Part 1

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

Born 1584 Died 1616

JOHN FLETCHER

Born 1579 Died 1625

_BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER_

THIERRY AND THEODORET

THE WOMAN-HATER

NICE VALOUR

THE HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE

THE MASQUE OF THE GENTLEMEN OF GRAYS-INNE AND THE INNER-TEMPLE

FOUR PLAYS OR MORAL REPRESENTATIONS IN ONE

THE TEXT EDITED BY

A.R. WALLER, M.A.

Cambridge:

at the University Press

1912

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

London: FETTER LANE, E.C.

C. F. CLAY, MANAGER

Edinburgh: 100, PRINCES STREET

Berlin: A. ASHER AND CO.

Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS

New York: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.

_All rights reserved_

PREFACE

In 1905, the Syndics of the University Press asked me to complete, upon the lines laid down in the preface to volume I, the editing of the reprint of the Second Folio of the works of Beaumont and Fletcher which had been begun by Arnold Glover. The present volume sees the end of the task. In 1906, it was announced that a volume or, possibly, two volumes of notes would follow the text. These, together with a critical text of the scattered poems, must be left to other hands. I hoped, at one time, to undertake this additional burden myself, but that seems now to have become impossible.

A. R. WALLER

_21 May 1912_

CONTENTS

PAGE

Thierry and Theodoret 1

The Woman-Hater 71

Nice Valour, or The Passionate Mad-man 143

Mr. Francis Beaumonts Letter to Ben. Johnson 199

The Honest Man's Fortune 202

The Masque of the Gentlemen of Grays-Inne and the Inner-Temple 281

Four Plays or Moral Representations in One 287

Appendix 365

THE TRAGEDY

OF

Thierry and Theodoret.

_Actus Primus. Scæna Prima._

_Enter Theodoret, Brunhalt, Bawd[b]er._

BRUNHALT.

Taxe me with these hot tainters?

_Theodoret._ You are too sudain; I doe but gently tell you what becomes you And what may bend your honor! how these courses Of loose and lazie pleasures; not suspected But done and known, your mind that grants no limit And all your Actions follows, which loose people That see but through a mist of circumstance Dare term ambitious; all your wayes hide sores Opening in the end to nothing but ulcers. Your instruments like these may call the world And with a fearfull clamor, to examine Why, and to what we govern. From example If not for vertues sake ye may be honest: There have been great ones, good ones, and 'tis necessary Because you are your self, and by your self A self-peece from the touch of power and Justice, You should command your self, you may imagine Which cozens all the world, but chiefly women The name of greatness glorifies your actions And strong power like a pent-house, promise[s] To shade you from opinion; Take heed mother, And let us all take heed these most abuse us The sins we doe, people behold through opticks, Which shews them ten times more than common vices, And often multiplys them: Then what justice Dare we inflict upon the weak offenders When we are theeves our selves?

_Brun._ This is, _Martell_, Studied and pen'd unto you, whose base person I charge you by the love you owe a mother And as you hope for blessings from her prayers, Neither to give belief to, nor allowance, Next I tell you Sir, you from whom obedience Is so far fled, that you dare taxe a mother; Nay further, brand her honor with your slanders, And break into the treasures of her credit, Your easiness is abused, your faith fraited With lyes, malitious lyes, your merchant mischief, He that never knew more trade then Tales, and tumbling Suspitious into honest hearts; What you or he, Or all the world dare lay upon my worth, This for your poor opinions: I am shee, And so will bear my self, whose truth and whiteness Shall ever stand as far from these detections As you from dutie, get you better servants People of honest actions without ends, And whip these knaves away, they eat your favours, And turn 'em unto poysons: my known credit Whom all the Courts o' this side _Nile_ have envied, And happy she could site me, brought in question Now in my hours of age and reverence, When rather superstition should be rendred And by a Rush that one days warmth Hath shot up to this swelling; Give me justice, Which is his life.

_Theod._ This is an impudence, and he must tell you, that till now mother brought ye a sons obedience, and now breaks it Above the sufferance of a Son.

_Bawd._ Bless us!

For I doe now begin to feel my self Turning into a halter, and the ladder Turning from me, one pulling at my legs too.

_Theod._ These truths are no mans tales, but all mens troubles, They are, though your strange greatness would out-stare u'm: Witness the daily Libels, almost Ballads In every place, almost in every Province, Are made upon your lust, Tavern discourses, Crowds cram'd with whispers; Nay, the holy Temples, Are not without your curses: Now you would blush, But your black tainted blood dare not appear For fear I should fright that too.

_Brun._ O ye gods!

_Theod._ Do not abuse their names: They see your actions And your conceal'd sins, though you work like Moles, Lies level to their justice.

_Brun._ Art thou a Son?

_Theod._ The more my shame is of so bad a mother, And more your wretchedness you let me be so; But woma[n], for a mothers name hath left me Since you have left your honor; Mend these ruins, And build again that broken fame, and fairly; Your most intemperate fires have burnt, and quickly Within these ten days take a Monasterie, A most strickt house; a house where none may whisper, Where no more light is known but what may make ye Believe there is a day where no hope dwells, Nor comfort but in tears.

_Brun._ O miserie!

_Theod._ And there to cold repentance, and starv'd penance Tye your succeeding days; Or curse me heaven If all your guilded knaves, brokers, and bedders, Even he you built from nothing, strong _Protal[dy]e_, Be not made ambling Geldings; All your maids, If that name doe not shame 'em, fed with spunges To suck away their ranckness; And your self Onely to empty Pictures and dead Arras Offer your old desires.

_Brun._ I will not curse you, Nor lay a prophesie upon your pride, Though heaven might grant me both: unthankfull, no, I nourish'd ye, 'twas I, poor I groan'd for you, 'Twas I felt what you suffer'd, I lamented When sickness or sad hours held back your swe[e]tness; 'Twas I pay'd for your sleeps, I watchd your wakings: My daily cares and fears, that rid, plaid, walk'd, Discours'd, discover'd, fed and fashion'd you To what you are, and I am thus rewarded.

_Theod._ But that I know these tears I could dote on 'em, And kneell to catch 'em as they fall, then knit 'em Into an Armlet, ever to be honor'd; But woman they are dangerous drops, deceitfull, Full of the weeper, anger and ill nature.

_Brun._ In my last hours despis'd.

_Theod._ That Text should tell How ugly it becomes you to err thus; Your flames are spent, nothing but smoke maintains ye; And those your favour and your bounty suffers Lye not with you, they do but lay lust on you And then imbrace you as they caught a palsie; Your power they may love, and like spanish Jennetts Commit with such a gust.

_Bawd._ I would take whipping, And pay a fine now. [_Exit Bawdber._

_Theod._ But were ye once disgraced, Or fallen in wealth, like leaves they would flie from you, And become browse for every beast; You will'd me To stock my self with better friends, and servants, With what face dare you see me, or any mankind, That keep a race of such unheard of relicks, Bawds, Leachers, Letches, female fornications, And children in their rudiments to vices, Old men to shew examples: and lest Art Should loose her self in act, to call back custome, Leave these, and live like _Niobe_. I told you how And when your eyes have dropt away remembrance Of what you were. I 'm your Son! performe it.

_Brun._ Am I a woman, and no more power in me, To tye this Tyger up, a soul to no end, Have I got shame and lost my will? _Brunhalt_ From this accursed hour, forget thou bor'st him, Or any part of thy blood gave him living, Let him be to thee an Antipathy, A thing thy nature sweats at, and turns backward: Throw all the mischiefs on him that thy self, Or woman worse than thou art, have invented, And kill him drunk, or doubtfull.

_Enter Bawd[b]er_, _Protaldie_, _Lecure_.

_Bawd._ Such a sweat, I never was in yet, clipt of my minstrels, My toyes to prick up wenches withall; Uphold me, It runs like snow-balls through me.

_Brun._ Now my varlets, My slaves, my running thoughts, my executions.

_Baw._ Lord how she looks!

_Brun._ Hell take ye all.

_Baw._ We shall be gelt.

_Brun._ Your Mistress, Your old and honor'd Mistress, you tyr'd curtals Suffers for your base sins; I must be cloyster'd, Mew'd up to make me virtuous who can help this? Now you stand still like Statues; Come _Protaldye_, One kiss before I perish, kiss me strongly, Another, and a third.

_Lecure._ I fear not gelding As long [as] she holds this way.

_Brun._ The young courser That unli[c]kt lumpe of mine, will win thy Mistriss; Must I be chast _Protaldye_?

_Pro._ Thus and thus Lady.

_Brun._ It shall be so, let him seek fools for Vestalls, Here is my Cloyster.

_Lecure._ But what safety Madam Find you in staying here?

_Brun._ Thou hast hit my meaning, I will to _Thierry_ Son of my blessings, And there complain me, tell my tale so subtilly, That the cold stones shall sweat; And Statues mourn, And thou shall weep _Protaldye_ in my witness, And there forswear.

_Bawd._ Yes, any thing but gelding, I'm not yet in quiet Noble Lady, Let it be done to night, for without doubt To morrow we are capons.

_Brun._ Sleep shall not seize me, Nor any food befriend me but thy kisses, E're I forsake this desart, I live honest; He may as well bid dead men walk, I humbled, Or bent below my power; let night-dogs tear me, And goblins ride me in my sleep to jelly, Ere I forsake my sphear.

_Lecure._ This place you will.

_Brun._ What's that to you, or any, Ye doss, you powder'd pigsbones, rubarbe glister: Must you know my designs? a colledge on you, The proverbe makes but fools.

_Prota._ But Noble Lady.

_Brun._ You a sawcie ass too, off I will not, If you but anger me, till a sow-gelder Have cut you all like colts, hold me and kiss me, For I'm too much troubled; Make up my treasure, And get me horses private, come about it. [_Exeunt._

[_Act. I. Scæ. 2._]

_Enter Theodoret, Martell, &c._

_Theod._ Though I assure my self (_Martell_) your counsell Had no end but allegeance and my honor: Yet [I am] jealous, I have pass'd the bounds Of a sons duty; For suppose her worse Than you report, not by bare circumstance, But evident proof confirm'd has given her out: Yet since all weakness[es] in a kingdome, are No more to be severely punished than The faults of Kings are by the Thunderer As oft as they offend, to be reveng'd: If not for piety, yet for policie, Since some are of necessitie to be spar'd, I might, and now I wish I had not look'd With such strict eyes into her follies.

_Mart._ Sir, a duty well discharg'd is never follow'd By sad repentance, nor did your Highness ever Make payment of the debt you ow'd her, better Than in your late reproofs not of her, but Those crimes that made her worthy of reproof. The most remarkeable point in which Kings differ From private men, is that they not alone Stand bound to be in themselves innocent, But that all such as are allyed to them In nearness, [or] dependance, by their care Should be free from suspition of all crime; And you have reap'd a double benefit From this last great act: first in the restraint Of her lost pleasures, you remove th' example From others of the like licentiousness, Then when 'tis known that your severitie Extended to your mother, who dares hope for The least indulgence or connivence in The easiest slips that may prove dangerous To you, or to the Kingdome?

_Theod._ I must grant Your reason[s] good (_Martell_) if as she is My mother, she had been my subject, or That only here she could make challenge to A place of Being; But I know her temper And fear (if such a word become a King,) That in discovering her, I have let lo[o]se A Tygress, whose rage being shut up in darkness, Was grievous only to her self; Which brought Into the view of light, her cruelty, Provok'd by her own shame, will turn on him That foolishly presum'd to let her see The loath'd shape of her own deformitie.

_Mart._ Beasts of that nature, when rebellious threats Begin to appear only in their eyes, Or any motion that may give suspition Of the least violence should be chain'd up; Their fangs and teeth, and all their means of hurt, Par'd off, and knockt out, and so made unable To do ill; They would soon begin to loath it. I'll apply nothing: but had your Grace done, Or would doe yet, what your less forward zeal In words did only threaten, far less danger Would grow from acting it on her, than may Perhaps have Being from her apprehension Of what may once be practis'd: For believe it, Who confident of his own power, presumes To spend threats on an enemy, that hath means To shun the worst they can effect, gives armor To keep off his own strength; Nay more, disarms Himself, and lyes unguarded 'gainst all harms, Or doubt, or malice may produce.

_Theod._ 'Tis true. And such a desperate cure I would have us'd, If the intemperate patient had not been So near me as a mother; but to her, And from me gentle unguents only were To be appli'd: and as physitians When they are sick of fevers, eat themselves Such viands as by their directions are Forbid to others though alike diseas'd; So she considering what she is, may challenge Those cordialls to restore her, by her birth, And priviledge, which at no suit must be Granted to others.

_Mart._ May your pious care Effect but what it aim'd at, I am silent.

_Enter Devitry._

_Theod._ What laught you at Sir?

_Vitry._ I have some occasion, I should not else; And the same cause perhaps That makes me do so, may beget in you A contrary effect.

_Theod._ Why, what's the matter?

_Vitry._ I see and joy to see that sometimes poor men, (And most of [such] are good) stand more indebted For [meanes] to breathe to such as are held vitious, Than those that wear, like Hypocrites on their foreheads, Th'ambitious titles of just men and vertuous.

_Mart._ Speak to the purpose.

_Vitry._ Who would e'er have thought The good old Queen, your Highness reverend mother, Into whose house (which was an Academ,) In which all principles of lust were practis'd: No soldier might presume to set his foot; At whose most blessed intercession All offices in the state, were charitably Confer'd on Panders, o'erworn chamber wrestlers, And such physitians as knew how to kill With safety under the pretence of saving, And such like children of a monstrous peace, That she I say should at the length provide That men of war, and honest younger brothers, That would not owe their feeding to their cod-peece, Should be esteem'd of more than mothers, or drones, Or idle vagabonds.

_Theod._ I am glad to hear it, Prethee what course takes she to doe this?

_Vitry._ One that cannot fail, she and her virtuous train, With her jewels, and all that was worthy the carrying, The last night left the court, and, as 'tis more Than said, for 'tis confirm'd by such as met her, She's fled unto your brother.

_Theod._ How?

_Vitry._ Nay storm not, For if that wicked tongue of hers hath not Forgot [its] pace, and _Thierry_ be a Prince Of such a fiery temper, as report Has given him out for; You shall have cause to use Such poor men as my self; And thank us too For comming to you, and without petitions; Pray heaven reward the good old woman for't.

_Mart._ I foresaw this.

_Theod._ I hear a tempest comming, That sings mine & my kingdomes ruin: haste, And cause a troop of horse to fetch her back: Yet stay, why should I use means to bring in A plague that of her self hath left me? Muster Our Soldiers up, we'll stand upon our guard, For we shall be attempted; Yet forbear The inequality of our powers will yield me Nothing but loss in their defeature: something Must be done, and done suddainly, save your labor, In this I'll use no counsell but mine own, That course though dangerous is best. Command Our daughter be in readiness, to attend us: _Martell_, your company, and honest _Vitry_, Thou wilt along with me.

_Vitry._ Yes any where, To be worse than I 'm here, is past my fear. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Secundus. Scæna Prima._

_Enter Thierry, Brunhalt, Bawdber, Lecure, &c._

_Thier._ You are here in a sanctuary; and that viper (Who since he hath forgot to be a Son, I much disdain to think of as a brother) Had better, in despight of all the gods, To have raiz'd their Temples, and spurn'd down their Altars, Than in his impious abuse of you, To have call'd on my just anger.

_Brun._ Princely Son; And in this, worthy of a near name I have in the relation of my wrongs, Been modest, and no word my tongue deliver'd T'express my insupportable injuries, But gave my heart a wound: Nor has my grief Being from what I suffer; But that he, Degenerate as he is, should be the actor Of my extremes; And force me to divide The [fires] of brotherly affection, Which should make but one flame.

_Thier._ That part of his As it deserves shall burn no more: [if or] The tears of Orphans, Widows, or all such As dare acknowledge him to be their Lord, Joyn'd to your wrongs, with his heart blood have power To put it out: and you, and these your servants, Who in our favours shal find cause to know In that they left not you, how dear we hold them; Shal[l] give _Theodoret_ to understand, His ignorance of the prizeless Jewel, which He did possess in you, mother in you, Of which I am more proud to be the donor, Than if th' absolute rule of all the world Were offer'd to this hand; Once more you are welcome, Which with all ceremony due to greatness I would make known, but that our just revenge Admits not of delay; Your hand Lord Generall.

_Enter Protaldie, with soldiers._

_Brun._ Your favor and his merit I may say Have made him such, but I am jelous how Your subjects will receive it.

_Thier._ How my subjects? What doe you make of me? Oh heaven! My subjects! How base should I esteem the name of Prince If that poor dust were any thing before The whirle-wind of my absolute command? Let 'em be happy and rest so contented: They pay the tribute of their hearts & knees, To such a Prince that not alone has power, To keep his own but to increase it; That Although he hath a body may add to The fam'd night labor of strong _Hercules_: Yet is the master of a continence That so can temper it, that I forbear Their daughters, and their wives, whose hands though strong, As yet have never drawn by unjust mean Their proper wealth into my treasury, But I grow glorious, and let them beware That in their least repining at my pleasures, They change not a mild Prince, (for if provok'd I dare and will be so) into a Tyrant.

_Brun._ You see there's hope that we shall rule again, And your fal'n fortunes rise.

_Bawd._ I hope your Highness Is pleas'd that I should still hold my place with you; For I have been so long us'd to provide you Fresh bits of flesh since mine grew stale, that surely If cashir'd now, I shall prove a bad Cator In the Fish-market of cold chastity.

_Lecure._ For me I am your own, nor since I first Knew what it was to serve you, have remembred I had a soul, but such [a] one whose essence Depended wholy on your Highness pleasure, And therefore Madam--

_Brun._ Rest assur'd you are Such instruments we must not lose.

_Lecure. Bawd._ Our service.

_Thier._ You have view'd them then, what's your opinion of them? In this dull time of peace, we have prepar'd 'em Apt for the war. Ha?

_Prota._ Sir, they have limbs That promise strength sufficient, and rich armors The Soldiers best lov'd wealth: More, it appears They have been drill'd, nay very pretily drill'd: For many of them can discharge their muskets Without the danger of throwing off their heads, Or being offensive to the standers by, By sweating too much backwards; Nay I find They know the right, and left hand file, and may With some impulsion no doubt be brought To pass the _A_, _B_, _C_, of war, and come Unto the Horn-book.

_Thier._ Well, that care is yours; And see that you effect it.

_Prota._ I am slow To promise much; But if within ten days, By precepts and examples, not drawn from Worm-eaten presidents of the _Roman_ wars But from mine own, I make them not transcend All that e'er yet bore armes, let it be said, _Protaldye_ brags, which would be unto me As hatefull as to be esteem'd a coward: For Sir, few Captaines know the way to win [him], And make the soldiers valiant. You shall [see me] Lie with them in their trenches, talk, and drink, And be together drunk; And, what seems stranger, We'll sometimes wench together, which once practis'd And with some other care and hidden acts, They being all made mine, I'll breath[e] into them Such fearless resolution and such fervor, That though I brought them to beseige a fort, Whose walls were steeple high, and cannon proof, Not to be undermin'd, they should fly up, Like swallows: and the parapet once won, For proof of their obedience, if I will'd them They should leap down again, and what is more, By some directions they should have from me, Not break their necks.

_Thi._ This is above belief.

_Brun._ Sir, on my knowledg[e] though he hath spoke much, He's able to do more.

_Lecure._ She means on her.

_Brun._ And howsoever in his thankfulness, For some few favors done him by my self, He left _Austracia_, not _Theodoret_, Though he was chiefly aim'd at, could have laid With all his Dukedomes power, that shame upon him, Which in his barborous malice to my honor, He swore with threats to effect.