SCENE I.--_The Court at Babylon._[365

[365] In the original story Fortunatus goes to Cairo, and Dekker is evidently here confusing Egypt with Assyria. Hence the Soldan’s court at Babylon.

_Enter the_ SOLDAN, _~Noblemen~, and_ FORTUNATUS.

Sold. Art thou that Fortunatus, whose great name, Being carried in the chariot of the winds, Hast filled the courts of all our Asian kings With love and envy, whose dear presence ties The eyes of admiration to thine eyes? Art thou that Jove that in a shower of gold Appeared’st before the Turkish Emperor?

_Fort._ I am that Fortunatus, mighty Soldan.

_Sold._ Where is that purse which threw abroad such treasure?

_Fort._ I gave it to the Turkish Soliman, A second I bestowed on Prester John, A third the great Tartarian Cham received: For with these monarchs have I banqueted, And rid with them in triumph through their courts, In crystal chariots drawn by unicorns. England, France, Spain, and wealthy Belgia, And all the rest of Europe’s blessed daughters, Have made my covetous eye rich in th’ embrace Of their celestial beauties; now I come To see the glory of fair Babylon. Is Fortunatus welcome to the Soldan? For I am like the sun, if Jove once chide, My gilded brows from amorous Heaven I hide.

_Sold._ Most welcome, and most happy are mine arms In circling such an earthly deity; But will not Fortunatus make me blessed By sight of such a purse?

_Fort._ Ere I depart, The Soldan shall receive one at my hands: For I must spend some time in framing it, And then some time to breathe that virtuous spirit Into the heart thereof, all which is done By a most sacred inspiration.

_Sold._ Welcome, most welcome to the Soldan’s court; Stay here and be the King of Babylon: Stay here, I will more amaze thine eyes With wondrous sights, than can all Asia. Behold yon town, there stands mine armoury, In which are corselets forged of beaten gold, To arm ten hundred thousand fighting men, Whose glittering squadrons when the sun beholds, They seem like to ten hundred thousand Joves, When Jove on the proud back of thunder rides, Trapped all in lightning flames: there can I show thee The ball of gold that set all Troy on fire;[366] There shalt thou see the scarf of Cupid’s mother, Snatched from the soft moist ivory of her arm, To wrap about Adonis’ wounded thigh; There shalt thou see a wheel of Titan’s care, Which dropped from Heaven when Phaeton fired the world:[367] I’ll give thee, if thou wilt, two silver doves Composed by magic to divide the air, Who, as they fly, shall clap their silver wings, And give strange music to the elements; I’ll give thee else the fan of Proserpine, Which in reward for a sweet Thracian song, The black-browed Empress threw to Orpheus, Being come to fetch Eurydice from hell.

[366] The golden apple which Paris adjudged to Venus.

[367] Alluding to Phaeton’s flight, and the fiery disruption of his chariot.

_Fort._ Hath ever mortal eye beheld these wonders?

_Sold._ Thine shall behold them, and make choice of any, So thou wilt give the Soldan such a purse.

_Fort._ By Fortune’s blessèd hand, who christened me, The mighty Soldan shall have such a purse, Provided I may see these priceless wonders.

_Sold._ Leave us alone: [_Exeunt ~Nobles~._] never was mortal ear Acquainted with the virtue of a jewel, Which now I’ll show, out-valuing all the rest.

_Fort._ It is impossible.

_Sold._ Behold this casket, [_Draws a curtain._ Fettered in golden chains, the lock pure gold, The key of solid gold, which myself keep, And here’s the treasure that’s contained in it. [_Takes out the hat._

_Fort._ A coarse felt hat? is this the precious jewel?

_Sold._ I’ll not exchange this for ten diadems. On pain of death, none listen to our talk.

_Fort._ What needs this solemn conjuration!

_Sold._ O, yes, for none shall understand the worth Of this inestimable ornament, But you: and yet not you, but that you swear By her white hand, that lent you such a name, To leave a wondrous purse in Babylon.

_Fort._ What I have sworn, I will not violate, But now uncover the virtues of this hat.

_Sold._ I think none listen; if they do, they die.

_Fort._ None listen: tell, what needs this jealousy?

_Sold._ You see ’tis poor in show; did I want jewels, Gold could beget them, but the wide world’s wealth Buys not this hat: this clapped upon my head, I, only with a wish, am through the air Transported in a moment over seas And over lands to any secret place; By this I steal to every prince’s court, And hear their private counsels and prevent All dangers which to Babylon are meant; By help of this I oft see armies join, Though when the dreadful Alvarado[368] sounds, I am distant from the place a thousand leagues. Oh, had I such a purse and such a hat, The Soldan were, of all, most fortunate.

[368] A martial term, probably of Spanish derivation, for the summons to battle.

_Fort._ Oh, had I such a hat, then were I brave. Where’s he that made it?

_Sold._ Dead, and the whole world Yields not a workman that can frame the like.

_Fort._ No, does’t?[369] By what trick shall I make this mine? [_Aside._ Methinks, methinks, when you are borne o’er seas, And over lands, the heaviness thereof Should weigh you down, drown you, or break your neck.

[369] “No does?” simply in the original, which is not intelligible. In full it would seem to imply “No, does it not?”

_Sold._ No, ’tis more light than any hat beside: Your hand shall peise[370] it.

[370] Poise, weigh. “Peise” is still in use in some parts of the north of England.

_Fort._ Oh, ’tis wondrous heavy.

_Sold._ Fie, y’are deceived: try it upon your head.

_Fort._ Would I were now in Cyprus with my sons. [_Exit._

_Sold._ Stay! Fortunatus, stay! I am undone. Treason, lords, treason, get me wings, I’ll fly After this damnèd traitor through the air.

_Re-enter ~Nobles~._

_Nobles._ Who wrongs the mighty King of Babylon?

_Sold._ This Fortunatus, this fiend, wrongs your king.

_Nobles._ Lock the court gates, where is the devil hid?

_Sold._ No gates, no grates of iron imprison him, Like a magician breaks he through the clouds, Bearing my soul with him, for that jewel gone, I am dead, and all is dross in Babylon. Fly after him!--’tis vain: on the wind’s wings, He’ll ride through all the courts of earthly kings.

_Nobles._ What is the jewel that your grace hath lost?

_Sold._ He dies that troubles me: call me not king; For I’ll consume my life in sorrowing. [_Exeunt._