1 housekeeper. I have but one, ile send her down to you.

3 neigh. Is this the maide? [Come out maide.

Salt. No, sir, this is not she. [Go to another, &c. How many maides do dwell within this house?

2 house. Her's nere a woman here, except my wife. [Go to Merryes.

3 neigh. Whose house is this?

Lo. An honest civill mans, cald Maister Merry, Who I dare be sworne, would never do so great a murther; But you may aske heere to for fashion sake.

[Rachell sits in the shop.

3. How now, faire maide, dwels any here but you? Thou hast too true a face for such a deed.

Rach. No, gentle sir; my brother keepes no more.

3 neigh. This is not she?

Salt. No truly, gentleman.

[Ex. R.

3. This will not serve; we cannot finde her out. Bring in those bodyes, it growes towards night; God bring these damn'd murtherers at length to light!

[Exeunt omnes.



[SCENE V.]

Enter Merry and Rachell.

Mer. Why go the neighbours round about the streete To every house? what hast thou heard the cause?

Rach. They go about with that same Salters man, Of whom I bought the bag but yesterday, To see if he can know the maide againe Which bought it: this I think the very cause.

Mer. How were my senses overcome with feare, That I could not foresee this jeopardy! For had I brought the bag away with me, They had not had this meanes to finde it out. Hide thee above least that the Salters man Take notice of thee that thou art the maide, And by that knowledge we be all undone.

Rach. That feare is past, I sawe, I spake with him, Yet he denies that I did buy the bag; Besides the neighbours have no doubt of you, Saying you are an honest harmelesse man, And made enquirie heere for fashion sake.

Mer. My former life deserves their good conceits, Which is not blemisht with this treacherie. My heart is merier then it was before, For now I hope the greatest feare is past. The hammer is denyed, the bag unknowne; Now there is left no meanes to bring it out, Unless our selves proove Traitors to our selves.

Rach. When saw you Hary Williams?

Me. Why, to day; I met him comming home from Powles Crosse, Where he had beene to heare a Sermon.

Rach. Why brought you not the man along with you To come to dinner, that we might perswade Him to continue in his secrecie?

Mer. I did intreate him, but he would not come, But vow'd to be as secret as my selfe.

Rach. What, did he sweare?

Mer. What neede you aske me that? You know we never heard him sweare an othe. But since he hath conceal'd the thing thus long, I hope in God he will conceale it still.

Rach. Pray God he do, and then I have no doubt But God will overpasse this greevous sinne, If you lament with true unfained teares And seeke to live the remnant of your yeares In Gods true feare with upright conscience.

Mer. If it would please him pardon this amisse And rid my body from the open shame That doth attend this deed, being brought to light, I would endevour all my comming dayes To please my maker and exalt his praise. But it growes late, come bring me to my bed, That I may rest my sorrow-charged head.

Rach. Rest still in calme secure tranquillitie, And over-blowe this storme of mightie feare With pleasant gales of hoped quietnesse. Go when you will; I will attend, and pray To send this wofull night a cheerfull day.

[Exeunt.



[SCENE VI.]

Enter Falleria and Sostrata weeping.

Fall. Passe ore these rugged furrowes of laments And come to plainer pathes of cheerefulnesse; Cease thy continuall showers of thy woe. And let my pleasing wordes of comfort chase These[35] duskie cloudes of thy uniust dispaire Farre from thy hart, and let a pleasing hope Of young Pertillos happy safe returne Establish all your ill-devining thoughts; So shall you make me cheerfull that am sad,— And feede your hopes with fond illusions.

Sos. I could be so; but my divided soule, Twixt feare and hope of young Pertillos life, Cannot arrive at the desired port Of firme beleefe, until mine eyes do see Him that I sent to know the certainetie.

Fal. To know the certaintie! of whom, of what? Whome, whether, when, or whereabout, I praie, Have you dispatcht a frustrate messenger?— By heaven, and earth, my heart misgiveth[36] me, They will prevent my cunning pollicie. [To the people. Why speake you not? what winged Pegasus Is posted for your satisfaction?

Sos. Me thinkes my speach reveales a hidden feare, And that feare telles me that the childe is dead.

Fall. By sweete S. Andrew and my fathers soule, I thinke the peevish boy be too too well But speake, who was your passions harbinger?

Sos. One that did kindle my misdoubting thoughts, With the large flame of his timiddity.

Fall. Oh then I know the tinder of your feare. Was young Allenso your white[37] honnie sonne. Confusion light upon his timerous head, For broching this large streame of fearefulnesse! And all the plagues that damned furies feele For their forepassed bold iniquities, Afflict you both for thus preventing me!

Sos. Preventing you! of what? Fallerio, speake, For if you doe not my poore hart will breake.

Fall. Why of the good that I had purposed, To young Pertillo, which I would conceale From you and him until the deed were done.

Sost. If it were good, then we affect him deare, And would add furtherance to your enterprise.

Fall. I say your close eaves-dropping[38] pollicies Have hindred him of greater benefits Then I can ever do him after this.— If he live long, and growe to riper sinne, [To the people. Heele cursse you both, that thus have hindered His freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.— But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne, That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde, To guarde the safetie of his better part, Which he hath pend within the childish coope Of young Pertillos sweete securitie?

Sost. That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life, The root of vertuous magnamitie, That doth affect with an unfained love, That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye, Deserveth most to be affected deare, Went some two houres after the little boy Was sent away to keepe[39] at Padua.

Fall. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade, A one eyde Cyclops, a stigmaticke[40] brat, That durst attempt to contradict my will, And prie into my close intendements.

Enter Alenso sad.

Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke, Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.— I hope the brat is posted to his sire, That he is growne so lazie of his pace; Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.— Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle, That little Dromus that crept into my sonne, With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away? Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.

Allen. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye, Your note of shame and comming miserie.

Fall. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare; She was almost dead before for very feare.

Allen. Would I could roare as instruments of warre, Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder Is toucht with part of Etnas Element! Would I could bellow like enraged Buls, Whose harts are full of indignation, To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie! Would I could thunder like Almightie Ioue, That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie The wicked hearts of earthly citizens! Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say, Mother, lament, Pertillos made away!

Sost. What, is he dead? God give me leave to die, And him repentance for his treacherie! [Falleth down and dyeth.

Fall. Never the like impietie was done: A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne! Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made, And seeke to call back life with dilligence.

Allen. Call back a happy creature to more woe! That were a sinne: good Father, let her go. 0 happy I, if my tormenting smart, Could rend like her's, my griefe-afflicted heart! Would your hard hart extend unto your wife, To make her live an everdying life? What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she, Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie!

Fall. I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide! But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde: That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound, Untimely sent thy mother to the ground: Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother; Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother.

Allen. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyce To have such power in my death-bringing voice, See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes; Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes, I doe behold with cheerefull countenance The livelesse roote of my nativitie, And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.— Now, father, give attention to my tale; I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue In bitter wordes of reprehension. Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head Then wit or reason can remove againe; For to be briefe, Pertillo, (oh that name Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!) Is murthered, and—

Fal. What and? this newes is good.

Allen. The men which you suborn'd to murther him—

Fal. Better and better, then it cannot out, Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [sic] That it will overthrowe your selfe and me.

Allen. The best is last, and yet you hinder me. The Duke of Padua hunting in the wood, Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen—

Fal. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?

Allen. Was made acquainted by the one of them, (That had some little remnant of his life) With all your practice and conspiracie.

Fall. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell, To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases, Rather then bring my life in ieopardie! Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne, And make a iest at my calamitie?

Allen. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe, If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.

Fal. Declare it then, my wits are now to seeke; That peece of life hath so confounded mee That I am wholly overcome with feare.

Allen. The Duke hath vow'd to prosecute your life, With all the strict severitie he can; But I will crosse his resolution And keepe you from his furie well enough. Ile weare your habit, I will seeme the man That did suborne the bloodie murtherers; I will not stir from out this house of woe, But waight the comming of the officers, And answere for you fore the angrie Duke, And, if neede be, suffer your punishment.

Fall. Ile none of that; I do not like the last; I love thee dearer then I doe my life, And all I did, was to advance thy state To sunne-bright beames of shining happinesse.

Allen. Doubte not my life, for when I doe appeare Before the Duke, I being not the man, He can inflict no punishment on mee.

Fall. Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee; Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie. But for my beard thou canst not counterfet And bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne; White frostes are never seene in summers spring.

Allen. I bought a beard this day at Padua, Such as our common actors use to weare When youth would put on ages countenance; So like in shape, in colour, and in all, To that which growes upon your aged face, That were I dressed in your abilimentes, Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.

Fall. That's excellent. What shape hast thou devis'd, To be my vizard to delude the worlde?

Allen. Why thus: ile presentlie shave off your haire, And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede; Then you will seeme to have the carefull charge Of some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke, And so passe currant from suspition.

Fall. This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie, Nature in thee hath firme predominance, That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch, Can shake thee with their strongest violence: In this disguise, ile see the end of thee, That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.

Allen. I am assur'd to be exempt from woe:— This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe. [(To the) People.

Fall. I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife, Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife. [Exit.

Allen. Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe, Which hath abridg'd whole numbers numberlesse Of hart-surcharging deplorations. She shall have due and Christian funerall, And rest in peace amongst her auncestors. As for our bodies, they shall be inter'd, In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes, Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers, That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmes Of blood-delighting hatefull murtherers. And yet these many winged sepulchers, Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall, At last attaine to earth by funerall. Well I will prosecute my pollicy, That wished death may end my miseries.

[Exit.



[SCENE VII.]

Enter Cowley and Williams.

Cow. Still in your dumpes, good Harry? yet at last, Utter your motive of this heavinesse. Why go you not unto your maisters house? What, are you parted? if that be the cause, I will provide you of a better place.

Wil. Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke; That is the cause,—because I cannot stay With him whose love is dearer then my life.

Cow. Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?

Wil. We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.

Cow. What, did he feare your truth or honest life?

Wil. No, no, your understanding is but dimme, That farre-remooved cannot iudge the feare. We both were fearefull, and we both did part, Because indeed we both were timerous.

Cow. What accident begot your mutuall feare?

Wil. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.

Cow. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.

Wil. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine; I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.

Cow. It seemes to be a thing of consequence, And therefore prithie, Harry, for my love, Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.

Wil. Were I assur'd my hart should have release Of secret torment and distemperature, I would reveale it to you specially Whom I have found my faithfull favorite.

Cow. Good Harrie Williams, make no doubt of that; Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe, Beyond your present expectation. Then tell it, Harry, what soere it be, And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.

Wil. Then have you heard of Beech of Lambert Hill, And of his boy which late were murthered?

Cow. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.

Will. But have you heard of them that murthered them?

Cow. No, would I had, for then Ide blaze their shame, And make them pay due penance for their sinne.

Wil. This I misdoubted, therefore will forbeare To utter what I thought to have reveald.

Cow. Knowst thou the actors of this murthrous deed, And wilt conceale it now the deed is done? Alas, poore man, thou knowest not what thou doost! Thou hast incur'd the danger of the lawe And thou mongst them must suffer punishment, Unlesse thou do confesse it presentlie.

Wil. What? shall I then betray my maisters life?

Cow. Better then hazard both thy life and soule To boulster out such barbarous villanie. Why, then belike your maister did the deed?

Wil. My maister unawares escapt my mouth; But what the Lord doth please shall come to light, Cannot be hid by humaine pollicie: His haplesse hand hath wrought the fatall end Of Robert Beech and Thomas Winchester.

Cow. Could he alone do both those men to death? Hadst thou no share in execution?

Wil. Nor knew not of it, till the deed was done.

Cow. If this be true, thou maist escape with life: Confesse the truth unto the officers, And thou shalt finde the favour of the lawe.

Wil. If I offended, 'twas my Maister's love That made me hide his great transgressions: But I will be directed as you please. So save me God, as I am innocent!

[Exeunt.



[SCENE VIII.]

Enter Alenso in Falleriaes apparell and berd; Falleria shaven in shepheards habilliments.

Fal. Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me, And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee, Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise. I like a shepheard now must learn to know, When to lead foorth my little bleating flock, To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes; In stormie time to drive them to the lee; To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voice Doth crave the wished comfort of their dams; To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes, In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals; And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away, That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.

Allen. Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe away From sillie creatures wanting intellecte, And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts, To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne! As pure and innocent as any Lambe Pertillo was, which you have fed upon. But things past helpe may better be bewaild With carefull teares, then finde a remedie; Therefore, for feare our practise be espide, Let us to question of our husbandrie. How many Lambes fell from the middle flock, Since I myselfe did take the latter view?

Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto.

Fall. Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead. But three and twenty scud about the fields, That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.

Vesu. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes, That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.

Allen. What is the time to let the Weathers blood? The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse, Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood, Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes, The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.

Fall. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time, Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]

Vesu. Forbeare a while this idle businesse, And talke of matters of more consequence.

Fall. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man, To call a shepheards care an idle toye. What though we have a little merry sport With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe, And jolly friskins on a holly-day, Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.

Vesu. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!— And now, Fallerio, in the Princes name, I do arrest you, for the cruell murther Of young Pertillo, left unto your charge, Which you discharged with a bloody writ, Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne. Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence, To ratifie your Stigian cruelty, That cannot be deluded any way.

Allen. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say! As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well: I sent him yesterday to Padua.

Alber. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes, As will not winck at your iniquitie.

Allen. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent! Say what you will, I know my conscience.

Fal.—To be afflicted with a scourge of care, Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.

Turq. Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more; That heart that could invent such treachery, Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.

Alen. I do defie your accusations; Let me have justice, I will answere it.

Vesuv. So, beare him hence! I meane to stay behinde, To take possession of his goods and landes For the Dukes use: it is too manifest.

Allen. I hope youle answere anything you doe. My Lord Vesuvio, you shall answere it, And all the rest that use extremities.

Alber. I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.

[Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria.

Fal. Thus shades are caught when substances are fled. Indeede they have my garments, but my selfe Am close enough from their discoverie; But not so close but that my verie soule, Is ract with tormentes for Pertillos death. I am Acteon; I doe beare about, My hornes of shame and inhumanitie. My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me With hope of great succeeding benefits, Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart With feare of death and tortring punishment. These are the stings whenas our consciences Are stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes. Well, I must smoather all these discontentes, And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce Then rugged care would willingly permit. Ile to the Court to see Allenso free, That he may then relieve my povertie.

[Exit.



[SCENE IX.]

Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes.

Con. Who would have thought of all the men alive That Thomas Merry would have done this deede So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!

1 wat. Of all the men that live in London walles, I would have thought that Merry had bin free.

2 wat. Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans? I never like such damn'd hipocrisie.

3 wat. He would not loase a sermon for a pound, An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine, An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on; And yet two murthers were not scripulous. Such close illusions God will bring to light, And overthrowe the workers with his might.

Con. This is the house; come let us knocke at dore; I see a light, they are not all in bed: [Knockes; Rachell comes downe. How now, faire maide? is your brother up?

Rach. He's not within, sir; would you speake with him?

Con. You doe but iest; I know he is within, And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.

Rach. In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe, And I was loath to trouble him to-night.

Con. Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake; But for your brother, he is knowne to be A damned villaine and an hipocrite. Rachell, I charge thee in her highnesse name, To go with us to prison presently.

Rach. To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?

Con. You know that best, but every one doe know You and your brother murthered Maister Beech, And his poore boy that dwelt at Lambert hill.

Rach. I murthered? my brother knowes that I, Did not consent to either of their deathes.

Con. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?

Rach. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.

Con. Now, Maister Merry, are you in a sweate? [Throwes his night cap away.

Merry sigh. No verily, I am not in a sweate.

Con. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?

Mer. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.

Con. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise, And presently to goe along with us. [Riseth up.

Mer. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?

Con. We partly doe; when saw you maister Beech?

Mer. I doe not well remember who you meane.

Con. Not Beech, the Chaundler upon Lambert hill?

Mer. I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.

Con. I would you had not, for your sisters sake, For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy. Be not obdurate in your wickednesse; Confession drawes repentance after it.

Mer. Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse, I was the man that did them both to death: As for my sister and my harmlesse man, I doe protest they both are innocent.

Con. Your man is fast in hold, and hath confest The manner how, and where, the deede was done; Therefore twere vaine to colour anything. Bring them away.

Rach. Ah brother, woe is me!

Mer. I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.

[Exeunt.

Enter Trueth.

Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes; Now, Merry, change thy name and countenance; Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorne Thou smile to thinke on thy extremities. Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes, Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt, For thou couldst never number them before.— Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray, And thinke it truth, for Truth dooth tell the tale. Merry, by lawe convict as principall, Receives his doome, to hang till he be dead, And afterwards for to be hangd in chaines. Williams and Rachell likewise are convict For their concealment; Williams craves his booke[42] And so receaves a brond[43] of infamie; But wretched Rachels sexe denies that grace, And therefore dooth receive a doome of death To dye with him whose sinnes she did conceale. Your eyes shall witnesse of their shaded tipes, Which many heere did see perform'd indeed. As for Fallerio, not his homelie weedes, His beardlesse face, nor counterfetted speech, Can shield him from deserved punishment; But what he thinkes shall rid him from suspect, Shall drench him in more waves of wretchednesse, Pulling his sonne into relentlesse iawes, Of hungrie death, on tree of infamie. Heere comes the Duke that doomes them both to die; Next Merries death shall end this Tragedie.

[Exit.



[ACT THE FIFTH.]

[SCENE I.]

Enter Duke, Vesuvio, Turq., Alberto: and Fallerio disguised.

Duke. Where is that Syren, that incarnate fiend, Monster of Nature, spectacle of shame, Blot and confusion of his familie, False-seeming semblance of true-dealing trust, I meane Fallerio, bloody murtherer: Hath he confest his cursed treacherie, Or will he stand to proove his innocence?

Vesu. We have attach'de Fallerio, gracious lord, And did accuse him with Pertillos death; But he remote will not confesse himselfe Neither the meanes nor author of the same. His mightie vowes and protestations Do almost seeme to pleade integritie, But that we all do know the contrarie.

Fall.—I know your error stricks your knowledge blinde; His seeming me, doth so delude your minde. [(To the) People.

Duke. Then bring him forth, to answer for himselfe, Since he stands stoutly to denie the deed:

[Alberto and other fetch Alenso.

His sonne can witnesse that the dying man Accusde Fallerio for his treacherie.— Stand forth thou close disguised hipocrite, And speake directlie to these articles: First, didst thou hire two bloodie murtherers To massacre Pertillo in a wood?

Alen. I never did suborne such murtherers, But ever lov'd Pertillo as my life.

Duke. Thy sonne can witnesse to the contrarie.

Alen. I have no sonne to testifie so much.

Fal.—No, for his gravitie is counterfeit, Pluck off his beard, and you will sweare it so.

Vesu. Have you no sonne? doth not Alenso live?

Alen. Alenso lives, but is no sonne of mine.

Alber. Indeed his better part had not his source From thy corrupted vice-affecting hart, For vertue is the marke he aimeth at.

Duke. I dare be sworne that Sostrata would blush, Shouldst thou deny Alenso for thy sonne.

Alen. Nay, did she live, she would not challenge me To be the father of that haplesse sonne.

Turq. Nay, then anon you will denie your selfe To be your selfe, unjust Fallerio.

Alen. I do confesse my selfe to be my selfe, But will not answere to Fallerio.

Duke. Not to Fallerio? this is excellent! You are the man was cal'd Fallerio.

Alen. He never breathed yet that cal'd me so, Except he were deceiv'd as you are now.

Duke. This impudence shall not excuse your fault; You are well knowne to be Fallerio, The wicked husband of dead Sostrata And father to the vertuous Alenso; And even as sure as all these certeinties, Thou didst contrive thy little Nephewes death.

Alen. True, for I am nor false Fallerio, Husband, nor father, as you do suggest, And therefore did not hire the murtherers; Which to be true acknowledge with your eyes. [Puls off his disguise.

Duke. How now, my Lords! this is a myracle, To shake off thirtie yeares so sodeinlie And turne from feeble age to flourishing youth!

Alb. But he my Lord that wrought this miracle, Is not of power to free himselfe from death, Through the performance of this suddaine change.

Duke. No, were he the chiefest hope of Christendome, He should not live for this presumption: Use no excuse, Alenso, for thy life; My doome of death shall be irrevocable.

Alen. Ill fare his soule that would extenuate The rigor of your life-confounding doome! I am prepar'd with all my hart to die, For thats th' end of humaine miserie.

Duke. Then thus: you shall be hang'd immediately, For your illusion of the Magistrates With borrowed shapes of false antiquitie.

Alen. Thrice-happy sentence, which I do imbrace With a more fervent and unfained zeale Then an ambicious rule-desiring man Would do a Iem-bedecked Diadem, Which brings more watchfull cares and discontent Then pompe or honor can remunerate. When I am dead, let it be said of me, Alenso died to set his father free.

Fal. That were a freedome worse than servitude To cruell Turke or damned Infidell. Most righteous Judge, I do appeale for Iustice, Justice on him that hath deserved death, Not on Alenso; he is innocent.

Alen. But I am guiltie of abetting him, Contrarie to his Maiestie's Edict, And therefore death is meritorious.

Fall. I am the wretch that did subborne the slaves, To murther poore Pertillo in the wood. Spare, spare Alenso! he is innocent.

Duke. What strange appeale is this! we know thee not: None but Fallerio is accusde hereof.

Alen. Then, father, get you hence, depart in time, Least being knowne you suffer for the crime.

Fal. Depart, and leave thee clad in horrors cloake, And suffer death for true affection! Although my soule be guiltie of more sinne, Then ever sinfull soule were guiltie of, Yet fiends of hell would never suffer this. I am thy father, though unworthy so: Oh, still I see these weeds do feare your eyes. I am Fallerio, make no doubt of me, [Put off. Though thus disguisde, in habite, countenance, Only to scape the terror of the lawe.

Alen. And I Alenso that did succour him Gainst your commaundement, mightie Soveraigne. Ponder your oath, your vowe, as God did live, I should not live, if I did rescue him. I did, God lives, and will revenge it home, If you defer my condigne punishment.

Duke. Assure your selves, you both shall suffer death: But for Fallerio, he shall hang in chaines After he's dead, for he was principall.

Fall. Unsaverie Woormewood, Hemlock, bitter gall, Brings no such bad, unrelisht, sower taste, Unto the tongue as this death-boding voice, Brings to the eares of poore Fallerio, Not for myselfe but for Allensoes sake, Whome I have murthered by my trechery. Ah my dread Lord, if any little sparke Of melting pittie doth remaine alive, And not extinguisht by my impious deedes, Oh kindle it unto a happie flame, To light Allenso from this miserie Which through dim death he's like to fall into.

Allen. That were to overthrow my soule and all. Should you reverse this sentence of my death, My selfe would play the death-man on my selfe And overtake your swift and winged soule, Ere churlish Caron had transported you Unto the fields of sad Proserpina.

Duke. Cease, cease, Fallerio, in thy bootlesse prayers. I am resolv'd, I am inexorable. Vesuvio, see their judgement be performde, And use Alenso with all clemencie, Provided that the lawe be satisfied.

[Exit Duke and Alberto.

Vesu. It shall be done with all respectivenesse; Have you no doubt of that, my gratious Lord.

Fall. Here is a mercie mixt with equitie, To show him favour but cut off his head.

Alen. My reverend father pacifie yourselfe; I can, and will, indure the stroake of death, Were his appearance nere so horrible, To meete Pertillo in another world.

Fal. Thou shouldst have tarried untill natures course Had been extinct, that thou oregrowne with age, Mightst die the death of thy progenitors; Twas not thy meanes he died so soddenly, But mine, that causing his, have murthered thee.

Alen. But yet I slew my mother, did I not?

Fal. I, with reporting of my villanie. The very audit of my wickednesse, Had force enough to give a sodaine death. Ah sister, sister, now I call to minde, Thy dying wordes now prov'd a prophesie, If you deale ill with this distressed childe, God will no doubt revenge the innocent. I have delt ill, and God hath tane revenge.

Allen. Now let us leave remembrance of past deedes, And thinke on that which more concerneth us.

Fal. With all my hart; thou ever wert the spur Which prict me on to any godlinesse; And now thou doest indevor to incite Me make my parting peace with God and men. I doe confesse, even from my verie soule, My hainous sinne and grievous wickednesse Against my maker manie thousand waies: Ab imo cordis I repent my selfe Of all my sinnes against his maiestie; And, heavenly father, lay not to my charge The death of poore Pertillo and those men Which I suborn'd to be his murtherers, When I appeare before thy heavenlie throne To have my sentence or of life or death.

Vesu. Amen, amen, and God continue still These mercie-moving meditations.

Allen. And thou, great God, which art omnipotent, Powerful! enough for to redeeme our soules Even from the verie gates of gaping hell, Forgive our sinnes and wash away our faults In the sweete river of that precious blood Which thy deare sonne did shed in Galgotha, For the remission of all contrite soules.

Fal. Forgive thy death, my thrice-beloved sonne.

Allen. I doe, and, father, pardon my misdeedes Of disobedience and unthankfullnesse.

Fal. Thou never yet wert disobedient, Unlesse I did commaund unlawfulnesse. Ungratefulnesse did never trouble thee; Thou art too bounteous thus to guerdon me.

Allen. Come, let us kisse and thus imbrace in death. Even when you will, come, bring us to the place, Where we may consumate our wretchednesse, And change it for eternall hapinesse.

[Exeunt omnes.



[SCENE II.]

Enter Merry and Rachel to execution with Officers with Halberdes, the Hangman with a lather [sic] &c.

Mer. Now, sister Rachell, is the houre come Wherein we both must satisfie the law For Beeches death and harmelesse Winchester. Weepe not sweete sister, for that cannot helpe: I doe confesse fore all this company That thou wert never privie to their deathes, But onelie helpest me, when the deede was done, To wipe the blood and hide away my sinne; And since this fault hath brought thee to this shame, I doe intreate thee on my bended knee To pardon me for thus offending thee.

Rach. I doe forgive you from my verie soule, And thinke not that I shed these store of teares, For that I price my life, or feare to dye, Though I confesse the manner of my death Is much more grievous then my death it selfe; But I lament for that it hath beene said I was the author of this crueltie And did produce you to this wicked deede, Whereof God knowes that I am innocent.

Mer. Indeede thou art; thy conscience is at peace, [Goe up the lather. And feeles no terror for such wickednesse; Mine hath beene vexed but is now at rest, For that I am assur'd my hainous sinne Shall never rise in judgement gainst my soule, But that the blood of Jesus Christ hath power To make my purple sinne as white as Snowe. One thing, good people, witnesse here with me, That I doe dye in perfect charitie, And do forgive, as I would be forgiven First of my God and then of all the world. Cease publishing that I have beene a man Train'd up in murther or in crueltie, For fore this time, this time is all too soone, I never slue or did consent to kill; So helpe me God as this I speake is true! I could say something of my innocence, In fornication and adulterie, But I confesse the iustest man alive, That beares about the frailtie of a man, Cannot excuse himselfe from daily sinne In thought, in word, and deed. Such was my life. I never hated Beech in all my life, Onely desire of money which he had, And the inciting of that foe of man, That greedie gulfe, that great Leviathan, Did halle [sic] me on to these callamities; For which, even now my very soule dooth bleede. God strengthen me with patience to endure This chastisement, which I confesse too small A punishment for this my hainous sinne. Oh be couragious, sister! fight it well! We shall be crown'd with immortallitie.

Rach. I will not faint, but combat manfully; Christ is of power to helpe and strengthen me.

Officer. I pray make hast; the hower is almost past.

Mer. I am prepar'd; oh God, receive my soule; Forgive my sinnes, for they are numberlesse. Receive me, God, for now I come to thee! [Turne of the Lather. Rachel shrinketh.

Offi. Nay shrinke not, woman; have a cheerefull hart.

Rach. I, so I do, and yet this sinfull flesh Will be rebellious gainst my willing spirit. Come, let me clime these steps that lead to heaven, Although they seeme the staires of infamie: Let me be merror to ensuing times, And teach all sisters how they do conceale, The wicked deeds of brethren, or of friends. I not repent me of my love to him, But that thereby I have provoked God To heavie wrath and indignation; Which turne away, great God, for Christes sake. Ah, Harry Williams, thou wert chiefest cause, That I doe drinke of this most bitter cup, For hadst thou opened Beeches death at first, The boy had liv'd and thou hadst sav'd my life. But thou art branded with a marke of shame, And I forgive thee from my very soule. Let him and me learn all that heare of this To utter brothers or their maisters misse; Conceale no murthers, lest it do beget More bloody deeds of like deformitie. Thus God forgive my sinnes, receive my soule! And though my dinner be of bitter death, I hope my soule shall sup with Jesus Christ, And see his presence everlastingly. [Dyeth.

Offi. The Lord of heaven have mercy on her soule, And teach all others by this spectacle, To shunne such dangers as she ran into, By her misguided taciturnitie: Cut downe their bodies, give hers funerall, But let his body be conveyed hence, To Mile-end greene, and there be hang'd in chaines.

[Exeunt omnes.

Enter Truthe.

Tru. See here the end of lucre and desire Of riches, gotten by unlawfull meanes. What monstrous evils this hath brought to passe, Your scarce-drie eyes give testimoniall; The father sonne, the sister brother brings, To open scandall and contemptuous death.

Enter Homicide and Covetousnesse.

But heere come they that wrought these deeds of ruthe, As if they meant to plot new wickednesse. Whether so fast, you damned miscreants, Yee vaine deluders of the credulous, That seeke to traine men to destruction?

Mur. Why, we will on, to set more harmes a flote, That I may swim in rivers of warme blood, Out-flowing from the sides of Innocents.

Cove. I will entice the greedie-minded soule, To pull the fruite from the forbidden tree; Yet Tantall-like, he shall but glut his eye, Nor feede his body with salubrious fruite.

Tru. Hence Stigmaticks, you shall not harbor heare, To practice execrable butcheries! My selfe will bring your close designes to light, And overthrow your vilde conspiracies. No hart shall intertaine a murthrous thought Within the sea-imbracing continent, Where faire Eliza, Prince of pietie, Doth weare the peace-adorned Diadem.

Cove. Mauger the worst, I will have many harts That shall affect my secret whisperings; And chinck of golde is such a pleasing crie, That all men wish to heare such harmony, And I will place stern Murther by my side, That we may do more harmes then haughty pride.

Homi. Truth, now farewell; hereafter thou shalt see Ile vexe thee more with many tragedies.

Truth. The more the pitty; would the hart of man Were not so open wide to entertaine The harmfull baites of selfe-devouring sinne! But from the first unto the latter times, It hath and will be so eternally.—— Now it remaines to have your good advice Unto a motion of some consequence. There is a Barke thats newly rigd for sea, Unmand, unfurnishd with munition: She must incounter with a greater foe Then great Alcydes slue in Lerna Lake Would you be pleasd to man this willing barke With good conceits of her intencion; To store her with the thundring furniture Of smoothest smiles, and pleasing plaudiats; She shall be able to endure the shock Of snarling Zoylus, and his cursed crue, That seekes to sincke her in reproches waves; And may perchance obteine a victorie Gainst curious carpes, and fawning parasites: But if you suffer her, for want of ayde, To be orewhelmed by her insulting foes, Oh then she sinckes, that meant to passe the flood With stronger force to do her countrie good. It resteth thus; whether she live or dye, She is your Beades-man everlastinglie.

Finis—Rob. Yarington.

Laus Deo



INTRODUCTION TO THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.

In Sir Henry Herbert's MS. Office-Book, under date Sept. 3rd, 1624, is the entry:—"for the Cock-pit Company[44] a new play called the Captive [sic] or the Lost Recovered, written by Hayward," i.e., Heywood. The lost recovered! Lost for two centuries and a half was this comedy of dear Tom Heywood, until I recovered it from Egerton MS. 1994. I am proud to have rendered this service to a gentle poet who has given me many hours of delight.

The play is without title or author's name in the MS. After reading the first page I judged that the author was Heywood, and this impression was soon confirmed beyond all doubt. In the MS. the present play is immediately followed by a piece called Calisto, which consists of scenes from Heywood's Golden Age and Silver Age. I have elsewhere mentioned (Vol. ii. p. 419) that Calisto and The Captives are written in the same desperately difficult handwriting,—peculiar to these two plays, and not found in any other part of the volume. There can be no doubt that whoever transcribed Calisto transcribed also The Captives. But from internal evidence alone—putting aside the testimony afforded by the handwriting, and ignoring the entry in Sir Henry Herbert's Office-Book—any competent reader could plainly perceive that the play is Heywood's. In the very first scene—in the conversation between Treadway and Raphael—we feel at once the charm of that hearty "Christianism" which is never absent from Heywood's work. There is no affectation in Heywood; he is always natural and simple, though occasionally the writing sprawls.

Everybody knows the droll description in Heywood's English Traveller of the "Shipwreck by Drink,"[45]—how some unthrift youths, carousing deeply, chanced to turn their talk on ships and storms at sea; whereupon one giddy member of the company suddenly conceived that the room was a pinnace, that the sounds of revelry were the bawlings of sailors, and that his unsteady footing was due to the wildness of the tempest; the illusion spread among his companions, and a scene of whimsical confusion followed. In The Captives, ii. 2, we have a similar conceit suggested:—

Scrib. Such was the grace heaven sent us, who from perill, Danger of lyfe, the extreamest of all extreames Hathe brought us to the happy patronage Of this most reverent abbott.

Clowne. What dangers? what extreames?

Scrib. From the sea's fury, drowneing; for last night Our shipp was splitt, wee cast upon these rocks.

Clowne. Sayd in a jest, in deede! Shipwreck by land! I perceive you tooke the woodden waggen for a ship and the violent rayne for the sea, and by cause some one of the wheels broake and you cast into some water plashe, you thought the shipp had splitt and you had bene in danger of drowneinge.

The main story of The Captives is borrowed from Plautus's Rudens, many passages being translated almost word for word. It will be remembered that in the English Traveller Heywood was indebted to another of Plautus's plays—the Mostellaria. I have not been able to discover the source of the very curious underplot of The Captives.

The MS. from which the play is printed bears every appearance of being a play-house copy. Numerous passages have been cancelled, seemingly (for the most part) by the hand of some reviser. In most instances I have restored the cancelled passages to the text—though the task of deciphering them has been cruelly difficult.



THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.

A Comedy by THOMAS HEYWOOD.

Licensed by Sir Henry Herbert in 1624, and now first printed from Egerton MS. 1994.



Actus primus.

SCENA PR.

Enter Mr. Raphael a younge marchaunt, Mr. Treadway his companione and frend.

Raphael. You talke to one thats deaf; I am resolv'd.

Treadway. I knwe [sic] you are not of that stupid sence But you will lyst to reason.

Raphael. Alls but vayne.

Treadway. You saye shees fayre.

Raphael. And there-fore to bee lov'd.

Treadway.[46] No consequent To trust to collour. Are not the bewtyous lyllyes, The gardens pryde and glorye of the feilds, Thoughe to the eye fayre and delectable, Yet ranke in smell? the stayneles swanne With all the Oceans water cannot wash The blacknes from her feete, tis borne with her. Oft painted vessayles bringe in poysond cates, And the blackest serpents weare the goldenst scales; And woman, made mans helper at the fyrst, Dothe oft proove his destroyer.

Raphael. Saye perhapps Some frend of yours miscarried in his choyse, Will you condeme all women for that one? Bycause we reade one Lais was unchast, Are all Corinthian Ladyes cortesans? Shall I, bycause my neighbours house was burnt, Condeme the necessary use of fyre? One surfeitts, and shall I refuse to eate? That marchant man by shipwreck lost his goodds; Shall I, bycause hee perisht in the sea, Abiure the gainfull trade of merchandyse, Despoyle my shipps, and unbecom [?] the deepes Of theire fayre Sayles and tackles?

Treadway. Not so, frend.[47] Althoughe her person may perhapps content, Consider but the place.

Raphael. I knwe it badd, Nay woorst of Ills.

Treadway. A howse of prostitution And common brothellrie.

Raphael. Which coold not stand But that her vertue guards it and protects it From blastinges and heavens thunders. There shee lyves Lyke to a ritche and pretious Jewell lost, Fownd shyninge on a doonge-hill, yet the gemme No wyse disparadged of his former worthe Nor bated of his glory; out of this fyre Of lust and black temptation sheis [sic] returned Lyke gold repur'd and tryde.

Treadway. Of what byrthe is shee?

Raphael. Unknwne to mee or any: shee protests, Neye to her self; what neede I question that? Sure sutche sweete features, goodnes, modesty Such gentlenes, such vertue cannot bee Deryvd from base and obscure parentadge.

Treadway. Whats then your end and purpose?

Raphael. To redeeme her Out of this gayle of sinne and leprosye, This mart of all diseases, where shee lyves Still under the comande and Tyrany Of a most base hee-bawde: about which busines Wee have allready traffict.

Treadway. Well, if so, And to dispose her elsewhere to her goodd, Provided still that vertue be your ayme, I cannot but commende your charity And to my power I'l seeke to further it.

Raphael. You so intyre mee to you. Within theire!

Enter the Clowne.

Clowne. Within theire is nowe without heare: your worshipps pleasure?

Raphael. Hye to the next key and inquire for one cald Seignior Mildewe and resolve him from mee that I have kept apointment: the somms redy and present to bee tendred.

Clowne. Who? the Frenshe monster,[48] Neapolitan Seignor, the man-makarel[49] and marchant of madens-fleshe that deales altogether in flawed ware and crackt comodityes? the bawdy broker, I meanes, where a man for his dollers may have choyse of diseases, and som tymes the pox too, if hee will leeve beehind him a good pawne for it.

Raphael. How thou drummst.

Clowne. Marry qothe hee. So I may happen to bringe it awaye in my nose. Well I smell some bawdy business or other in hand. They call this place Marcellis Roade, the cheiff haven towne in France, but hee keepes a road[50] in his oune howse wherein have ridd and bin ridd more leakinge vessayles, more panderly pinks,[51] pimps and punkes, more rotten bottoms ballanst, more fly-boates[52] laden and unladen every morninge and evenning tyde then weare able to fill the huge greate baye of Portingall. Is this all, syr?

Raphael. Yes all, and heares the somme.

Clowne. A small somme of that is worthe all the busines that I am sent about, for the all in all on't is I am afrayde that all will proove woorthe nothinge.

Treadway. And yet mee thinkes ere folly you conclude You should a little stagger.

Raphael. Should? wherein?

Treadway. For many reasons: Il alleadge som fewe. Who knwes but this your fayre and seeminge saynt, Thoughe disposd well and in her owne condition Of promisinge goodnes, yet livinge in the seminary Of all libidinous actions, spectars, sights, Even in the open market where sinne's sould Where lust and all uncleanes are commerst As freely as comodityes are vended Amongst the noblest marchants,—who I saye So confident that dare presume a virgin Of such a soft and maiden temperature, Deyly and howerly still sollicited By gallants of all nations, all degrees, Allmost all ages, even from upright youth To the stoopinge and decrepitt—

Raphael. Heare mee nowe.

Treadway. Two woords and I have doone: the place considered, The basenes of the person under whome Shee lyves opprest, a slave of sordid lyfe, Conditiond with the devill, temptinge still Sometymes by fayre means, then againe by foul, To prostitute her for his servyle gaynes; And next the dissolute crewe with which shees hows'd Ech night, ech deye perswedinge boathe with toonge And lewde example; all these circonstances Duly considered, I shoold dowbt at least, If not presume, the woorst.

Raphael. Oh you have pleasd mee, And in proposinge all these difficultyes Given of her graces ample testimony. Shee is that miracle, that only one That cann doo these; wear't comon in the sexe Twold not appeare to mee so admirable; It is for these I love her.

Treadway. You are resolvd And I'l not staye your purpose.

Enter the Clowne with Mildewe and Sarleboys his guest and frende.

Clowne. I have brought this flesh-fly whome as soone as the butchers wyves sawe comminge throwghe the shambles, they all of them stood with theire flapps in theire hands like fanns. I, demandinge the reason itt was answerd me againe itt was to keepe away his infectious breath least it should fill theire meate with fly-blowes.

Raphael. Well, mett, good Mr. Mildewe.

Mildewe. My returne Of your salutes I cast belowe your feete.

Raphael. Syr, I am yours to treade on. You will then Stand to your former bargen?

Mildewe. I weare else Not woorthy to bee stil'd what I am tearmd, A trewe venereall broaker.

Clowne. That's in Italian A damnable hee bawde.

Mildewe Y'have such a bargen Marcellis, nor all France, shall yeild the like. Tis such a deynty peece of purity Such a coy thinge that[53] hee unto whose lott She shall hereafter fall may boast himself To bee a happy husband. For our trade Shees out at that: neather promises, rewards, Example or Intreaty, fayre, fowle meanes, Gaine present or the hope of future goodd, Can force from her a presens; then much lesse A frendly prostitution.

Raphael. Hearst thou this?

Treadway. Yes[54] and comende it in her, if that toonge, Even from his fyrst of speakinge traind to lye, Can now at lengthe speake truth.

Clowne. Ay theres the dowbt.

Sarly. This too yeares I have quested to his howse, And knwe all this most certeine.

Raphael. Witnes too.

Mildewe. I doo protest she spoyles my family And rather growne a hyndrance to my trade Then benefitt; so that, if not to losse, I wishe that I were clerly ridd of her, For shee hathe gott a trick to[55] my whores; And such as of themselves are impudent, When shee but coms in presens she makes blushe, As if ashamd of what they late had doon Or are about to doo.

Clowne. Well sayde, ould sinner.

Raphael. See, heeres the sum, 3 hundred crownes.

Mildewe. O'th somme.

Raphael. All currant and full weight.

Mildewe. I'l fetch my doughter That hath no lightnes in her, currant too As any lasse i'th cittye.

Raphael. Mildewe, staye.

Clowne. Staye, oh thou father of fornication and marchant of nothinge but mesteryes and mischeife; whele about, thou dung[c]art of diseases; sayle this way thoue galley foyst[56] of galls and garbadge! Dost not heare my master? staye!

Mildewe. Why, did his worshippe call?

Clowne. Didst thou not heare him call, and mee cry out upon thee?

Mildewe. His pleasure then?

Raphael. I have bethought mee better nowe to keepe This business secrett, least it chance to arryve To th'eares of some of my most noble frends; And not to make it publicke and this honest Purpose of myne by that meanes misreated,[57] Heare lett her stay till night bycause I am loath In th'eye of day to move her through the streetes.

Mildewe. Good, syr.

Raphael. Nwe [Now] in the villaige by, that fronts the sea, Som halff league off where stands the monastery, I have bespoake a place to sojorn her. There I this evening do intend[58] a feast Where only wee and som fewe private frends Have purpost to bee jhoviall. To that place I prithee, with what pryvacy thou canst, Conduct her and so add unto our guests.

Mildewe. The place I knwe, the tyme is perfect with mee, And for the feast you saye you have prepared I shall provyde a stomacke.

Raphael. Her caskett, and such other necessaryes Included in our bargen, bring alonge Or lett her mayde do'ot for thee.

Mildewe. I'l not bate her A ruff or ragge; no pinne that's usefull too her Will I keepe backe.

Raphael. To this you are witnes, frend.

Treadway. I am, Syr.

Mildewe. So's my guest.

Clowne. And lookes as if with me Hee only could write witlesse.

Raphael. Supper tyme You will remember, Mildewe.

Mildewe. Possible I should forgett to eate of others' cost? It never was my custom.

Clowne. Choake you for't.

Raphael. Come, frend, mee thinks I have doone a deede this day Crownes all my better actions, for I have raised An Innocent from the hands of an Infidell agent.

Clowne. Farewell, rott, farewell murreine, adiewe.

Mildewe. Farewell till soone.

[Exeunt Raphael, Treadway, and Clowne.

Sarleb. And do you meane to keepe your promisse then, And doo as you have sayde?

Mildewe. Why not, I prithee? What else canst thou advyse mee?

Sarleb. Are not wee Boathe of a rotten conscience, men debosht, Secluded from the company of such As either are or else would stryve to bee Reputed honest? wherefore then should wee Keepe tutche with any that professe themselves Not to bee of our ranke?

Mildewe. Proceede, good frend: Thou hast putt project in my brayne allredy, Small tyme woold better fashion.

Sarleb. What if I Laye such a plotte that you shall gayne these crownes These full three hundred to your proper use, And of these peevishe harletryes at home Make a much greater market?

Mildewe. Marry, syr, That were a tale worth listeninge.

Sarleb. These crowns Are all your owne in your possession, So are the maydes. I knowe you ritche besydes In coyne and jewells; heere you lyve despysed, And whats this clime to us of more esteme Then any forreine region? whores and bawdes May lyve in every corner of the woorld, We knowe tis full of sinners. This, this day Letts hyre a bark; wee dwell upon the haven, And instantly 'tis done. Shipp all your goods With these shee-chatteyles; putt this night to sea— England they saye is full of whormasters; There will bee vent for such comoditye, There strompett them where they (you saye) weare born, Else you in Spayne may sell them to the stewes, Venyce or any place of Italy; They are everywhere good chaffer. If not these, What saye you to Morocho, Fesse, Algiers? Faith these are wares in all parts vendible, No matter thoughe to Turke and infidell, So itt bringe gayne and profitt.

Mildewe. Lett me hugg thee For this, deare frend; heareafter I will style thee My better genius; thou hast monied mee in this, Nay landed me, made me thy braynes executor, And putt mee in a lardge possession. Go hyre a barke.

Sarlab. I shall.

Mildewe. And instantly.

Sarlab. I shall.

Mildewe. Ere night wee'l putt into a sea No larger then our full stretcht consciences. Lett mee once more Imbrace thee. [Exeunt.

SCENA 2.

Enter an Abbot with his covent[59] of Fryars, amongst them Fryar Jhon, and Fryar Ritchard.

Abbot. As I have heare priority of place, Boathe by our patrons favour and your voyce, So give me leave to arbitrate amongst you.

Fr. Jhon. Without respect of person wee acknowledge you. Our prince and cheiff.

Fr. Rich. And to your fatherly And grave advyse humbly submitt our selves.

Abbot. Knwe then in this small covent, which consysts Only of 12 in nomber, fryars I meane And us the Abbat, I have fownde amongst you Many and grosse abuses; yet for the present I will insist on fewe. Quarrells, debates, Whisperinge, supplantinges, private calumnyes, These ought not bee in such a brotherhood. Of these Fryar Jhon and thou Fryar Richard are Accused to bee most guilty, ever jarring And opposite to peace.

Fr. Jhon. The faults in him.

Fr. Rich. As in all other thinges, so even in this Hee still is apt to wronge mee.

Fr. Jhon. Hee that fyrst gives th'occation, fyrst complaines: It ever was his fashion.

Fr. Rich. Never myne: I appeale to the whole covent.

Abbot. Mallyce rooted, I finde, is woondrous hard to bee supprest. But knwe where consell and advise preveyle not, The fayrest meanes that I can wourk your peace, I'l take upon mee my authority, And where I finde in you the least contempt I shall severely punishe.

Fr. Jhon. I submitt.

Fr. Rich. I yeeld myself to your grave fatherhood.

Abbot. Consider, sonnes, this cloystered place of ours Is but newe reared; the founder, hee still lyves, A souldier once and eminent in the feild, And after many battayles nowe retyrd In peace to lyve a lyff contemplative. Mongst many other charitable deedes, Unto religion hee hathe vowed this howse, Next to his owne fayre mantion that adjoynes And parted only by a slender wall. Who knwes but that hee neighboring us so neare And havinge doone this unto pious ends, May carry over us and our behavioures An austere eye of censure?

Fr. Jhon. Fitt therefore Wee should bee in our actions cautelous.[60]

Fr. Rich. And carefull least wee may incurr displeasure Of such a noble patron.

Abbot. Well observ'd. His bewtious Lady—

Fr. Jhon. A sweete soule indeede.

Fr. Rich. On whom Fryar Jhon casts many a leering eye: I have observd that too.

Abbot. Boath for her outward feature And for her inward graces excellent Beyond compare, shee lykewyse is to us A worthy benefactor.

Fr. Rich. Tis confest.

Fr. Jhon. Would I might com to bee her confessor: It is a fayre sweete lady.

Fr. Rich.[61] Howe the lecher Hugges at the very name.

Abbot. Morninge and eveninge They deyly com to mattens and to evensonge; Such and so greate is theire devotion. That, if not crasd or feylinge in theire healthe, They do not misse us any hower of prayer; And therefore it behooves us all in generall To sett a carefull watche upon our deedes, Least we that are proffest religious Bee in the least deffective.

Fr. Richard. Noate, Fryar Jhon, Howe hee makes anticke faces and in scorne Of this your reverent counsell.

Fr. Jhon. I, alas? A weaknes from my childhood, I confesse, I ever had and cannott helpe it nowe, To have a trobled countenance. I make mouthes? This (most observed father) but approoves My innosens and his envye. Markt you that? Fryar Richard bent his fyst and threatned mee. I call all these to witnesse.

Fr. Rich. No such thinge. I have a crampe oft takes me in this hand And makes mee weare clutcht ringers, and that passion Now came upon mee; but for meanacinge him It ever was farr from mee. This but showes His owld inveterate mallice, which in charity I wishe might heare lye buried.—Syrrah, anon I'l have you by the eares.

Fr. Jhon. Doo if thou darst; We'll tugge it out by the teeth.

Fr. Rich. Meete me i'th orchard Just after even song.

Fr. Jhon. I will make short prayers Bycause I'l keepe appointment.

Abbot. I am playne And breife with all: eather betwixt you too [sic] Make frendly reconsilement, and in presence Of this your brotherhood (for what is fryar But frater, and that's brother?), or my selfe Out of my power will putt you to a penance Shall make you in one weeke fyve fasting-dayes.

Fr. Jhon. Oh terrible!

Abbot. Or, if that will not tame you, I will complayne to'th fownder of your loosenes, Your riotts, and disorders, and petition That you, as sowers off seditious hatred[62] And sole disturbers of our common peace, Maye bee excluded this society, Banisht by common barre-law, and shutt out To publick shame and beggerye.

Fr. Rich. Horrible!

Fr. Jhon. Fyrst then to showe my submisse willingnes And forwardnes withall: with as much charity As any new reformed man maye doo, I with a zeale and hart new reconsiled Thus humbly begge his love. (Y'are a rogue, Ritchard.)

Fr. Rich. To meete his trewe And most unfeigned affection, heare in face And viewe of this our holly brotherhoode, As if in open coort with this mi[63] breath I heare confine all hatred. (Jhon, y'are a Jack sauce, I meane a sawcye Jacke.)

Fr. Jhon. The orchard.

Fr. Rich. Theare.

Abbot. Why, this is as it should bee, and becomes A trew religious order. Such as are sequestred And vowed unto a strict monasticke lyfe, Ought to putt off these grosse and prophane sinnes Most frequent amongst laye-men. Unity, Due conformation and fraternall love. Devotion, hott zeale, and obediens; these Are vertues that become a cloyster best. Nowe lett's retyre unto our oresons And p[r]eye for our good fownders; may they still Grow to our wishe and thryve to theire owne will.

[Exeunt all but Friar Jhon.

Fr. Jhon. More then I woold to have my wishe on thee, Richard, though I have a good stomacke too't, Ey, and to baste thee sowndly, I woold nowe To have my will one her. Tis a sweete creature; Our patron owld, shee younge; som hope in that. Besydes, shee's woondrous kind and affable; And when we duck or congee, smiles as if Shee tooke som pleasure in our shaven crownes. I am the fyrst that every morninge, when Shee passes through the cloyster to her prayers, Attend her with good morrowe, pray for her health. For her content and pleasure, such as canott bee Hop't or expected from her husband's age; And these my frendly wishes she returnes Not only in kind language but sweete smiles, The least of which breede som Incoradgement. I will, if shee persist to proove thus kind, If not to speeke my thoughts, to wryte my mynd.

[Exit.



SCENA TERTIA.

Thunder.

Enter after a greate Tempestuous storme Mr. Ashburne an Englishe marchant and his man Godfrey.

Ashburne. Was ever knowne such a tempestuous night Of thunder, hayle, wynd, lightninge! Twas as if The fower seditious brothers threatned warr And weare but nowe at battayle.

Godfrey. The fower winds you meane; blusteringe fellowes they are. Preye God all be well at sea, for I am sure the roofes tyles and ridges have payde for it a shewer.[64]

Ashb. The very rafters of the howses bend; Some breake and are demolisht; barnes blowne downe; The very chimneyes rattle ore our heads; The strongest buildinges tremble just as if Theire is above a tempest, so belowe There weare a fearefull earth-quake.

Godfrey. All our howses Are nothinge nowe but windowes, broad bay windowes So spatious that carts laded may drive throughe And neather loush oth' topp or eathere syde. Lights every where, we shall have lightnes inoughe: Heares stupid woork for daubers!

Ashburne. We are forct All to forsake the villaige and to fly Unto the feilds for succor.

Godfrey. Syr, it putt me In minde of the greate King Agathocles, Who was, as I have heard you oft relate, Brain'd with a Tyle. Why may not meaner men Then feare the fall of brick batts?

Enter Raphael, Treadway, and the Clowne.

Treadway. A strange night And full of terror; yet, thanks heaven, well past.

Raphael. Oh, but I feare the greater storms to come, A gust that will more shake mee.

Clowne. More, quothe hee; I can scarce see howe that well can bee, for I can assure you the garrett that I laye in putt mee in mind of myne infancye, for I lye all the night longe as if I had bin rockt in a cradle.

Raphael. Oh, frend, I feare this false and perjur'd slave, That hathe not kept apointment, hath deceiv'd mee Boathe of my coyne and pretious marchandyse.

Clowne. Did you ever looke for better from a Judas [?] of his he[yre]?[65]

Raphael. Which if hee have—

Clowne. Why then hee hathe, and the mends is in y'r owne hands: that's all that I can say too't.

Raphael. Hee hathe undone mee dubly.

Treadway. Hope the best. Perhapps the threatninge weather kept him backe: Itt was a trobled skye, the soon set blusheing, The rack cam swiftly rushing from the west; And these presadges of a future storme, Unwillinge for to trust her tendernes Unto such feares, might make him fayle his hower; And yet with purpose what hee slack't last night Howe to make goodd this morninge.

Raphael. Oh you tent[66] My woonds too gently, dally with my dowbts And flutter my trewe feares: the even was calme, The skye untrobled, and the soon went downe Without disturbance in a temperate ayr. No, not the least conjecture coold be made Of such a suddeine storme, of which the woorld Till after midnight was not sensible. His hower was supper, and in faylinge that—

Clowne. Ey, nowe begin I to feare too for thee. Breake his woord if it bee to com to dinner or supper! I'l never trust his bond for the valewe of a threepenny ordenarye after.

Raphael. Post you back to the citty; make inquiries And most strickt search to find that Mildewe out; Whom if you meete, fyrst rate his last neclect, Then hasten his repayer. Heare you shall finde mee Or in the waye home; for in all this villaige I woll not leave a howse, a place unsearcht. If where hee dwells you misse him, then demande Att every bey what shippinge late went out. If any vowed love still remane betwixt us, Make it appear nowe in your present care And expedition.

Treadw. I'l be your Mercury, Not fayle you in the least.

Raphael. And so betwixt us Increase a frendshipp that was never flawed.

[Exit[67] Treadway.

Ashburne. This gentleman, itt seemes, hathe in this tempest Sustein'd som losse, he appears so much disturb'd.

Clowne. See, syr, heare are some it may bee beelonge to this villadge; you had best aske of them.

Raphael. And well advysed. Hayle, father!

Godfrey. No more hayle if you love mee; we had too much of that last night.

Ashburne. Of what sexe are you that you call me so? I have bene father of a doughter once, Though not these many yeares blest with her sight, But of a soone yet never.

Raphael. What you have lost May you in som most fayer and fortunate hower Againe find to your comfort.

Ashburne. You wishe well.

Raphael. Sawe you not bowte this villadge late last night, Or early now i'th morninge, a short fellowe Thin heyred, flat nosed, sand-bearded and squint eyde?

Clowne. The mapp of misfortune and very picture of ill luck.

Raphael. Grosse-wasted, gowty-legg'd.

Clowne. Whose face is puft up like a bladder and whose belly lyke a toonne.

Raphael. Owld, graye and hoary.

Clowne. And withall cheatinge, cousininge, and crafty; a remarkable raskall, a damnable deceiver, and a most substantiall cinner.

Ashburne. By such I have much suffred in my state, Opprest almost to utmost penury In my once better fortune; but so late I sawe not any such.

Raphael. Hee was expected To bee attended by too [sic] handsome gurles, Boathe younge, boathe fayre, but th'one unparreld [sic]; Neather of which by computation Hathe told so hye as twenty.

Ashb. If such I chance to meete by accident I'l send you notyce. Please you leave your name And place of your abode.

Raphael. Raphael I am cald, A marchant in Marcellis, and my lodginge Is at the Parratt in the markett-place; There you shall finde mee knowne.

Ashb. And by that name Presume I'l not forgett you.

Raph. For which curtesy, Fare you well, syr; You shall oblighe mee to you. If not heare Weele seeke her further; France shall not conteine them But I will finde theire start-holes.

Ashb. Good speede with you.

Clowne. If I weare a dogge nowe and coold hunt dry foote[68] I could smell them out presently.

[Exeunt[69] Raphael and Clown.

Ashb. Come lett us mount ourselfes upon these rockes And, havinge feelinge of our hurts at land, Letts see what shyppes have ben distrest at sea, If any shaken in this storme or wreckt; And though wee cannot help the miserable Yet lett them taste our pittye.

Godfrey. Sir, content; but I hope your fishermen have not putt to sea this night. If they have I sweare they have showed themselves much madder then the tempest.

Ashb. I hope they have bin more discreate and wyse Then with the hazard of my boates and netts To indanger theire owne lyves.

Godfr. See: do you see, Syr?

Ashb. What?

Godfr. Why, yonder.

Ashb. Where?

Godfr. There towards yon shore.

Ashb. A shipp laboringe for liffe Nowe cast upon the rocks, nowe splitt, nowe sinkinge, Nowe dasht to peeces.

Godfr. I see all mischeifes do not com by land, Som's doone upon the water.

Ashb. Though theire goodes perishe, Yet in thy mercy, heaven, protect theire lyves. Som sitt upon the planks, som on the masts, Som hange upon the cables, and som few Have only gott the cock-boat; others swimme. Oh that wee shoold beehold theire misery And want power to assiste them!

Godfr. Sure, syr, it was som shipp of passengers, For see you not too women? daynty ducks! Would they coold swime as ducks can, see how they spread And cast theire legges abroad lyke naked frogges! See howe they spread theire armes and stryve for lyfe! I[70] would I weare som Dolphin or some whayle That they might sitt astryde upon my backe To beare them safe ashore; but I as yet Could neare indure still water. See yet still, Still theire coates beare them upp, keepe them aloft; The modest ayer not willinge to discover That which the bawdy waves shame not belowe Rudely to lifte and handle.

Ashb. Blesse them heaven! The wind and tyde still beate them towards the shore, But oh that cursed billowe hath devyded And parted them asunder. Yet all's well; They still beare upp. If they but scape the next There may bee hope of safetye.

Godfr. One's driven this way, The tother that; the men shift for themselves, Howe shall we save thes women?

Ashb. No meanes unlesse we leape downe from the rockes, And that's meare desperation. Yet to showe Our charityes to wretches thus extreame, Lett's see if wee can find the least descent And hasten to theire suckor.

Godfr. By your favour, I had rather they with brine shoold break their bellys Then I my neck with clamberinge.

Explicit Actus primus.



Actus 2.

SCENA PRIMA.

Storme continewed. Enter Palestra all well, as newly shipwreckd and escapt the fury of the seas.

Palestra.[71] Is this then the reward of Innocense, Of goodness to our selfes, namely chast lyfe, Pietye to our parents, love to all, And above all our Christian zeale towardes heaven? But why shoold wee poore wretches thus contest Against the powers above us, when even they That are the best amongst us are servd badd? Alas, I never yet wrongd man or child, Woman or babe; never supplanted frend Or sought revendge upon an enemy. You see yet howe we suffer; howe shall they then That false their faythes, that are of uncleane lyfe And then not only sinne unto them selves But tempt and persuade others? what shall I thinke Becoms of my base guardian? though the waves Have spared the guiltles, sure his putrid s[oule][72] Cannot escape heavens justyce! wee poor wretches Are punishe [sic] for his grosse impietyes, They mov'd heavens wrathe, who stir'd the winds and waves Stryvinge whose fury should destroy us fyrst. These boathe conspyringe in our ruinne, th'one Beate us belowe the billowes whilst the other Swallowed boathe shippe and goodes; [amongst] the rest A[73] budget or portmantau which includes All the bawdes wealth. But that weare nothinge to mee Though he had vowed and sworne to make mee his heyer; The losse I so lament is a small caskett Kept by him from my childhood, and packt up Amongst his treasure; and that perishinge, I forfett the longe expectation Ever to knowe my parents, therefore wishe With it I had i'th sea been buried.

Enter Scribonia.

Scrib. With perill of oft fallinge and the danger Of second deathe, having new scapt the fyrst, I have with feare and terror clim'd these rocks, And these too past I feare to meete a thyrd. I spy no howse, no harbor, meete no creature To point mee to some shelter; therefore heare Must starve by famine or expire by could. O'th sea the whystlinge winds still threaten wreckes, And flyinge nowe for refuge to the lande Find nought save desolation. Thoughe these three, Three dreadfull deaths all spare mee, yeat a fowerth, I cannot shoone [shun] in my Palestras losse, More[74] deare to mee then all the world besides, For the best blood of myne runns in her veynes, This lyfe breath in her bosom. Oh my Palestra!

Palestr. Numnes and feare, hungar and sollitude, Besydes my casket, my Scribonia's losse, All these at once afflict mee.

Scrib. Notheinge mee More than Palestra's deathe. Ha, who's that spake? Suer twas som womans voyce! if my Palestra Only for her sake I coulde wishe to live.

Pal. Then lyve, my deere Scribonia, synce I am only Spar'd to partake with thee newe miseryes.

Scrib. Scarce can I bee perswaded you are shee: But, bee yt but her shadowe, give mee leave For her remembrance to imbrace it thus.

Palest. These armes at once locke all my lyvinge hopes In my restored Scribonia.

Scrib. Nowe I perceave My comfort is not meare imaginary But reall and effectuall. Lyve you then?

Pal. To triumphe in your safety.

Scrib. Possible That mongst these desert unfrequented rocks Thou can imadgine such a thing can be As that which you call safety?

Pal. Yes, Scribonia, And comfort too; for, see, I spy a villadge, A maner and a fayre built monastery, Just at the foott of this descendeinge hill. And where, if not amongst religious men, Shoold we find that's calld charity?

Scrib. Thether, then: Lett[75] us make hast with all the speede we can: Fyre at the least I hope it [is?] well assured, Besydes releiffe and harbor.

Pal. Can you begge?

Scrib. What will not rude necessity compell Distressed folke to doo? We'll not doo't basely, For beinge brought upp to musick and to sing, Demandinge in that kind there charity, And they perceivinge us much better bred Then these our present fortunes might deserve, May move in them compassions.

Pal. Lett's retyre To the backe gate then, there complane our wants And that which others doo with impudence Lett us in shame and blushes.

Scrib. Som sweete echo Speake from these walls and answer to our wants, And eather lend som comfort to our grieffs Or send us hence dispayringe and asham'd.

[They go in.

_Pal_. _Oh charity where art thou fled, And nowe how longe hast thou been dead?

Answer within. Oh many many many hundred yeares

Scrib. In villadge, borrough, towne or citty Remaines there yet no grace, no pitty?

Answ. Not in sighes, not in want, not in teares.

Pal. Cold comfort in this answer; but proceede.

Above. we see a threatninge skye.

Answ. Beelowe the winds and gusts blowe hye, And all all to fright hence this same juell.

Scrib. The lightninges blast, the thunders cracke, The billows menace nought save wracke.

Answ. And yet man is then these much more crewell.

Pal. Unless my judgment quite miscarry, Shee may lyve in som monastery.

Answ. Tis a place too that was fyrst assigned her.

Scrib. If not amongst religious men, Yett where, where shall wee seeks her then?

Answ. Yet even there, there, you scarce scarce can find her.

Pal. If chastity and Innocens tryde Have boathe escaped wind and tyde—

Answ. Yet oh why should the land, land these cherish?

Scrib. Of whome even billowes have a care, Whom seas preserve, whom tempests spare—

Answ. Yet these these amongst men may perishe._

Pal. Uncharitable echo! from a place Of pure devotion canst thou answer that? If not in these religious monasteries, In what place can we find could charity?

Scrib. Where ere wee meete her shee is lyke our selfes, Bare, without harbor, weake and comfortles.

Enter Fryer John.

Fr. Jhon. What singeinge beggers were those at the gate That would so early rowse our charity, Before it was half styrringe or awake?

Enter Fryer Richard.

I thinke I answerd them in such a way As I beleeve scarce pleas'd them.

Fr. Rich. What sweete musick Was that at the back gate hath cald mee upp Somwhat before my hower?

Fr. Jhon. Morrow, fryar Richard: Howe did you lyke our last night's buffetinge? Whilst all the rest of our fraternity In feare of that greate tempest weare att prayers, Wee too pickt out that tyme of least suspition And in the orchard hand to hand weare att it.

Fr. Rich. Tis trew for blooddy noses; and, Fryar Jhon, As you lyke that which is allredy past So chalendge mee hereafter. But whence cam Those sweete and delicate voyces?

Fr. Jhon. I bare part In theire sadd quire though none of these yet knw't. But peace: our Father Abbat.

Enter the Abbot with other fryars.

Abbott. Morrow, soonns, An early blessinge on you, if as the larke Rysen beetymes still to salute the soon, So your devotion pluckes you from your bedds Beefore your hower unto your orisons. Did you not heare a musicall complaynt Of women that in sadd and mournefull tones Bewayld theire late disasters, harshly answerd By a churlish echo?

Fr. Jhon. Som such thinge wee heard.

Fr. Rich. The noates still persist with mee.

Pal. There appeares In his grave lookes bothe zeele and charity; Letts to his sight boldly expose ourselfes. Hayle, reverent father!

Abbot. What are you poore soules Thus wett and wether-bitt?

Scrib. Ere you demand Further from us, letts tast your Christian charity, Som fyare, som harbor, least ere our sadd tale Bee fully tould wee perishe.

Abbot. Why, whence came you?

Pal. From sea; our shipp last night in the great storme Cast on these rocks and split; this the fyrst place Exposed unto our eyes to begge releiff. But oh I faynt.

Abbot. Some[76] faggotts instantly: Hott brothes, hott water for them, and warme cloathes. Whome the high powers miraculously preserve, Whome even the merciles waves have borne ashore, Shall we soe sinke a land? Even wee our selfes That lyve and eate by others charity, To others shall not wee bee charitable? All succor, all supply that can be given, They from our hands shall tast.

Fr. Jhon. Shall we remove them Into the cloyster?

Fr. Rich. Tis agaynst our oath On any, though the great'st, extremity To addmitt women thether.

Abbot. That I knowe: Yet in som out-office see them chear'd, Want nothinge that the cloyster can affourd. Theire bewtyes, though my eye be bleynd at them, Deserve no lesse; I looke on theire distresse And that I pitty. Ech one lend a hand To take off from theire present misery And ease theire tender shoulders; when they are cheer'd And better comforted, I'l finde occatione To enquire further from them.

Pal. Heaven be as kind To you as you to us!

Abb. Feare not fayre damselles: This place, though not within the monastery, Yet stands within the cloysters previledge And shallbee unto you a sanctuary.

Scrib. No other wee expect it.

Abb. Guide them in: [Bell ring. Bewty and youthe to pitty 'tis no sinne.

The bell ringes to mattens. Enter the Lord de Averne and his Lady. Dennis and others.

Fr. Jhon. Harke, the bell ringes to mattens.

Fr. Rich. See withall Our noble patron with his lovely lady Prepare for theire devotion. Nowe, Friar Jhon, Your letcherous eye is conninge.

Fr. Jhon. I knowe my place.

Abbott. Way for our noble founder!

L. Aberne. Morrowe, father; So to the rest of all the brotherhood.

[The quire and musick; the fryars make a lane with ducks and obeysance.

Voyces. Te tuosque semper, oh semper beamus, Et salvos vos venisse, o venisse gaudeamus.

Fr. Jhon. Good daye to our fayre foundresse!

Lady. Mercy, Fryar Jhon; Above the rest you are still dutifull, For which wee kindly thanke you.

[Exeunt: manet Jhon.

Fr. Jhon. Kindly thanke you! Nay, smyld withall! allthough that I have more Then a monthes mind[77] to these younge harletryes Yet heares the grownd on which I fyrst must build And ryse my fortunes many steepes[78] hye. Nay, I perhapps, ere they can drye there smocks, Will putt th'affayre in motion, whyle these are Att solleme mattens. I'l take pen and wryte, And sett my mind downe in so quaint a strayne Shall make her laughe and tickle, whylst I laughe And tickle with the thought on't, still presuminge These lookes, these smyles, these favours, this sweete language Could never breathe, butt have theire byrthe from love. But how to ha'tt delivered? there's the dowbt. Tush I have plott for that too; hee, no questione, That sett mee on to compasse this my will, May when the up-shoote comes assist mee still.

[Exit.



SCENA 2.

[Tempest. Thunder.

Enter 2 Fishermen.

1st Fish. The trobled sea is yet scarce navigable Synce the last tempest: yet wee that only lyv By our owne sweatt and labour, nor cann eate Beffore[79] wee fetch our foode out of the sea, Must ventur thoughe with daunger or bee suer With empty stomakes go unsupt to bed.

2nd Fish. And so it often happens.

1 Fish. See the cordaige Be stronge and tight, the netts with all theire stringes, Plometts, and corks, well plac't for hookes and bates, This daye wee shall have little use of them: The wind's still hye, beare but a gentle sayle And hazard not the channele. Keepe alonge Close by the shoare, the rocks will shelter us And may perhapps affoord us lobsters, praunes, Shrimps, crabbes, and such lyke shell fishe; hence[80] we may Hunt the sea urchen, and with safety too; There's many holde hime for a dayntye fishe, Hee sells well in the markett. That poore men Are forct too, for a slender competens, A little to prolonge a wretched lyfe!

2 Fish. Com then lett us weighe anchor and aboord: The soone is upp allredy.

Enter the Clowne.

Clowne. If ever menn weare madd then suer my master is not well in his witts, and all about this wenshe; here's such sendeinge and seekeinge, hurriinge and posteinge, and all to no purpose. I have nowe some thyrty errands to deliver and knowe not to whome nor where, what nor to which place fyrst; hee's gone on to the citty and sent mee back to the villaige, whither his frend travelled[81] one waye, hee another, and I a thyrd contrary from them boathe; he cannott beleeve his inquiry to be well doone but hee must send me to doo't over againe. I have asked all I mett and demanded of all I have seene.[82] But what are theese? these should bee fishermen. Good morrowe, you sea theeves.[83]

1 Fish. You call us theeves that may proove honester Than many goe for trewe[84] men on the shore.

Clowne. Sawe[85] you not passe this [way] an ould bald fellowe hutch-shoolderd, crooked nos'd, beetle browd, with a visadge lowreing and a looke skowlinge; one that heaven hates and every good man abhors; a cheatinge raskall and an ugly slave,—did note such passe you?

1 Fish. If such a one as you describe you inquire for, Mee thinks, my frend, thou hast mistooke thy way; Thou shouldst have sought him at the gallowes rather, There such are soonest fownd.

Clowne. Byrlady, worst answered of a playne fellowe; but that you may knowe him the better, hee had too handsome streete-singing-fact lasses in his companye.

2 Fish. And for such creatures y'had best search the stewes O'th citty; this our villadge yields none such. This fellowe doth but flowte us; letts aboord.

1 Fish. Inquire for us of wenshes? tush, wee fishe For no such perewinkles; farewell flesh mongere.

[Ex. Fish.

Clowne. No wonder these fellowes pretend to be witty; for understandinge, so manye have lost there witts as ... they have fisht for it and in som drawenett or other have caught it. But where might these lost shrewes bee? I suspect this pestiferous Je vous prie hathe putt some slovenly tricke or other to cheate my mayster boathe of his ware and mony.

Enter Scribonia with an empty pale to y'e Clow.

Scribon. Thus beinge chered with warmth, and change of clothes, With all such comforts as the cloyster yeelds, I am dyrected to a neighbours by For water to refreshe and wash our selves. And this shoold bee the howse.

Clowne. What! not Scribonia, One of the flock that's missing?

Scrib. Oh sweete Jayms, Where is your noble maister?

Clowne. Nay, sweete rogue, Where is his bewteous mystresse?

Scrib. Heare within.

Clowne. In this place joyninge to the monastery? And Mildewe too?

Scrib. Rott on that villeyne! no.

Clowne. Hee promist to bringe you too alonge and meete with my master and som others of his frends att supper.