SCENE I.--_A Wood in Cyprus.

_Enter_ FORTUNATUS _meanly attired; he walks about cracking nuts ere he speaks_.

FORT. So, ho, ho, ho, ho.

_Echo_ [_Within._]. Ho, ho, ho, ho.

_Fort._ There, boy.

_Echo._ There, boy.

_Fort._ An thou bee’st a good fellow, tell me how call’st this wood.

_Echo._ This wood.

_Fort._ Ay, this wood, and which is my best way out.

_Echo._ Best way out.

_Fort._ Ha, ha, ha, that’s true, my best way out is my best way out, but how that out will come in, by this maggot I know not. I see by this we are all worms’ meat. Well, I am very poor and very patient; Patience is a virtue: would I were not virtuous, that’s to say, not poor, but full of vice, that’s to say, full of chinks. Ha, ha, so I am, for I am so full of chinks, that a horse with one eye may look through and through me. I have sighed long, and that makes me windy; I have fasted long, and that makes me chaste; marry, I have prayed little, and that makes me I still dance in this conjuring circle; I have wandered long, and that makes me weary. But for my weariness, anon I’ll lie down, instead of fasting I’ll feed upon nuts, and instead of sighing will laugh and be lean, Sirrah Echo.

_Echo._ Sirrah Echo.

_Fort._ Here’s a nut.

_Echo._ Here’s a nut.

_Fort._ Crack it.

_Echo._ Crack it.

_Fort._ Hang thyself.

_Echo._ Hang thyself.

_Fort._ Th’art a knave, a knave.

_Echo._ A knave, a knave.

_Fort._ Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Echo._ Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Fort._ Why so, two fools laugh at one another, I at my tittle tattle gammer Echo, and she at me. Shortly there will creep out in print some filthy book of the old hoary wandering knight, meaning me: would I were that book, for then I should be sure to creep out from hence. I should be a good soldier, for I traverse my ground rarely; marry I see neither enemy nor friends, but popinjays, and squirrels, and apes, and owls, and daws, and wagtails, and the spite is that none of these grass-eaters can speak my language, but this fool that mocks me, and swears to have the last word, in spite of my teeth, ay, and she shall have it because she is a woman, which kind of cattle are indeed all echo, nothing but tongue, and are like the great bell of St. Michael’s[331] in Cyprus, that keeps most rumbling when men would most sleep. Echo, a pox on thee for mocking me.

[331] Probably a church in Famagosta, which tradition makes Fortunatus’s native place, and which was at one time the chief port and fortress in Cyprus.

_Echo._ A pox on thee for mocking me.

_Fort._ Why so, Snip snap, this war is at an end, but this wilderness is world without end. To see how travel can transform: my teeth are turned into nutcrackers, a thousand to one I break out shortly, for I am full of nothing but waxen kernels, my tongue speaks no language but an almond for a parrot, and crack me this nut. If I hop three days more up and down this cage of cuckoos’ nests, I shall turn wild man sure, and be hired to throw squibs among the commonalty upon some terrible day. In the meantime, to tell truth, here will I lie. Farewell, fool!

_Echo._ Farewell, fool.

_Fort._ Are not these comfortable words to a wise man? All hail, signor tree, by your leave I’ll sleep under your leaves. I pray bow to me, and I’ll bend to you, for your back and my brows must, I doubt, have a game or two at noddy ere I wake again: down, great heart, down. Hey, ho, well, well. [_He lies down and sleeps._

_Enter a ~Shepherd~, a ~Carter~,[332] a ~Tailor~,[333] and a ~Monk~, all crowned; a ~Nymph~ with a globe, another with_ FORTUNE’S _wheel; then_ FORTUNE. _After her, four ~Kings~ with broken crowns and sceptres, chained in silver gyves and led by her. The foremost enter singing._ FORTUNE _takes her chair, the ~Kings~ lying at her feet so that she treads on them as she ascends to her seat._

[332] “A gardener” in the original, which does not tally with the description given by Fortune on p. 300. _q.v._

[333] “A smith” in the original, which is again a confusion with the description in the text.

SONG.

Fortune smiles, cry holiday, Dimples on her cheeks do dwell, Fortune frowns, cry welladay, Her love is Heaven, her hate is Hell: Since Heaven and Hell obey her power. Tremble when her eyes do lower, Since Heaven and Hell her power obey, When she smiles, cry holiday. Holiday with joy we cry And bend, and bend, and merrily Sing hymns to Fortune’s deity, Sing hymns to Fortune’s deity.

_Chorus._ Let us sing, merrily, merrily, merrily, With our song let Heaven resound, Fortune’s hands our heads have crowned; Let us sing merrily, merrily, merrily.

_1st King._ Accursed Queen of chance, what had we done, Who having sometimes like young Phaeton, Rid in the burnished chariot of the sun, And sometimes been thy minions, when thy fingers Weaved wanton love-nets in our curlèd hair, And with sweet juggling kisses warmed our cheeks: Oh how have we offended thy proud eyes, That thus we should be spurned and trod upon, Whilst those infected limbs of the sick world, Are fixed by thee for stars in that bright sphere, Wherein our sun-like radiance did appear.

_The Kings._ Accursèd Queen of chance, damned sorceress.

_The Others._ Most powerful Queen of chance, dread sovereigness.

_Fortune._ No more: curse on! your cries to me are music, And fill the sacred rondure of mine ears With tunes more sweet than moving of the spheres: Curse on: on our celestial brows do sit Unnumbered smiles, which then leap from their throne, When they see peasants dance and monarchs groan. Behold you not this globe, this golden bowl, This toy called world, at our imperial feet? This world is Fortune’s ball, wherewith she sports. Sometimes I strike it up into the air, And then create I emperors and kings: Sometimes I spurn it, at which spurn crawls out That wild beast Multitude. Curse on, you fools,-- ’Tis I that tumble princes from their thrones, And gild false brows with glittering diadems. ’Tis I that tread on necks of conquerors, And when, like demi-gods, they have been drawn In ivory chariots to the capitol, Circled about with wonder of all eyes, The shouts of every tongue, love of all hearts, Being swoll’n with their own greatness, I have pricked The bladder of their pride, and made them die, As water-bubbles, without memory. I thrust base cowards into Honour’s chair, Whilst the true-spirited soldier stands by Bare-headed, and all bare, whilst at his scars They scoff, that ne’er durst view the face of wars. I set an idiot’s cap on Virtue’s head,[334] Turn Learning out of doors, clothe Wit in rags, And paint ten thousand images of loam In gaudy silken colours. On the backs Of mules and asses I make asses ride, Only for sport, to see the apish world Worship such beasts with sound idolatry. This Fortune does, and when this is done, She sits and smiles to hear some curse her name, And some with adoration crown her fame.

[334] An allusion to the coxcomb, the invariable ornament to the fool’s cap, which Virtue wears on her head. See description,