Part 15

Bas. _Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho._

Pas. _A gigling waiting wench for me,_ _That shews her teeth how white they be._

Bas. _A thing not fit for gravity,_ _For theirs are foul, and hardly three._

Pas. _Ha, ha, ha._

Bas. _Ho, ho, ho._

Pas. Democritus, _thou antient Fleerer,_ _How I miss thy laugh, and ha' since_.

Bas. _There you nam'd the famous Jeerer,_ _That ever jeer'd in_ Rome, _or_ Athens.

Pas. _Ha, ha, ha._

Bas. _Ho, ho, ho._

Pas. _How brave lives he that keeps a fool,_ _Although the rate be deeper!_

[B]as. _But he that is his own fool, Sir,_ _Does live a great deal cheaper._

Pas. _Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break, thou art so witty._

Bas. _'Tis rare to break at Court, for that belongs to th' City._

Pas. _Ha, ha, my spleen is almost worn to the last laughter._

Bas. _Oh keep a corner for a friend, a jest may come hereafter._

_Enter_ Lapet _and_ Clown, _and four other like fools, dancing,_ _the_ Cupid _leading, and bearing his Table, and holding it_ _up to_ Lapet _at every strain, and acting the postures_.

_Lap._ Twinge all now, twinge I say. 2 Strain. Souse upon Souse. 3 Strain. Douses single. 4 Strain. Justle sides. 5 Strain. Knee Belly. 6 Strain. Kicksee Buttock. 7 Strain.

_La._ Downderry.

_Enter Soldier_, Shamont_'s brother; his sword drawn_.

_Sol._ Not angry Law, nor doors of Brass shall keep me, From my wrongs expiation to thy Bowels, I return my disgrace; and after turn My face to any death that can be sentenc'd.

_Base._ Murder, oh murder, stop the murderer there--

_Lap._ I am glad he's gone; h'as almost trode my guts out; Follow him who list for me, I'll ha' no hand in't.

_Clo._ Oh 'twas your luck and mine to be squelch'd, Mr. H'as stamp'd my very Puddings into Pancakes.

_Cup._ Oh brothers, oh, I fear 'tis mortal: help, oh help, I'm made the wretchedst woman by this accident, That ever love beguil'd.

_Enter two Brothers._

_2 Bro._ We are undone Brother, Our shames are too apparent: Away receptacle Of Luxury, and dishonor, most unfortunate, To make thy self but lucky to thy spoil, After thy Sexes manner: lift him up Brother; He breaths not to our comfort, he's too wasted Ever to cheer us more: A Chirurgeon speedily; Hence; the unhappiest that e'er stept aside, She'll be a Mother, before she's known a Bride.

_Cup._ Thou hadst a most unfortunate conception, What e'er thou prov'st to be; in midst of mirth Comes ruine, for a welcome, to thy birth. [_Exeunt._

_Scæna Secunda._

_Enter_ Shamont.

_Sham._ This is a beautiful life now; privacy The sweetness and the benefit of Essence: I see there is no man, but may make his Paradice; And it is nothing but his love, and dotage Upon the worlds foul joyes, that keeps him out on't: For he that lives retir'd in mind, and spirit, Is still in Paradice, and has his innocence, Partly allow'd for his companion too, As much as stands with justice: here no eyes Shoot their sharp pointed scorns upon my shame; They know no terms of reputation here, No punctual limits, or precise dimensions: Plain down-right honesty is all the beauty And elegancy of life, found amongst Shepheards; For knowing nothing nicely, or desiring it, Quits many a vexation from the mind, With which our quainter knowledge does abuse us; The name of envy is a stranger here, That dries mens blouds abroad, robs Health and Rest, Why here's no such fury thought on: no, nor falshood, That brotherly disease, fellow-like devil, That plays within our bosom, and betrays us.

_Enter 1 Gent._

_1 Gent._ Oh are you here?

_Sham. La Nove_, 'tis strange to see thee.

_1 Gent._ I ha' rid one horse to death, To find you out, Sir.

_Sham._ I am not to be found of any man That saw my shame, nor seen long.

_1 Gent._ Good, your attention: You ought to be seen now, and found out, Sir, If ever you desire before your ending To perform one good office, nay, a dear one, Mans time can hardly match it.

_Sham._ Be't as precious As reputation; if it come from Court I will not hear on't.

_1 Gent._ You must hear of this, Sir.

_Sham._ Must?

_1 Gent._ You shall hear it.

_Sham._ I love thee, that thou'lt dye.

_1 Gent._ 'Twere nobler in me, Than in you living: you will live a murderer, If you deny this office.

_Sham._ Even to death, Sir.

_1 Gent._ Why then you'll kill your brother.

_Sham._ How?

_1 Gent._ Your Brother, Sir: Bear witness heaven, this man destroys his Brother When he may save him, his least breath may save him: Can there be wilfuller destruction? He was forc'd to take a most unmanly wrong, Above the suff'ring virtue of a Soldier, Has kill'd his injurer, a work of honor; For which, unless you save him, he dies speedily My conscience is discharg'd, I'm but a friend, A Brother should go forward where I end. [_Exit._

_Sham._ Dyes? Say he be naught, that's nothing to my goodness, Which ought to shine through use, or else it loses The glorious name 'tis known by: he's my brother; Yet peace is above bloud: Let him go; I, But where's the nobleness of affection then? That must be car'd for too, or I'm imperfect, The same bloud that stood up in wrath against him, Now in his misery, runs all to pity; I'd rather dye than speak one syllable To save my self, but living as I am, There's no avoiding on't, the worlds humanity Expects it hourly from me: curse of fortune, I took my leave so well too: Let him dye, 'Tis but a brother lost; so pleasingly, And swiftly I came off, 'twere more than irksomness, To tread that path agen; and I shall never Depart so handsomely: but then where's posterity? The consummation of our house and name? I'm torn in pieces betwixt love and shame. [_Exit._

_Scæna Tertia._

_Enter_ Lapet, Clown, Poultrot, Moulbazon, _and_ _others, the new Court Officers_.

_Lap._ Good morrow fellow _Poltrot_, and _Moulbazon_, Good morrow fellows all.

_Pol._ Monsieur _Lapet_?

_Lap._ Look, I've remembred you, here's books apiece for you.

_Moul._ Oh Sir, we dearly thank you.

_Lap._ So you may: There's two impressions gone already, Sirs.

_Pol._ What no? in so short a time?

_Lap._ 'Tis as I tell you, Sir. My Kick sells gallantly, I thank my stars.

_Clow._ So does your Table; you may thank the Moon too.

_Lap._ 'Tis the Book sells the Table.

_Clow._ But 'tis the Bookseller That has the money for 'em, I'm sure o' that.

_Lap._ 'Twill much enrich the Company of Stationers, 'Tis thought 'twill prove a lasting benefit, Like the _Wise Masters_, and the _Almanacks_, The hundred _Novels_, and the Book of _Cookery_, For they begin already to engross it, And make it a Stock-book, thinking indeed 'Twill prove too great a benefit, and help, For one that's new set up: they know their way, And make him Warden, e'r his beard be gray.

_Moul._ Is't possible such virtue should lye hid, And in so little Paper?

_Lap._ How? why there was the Carpenter, An unknown thing; an odoriferous Pamphlet, Yet no more Paper, by all computation, Than _Ajax Telamon_ would use at once, Your Herring prov'd the like, able to buy Another _Fishers_ Folly, and your _Pasquil_ Went not below the mad-caps of that time, And shall my elaborate _Kick_ come behind, think you?

_Clow._ Yes, it must come behind, 'tis in _Italica_ too, According to your humor.

_Lap._ Not in sale, Varlet.

_Clow._ In sale, Sir? it shall sail beyond 'em all I tro.

_Lap._ What have you there now? oh Page 21.

_Clow._ That Page is come to his years, he should be a Serving man.

_Lap._ Mark how I snap up the _Duello_ there: One would not use a dog so, I must needs say; but's for the common good.

_Clow._ Nay Sir, your Commons seldom fight at sharp, But buffet in a Warehouse.

_Lap._ This will save Many a Gentleman of good bloud from bleeding, Sirs, I have a curse from many a Barber-Surgeon; They'd give but too much money to call't in; Turn to Page 45. see what you find there.

_Clow._ Oh, out upon him, Page 45. that's an old thief indeed.

_Enter Duke, the Lady his Sister, 1 Gent._

_Lap._ The Duke, clap down your Books; away _Galoshio_.

_Clow._ Indeed I am too foul to be i' th' presence, They use to shake me off at the chamber door still. [_Ex._

_Lady._ Good my Lord, grant my suit: let me not rise Without the comfort on't: I have not often Been tedious in this kind.

_Duke._ Sister, you wrong your self, And those great virtues that your Fame is made of, To waste so much breath for a murderers life.

_Lad._ You cannot hate th' offence more than I do, Sir, Nor the offender, the respect I owe Unto his absent brother, makes me a suitor, A most importunate Sister, make me worthy But of this one request.

_Duke._ I am deaf To any importunacy, and sorry For your forgetfulness; you never injur'd Your worth so much, you ought to be rebuk'd for't: Pursue good ways, end as you did begin, 'Tis half the guilt to speak for such a sin.

_La._ This is loves beggery right, that now is ours, When Ladies love, and cannot shew their powers. [_Ex._

_Du. La Nove?_

_1 Gent._ My Lord.

_Duke._ Are these our new Attendants?

_Lap._ We are my Lord, and will endure as much As better men, my Lord, and more I trust.

_Duke._ What's he?

_1 Gent._ My Lord, a decay'd Gentleman, That will do any service.

_Duke._ A decay'd one?

_1 Gent._ A renounc'd one indeed: for this place only.

_Duke._ We renounce him then; go, discharge him instantly. He that disclaims his gentry for meer gains, That man's too base to make a vassal on.

_Lap._ What says the Duke?

_1 [Gent.]_ Faith little to your comfort, Sir, You must be a Gentleman agen.

_Lap._ How?

_1 Gent._ There's no remedy.

_Lap._ Marry, the fates forefend: ne'r while I breathe, Sir.

_1 Gent._ The Duke will have it so, there's no resisting, He spy'd it i' your forehead.

_Lap._ My wife's doing. She thought she should be put below her betters now, And su'd to ha' me a Gentleman agen.

_1 Gent._ And very likely, Sir, Marry, I'll give you this comfort when all's done, You'll never pass but for a scurvy one, That's all the help you have: come shew your pace.

_Lap._ The heaviest Gentleman that e'er lost place; Bear witness, I am forc'd to't. [_Exit._

_Duke._ Though you have a courser Title yet upon you, Than those that left your places, without blame, 'Tis in your power to make your selves the same: I cannot make you Gentlemen, that's a work Rais'd from your own deservings, merit, manners, And in-born virtue does it. Let your own goodness Make you so great, my power shall make you greater; And more t'encourage you, this I add agen, There's many Grooms, now exact Gentlemen.

_Enter_ Shamont.

_Sham._ Methinks 'tis strange to me to enter here: Is there in nature such an awful power, To force me to this place? and make me do this? Is mans affection stronger than his Will? His resolution? was I not resolv'd Never to see this place more? Do I bear Within my breast one bloud that confounds th' other? The bloud of Love, and Will, and the last weakest? Had I ten Millions, I would give it all now, I were but past it, or 'twould never come; For I shall never do't, or not do't well, But spoil it utterly betwixt two passions, Yonder's the Duke himself, I will not do't now, Had twenty lives their several sufferings in him. [_Exit._

_Duke._ Who's that went out now?

_Pol._ I saw none my Lord.

_Duke._ Nor you?

_Moul._ I saw the glimpse of one my Lord.

_Duke._ What e'er it was, methought it pleas'd me strangely And suddenly my joy was ready for't. Did you not mark it better?

_Pol. & Moul._ Troth my Lord, We gave no great heed to't.

_Enter_ Shamont.

_Sham._ 'Twill not be answer'd, It brings me hither still; by main force hither: Either I must give over to profess humanity, Or I must speak for him.

_Duke._ 'Tis here agen: No marvel 'twas so pleasing, 'tis delight And worth it self, now it appears unclouded.

_Sham._ My Lord-- He turns away from me: by this hand I am ill-us'd of all sides: 'tis a fault That fortune ever had t'abuse a goodness.

_Duke._ Methought you were saying somewhat.

_Sham._ Mark the Language, As coy as fate; I see 'twill ne'er be granted.

_Duke._ We little look'd in troth to see you here yet.

_Sham._ Not till the day after my brother's death, I think.

_Duke._ Sure some great business drew you.

_Sham._ No insooth, Sir, Only to come to see a brother dye, Sir, That I may learn to go too; and if he deceive me not, I think he will do well in't of a soldier, Manly, and honestly: and if he weep then, I shall not think the worse on's manhood for't, Because he's leaving of that part that has it.

_Duke._ Has slain a noble Gentleman, think on't, Sir.

_Sham._ I would I could not, Sir.

_Duke._ Our kinsman too.

_Sham._ All this is but worse, Sir.

_Duke._ When 'tis at worst, Yet seeing thee, he lives.

_Sham._ My Lord--

_Duke._ He lives, Believe it as thy bliss, he dies not for't: Will this make satisfaction for things past?

_Sham._ Oh my Lord--

_Duke._ Will it? speak.

_Sham._ With greater shame to my unworthiness.

_Duke._ Rise then, we're even: I never found it harder To keep just with a man: my great work's ended. I knew your brother's pardon was your suit, Sir. How ever your nice modesty held it back.

_Sham._ I take a joy now, to confess it, Sir.

_Enter 1 Gent._

_1 Gent._ My Lord--

_Duke._ Hear me first, Sir, what e'er your news be: Set free the Soldier instantly.

_1 Gent._ 'Tis done, my Lord.

_Duke._ How?

_1 Gent._ In effect: 'twas part of my news too, There's fair hope of your noble kinsman's life, Sir.

_Duke._ What sayst thou?

_1 Gent._ And the most admired change That living flesh e'r had; he's not the man my Lord; Death cannot be more free from passions, Sir, Than he is at this instant: he's so meek now, He makes those seem passionate, was never thought of: And for he fears his moods have oft disturb'd you, Sir, He's only hasty now for his forgiveness, And here behold him, Sir.

_Enter Passion, the_ Cupid, _and two Brothers_.

_Duke._ Let me give thanks first: our worthy Cosin--

_Pas._ Your unworthy trouble, Sir; For which, with all acknowledg'd reverence, I ask your pardon; and for injury More known and wilful, I have chose a wife, Without your counsel, or consent, my Lord.

_Duke._ A wife? where is she, Sir?

_Pas._ This noble Gentlewoman.

_Duke._ How?

_Pas._ Whose honor my forgetful times much wrong'd.

_Duke._ He's madder than he was.

_1 Gent._ I would ha' sworn for him.

_Duke._ The _Cupid_, Cosin?

_Pas._ Yes, this worthy Lady, Sir.

_Duke._ Still worse and worse.

_1 Bro._ Our Sister under pardon, my Lord.

_Duke._ What?

_2 Bro._ Which shape Love taught her to assume.

_Duke._ Is't truth then?

_1 Gent._ It appears plainly now, below the waste, my Lord.

_Duke. Shamont_, didst ever read of a She-_Cupid_?

_Sham._ Never in fiction yet: but it might hold, Sir; For desire is of both Genders.

_Enter the Dukes Sister._

_Duke._ Make that good here: [_He joyns_ Shamont's _hand_ I take thee at thy word, Sir. [_and his Sisters_.

_Sham._ Oh my Lord, Love would appear too bold, and rude from me, Honour and admiration are her rights, Her goodness is my Saint, my Lord.

_Duke._ I see, Y'are both too modest to bestow your selves: I'll save that virtue still, 'tis but my pains: come, It shall be so.

_Sham._ This gift does but set forth my poverty.

_La._ Sir, that which you complain of, is my riches.

_Enter_ Shamont's _brother the Soldier_.

_Duke._ Soldier, now every noise sounds peace, th'art welcome.

_Sol._ Sir, my repentance sues for your blest favour, Which once obtain'd, no injury shall lose it; I'll suffer mightier wrongs.

_Duke._ Rise, lov'd and pardon'd: For where Hope fail'd, nay Art it self resign'd, Thou'st wrought that cure, which skill could never find; Nor did there cease, but to our peace extend; Never could wrongs boast of a nobler end. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

_Our Poet bid us say for his own part,_ _He cannot lay too much forth of his Art:_ _But fears our over-acting passions may,_ _As not adorn, deface his labour'd Play,_ _Yet still he's resolute, for what is writ_ _Of Nicer valour, and assumes the wit:_ _But for the Love-Scænes which he ever meant_, Cupid _in's Peticoat should represent,_ _He'll stand no shock of censure; the Play's good,_ _He says he knows it, (if well understood.)_ _But we (blind god) beg, if thou art Divine,_ _Thou'lt shoot thy Arrows round, this Play was thine._

Mr. _Francis Beaumonts_ Letter to _Ben. Johnson_, written before he and Mr. _Fletcher_ came to _London_, with two of the precedent Comedies then not finish'd, which deferr'd their merry meetings at the _Mermaid_.

_The Sun which doth the greatest comfort bring_ _To absent friends, because the self-same thing_ _They know they see however absent, is,_ _Here our best Hay-make[r] forgive me this,_ _It is our Countreys stile. In this warm shine,_ _I l[y]e and dream of your full Mermaid Wine._ _Oh we have water mixt with Claret Lees,_ _Drink apt to bring in dryer Heresies_ _Than Beer, good only for the Sonnets strain,_ _With fustian Metaphors to stuff the brain,_ _So mixt, that given to the thirstiest one,_ _'Twill not prove Alms, unless he have the stone:_ _I think with one draught mans invention fades,_ _Two Cups had quite spoil'd_ Homers Illiads; _'Tis Liquor that will find out_ Sutcliff's _wit,_ _Lye where he will, and make him write worse yet;_ _Fil'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms;_ _Did_ Rob[ert] Wisdom _write his Singing Psalms;_ _And so must I do this, and yet I think_ _It is a potion sent us down to drink,_ _By special Providence keeps us from fights,_ _Makes us not laugh, when we make legs to knights._ _'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our States,_ _A Medicine to obey our Magistrates_: _For we do live more free than you, no hate,_ _No envy at one anothers_ [happy] _State_ _Moves us, we are all equal every whit:_ _Of Land that God gives men here is their wit:_ _If we consider fully, for our best,_ _And gravest men will with his main house jest,_ _Scarce please you; we want subtilty to do_ _The City tricks, lye, hate, and flatter too:_ _Here are none that can bear a painted show,_ _Strike when you winch, and then lament the blow:_ _Who like Mills set the right way for to grind,_ _Can make their gains alike with every wind:_ _Only some fellows with the subtil'st pate_ _Amongst us, may perchance equivocate_ _At selling of a Horse, and that's the most._ _Methinks the little wit I had is lost_ _Since I saw you, for Wit is like a Rest_ _Held up at Tennis, which men do the best,_ _With the best gamesters: what things have we seen,_ _Done at the_ Mermaid! _heard words that have been_ _So nimble, and so full of subtil flame,_ _As if that every one from whence they came,_ _Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,_ _And had resolv'd to live a fool, the rest_ _Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown_ _Wit able enough to justifie the Town_ _For three days past, wit that might warrant be_ _For the whole City to talk foolishly_ _Till that were cancell'd, and when that was gone,_ _We left an Air behind us, which alone,_ _Was able to make the two next Companies_ _Right witty; though but downright fools, more wise._ _When I remember this, and see that now_ _The Countrey Gentlemen begin to allow_ _My wit for dry bobs, then I needs must cry,_ _I see my days of Ballating grow nigh;_ _I can already Riddle, and can Sing_ _[Ca]tches, sell bargains, and I fear shall bring_ _My self to speak the hardest words I find,_ _Over, as oft as any, with one wind,_ _That takes no medicines: But one thought of thee_ _Makes me remember all these things to be_ _The wit of our young men, fellows that show_ _No part of good, yet utter all they know:_ _Who like trees of the Guard, have growing souls._ _Only strong destiny, which all controuls,_ _I hope hath left a better fate in store,_ _For me thy friend, than to live ever poor,_ _Banisht unto this home; fate once again_ _Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain_ _The way of Knowledge for me, and then I,_ _Who have no good but in thy company,_ _Protest it will my greatest comfort be_ _To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee_.

Ben. _when these_ Scænes _are perfect, we'll taste wine;_ _I'll drink thy Muses health, thou shalt quaff mine_.

The Honest Man's Fortune.

A TRAGI-COMEDY.

The Persons represented in the Play.

Duke of _Orleans, a spleenful detracting Lord_. { _Brother-in-law to_ Orleans, Earl of { _a noble accomplish'd_ _Amiens_, { _Gentleman, servant to_ { Lamira. Mountague, _an honest Lord_. Du-boys, } _Two faithful followers_ Longueville, } _of_ Mountague. Voramer, _the loving and loyal Page of_ Mountague. La Verdine, _a knavish Courtier_. La Poop, _a foisting Captain_. Mallicorn, _a sharking Citizen_. Two Lawyers. Two Creditors. Officers. Servants.

WOMEN.

Duchess of { _a virtuous Lady, and_ _Orleans_, { _chaste, (but suspected)_ { _wife to the Duke_. Lamira, _a modest Virgin, and a Lady, rich and noble_. Charlotte, Lamira's _Woman_.

The Scene France.

The Principal Actors were

_Nathan Field_, _Rob. Benfield_, _Emanuel Read_, _Joseph Taylor_, _Will. Eglestone_, _Thomas Basse_.

_Actus Primus. Scæna Prima._

_Enter the Duke of_ Orleance, _and the Earl of_ Amiens, _at several doors_.

_Amiens._ Morrow, my Lord of _Orleans_.

_Orl._ You salute me like a stranger; brother _Orleance_ were to me a Title more belonging, whom you call the Husband of your Sister.

_Ami._ Would the circumstances of your brotherhood had never offer'd cause to make our conversation less familiar: I meet you like a hindrance in your way: your great Lawsuit is now upon the tongue, and ready for a judgement.

_Orl._ Came you from the Hall now?

_Ami._ Without stay; the Court is full, and such a press of people does attend the issue, as if some great man were brought to his arraignment.

_Orl._ Every mothers son of all that multitude of hearers, went to be a witness of the misery your Sisters fortunes must have come to, if my adversary who did love her first, had been her Husband.

_Ami._ The success may draw a testimony from them, to confirm the same opinion, but they went prepar'd with no such hope or purpose.

_Orl._ And did you intreat the number of them, that are come with no such hope or purpose.