This web edition published by eBooks@Adelaide.
Last updated Wednesday, December 17, 2014 at 14:16.
To the best of our knowledge, the text of this
work is in the “Public Domain” in Australia.
HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under copyright in the country from which you are accessing this website. It is your responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country before downloading this work.
The University of Adelaide Library
University of Adelaide
South Australia 5005
Lord Paulo Ferneze.
Jaques de Prie.
Christophero, the Steward.
Juniper, a Cobler..
Finio, a Page.
Rachel de Prie.
Sound, after a flourish: Juniper a cobler is discovered, sitting at work in his shop, and singing.
Juniper, Onion, Antony Balladino.
Junip. YOU woful wights, give ear a while,
And mark the tenor of my stile,
Enter Onion in haste.
Which shall such trembling hearts unfold,
As seldom hath to fore been told,
Such chances are, and doleful news, —
Oni. Fellow Juniper! peace a god's name.
Junip. As may attempt your wits to muse.
Oni. Godso, hear, man! a pox a god on you.
Junip. And cause such trickling tears to pass,
Except your hearts be flint or brass: —
Oni. Juniper! Juniper!
Junip. To hear the news which I shall tell,
That in Custella once befel.
'Sblood, where didst thou learn to corrupt a man in the midst of a verse, ha?
Oni. Godslid, man, service is ready to go up, man: you must slip on your coat, and come in; we lack waiters pitifully.
Junip. A pitiful hearing; for now must I of a merry cobler become mourning creature.
Oni. Well, you'll come.
Junip. Presto. Go to, a word to the wise, away, fly, vanish:
Lie there the weeds that I disdain to wear.
Ant. God save you, master Juniper.
Junip. What signior Antonio Balladino! welcome sweet Ingle.
Ant. And how do you, sir?
Junip. Faith you see, put to my shifts here, as poor retainers be oft-times. Sirrah, Antony, there's one of my fellows mightily enamoured of thee; and i' faith, you slave, now you're come, I'll bring you together: it's Peter Onion, the groom of the hall; do you know him?
Ant. No, not yet, I assure you.
Junip. O he is one as right of thy humour as may be, a plain simple rascal, a true dunce; marry he hath been a notable villain in his time: he is in love, sirrah, with a wench, and I have preferred thee to him; thou shalt make him some pretty paradox, or some allegory. How does my coat sit? well?
Ant. I, very well.
Oni. Nay, godso, fellow Juniper, come away.
Junip. Art thou there, mad slave? I come with a powder. Sirrah, fellow Onion, I must have you peruse this gentleman well, and do him good offices of respect and kindnesses, as instances shall be given.
Ant. Nay, good master Onion, what do you mean, I pray you, sir? you are too respective, in good faith.
Oni. I would not you should think so, sir; for though I have no learning, yet I honour a scholar in any ground of the earth, sir. Shall I request your name, sir?
Ant. My name is Antonio Balladino.
Oni. Balladino! you are not pageant poet to the city of Milan, sir, are you?
Ant. I supply the place, sir, when a worse cannot be had, sir.
Oni. I cry you mercy, sir; I love you the better for that, sir; by Jesu, you must pardon me, I knew you not; but I'll pray to be better acquainted with you, sir, I have seen of your works.
Ant. I am at your service, good master Onion; but concerning this maiden that you love, sir, what is she?
Oni. O did my fellow Juniper tell you? marry, sir, she is, as one may say, but a poor man's child indeed, and for mine own part, I am no gentleman born, I must confess; but my mind to me a kingdom is truly.
Ant. Truly a very good saying.
Oni. 'Tis somewhat stale; but that's no matter.
Ant. O 'tis the better; such things ever are like bread, which the staler it is, the more wholsome.
Oni. 'Tis but a hungry comparison, in my judgment.
Ant. Why I'll tell you, master Onion, I do use as much stale stuff, though I say it myself, as any man does in that kind, I am sure. Did you see the last pageant I set forth?
Oni. No faith, sir; but there goes a huge report on't.
Ant. Why you shall be one of my Mæcenasses; I'll give you one of the books; O you'll like it admirably.
Oni. Nay that's certain, I'll get my fellow Juniper to read it.
Ant. Read it, sir! I'll read it to you.
Oni. Tut, then I shall not chuse but like it.
Ant. Why look you, sir, I write so plain, and keep that old decorum, that you must of necessity like it: marry, you shall have some now (as for example, in plays) that will have every day new tricks, and write you nothing but humours; indeed this pleases the gentlemen, but the common sort they care not for't; they know not what to make on't; they look for good matter they, and are not edified with such toys.
Oni. You are in the right, I'll not give a halfpenny to see a thousand on 'em. I was at one the last term; but and ever I see a more roguish thing, I am a piece of cheese, and no Onion: nothing but kings and princes in it, the fool came not out a jot.
Ant. True, sir, they would have me make such plays; but as I tell 'em, and they'll give me twenty pounds a play, I'll not raise my vein.
Oni. No, it were a vain thing and you should, sir.
Ant. Tut, give me the penny, I care not for the gentlemen I; let me have a good ground, no matter for the pen, the plot shall carry it.
Oni. Indeed that's right, you are in print already for the best plotter.
Ant. I, I might as well have been put in for a dumb shew too.
Oni. I, marry, sir, I marle you were not.
Stand aside, sir, a while.
Enter an armed sewer, some half dozen in mourning coats following, and pass by with service. Enter Valentine.
Oni. How now, friend, what are you there? be uncovered. Would you speak with any man here?
Val. I, or else I must have returned you no answer.
Oni. Friend, you are somewhat too peremptory, let's crave your absence; nay, never scorn it, I am a little your better in this place.
Val. I do acknowledge it.
Oni. Do you acknowledge it? nay, then you shall go forth; I'll teach you how you shall acknowledge it another time; go, void, I must have the hall purged; no setting up of a rest here, pack, begone.
Val. I pray you, sir, is not your name Onion?
Oni. Your friend as you may use him, and master Onion; say on.
Val. Master Onion with a murrain; come, come, put off this lion's hide, your ears have discovered you. Why Peter! do not I know you, Peter?
Oni. Godso, Valentine?
Val. O can you take knowledge of me now, sir?
Oni. Good lord, sirrah, how thou art altered with thy travel!
Val. Nothing so much as thou art with thine office: but sirrah, Onion, is the count Ferneze at home?
Oni. I, bully, he is above, and the lord Paulo Ferneze his son, and madam Aurelia and madam Phœnixella his daughters; but O Valentine!
Val. How now, man! how dost thou?
Oni. Faith, sad, heavy, as a man of my coat ought to be.
Val. Why, man, thou wert merry enough even now.
Oni. True; but thou knowest
All creatures here sojourning upon this wretched earth,
Sometimes have a fit of mourning, as well as a fit of mirth.
O Valentine, mine old lady is dead, man.
Oni. I' faith.
Val. When died she?
Oni. Marry, to-morrow shall be three months; she was seen going to heaven, they say, about some five weeks agone: how now? trickling tears! ha!
Val. Faith thou hast made me weep with this news.
Oni. Why I have done but the part of an Onion: you must pardon me.
Enter the sewer, pass by with service again, the serving-men take knowledge of Valentine as they go. Juniper salutes him.
Junip. What, Valentine! fellow Onion, take my dish, I prithee. You rogue, sirrah, tell me how thou dost, sweet Ingle.
Val. Faith, Juniper, the better to see thee thus folick.
Junip. Nay, slid I am no changling, I am Juniper still. I keep the pristinate1; ha, you mad hieroglyphick, when shall we swagger?
Val. Hieroglyphick? what meanest thou by that?
Junip. Mean! Godso, is't not a good word, man? what, stand upon the meaning with your friends. Puh, abscond.
Val. Why but stay, stay; how long has this sprightly humour haunted thee?
Junip. Foh, humour, a foolish natural gift we have in the Æquinoxial.
Val. Natural, 'slid it may be supernatural all this.
Junip. Valentine, I prithee ruminate thyself welcome. What fortuna de la guerra.
Val. O how pitifully are these words forc'd,
As though they were pumpt out on's belly.
Junip. Sirrah, Ingle, I think thou hast seen all the strange countries in Christendom since thou went'st.
Val. I have seen some, Juniper.
Junip. You have seen Constantinople?
Val. I, that I have.
Junip. And Jerusalem, and the Indies, and Goodwin-sands, and the tower of Babylon, and Venice, and all?
Val. I, all: no, marle, and he have a nimble tongue, if he practise to vault thus from one side of the world to another.
Junip. O it's a most heavenly thing to travel, and see countries, especially at sea, and a man had a patent not to be sick.
Val. O sea-sick jest, and full of the scurvey.
1 I keep the PRISTINATE.]
Juniper was not designed to blunder in the expression; pristinate appears to be the true reading, and it means that he keeps his old humour and disposition, alluding to antiquum obtinet, in Terence.
Enter Juniper, Antonio, Sebastian, Martino, Vincentio, Balthasar and Christophero.
Seb. Valentine! welcome I faith; how dost, sirrah?
Mart. How do you, good Valentine?
Vinc. Troth, Valentine, I am glad to see you.
Balth. Welcome, sweet rogue.
Seb. Before god he never lookt better in his life.
Balth. And how is't, man? what alla coragio?
Val. Never better, gentlemen, I faith.
Junip. 'Swill, here comes the steward.
Chr. Why how now, fellows! all here, and nobody to wait above, now they are ready to rise? look up, one or two; signior Francisco Colonia's man, how does your good master?
[Exeunt Juniper, Martino, Vincentio.
Val. In health, sir; he will be here anon.
Chr. Is he come home then?
Val. I, sir, he is not past six miles hence; he sent me before to learn if count Ferneze were here, and return him word.
Chr. Yes, my lord is here, and you may tell your master, he shall come very happily to take his leave of lord Paulo Ferneze, who is now instantly to depart, with other noble gentlemen, upon special service.
Val. I will tell him, sir.
Chr. I pray you do; fellows, make him drink.
Val. Sirs, what service is't they are employed in?
Seb. Why, against the French; they mean to have a fling at Milain again, they say.
Val. Who leads our forces, can you tell?
Seb. Marry, that does signior Maximilian, he is above now.
Val. Who! Maximilian of Vicenza?
Balt. I, he; do you know him?
Val. Know him! O yes, he's an excellent brave soldier.
Balt. I, so they say; but one of the most vain-glorious men in Europe.
Val. He is indeed marry exceeding valiant.
Seb. And that is rare.
Seb. Why, to see a vain-glorious man valiant.
Val. Well, he is so, I assure you.
Junip. What no farther yet! come on, you precious rascal, Sir Valentine, I'll give you a health i' faith; for the heavens, you mad Capricio, hold hook and line.
Enter lord Paulo Ferneze, his boy following him.
Boy. My lord.
Pau. Sirrah, go up to signior Angelo,
And pray him, if he can, devise some means
To leave my father, and come speak with me.
Boy. I will, my lord.
Pau. Well, heaven be auspicious in the event,
For I do this against my genius,
And yet my thoughts cannot propose a reason,
Why I should fear or faint thus in my hopes,
Of one so much endeared to my love.
Some spark it is, kindled within the soul,
Whose light yet breaks not to the outer sense,
That propagates this timorous suspect;
His actions never carried any face
Of change, or weakness; then I injure him
In being thus cold conceited of his faith.
O, here he comes.
Ang. How now, sweet lord, what's the matter?
Pau. Good faith his presence makes me half asham'd
Of my stray'd thoughts. Boy, bestow yourself.
Where is my father, signior Angelo?
Ang. Marry in the gallery, where your lordship left him.
Pau. That's well. Then, Angelo, I will be brief,
Since time forbids the use of circumstance.
How well you are receiv'd in my affection,
Let it appear by this one instance only,
That now I will deliver to your trust
The dearest secrets, treasur'd in my bosom.
Dear Angelo, you are not every man,
But one, whom my election hath design'd,
As the true proper object of my soul.
I urge not this t' insinuate my desert,
Or supple your try'd temper with soft phrases;
True friendship lothes such oily compliment;
But from the abundance of that love that flows
Through all my spirits, is my speech enforc'd.
Ang. Before your lordship do proceed too far,
Let me be bold to intimate thus much,
That whatsoe'er your wisdom hath t' expose,
Be it the weightiest and most rich affair
That ever was included in your breast,
My faith shall poise it, if not ——
Pau. O no more.
Those words have wrapt me with their sweet effects,
So freely breath'd, and so responsible
To that which I endeavour'd to extract,
Arguing a happy mixture of our souls.
Ang. Why, were there no such sympathy, sweet lord,
Yet the impressure of those amble favours
I have deriv'd from your unmatched spirit,
Would bind my faith to all observances.
Pau. How! favours, Angelo! O speak not of them,
They are mere paintings, and import no merit.
Looks my love well? thereon my hopes are plac'd;
Faith, that is bought with favours, cannot last.
Boy. My lord.
Pau. How now?
Boy. You are sought for all about the house within;
The count your father calls for you.
What cross events do meet my purposes?
Now will he violently fret and grieve
That I am absent. Boy, say I come presently.
Sweet Angelo, I cannot now insist
Upon particulars, I must serve the time,
The main of all this is, I am in love.
Ang. Why starts your lordship?
Pau. I thought I heard my father coming hitherward, list, ha?
Ang. I hear not any thing, it was but your imagination sure.
Ang. No, I assure your lordship.
Pau. I would work safely.
Ang. Why has he no knowledge of it then?
Pau. O no;
No creature yet partakes it but yourself
In a third person, and believe me, friend,
The world contains not now another spirit,
To whom I would reveal it. Hark! hark!
(Servants within.) Signior Paulo! lord Ferneze!
Ang. A pox upon those brazen-throated slaves,
What are they mad, trow?
Pau. Alas, blame not them,
Their services are (clock-like) to be set
Backward and forward, at their lord's command.
You know my father's wayward, and his humour
Must not receive a check; for then all objects
Feed both his grief and his impatience.
And those affections in him are like powder,
Apt to enflame with every little spark,
And blow up reason; therefore, Angelo, peace.
Count. Why this is rare, is he not in the garden?
Chr. I know not, my lord.
Count. See, call him.
Pau. He is coming this way, let's withdraw a little.
Servants within. Signior Paulo! lord Ferneze! lord Paulo!
Enter count Ferneze, Maximilian, Aurelia, Phœnixella, Sebastian, Balthasar.
Count. Where should he be, trow? did you look in the armory?
Seb. No, my lord.
Count. No, why there; O who would keep such drones?
[Exeunt Sebastian and Balthasar. Enter Martino.
How now, have you found him?
Mart. No, my lord.
Count. No, my lord! I shall have shortly all my family
Speak nought but, No, my lord. Where is Christophero?
Enter Christophero. Look how he stands! you sleepy knave,
What is he not in the garden?
Chr. No, my good lord.
Count. Your good lord? O how this smells of fennel;
You have been in the garden it appears: well, well.
Enter Sebastian, Balthasar.
Balth. We cannot find him, my lord.
Seb. He is not in the armory.
Count. He is not, he is no where, is he?
Max. Count Ferneze.
Max. Preserve your patience, honourable count.
A saint would lose his patience, to be crost
As I am, with a sort of motly brains,
See, see, how like a nest of rooks they stand
Gaping at one another!
Now, Diligence, what news bring you?
Oni. An't please your honour.
Count. Tut, tut, leave pleasing of my honour, Diligence, you double with me, come.
Oni. How! does he find fault with please his honour? 'Swounds it has begun a serving-man's speech ever since I belonged to the blue order1: I know not how it may shew now I am in black; but —
Count. What's that you mutter, sir? will you proceed?
Oni. An't like your good lordship.
Count. Yet more; god's precious!
Oni. What, does not this like him neither?
Count. What say you, sir knave?
Oni. Marry I say your lordship were best to set me to school again, to learn how to deliver a message.
Count. What do you take exceptions at me then?
Oni. Exception! I take no exceptions; but by god's so your humours ——
Count. Go to, you are a rascal, hold your tongue.
Oni. Your lordship's poor servant, I.
Count. Tempt not my patience.
Oni. Why I hope I am no spirit, am I?
Max. My lord, command your steward to correct the slave.
Oni. Correct him! 'sblood come you and correct him, and you have a mind to it. Correct him! that's a good jest, i' faith: the steward and you both come and correct him.
Count. Nay, see, away with him; pull his cloth over his ears.
Oni. Cloth! tell me of your cloth, here's your cloth; nay, and I mourn a minute longer, I am the rottenest Onion that ever spake with a tongue.
[They thrust him out.
Max. What call you your hind, count Ferneze?
Count. His name is Onion, signior.
Max. I thought him some such saucy companion.
Count. Signior Maximilian.
Max. Sweet lord.
Count. Let me intreat you, you would not regard
Any contempt flowing from such a spirit,
So rude, so barbarous.
Max. Most noble count, under your favour —
Count. Why I'll tell you, signior,
He'll bandy with me word for word; nay more,
Put me to silence, strike me perfect dumb,
And so amaze me, that oft-time I know not
Whether to check or cherish his presumption;
Therefore, good signior —
Max. Sweet lord, satisfy yourself, I am not now to learn how to manage my affections; I have observed and know the difference between a base wretch and a true man; I can distinguish them; the property of the wretch is, he would hurt, and cannot; of the man, he can hurt, and will not.
Count. Go to my merry daughter; O these looks
Agree well with your habit, do they not?
Junip. Tut, let me alone. By your favour, this is the gentleman, I think: sir, you appear to be an honourable gentleman, I understand, and could wish (for mine own part) that things were conden't otherwise than they are: but (the world knows) a foolish fellow, somewhat proclive and hasty, he did it in a prejudicate humour; marry now, upon better computation, he wanes, he melts, his poor eyes are in a cold sweat. Right noble signior, you can have but compunction; I love the man, tender your compassion.
Max. Doth any man here understand this fellow?
Junip. O god, sir, I may say frustra to the comprehension of your intellection.
Max. Before the lord, he speaks all riddle, I think. I must have a comment, ere I can conceive him.
Count. Why he sues to have his fellow Onion pardon'd,
And you must grant it, signior.
Max. O with all my soul, my lord; is that his motion?
Junip. I, sir, and we shall retort these kind favours with all alacrity of spirit we can, sir, as may be most expedient, as well for the quality as the cause; till when, in spite of this compliment, I rest a poor cobler, servant to my honourable lord here, your friend and Juniper.
Max. How, Juniper!
Count. I, signior.
Max. He is a sweet youth, his tongue has a happy turn when he sleeps.
Enter Paulo Ferneze, Francisco Colonia, Angelo, Valentine.
Count. I, for then it rests. O, sir, you're welcome:
Why God be thanked, you are found at last:
Signior Colonia, truly you are welcome,
I am glad to see you, sir, so well return'd.
Franc. I gladly thank your honour;
Yet indeed I'm sorry for such cause of heaviness
As has possest your lordship in my absence.
Count. O Francisco, you knew her what she was.
Franc. She was a wise and honourable lady.
Count. I, was she not? well, weep not, she is gone.
Passion's dull'd eye can make two griefs of one.
Whom death marks out, virtue nor blood can save;
Princes, as beggars, all must feed the grave.
Max. Are your horse ready, lord Paulo?
Pau. I, signior, they stay for us at the gate.
Max. Well, 'tis good. Ladies, I will take my leave of you, Be your fortunes, as yourselves, fair. Come, let us to horse, Count Ferneze, I bear a spirit full of thanks for all your honourable courtesies.
Count. Sir, I could wish the number and value of them more, in respect of your deservings. But, signior Maximilian, I pray you a word in private.
Aur. I faith, brother, you are fitted for a general yonder. Beshrew my heart (if I had Fortunatus' hat here) and I would not wish myself a man, and go with you, only t'enjoy his presence.
Pau. Why do you love him so well, sister?
Aur. No, by my troth; but I have such an odd pretty apprehension of his humour, methinks, that I am e'en tickled with the conceit of it. O he is a fine man.
Ang. And methinks another may be as fine as he.
Aur. O Angelo! do you think I do urge my comparison against you? no, I am not so ill bred as to be a depraver of your worthiness: believe me, if I had not some hope of your abiding with us, I should never desire to go out of black whilst I lived; but learn to speak i' the nose, and turn puritan presently.
Ang. I thank you, lady, I know you can flout.
Aur. Come, do you take it so? I faith you wrong me.
Franc. I, but madam,
Thus to disclaim in all the effects of pleasure,
May make your sadness seem so much affected,
And then the proper grace of it is lost.
Phœn. Indeed, sir, if I did put on this sadness
Only abroad, and in society,
And were in private merry, and quick humour'd,
Then might it seem affected, and abhorr'd;
But as my looks appear, such is my spirit,
Drown'd up with confluence of grief and melancholy,
That, like to rivers, run through all my veins,
Quenching the pride and fervour of my blood.
Max. My honourable lord, no more.
There is the honour of my blood engag'd
For your son's safety.
Count. Signior, blame me not
For tending his security so much;
He is mine only son, and that word only
Hath, with its strong and repercussive sound,
Struck my heart cold, and given it a deep wound.
Max. Why but stay, I beseech you, had your lordship ever any more sons than this?
Count. Why have not you known it, Maximilian?
Max. Let my sword fail me then.
Count. I had one other, younger born than this,
By twice so many hours as would fill
The circle of a year, his name Camillo,
Whom in that black and fearful night I lost,
('Tis now a nineteen years agone at least,
And yet the memory of it sits as fresh
Within my brain as 'twere but yesterday)
It was the night wherein the great Chamont,
The general of France, surpriz'd Vicenza;
Methinks the horror of that clamorous shout
His soldiers gave when they attain'd the wall,
Yet tingles in mine ears: methinks I see
With what amazed looks, distracted thoughts,
And minds confus'd, we, that were citizens,
Confronted one another; every street
Was fill'd with bitter self-tormenting cries,
And happy was that foot that first could press
The flow'ry champain, bordering on Verona.
Here I (employ'd about my dear wife's safety,
Whose soul is now in peace) lost my Camillo,
Who sure was murder'd by the barbarous soldiers,
Or else I should have heard — my heart is great,
Sorrow is faint, and passion makes me sweat.
Max. Grieve not, sweet Count, comfort your spirits, you have a son, a noble gentleman,
he stands in the face of honour; for his safety let that be no question; I am master of my fortune, and he shall share
with me. Farewell, my honourable lord: ladies, once more adieu. For yourself, madam, you are a most rare creature, I
tell you so, be not proud of it, I love you.
Come, lord Paulo, to horse.
Pau. Adieu, good signior Francisco; farewell, sister.
Sound a tucket, and as they pass every one severally departs; Maximilian, Paulo Ferneze, and Angelo remain.
Ang. How shall we rid him hence?
Pau. Why well enough. Sweet signior Maximilian,
I have some small occasion to stay,
If it may please you but take horse afore,
I'll overtake you ere your troops be rang'd.
Max. Your motion doth taste well; lord Ferneze, I go.
Pau. Now if my love, fair Rachel, were so happy
As to look forth. See fortune doth me grace
Enter Rachel. Before I can demand. How now, love?
Where is your father?
Rach. Gone abroad, my lord.
Pau. That's well.
Rach. I, but I fear he'll presently return.
Are you now going, my most honour'd lord?
Pau. I, my sweet Rachel,
Ang. Before god she is a sweet wench.
Pau. Rachel, I hope I shall not need to urge
The sacred purity of our affects,
As if it hung in trial or suspence;
Since in our hearts, and by our mutual vows,
It is confirm'd and seal'd in sight of heaven.
Nay, do not weep; why stare you? fear not, love,
Your father cannot be return'd so soon.
I prithee do not look so heavily;
Thou shalt want nothing.
Rach. No! is your presence nothing?
I shall want that, and wanting that, want all;
For that is all to me.
Pau. Content thee, sweet,
I have made choice here of a constant friend,
This gentleman; on whose zealous love
I do repose more, than on all the world,
Thy beauteous self excepted; and to him
Have I committed my dear care of thee,
As to my genius, or my other soul.
Receive him, gentle love, and what defects
My absence proves, his presence shall supply.
The time is envious of our longer stay.
Farewell, dear Rachel.
Rach. Most dear lord, adieu,
Heaven and honour crown your deeds and you.
Paul. Faith tell me, Angelo, how dost thou like her?
Ang. Troth, well, my lord; but shall I speak my mind?
Pau. I prithee do.
Ang. She is deriv'd too meanly to be wife
To such a noble person in my judgment.
Pau. Nay, then thy judgment is too mean, I fear:
Didst thou ne'er read, in difference of good,
'Tis more to shine in virtue than in blood.
Ang. Come, you are so sententious, my lord.
Pau. Here comes her father. How dost thou, good Jaques?
Ang. God save thee, Jaques.
Jaq. What should this mean? Rachel, open the door.
Ang. 'Sblood how the poor slave looks, as though
He had been haunted by the spirit Lar,
Or seen the ghost of some great Satrapas
In an unsavory sheet.
Pau. I muse he spake not, belike he was amaz'd,
Coming so suddenly, and unprepared.
Well, let's go.
1 Ever since I belonged to the BLUE ORDER.] i.e. Ever since I have been a servant. Blue coats were the usual livery of servants, and anciently a blue hood was the customary mark of guilt.
Enter Jaques, solus.
SO now enough, my heart, beat now no more,
At least for this affright. What a cold sweat
Flow'd o'er my brows, and over all my bosom!
Had I not reason? to behold my door
Beset with unthrifts, and myself abroad?
Why, Jaques? was there nothing in the house
Worth a continual eye, a vigilant thought,
Whose head should never nod, nor eyes once wink?
Look on my coat, my thoughts, worn quite threadbare,
That time could never cover with a nap,
And by it learn, never with knaps of sleep
To smother your conceits of that you keep.
But yet I marvel why these gallant youths
Spoke me so fair, and I esteem'd a beggar?
The end of flattery is gain or lechery:
If they seek gain of me, they think me rich;
But that they do not. For their other object,
'Tis in my handsome daughter, if it be:
And, by your leave, her handsomeness may tell them
My beggary counterfeits, and that her neatness
Flows from some store of wealth, that breaks my coffers
With this same engine, love to mine own breed;
But this is answer'd: Beggars will keep fine
Their daughters, being fair, though themselves pine.
Well, then it is for her; I, 'tis sure for her,
And I make her so brisk for one of them,
That I might live alone once with my gold.
O 'tis a sweet companion, kind and true;
A man may trust it when his father cheats him,
Brother, or friend, or wife. O wondrous pelf!
That which makes all men false, is true itself.
But now this maid is but suppos'd my daughter;
For I being steward to a lord of France
Of great estate and wealth, call'd lord Chamont,
He gone into the wars, I stole his treasure;
(But hear not any thing) I stole his treasure,
And this his daughter, being but two years old,
Because it lov'd me so, that it would leave
The nurse herself, to come into mine arms,
And had I left it, it would sure have dy'd.
Now herein I was kind, and had a conscience;
And since her lady-mother, that did die
In child-bed of her, lov'd me passing well,
It may be nature fashion'd this affection,
Both in the child and her: but he's ill bred
That ransacks tombs, and doth deface the dead.
I'll therefore say no more, suppose the rest.
Here have I chang'd my form, my name and hers,
And live obscurely, to enjoy more safe
My dearest treasure: but I must abroad.
Rach. What is your pleasure, sir?
Jaq. Rachel, I must abroad.
Lock thyself in, but yet take out the key,
That whosoever peeps in at the key-hole,
May yet imagine there is none at home.
Rach. I will, sir.
Jaq. But hark thee, Rachel, say a thief should come,
And miss the key, he would resolve indeed
None were at home, and so break in the rather:
Ope the door, Rachel; set it open, daughter;
But sit in it thyself, and talk aloud,
As if there were some more in house with thee:
Put out the fire, kill the chimney's heart,
That it may breathe no more than a dead man;
The more we spare, my child, the more we gain.
Enter Christophero, Juniper, and Onion.
Chr. What says my fellow Onion? come on.
Oni. All of a house, sir, but not fellows; you are my lord's steward: but I pray you what think you of love, sir?
Chr. Of love, Onion! why it's a very honourable humour.
Oni. Nay, if it be but worshipful, I care not.
Junip. Go to, it's honourable, check not at the conceit of the gentleman.
Oni. But in truth, sir, you shall do well to think well of love: for it thinks well of you, in me, I assure you.
Chr. Gramercy, fellow Onion; I do think well, thou art in love, art thou?
Oni. Partly, sir; but I am asham'd to say wholly.
Chr. Well, I will further it in thee to any honest woman, or maiden, the best I can.
Junip. Why now you come near him, sir, he doth vaile, he doth remunerate, he doth chew the cud in the kindness of an honest imperfection to your worship.
Chr. But who is it thou lovest, fellow Onion?
Oni. Marry, a poor man's daughter; but none of the honestest, I hope.
Chr. Why, wouldst thou not have her honest?
Oni. O no, for then I am sure she would not have me. 'Tis Rachel de Prie.
Chr. Why she hath the name of a very virtuous maiden.
Junip. So she is, sir; but the fellow talks in quiddities, he.
Chr. What wouldst thou have me do in the matter?
Oni. Do nothing, sir, I pray you, but speak for me.
Chr. In what manner?
Oni. My fellow Juniper can tell you, sir.
Junip. Why as thus, sir: your worship may commend him for a fellow fit for consanguinity, and that he shaketh with desire of procreation, or so.
Chr. That were not so good, methinks.
Junip. No, sir! why so, sir? what if you should say to her, corroborate thyself, sweet soul, let me distinguish thy paps with my fingers, divine mumps, pretty Pastorella! lookest thou so sweet and bounteous? comfort my friend here.
Chr. Well I perceive you wish I should say something may do him grace, and further his desires, and that be sure I will.
Oni. I thank you, sir; God save your life, I pray God, sir.
Junip. Your worship is too good to live long; you'll contaminate me no service.
Chr. Command thou wouldst say; no, good Juniper.
Junip. Health and wealth, sir.
[Exeunt Onion and Juniper.
Chr. This wench will I solicit for myself,
Making my lord and master privy to it;
And if he second me with his consent,
I will proceed, as having long ere this
Thought her a worthy choice to make my wife.
Enter Aurelia, Phœnixella.
Aur. Room for a case of matrons, colour'd black;
How motherly my mother's death hath made us!
I would I had some girls now to bring up;
O I could make a wench so virtuous,
She should say grace to every bit of meat,
And gape no wider than a wafer's thickness;
And she should make French curt'sies so most low,
That every touch should turn her over backward.
Phœn. Sister, these words become not your attire,
Nor your estate; our virtuous mother's death
Should print more deep effects of sorrow in us,
Than may be worn out in so little time.
Aur. Sister, i' faith you take too much tobacco,
It makes you black within, as y' are without.
What true-stitch sister, both your sides alike!
Be of a slighter work; for of my word,
You shall be sold as dear, or rather dearer.
Will you be bound to customs and to rites,
Shed profitable tears, weep for advantage,
Or else do all things as you are inclin'd?
Eat when your stomach serves (saith the physician)
Not at eleven and six. So, if your humour
Be now affected with this heaviness,
Give it1 the reins, and spare not, as I do
In this my pleasurable appetite.
It is precisianism to alter that
With austere judgment, that is given by nature.
I wept, you saw too, when my mother dy'd;
For then I found it easier to do so,
And fitter with my mode, than not to weep.
But now 'tis otherwise; another time
Perhaps I shall have such deep thoughts of her,
That I shall weep afresh some twelve month hence;
And I will weep, if I be so dispos'd,
And put on black as grimly then as now.
Let the mind go still with the body's stature,
Judgment is fit for judges, give me nature.
1 Give ME the reins, and spare not, as I do.] She is saying, it is best to follow one's humour, and not to check it by art and rule: and she means, that if Phœnixella is really afflicted, she should indulge her heaviness, as long as her nature prompted her so to do; and this sense leads us to read it, instead of me.
Give it the reins — that is, the heaviness you are now affected with.
Enter Aurelia, Phœnixella, Francisco, Angelo.
Franc. See, signior Angelo, here are the ladies;
Go you and comfort one, I'll to the other.
Ang. Therefore I come, sir; I'll to the eldest.
God save you, ladies; these sad modes of yours,
That make you choose these solitary walks,
Are hurtful for your beauties.
Aur. If we had them.
Ang. Come, that condition might be for your hearts,
When you protest faith, since we cannot see them.
But this same heart of beauty, your sweet face,
Is in mine eye still.
Aur. O you cut my heart
With your sharp eye.
Ang. Nay, lady, that's not so,
Your heart's too hard.
Aur. My beauty's heart?
Ang. O no.
I mean that regent of affection, madam,
That tramples on all love with such contempt
In this fair breast.
Aur. No more, your drift is savour'd;
I had rather seem hard-hearted ———
Ang. Than hard-favour'd;
Is that your meaning, lady?
Aur. Go to, sir;
Your wits are fresh I know, they need no spur.
Ang. And therefore you will ride them.
Aur. Say, I do,
They will not tire, I hope?
Ang. No, not with you.
Hark you, sweet lady.
Franc. 'Tis much pity, madam,
You should have any reason to retain
This sign of grief, much less the thing design'd.
Phœ. Griefs are more fit for ladies than their pleasures.
Franc. That is for such as follow nought but pleasures.
But you that temper them so well with virtues,
Using your griefs so, it would prove them pleasures;
And you would seem, in cause of griefs and pleasures,
Phœ. Sir, so I do now.
It is the excess of either that I strive
So much to shun, in all my prov'd endeavours,
Although perhaps, unto a general eye,
I may appear most wedded to my griefs;
Yet doth my mind forsake no taste of pleasure,
I mean that happy pleasure of the soul,
Divine and sacred contemplation
Of that eternal and most glorious bliss,
Proposed as the crown unto our souls.
Franc. I will be silent; yet that I may serve
But as a decade in the art of memory,
To put you still in mind of your own virtues,
When your too serious thoughts make you too sad,
Accept me for your servant, honour'd lady.
Phœ. Those ceremonies are too common, signior Francis,
For your uncommon gravity and judgment,
And fits them only that are nought but ceremony.
Ang. Come, I will not sue stalely to be your servant,
But a new term, will you be my refuge?
Aur. Your refuge! why, sir?
Ang. That I might fly to you when all else fail me.
Aur. An' you be good at flying, be my plover.
Ang. Nay, take away the p.
Aur. Tut, then you cannot fly.
Ang. I'll warrant you: I'll borrow Cupid's wings.
Aur. Mass, then I fear me you will do strange things.
I pray you blame me not, if I suspect you;
Your own confession simply doth detect you.
Nay, and you be so great in Cupid's books,
'Twill make me jealous. You can with your looks
(I'll warrant you) enflame a woman's heart,
And at your pleasure take love's golden dart,
And wound the breast of any virtuous maid.
Would I were hence! good faith, I am afraid
You can constrain one, ere they be aware,
To run mad for your love.
Ang. O this is rare.
Aurelia, Phœnixella, Francisco, Angelo, Count.
Count. Close with my daughters, gentlemen! well done,
'Tis like yourselves: nay, lusty Angelo,
Let not my presence make you baulk your sport;
I will not break a minute of discourse
'Twixt you and one of your fair mistresses.
Ang. One of my mistresses? why thinks your lordship
I have so many?
Count. Many! no, Angelo,
I do not think th'ast many, some fourteen
I hear thou hast, even of our worthiest dames
Of any note in Milan.
Ang. Nay, good my lord, fourteen! it is not so.
Count. By th' mass that is't; here are their names to shew,
Fourteen, or fifteen to one. Good Angelo,
You need not be asham'd of any of them,
They are gallants all.
Ang. 'Sblood you are such a lord.
Count. Nay stay, sweet Angelo, I am dispos'd
A little to be pleasant past my custom.
He's gone, he's gone, I have disgrac'd him shrewdly.
Daughters, take heed of him, he's a wild youth;
Look what he says to you, believe him not,
He will swear love to every one he sees.
Francisco, give them counsel, good Francisco,
I dare trust thee with both, but him with neither.
Franc. Your lordship yet may trust both them with him.
Count. Well, go your ways, away. How now, Christophero,
What news with you?
Chr. I have an humble suit to your good lordship.
Count. A suit, Christophero! what suit, I prithee?
Chr. I would crave pardon at your lordship's hands,
If it seem vain or simple in your sight.
Count. I'll pardon all simplicity, Christophero;
What is thy suit?
Chr. Perhaps, being now so old a batchelor,
I shall seem half unwise, to bend myself
In strict affection to a poor young maid.
Count. What! is it touching love, Christophero?
Art thou dispos'd to marry? why 'tis well.
Chr. I, but your lordship may imagine now,
That I, being steward of your honour's house,
If I be married once, will more regard
The maintenance of my wife, and of my charge,
Than the due discharge of my place and office.
Count. No, no, Christophero, I know thee honest.
Chr. Good faith, my lord, your honour may suspect it;
Count. Then I should wrong thee; thou hast ever been
Honest and true, and will be still I know.
Chr. I, but this marriage alters many men,
And you may fear it will do me, my lord;
But ere it do so, I will undergo
Ten thousand several deaths.
Count. I know it, man.
Who wouldst thou have, I prithee?
Chr. Rachel de Prie,
If your good lordship grant me your consent.
Count. Rachel de Prie! what the poor beggar's daughter?
She's a right handsome maid, how poor soever,
And thou hast my consent with all my heart.
Chr. I humbly thank your honour; I'll now ask
Her father. [Exit.
Count. Do so, Christophero; thou shalt do well.
'Tis strange (she being so poor) he should affect her!
But this is more strange that myself should love her.
I spy'd her lately at her father's door,
And if I did not see in her sweet face
Gentry and nobleness, ne'er trust me more;
But this persuasion fancy wrought in me,
That fancy being created with her looks;
For where love is, he thinks his basest object
Gentle and noble: I am far in love,
And shall be forc'd to wrong my honest steward,
For I must sue and seek her for myself.
How much my duty to my late dead wife,
And my own dear renown, soe'er it sways,
I'll to her father straight, love hates delays.
Enter Onion, Juniper, Valentine, Sebastian, Balthasar, Martino.
Oni. Come on, i'faith, let's to some exercise or other, my hearts.
Fetch the hilts; fellow Juniper, wilt thou play?
Junip. I cannot resolve you; 'tis as I am fitted with the ingenuity, quantity, or quality of the cudgel.
Val. How dost thou bastinado the poor cudgel with terms!
Junip. O Ingle, I have the phrases, man, and the anagrams, and the epitaphs, fitting the mystery of the noble science.
Oni. I'll be hang'd an' he were not misbegotten of some fencer.
Seb. Sirrah, Valentine, you can resolve me now, have they their masters of defence in other countries, as we have here in Italy?
Val. O lord, I; especially they in Utopia: there they perform their prizes and challenges with as great ceremony as the Italian, or any nation else.
Balt. Indeed! how is the manner of it, for god's love, good Valentine?
Junip. Ingle, I prithee make recourse unto us; we are thy friends and familiars, sweet Ingle.
Val. Why thus, sir.
Oni. God a mercy, good Valentine; nay, go on.
Junip. Silentium bonus socius Onionus, good fellow Onion, be not so ingenious and turbulent. So, sir; and how? how, sweet Ingle?
Val. Marry, first they are brought to the public theatre.
Junip. What! ha' they theatres there?
Val. Theatres! I, and plays too, both tragedy and comedy, and set forth with as much state as can be imagined.
Junip. By god's so, a man is nobody till he has travell'd.
Seb. And how are their plays? as ours are? extemporal?
Val. O no; all premeditated things, and some of them very good, i' faith; my master used to visit them often when he was there.
Balt. Why how, are they in a place where any man may see them?
Val. I, in the common theatres, I tell you. But the sport is at a new play, to observe the sway and variety of opinion that passeth it. A man shall have such a confus'd mixture of judgment, pour'd out in the throng there, as ridiculous as laughter itself. One says he likes not the writing, another likes not the plot, another not the playing: and sometimes a fellow, that comes not there past once in five years, at a parliament time, or so, will be as deep mired in censuring as the best, and swear by god's foot he would never stir his foot to see a hundred such as that is.
Oni. I must travel to see these things, I shall never think well of myself else.
Junip. Fellow Onion, I'll bear thy charges, and thou wilt but pilgrimize it along with me to the land of Utopia.
Seb. Why but methinks such rooks as these should be ashamed to judge.
Val. Not a whit; the rankest stinkard of them all will take upon him as peremptory, as if he had writ himself in artibus magister.
Seb. And do they stand to a popular censure for any thing they present?
Val. I, ever, ever; and the people generally are very acceptive, and apt to applaud any meritable work; but there are two sorts of persons that most commonly are infectious to a whole auditory.
Balt. What be they?
Junip. I, come, let's know them.
Oni. It were good they were noted.
Val. Marry, one is the rude barbarous crew, a people that have no brains, and yet grounded judgments; these will hiss any thing that mounts above their grounded capacities; but the other are worth the observation, i' faith.
Omnes. Where be they? where be they?
Val. Faith, a few capricious gallants.
Junip. Capricious! stay, that word's for me.
Val. And they have taken such a habit of dislike in all things, that they will approve nothing, be it never so conceited or elaborate; but sit dispersed, making faces and spitting, wagging their upright ears, and cry, filthy, filthy; simply uttering their own condition, and 2 using their wryed countenances instead of a vice, to turn the good aspects of all that shall sit near them, from what they behold.
Enter Martino with cudgels.
Oni. O that's well said; lay them down; come, sirs,
Who plays, fellow Juniper, Sebastian, Balthasar?
Somebody take them up, come.
Junip. Ingle, Valentine?
Val. Not I, sir, I profess it not.
Balt. Who? I?
Oni. Come, but one bout; I'll give 'em thee, i' faith.
Balt. Why here's Martino.
Oni. Foh, he! alas! he cannot play a whit, man.
Junip. That's all one; no more could you in statu quo prius.
Martino, play with him; every man has his beginning and conduction.
Mart. Will you not hurt me, fellow Onion?
Oni. Hurt thee? no; and I do, put me among pot-herbs,
And chop me to pieces. Come on.
Junip. By your favour, sweet bullies, give them room, back, so.
Martino, do not look so thin upon the matter.
Oni. Ha! well play'd, fall over to my leg now: so, to your guard again: excellent! to my head now: make home your blow: spare not me, make it home, good, good again.
Seb. Why how now, Peter!
Val. Godso, Onion has caught a bruise.
Junip. Couragio! be not capricious; what!
Oni. Capricious! not I, I scorn to be capricious for a scratch, Martino must have another bout; come.
Val. Seb. Balt. No, no, play no more, play no more.
Oni. Foh, 'tis nothing, a fillip, a devise; fellow Juniper, prithee get me a plantan; I had rather play with one that had skill by half.
Mart. By my troth, fellow Onion, 'twas against my will.
Oni. Nay, that's not so, 'twas against my head;
But come, we'll ha' one bout more.
Junip. Not a bout, not a stroke.
Omnes. No more, no more.
Junip. Why I'll give you demonstration how it came,
Thou openedst thy dagger to falsify over with the backsword trick, and he interrupted before he could fall to the close.
Oni. No, no, I know best how it was, better than any man here. I felt his play presently; for look you, I gathered upon him thus, thus, do you see? for the double lock, and took it single on the head.
Val. He says very true, he took it single on the head.
Seb. Come, let's go.
Enter Martino with a cobweb.
Mart. Here, fellow Onion, here's a cobweb.
Oni. How! a cobweb, Martino! I will have another bout with you. 'Swounds, do you first break my head, and then give me a plaster in scorn? Come, to it, I will have a bout.
Mart. God's my witness.
Oni. Tut, your witness cannot serve.
Junip. 'Sblood, why what! thou art not lunatic, art thou? and thou be'st, avoid, Mephostophilus. Say the sign should be in Aries now, as it may be for all us, where were your life? answer me that?
Seb. He says well, Onion.
Val. Indeed does he.
Junip. Come, come, you are a foolish naturalist; go, get a white of an egg, and a little flax, and close the breach of the head, it is the most conducible thing that can be. Martino, do not insinuate upon your good fortune, but play an honest part, and bear away the bucklers.
1 Using their wryed countenances instead of a vice.] We have this sentiment again, expressed in the same words, in the induction to Every man out of his humour:
"Using his wryed looks,
"In nature of a vice, to wrest and turn
"The good aspect of those that shall sit near him."
And this shews The case is altered to have been in the number of Jonson's earliest productions; for we often find him repeating a thought or expression in his later plays, which he had before made use of, in some former piece.
Enter Angelo, solus.
MY young and simple friend, Paulo Ferneze,
Bound me with mighty solemn conjurations
To be true to him, in his love to Rachel,
And to solicit his remembrance still
In his enforced absence. Much, i' faith!1
True to my friend in cases of affection!
In women's cases! what a jest it is?
How silly he is that imagines it!
He is an ass that will keep promise strictly
In any thing that checks his private pleasure,
Chiefly in love. 'Sblood am not I a man?
Have I not eyes that are as free to look,
And blood to be enflam'd as well as his?
And when it is so, shall I not pursue
Mine own love's longings, but prefer my friend's?
I, 'tis a good fool, do so; hang me then.
Because I swore? alas, who does not know
That lover's perjuries are ridiculous?
Have at thee, Rachel; I'll go court her sure,
For now I know her father is abroad.
'Sblood see, he's here. O what damn'd luck is this?
This labour's lost, I must by no means see him.
Tau, dery, dery.
1 In his enforced absence much i' faith.] It should be printed thus:
In his enforced absence. Much, i' faith! This ironical use of the word much, as a term of disdain, hath been remarked before.
Jaq. Mischief and hell, what is this man a spirit?
Haunts he, my house's ghost? still at my door?
He has been at my door, he has been in,
In my dear door: pray god my gold be safe.
God's pity, here's another. Rachel! ho,
Chr. God save you, honest father.
Jaq. Rachel! God's light come to me; Rachel! Rachel!
Chr. Now in god's name what ails he? this is strange!
He loves his daughter so, I'll lay my life
That he's afraid, having been now abroad,
I come to seek her love unlawfully.
Jaq. 'Tis safe, 'tis safe, they have not robb'd my treasure.
Chr. Let it not seem offensive to you, sir.
Jaq. Sir! God's my life, sir! sir! call me sir!2
Chr. Good father hear me.
Jaq. You are most welcome, sir;
I meant almost: and would your worship speak?
Would you abase yourself to speak to me?
Chr. 'Tis no abasing, father: my intent
Is to do further honour to you, sir,
Than only speak; which is to be your son.
Jaq. My gold is in his nostrils, he has smelt it;
Break breast, break heart, fall on the earth my entrails,
With this same bursting admiration!
He knows my gold, he knows of all my treasure.
How do you know, sir? whereby do you guess?
Chr. At what, sir? what is't you mean?
Jaq. I ask, an't please your gentle worship, how you know?
I mean, how I should make your worship know
That I have nothing ————
To give with my poor daughter? I have nothing:
The very air, bounteous to every man,
Is scant to me, sir.
Chr. I do think, good father, you are but poor.
Jaq. He thinks so; harke! but thinks so:
He thinks not so, he knows of all my treasure.
Chr. Poor man, he is so overjoy'd to hear
His daughter may be past his hopes bestow'd,
That betwixt fear and hope, (if I mean simply)
He is thus passionate.
Jaq. Yet all is safe within, is none without?
Nobody break my walls?
Chr. What say you, father, shall I have your daughter?
Jaq. I have no dowry to bestow upon her.
Chr. I do expect none, father.
Jaq. That is well.
Then I beseech your worship make no question
Of that you wish: 'tis too much favour to me.
Chr. I'll leave him now to give his passions breath,
Which being settled I will fetch his daughter;
I shall but move too much, to speak now to him.
Jaq. So, he is gone; would all were dead and gone,
That I might live with my dear gold alone.
1 Jaq. Sir! God's my life, sir! sir! call me sir!] The
character of Jaques is formed upon that of Euclio in the Aulularia of Plautus: and is drawn with that masterly
expression which distinguisheth the works of Jonson. The scene here between Christophero and Jaques, and what follows
between the count and him, is copied from what passes between Euclio and Megadorus; but with so high an improvement, as
determines the palm of applause in favour of our author. The original here is,
Non temerarium est, ubi dives blandè appellat pauperem.
Count. Here is the poor old man.
Jaq. Out of my soul, another! comes he hither?
Count. Be not dismay'd, old man, I come to chear you.
Jaq. To me, by heaven.
Turn ribs to brass, turn voice into a trumpet,
To rattle out the battles of my thoughts;
One comes to hold me talk, while t'other robs me.
Count. He has forgot me sure; what should this mean?
He fears authority, and my want of wife
Will take his daughter from him to defame her:
He that hath nought on earth but one poor daughter,
May take this extasy of care to keep her.
Jaq. And yet 'tis safe: they mean not to use force,
But fawning coming. I shall easily know,
By his next question, if he think me rich.
Whom see I? my good lord?
Count. Stand up, good father,
I call thee not good father for thy age,
But that I gladly wish to be thy son,
In honour'd marriage with thy beauteous daughter.
Jaq. O, so, so, so, so, so this is for gold.
Now it is sure this is my daughter's neatness
Makes them believe me rich. No, my good lord,
I'll tell you all, how my poor hapless daughter
Got that attire she wears from top to toe.
Count. Why, father, this is nothing.
Jaq. O yes, good my lord.
Count. Indeed it is not.
Jaq. Nay, sweet lord, pardon me, do not dissemble;
Hear your poor beadsman speak: 'tis requisite
That I (so huge a beggar) make account
Of things that pass my calling. She was born
To enjoy nothing underneath the sun;
But that, if she had more than other beggars,
She should be envied: I will tell you then
How she had all she wears. Her warm shoes (God wot)
A kind maid gave her, seeing her go barefoot
In a cold frosty morning; God requite her.
Her homely stockings ——
Count. Father, I'll hear no more, thou mov'st too much
With thy too curious answer for thy daughter,
That doth deserve a thousand times as much.
I'll be thy son-in-law, and she shall wear
Th' attire of countesses.
Jaq. O, good my lord,
Mock not the poor; remembers not your lordship
That poverty is the precious gift of God,
As well as riches? tread upon me, rather
Than mock my poorness.
Count. Rise, I say;
When I mock poorness, then heaven make me poor.
Nun. See, here's the count Ferneze, I will tell himThe hapless accident of his brave son,
Count. You are right welcome, sir.
Nun. I would I brought such news as might deserve it.
Count. What! bring you me ill news?
Nun. 'Tis ill, my lord,
Yet such as usual chance of war affords,
And for which all men are prepar'd that use it,
And those that use it not but in their friends,
Or in their children.
Count. Ill news of my son,
My dear and only son, I'll lay my soul!
Ah me accurs'd! thought of his death doth wound me,
And the report of it will kill me quite.
Nun. 'Tis not so ill, my lord.
Count. How then?
Nun. He's taken prisoner, and that's all.
Count. That's enough, enough;
I set my thoughts on love, on servile love,
Forget my virtuous wife, feel not the dangers,
The bands and wounds of my own flesh and blood,
And therein am a madman; therein plagu'd
With the most just affliction under heaven.
Is Maximilian taken prisoner too?
Nun. No, good my lord; he is return'd with prisoners.
Count. Is't possible! can Maximilian
Return and view my face without my son,
For whom he swore such care as for himself?
Nun. My lord, no care can change the events of war.
Count. O in what tempests do my fortunes sail!
Still wrack'd with winds more foul and contrary
Than any northern gust, or southern flawe,3
That ever yet inforc'd the sea to gape,
And swallow the poor merchant's traffick up.
First in Vicenza lost I my first son,
Next here in Milan my most dear lov'd lady,
And now my Paulo prisoner to the French;
Which last being printed with my other griefs,
Doth make so huge a volume, that my breast
Cannot contain them. But this is my love;
I must make love to Rachel: heaven hath thrown
This vengeance on me most deservedly,
Were it for nought but wronging of my steward.
Nun. My lord, since only money may redress
The worst of this misfortune, be not griev'd;
Prepare his ransom, and your noble son
Shall greet your cheared eyes with the more honour.
Count. I will prepare his ransom; gracious heaven
Grant his imprisonment may be his worst,
Honour'd and soldier-like imprisonment,
And that he be not manacled and made
A drudge to his proud foe. And here I vow,
Never to dream of seemless amorous toys,
Nor aim at other joy on earth,
But the fruition of mine only son.
1 Than any northern GUEST or southern flaw.] Common sense here tells us, that guest is a corruption from gust. The only copy of this play is a very erroneous one, of 1609; and faults of the press, like the preceding one, occur in every page: but as these are easily set right, it would be impertinent to trouble the reader with a note, for every such alteration.
Enter Jaques with his gold, and a scuttle full of horse-dung.
Jaq. He's gone: I knew it; this is our hot lover.
I will believe them, I: they may come in
Like simple wooers, and be arrant thieves,
And I not know them. 'Tis not to be told
What servile villainies men will do for gold.
O it began to have a huge strong smell,
With lying so long together in a place;
I'll give it vent, it shall ha' shift enough;
And if the devil, that envies all goodness,
Have told them of my gold, and where I kept it,
I'll set his burning nose once more a work,
To smell where I remov'd it. Here it is;
I'll hide, and cover it with this horse-dung.
Who will suppose that such a precious nest
Is crown'd with such a dunghill excrement?
In, my dear life, sleep sweetly, my dear child,
"Scarce lawfully begotten, but yet gotten,
"And that's enough." Rot all hands that come near thee,
Except mine own. Burn out all eyes that see thee,
Except mine own. All thoughts of thee be poison
To their enamour'd hearts, except mine own.
I'll take no leave, sweet prince, great emperor,
But see thee every minute: king of kings,
I'll not be rude to thee, and turn my back
In going from thee, but go backward out,
With my face toward thee, with humble courtesies.
None is within, none overlooks my wall;
To have gold, and to have it safe, is all.
Enter Maximilian with soldiers, Chamont, Camillo, Ferneze, Pacue.
Max. LORD Chamont, and your valiant friend there, I cannot say, welcome to Milan; your thoughts and that word are not musical; but I can say, you are come to Milan.
Pac. Mort dieu.
Max. Gentlemen (I would call an emperor so) you are now my prisoners; I am sorry, marry this, spit in the face of your fortunes, for your usage shall be honourable.
Cam. We know it, signior Maximilian;
The fame of all your actions sounds nought else
But perfect honour from her swelling cheeks.
Max. It shall do so still, I assure you, and I will give you reason: there is in this last action (you know) a noble gentleman of our party, and a right valiant, semblably prisoner to your general, as your honour'd selves to me, for whose safety this tongue has given warrant to his honourable father, the count Ferneze. You conceive me.
Cam. I, signior.
Max. Well, then I must tell you your ransoms be to redeem him. What think you? your answer.
Cam. Marry, with my lord's leave, here I say, signior,
This free and ample offer you have made
Agrees well with your honour, but not ours;
For I think not but Chamont is as well born
As is Ferneze; then, if I mistake not,
He scorns to have his worth so underprised,
That it should need an adjunct in exchange
Of any equal fortune. Noble signior,
I am a soldier, and I love Chamont;
Ere I would bruise his estimation
With the least ruin of mine own respect
In this vile kind, these legs should rot with irons,
This body pine in prison, till the flesh
Drop from my bones in flakes, like wither'd leaves,
In heart of autumn, from a stubborn oak.
Max. Monsieur Gasper, (I take it so is your name) misprise me not; I will trample on the heart, on the soul of him that shall say I will wrong you: what I purpose you cannot now know, but you shall know, and doubt not to your contentment. Lord Chamont, I will leave you, whilst I go in and present myself to the honourable count; till my regression, so please you, your noble feet may measure this private, pleasant, and most princely walk. Soldiers, regard them and respect them.
Pac. O ver bon! excellenta gull, he tak'a my lord Chamont for monsieur Gaspra, and monsieur Gaspra for my lord Chamont. O dis be brave for make a me laugh'e, ha, ha, ha; O my heart tickla.
Cam. I, but your lordship knows not what hard fate
Might have pursu'd us, therefore howsoe'er
The changing of our names was necessary,
And we must now be careful to maintain
This error strongly, which our own device
Hath thrust into their ignorant conceits;
For should we (on the taste of this good fortune)
Appear ourselves, 'twould both create in them
A kind of jealousy, and perchance invert
Those honourable courses they intend.
Cha. True, my dear Gasper; but this hang-by here
Will (at one time or other) on my soul,
Discover us. A secret in his mouth
Is like a wild bird put into a cage,
Whose door no sooner opens, but 'tis out.
But, sirrah, if I may but know
Thou utter'st it.
Pac. Utteria vat, monsieur?
Cha. That he is Gasper, and I true Chamont.
Pac. O pardonne moy, fore my tongue shall put out de secreta,
Shall breed de cankra in my mouth.
Cam. Speak not so loud, Pacue.
Pac. Foe, you shall hear fool, for all your long ear, reguard monsieur: you be de Chamont, Chamont be Gaspra.
Enter Count Ferneze, Maximilian, Francisco, Aurelia, Phœnixella, Finio.
Cha. Peace, here comes Maximilian.
Cam. O belike that's the count Ferneze, that old man.
Cha. Are those his daughters, trow?
Cam. I sure, I think they are.
Cha. Fore god, the taller is a gallant lady.
Com. So are they both, believe me.
Max. True, my honourable lord, that Chamont was the father of this man.
Count. O that may be, for when I lost my son,
This was but young, it seems.
Fran. Faith, had Camillo liv'd,
He had been much about his years, my lord.
Count. He had indeed. Well, speak no more of him.
Max. Signior, perceive you the error? 'twas no good office in us to stretch the remembrance of so dear a loss. Count Ferneze, let summer sit in your eye; look chearfully, sweet count; will you do me the honour to confine this noble spirit within the circle of your arms?
Count. Honour'd Chamont, reach me your valiant hand;
I could have wish'd some happier accident
Had made the way unto this mutual knowledge
Which either of us now must take of other;
But sure it is the pleasure of our fates,
That we should thus be rack'd on fortune's wheel.
Let us prepare with steeled patience
To tread on torment, and with minds confirm'd,
Welcome the worst of envy.
Max. Noble lord, 'tis thus. I have here (in mine honour) set this gentleman free, without ransom; he is now himself, his valour hath deserved it, in the eye of my judgment. Monsieur Gasper, you are dear to me: fortuna non mutat genus. But to the main, if it may square with your lordship's liking, his love, I could desire that he were now instantly employed to your noble general in the exchange of Ferneze for yourself, it is the business that requires the tender hand of a friend.
Count. I, and it would be with more speed effected, if he would undertake it.
Max. True, my lord. Monsieur Gasper, how stand you affected to this motion?
Cha. My duty must attend his lordship's will.
Max. What says the lord Chamont?
Cam. My will doth then approve what these have urg'd.
Max. Why there is good harmony, good musick in this. Monsieur Gasper, you shall protract no time, only I will give you a bowl of rich wine to the health of your general, another to the success of your journey, and a third to the love of my sword. Pass.
[Exeunt all but Aurelia and Phœnixella.
Aur. Why how now, sister, in a motly muse?
Go to, there's somewhat in the wind, I see.
Faith, this brown study suits not with your black;
Your habit and your thoughts are of two colours.
Phœ. Good faith, methinks that this young lord Chamont Favours my mother, sister, does he not?
Aur. A motherly conceit; O blind excuse,
Blinder than love himself. Well, sister, well;
Cupid has ta'en his stand in both your eyes,
The case is alter'd.
Phœ. And what of that?
Aur. Nay, nothing but a saint.
Another Bridget, one that for a face
Would put down Vesta, in whose looks doth swim
The very sweetest cream of modesty.
You to turn tippet! fie, fie; will you give
A packing penny to virginity.
I thought you'd dwell so long in Cyprus isle,
You'd worship madam Venus at the length:
But come, the strongest fall, and why not you?
Nay, do not frown.
Phœ. Go, go, you fool.
Aur. Well, I may jest, or so; but Cupid knows
My taking is as bad, or worse than hers.
O, monsieur Gasper, if thou be'st a man,
Be not afraid to court me; do but speak,
Challenge thy right, and wear it; for I swear,
Till thou arriv'dst, ne'er came affection here.
Enter Pacue, Finio.
Fin. Come on, my sweet finical Pacue, the very prime
Of pages, here's an excellent place for us to practise in;
Nobody sees us here; come, let's to it.
Pac. Contenta; reguarde vou le premier.
Oni. Sirrah, Finio.
Pac. Mort dieu le pesant.
Oni. Didst thou see Valentine?
Fin. Valentine! no.
Fin. No. Sirrah, Onion, whither goest?
Oni. O I am vext; he that would trust any of those lying travellers.
Fin. I prithee stay, good Onion.
Pac. Monsieur Onion, vene ca, come hidera, je vou pre. By gar, me ha see two, tree, four hundra tousand of your cousan hang. Lend me your hand, shall pray for know you bettra.
Oni. I thank you, good signior Parla vou. O that I were in another world, in the Ingies, or somewhere, that I might have room to laugh.
Pac. A we fort boon; stand, you be under the arm. deere now, me come, Bon jour, monsieur.
Fin. Good morrow, good signior.
Pac. By gar, me be mush glad for see you.
Fin. I return you most kind thanks, sir.
Oni. How, how! 'sblood this is rare.
Pac. Nay, shall make you say rare, by and by; reguard Monsieur Finio,
Fin. Signior Pacue.
Pac. Dieu vou gard, monsieur.
Fin. God save you, sweet signior.
Pac. Monsieur Onion, is not fort boon.
Oni. Beane, quoth he! would I were in debt of a pottle of beans, I could do as much.
Fin. Welcome, signior; what's next?
Pac. O here; voy de grand admiration, as should meet perchance monsieur Finio.
Fin. Monsieur Pacue.
Pac. Jesu! by gar, who think we shall meete here?
Fin. By this hand, I am not a little proud of it, sir.
Oni. This trick is only for the chamber, it cannot be cleverly done abroad.
Pac. Well, what say you for dis den, monsieur?
Fin. Nay, pray, sir.
Pac. Par may foy vou bein encounters.
Fin. What do you mean, sir? let your glove alone.
Pac. Comen se porte la sante?
Fin. Faith, exceeding well, sir.
Pac. Trot, be mush joy for hear heire.
Fin. And how is it with you, sweet signior Pacue?
Pac. Fat comme vou voyez.
Oni. Young gentlemen, spirits of blood, if ever you'll taste of a sweet piece of mutton, do Onion a good turn now.
Pac. Que que, parla monsieur, what ist?
Oni. Faith, teach me one of these tricks.
Pac. O me shall do presently; stand you deere, you signior deer, myself is here; so, fort bein: now I parle to monsieur Onion, Onion pratla to you, you speaka to me, so, and as you parle, change the bonet. Monsieur Onion.
Oni. Monsieur Pacue.
Pac. Pray be covera.
Oni. Nay, I beseech you, sir.
Fin. What do you mean?
Pac. Pardon moy, shall be so.
Oni. O god, sir.
Fin. Not I, in good faith, sir.
Pac. By gar, you must.
Oni. It shall be yours.
Fin. Nay, then you wrong me.
Oni. Well, and ever I come to be great —
Pac. You be big enough for de Onion already.
Oni. I mean a great man.
Fin. Then thou'dst be a monster.
Oni. Well, god knows not what fortune may do, command me, use me from the soul to the crown, and the crown to the soul; meaning not only from the crown of the head, and the sole of the foot, but also the foot of the mind and the crowns of the purse. I cannot stay now, young gentlemen, but —— time was, time is, and time shall be.
Enter Chamont, Camillo.
Cha. Sweet Gasper, I am sorry we must part;
But strong necessity enforces it.
Let not the time seem long unto my friend,
Till my return; for by our love I swear
I will endeavour to effect this business
With all industrious care and happy speed.
Cam. My lord, these circumstances would come well
To one less capable of your desert
Than I, in whom your merit is confirm'd
With such authentical and grounded proofs.
Cha. Well, I will use no more. Gasper, adieu.
Cam. Farewell, my honour'd lord.
Cha. Commend me to the lady, my good Gasper.
Cam. I had remember'd that, had not you urg'd it.
Cha. Once more adieu, sweet Gasper.
Cam. My good lord.
Cha. Thy virtues are more precious than thy name;
Kind gentleman, I would not sell thy love
For all the earthly objects that mine eyes
Have ever tasted. Sure thou art nobly born,
However fortune hath obscur'd thy birth;
For native honour sparkles in thine eyes.
How may I bless the time wherein Chamont,
My honour'd father, did surprize Vicenza,
Where this my friend (known by no name) was found,
Being then a child, and scarce of power to speak,
To whom my father gave this name of Gasper,
And as his own respected him to death;
Since when we two have shar'd our mutual fortunes
With equal spirits, and but death's rude hand,
No violence shall dissolve the sacred band.
Enter Juniper in his shop, singing. To him Onion.
Oni. Fellow, Juniper, no more of thy songs and sonnets; sweet Juniper, no more of thy hymns and madrigals; thou sing'st, but I sigh.
Junip. What's the matter, Peter, ha? what in an academy still! still in sable and black costly array, ha?
Oni. Prithee rise, mount, mount, sweet Juniper; for I go down the wind, and yet I puff, for I am vext.
Junip. Ha, bully! vext! what, intoxicate! is thy brain in a quintessence, an idea, a metamorphosis, an apology, ha, rogue? Come, this love feeds upon thee, I see by thy cheeks, and drinks healths of vermilion tears, I see by thine eyes.
Oni. I confess Cupid's carouse, he plays super negulum with my liquor of life.
Junip. Tut, thou art a goose to be Cupid's gull; go to; no more of this contemplations and calculations; mourn not, for Rachel's thine own.
Oni. For that let the higher powers work; but sweet Juniper, I am not sad for her, and yet for her in a second person, or if not, yet so in a third.
Junip. How! second person! away, away. In the crotchets already! longitude and latitude! what second? what person? ha?
Oni. Juniper, I'll bewray myself before thee, for thy company is sweet unto me; but I must intreat thy helping hand in the case.
Junip. Tut, no more of this surquedry; I am thine own ad unguem, upsie freeze1; pell mell, come, what case? what case?
Oni. For the case, it may be any man's case, as well as mine. Rachel I mean; but I'll meddle with her anon; in the mean time, Valentine is the man has wronged me.
Junip. How! my Ingle wrong thee! is't possible!
Oni. Your Ingle! hang him, infidel. Well, and if I be not revenged on him, let Peter Onion (by the infernal gods) be turned to a leek, or a scalion. I spake to him for a ditty for this handkerchief.
Junip. Why, has he not done it?
Oni. Done it! not a verse, by this hand.
Junip. O in diebus illis! O preposterous! well, come, be blith; the best inditer of them all is sometimes dull. Fellow Onion, pardon mine Ingle; he is a man has imperfections and declinations, as other men have; his muse sometimes cannot curvet, nor prognosticate and come off, as it should; no matter, I'll hammer out a paraphrase for thee myself.
Oni. No, sweet Juniper, no; danger doth breed delay; love makes me choleric, I can bear no longer.
Junip. Not bear what? my mad meridian slave. Not bear what?
Oni. Cupid's burden, 'tis too heavy, too tolerable; and as for the handkerchief and the posie, I will not trouble thee; but if thou wilt go with me into her father's backside, old Jaques' back-side, and speak for me to Rachel, I will not be ingratitude; the old man is abroad and all.
Junip. Art thou sure on't?
Oni. As sure an obligation.
Junip. Let's away then; come, we spend time in a vain circumference; trade, I casheer thee till to-morrow: fellow Onion, for thy sake I finish this workiday.
Oni. God a mercy, and for thy sake I'll at any time make a holiday.
1 Ad unguem, upsie freeze.] This last phrase is of the same meaning with upsee Dutch, which occurs in the Alchemist, and is there explained as a corruption of the Dutch 'op-zee' which means 'over sea'-- used as a proverbial expression for drinking until drunk.
Enter Angelo, Rachel.
Ang. Nay, I prithee, Rachel, I come to comfort thee,
Be not so sad.
Rach. O signior Angelo,
No comfort but his presence can remove
This sadness from my heart.
Ang. Nay, then you're fond,
And what that strength of judgment and election
That should be attendant on your years and form.
Will you, because your lord is taken prisoner,
Blubber and weep, and keep a peevish stir,
As though you would turn turtle with the news?
Come, come, be wise. 'Sblood say your lord should die,
And you go mar your face as you begin,
What would you do, trow? who would care for you?
But this it is, when nature will bestow
Her gifts on such as know not how to use them;
You shall have some, that had they but once quarter
Of your fair beauty, they would make it shew
A little otherwise than you do this,
Or they would see the painter twice an hour;
And I commend them I, that can use art
With such judicial practice.
Rach. You talk idly;
If this be your best comfort, keep it still,
My senses cannot feed on such sour cates.
Ang. And why, sweet heart?
Rach. Nay, leave, good signior.
Ang. Come, I have sweeter viands yet in store.
Enter Onion and Juniper.
Junip. In any case, mistress Rachel.
Rach. God's pity, signior Angelo, I hear my father; away for God's sake.
Ang. 'Sblood, I am bewitch'd, I think; this is twice now I have been served thus.
Rach. Pray God he meet him not.
Oni. O brave! she's yonder: O terrible! she's gone.
Junip. Yea, so nimble in your dilemmas, and your hyperboles!
Hay my love! O my love at the first sight, by the mass!
Oni. O how she scudded! O sweet scud, how she tripped! O delicate trip and go!
Junip. Come, thou art enamoured with the influence of her profundity; but, sirrah, hark a little.
Oni. O rare! what? what? passing, i'faith! what is't? what is't?
Junip. What wilt thou say now, if Rachel stand now, and play hity-tity through the key-hole, to behold the equipage of thy person?
Oni. O sweet equipage! try, good Juniper, tickle her, talk, talk; O rare!
Junip. Mistress Rachel, (watch then if her father come;)
Rachel! Madona! Rachel! No.
Oni. Say I am here; Onion, or Peter, or so.
Junip. No, I'll knock; we'll not stand upon horizons and tricks, but fall roundly to the matter.
Oni. Well said, sweet Juniper. Horizons! hang 'em, knock, knock.
Rach. Who's there! father?
Junip. Father! no; and yet a father, if you'll please to be a mother.
Oni. Well said, Juniper; to her again; a smack or two more of the mother.
Junip. Do you hear, sweet soul, sweet radamant, sweet mathavel? one word, Melpomene, are you at leisure?
Rach. At leisure! what to do?
Junip. To do what! to do nothing, but to be liable to the extasy of true love's exigent, or so; you smell my meaning.
Oni. Smell! filthy, fellow Juniper, filthy. Smell! O most odious!
Junip. How filthy?
Oni. Filthy by this finger. Smell! smell a rat, smell a pudding. Away, these tricks are for trulls; a plain wench loves plain dealing; I'll upon her myself, smell to march-pain wench.
Junip. With all my heart; I'll be legitimate and silent as an apple-squire; I'll see nothing, and say nothing.
Oni. Sweet heart! sweet heart!
Junip. And bag pudding, ha, ha, ha.
Jaques within. What Rachel! my girl, what Rachel!
Oni. God's lid.
Jaq. What Rachel!
Rach. Here I am.
Oni. What rakehel calls Rachel? O treason to my love!
Junip. It's her father, on my life! how shall we intrench and edify ourselves from him?
Oni. O coney-catching Cupid! Enter Jaques.
Jaq. How is my back-side? where? what come they for?
[Onion gets up into a tree.
What are they? Rachel! thieves! thieves!
Stay, villain, slave. Rachel, untie my dog.
Nay, thief, thou canst not 'scape.
Junip. I pray you, sir.
Oni. Ah pitiful Onion! that thou hadst a rope.
Jaq. Why Rachel! when I say, let loose my dog,
Garlick, my mastiff, let him loose, I say.
Junip. For god's sake hear me speak, keep up your cur.
Oni. I fear not Garlick, he'll not bite Onion his kinsman; pray God he come out, and then they'll not smell me.
Jaq. Well then deliver; come, deliver, slave.
Junip. What should I deliver?
Jaq. O thou wouldst have me tell thee, wouldst thou? Shew me thy hands, what hast thou in thy hands?
Junip. Here be my hands.
Jaq. Stay, are thy fingers-ends begrim'd with dirt? no, thou hast wip'd them.
Junip. Wip'd them!
Jaq. I, thou villain; thou art a subtil knave. Put off thy shoes; come, I will see them;2 give me a knife here, Rachel, I'll rip the soles.
Oni. No matter, he's a cobler, he can mend them.
Junip. What, are you mad? are you detestable? would you make an anatomy of me? think you I am not true orthography?
Jaq. Orthography, anatomy!
Junip. For God's sake be not so inviolable, I am no ambuscado; what predicament call you this? why do you intimate so much?
Jaq. I can feel nothing.
Oni. By'r lady, but Onion feels something.
Jaq. Soft, sir, you are not yet gone; shake your legs, come, and your arms, be brief: stay, let me see these drums, these kilderkins, these bombard slops, what is it charms 'em so.
Junip. Nothing but hair.
Jaq. That's true, I had almost forgot this rug, this hedgehog's nest, this hay-mow, this bear's-skin, this heath, this furze-bush.
Junip. O let me go, you tear my hair, you revolve my brains and understanding.
Jaq. Heart, thou art somewhat eas'd; half of my fear
Hath ta'en his leave of me, the other half
Still keeps possession in despight of hope,
Until these amorous eyes court my fair gold.
Dear, I come to thee; fiend, why art not gone?
Avoid, my soul's vexation; Satan, hence;
Why do'st thou stare on me? why do'st thou stay!
Why por'st thou on the ground with thievish eyes?
What seest thou there, thou cur? what gap'st thou at?
Hence from my house. Rachel, send Garlick forth.
Junip. I am gone, sir, I am gone; for god's sake stay.
Jaq. Pack; and thank God thou 'scap'st so well away.
Oni. If I escape this tree, destinies I defy you.
Jaq. I cannot see, by any characters
Writ on this earth, that any felon foot
Hath ta'en acquaintance with this hallow'd ground.
None sees me; knees, do homage to your lord.
'Tis safe, 'tis safe; it lies and sleeps so soundly,
'Twould do one good to look on't. If this bliss
Be given to any man that hath much gold,
Justly to say 'tis safe, I say 'tis safe.
O what a heavenly round these two words dance
Within me and without me; first I think 'em,
And then I speak 'em; then I watch their sound,
And drink it greedily with both mine eyes:
Then think, then speak, then drink their sound again,
And racket round about this body's court,
These two sweet words, 'tis safe. Stay, I will feed
My other senses. O how sweet it smells!
Oni. I mar'l he smells not Onion, being so near it.
Jaq. Down to thy grave again, thou beauteous ghost,
Angels, men say, are spirits; spirits be
Invisible; bright angels, are you so?
Be you invisible to every eye,
Save only these: sleep, I'll not break your rest,
Though you break mine. Dear saints, adieu, adieu,
My feet part from you, but my soul dwells with you.
Oni. Is he gone? O fortune my friend, and not fortune my foe,
I come down to embrace thee, and kiss thy great toe.
Junip. Fellow Onion! Peter!
Oni. Fellow Juniper.
Junip. What's the old panurgo gone, departed cosmografied, ha?
Oni. O, I; and hark, sirrah. Shall I tell him? no.
Junip. Nay, be brief, and declare; stand not upon conundrums now: thou knowest what contagious speeches I have suffered for thy sake, and he should come again and invent me here.
Oni. He says true, it was for my sake, I will tell him. Sirrah, Juniper! and yet I will not.
Junip. What sayest thou, sweet Onion?
Oni. And thou hadst smelt the scent of me when I was in the tree, thou wouldst not have said so: but, sirrah, the case is altered with me, my heart has given love a box of the ear, made him kick up his heels, i'faith.
Junip. Sayest thou me so, mad Greek! how haps it? how chances it?
Oni. I cannot hold it, Juniper; have an eye, look, have an eye to the door; the old proverb's true, I see, Gold is but muck. Nay, godso, Juniper, to the door; an eye to the main chance; here, you slave, have an eye.
Junip. O inexorable! O infallible! O intricate, divine, and superficial fortune!
Oni. Nay, it will be sufficient anon; here, look here!
Junip. O insolent good luck! how didst thou produce the intelligence of the gold minerals?
Oni. I'll tell thee that anon; here, make shift, convey, cram. I'll teach you how you shall call for Garlick again, i'faith.
Junip. 'Sblood what shall we do with all this? we shall never bring it to a consumption.
Oni. Consumption! why we'll be most sumptuously attired, man.
Junip. By this gold, I will have three or four most stigmatical suits presently.
Oni. I'll go in my foot-cloth, I'll turn gentleman.
Junip. So will I.
Oni. But what badge shall we give, what cullisen?3
Junip. As for that, let's use the infidelity and commiseration of some harrot of arms, he shall give us a gudgeon.
Oni. A gudgeon! a scutcheon thou wouldst say, man.
Junip. A scutcheon, or a gudgeon, all is one.
Oni. Well, our arms be good enough, let's look to our legs.
Junip. Content, we'll be jogging.
Oni. Rachel, we retire; Garlick, Godb'ye.
Junip. Farewell, sweet Jaques.
Oni. Farewell, sweet Rachel; sweet dog,
1 Junip. Wip'd them!
Jaq. I, thou villain; thou art a subtil knave. Put off thy shoes; come, I will see them.]
We said before, that Jonson, in the character of Jaques, hath copied the Euclio of Plautus; and this scene is an imitation of the Latin, where Strobilus is examined by the miser in the like manner. But the pleasantries of this scene are within the bounds of nature; and severer judgment instructed Jonson not to outrage his characters, as Plautus did before him. Jaques examines both the hands of Juniper, but he does not, like Euclio, bid him produce his third hand.
Euc. Ostende huc manus.
Strob. Hem tibi ostendi, eccas.
Euc. Video, age ostende etiam tertiam.
No degree of avarice could lead one to suppose, that a man has three hands.
2 Oni. I'll go in my foot-cloth; I'll turn gentleman.
Junip. So will I.
Oni. But what badge shall we give, what cullison?] I'll go in my foot-cloth — that is, I'll have my horse dress'd in his caparisons and housings, as gentlemen used to ride; and hence they were called foot-cloth nags. —— What badge shall we give, what cullison? So in Every Man out of his Humour, "I'll give coats, that's my humour: but I lack a cullisen." Act 1. scene 2. And I there observed, that no Dictionary will help us to the meaning of the word. It seems to be something relative to a coat of arms, or a crest to point out whose livery the servants wore; but if it ever was a term in heraldry, it is no longer in use, and now unknown to the heralds themselves. Indeed it sometimes happens, that a variation of the spelling will direct us to the etymology and meaning of a word, which may be still retained in use, but with a little change and difference in the letters: but this supposition gives us no light here. However, I must take leave to quote one passage from our poet, where a departure from the usual way of writing and pronunciation, led me to suspect it might possibly be a corruption, which I have since found is not so. The passage I mean, is in his Elegy on the Lady Digby:
"Sleepy, or stupid Nature, could'st thou part
"With such a rarity, and not rouse art
"With all her aids, to save her from the seize
"Of vulture death, and those relentless clies?"
The last word appeared to me either an error, or the same with claws, only varied in the spelling for the sake of rhime; and such I have since found it to be. For what we usually call the claws, is wrote, in Minshew, the cleyes of a crab, scorpion, &c.
Enter Maximilian, Count Ferneze, Aurelia, Phœnixella, Pacue.
Max. Nay, but sweet count.
Count. Away, I'll hear no more;
Never was man so palpably abus'd,
My son so basely marted, and myself
Am made the subject of your mirth and scorn.
Max. Count Ferneze, you tread too hard upon my patience,
Do not persist, I advise your lordship.
Count. I will persist, and unto thee I speak;
Thou, Maximilian, thou hast injur'd me.
Max. Before the Lord:—
Aur. Sweet signior.
Phœ. O my father.
Max. Lady, let your father thank your beauty.
Pac. By gar, me shall be hang for tella dis same,
Me tella mademoiselle, she tell her fadera.
Count. The true Chamont set free, and one left here
Of no descent, clad barely, in his name.
Sirrah, boy, come hither, and be sure you speak the simple truth.
Pac. O pardone moy, monsieur.
Count. Come, leave you pardons, and directly say,
What villain is the same that hath usurpt
The honour'd name and person of Chamont.
Pac. O monsieur, no point villain, brave chevalier, Monsieur Gasper.
Count. Monsieur Gasper!
On what occasion did they change their names?
What was their policy or their pretext?
Pac. Me canno tell, par ma foy, monsieur.
Max. My honourable lord.
Count. Tut, tut, be silent.
Max. Silent, count Ferneze! I tell thee, if Amurath, the great Turk, were here, I would speak, and he should hear me.
Count. So will not I.
Max. By my father's hand, but thou shalt, count. I say, till this instant I was never touch'd in my reputation. Hear me, you shall know that you have wrong'd me, and I will make you acknowledge it; if I cannot, my sword shall.
Count. By heaven I will not, I will stop mine ears,
My senses lothe the savour of thy breath;
'Tis poison to me; I say, I will not hear.
What shall I know? 'tis you have injur'd me.
What will you make? make me acknowledge it.
Fetch forth that Gasper, that lewd counterfeit.
Enter serving-man with Camillo.
I'll make him to your face approve your wrongs.
Come on, false substance, shadow to Chamont,4
Had you none else to work upon but me?
Was I your fittest project? well, confess
What you intended by this secret plot,
And by whose policy it was contriv'd.
Speak truth, and be intreated courteously;
But double with me, and resolve to prove
The extremest rigour that I can inflict.
Cam. My honour'd lord, hear me with patience,
Nor hope of favour, nor the fear of torment,
Shall sway my tongue from uttering of truth.
Count. 'Tis well, proceed then.
Cam. The morn before this battle did begin,
Wherein my lord Chamont and I were ta'en,
We vow'd one mutual fortune, good or bad,
That day should be embraced of us both;
And urging that might worse succeed our vow,
We there concluded to exchange our names.
Count. Then Maximilian took you for Chamont.
Cam. True, noble lord.
Count. 'Tis false, ignoble wretch,
'Twas but a complot to betray my son.
Max. Count, thou lyest in thy bosom, count.
Cam. Nay, I beseech you, honour'd gentlemen,
Let not the untimely ruin of your love
Follow these slight occurrents; be assur'd
Chamont's return will heal these wounds again,
And break the points of your too piercing thoughts.
Count. Return! I, when? when will Chamont return?
He'll come to fetch you, will he? I, 'tis like.
You'd have me think so, that's your policy.
No, no, young gallant, your device is stale;
You cannot feed me with so vain a hope.
Cam. My lord, I feed you not with a vain hope,
I know assuredly he will return,
And bring your noble son along with him.
Max. I, I dare pawn my soul he will return.
Count. O impudent derision! open scorn!
Intolerable wrong! is't not enough
That you have play'd upon me all this while,
But still to mock me, still to jest at me?
Fellows, away with him; thou ill-bred slave,
That sett'st no difference 'twixt a noble spirit
And thy own slavish humour; do not think
But I'll take worthy vengeance on thee, wretch.
Cam. Alas, these threats are idle, like the wind,
And breed no terror in the guiltless mind.
Count. Nay thou shalt want no torture, so resolve;
Bring him away.
Cam. Welcome the worst, I suffer for a friend,
Your tortures will, my love shall never, end.
Manent Maximilian, Aurelia, Phœnixella, Pacue.
Phœn. Alas! poor gentleman, my father's rage
Is too extreme, too stern and violent.
O that I knew with all my strongest powers
How to remove it from thy patient breast!
But that I cannot, yet my willing heart
Shall minister, in spight of tyranny,
To thy misfortune; something there is in him
That doth enforce the strange affection
With more than common rapture in my breast:
For being but Jasper, he is still as dear
To me, as when he did Chamont appear.
Aur. But in good sadness, signior, do you think
Chamont will e'er return?
Max. Do I see your face, lady?
Aur. I, sure, if love has not blinded you.
Max. That is a question; but I will assure you no: I can see, and yet love is in mine eye. Well, the count your father simply hath dishonour'd me, and this steel shall engrave it on his burgonet.
Aur. Nay, sweet signior.
Max. Lady, I do prefer my reputation to my life;
But you shall rule me. Come, let's march.
Aur. I'll follow, signior. O sweet queen of love!
Sovereign of all my thoughts, and thou fair fortune,
Who (more to honour my affections)
Hast thus translated Gasper to Chamont!
Let both your flames now burn in one bright sphere,
And give true light to my aspiring hopes:
Hasten Chamont's return, let him affect me,
Though father, friends, and all the world reject me.
1 Fetch forth that Gasper, that lewd counterfeit.
Enter serving-man with Camillo.
Come on, false substance, shadow to Chamont.]
The whole incident of Paulo Ferneze's being taken prisoner on the one side, and Chamont and Camillo on the other, with the exchanging their names, and Camillo's being left for Chamont, is taken from the Captivi of Plautus. The son of Hegio is taken prisoner; and with a view to ransom his son by the exchange, Hegio buys Philocrates and Tyndarus, two Elian captives. Tyndarus is slave to Philocrates, and is left under his master's name, while the true Philocrates is sent to Elis, under the name of Tyndarus, to effect the liberty of Philoptolemus the son of Hegio. The fraud however is discovered to Hegio, before the return of Philocrates; and Tyndarus is put to the torture, and sent to the mines. At the return of Philoptolemus and Philocrates, with whom also there comes Stalagmus, a fugitive slave of Hegio, it is discovered that Tyndarus is the son of Hegio, who was carried away by Stalagmus at the age of four years, and sold by him to the father of Philocrates. The reader will perceive from this account, the exact similitude between the copy and the original; and I have been thus particular in pointing out the resemblance, for the assistance of those who may want the ability of comparing them together.
Enter Angelo, Christophero.
Ang. Sigh for a woman! would I fold mine arms,
Rave in my sleep, talk idly being awake,
Pine and look pale, make love walks in the night,
To steal cold comfort from a day-star's eyes.
Kit, thou'rt a fool; wilt thou be wise; then, lad,
Renounce this boy-god's nice idolatry,
Stand not on compliment, and wooing tricks;
Thou lov'st old Jaques's daughter, dost thou?
Chr. Love her!
Ang. Come, come, I know't; be rul'd, and she's thine own.
Thou'lt say, her father Jaques, the old beggar,
Hath pawn'd his word to thee, that none but thou
Shalt be his son-in-law.
Chr. He has.
Ang. He has!
Wilt thou believe him, and be made a cook,
To wait on such an antique weather-cock;
While he is more inconstant than the sea,
His thoughts, Camelion-like, change every minute.
No, Kit, work soundly, steal the wench away,
Wed her, and bed her, and when that is done,
Then say to Jaques, shall I be your son?
But come, to our device; where is this gold?
Chr. Here, signior Angelo.
Ang. Bestow it, bid thy hands shed golden drops;
Let these bald French crowns be uncover'd,
In open sight to do obeysance
To Jaques' staring eyes when he sets forth;
The needy beggar will be glad of gold.
So now keep them aloof, and as he treads
This gilded path, stretch out his ambling hopes
With scattering more and more, and as thou goest,
Cry Jaques, Jaques.
Chr. Tush, let me alone.
Ang. But first, I'll play the ghost, I'll call him out;
Kit, keep aloof.
Chr. But, signior Angelo,
Where will yourself and Rachel stay for me,
After the jest is ended?
Ang. Mass, that's true,
At the old priory behind St. Foy's.
Chr. Agreed, no better place: I'll meet you there.
Ang. Now to this geer, — Jaques! Jaques! what Jaques!
Jaq. within. Who calls? who's there?
Jaq. within. Who calls?
Ang. Steward, he comes, he comes, Jaques.
Jaq. What voice is this?
No body here? was I not call'd? I was;
And one cry'd Jaques with a hollow voice.
I was deceiv'd; no, I was not deceiv'd.
See, see, it was an angel call'd me forth.
Gold, gold, man-making gold! another star!
Drop they from heav'n? no, no, my house, I hope,
Is haunted with a fairy. My dear Lar,
My houshold god, my fairy, on my knees.
Jaq. My Lar doth call me; O sweet voice,
Musical as the spheres! see, see, more gold!
Chr. within. Jaques!
Jaq. What Rachel, Rachel, lock my door, look to my house.
Chr. within. Jaques!
Jaq. Shut fast my door;
A golden crown, Jaques shall be a king.
Ang. To a fool's paradise that path will bring
Thee and thy houshold Lar.
Rach. What means my father?
I wonder what strange humour ——
Ang. Come, sweet soul,
Leave wondering, start not, 'twas I laid this plot,
To get your father forth.
Rach. O Angelo!
Ang. O me no O's, but hear; my lord, your love,
Paulo Ferneze, is return'd from war,
Lingers at Pont Valerio, and from thence,
By post, at midnight last, I was conjur'd
To man you thither. Stand not on replies,
A horse is saddled for you, will you go?
And I am for you, if you will stay, why so.
Rach. O Angelo, each minute is a day
Till my Ferneze come; come, we'll away, sir.
Ang. Sweet soul, I guess thy meaning by thy looks;
At Pont Valerio thou thy love shalt see,
But not Ferneze. Steward, fare you well;
You wait for Rachel too, when can you tell?
Jaq. O in what golden circle have I danc'd!
Milan, these od'rous and enflower'd fields
Are none of thine; no, here's Elizium;
Here blessed ghosts do walk; this is the court
And glorious palace, where the god of gold
Shines like the sun of sparkling majesty.
O my fair-feather'd, my red-breasted birds,
Come flie with me, I'll bring you to a choir,
Whose concert being sweeten'd with your sound,
The musick will be fuller, and each hour
The ears shall banquet with your harmony.
O! O! O!
Chr. At the old priory behind St. Foy's,
That was the place of our appointment, sure;
I hope he will not make me lose my gold,
And mock me too: perhaps they are within;
Jaq. O god, the case is alter'd!
Chr. Rachel! Angelo! signior Angelo!
Jaq. Angels! I, where? mine angels! where's my gold?
Why Rachel! O thou thievish Canibal!
Thou eat'st my flesh in stealing of my gold.
Chr. What gold?
Jaq. What gold? Rachel! call help, come forth!
I'll rip thine entrails, but I'll have my gold.
Rachel! why com'st thou not? I am undone.
Ah me, she speaks not! thou has slain my child.
Christ. What is the man possest, trow! this is strange!
Rachel, I see, is gone with Angelo.
Well, I will once again into the priory,
And see if I can meet them.
Jaq. 'Tis too true,
Th'ast made away my child, thou hast my gold:
O what hiena call'd me out of doors?
The thief is gone, my gold's gone, Rachel's gone,
All's gone! save I that spend my cries in vain;
But I'll hence too, and die, or end this pain.
Enter Juniper, Onion, Finio, Valentine.
Junip. 'Swounds, let me go; hey catso, catch him alive; I call, I call, boy; I come, I come, sweet heart.
Oni. Page, hold my rapier, while I hold my friend here.
Val. O here's a sweet metamorphosis, a couple of buzzards turn'd to a pair of peacocks.
Junip. Signior Onion, lend me thy boy to unhang my rapier.
Oni. Signior Juniper, for once or so; but truth is, you must inveigle, as I have done, my lord's page here, a poor follower of mine.
Junip. Hey ho! your page then cannot be superintendant upon me; he shall not be addicted, he shall not be incident, he shall not be incident, he shall not be incident,
[He foynes. shall he?
Fin. O sweet signior Juniper!
Junip. 'Sblood stand away, princocks, do not aggravate my joy.
Val. Nay, good master Onion.
Oni. Nay, and he have the heart to draw my blood, let him come.
Junip. I'll slice you, Onion; I'll slice you.
Oni. I'll cleave you, Juniper.
Val. Why hold, hold, ho! what do you mean?
Junip. Let him come, Ingle; stand by, boy, his alabaster blade cannot fear me.
Fin. Why hear you, sweet signior, let not there be any contention between my master and you about me; if you want a page, sir, I can help you to a proper stripling.
Junip. Canst thou? what parentage, what ancestry, what genealogy is he?
Fin. A French boy, sir.
Junip. Has he his French linguist? has he?
Fin. I, sir.
Junip. Then transport him; here's a crusado for thee.
Oni. You will not imbezzle my servant with your benevolence, will you? hold, boy, there's a portmanteau for thee.
Fin. Lord, sir!
Oni. Do, take it, boy; it's three pounds ten shillings, a portmanteau.
Fin. I thank your lordship.
Junip. Sirrah Ningle, thou art a traveller, and I honour thee. I prithee discourse, cherish thy muse, discourse.
Val. Of what, sir?
Junip. Of what thou wilt; 'sblood, hang sorrow.
Oni. Prithee, Valentine, assoile me one thing.
Val. 'Tis pity to soil you, sir, your new apparel.
Oni. Mass thou say'st true, apparel makes a man Forget himself.
Junip. Begin, find your tongue, Ningle.
Val. Now will I gull these ganders rarely: Gentlemen, having in my peregrination through Mesopotamia. ———
Junip. Speak legibly, this game's gone, without the great mercy of God.
Here's a fine tragedy indeed. There's a Keisar royal.
By god'slid, nor king, nor Keisar shall.
Enter Finio, Pacue, Balthasar, Martino.
Balt. Where, where, Finio, where be they?
Junip. Go to, I'll be with you anon.
Oni. O here's the page, signior Juniper.
Junip. What says monsieur Onion, boy?
Fin. What say you, sir?
Junip. Tread out, boy.
Fin. Take up, you mean, sir.
Junip. Tread out, I say; so, I thank you, is this the boy?
Pac. Aue, monsieur.
Junip. Who gave you that name?
Pac. Give me de name, vat name?
Oni. He thought your name had been We. Young gentleman, you must do more than his legs can do for him, bear with him, sir.
Junip. Sirrah, give me instance of your carriage; you'll serve my turn, will you?
Pac. Vat, turn upon the toe?
Fin. O signior, no.
Junip. Page, will you follow me? I'll give you good exhibition.
Pac. By gar, shall not alone follow you, but shall lead you too.
Oni. Plaguy boy, he sooths his humour; these French villains ha' pocky wits.
Junip. Here, disarm me, take my semitary.
Val. O rare! this would be a rare man, and he had a little travel. Balthasar, Martino, put off your shoes, and bid him cobble them.
Junip. Friends, friends, but pardon me for fellows, no more in occupation, no more in corporation; 'tis so, pardon me; the case is alter'd; this is law, but I'll stand to nothing.
Pac. Dat so me tink.
Junip. Well, then God save the duke's majesty; is this any harm now? speak, is this any harm now?
Oni. No, nor good neither, 'sblood.
Junip. Do you laugh at me? do you laugh at me? do you laugh at me?
Val. I, sir, we do.
Junip. You do indeed?
Val. I, indeed, sir.
Junip. 'Tis sufficient; page carry my purse; dog me.
Oni. Gentlemen, leave him not; you see in what case he is; he is not in adversity, his purse is full of money; leave him not.
Enter Angelo, with Rachel.
Ang. Nay, gentle Rachel.
Rach. Away, forbear, ungentle Angelo,
Touch not my body with those impious hands,
That, like hot irons, sear my trembling heart,
And make it hiss at your disloyalty.
[Enter Chamont, Paulo Ferneze.
Was this your drift, to use Ferneze's name?
Was he your fittest stale? O wild dishonour!
Paul. Stay, noble sir.
Ang. 'Sblood, how like a puppet do you talk now!
Dishonour! what dishonour! come, come, fool;
Nay, then I see y'are peevish. S'heart, dishonour!
To have you to a priest, and marry you,
And put you in an honourable state.
Rach. To marry me! O heaven! can it be?
That men should live with such unfeeling souls,
Without or touch or conscience of religion?
Or that their warping appetites should spoil
Those honour'd forms, that the true scale of friendship
Had set upon their faces?
Ang. Do you hear?
What needs all this? say, will you have me, or no?
Rach. I'll have you gone, and leave me, if you would.
Ang. Leave you! I was accurst to bring you hither,
And make so fair an offer to a fool.
A pox upon you, why should you be coy,
What good thing have you in you to be proud of?
Are ye any other than a beggar's daughter?
Because you have beauty. O god's light! a blast!
Pau. I, Angelo.
Ang. You scornful baggage,
I lov'd thee not so much, but now I hate thee.
Rach. Upon my knees, you heavenly powers, I thank you,
That thus have tam'd his wild affections.
Ang. This will not do, I must to her again.
Rachel, O that thou sawest my heart, or didst behold
The place from whence that scalding sigh evented!
Rachel, by Jesu, I love thee as my soul, Rachel, sweet Rachel.
Rach. What again return'd
Unto this violent passion!
Ang. Do but hear me;
By heaven I love you, Rachel.
Rach. Pray forbear.
O that my lord Ferneze were but here!
Ang. 'Sblood an' he were, what would he
Pau. This would he do, base villain.
Rach. My dear lord.
Paul. Thou monster! even the soul of treachery!
O what dishonour'd title of reproach
May my tongue spit in thy deserved face!
Methinks my very presence should invert
The steeled organs of those traiterous eyes,
To take into thy heart, and pierce it through.
Turn'st thou them on the ground! wretch, dig a grave
With their sharp points, to hide thy abhorred head.
Sweet love, thy wrongs have been too violent
Since my departure from thee, I perceive;
But now true comfort shall again appear,
And, like an armed angel, guard thee safe
From all th' assaults of cover'd villainy.
Come, monsieur, let us go, and leave this wretch
To his despair.
Ang. My noble Ferneze.
Pau. What canst thou speak to me, and not thy tongue,
Forc'd with the torment of thy guilty soul,
Break that infected circle of thy mouth,
Like the rude clapper of a crazed bell?
I, that in thy bosom lodg'd my soul,
With all her train of secrets, thinking them
To be as safe and richly entertain'd
As in a prince's court, or tower of strength,
And thou to prove a traitor to my trust,
And basely to expose it; O this world!
Ang. My honourable lord.
Pau. The very owl, whom other birds do stare
And wonder at, shall hoot at thee; and snakes,
In every bush, shall deaf thine ears with their —
Cha. Nay, good my lord, give end unto your passions.
Ang. You shall see I will redeem your lost opinion.
Rach. My lord, believe him.
Cha. Come, be satisfy'd;
Sweet lord, you know our haste; let us to horse,
The time for my engag'd return is past.
Be friends again, take him along with you.
Pau. Come, signior Angelo, hereafter prove more true.
Enter count Ferneze, Maximilian, Francisco.
Count. Tut, Maximilian, for your honour'd self,
I am persuaded; but no words shall turn
The edge of purpos'd vengeance on that wretch.
Come, bring him forth to execution.
Enter Camillo bound, with servants.
I'll hang him for my son, he shall not 'scape,
Had he a hundred lives. Tell me, vile slave,
Think'st thou I love my son? is he my flesh?
Is he my blood, my life? and shall all these
Be tortur'd for thy sake, and not reveng'd?
Truss up the villain.
Max. My lord, there is no law to confirm this action.
Count. Dishonourable, Maximilian!
It is dishonourable in Chamont,
The day of his prefixt return is past,
And he shall pay for't.
Cam. My lord, my lord,
Use your extremest vengeance; I'll be glad
To suffer ten times more for such a friend.
Count. O resolute and peremptory wretch!
Franc. My honour'd lord, let us intreat a word.
Count. I'll hear no more; I say, he shall not live;
Myself will do it. Stay, what form is this
Stands betwixt him and me, and holds my hand?
What miracle is this? 'tis my own fancy
Carves this impression in me; my soft nature
That ever hath retain'd such foolish pity
Of the most abject creature's misery,
That it abhors it. What a child am I
To have a child? ah me! my son, my son!
Chr. O my dear love, what is become of thee?
What unjust absence layest thou on my breast,
Like weights of lead, when swords are at my back,
That run me thorough with thy unkind flight,
My gentle disposition waxeth wild;
I shall run frantick: O my love, my love!
Jaq. My gold, my gold, my life, my soul, my heaven!
What is become of thee? see, I'll impart
My miserable loss to my good lord.
Let me have search, my lord, my gold is gone.
Count. My son, Christophero, think'st thou it possible
I ever shall behold his face again?
Chr. O father, where's my love? were you so careless
To let an unthrift steal away your child?
Jaq. I know your lordship may find out my gold.
For god's sake pity me; justice, sweet lord.
Count. Now they have young Chamont, Christophero,
Surely they never will restore my son.
Chr. Who would have thought you could have been so careless
To lose your only daughter?
Jaq. Who would think
That looking to my gold with such hare's eyes,
That ever open, I, even when I sleep,
I thus should lose my gold, my noble lord,
What says your lordship?
Count. O my son, my son!
Chr. My dearest Rachel!
Jaq. My most honey gold!
Count. Hear me, Christophero.
Chr. Nay, hear me, Jaques.
Jaq. Hear me, most honour'd lord.
Max. What rule is here?
Count. O god, that we should let Chamont escape.
Enter Aurelia, Phœnixella.
Chr. I, and that Rachel, such a virtuous maid,
Should be thus stolen away.
Jaq. And that my gold,
Being so hid in earth, should be found out.
Max. O confusion of languages, and yet no tower of Babel!
Fran. Ladies, beshrew me, if you come not fit
To make a jangling consort; will you laugh
To see three constant passions.
Max. Stand by,
I will urge them; sweet count, will you be comforted?
Count. It cannot be
But he is handled the most cruelly
That ever any noble prisoner was.
Max. Steward, go chear my lord.
Chr. Well, if Rachel took her flight willingly.
Max. Sirrah, speak you touching your daughter's flight?
Jaq. O that I could so soon forget to know
The thief again that had my gold, my gold.
Max. Is not this pure?
Count. O thou base wretch, I'll drag thee through the streets;
Enter Balthasar, and whispers with him.
And as a monster make thee wonder'd at.
Phœn. Sweet gentleman, how too unworthily
Art thou thus tortur'd! brave Maximilian,
Pity the poor youth, and appease my father.
Count. How! my son return'd? O Maximilian,
Francisco, daughters! bid him enter here.
Enter Chamont, Ferneze, Rachel, Angelo.
Dost thou not mock me? O my dear Paulo, welcome.
Max. My lord Chamont!
Cha. My Gasper!
Jaq. My gold, Rachel, my gold.
Count. Somebody bid the beggar cease his noise.
Chr. O signior Angelo, would you deceive
Your honest friend, that simply trusted you?
Well, Rachel, I am glad thou art here again.
Ang. I'faith she is not for you, steward.
Jaq. I beseech you, madam, urge your father.
Phœn. I will anon; good Jaques, be content.
Aur. Now god-a-mercy fortune, and sweet Venus.
Let Cupid do his part, and all is well.
Phœn. Methinks, my heart's in heaven with this comfort.
Chamont. Is this the true Italian courtesy?
Ferneze, were you tortur'd thus in France?
By my soul's safety ————.
Count. My most noble lord,
I do beseech your lordship.
Cha. Honour'd count,
Wrong not your age with flexure of a knee,
I do impute it to those cares and griefs
That did torment you in your absent son.
Count. O worthy gentlemen, I am asham'd
That my extreme affection to my son
Should give my honour so uncur'd a maim;
But my first son being in Vicenza lost.
Cha. How! in Vicenza! lost you a son there?
About what time, my lord?
Count. O the same night
Wherein your noble father took the town.
Cha. How long's that since, my lord? can you remember?
Count. 'Tis now well nigh upon the twentieth year.
Cha. And how old was he then?
Count. I cannot tell;
Between the years of three and four, I take it.
Cha. Had he no special note in his attire,
Or otherwise, that you can call to mind?
Count. I cannot well remember his attire;
But I have often heard his mother say,
He had about his neck a tablet,
Given to him by the emperor Sigismund,
His godfather, with this inscription,
Under the figure of a silver globe,
In minimo mundus.
Cha. How did you call your son, my lord?
Count. Camillo, lord Chamont.
Cha. Then no more my Gasper, but Camillo,
Take notice of your father. Gentlemen,
Stand not amaz'd; here is a tablet,
With that inscription, found about his neck,
That night, and in Vicenza, by my father,
(Who being ignorant what name he had
Christen'd him Gasper;) nor did I reveal
This secret, till this hour, to any man.
Count. O happy revelation! O blest hour!
O my Camillo!
Phœn. O strange! my brother!
Behold how the abundance of his joy
Drowns him in tears of gladness.
Count. O my boy,
Forgive thy father's late austerity.
Max. My lord, I delivered as much before, but your honour would not be persuaded; I will hereafter give more observance to my visions; I dreamt of this.
Jaq. I can be still no longer, my good lord;
Do a poor man some grace amongst all your joys.
Count. Why what's the matter, Jaques?
Jaq. I am robb'd;
I am undone, my lord; robb'd and undone.
A heap of thirty thousand golden crowns
Stolen from me in one minute, and I fear
By her confederacy that calls me father;
But she is none of mine, therefore, sweet lord,
Let her be tortur'd to confess the truth.
Max. More wonders yet.
Count. How, Jaques! is not Rachel then thy daughter?
Jaq. No, I disclaim in her; I spit at her:
She is a harlot, and her customers,
Your son, this gallant, and your steward here,
Have all been partners with her in my spoil;
No less than thirty thousand.
Count. Jaques, Jaques,
This is impossible; how shouldst thou come
To the possession of so huge a heap,
Being always a known beggar?
Jaq. Out, alas!
I have betray'd myself with my own tongue;
The case is alter'd.
Count. Some one stay him here.
Max. What means he to depart? count
Ferneze, upon my soul this beggar, this beggar is a counterfeit.
Urge him: didst thou lose gold?
Jaq. O no, I lost no gold.
Max. Said I not true?
Count. How! didst thou first lose thirty thousand crowns,
And now no gold? was Rachel first thy child,
And is she now no daughter? sirrah, Jaques,
You know how far our Milan laws extend
For punishing of lyars.
Jaq. I, my lord.
What shall I do? I have no starting-holes.
Monsieur Chamont, stand you, my honour'd lord.
Cha. For what, old man?
Jaq. Ill-gotten goods ne'er thrive;
I play'd the thief, and now am robb'd myself.
I am not what I seem, Jaques de Prie,
Nor was I born a beggar as I am,
But some time steward to your noble father.
Cha. What, Melun, that robb'd my father's treasure,
Stole my sister?
Jaq. I, I; that treasure's lost, but Isabel,
Your beauteous sister, here survives in Rachel;
And therefore on my knees ———
Max. Stay, Jaques, stay;
The case still alters.
Count. Fair Rachel, sister to the lord Chamont!
Ang. Steward, your cake is dow, as well as mine.
Pau. I see that honour's flames cannot be hid,
No more than lightning in the blackest cloud.
Max. Then, sirrah, 'tis true, you have lost this gold.
Jaq. I, worthy signior, thirty thousand crowns.
Count. Mass, who was it told me, that a couple of my men were become gallants of late?
Fran. Marry, 'twas I, my lord; my man told me.
Enter Onion and Juniper.
Max. How now! what pageant is this?
Junip. Come, signior Onion, let's not be asham'd to appear;
Keep state, look not ambiguous now.
Oni. Not I, while I am in this suit.
Junip. Lordlings, equivalence to you all.
Oni. We thought good to be so good as see you, gentlemen.
Max. What, monsieur Onion!
Oni. How dost thou, good captain?
Count. What, are my hinds turn'd gentlemen?
Oni. Hinds, sir! 'sblood, and that word will bear an action; it shall cost us a thousand pound a piece, but we'll be reveng'd.
Junip. Wilt thou sell thy lordship, count?
Count. What, peasants purchase lordships?
Junip. Is that any novels, sir?
Max. O transmutation of elements! it is certified you had pages.
Junip. I, sir; but it is known they proved ridiculous; they did pilfer, they did purloin, they did procrastinate our purses; for the which wasting of our stock, we have put them to the stocks.
Count. And thither shall you two presently.
These be the villains that stole Jaques' gold;
Away with them, and set them with their men.
Max. Onion, you will now be peel'd.
Fran. The case is alter'd now.
Oni. Good my lord, good my lord.
Junip. Away, scoundrel; dost thou fear a little elocution?
Shall we be confiscate now? shall we droop now?
Shall we be now in helogabolus?
Oni. Peace, peace, leave thy gabling.
Count. Away, away with them; what's this they prate?
[Exeunt with Juniper and Onion.
Keep the knaves sure; strict inquisition
Shall presently be made for Jaques' gold,
To be dispos'd at pleasure of Chamont.
Cha. She is your own, lord Paulo, if your father
Give his consent.
Ang. How now, Christophero! the case is alter'd.
Chr. With you as well as me; I am content, sir.
Count. With all my heart; and in exchange of her,
(If with your fair acceptance it may stand)
I tender my Aurelia to your love.
Cha. I take her from your lordship with all thanks,
And bless the hour wherein I was made prisoner,
For the fruition of this present fortune,
So full of happy and unlook'd-for joys.
Melun, I pardon thee; and for the treasure
Recover it, and hold it as thine own:
It is enough for me to see my sister
Live in the circle of Ferneze's arms,
My friend, the son of such a noble father;
And my unworthy self wrapt above all
By being the lord of so divine a dame.
Max. Well, I will now swear the case is altered. Lady, fare you well; I will subdue my affections. Madam, as for you, you are a profest virgin, and I will be silent. My honourable lord Ferneze, it shall become you at this time not to be frugal, but bounteous, and open-handed; your fortune hath been so to you, lord Chamont.
You are now no stranger; you must be welcome; you have a fair, amiable, and splendid lady: but signior Paulo, signior Camillo, I know you valiant, be loving. Lady, I must be better known to you. Signiors, for you, I pass you not, though I let you pass; for in truth I pass not of you. Lovers to your nuptials, lordlings to your dances; march fair all, for a fair march is worth a king's ransome.
This Comedy was sundry times acted by the Children of the Black-Friars.
This web edition published by:
The University of Adelaide Library
University of Adelaide
South Australia 5005