ACT II.

EARTHWORM, THEODORE.

EARTH. I do not more rejoice in all my stores, My wealthy bags, fill'd garners, crowded chests, And all the envi'd heaps that I have glean'd With so long care and labour, than I do In thy most frugal nature, Theodore, Concurring just with mine. In thee, my son, I see, methinks, a perpetuity Of all the projects which my soul has hatch'd, And their rich fruits: I see my happiness, When I consider what great hoards of wealth, With long care rak'd together, I have seen Even in a moment scatter'd; when I view The gaudy heirs of thriving aldermen Fleeting like short-liv'd bubbles into air, And all that fire expiring in one blaze, That was so long a-kindling. But do thou, Do thou, my son, go on, and grow in thrift; It is a virtue that rewards itself. 'Tis matterless in goodness who excels; He that hath coins hath all perfections else.

THEO. Sir, I am wholly yours, and never can Degenerate from your frugality; Or, if my nature did a little stray, Your good example would direct it still, Till it were grown in me habitual.

EARTH. 'Twill be a greater patrimony to thee Than all my wealth: strive to be perfect in't; Study the rules. One rule is general. And that is, give away nothing, son; For thrift is like a journey; every gift, Though ne'er so small, is a step back again. He that would rise to riches or renown Must not regard, though he pull millions down.

THEO. That lesson, sir, is easy to be learn'd.

EARTH. Laugh at those fools that are ambitious Of empty air, to be styl'd liberal! That sell their substance for the breath of others, And with the flattering thanks of idle drones Are swelled, while their solid parts decay. What clothes to wear?--the first occasion Of wearing clothes will teach a wise man best.

THEO. True, sir; it teacheth us how vain a thing It is for men to take a pride in that, Which was at first the emblem of their shame.[9]

EARTH. Thou hitt'st it right: but canst thou be content With my poor diet too?

THEO. O, wondrous well! 'Twas such a diet which that happy age, That poets style the golden, first did use.

EARTH. And such a diet to our chests will bring The golden age again.

THEO. Beside the gain That flows upon us, health and liberty Attend on these bare meals: if we all were bless'd With such a temperance, what man would fawn, Or to his belly sell his liberty? There would be then no slaves, no sycophants At great men's tables. If the base Sarmentus Or that vile Galba[10] had been thus content, They had not borne the scoffs of Cæsar's board. He whose cheap thirst the springs and brooks can quench, How many cares is he exempted from? He's not indebted to the merchant's toil, Nor fears that pirates' force or storms should rob him Of rich Canaries or sweet Candian wines: He smells nor seeks no feasts; but in his own True strength contracted lives, and there enjoys A greater freedom than the Parthian king.

EARTH. Thou mak'st me more in love with my bless'd life.

THEO. Besides, pure cheerful health ever attends it; Which made the former ages live so long. With riotous banquets sicknesses came in; When death 'gan muster all his dismal band Of pale diseases, such as poets feign Keep sentinel before the gates of hell, And bad them wait about the gluttons' tables, Whom they, like venom'd pills in sweetest wines, Deceiv'd, swallow down, and hasten on What most they would eschew--untimely death. But from our tables here no painful surfeits, No fed diseases grow, to strangle nature And suffocate the active brain; no fevers, No apoplexies, palsies, or catarrhs Are here, where nature, not entic'd at all With such a dangerous bait as pleasant cates, Takes in no more than she can govern well.

EARTH. But that which is the greatest comfort, son, Is to observe with pleasure our rich hoards Daily increase, and stuff the swelling bags. Come, thou art mine, I see! Here, take these keys.

[_Gives_ THEODORE _the keys_.

These keys can show thee such amazing plenty, Whose very sight would feed a famish'd country. I durst not trust my servants.

THEO. Me you may, Who equal with my life do prize your profit.

EARTH. Well, I'll go in: I feel myself half sleepy After the drink I took. [_Exit._

THEO. 'Twill do you good, sir. Work sweetly, gentle cordial! and restore Those spirits again which pining avarice Has 'reft him of. Ah me! how wondrous thin, How lean and wan he looks! How much, alas! Has he defrauded his poor genius In raking wealth, while the pale, grisly sighs Of famine dwell upon his aged cheeks. O avarice! than thee a greater plague Did ne'er infest the life of wretched man! Heaven aid my work! That rare extraction Which he has drunk, beside the nourishment, Will cast him in a safe and gentle sleep, While I have liberty to work my ends; And with his body's cure a means I'll find To cure his fame, and (which is more) his mind. Jasper!

_Enter_ JASPER.

JAS. Sir!

THEO. Are those disguises ready, Which I bespoke?

JAS. They are all fitted, sir.

THEO. Then at the hour, which I appointed thee, Invite those people, Jasper; but be true And secret to me.

JAS. As your own heart, sir.

THEO. Take this: I will reward thy service better, As soon as these occasions are dispatch'd.

JAS. I thank you, sir. I have a letter for you, Left here but now, from Master Euphues, Old Master Freeman's nephew.

THEO. Give it me; I will anon peruse it. But my haste Permits not now: Eugeny waits my coming. [_Exit_ THEODORE.

JAS. I like this well; yet, if I should prove false To my old master for my young master's sake, Who can accuse me? For the reason's plain And very palpable; I feel it here. This will buy ale; so will not all the hoards, Which my old master has: his money serves For nothing but to look upon; but this Knows what the common use of money is. Well, for my own part, I'm resolv'd to do Whatever he commands me; he's too honest To wrong his father in it: if he should, The worst would be his own another day. [_Exit._

EUGENY _solus_.

EUG. Just thus, in woods and solitary caves, The ancient hermits liv'd; but they liv'd happy! And in their quiet contemplations found More real comforts than society Of men could yield, than cities could afford, Or all the lustres of a court could give. But I have no such sweet preservatives Against the sadness of this desert place. I am myself a greater wilderness Than are these woods, where horror and dismay Make their abodes; while different passions By turn do reign in my distracted soul. Fortune makes this conclusion general-- All things shall help th' unfortunate man to fall. First sorrow comes, and tells me I have done A crime whose foulness must deserve a sea Of penitent tears to wash me clean again. Then sear[11] steps in, and tells me, if surpris'd, My wretched life is forfeit to the law. When these have done, enters the tyrant love, And sets before me fair Artemia; Displays her virtues and perfections; Tells me that all those graces, all those beauties, Suffer for me, for my unhappiness, And wounds me more in her than in myself. Ah, Theodore! would I could ever sleep But when thou com'st, for in myself I find No drop of comfort? Welcome, dearest friend!

_Enter_ THEODORE.

THEO. Pardon the slowness of my visit, friend; For such occasions have detain'd me hence, As, if thou knew'st, I know thou wouldst excuse.

EUG. I must confess, I thought the hours too long; But the fruition of thy presence now Makes me forget it all.

THEO. Collect thyself,

Thou droop'st too much, my dearest Eugeny, And art too harsh and sour a censurer Of that unhappy crime which thou wert forc'd Lately to act. I did allow in thee That lawful sorrow that was fit; but let Well-grounded comforts cure thee: nought extreme Is safe in man.

EUG. 'Tis time must work that cure.

THEO. But why thy pardon is not yet obtain'd, Let me be free in my conjectures to thee.

EUG. Speak, friend, as to thyself.

THEO. Sir Argent Scrape, Your old rich kinsman, who to-morrow morning Is to be married to the Lady Covet----

EUG. Is that match come about? O avarice! What monsters thou begett'st in this vile age!

THEO. Sir Argent Scrape, I say, is next heir male, On whom thy whole estate was long ago Entail'd.

EUG. 'Tis true.

THEO. He must inherit it, Should thy life fail.

EUG. 'Tis granted.

THEO. Then, friend, hear What not a bare conjecture, but strong grounds Move me to utter. Think upon that word Thou spok'st so lately: think what avarice Can make her bondmen do--that such a price As fifteen hundred pounds a year will make Him labour, not thy pardon, but thy death.

EUG. Can there be such a miscreant in nature?

THEO. I should not think so, if I weigh'd him only, As he's thy kinsman. I have been inform'd He labours underhand to apprehend thee Just at the assizes now, and has laid plots To stop all pardons, which in that short time Might be procur'd: and then what bribes may do In hastening execution, do but consider. If this be false, some courtiers have abus'd His fame: and pardon me, my dearest friend, If I suspect the worst for fear of thee.

EUG. When I consider what accurs'd effects Proceed from wretched avarice, I begin To feel a fear.

THEO. This very age hath given Horrid examples lately: brothers have been Betray'd by brothers in that very kind. When pardons have been got by the next heirs, They have arriv'd too late. No tie so near, No band so sacred, but the cursed hunger Of gold has broke it, and made wretched men To fly from nature, mock religion, And trample under feet the holiest laws.

EUG. He has been ever noted for that vice Which, with his age, has still grown stronger in him.

THEO. Ah, Eugeny! how happy were that last Age of a man, when long experience Has taught him knowledge, taught him temperance, And freed him from so many loose desires In which rash youth is plung'd, were not this vice-- But hark, hark, friend! what ravishing sound is that?

EUG. Ha! wondrous sweet! 'tis from th' adjoining thicket.

_Song._

_This is not the Elysian grove;_ _Nor can I meet my slaughter'd love_ _Within these shades. Come, Death, and be_ _At last as merciful to me,_ _As in my dearest Scudmore's fall,_ _Thou show'dst thyself tyrannical._ _Then did I die when he was slain;_ _But kill me now, I live again,_ _And shall go meet him in a grove_ _Fairer than any here above._

_O, let this woful breath expire!_ _Why should I wish Evadne's fire,_ _Sad Portia's coals, or Lucrece' knife,_ _To rid me of a loathed life?_ _'Tis shame enough that grief alone_ _Kills me not now, when thou art gone!_ _But, life, since thou art slow to go,_ _I'll punish thee for lasting so;_ _And make thee piecemeal every day_ _Dissolve to tears, and melt away._

THEO. Ah, Eugeny! some heavenly nymph descends To make thee music in these desert woods, To quench or feed thy baleful melancholy: It is so sweet, I could almost believe, But that 'tis sad, it were an angel's voice.

EUG. What, in the name of miracle, is this?

THEO. Remove not thou; I'll make discovery Within this thicket.

EUG. Ha! what means thy wonder? What dost thou see?

THEO. I know not how to tell thee: Now I could wish myself to be all eyes, As erst all ears. I see a shape as fair, And as divine, as was the voice it sent; But clouded all with sorrow: a fair woman, If by a name so mortal I may term her. In such a sorrow sat the Queen of Love, When in the wood she wail'd Adonis' death, And from her crystal-dropping eyes did pay A lover's obsequy.

EUG. Let me come near.

THEO. Sure, black is Cupid's colour; Death and he Have chang'd their liveries now, as in the fable They did their quivers once.[12]

EUG. Ah, woe is me!

THEO. What means that woe?

EUG. Ah, Theodore! my guilt Pursues me to the woods! No place can keep The monuments of my misdeeds away.

THEO. I understand you not.

EUG. It is Matilda, The slaughter'd Scudmore's love, his virtuous love, Whose life by me unhappily was spilt. The sad, melodious ditty, which so late Did pierce our ravish'd ears, was but the note Of this fair turtle for her slaughter'd mate; In which perchance, amidst her woes, she sends Black curses up against my spotted self. But I with prayers and blessings will repay Whate'er thou vent'st 'gainst me. O, do not wish More wretchedness to my distracted soul Than I already feel! Sad sighs and tears Are all the satisfaction that is left For me to make to thy dead love and thee.

THEO. Those lips can vent no curses; 'twould take off Much from the sweetness of her virtuous sorrow. Where lives this lovely maid?

EUG. In the next village.

THEO. Has she a father living?

EUG. No, friend; he died When she was in her infancy. Her mother Two years ago deceas'd, and left her all The substance that she had; which was not great, But does maintain her. In that little house, E'er since this fatal accident, she lives A miracle of truth and constancy, Wailing her love; and now, it seems, has[13] come To vent her woful passions to the woods.

THEO. How happy had he been in such a love, If fate had spar'd his life! But he is dead, And time at last may wear this sorrow off, And make her relish the true joys of love. But why do I thus wander in my thoughts? This passion must be curb'd in the beginning; 'Twill prove too stubborn for me, if it grow. [_Aside._

EUG. Come, let us to my cave, as we intended, Ere this sad object stay'd us.

THEO. Sad indeed! Believe me, friend, I suffer with thee in it; But we were wounded in two different kinds. [_Aside._ Come, let's be gone; though--I could still--dwell here. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MATILDA.

MAT. Methought I heard a noise within the wood; As if men talk'd together not far off; But could discover none. The time has been,[14] In such a solitary place as this, I should have trembled at each moving leaf; But sorrow and my miserable state Have made me bold. If there be savages That live by rapine in such woods as these, As I have heard in ancient times there were, My wretched state would move their pity rather Than violence. I'll confidently go, Guarded with nothing but my innocence. [_Exit._

_Enter_ FRUITFUL, TRUSTY.

FRUIT. Come, master steward, you have had a time Of sweating for this wedding.

TRUSTY. I have ta'en A little pains to-day: yours, Master Fruitful, Is yet to come; I mean your sermon.

FRUIT. Yes, but the pains are pass'd; and that's the study. But to our business that more concerns us: Is the deed ready-written that my lady Must seal to-day?

TRUSTY. Do you believe she'll seal it?

FRUIT. I warrant you; I have so followed her, And laid it to her conscience, that I dare Hazard my life 'tis done.

TRUSTY. Well, here's the deed: 'tis plainly written.

FRUIT. I'll peruse't anon. I know the other feoffees are as true And honest men as any are i' th' world. [_Exit_ TRUSTY.

FREE. Save you, Master Fruitful!

FRUIT. Worthy Master Freeman!

FREE. How does my lady, sir? I have made bold To bring her company.

FRUIT. Please you draw near, sir; I will go up and signify unto my lady That you are here. [_Exit_ FRUITFUL.

BAR. What's he? her chaplain, Euphues?

EUPH. O yes.

LADY W. She uses praying then, it seems?

EUPH. Yes, madam, and fasting too, but gives no alms.

LADY W. Cannot he teach her that?

EUPH. 'Tis to be doubted: But he has other ways, which are far safer-- To speak against the fashion, against painting, Or fornication. If he were your chaplain, He would inveigh as much 'gainst covetousness.

LADY W. He would hurt me little in that. But has he learning?

EUPH. No, surely, madam; he is full of knowledge, But has no learning at all: he can expound, But understands nothing. One thing in him Is excellent: though he do hate the bishops, He would not make them guilty of one sin, Which was to give him orders; for he hates Orders as much as them.

FREE. Well, I have heard, Though he came lately to her, he has got A great hand over her, and sways her conscience Which way he list.

EUPH. Uncle, 'tis very easy To rule a thing so weak as is her conscience. I'll undertake, that a twin'd thread would do it As well as a strong cable. If he could Rule her estate too, he would have a place on't.

FREE. Why, that will follow t'other.

EUPH. I think not; Rather her conscience follows her estate, Oppression had not else increas'd it so. She wrong'd a worthy friend of mine--young Scudmore, And by mere fraud and bribery took away His whole estate, five hundred pound a year.

FREE. I must confess, 'twas a foul cause indeed; And he, poor man, lack'd means to prosecute The cause against her. But he feels it not At this time, nephew.

BAR. Was't that Scudmore, sir, Whom Eugeny, Sir Argent Scrape's young kinsman, Unfortunately kill'd?

FREE. The same. Well, let All these things pass: we come now to be merry.

LADY W. Let's eat up her good cheer: a niggard's feast Is best, they say.

DOT. Shall we have wine good store?

BAR. O, fear not that.

DOT. Hold, belly, hold, i' faith!

BAR. Yes, and brain too.

DOT. Nay, for my brain, Let me alone, I fear not that: no wine Can hurt my brain.

LADY W. Say you so, Master Dotterel? Why, such a brain I love.

DOT. Madam, I am glad I had it for you.

LADY W. For me, sir?

DOT. Yes, lady, 'Tis at your service; so is the whole body. Did I not tickle her there, old lad?

BAR. Yes, rarely.

LADY W. Shall I presume to call you servant, then?

DOT. O Lord, madam! if I were worthy to be.

LADY W. Nay, I know you have good courtship, servant. Wear this for my sake. [_Gives him a scarf._

DOT. 'Tis your livery, madam.

BAR. Well, th' art a happy man, if thou knew'st all.

EUPH. Madam, I see your ladyship can tell How to make choice in dealing of your favours.

DOT. It pleases you to say so, good Master Euphues.

EUPH. Why, sir, I speak of the lady's judgment.

DOT. 'Twas more of her courtesy than my desert.

_Enter_ LADY COVET _on crutches_.

EUPH. Here comes the lady bride.

FREE. Joy to your ladyship!

LADY C. I thank you, sir: y' are very welcome all.

FREE. I have made bold to bring my friends along, As you commanded, lady.

LADY C. They are most welcome.

EUPH. Methinks your ladyship looks fresh to-day, And like a bride indeed.

LADY C. Ah, Master Euphues! You, I perceive, can flatter.

EUPH. Does your glass Tell you I flatter, madam?

LADY C. Bestow this Upon young maids; but let me tell you, sir, Old folks may marry too. It was ordain'd At first to be as well a stay to age As to please youth. We have our comforts too, Though we be old.

EUPH. Madam, I doubt it not: You are not yet so old but you may have Your comfort well; and if Sir Argent Scrape Were but one threescore years younger than he is----

BAR. What a strange _but_ thou mak'st!

EUPH. You would perceive it.

LADY W. Servant, could you find in your heart to marry Such an old bride?

DOT. No, mistress, I protest I had rather have none.

LADY W. What age would you desire To choose your wife of?

DOT. Just as old as you are.

LADY W. Well, servant, I believe you can dissemble.

LADY C. Will't please you to draw near? Sir Argent stays Expecting within.

FREE. We'll wait upon you. [_Exeunt._

_Manent_ BARNET, DOTTEREL.

BAR. To what strange fortune, friend, are some men born, I mean by thee. Surely, when thou wert young, The fairies dandled thee.

DOT. Why, prythee, Barnet?

BAR. That ladies thus should doat upon thy person. Dost thou not see how soon the Lady Whimsey Is caught in love with thee?

DOT. But is she, think'st thou?

BAR. Is she! Come, thou perceiv'st it well enough; What else should make her court thee, and bestow Her favours openly? And such a lady! So full of wit as she is, too! Would she Betray the secrets of her heart so far, But that love plays the tyrant in her breast, And forces her?

DOT. True, and, as thou say'st, Barnet, She's a brave, witty lady; and I love A wit with all my heart. What would she say If she should know me truly, that thus loves, And thinks I am but a poor younger brother?

BAR. Why, still the greater is thy happiness: Thou may'st be sure she loves thee truly now, And not thy fortunes.

DOT. Has she found me out, For all I sought to hide myself?

BAR. The more Thy worth appears, the more her judgment's seen. O, 'tis a gallant lady! Well, she might Have cast her eye on me or Euphues; But 'twas not our good fortune!

DOT. Do not despair; Some other woman may love thee as well: Come, thou hast worth, Barnet, as well as I.

BAR. Nay, nay, abuse not your poor friends; but tell me, What dost thou think of young Artemia now?

DOT. Of her! a foolish girl, a simple thing! She'd make a pretty wife for me! I confess I courted her; but she had not the wit To find out what I was, for all my talk.

BAR. And that was strange she should not; but 'tis fate That governs marriages.

DOT. Let her repent, And know what she hath lost, when 'tis too late. But dost thou think this gallant Lady Whimsey Will marry me?

BAR. Mak'st thou a doubt of that? 'Tis thy own fault, boy, if thou hast her not.

DOT. That I protest it shall not be; but, tell me, Shall I express my love to her in verse Or prose?

BAR. In which you will.

DOT. I am alike at both of them indeed.

BAR. I know thou art.

DOT. Come, let's go in.

BAR. Thou long'st to see thy mistress?

DOT. We'll drink her health in a crown'd cup,[15] my lad.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Richard Braithwaite printed precisely the same thought in 1621, in his "Times Curtaine Drawne"--

"For who (remembering the cause why clothes were made, Even then when Adam fled unto his shade, For covert nakedness) will not blame Himself to glory in his parents' shame?"

The coincidence is remarkable.--_Collier._

[10]

"Quæ nec _Sarmentus_ iniquas Cæsaris ad mensas, nec vilis _Galba_ tulisset."

--Juv., Sat. v. 3.

[11] [Conscience.]

[12] Mr Gifford, in a note on Massinger's "Virgin Martyr," points out an elegy by Secundus as the origin of this pretty fancy, which is thus employed by Fairfax in his translation of Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered"--

"Death hath again exchanged his darts with Love, And Cupid thus lets borrow'd arrows fly."

The allusion is not to be found in the original Italian (bk. ii. s. 34). Davenant, in bk. ii. c. 7, of his "Gondibert," also mentions the fable, and it would be easy among foreign writers to point out many instances in which more extensive use has been made of it. The sonnets by Annibale Nozzolini and by Girolamo Pompei are well known.--_Collier._

[13] [Old copy, _was_.]

[14] So in "Macbeth," act v. sc. 5--

"I have almost forgot the taste of fears: _The time has been_, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir As life were in't. I have supt full with horrors! Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me."

[And see note to the "Heir," xi. 449.]