I must confess; Fortune has bless'd you better: but I swear By all things that can bind, 'twas not your wealth Was the foundation of my true-built love; It was her single uncompounded self-- Herself without addition--that I lov'd, Which shall for ever in my sight outweigh All other women's fortunes and themselves; And were I great, as great as I could wish Myself for her advancement, no such bar As fortune's inequality should stand Betwixt our loves.

LUCE. Good father, hear me.

FRANK. Dost thou not blush to call me father, strumpet? I'll make thee an example.

LUCE. But hear me, sir; my shame will be your own.

FRANK. No more, I say. Francisco, leave my house; I charge you, come not here.

FRANC. I must obey, and will. Dear Luce, be constant.

LUCE. Till death. [_Exit_ FRANCISCO.

FRANK. Here's a fine wedding towards! The bridegroom, when he comes for his bride, shall find her great with child by another man! Passion-a-me, minion, how have you hid it so long?

LUCE. Fearing your anger, sir, I strove to hide it.

FRANK. Hide it one day more, then, or be damned. Hide it till Shallow be married to thee, and then let him do his worst.

LUCE. Sir, I should too much wrong him.

FRANK. Wrong him! there be great ladies have done the like; 'tis no news to see a bride with child.

LUCE. Good sir.

FRANK. Then be wise; lay the child to him: he's a rich man, t'other's a beggar.

LUCE. I dare not, sir.

FRANK. Do it, I say, and he shall father it.

LUCE. He knows he never touched me, sir.

FRANK. That's all one; lay it to him, we'll out-face him 'tis his: but hark! he is coming, I hear the music. Swear thou wilt do thy best to make him think 'tis his, only for this time; swear quickly.

LUCE. I do.

FRANK. Go, step aside, and come when thy cue is; thou shalt hear us talk. [LUCE _aside_.

_Enter_ SHALLOW, _with music_.

SHAL. Morrow, father.

FRANK. Son bridegroom, welcome; you have been looked for here.

SHAL. My tailor a little disappointed me; but is my bride ready?

FRANK. Yes, long ago; but you and I will talk a little. Send in your music.

SHAL. Go, wait within. [_Exit music._] And tell me, father, did she not think it long till I came?

FRANK. I warrant her, she did; she loves you not a little.

SHAL. Nay, that I dare swear; she has given me many tastes of her affection.

FRANK. What, before you were married?

SHAL. I mean in the way of honesty, father.

FRANK. Nay, that I doubt; young wits love to be trying, and, to say truth, I see not how a woman can deny a man of your youth and person upon those terms: you'll not be known on't now.

SHAL. I have kissed her, or so.

FRANK. Come, come; I know you are no fool, I should think you a very ass--nay, I tell you plainly, I should be loth to marry my daughter to you--if I thought you had not tried her in so long acquaintance: but you have tried her, and she, poor soul, could not deny you.

SHAL. Ha, ha, he!

FRANK. Faith, tell me, son, 'tis but a merry question: she's yours.

SHAL. Upon my virginity, father----

FRANK. Swear not by that, I'll ne'er believe you.

SHAL. Why, then, as I am a gentleman, I never did it, that I remember.

FRAN. That you remember! O, is't thereabouts?

LUCE. He'll take it upon him presently. [_Aside._

FRAN. You have been so familiar with her, you have forgot the times: but did you never come in half fuddled, and then in a kind humour--_cætera quis nescit?_

SHAL. Indeed I was wont to serve my mother's maids so, when I came half foxed, as you said, and then next morning I should laugh to myself.

FRANK. Why, there it goes; I thought to have chid you, son Shallow; I knew what you had done; 'tis too apparent: I would not have people take notice of it; pray God she hide her great belly, as she goes to church to-day.

SHAL. Why, father, is she with child?

FRANK. As if you knew not that! fie, fie! leave your dissembling now.

SHAL. Sure, it cannot be mine.

FRANK. How's this; you would not make my daughter a whore, would you? This is but to try if you can stir my choler: you wits have strange tricks, do things over night when you are merry, and then deny 'em. But stay, here she comes alone; step aside, she shall not see us.

[_They step aside._

LUCE. Ah, my dear Shallow, thou need'st not have made Such haste, my heart thou know'st was firm enough To thee; but I may blame my own fond love, That could not deny thee.

SHAL. She's with child indeed; it swells.

FRANK. You would not believe me. 'Tis a good wench: she does it handsomely. [_Aside._

LUCE. But yet I know, if thou hadst been thyself, thou wouldst ne'er have offered it; 'twas drink that made thee.

SHAL. Yes, sure, I was drunk when I did it, for I had forgot it. I lay my life 'twill prove a girl, because 'twas got in drink.

LUCE. I am ashamed to see anybody.

FRANK. Alas, poor wretch! go comfort her. Luce!

SHAL. Sweetheart! nay, never be ashamed. I was a little too hasty, but I'll make thee amends; we'll be married presently.

FRANK. Be cheery, Luce; you were man and wife before; it wanted but the ceremony of the church, and that shall be presently done.

SHAL. Ay, ay, sweetheart, as soon as may be.

FRANK. But now I think on't, son Shallow, your wedding must not be public, as we intended it.

SHAL. Why so?

FRANK. Because I would not have people take notice of this fault: we'll go to church, only we three, the minister and the clerk--that's witnesses enough; so, the time being unknown, people will think you were married before.

SHAL. But will it stand with my worship to be married in private?

FRANK. Yes, yes; the greatest do it, when they have been nibbling beforehand; there is no other way to save your bride's credit.

SHAL. Come, let's about it presently.

FRANK. This is closed up beyond our wishes. [_Exeunt._

_Manet_ LUCE.

LUCE. I am undone, unless thy wit, Francisco, Can find some means to free me from this fool, Who would have thought the sot could be so gross To take upon him what he never did, To his own shame? I'll send to my Francisco, And I must lose no time; for I am dead, If not delivered from this loathed bed.

FOOTNOTES:

[415] ["A celebrated political register, as Mr Chalmers aptly terms it, which was now much used. Mention of it is made by almost all the writers of Jonson's age. As it treated of contemporary events, treaties, sieges, &c., in a dead language, it was necessarily driven to the use of unknown and unwarranted terms."--_Gifford's Ben Jonson_, ii. 530, _note_.

Cleveland, in the "Character of a London Diurnal," 1644, says: "The original sinner of this kind was _Dutch, Gallo-belgicus_ the _Protoplast:_ and the _Modern Mercuries_ but Hans en Kelders." Some intelligence given by _Mercurius Gallo-belgicus_ is mentioned in Carew's "Survey of Cornwall," p. 126, originally published in 1602. Dr Donne, in his verses upon Thomas Coryat's "Crudities," 1611, says--

"To _Gallo Belgicus_ appear As deep a statesman as a gazetteer."

[416] See the "Spanish Tragedy," vol. v.

[417] Penelope.

[418] In the 4º, 1633, it stands _Sienna Morenna_, and so Mr Reed allowed it to remain.--_Collier._

[419] The work here mentioned is entitled "Tullies Love, wherein is discovered the prime of 'Ciceroes youth,' &c. &c., by Robert Greene. In artibus magister." I have seen no earlier edition of it than that in 1616.--_Steevens._ [It was first printed in 1589.]

[420] The situation of Luce is expressed after her name in the old copy by the word _gravida_, and there seems no reason for omitting it. The conclusion of the play shows the necessity of making her condition obvious.--_Collier._