SCENE II.--_The same.

_Music sounding still; a curtain being drawn_, ANDELOCIA _is discovered sleeping in_ AGRIPYNE’S _lap; she has his purse, and she and another lady tie another like it in its place, and then rise from him. Enter_ ATHELSTANE.

_Agrip._ I have found the sacred spring that never ebbs. Leave us: [_Exit ~Lady~._] But I’ll not show’t your majesty Till you have sworn by England’s royal crown, To let me keep it.

_Athelst._ By my crown I swear, None but fair Agripyne the gem shall wear.

_Agrip._ Then is this mine: see, father, here’s the fire Whose gilded beams still burn, this is the sun That ever shines, the tree that never dies, Here grows the Garden of Hesperides; The outside mocks you, makes you think ’tis poor, But entering it, you find eternal store.

_Athelst._ Art sure of this? How didst thou drive it out?

_Agrip._ Fear not his waking yet, I made him drink That soporiferous juice which was composed To make the queen,[393] my mother, relish sleep, When her last sickness summoned her to Heaven. He sleeps profoundly: when his amorous eyes Had singed their wings in Cupid’s wanton flames, I set him all on fire, and promised love, In pride whereof, he drew me forth this purse, And swore, by this he multiplied his gold. I tried and found it true: and secretly Commanded music with her silver tongue, To chime soft lullabies into his soul, And whilst my fingers wantoned with his hair, T’entice the sleepy juice to charm his eyes, In all points was there made a purse, like his, Which counterfeit is hung in place of this.

[393] History does not record that Athelstane had either wife or daughter.

_Athelst._ More than a second kingdom hast thou won. Leave him, that when he wakes he may suspect, Some else has robbed him; come, dear Agripyne, If this strange purse his sacred virtues hold, We’ll circle England with a wall of gold. [_Exeunt._

_Music still: Enter_ SHADOW _very gallant, reading a bill, with empty bags in his hand, singing._

_Shad._ These English occupiers are mad Trojans: let a man pay them never so much, they’ll give him nothing but the bag. Since my master created me steward over his fifty men, and his one-and-fifty horse, I have rid over much business, yet never was galled, I thank the destinies. Music? O delicate warble: O these courtiers are most sweet triumphant creatures! Seignior, sir, monsieur, sweet seignior: this is the language of the accomplishment. O delicious strings; these heavenly wire-drawers have stretched my master even out at length: yet at length he must wake. Master?

_Andel._ Wake me not yet, my gentle Agripyne.

_Shad._ One word, sir, for the billets, and I vanish.

_Andel._ There’s Heaven in these times: throw the musicians A bounteous largesse of three hundred angels. [ANDELOCIA _starts up_.

_Shad._ Why, sir, I have but ten pounds left.

_Andel._ Ha, Shadow? where’s the Princess Agripyne?

_Shad._ I am not Apollo, I cannot reveal.

_Andel._ Was not the princess here, when thou cam’st in?

_Shad._ Here was no princess but my princely self.

_Andel._ In faith?

_Shad._ No, in faith, sir.

_Andel._ Where are you hid? where stand you wantoning? Not here? gone, i’faith? have you given me the slip? Well, ’tis but an amorous trick, and so I embrace it: my horse, Shadow, how fares my horse?

_Shad._ Upon the best oats my under-steward can buy.

_Andel._ I mean, are they lusty, sprightly, gallant, wanton, fiery?

_Shad._ They are as all horses are, caterpillars to the commonwealth, they are ever munching: but, sir, for these billets, and these fagots and bavins?

_Andel._ ’Sheart, what billets, what fagots? dost make me a woodmonger?

_Shad._ No, sweet seignior, but you have bid the king and his peers to dinner, and he has commanded that no woodmonger sell you a stick of wood, and that no collier shall cozn you of your measure, but must tie up the mouth of their sacks, lest their coals kindle your choler.

_Andel._ Is’t possible? is’t true, or hast thou learnt of the English gallants to gull?

_Shad._ He’s a gull that would be taught by such gulls.

_Andel._ Not a stick of wood? Some child of envy has buzzed this stratagem into the king’s ear, of purpose to disgrace me. I have invited his majesty, and though it cost me a million, I’ll feast him. Shadow, thou shalt hire a hundred or two of carts, with them post to all the grocers in London, buy up all the cinnamon, cloves, nutmegs, liquorice and all other spices, that have any strong heart, and with them make fires to prepare our cookery. Ere Fortunatus’ son look red with shame, He’ll dress a king’s feast in a spicèd flame.

_Shad._ This device, sir, will be somewhat akin to Lady Pride, ’twill ask cost.

_Andel._ Fetch twenty porters, I’ll lade all with gold.

_Shad._ First, master, fill these bags.

_Andel._ Come then, hold up. How now? tricks, new crotchets, Madame Fortune? Dry as an eel-skin? Shadow, take thou my gold out.

_Shad._ Why, sir, here’s none in.

_Andel._ Ha, let me see: O here’s a bastard cheek, I see now ’tis not mine; ’tis counterfeit, ’Tis so! Slave, thou hast robbed thy master.

_Shad._ Not of a penny, I have been as true a steward--

_Andel._ Vengeance on thee and on thy stewardship! Yet wherefore curse I thee? thy leaden soul Had never power to mount up to the knowledge Of the rich mystery closed in my purse. Oh no, I’ll curse myself, mine eyes I’ll curse, They have betrayed me; I will curse my tongue, That hath betrayed me; I’ll curse Agripyne, She hath betrayed me. Sirens, cease to sing, Your charms have ta’en effect, for now I see, All your enchantments were, to cozen me. [_Music ceases._

_Shad._ What shall I do with this ten pound, sir?

_Andel._ Go buy with it a chain and hang thyself. Now think I on my father’s prophecy. Tell none, quoth he, the virtue, if you do, Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you. With tears I credit his divinity. O fingers, were you upright justices, You would tear out mine eyes! had not they gazed On the frail colour of a painted cheek, None had betrayed me: henceforth I’ll defy All beauty, and will call a lovely eye, A sun whose scorching beams burn up our joys, Or turn them black like Ethiopians. O women, wherefore are you born men’s woe, Why are your faces framed angelical? Your hearts of sponges, soft and smooth in show, But touched, with poison they do overflow. Had sacred wisdom been my father’s fate, He had died happy, I lived fortunate. Shadow, bear this to beauteous Agripyne, With it this message, tell her, I’ll reprove Her covetous sin the less, because for gold, I see that most men’s souls too cheap are sold.

_Shad._ Shall I buy these spices to-day or to-morrow?

_Andel._ To-morrow? ay, to-morrow thou shalt buy them. To-morrow tell the princess I will love her, To-morrow tell the king I’ll banquet him, To-morrow, Shadow, will I give thee gold; To-morrow pride goes bare and lust acold. To-morrow will the rich man feed the poor, And vice to-morrow virtue will adore. To-morrow beggars shall be crownèd kings, This no-time, morrow’s-time, no sweetness sings: I pray thee hence; bear that to Agripyne.

_Shad._ I’ll go hence, because you send me; but I’ll go weeping hence, for grief that I must turn villain as many do, and leave you when you are up to the ears in adversity. [_Exit._

_Andel._ She hath robbed me, and now I’ll play the thief, Ay, steal from hence to Cyprus, for black shame Here, through my riots, brands my lofty name. I’ll sell this pride for help to bear me thither, So pride and beggary shall walk together. This world is but a school of villany, Therefore I’ll rob my brother, not of gold, Nor of his virtues, virtue none will steal-- But, if I can, I’ll steal his wishing hat, And with that, wandering round about the world, I’ll search all corners to find Misery, And where she dwells, I’ll dwell, languish and die. [_Exit._

ACT THE FOURTH.

Chorus. Gentles, if e’er you have beheld the passions, The combats of his soul, who being a king, By some usurping hand hath been deposed From all his royalties: even such a soul, Such eyes, such heart swol’n big with sighs and tears, The star-crossed son of Fortunatus wears. His thoughts crowned him a monarch in the morn, Yet now he’s bandied by the seas in scorn From wave to wave: his golden treasure’s spoil Makes him in desperate language to entreat The winds to spend their fury on his life: But they, being mild in tyranny, or scorning To triumph in a wretch’s funeral, Toss him to Cyprus. Oh, what treachery Cannot this serpent gold entice us to? He robs his brother of the Soldan’s prize, And having got his wish, the wishing hat, He does not, as he vowed, seek misery, But hopes by that to win his purse again, And in that hope from Cyprus is he fled. If your swift thoughts clap on their wonted wings, In Genoa may you take this fugitive, Where having cozened many jewellers, To England back he comes; step but to court, And there disguised you find him bargaining For jewels with the beauteous Agripyne, Who wearing at her side the virtuous purse, He clasps her in his arms, and as a raven, Griping the tender-hearted nightingale, So flies he with her, wishing in the air To be transported to some wilderness: Imagine this the place; see, here they come! Since they themselves have tongues, mine shall be dumb. [_Exit._