[Enter Drawer.

—Sirra, I charge you set a padlock upon that Chamber doore; there is a dangerous fellow must be brought to his purgation. And looke all the goods that he hath vomitted be forthcomeing, while we discreetly goe and enforme the Magistrates.—At your perill, sirra, at your perill seale up the Doore; and do you pay the reckoninge.

Un. Sir Richard is a Justice. There's your money, and yet wee need not pay; the gentleman hath left enough for the Reckoning in the next Roome.

Un. I ha made him fast, you are very welcome, gentlemen. All's paid in the Percullis.

[Exeunt.



[SCENE 3.]

Enter Courtwell and Sister.

Sis. Ile walke no further; if you have a secret To impart, you need not feare this place; the trees And hedges will not listen. What's the business? I hope your phlegmatick stock of verse is spent.

Cou. Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in, I doe not love you, Lady.

Sis. How? you ha not Traind me thus farr to tell me that?

Cou. You are Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle, And one with whome tis most impossible I ere should change Affection; theres nothing To invite me too't, not so much as that Wee call a seeming reason, upon which All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it, My understanding Ladie.

Sis. You thinke I am very dull that you expound Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator, Not by the Author, tis so very plaine; But to despise me most of all the sexe Is something oversaid. Though I affect No flattery, I hate uncivill Language. You do not meane to quarrell, now you have Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?

Cou. What is there in your face more to attract mee Then that Red Cowes complexion? Why the Divell Do you thinke I should dote upon your person? That thing when she is stroak'd gives milke.

Sis. By that I understand all this revenge, because You thinke I did neglect you. Pray, sir, tell me, And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I Should love you now, could not you love agen?

Cou. In troth I thinke I could not.

Sis. You do but thinke.

Cou. Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish, And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke Shall praise me fort and say Amen.

Sis. What reasons?

Cou. I shall be very loath To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen, Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie, Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory, Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head, When my owne Conscience tells me that Bunhill Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but Higate Compar'd with 'em is Paradice. I thanke you; Ile not be vext and squeez'd about a rime Or in a verse that's blanke, as I must be, Whine love unto[268] a tune.

Sis. This all your feare?

Cou. No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse, And my witts too, jolting them all away To waite on you in prouder Coaches.

Sis. Is this all?

Cou. To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh'd at By all the world when I shall come at last To this reward for all my services, To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.

Sis. But how Came you thus cur'd? You were a passionate (I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it. What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor'd you?

Cou. A little sack had power to cure this madnes.

Sis. I hope you are not sober yet, the humour May change when you ha slept.

Cou. Ile rather stick My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare Perpetually.

Sis. Then you may see me agen.

Cou. I thinke I sha'not, unless it be to wonder, When you are in the Ivie bush, that face Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes, So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of Pretence powderd with ermines. Now I looke upon't, With those black patches it does put me in mind Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me. How sell you grapes? Your haire[270] does curle in bunches; You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.

Sis. This rudenes Is beyond the manners of a gentleman.

Cou. I cannot helpe it, and I hope you thinke so.

Sis. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken, But if your passion have not drownd all reason I pray let us part civilly.

Cou. With all my heart; I dare then take my leave, to[o].

Sis. Whoe's there?

Cou. Where?

Sis. Behind that tree?

Cou. You have no plott to accuse me for a rape? Twas at the worst but felony, for cherries That look'd as they had been a fortnight gather'd.

Sis. I know youle bring me home in Curtesie.

Cou. Not I, I wo' not trust my selfe; and you Will hardly meet a worse to interrupt you. Fare you well, Ladie.—Do you see that Bull?

Sis. Yes, Sir.

Cou. That is a happie beast

Sis. Why happie, sir?

Cou. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour, Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer To appear still in new rich suites, but lives Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none. Like the great Turke he walkes in his Seraglio, And doth command which concubine best pleases; When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe, And makes as he had never knowne the Dun, White, Red or Brindled Cowe.

Sis. You are unmanly.

Cou. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it. Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie, An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not; For, if you raile, too, men that know you can Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and Tis not my ayme.

Sis. You are a fine man!

Cou. I am in my best clothes?

Sis. I perceave That tis truth now what the world saies of you, And yet tis strange.

Cou. 'Twere strange it should be otherwise.

Sis. You give your tongue a licence, nor will I hope Your malice should spare me abroad that have So prodigally abus'd a Ladies fame That deserv'd nobly from you; but you men Care not whose name you blast with a loose character, So you maintaine your pride of talke.

Cou. Howe's this? It is confess'd I have talk'd in my tyme And talk'd too much, but not too much of you; For I but seldome thought of such a woman: For any other—

Sis. Nay, sir, I am satisfied; You can talke your pleasure.

Cou. Have I not done it, too?

Sis. Yes, by your own report, and with a lady So much in vertue and in birth above you; And therefore I expect not—

Cou. Stay; this moves me. I never tooke a pleasure yet to lie With Ladies fames, or ever thought that sport Lay in the tongue. Such humours are for men That live by brothell offices: let me know Who hath traduc'd me to you thus, he shall Be knowne no more.

Sis. Ile not be guiltie, sir, Of any murder; when we meet agen, And you in better humour, I may tell you. So farewell, Gondarino,[271] nothing's lost When you turne Woman Hater. [Exit.

Cou. She has vext me. If we make Matrimony after this rate, The Divell is like to dance at our wedding. Ho!

Enter Device.

De. Hee's here, Alone too, and the place most opportune. How shall I beginne?—Mr. Courtwell, do you love Any friend of mine?

Cou. Not to my knowledge, Sir; I should be sorry.

De. Do not you love a gentlewoman?

Cou. If she be a friend of yours ile take the first Occasion to neglect her for your sake.

De. It will become your wisdome and your safety.

Cou. What mischiefe have done to your face?

De. My face?

Cou. You looke so scurvily; come hither, thou New Monster, with more feet then a Caterpiller; What tyme a day ist? you that move upon So many wheeles, say, Monsier, are you not A walkeing Clock? I have a mighty mind To see you tooke a peeces.

De. I doe not like this.— You wo'not put me, sir, together againe.

Cou. I wo'not take the paines. Why do you smile now?

De. At your conceite to thinke I was a Clock: I am a watch, I never strike.—Hee's valiant.

Cou. You have pretty colours there; are these your Mistresses?

De. If you did know the mistery you would applaud 'em. Have you read Livre de blason? What meane you?

Cou. I will bestow 'em, sir, upon some forehorse? They will become a countrey teame rarely.

De. Mor bleu! Why, you dare fight, it seemes, and I was told You were no Cavellier, a very dreame [droane?] A wedg for men to breake their swords upon. I shall never trust fame agen for your sake.

Cou. Thou never cosendst me.

De. I was never so illiterate in man.

Cou. For I did ever thinke thou durst not fence But at a complement; a glittering vapour, A thing of clothes and fitt for chambermaides To whet their witts upon, but now resolve Either to have your skin flead of or fight wo' me For troubling my present meditations.

De. Why, sir, if you be serious I shall quit That prejudice you have upon my valour. Looke you, sir, I can draw, and thus provok'd I dare chastise you, too. Cause I was merry I was not bound to feed your spleen eternally With laughter; yet I am not ignorant What an advantage, sir, your weapon gives you In length.

Cou. Wee'le change; why, this is honour in thee.

[They measure and Device getts both weapons.

De. Now, sir, keepe of.

Cou. Th'art not so base?

De. I never cosen'd you, do you remember? These two will guide me on the rope.

Cou. You meane to dance, then?

De. Yes, the Canaries,[272] but with quicker tyme Then you, I hope, can follow: thus I begin. Fa, la, la, &c. [Excurrit.

Cou. What a heathen Coward's this? how the rogue tripps like a fairie to the towne with 'em! He has been a footman, sure; I have not aire enough to overtake him, and twill be darke presently. If I loose the sight on him ile search the towne, and if I find him not there, pursue him with hue and cries and after hang him.

[Exit.



[SCENE 4.]

Enter Sir Francis, a taper prepar'd.

Fra. The sun whose busie eye is still employ'd A spie upon our actions, tir'd with waiting, Is drowsie gone to bed, about whose pillow Night hath hung all her wings and set up tapers As if the Day were timerous like a Child And must have lights to sleepe by. Welcome all The houres that governe pleasure, but be slow When you have blest me with my wishes. Time And Love should dwell like twins; make this your bower And charme the aire to sweetnes and to silence. Favour me now and you shall change your states; Time shall be old no more, I will contract With Destiny, if he will spare his winges To give him youth and beauty, that we may Find every minute a fresh child of pleasure. Love shall be proud to be no more a boy But grow to perfect strength and bold consistence[273]; For when too Active Lovers meet, so happie As wee, whose equall flames light to embraces, Twill be no weight to number many yeares In our delights and thinke all age a blessing. But language is to narrow to expresse What I expect, tis fitt my soule retire Till she present her selfe; and, if it can Measure my hop'd for ioyes with thought, prepare To entertaine the happines.

[Exit.



[SCENE 5.]

Sir Richard and his Lady abed. Enter Dorothy with a Light.

Do. I have set already my designe a moveing To take my Captaine Underwit, who in wine Was late more feirie upon me. I'th meane tyme I cannot choose but laugh at the device Wee have to cheat my Master; sure the Divell Is a great friend to women that love men, He doth so furnish us with quaint inventions. Presently after supper she began Her fitt othe toothach, and did counterfeit So naturally; but since she went to bed She almost rav'd by turnes:—I heare her at it.

La. Oh—oh, whoe's there?

Do. Tis I forsooth, I heard you groane and I Have not the hart to sleepe. Shall I watch by you?

_La. Oh, no, no, no; get you to bed, make fast the Chamber; I cannot endure the candle.

[Dorothy towards the dore putts out the Candle and returnes.

Ri. Deare hart be patient.

La. I, you have your homilies of patience, but if you had my paine twould make you wild. Oh!

Ri. Ile send for the french toothdrawer in the morning.

La. Oh, there is no rack nor torture like it. What shall I do? I shall never sleepe agen.

Ri. Which tooth ist?

Do.—The sweet one you may be sure which troubles her.

La. This, this, O that there.

Ri. They are happie that are old and have no teeth.

La. Oh, take heed, now it shoots up to my head.

Ri. Thou dost make my head ake with the noise.

La. If you knew what I suffer your head would ake indeed. I must rise and walke in the Chamber; there is no remedy.

Ri. You will catch more cold.

La. Oh, no, no, deere life, do not crosse me; and you were in my torment you would rise and trie any thing for a little ease. It cannot be worse; the paine sure came with a cold, and who knowes but an other cold may cure me.

Ri. I prethe come to bed agen.

La. So, so, do not troble me; I am now in some little ease; its a heavenly thing to be goeing.

Ri. Dost heare?

La. Your noise will bring my paine back agen; if you knew what a vexation it were for me to speake, You wo'not put me too't so. If you doe talke I wo'not answere a word more, oh!

Ri. Well by this no light ile to London tomorrow.

[She takes Dorothy by the hand and exit.

Now do I see it is possible that a womans teeth should be as troublesome as her tongue.

Do. Oh, oh!

Ri. I cannot choose but pitty her, that any woman should hold so much paine in a hollow tooth.

Do.—If my Mr. touched with so much compassion should rise and force me to bed with him, I must not cry out a rape; tis at the worst on my side but fornication in my owne defence.

Ri. I prethe come to Bed.

Do. Oh, oh, oh!

Ri. The musick at a convocation of Catts upon a witches upsetting is the spheres to this Catterwalling. I will thrust my head into the pillow, as Dametas[274] did in a bush when the beare was a comeing, and then I shanot heare her.

Do. Oh, this is a kind of Purgatory for sins of the flesh. If she should fall asleepe with the tother knight it is not possible I should hold out till morning; that which would fright away an Ague would put me into a feare, I shall ha the toothache indeed with counterfeiting; I have knowne some men caught the stammers so; my gums begin to murmure, there is a feare all over my flesh, she will stay so long, and then—-

Ri. coughs.—Uh, uh!

Do. Oh, oh!—Ile shift places to shew more distraction; at the worst my noise shall be within his reach; it may give her notice to returne too. [Exit.



[SCENE 6.]

Sir Francis a sleepe; a table, inke, and paper. Enter Lady.

La. I am full of feares, and my owne motion frights me; This furious love is a strange pilot. Sir, Where are you? ha! asleepe! can any dulnes That is not Death possess a gentleman, So valiant in desires, when he expects To meete his Mistresse? How I blush to raise him! Was I not worth thy waking expectation? Farewell; yet something that [like?] a charme that's fastned To my poore hart restraines me. Inke and paper! Ile leave him a short monument of this shame And my neglected Love. [Writes. He knowes my hand: farwell, forgetfull Lover. [Exit.

Fra. What? have I slept? some witchcraft did betray My eyes to so much darkenes; yet my dreame Was full of rapture, such as I with all My wakeing sence would flie to meet. Me thought I saw a thousand Cupids slide from heaven, And landing here made this their scene of revells, Clapping their golden feathers which kept tyme While their owne feet strook musike to their dance, As they had trod and touched so many Lutes. This done, within a Cloud formd like a Throne, She to whom love had consecrate this night, My Mistresse, did descend and, comeing toward me, My soule that ever wakes, angrie to see My body made a prisoner and so mock'd, Shook of the chaines of sleepe, least I should loose Essentiall pleasure for a dreame. Tis happie; I will not trust my selfe with ease and silence, But walke and waite her comeing that must bless me. Forgive me, you bright starres, and do not frowne That I have not attended as became One that must live by your kind influence. Not yet appeard? She did comand I should With confidence expect her. Ha! what's here? This Character, was not visible before. That man's too much compos'd of phleame Will loose his Mistress for a Dreame. [Reades. Tis her's, I know't; she has been here, oh fatall! And finding me asleepe scorn'd to uncharme My dull and cursed silence. This distracts me: Have I so long, with so much Art and study, Labour'd this honour, and obtaind what my Ambition look'd at, her consent; and when The tree it selfe bowed downe its golden fruit And tempted me to gather, must I make My selfe uncapable and be guilty of So black, so base a forfeit? I could teare My eyelids of, that durst let in a Mist So darke and so destroying, must I sleepe At such a tyme that the Divell must be over Watche too! This houre hath blasted such a hope As the Earth never teemd with nor the spring Gave up in smileing blosomes to the breath Of those sweet windes that whisper from the West A tale of triumph to the yeere. I could Dissolve with curseing of my Lathargie. How shall I looke upon her face whose love And bold adventure I have thus rewarded? But passion cannot cure my wound; which must Bleed till I see her, and then either cease, Blest by her pardon, or dismiss a life (Though iust) too poore a Sacrifice for her anger. Where shall I hide my selfe and shame for ever!

[Exit.



The Fifth Act.

Enter Sister.

Sis. I cannot forgett my carelesse gentleman: his neglect and reproaches have wrought strangely upon me.—Hee's here.

Enter Courtwell.

Cou. Is there not a weesill crept into your Chamber, lady?

Sis. A weesill, sir?

Cou. A Mounsier sucklegge.

Sis. Do you take my Chamber for a henns neast?

Cou. There is a thing that calls himselfe Device, One that will break the hart of a post horse To continue a hand gallop with him; your Alamode, Your fighting faery feather'd footed servant,— When saw you him?

Sis. My fighting servant? has he beaten you, sir? Perhapps he thought you were his Rivall; surely I saw him not since yesterday.

Cou. Bu'y, Ladie.— How many mile ist to the next Cutlers? The rogue has pawn'd or sold my sword. [Offers to go forth.

Sis. Dee heare, sir? I can tell you now what Lady twas you did Abuse so.

Cou. I abuse a Ladie! tell me the slave Reported it. I hope twill prove this Mounsieur. If ere we meet agen! Who wast?

Sis. Upon condition, sir, you will requite me But with one gentle favour.

Cou. Any thing—

Sis. You must sitt downe and heare me then while I At a distance thus deliver—

Cou. Tis more state.

Sis. I am most unfortunate.

Cou. In what, deare Damsell?

Sis. And much wrongd by a gentleman I lov'd.

Cou. Can he be a gentleman that dares Wrong so much love and beauty? what's the offence?

Sis. He wo'not love agen.

Cou. And you would have The stubborne man corrected?

Sis. I would be Revengd if I knew how, and honour him Should do me Justice.

Cou. Name the man; Ile doot.

Sis. I cannot.

Cou. How?

Sis. Yet turne your face: alas, it is yourselfe. I have your word to punish him.

Cou. Sweet Ladie, I am well acquainted with the worthy gentleman, But will not kill nor strike him, for I know He has just reason not to love you—you Of all your sex; he told me so.

Sis. His reason?

Cou. Was in these wordes; suppose you hear him speak it; Now do you sit—Lady, when I consider you, The perfect frame of what we can call hansome, With all your attributes of soule and body, Where no addition or detraction can By Cupids nicer Crittick find a fault, Or Mercury with your eternall flame; And then consider what a thing I am To this high Character of you, so low, So lost to noble merits, I despaire To love a Mistresse cannot love agen.

Sis. This is a much dissembled Modesty.

Cou. Therefore give me the kinder Chambermaid, That will returne me love for my two peeces And give me back twelve pennyworth agen, Which is as much as I can well receave; So there is thirty and nyne shillings cleere Gotten in Love, and much good do her too't; I thinke it very well bestow'd.

Sis. But if I thinke you worthy, and accept Your service, it destroies this other reason For your despaire. Why, I can praise you, too.

Cou. No, lett it alone I have other reasons Lady Among my papers. But to love or to be in love Is to be guld; that's the plaine English of Cupids Latine. Beside, all reverence to the calling, I Have vowd never to marry, and you know Love may bring a Man toot at last, and therefore My fine Gewgaw do not abuse me.

Sis. How can I When you will neither Love nor marry me?

Cou. I was not made for a husband.

Sis. But I would make you.

Cou. I know what you would make me.

Enter Servant.

Ser. Mounsier Device, if you be alone, would present his service.

Cou. Is he come?

Sis. Sir, do me but one favour, ile recant My Love, I wonot have so much as one Good thought on you; I will neglect you, sir, Nay and abuse you, too, if you obscure But for three minutes.

Cou. Ile have patience so long.

Sis. Admitt him.—I wilbe reveng'd o' somebody.— Now, Sir.

Enter Device.

De. I ha brought you a weapon, Lady.

La. Mee, what to do, Sir?

De. Tis Justice I present it to your feete Whose love arm[e]d me to vindicate your honour.

Sis. My honour?

De. This is but the first of my valour in your cause; If you affect these Monuments ile make You up an Armorie; meane tyme receave My Service with this sword: if he provoke me To fight with him agen, Ile cut his hand of And bring that wo' me to present the next.

Sis. Whose hand, deare servant?

De. He is not worth the nameing; las, this does not Deserve your knowledge. Only thinke what I Dare do when your bright name is question[e]d, And I in tyme may merit to be cald The darling of your virgin thoughts.

Sis. I pray stay. My name traduc'd? who was so impudent? Do me the grace to let me know on whome Your valour had been exercis'd.

De. Why, the formall thing Courtwell; I would [not] call him Gentleman; but that I ha baffled him You need no other witnes but his sword With that fine holliday hilt, Ladie.

[She shutts the Doore.

Sis. Looke you, sir, I ha made fast the Doore, Because I meane before you goe to have A satisfaction for the base injury You ha done me.

De. I done you injurie!

Sis. Not that I value Courtwell, whome you would Pretend has been to saucy with my honour; But, cause I scorne to owne a goodnes should Depend upon your sword or vindication, Ile fight with you my selfe in this small vollume Against your bulke in folio.

Cou. Excellent wench!

De. I was your Champion, lady.

Sis. Ide rather have no fame then heare thee name it. Thou fight for a Ladies honour and disarme A gentleman, thou! fence before the pageants And make roome for the porters, when like Elephants They carry once a yeare the Citty Castles, Or goe a feasting with the Drum and foot boyes To the Bankeside and save the Beares a whipping That day thou art cudgeld for thy saucy challenging A sergeant with one eye, that was to much too. Come, Sir, I meane to have a bout with you.

De. At that weapon?

Sis. This, and no other.

De. Ile rather bleed to death then lift a sword In my defence, whose inconsiderate brightnes May fright the Roses from your cheeke and leave The Lillies to lament the rude divorce. But were a Man to dare me, and your enemy, My rage more nimble then [the] Median shaft Should flie into his bosome, and your eye Change anger into smiles to see me fight And cut him into a ragged staffe.

Enter Courtwell.

Cou. I can hold no longer. You have gott a stomack, Sir, with running; ile try how you can eate a sword.

De. Ha you an ambush, Lady? Ile cry out murder. Is two to one faire play?

Cou. Let me cut one legg of, to marre his running.

De. Hold, let me speake.

Cou. What canst thou say for thy baseness?

De. Some men loves wit, and can without dishonour Endure a jeast. Why, do you thinke I know not You were here, and but obscur'd to see my humour. I came to waite upon you with your sword, I.

Cou. How came you by'te? confesse before this Lady.

De. Dost thinke her witts so limber to believe I could compell it from thee. Twas a trick, A meere conceipt of mirth; thou sha't ha mine. Dost thinke I stand upon a sword? Ile gi' thee A case of Pistolls when we come to London; And shoot me when I love thee not. Pox ont, Thou apprehende'st me well enough.

Cou. But I am not Satisfied: do you affect this gentlewoman?

De. Hum.

Cou. You will resolve, sir?

De. As may become a stranger; ile not loose Thy friendship for all woman kind.

Cou. He dares not owne you.

Sis. I easilie forgive him; I should hate My selfe, if I depended on his pitty.

Cou. Th'art a noble wench. Shall we leave of These jigs and speake our harts in earnest? By These twin lips I love thee extreamely.

Sis. Sweare by your owne.

Cou. They shall bee mine. Mounsier, For your penance you shall along and witnes.

Sis. What, I pray?

Cou. The Priest shall tell you; come, we have both dissembled, We do love one another.

Sis. Tis not possible.

Cou. Unless you will denie me i'the church. I ha vou'd to lie with you to night: Device, Amble before and find the parson out; We will bee friends and thou shalt be her father.

De. I must maintaine my humour or be beaten. [Ex.

Cou. Come, weele have no more acquainted.

Sis. Very pretty. —I may deceave you yet for all your confidence.

Cou. If the skie fall weele have the larkes to supper.

[Exeunt.



[SCENE 2.]

Enter Ladie, Sir Francis, Dorothy.

La. It was strange neglect, sir.

Fra. I confesse it, And not deserve to live for't; yet if you But knew my sufferings—

La. Let her be Judge.

Fra. By no meanes, Madam.

La. You may trust her knowledge.

Fra. This is worse then a whipping now; these Ladies Have no mercy on a delinquent. I must stand toot. There is no tyrant to a chamberwoman Made judg in such a cause; Ide give a Limbe To be quit now, but, if she choose, I am A Criple for this world.

Do. Ist possible a man and such a beast?

Fra. So, I must to the shameles.

La. What punishment can be equall to the offence?

Do. He lookes with some compunction for his fault. Troth, Madam, choose an other night and trye Whether he will sleepe agen.

Fra. Mercifull wench! If we peece agen it shall be a good turne in thy way.

La. My husband is this day resolv'd for London; It is his humour, or els, worse, suspition. Ther's no pretence for him to stay behind.

Do. You have made ill use of your time, Sir Francis; I know not how to helpe you. Seaven yeare hence You may have such an other oportunitie.

La. Watch if my husband come not this way, Dorothy. —Well, sir, though your transgresse deserve no pardon, Yet I am charitable upon Condition—

Fra. Anything, Madam. This shewes exlent in you; No pennance shall displease so you absolve me. Bid me to clime some Rock or Pyramide, Upon whose narrow spire you have advanc'd My peace, and I will reach it or else fall, Lost to the world in my attempt.

La. You speake Gloriously; the condition that assures Your pardon, 's only this—that you conclude Here all your loose desires with a resolve Never to prosecute or hope to enjoy me.

Fra. Call you this Charity? let me rather loose Your pardon then for ever to be thus forfeited; Bind me never to see you (and yet that Were cruelty) then charme me to forgett That I am man or have a hart, and you A beauty, which your absence can as well Make nothing as devide from my adoring. It is not cure but killing to prescribe I never must enjoy you. If you have Resolv'd a Death upon me, let it bee When we like Lovers have embrac'd—

La. It is not possible.

Fra. Nothing in love Can be impossible to willing mindes. Ile tell you, Madam—(sure the Divell has Forsworne the flesh)—there may be a plot. I have it! An exelent rare devise, if you but favour it. Your husband is imediately for London, I must in modesty ride with him; you Are left behind.

La. How can that profitt you?

Do.—What a deale of submission these foolish men Trouble us women with, that are more forward To be friends agen then they are!

Fra. I will counterfeit a fall.

La. A fall?

Fra. I, from my horse; observe me, then—

Do.—My confederate, I hope, by this time is at gate Enquiring for Sir Richard very formally From the old knight, his Master, and good Ladie. The fellow has witt to manage it.

Fra. My footman shall pretend himselfe the Surgeon To attend me; is't not rare? Stand but to'th fate of this, and if it faile I will sitt downe a Convert and renounce All wanton hope hereafter. Deerest Madam, If you did meane before this honour to me, Let not your loving thoughts freeze in a Minuit. My genius is a prophet.

Do. Sir Richard, Madam, Is comeing this way.

Fra. Shall I hope agen?

La. I wo'not say you shall despaire.

Fra. You blesse me. [Exit.

Do. My busines is a foote; your Jewell, Madam, Will credit much the cause.

La. Wee will withdraw And let me know how you have cast the plott.

[Exeunt.



(SCENE 3.)

Enter Sir Richard, opening a Letter; a Footman waiting.

Ri. From thy Master? his name?

Foo. Sir Walter Littleland.

Ri. I doe not know him.

Foo. His name is well knowne in Lincolnsheire neere the fenns: there were his family antient gentlemen before the Conquest; some say ever since the flood.

Ri. Littleland!

Foo. But he has now more land then three of the best in the shire, thanke the Duchmen that have drunk up all the water.

Ri. They water drinkers?

Foo. Why not, as well as eate dry land? they are lin'd with butter, Sir, and feare no Dropsie.

Sir Richard reades.

She has been absent theis two yeares; the occasion, her dislike and disaffection to a gentleman whome I confesse I did too seveerely urge her to marry. If she have liv'd with you, as my late intelligence hath enformed me, in the nature of a servant, which is beneath my wishes and her condition, I hope upon this knowledge you will with consideration of her quality (she being the onely Child and heire to my fortune) use her like a gentlewoman. And though my yeares have made me unfitt for travell, I do intend, upon returne of your Letters, personally to give you thankes for your respects to my Daughter, whome I shall receave as new blessing from you, and be happie upon any turne presented to expresse my selfe for your favours, your true friend and servant W. Littleland.

My maide Dorothy a Knights Daughter and heire! Doe you know your yong Mistresse.

Foo. I shall be happie to see her and present her with a Letter & some token from her Ladie Mother.

Ri. I pray trust me to deliver it.

Foo. With all my hart, Sir, you may comand.

[Enter Thomas.

Ri. Thomas, pray entertaine this footman in the butterie; let him drinke and refresh himselfe, and set the cold chine of Beefe before him: he has ranne hard.

Tho. That will stay his stomach, indeed, but Claret is your only binder.

Foo. Sack, while you live, after a heat, Sir.

Tho. Please you, my friend, ile shew you the way to be drunke.

[Exit. [Tho. with footman.

Ri. To my loving Daughter. May not this be a trick? By your favour, Madam. [He opens the Letter.

Enter Underwit.

Captaine, gather you the sence of that Letter while I peruse this. You know Mistress Dorothy.

Un. I have had a great desire to know her, I confess, but she is still like the bottome of the map, terra incognita. I have been a long tyme hovering about the Magellan streights, but have made no new discoveries.

Ri. Ha! this is not counterfeit, I dare trust my owne Judgment; tis a very rich one. I am confirmed, and will scale them up agen. My Ladies woman Sir Walter Littlelands Daughter and heire! What think you now of Mistris Dorothy?

Un. A great deale better than I did; and yet I have lov'd her this halfe yeare in a kind of way. O' my conscience why may not I marry her?

Ri. This Jewell was sent by her mother to her.

Un. Deere Uncle conseale till I have talk'd with her. Oh for some witchcraft to make all sure.

Ri. I like this well; shees here.

Enter Dorothy.

Un. I vow, Mistris Dorothy, if I were immodest twas the meere impudence of my sack and not my owne disposition; but if you please to accept my love now, by the way of Marriage, I will make you satisfaction like a gentleman in the point of honour.

Do. Your birth and estate is to high and unequall for me, sir.

Un. What care I for a portion or a face! She that has good eyes has good——Give me vertue.

Do. You are pleas'd to make your mirth of me.

Un. By this Rubie, nay you shall weare it in the broad eye of the world, dost thinke I am in Jeast.

Do. Sir Richard—

Un. And were he ten Sir Richards, I am out of my wardship.

Do.—How he flutters in the lime bush! it takes rarely.

Un. What a necessary thing now were a household Chaplaine.

[Ext. [Dorothy & Underwit.

Ri. So, so, the wench inclines. I will hasten my journey that I may appear with more excuse when they are married in my absence.

Enter Captaine and Engine.

Cap. Sir, I heare you are for London presentlie; It will concerne you take this gentleman Along w'ee to bee cur'd.

Ri. Mr. Engine sick!

Cap. Oh, sir, Dangerously; he has purg'd his stomack, but the ill spiritts Are flowne into his head and spoild his eares. He was ever troubled with Devices in his head; I stronglie feare he must have his scull open'd, His brains are very foule within. I know And can direct you to an excle'nt Surgeon.

En. I cannot heare you, Captaine—

Cap. One that has a rare dexteritie at lanceing Or opening of a stomack that has crudities; So neat at separation of a limbe And quartering of treason.

Ri. You meane the hangman?

Cap. He has practised late to mend his hand, and now With the very wind and flourish of his instrument He will strike flatt a projector at twelve score.

Ri. Does he not heare you?

Cap. He has lost that sence he saies, unless he counterfeits; It wilbe your securitie to see him Safe in the Surgeons hands. [they whisper.

En.—Into what misery have my Projects flung me! They shanot know I understand 'em. That I were quitt with loss of both my eares, although I cut my haire like a Lay Elder, too, To shew the naked conyholes! I doe thinke What cursed Balletts will be made upon me And sung to divilish tunes at faire and Marketts To call in cutpurses. In a puppet play, Were but my storie written by some scholler, Twould put downe hocas pocas and the tumblers And draw more audience than the Motion Of Ninivie[275] or the dainty docile horse[276] That snorts at Spaine by an instinct of Nature.

Cap. Ile leave him to you and seeke out Captaine Underwit. [Exit.

Ri. Come, Master Engine, weele to horse imediately.

[Exeunt.



[SCENE 4.]

Enter Courtwell, Sister and Device.

Cou. So, we are fast enough, and now I have thee Ile tell thee all the fault I find; thou hast A little too much witt to bee a wife; It could not be too nimble for a Mistresse.— Device, there is a part still of your pennance Behind. You would pretend to be a Poet; Ile not disgrace the name to call thee one, But let me have rimes against we go to bed, Two Anagrams that weigh an ounce, with coment, And after that in verse your Affidavit That you do wish us joy, and I discharge you.

De. Tis tyme I were at study then.

Cou. About e'm: Your double congey and depart with silence. [Exit Device. Now prethe tell me who reported I Had wrong'd a Ladie? Wast not thy revenge To make me angrie?

Sis. Twas, indeed. Now tell me: Why at the first approach seem'd you so modest? You have confidence to spare now.

Cou. Troth I came not With any wooing purpose; only to please My Uncle, and try thy witt; and that converted me.

Enter Thomas.

Tho. Did you see my Master, Captaine Underwit?

Cou. Yes, hee's talking with the priest and Mistris Dorothy.

Tho. Her fathers footman was here; she is a knights daughter And heire, but she does not know it yet.

Sis. I thinke so.

Cou. Where's my Uncle.

Tho. A mile ons way to London by this tyme with Sir Richard. I long to see my Master. [Exit.

Cou. Wee shall want companie to dance.

Enter Ladie.

Sis. My Sister.

Cou. If you please, Madam, you may call me Brother: We have been at 'I John take the Elizabeth'. A possett and foure naked thighes a bed To night will bid faire earnest for a boy, too.

Sis. Tis even so; Madam, the preist has done it.

La. May then all joyes attend you; if this had Been knowne, it might have staid Sir Richard and Your Uncle one day more.

Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas.

Un. Come for another Couple.

Tho. In hell[277]; my Master is married.

La. My husband left some letters and a token Was sent you Mistris Dorothy. You did ill To obscure your selfe so much; you shall not want Hereafter all respects that may become you.

Do. Madam, I know not what you meane.

Cap. She wonot take it upon her yet.

Un. Theres the sport.

Enter Device.

De. Oh, Madam, newes, ill newes, an accident Will blast all your mirth: Sir Francis—

Cou: La. What of him?

De. Has brooke—

Cou. His neck?

De. You guest very neere it, but his shoulder Has sav'd that joynt. A fall from's horse, they say, Hath much endanger'd him.

Cou. My Uncle hurt! [Exit.

La. He has kept his word; now if he but counterfeit handsomely.

Un. Mounsier Device, I must entreat a Courtesie; you have wit, and I would have a Masque to entertaine my new father-in-law Sir Walter Littleland. Mistres Dorothy, now my wife, is his onely Daughter and heire.

Do. Who has guld you thus? I am no knights Daughter; You may share your poeticall invention, sir.

De. Give you joy, Captaine.

Un. She is still loth to confesse it.

Enter Sir Francis, Lady, Courtwell, Sister, Captaine.

Fra. If you have charity a bone setter.

La. He does counterfeit rarely.—Wheres Sir Richard?

Fra. He rid before, but I sent my footman to tell him this misfortune. Oh, Madam!

La.—This is better then the toothack; he carries it excellently.

Fra. Aske me no torturing questions; I desire, Madam, a little conference with you. Ile thanke the rest if they withdraw: oh!

[Cou.[278]] Letts leave him.

Un. Wee'le to my chamber, captaine.

Cap. You have a mind to examine the business privatly?

Do. No, good Captaine, you may be present.

Cou. Come, Thomas, thou shat be witnes, too.

[Ext. all but Sir Francis and Lady.

La. They are gone; they feigne most artificially, Let me embrace you.

Fra. Oh, take heed.

La. What's the matter?

Fra. Tis no dissembling,—Madam; I have had A fall indeed, a dreadfull fall; I feele it. I thinke my horse saw the Divell in some hedge: Ere I had rid three furlongs, gave a start, Pitcht me of ons back like a barr and broke A flint with my shoulder, I thinke, which strooke fire too; There was something like it in my eyes, Ime punish'd.

La. But is this serious? are you hurt indeed?

Fra. Hurt? I ha broke my shoulder feelingly, And I am of opinion when I doe Enjoy you, Madam, I shall breake my neck; That will be next. Ile take this for a warning And will leave of in tyme.

La. This makes me tremble.

Fra. I will be honest now; and so forgive me. Not the Surgeon come yet?

La. Heaven hath cur'd us both.

Fra. I am not cured yet. Oh for the bone setter! If ere I counterfeit agen.

La. There is a blessing falne upon my blood. Your only charme had power to make my thoughts Wicked, and your conversion disinchants me; May both our lives be such as heaven may not Grieve to have shew'd this bounty.

Enter Courtwell.

Cou. Sir Richard, Madam.

La. You may enter now, sir.

Enter the rest and Sir Richard.

Ri. I do not like this stratageme; Sir Francis Must not heere practise his Court tricks; I wo'not Enter Surgeon. Trust my wives surgerie. Hee's come.—How ist, Noble Sir Francis? Best withdraw; ile see Him drest my selfe. [They lead out Sir Francis.

Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas.

Un. Madam and gentlemen, Mistris Dorothy wo'not acknowledge she is a knight's daughter; she sweares she knows no Littleland.

Do. Till it appeare to whom this gemme was meant, Deare Madame, be you treasurer. I confesse I have wealth enough in such a noble husband.

La. It shall belong to thee; be honest, Dorothy, And use him well.

Do. With my best study, Madam.

La. Where is the footman you talke of?

Tho. He pretended Letters to carry two mile of to a kinsman of his Masters, and returne presently. He dranke three or fower beere glasses of sack, and he ran away so lightlie.

Do. His reward shall overtake him.

Un. Will you have her? she will doe you service, Captaine, in a Low Country[279] Leaguer. Or thou, Thomas? ile give thee a Coppiehold.

Tho. You have one life to come in that lease, yet I thank you: I am free, and that's inheritance; for ought I know she may serve us both.

La. Come you may perswade her to looke high and take it upon her for your credit. The gullery is yet within these walles; let your shame goe no farther. The wench may prove right, she may.

Enter Sir Richard.

La. What news from Sir Francis?

Ri. Wife, I hardly aske thee forgivenes; I had jealous thoughts, but all's right agen.

La. I will deserve your confidence.

Ri. No great danger, his blade bone dislocated; the man has put everything in his right place.

Un. Dee heare, Sir Richard? wee are married.

Ri. Tis well done, send you joy; tis to my mind.

Un. Come hither, Dorothy.

Cap. But where's Mr. Engine?

Ri. He rid before.

Cap. If the rascall have any wit left he will ride quite away with himselfe; tis his best course to fly oversea.

Tho. If he were sure to flie, he were sure to escape.

Cap. At the worst, drowning is a most [sic] honourable death then hanging.

Do. My mother died, I have it by tradition, As soone as I was borne; my father (but No knight) is now i'th Indies, a poore Merchant, That broke for 20,000 pounds.

Ri. The shipps may come home. Hee!

Do. You were best use me well, now we are married. I will be sworne you forc'd me to the Church And thrice compeld me there to say I Dorothy. The Parsons oath and mine, for ought I know, May make it halfe a rape.

Ri. There is no remedy; We can prove no conspiracie. And, because I have been gulld my selfe, gett her with child, —My Doe is barren,—at birth of her first baby Ile give her a hundred peeces.

Un. That's somewhat yet, when charge comes on. Thy hand! a wife can be but a wife: it shall cost me 500 pounds but ile make thee a Ladie in earnest.

Enter Sir Francis and Surgeon.

Ri. How ist, Sir Francis?

Fra. My Surgeon sayes no danger; when you please, I may venture, Sir, to London.

Ri. No hast now.

Cou. Not to-night, Sir; wee must have revells and you salute my Bride.

Un. And mine.

Tho. A knights Daughter and heire.

Fra. May all joy thrive upon your Loves. —Then you are cosend of your Mistres, Mounseir?

Do. But your nephew knowes I have met with my match. Some bodie has been put to the sword.

Ri. Come, we loose tyme.

Fra. Preserve your marriage faith: a full increase Of what you wish confirme your happinesse.

[Exeunt.

FINIS.



APPENDIX I.

The folio volume numbered Eg. MS. 1,994 contains 349 leaves. It was purchased by the British Museum, for the very modest sum of thirty-three pounds, at the sale of Lord Charlemont's library on August 6, 1865. Mr. Warner (of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum), to whom the public are indebted for an excellent catalogue of the Dulwich Collection, thinks that the volume originally belonged to Dulwich College. Towards the end of the XVIIth century Cartwright, the actor, bequeathed to the College a number of MS. plays, which the College authorities in the middle of the last century exchanged (horrendum dictu!) for tomes of controversial divinity. Of all the plays left by the actor only one[280]—and that imperfect—remains. The late Lord Charlemont was a friend of Malone, and it is well known that Malone had many of the Dulwich documents in his possession for years. Mr. Warner's theory is that Malone lent the volume to Lord Charlemont, and that it was never returned. The objection that naturally suggests itself is, "How came so acute a scholar as Malone to fail to draw attention to a Collection of such considerable interest?" And I confess that I am not able to offer any satisfactory answer.

The volume contains in all fifteen plays, written in various hands. One piece has the author's initials attached, but the others have neither name nor initials.

First in order, leaves 1-29, stands Fletcher's Elder Brother. I have compared the MS. with Dyce's text, and find the variations to be few and unimportant. In III. 3 Dyce follows the old copies in reading:—

What a noise is in this house! my head is broken Within a parenthesis: in every corner, As if the earth were shaken with some strange colic, There are stirs and motions.

As the words "within a parenthesis" were found in all the old copies Dyce did not feel justified in rejecting them, although he had only the most grotesque meaning to assign to them. Theobald rightly saw that "within a parenthesis" was a marginal note, mistaken for a part of the text when the book was sent to press. The MS. gives—

Sweet heart, What noyse is in this house? my head is broken In every corner, as the earth were shaken With some strange Collick: there are stirs and motions: What planet rules this house? Whos there?

In III. 5 the MS. supports Mason's correction "Their blue veins and blush disclose," where Dyce followed the old reading "in blush."—At the end of the play, after the Epilogue, are written the three following Epigrams:—

A freemans life is like a pilgrimage: What's his life then that lives in mariage? Tis Sisyphus his toyle that with a stone Doth doe what surely for ease must be done. His labours journey's endles; 'tis no riddle, Since he's but halfe on's way that stands inth' middle.

Ad Janum.

Take comfort, Janus; never feare thy head Which to the quick belongs, not to the dead. Thy wife did lye with one; thou, being dead drunke, Then art no Cuckold though she bee a Punke.

Tis not the state nor soveraintie of Jove Could draw thy pure affections from my love: Nor is there any Venus in the skyes Could from thy lookes withdraw my greedy eyes.

Leaves 30-51 are taken up with Dick of Devonshire. Then follows an unnamed play (leaves 52-73), written in a villainous hand. If I succeed in transcribing this play I shall print it in the third volume, for it seems to be an unpublished play of Heywood's. The next piece, entitled Calisto (leaves 74-95), which is written in the same hand, consists of scenes from Heywood's Golden Age and Silver Age. There are many variations from the printed copies, showing that the most active of the old playwrights found time to revise his works. Here is a song that was omitted in the printed copy. Its proper place in Pearson's Reprint of Heywood is vol. iii. p. 67:—

Whether they be awake or sleepe, With what greate Care ought Virgins keepe, With what art and indevor, The Jewell which they ought to pryse Above the ritchest marchandise,— And once lost lost for ever!

Virginity is a rare gem, Rated above a diadem, And was despised never: 'Tis that at which the most men ayme And being gott they count their game And once lost lost for ever.

Of the charming song "Haile beauteous Dian, Queene of Shades" the MS. gives a far inferior version:—

Thou Trivia, dost alone excell, In heaven when thou dost please to dwell Cald Cynthia, Proserpine in Hell: But when thou theair art fyred And takest thy bugle and thy bowe, To chase on Earth the hart or doe, Thee for Diana all men knowe, Who art mongst us admired: Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce, So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.

Off all chast vestalls thou art queene Which are, which heretofore have been; The fawnes and satyres cladd in greene On earth wayte to attend thee; And when that thou on huntinge goest, In which thou art delighted moest, They off their active swiftnes boast, For which we all comend thee. Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce, So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.

We come now to a chronicle play (leaves 97-118), Edmond Ironside: The English King. This piece had a second title—A trew Chronicle History called War hath made all friends. It must be confessed that this old play is a tedious business, sadly wanting in life and movement. The following extract will give a taste of the author's quality:—

Enter Canutus, Edricus with other Lords and souldiers.

Canutus. A plague upon you all for arrant cowards! Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred Doth come into the pitt with greater grace, Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes, Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight; Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke, Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself: Even soe my bigbond Daines, adrest to fight As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven, (And like the Giants graple with the gods) At first encounter rush uppon theire foes But straight retire: retire? nay, run awaye As men distraught with lightninge from above Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.

Edricus. Renowned Soveraigne, doe not fret your self. Fortune in turninge will exalt your state And change the Countenaunce of her cloudy browe, Now you must hope for better still and better And Edmond must expect still worse and worse, A lowringe morning proves a fayer daye, Fortunes ilfavord frowne shewes shee will smile On you and frowne on Ironside.

Canutus. What telst thou mee of fortune and her frownes, Of her sower visage and her rowling stone? Thy tongue rowles headlong into flattery. Now by theis heavens above our wretched heades Ye are but cowards every one of you! Edmond is blest: oh, had I but his men, I would not doute to conquer all the world In shorter time the [then] Alexander did. But all my Daines are Braggadochios And I accurst to bee the generall Of such a stocke of fearefull runawaies.

South. Remember you have lost Ten Thousand men, All English borne except a Thousand Daines. Your pensive lookes will kill them that survive If thus to Choller you give libertie.

Canutus. It weare no matter if they all weare slaine, Then they should neaver runne awaye againe.

Uska. My noble lord, our Cuntrymen are safe: In all their broyles English gainst English fight; The Daines or none or very few are slaine.

Canutus. It was a signe yee fledd and did not fight. [turns towards Uskatant. Ist not a dishonour unto you To see a foraingne nation fight for mee Whenas my homebred Cuntrymen doe runne, Leaving theire king amongest his enimies?

Edricus. Give not such scoope to humerous discontent, Wee all are partners of your privat greefes. Kinges are the heads, and yf the head but ache The little finger is distempered. Wee greeve to se you greeved, which hurteth us And yet availes not to asswage your greefe. You are the Sunne, my lo:, wee Marigolds; Whenas you shine wee spred our selves abroad And take our glory from your influence; And when you hide your face or darken yt With th'least incounter of a clowdy looke, Wee close our eies as partners of your woes, Droopinge our heades as grasse downe waid with due. Then cheere ye upp, my lord, and cheere upp us, For now our valours are extinguished And all our force lyes drownd in brinish teares, As Jewells in the bottome of the sea. —I doe beseech your grace to heare mee speake. [Edricus talks to him.

The next piece (leaves 119-135), which is without a title, is founded on the Charlemagne romances. My friend, Mr. S.L. Lee, editor of Huon of Bordeaux, in answer to my inquiries writes as follows: "Almost all the characters in this play are the traditional heroes of the French Charlemagne romances, and stand in the same relation to one another as in the Lyf of Charles the Grete and the Four Sons of Aymon, both of which were first printed by Caxton, and secured through later editions a wide popularity in England during the XVIth century. I believe, however, that the story of the magic ring is drawn from another source. It is unknown to the Charlemagne romances of France and England, but it appears in several German legends of the Emperor, and is said to be still a living tradition at Aix-la-Chapelle, where the episode is usually localised (cf. Gaston, Paris, Histoire Poetique de Charlemagne, p. 383). Petrarch has given a succinct account of it in a letter written from Cologne, in which he states that he learnt it from the priests of the city, and it is through his narrative that the legend appears to have reached England. John Skelton in his poem 'Why come ye not to court?' quotes the story, and refers to the Italian poet as his authority (cf. Dyce's Skelton, II. 48 and 364, where the letter is printed at length). Southey has also made the tradition the subject of a ballad entitled King Charlemain to which he has prefixed a French translation of the passage of Petrarch. In 1589 George Peele in a Farewell addressed to Morris and Drake on setting out with the English forces for Spain tells them to

Bid theatres and proud tragedians, Bid Mahomet, Scipio, & mighty Tamburlaine, King Charlemagne, Tom Stukeley and the rest Adieu.

Dyce, in a note on this passage (Dyce's Peele, II. 88) writes: 'No drama called Charlemagne has come down to us, nor am I acquainted with any old play in which that monarch figures.' But we know from Henslowe's diary that in at least two plays that were dramatised from Charlemagne romances the Emperor must have taken a part." Mr. Lee concludes his most interesting note by suggesting that the present play may be the one to which Peele alludes; but he will at once perceive from my extracts that the date 1589 is much too early. Here is a passage that might have been written by Cyril Tourneur:—

[Ganelon stabs Richard, his dearest friend, suspecting him of treachery.]

Rich. O you've slayne me! tell me, cruell sir, Why you have doone thys, that myne innocent soule May teache repentance to you— dies.

Gan. Speake it out,— What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe? You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so: You have the trycke of mightie men in courte To speake at leasure and pretend imployment. Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall Whether you speake the resydue behynde Now or at doomes day. If thy common sence Be not yet parted from thee, understand I doe not misse thee dyinge because once I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that There is no Devyll in me nor in hell That could have flesht me to this violent deathe Hadst thou beene false to all the world but me.

The concentrated bitterness of those lines is surpassed by nothing in the Revenger's Tragedy. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the whole play, which is very unskilfully constructed, is by Tourneur, or perhaps by the author[281] of the Second Maiden's Tragedy. All the figures are shrouded in a blank starless gloom; to read the play is to watch the riot of devils. Here is an extract from the scene where Orlando, returning from the wars, hears that Charlemagne, his uncle, has married Ganelon's niece, and that his own hopes of succession have been ruined by the birth of a son:—

Orl[ando.] I am the verye foote-ball of the starres, Th'anottomye of fortune whom she dyssects With all the poysons & sharpe corrosyves Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie. My starres, my starres! O that my breath could plucke theym from theire spheares So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.

Enter La Buffe.

Rei[naldo.] Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne— A propertie oth court, that least his owne Ill manners should be noted thyeks it fytt In pollycie to scoffe at other mens. He will taxe all degrees & thynke that that Keepes hym secure from all taxation.

Orl. Y'are deceyvd; it is a noble gentyllman And hated of hys father for hys vertues.

Buf. Healthe and all blessinge wherewith heauen and earthe May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!

Orl. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs Can ere be heard to my desyred good, I am not so voyde of humanytie But I will thancke your loue.

Rei. Pray, Sir, what newse Hath the courte latterly beene deliverd of?

Buf. Such as the gallymaufry that is fownd In her large wombe may promise: he that has The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte And knowes no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preists Invay agaynst plurallytie of liueinge And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without The remedye of sugar candye for't. Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes, I & allmost disjested too assoone.

Oli[ver]. I, but in sober sadnes whatts doone there?

Buf. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes, For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs To mere confussyon; nothing there hath forme But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte Vice only thrives & merrytt starves in courte.

Rei. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte Oure fayre eied royall empresse?

Buf. Trothe I wonderd, Sir, You spooke of that no sooner, yet I hope None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke To kyndell that ill flame.

Orl. No, of my trothe, I knowe thee much too honest; but how fares The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?

Buf. Sir, as a woman in her casse may doe; Shee's broughte [to] bedd.

Rei. What, has she a chylde then?

Buf. I, my Lord.

Orl. A Sonne?

Buf. Mys-fortune hathe inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.

Orl. Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt. —O harte, will nothing breake the?

Rei. Tis most straunge.

Orl. Straunge? not a whytt. Why, if she had beene spayd And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyght My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde— Of a son too. Hencefourthe let no man That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve Ere let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in't Would tourne the hope't successe to an event That would fryghte nature, & make patyence braule With the most pleasinge obiecte.

Buf. Sir, be at peace; Much may be found by observatyon.

Orl. Th'arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable. Thys observation thou advysest to Would ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fate That I should be distrackt. I can observe Naughte but varyetye of mysseries Crossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours. I neare did good for any but great Charles, And the meare doing that hath still brought fourth To me some plague too heavye to be borne, But that I am reserud onlye to teach The studyed envye of mallignant starrs. If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde, It is with studyinge myne afflictions: But, for her standing on a roullinge stone, Theare learninge faylls theym, for she fixed stands And onlye against me.

I may perhaps be tempted to print this play in full. The MS. has suffered somewhat, many lines having been cut away at the foot of some of the pages. Although the first scene is marked Act 2, Scene 2,[282] the play seemed to me to be complete. On the last leaf is written "Nella [Greek: phdphnr] la B." Some name is possibly concealed under these enigmatic letters; but the riddle would defy an Oedipus.

The next play (leaves 136-160) is entitled The fatal Maryage, or a second Lucreatya. Galeas, on returning from the wars, crowned with praises, is requested by his widowed mother to make a journey into the province of Parma to receive moneys owed by Signor Jouanny. On his arrival he falls in love with Jouanny's daughter, Lucretia, runs away with her, and secretly marries her. Galeas' mother, angered at the match, practises to convey Lucretia to a nunnery and get her son married to an earl's daughter; but Galeas defeats his mother's machinations by killing himself and Lucretia. There is a second plot to this odd play, but enough has been said. The meeting between Galeas and Jouanny is the best thing in the play:—

Enter Galeas & Jacomo.

Ga. You spake with him as I comanded you?

Jac. And had his promise to meet you presently.

Ga. I have heard much fame of him since my arrive, His generall nature, hospitable love; His [He's?] good to all men, enemy to none. Indeed he has that perfect character Before I see him I'm in love with him.

Jac. Hee has the fame few Cittizens deserve.

Ga. Why, sir, few Cittizens?

Jac. His words his bond, and does not break that bond To bankrupt others; he makes you not a library Of large monopolie to cosen all men: Subintelligitur, he hates to deale With such portentious othes as furr his mouth In the deliverance.

Enter Jouanny.

Ga. Hee comes himselfe.

Jou. Sir Galeas, if I mistake not?

Ga. I weare my fathers name, sir.

Jou. And tis a dignity to weare that name. Whatts your affairs in Parma?

Ga. To visit you, sir.

Jou. Gladness nor sorrow never paid mans debts. —Your pleasure, sir?

Ga. The livery of my griefe: my fathers dead And mee hath made his poore executor.

Jou. What? ought hee ten thousand duckets? Thy fathers face fixt in thy front Should be the paymaster tho from my hand.

Ga. I doe not come to borrow: please yee read.

Jou. Read? and with good regard, for sorrow paies noe debts.

Ga. The summes soe great I feare, once read by him, My seeming frend will prove my enemy.

Jac. Faith, if he doe, hee proves like your French galloshes that promise faire to the feet, yet twice a day leave a man in the durt.

Jou. Was this your fathers pleasure?

Ga. It was his hand.

Jou. It was his writing, I know it as my owne, Wherein hee has wronged mee beyond measure?

Ga. How? my father wrongd yee? I'm his sonn.

Jou. Wert thou his father I'm wrongd,— Iniurd, calumniated, baffled to my teeth; And were it not that these gray haires of mine Were priviledgd ane enemy to vallour, I have a heart could see your fathers wrong—

Ga. What? raile you, sir?

Jac. Challenge a half pint pot.

Jou. There in a sawpitt, knave, to quitt my self Of such an inury.—Hee writes mee here That I should pay to you tenn thousand crownes.

Ga. As being due to him.

Jou. But thatts not my quarrell, sir; for I did owe to him Millions of Crownes, millions of my love;— And but to send a note here for his owne! Ist not a quarrell for an honest man?

Jac. With very few, I thinke.

Jou. Why, looke yee, sir: When after many a storme and dreadfull blow Strooke from fire-belching clouds, bankrupt of life I have home return'd; when all my frends denide Their thresholds to mee, and my creditors Desir'd to sinke mee in a prisoners grave, Hee gave mee dying life, his helpefull hand Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land. Ist not a quarrell then to seeke butts owne?

Ga. Oh, pray, sir—

Jou. When all the talents of oppression Of usurers, lawyers and my creditors Had fangd upon my wife and family, Hee gave mee dying life, his helpfull hand Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land. Ist not a quarrell then to seeke but's owne?

Ga. Good sir—

Jou. Come in, sir, where I will pay all that you can demand: Noe other quarrell, sir, shall passe your hand.

Ga. If every [one] should pay as well as you The world were good, wee should have bankrupts few.

Jac. I'm of your mind for that. [Exeunt.

We now come to a play (leaves 161-185), without title, and wanting some leaves at the end, on the subject of Richard the Second. I think with Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, who printed eleven copies of this piece, that it is anterior to Shakespeare's play. There is less extravagance of language than in most of the plays belonging to that early date (circ. 1593?); and the blank verse, though it is monotonous enough, has perhaps rather more variety than we should expect to find. Much of the play is taken up with Greene and Baggott; but the playwright has chiefly exerted himself in representing the murder of Woodstock at Calais. Before the murder, Woodstock falls asleep, and there appears to him the ghost of the Black Prince:

... Oh I am nought but ayre: Had I the vigour of my former strength When thou beheldst me fight at Cressy feild, Wher hand to hand I tooke King John of France And his bould sonns my captive prisoners, Ide shake these stiff supporters of thy bed And dragg thee from this dull securyty. Oh yett for pittye wake; prevent thy doome; Thy blood upon my sonne will surely come: For which, deere brother Woodstocke, haste and fly, Prevent his ruein and thy tragedy. [Exit Ghoste.

Undisturbed by this appeal, Woodstock slumbers on. Then enters the ghost of Edward the Third. His speech is worthy of Robert Greene:—

Sleepst thou so soundly and pale death so nye? Thomas of Woodstocke, wake my sone and fly. Thy wrongs have roused thy royall fathers ghost, And from his quiat grave king Edwards come To guard thy innocent life, my princely sonne. Behould me heere, sometymes faire Englands lord: (7) warlicke sonnes I left, yett being gone No one succeeded in my kingly throne, &c.

I will not inflict more of this stuff on the reader. Suffice it to say that Woodstock wakes in terror and calls aloud. Lapoole, the governor of the city, who is close at hand with two murderers, enters and comforts him. Here the playwright shows a touch of pathos:—

Good nyght, Lapoole, and pardon me, I prethee, That my sadd feare made question of thy faith. My state is fearefull and my mynd was troubled Even at thy entrance with most fearefull vissions Which made my passiones more extreame and hastye. Out of my better judgment I repent itt And will reward thy love: once more, good nyght.

Now follows the Lady Mother (leaves 186-211), which I have proved to be a play of Glapthorne's. No doubt it is the same piece as the Noble Trial, entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660, but not printed.

Then we have a masque (leaves 212-223). On the first page are given the nomina actorum, and underneath is written "August 5th, 1643." I was surprised to find in this masque a long passage that occurs also in Chapman's Byron's Tragedie (ed. Pearson, ii. 262). Ben Jonson said (to Drummond of Hawthornden) that only he and Chapman knew how to write a masque. The remark has always puzzled me, and certainly I should never have thought of Chapman's name in connexion with this masque. Here is an extract, containing the passage from Byron's Tragedie:—

Love. For thy sake, Will, I feathered all my thoughts And in a bird's shape flew in to her bosome, The bosome of Desert, thy beautious Mistris, As if I had been driven by the hauke In that sweet sanctuary to save my liffe. She smild on me, cald me her prety bird, And for her sport she tyed my little legs In her faire haire. Proud of my golden fetters I chirped for Joy; she confident of my lameness, Soon disintangled me & then she percht me Upon her naked breast. There being ravishd I sung with all my cheere and best of skill. She answered note for note, relish for relish, And ran division with such art and ease That she exceeded me.

Judgment. There was rare musicke.

Love. In this swete strife, forgetting where I stood. I trod so hard in straining of my voice That with my claw I rent her tender skin; Which as she felt and saw vermillion follow Stayning the cullor of Adonis bleeding In Venus lap, with indignation She cast me from her.

Will. That fortune be to all that injure her.

Love. Then I put on this shepheards shape you see; I tooke my bow and quiver as in revenge Against the birds, shooting and following them From tre to tre. She passing by beheld And liked the sport. I offerrd her my prey, Which she receved and asked to feele my bowe; Which when she handled and beheld the beauty Of my bright arrowes, she began to beg em. I answered they were all my riches, yet I was content to hazard all and stake em Downe to a kiss at a game at chess with her. "Wanton," quoth she, being privy to her skill, "A match!" Then she with that dexterrytey Answered my challenge that I lost my weapons: Now Cupides shaffts are headed with her lookes. My mother soone perceiving my disgrace, My Arms beinge lost and gon which made me a terror To all the world, she tooke away my wings, Renouncd me for her child and cast me from her; And more, to be revengd upon Desert, Comanded Danger to be her strong keeper, That should she empt my quiver at the hearts Of men they might not dare to court her, fearing That horrid mischiefe that attends [on] her. On this I threw me headlong on the sea To sleepe my tyme out in the bottome off it; Whence you have puld me up to be a scorne To all the World.

Will. Not so, my prety boy, Ill arme the againe; My breast shall be thy quiver, my sighes thy shaffts: And heres an opportunytey to be wingd againe; Se here the wings of Fortune.

Love. Fortunes wings Are full of giddy feathers to unsure For me to fly with all, but I will stay with you, I like so well this aire; onely you must Provide to keepe me from the hands of Danger That wayts upon Dessert.

Will. Our selfes and all Arcadia shall be your guard and wher Love passes and recides he shall be allwayes Armd and attended by a band of lovers, Such faithfull ones as if that ugly Danger Were Lucifer himselfe, they should defend you.

Next on our List (leaves 224-244) is the Two Noble Ladyes, or the Converted Conjurer. This "Tragicomicall Historie often tymes acted with approbation at the Red Bull in St. John's Streete by the company of the Revells," is a coarse noisy play. The comic part consists of the most absurd buffoonery, and the rest is very stilted. But there is one scene—and one only—which shows genuine poetic power. It is where Cyprian, the sorcerer, having by his magical arts saved Justina, a Christian maiden, tries to gain her love:—

Enter Cyprian and Justina.

Cyprian. Doe not disdayne, faire peece of Natures pride, To heare him plead for love that sav'd thy life. It was my pow'rfull arte produc'd those monsters To drowne those monstrous executioners That should have wrought your wracke.

Justina. Sir, I am sorry Hell had a hand in my delivery: That action cannot merrit my affection.

Cyprian. I not alleadge it for desert of grace But argument of mercie: pitty him That in distresse so lately pitty'd you.

Justina. I am the troth-plight wife of Clitophon, The Prince of Babylon; hee has my hart, And theres no share for others.

Cyprian. That high state Is now at a low ebbe: destruction Hangs like a threatning Commet ore the walls Of Babilon. Then fix thy love on him That can more then the greatest prince on earth. Love mee, and princes shall thy pages bee; Monarchs shall lay their crownes and royalties As presents at thy feet; the Indian mynes Shall be thy ioyntures; all the worldes rich marchants Shall bring their pearles and pretious stones to thee, Sweet gums and spices of Arabia, Fine Median linnen and Barbarian silkes; The earth shall beare no fruit of raritie But thou shalt taste it. Weele transforme ourselves In quaintest shapes to vary our delights. And in a chariot wrought out of a cloud, Studded with starres, drawne through the subtle aire By birds of paradise, wee'll ride together To fruitfull Thessalie, where in fair Tempe (The only pleasant place of all the earth) Wee'll sport us under a pavilion Of Tyrian scarlet.

Justina. Should these rarities (Faithlesse as are your wondrous promises) Lead me into the hazard of my soule And losse of such ay-lasting happinesse As all earths glories are but shaddows to?

Cyprian. Thincke you this rare pile of perfection. Wherein Love reads a lecture of delight, Ows not it's use to Nature? There is love In every thing that lives: the very sunne Does burne in love while we partake his heate; The clyming ivy with her loving twines Clips the strong oake. No skill of surgerie Can heale the wounds, nor oceans quench the flames Made by all pow'rfull love. Witnesse myselfe: Since first the booke of your perfections Was brought so neare than I might read it ore, I have read in it charmes to countermand All my enchantments and enforce mee stoop To begge your love.

Justina. How ere you please to style A lustfull appetite, it takes not mee. Heav'n has my bow my life shall never bee Elder then my unstain'd virginitie.

Cyprian. Virginitie! prize you so dearely that Which common things cast of? Marke but the flow'rs That now as morning fresh, fragrant and faire, Lay ope their beautys to the courting sunne, And amongst all the modest mayden rose: These wanton with the aire until unleavd They die and so loose their virginitie.

Justina. In India there is a flow'r (they say) Which, if a man come neare it, turnes away: By that I learne this lesson, to descrie Corrupt temptations and the tempter flie.

Leaves 245-267 are taken up with the Tragedy of Nero, which was printed in 1624. Then comes [Daborne's] Poore Man's Comfort (268-292), an inferior play printed in 1655. Afterwards follows a dull play (leaves 293-316), Loves Changlelings Changed, founded on Sidney's Arcadia. The last piece in the book (leaves 317-349) is The lancheinge of the May, Written by W.M. Gent in his return from East India, A.D. 1632. There is a second title, The Seamans honest wife, to this extraordinary piece. On the last leaf is a note by Sir Henry Herbert:—"This Play called ye Seamans honest wife, all ye Oaths left out in ye action as they are crost in ye booke & all other Reformations strictly observed, may bee acted, not otherwise. This 27th June, 1633. HENRY HERBERT.

"I command your Bookeeper to present mee with a faire Copy hereaft[er] and to leave out all oathes, prophaness & publick Ribaldry as he will answer it at his perill. H. HERBERT."

It is plain therefore that the piece was intended for presentation on the stage; but it must have been a strange audience that could have listened to it. Dramatic interest there is none whatever. The piece is nothing more, than a laudation of the East India Company. In tables of statistics we have set before us the amount of merchandise brought from the East; and the writer dwells with enthusiasm on the liberality of the Company, and shows how new channels have been opened for industry. One extract will be enough:—

Nor doe our marchants tradinge into Spayne, The Streights, to Venice, Lisbon or the like, Give entertaynment unto novices Which have not some experience of the sea. But when all doors of Charitie are shutt The East India gates stand open, open wide, To entertayne the needie & the poore With good accomodation. Two monthes paye They have before hand for to make provision, Needfull provision for so longe a voyage, And two monthes paye theyr wives are yearely payd The better to mayntayne theyr poore estate Duringe the discontinuance of theyr husbands. Yf in the voyage he doe chance to [MS. doe] dye The widowe doth receave whatere's found due, Yf not by will disposed otherwise; Which often happeneth to be such a sume As they togeather never sawe the like. And when did any of these widowes begge For mayntenaunce in Churches as some doe? Blackwall proclaymes theyr bountie; Lymehouse speakes (Yf not ingrate) their liberalitie; Ratcliffe cannot complayne nor Wapping weepe, Nor Shadwell crye agaynst theyr niggardnes. No, they doe rather speake the contrary With acclamations to the highest heavens.



APPENDIX II.

The following note is by Mr. Robert Boyle, of St. Petersburg, a Shakespearian scholar, whose name is well known to readers of the Anglia and the New Shakspere Society's Transactions. Mr. Boyle, who has a close acquaintance with Massinger, on seeing the proof-sheets of Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt, pointed out several repetitions of expressions used in other plays of Massinger. It will be understood that I do not adopt Mr. Boyle's conclusions unreservedly. Possibly in an Appendix to Vol. IV. I may return to a consideration of Barnavelt, but the present volume has already swollen beyond its limits.

Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt.

This play, the most valuable Christmas present English scholars have for half a century received, appears indubitably to belong to the Massinger and Fletcher series. Even a cursory glance will convince the reader that it is one of the greatest treasures of our dramatic literature. That such a gem should lie in manuscript for over 200 years, should be catalogued in our first library, should be accessible to the eye of the prying scholar, and yet never even be noticed till now, affords a disagreeable but convincing proof of the want of interest in our early literature displayed even by those whose studies in this field would seem to point them out for the work of rescuing these literary treasures from a fate as bad as that which befell those plays which perished at the hands of Warburton's "accursed menial." The present play has some remarkable features in it. It is taken from contemporary history (the only one as far as we know of that class in which Massinger was engaged). It was written almost immediately after the events it describes. These events took place in the country in which Englishmen then took more interest than in any other country in Europe. There is a tone of political passion in the play which, particularly in one place, breaks out in an expression which the hearers must have applied to their own country. There is no doubt that the audience wandered away in their thoughts from Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt, the saviour of his country from the Spanish yoke, as he professed himself in his defence on his trial, and Spain's determined enemy, to Sir Walter Raleigh, whose head had just fallen on the block, the victim of a perfidious foe and of a mean, shuffling king. The following is the passage:—

Octavius, when he did affect the Empire, And strove to tread upon the neck of Rome And all her ancient freedoms, took that course That now is practised on you; for the Catos, And all free spirits slain or else proscribed, That durst have stirred against him, he then seized The Absolute rule of all. You can apply this. p. 292.

In a note Mr. Bullen informs us, that "You can apply this" is crossed through. He does not state whether there is anything to show that this was done by Sir George Buck, Master of the Revels, and consequently Censor for the Stage. But this would appear to be the case, the more so as the present play seems to have raised scruples in many places in the mind of the dramatic Cerberus. It is hardly possible to imagine that the spectators did not apply the "free spirits" to Raleigh, and the "Catos" to those members who were shortly after to be imprisoned on account of a memorable protest entered in the journals of the House, which Octavius, who was trying to seize the absolute rule of all, tore out with his own royal hands. There is a peculiar fitness in this hit at James as Octavius which probably did not escape the audience. There is another passage, on p. 253, which, singular to say, seems to have escaped the notice of the Censor:—

Such mild proceedings in a Government New settled, whose main power had its dependence Upon the power of some particular men, Might be given way to, but in ours it were Unsafe and scandalous.

Vandort, the speaker here, is opposing the idea of mercy to Barnavelt. The language is very mild, but receives a peculiar shade of meaning when read in connexion with the following passage by Massinger from the Virgin Martyr, I. 1, 236:—

In all growing empires Even cruelty is useful; some must suffer And be set up examples to strike terror In others, though far off: but when a state Is raised to her perfection, and her bases Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy And do't with safety.

The Virgin Martyr is noticed October 6th, 1620, as newly reformed. It was probably written not long before. The two passages above mentioned would seem to bring the two plays into connexion. But, it may be asked, what proof have we that it was a production of Massinger and Fletcher? As for the latter, there can be no doubt. His double endings are sufficient proof. As for the Massinger part, there is first the probability of his being Fletcher's partner, as the play belongs to a period when we know they were working together; secondly, the metrical style could belong to nobody else; thirdly, according to his well-known manner, he has allusions to and repetitions of expressions in his other plays. As I have gone through Massinger with a view to these repetitions, I propose to notice those that occur in the present play. When I allude to a play going under the name of Beaumont and Fletcher as partly Massinger's, I am supported either by Mr. Fleay's tables, published in the Transactions of the New Shakspere Society, or to my own extension of these tables published in the Eng. Studien, a German periodical for English literature and philology.

Act I. The First Scene is by Massinger, who almost always begins the joint plays. On page 210 we have—

When I should pass with glory to my rest.

Compare Virgin Martyr, V. 2. 319.

When thou shouldst pass with honour to thy rest.

On page 211,

And end that race You have so long run strongly, like a child,

is a repetition of the idea in Virgin Martyr. On page 212 "Grave Maurice"; here "Grave" is Count Maurice, who is also so called in Love's Cure, I. 2. Bobadilla's speech. (Love's Cure is by Massinger and another author, not Fletcher.)

Page 213.

The desire of glory Was the last frailty wise men ere put off.

This occurs again in A Very Woman, V. 4, line 10,—

Though the desire of fame be the last weakness Wise men put off.

Though the thought occurs in Tacitus and Simplicius, Milton seems to have adopted it, as he has done many other of his most striking passages from Massinger. It occurs also in at least one other play of Massinger's, but the passage has escaped me for the moment.

Same page:—

'Tis like yourself, Like Barnavelt, and in that all is spoken.

An expression which, with a slight change from "spoken" to "comprehended," occurs in almost every one of Massinger's plays.

Act I. Scene 2, is also by Massinger. On page 218,—

We need not add this wind by our observance To sails too full already.

This reminds us of the common Massinger simile,—

Too large a sail for your small bark.

And Virg. Mar., I. 1. 85,—

You pour oil On fire that burns already at the height.

Both similes occur in almost all Massinger's plays.

The situation on page 219 has a striking resemblance to a similar scene with Cranmer in Henry VIII. Both Maurice and Cranmer are to be disgraced by being kept waiting outside while their enemies were at Council. I cannot help here repeating what I have expressed before, that Henry VIII. as we have it is not the work of Shakespeare and Fletcher, but of Massinger and Fletcher, with only fragments of the Shakespeare play.

Act I. Scene 3, is by Fletcher.

Act II. Scene 1, is by Massinger.

On page 231 we have,—

When the hot lyon's breath Burns up the fields.

Compare Parliament of Love, I. 5., Montrose,—

When the hot lion's breath singeth the fields.

A little lower down, "At all parts" occurs in almost every play of Massinger.

On page 232, "This I foresaw," is also very common in similar situations. Among numerous cases I refer to the Unnatural Combat, Act III., about the end, and Maid of Honour, II. iii., where exactly the same words are used.

Page 233, "Be ne'er remembered," occurs in almost all Massinger's plays. It is the most frequent of his many repetitions.

A little lower down. "And something there I'll do," is a well-known Massingerism, occurring everywhere in his plays.

II. 2, is by Fletcher; 3, and 4, 5, 6, 7 are also probably his.

III. 1, is Fletcher's. On page 250 Barnavelt's hope that the soldiers will regret him because he fed and nursed them, stands in flagrant opposition to what Massinger says of Barnavelt's cashiering the Captain, on page 215.

III. 2, is by Massinger.

Page 252, "But that is not the hazard that I would shun," is one of the commonest Massingerisms. The passage on page 253 has been mentioned already. Massinger is almost the only later dramatist who has a large number of dissyllable "tions." We have here (253),—

Of what conditi-on soever, we Palliate seditions.

His share of the present play presents many such cases.

III. 3, seems also by Massinger.

III. 4, is by Fletcher. On page 263 there is an unmistakable reminiscence of Henry VIII., Wolsey's "Farewell."

III. 5 (also marked 4), is by Massinger. On page 264 occurs, "At no part," one of the commonest Massingerisms; and a little lower down,—

Ever maintained The freedom I was born to.

Compare Great Duke of Florence, I. 1-4,—

For I must use the freedom I was born with.

It also occurs in other Massinger plays.

III. 6, is by Fletcher.

IV. 1, is by Fletcher.

IV. 2, is by Fletcher.

IV. 3, is by Fletcher. Here occurs another allusion to Henry VIII.,—

And glide away Like a spent exhalation.

Compare Henry VIII., III. 2, 226:—

shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening.

Fletcher does not repeat himself often, and these two exceptions are important.

IV. 4, is apparently by Massinger, but contains no repetitions.

IV. 5, is by Massinger. There are no clear Massingerisms, but the metrical style, and the allusion to Raleigh already mentioned, make it plain that the Scene is his.

V. 1, is also Massinger's. The end of this Scene I have not seen, as pages 296-305 were missing in the proof-sheets I examined. Nearly all Scene 2 is also missing. It and the rest of the play seem to be Fletcher's, who, as usual, spoiled Massinger's fine conception of Barnavelt, and makes him whine like Buckingham in Henry VIII. This moral collapse of all energy in the face of death in the two characters is significant. Massinger would have carried out the scene in quite another tone. Some of the Fletcher scenes in this play, in which he has an unusually large share, are surprisingly good, and remind us of Fletcher at his best, in Philaster and the earlier plays. He fails here, as he always does, in the delineation of character. Nowhere is this break-down more characteristic than in Buckingham and Barnavelt. It gives the end of our play quite a wrench, and deprives Barnavelt of the sympathies which we had been forced to turn on him through his intrepid behaviour in the great trial scene. We had almost gained the conviction that his aims were really pure, and here we are called on to witness his utter collapse, in which he almost whines for pardon for his sins, and, like all worthless fellows without character seems actually to soften in gratitude to the man who sent him to his death.

This conclusion, I say, weakens the dramatic power of the close, but it does not prevent Sir John Barnavelt from occupying a high place among our dramatic treasures. R. BOYLE.

ST. PETERSBURG, New Year's Eve, 1882.

FINIS.



FOOTNOTES:

[1] Vid. Appendix.

[2] Reprinted in Mrs. Bray's Tamar and the Tavy.

[3] Printed in The Court and Times uf Charles the First, &c. Edited, with an introduction and notes, by the author of Memoirs of Sophia Dorothea, Consort of George I., &c. (Vol. i. p. 104. London, 1848.) 8vo.

[4] Mr. Fleay thinks that Dick of Devonshire was written by R. Davenport. "The conduct of the plot," he observes, "the characterisation, the metre, the language are very like the City Nightcap." The reader must judge between us. I find it difficult to believe that Davenport could have preserved throughout five acts such clear directness of style.

[5] The old form of "pop-gun."

[6] Xeres.

[7] Cadiz.

[8] Span. picaro, a rogue or thief. Nares quotes several instances of "picaro" and "picaroon" from our early writers.

[9] It would be an improvement to read "enkindled," or "kindled at the first."

[10] Cf. Heywood's Faire Maid of the West: part one (Works, II. 306), "And joyne with you a ginge of lusty ladds." The meaning is "band, company." The word is not uncommon among Elizabethan writers, and is also found much earlier.

[11] Span. caraca, a ship of large size. Nares quotes from Beaumont and Fletcher.

[12] Halliwell quotes Minsheu: "The Spanish borachoe, or bottle commonly of a pigges skinne, with the haire inward, dressed inwardly with rozen and pitch to keepe wine or liquor sweet." Hence the word came to be applied to a drunkard.

[13] A stately Spanish dance. Nares' article sub. 'Pavan' is full and interesting.

[14] The repetition of the words "such a" is probably a clerical error: the Alexandrine is clumsy.

[15] Skirmishers or sharpshooters.

[16] Nares quotes from Taylor's Workes, 1630:—"So horseman-ship hath the trot, the amble, the racke, the pace, the false and wild gallop, or the full speed," &c.

[17] Street bullies, such as are introduced in Nabbes' Bride, Middleton and W. Rowley's Fair Quarrel, &c. The exploits of a "Roaring Girl" are admirably set forth by Dekker and Middleton.

[18] The full form "God refuse me" occurs in Webster's White Devil (ed. 1871, p. 7), where Dyce quotes from Taylor, the water poet: "Would so many else in their desperate madnes desire God to Damne them, to Renounce them, to Forsake them, to Confound them, to Sinke them, to Refuse them?" "Against Cursing and Swearing," Works, 1630.

[19] "The Saturday Night, some sixteen sail of the Hollanders, and about ten White Hall Men (who in England are called Colliers) were commanded to fight against the Castle of Punthal, standing three miles from Cadiz: who did so accordingly; and discharged in that service, at the least, 1,600 shot." Three to One, &c. (Arber's English Garner, I. 626).

[20] Sc. companions: Mids. Night's Dream, III., i.; Shirley's Wedding, k. v., &c.

[21] Middleton says somewhere (in A Fair Quarrel, I think):—

"The Infinity of Love Holds no proportion with Arithmetick."

[22] To "look babies in the eyes" was a common expression for peering amorously into the eyes.

[23] Sc. fagot.

[24] "Barleybreake" (the innocent sport so gracefully described in the first book of the Arcadia) is often used in a wanton sense.

[25] A common form of expression. Everybody remembers Puck's—

"I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes."

Cf. Chapman's Bussy D'Ambois, I. 1.—

"In tall ships, richly built and ribd with brasse, To put a Girdle round about the world."

[26] Furnished with "bosses," which seem to have been the name for some tinkling metal ornaments. Nares quotes from Sp. Moth. Hub. I. 582:—

"The mule all deck'd in goodly rich array, With bells and bosses that full loudly rung."

[27] Cf. Spanish Tragedy, sc. vi.:—

"A man hanging and tottering and tottering, As you know the wind will wave a man."

(Quoted by Mr. Fleay in illustration of the "tottering colours" in King John, v. 5, 7.)

[28] One is reminded of Shakespeare's—

"Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death."—Macbeth, v. 8.

[29] "That e'er o'erclouded," I should prefer.

[30] MS. Exit.

[31] Eringoes are often mentioned as a provocative by early writers: Merry Wives, v. 5, &c.

[32] Sc. mallet.

[33] Sc. I lying in my trundle-bed.

[34] To "make ready" is to dress; so to "make unready" is to undress. The expression was very common.

[35] A large salt-cellar was placed in the middle of the table: guests of importance sat "above the salt," inferior guests below. Abundant illustrations are given in Nares' Glossary.

[36] In Brand's Popular Antiquities (Bohn's Antiq. Libr., II. 70-77) there is an interesting article on "Groaning Cake and Cheese."

[37] A large coach: the derivation of the word is uncertain.

[38] The next word is illegible in the MS. We should have expected "Exeunt Fer., Man., & attendants."

[39] Vid. vol. i. 307.

[40] The schoolmen's term for the confines of hell.

[41] I have followed the punctuation of the MS., though I am tempted to read, "What to doe? pray with me?"

[42] A stage-direction for the next scene.

[43] Sc. bravadoes.

[44] The biting of the thumb is here a mark of vexation: to bite one's thumb at a person was considered an insult (Rom. and Jul., i. 1).

[45] A diminutive of "cock" (Tempest, ii. 1, &c.).

[46] The conceit is very common. Compare (one of many instances) Dekker's Match me in London, iv. 1—

"You oft call Parliaments, and there enact Lawes good and wholesome, such as who so breake Are hung by the purse or necke, but as the weake And smaller flyes i'th Spiders web are tane When great ones teare the web, and free remain."

[47] The reading of the MS. is "snapsance," which is clearly wrong. "Snaphance was the name for the spring-lock of a musket, and then for the musket itself. It is said that the term was derived from the Dutch snap-haans (poultry stealers), a set of marauders who made use of it" (Lilly's Dramatic Works, ed. Fairholt, II., 272). "Tarrier" must mean "a person that causes delay": cf. a passage from Sir Thomas Overbury's character of "a meene Petty fogger":—"He cannot erre before judgment, and then you see it, only writs of error are the tariers that keepe his client undoing somewhat the longer" (quoted in Todd's Johnson, sub tarrier).

[48] "One being condemned to be shot to death for a rape: the maid [sic] in favour of his life was content to beg him for her husband. Which being condiscended unto by the Judge, according to the lawe of Spaine in that behalfe: in steps me the hangman all in a chafe and said unto the Judge. Howe (I pray you, sir) can that be, seeing the stake is already in the ground, the rope, the arrowes, the Archers all in a readines, and heere I am come for him." (Anthony Copley's Wits, Fits, and Fancies, 1614, p. 120.) Here is another merry tale, with rather more point in it, from the same collection:—"A fellow being to suffer, a maide came to the gallowes to beg him for her husband, according as the custome of Spaine dispenceth in that case. The people seeing this said unto the fellow: Now praise God that he hath thus mercifullie preserv'd thee, and see thou ever make much of this kinde woman that so friendly saves thy life. With that the Fellow viewing her and seeing a great skarre in her face, which did greatlie disfigure her, a long nose, thin lips and of a sowre complexion, hee said unto the Hangman: On (my good friend) doe thy duty: Ile none of her." (p. 160.)

[49] Cf. Rom. and Jul., I., iii., 76, "Why, he's a man of wax," where Dr. Ingleby (who has no doubt learnt better by this time) once took the meaning to be, "a man of puberty, a proper man." Steevens happily compared Horace's "cerea Telephi brachia."

[50] The old spelling for "bawbles."

[51] "Slug. A ship which sails badly." Halliwell. I cannot recall another instance of the use of the word in this sense.

[52] The "trundle-bed" (or "truckle-bed") was a low bed moving on castors. In the day-time it was placed under the principal or "high" bed: at night it was drawn out to the foot of the larger bed. Vid. Nares, sub "truckle bed" and "trundle bed."

[53] The reading of the MS. is unintelligible. For All. I would read Alq., and for "Law you?"—by a very slight change—"Love you?" (the question being addressed to Henrico). Then what follows is intelligible.