Y. ART. I told thee so, and I will keep my word, And for that end I came thus early to thee; I have procur'd a licence, and this night We will be married in a lawless[20] church.

MRS. MA. These news revive me, and do somewhat ease The thought that was new-gotten to my heart. But shall it be to-night?

Y. ART. Ay, wench, to-night. A se'nnight and odd days, since my wife died, Is past already, and her timeless death Is but a nine-days' talk; come, go with me, And it shall be despatched presently.

MRS. MA. Nay, then, I see thou lov'st me; and I find By this last motion thou art grown more kind.

Y. ART. My love and kindness, like my age, shall grow, And with the time increase; and thou shalt see The older I grow, the kinder I will be.

MRS. MA, Ay, so I hope it will; but, as for mine, That with my age shall day by day decline. [Aside. Come, shall we go?

Y. ART. With thee to the world's end, Whose beauty most admire, and all commend.

[Exeunt.



SCENE III.

The Street near the House of Anselm's Mother.

Enter ANSELM and FULLER.

ANS. 'Tis true, as I relate the circumstance, And she is with my mother safe at home; But yet, for all the hate I can allege Against her husband, nor for all the love That on my own part I can urge her to, Will she be won to gratify my love.

FUL. All things are full of ambiguity, And I admire this wond'rous accident. But, Anselm, Arthur's about a new wife, a bona roba; How will she take it when she hears this news?

ANS. I think, even as a virtuous maiden should; It may be that report may, from thy mouth, Beget some pity from her flinty heart, And I will urge her with it presently.

FUL. Unless report be false, they are link'd already; They are fast as words can tie them: I will tell thee How I, by chance, did meet him the last night:— One said to me this Arthur did intend To have a wife, and presently to marry. Amidst the street, I met him as my friend, And to his love a present he did carry; It was some ring, some stomacher, or toy; I spake to him, and bad God give him joy. God give me joy, quoth he; of what, I pray? Marry, quoth I, your wedding that is toward. 'Tis false, quoth he, and would have gone his way. Come, come, quoth I, so near it and so froward: I urg'd him hard by our familiar loves, Pray'd him withal not to forget my gloves. Then he began:—Your kindness hath been great, Your courtesy great, and your love not common; Yet so much favour pray let me entreat, To be excus'd from marrying any woman. I knew the wench that is become his bride, And smil'd to think how deeply he had lied; For first he swore he did not court a maid; A wife he could not, she was elsewhere tied; And as for such as widows were, he said, And deeply swore none such should be his bride: Widow, nor wife, nor maid—I ask'd no more, Knowing he was betroth'd unto a whore.

ANS. Is it not Mistress Mary that you mean? She that did dine with us at Arthur's house?

Enter MISTRESS ARTHUR.

FUL. The same, the same:—here comes the gentlewoman; O Mistress Arthur, I am of your counsel: Welcome from death to life!

ANS. Mistress, this gentleman hath news to tell ye, And as you like of it, so think of me.

FUL. Your husband hath already got a wife; A huffing wench, i' faith, whose ruffling silks Make with their motion music unto love, And you are quite forgotten.

ANS. I have sworn To move this my unchaste demand no more. [Aside.]

FUL. When doth your colour change? When do your eyes Sparkle with fire to revenge these wrongs? When doth your tongue break into rage and wrath, Against that scum of manhood, your vile husband?' He first misus'd you.

ANS. And yet can you love him?

FUL. He left your chaste bed, to defile the bed Of sacred marriage with a courtesan.

ANS. Yet can you love him?

FUL. And, not content with this, Abus'd your honest name with sland'rous words, And fill'd your hush'd house with unquietness.

ANS. And can you love him yet?

FUL. Nay, did he not With his rude fingers dash you on the face, And double-dye your coral lips with blood? Hath he not torn those gold wires from your head, Wherewith Apollo would have strung his harp, And kept them to play music to the gods? Hath he not beat you, and with his rude fists Upon that crimson temperature of your cheeks Laid a lead colour with his boist'rous blows?

ANS. And can you love him yet?

FUL. Then did he not, Either by poison or some other plot, Send you to death where, by his providence, God hath preserved you by that wond'rous miracle? Nay, after death, hath he not scandalis'd Your place with an immodest courtesan?

ANS. And can you love him yet?

MRS ART. And yet, and yet, And still, and ever whilst I breathe this air: Nay, after death, my unsubstantial soul, Like a good angel, shall attend on him, And keep him from all harm. But is he married? much good do his heart! Pray God, she may content him better far Than I have done; long may they live in peace, Till I disturb their solace; but because I fear some mischief doth hang o'er his head, I'll weep my eyes dry with my present care, And for their healths make hoarse my tongue with prayer. [Exit.

FUL. Art sure she is a woman? if she be, She is create of nature's purity.

ANS. O yes, I too well know she is a woman; Henceforth my virtue shall my love withstand, And of my striving thoughts get th'upper hand.

FUL. Then, thus resolv'd, I straight will drink to thee A health thus deep, to drown thy melancholy.

[Exeunt.



ACT V., SCENE I.

A Room in Mistress Mary's House.

Enter MISTRESS MARY, YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, BRABO, and MISTRESS SPLAY.

MRS MA. Not have my will! yes, I will have my will; Shall I not go abroad but when you please? Can I not now and then meet with my friends, But, at my coming home, you will control me? Marry, come up!

Y. ART. Where art thou, patience? Nay, rather, where's become my former spleen? I had a wife would not have us'd me so.

MRS MA. Why, you Jacksauce! you cuckold! you what-not! What, am I not of age sufficient To go and come still, when my pleasure serves, But must I have you, sir, to question me? Not have my will! yes, I will have my will.

Y. ART. I had a wife would not have us'd me so; But she is dead.

BRA. Not have her will, sir! she shall have her will: She says she will, and, sir, I say she shall. Not have her will! that were a jest indeed; Who says she shall not? if I be dispos'd To man her forth, who shall find fault with it? What's he that dare say black's her eye?[21] Though you be married, sir, yet you must know, That she was ever born to have her will.

MRS SPLAY. Not have her will! God's passion! I say still, A woman's nobody that wants her will.

Y. ART. Where is my spirit? what, shall I maintain A strumpet with a Brabo and her bawd, To beard me out of my authority? What, am I from a master made a slave?

MRS MA. A slave? nay, worse; dost thou maintain my man, And this my maid? 'tis I maintain them both. I am thy wife; I will not be dress'd so, While thy gold lasts; but then most willingly I will bequeath thee to flat beggary. I do already hate thee; do thy worst; [He threatens her. Nay, touch me, if thou dar'st; what, shall he beat me?

BRA. I'll make him seek his fingers 'mongst the dogs, That dares to touch my mistress; never fear, My sword shall smoothe the wrinkles of his brows, That bends a frown upon my mistress.

Y. ART. I had a wife would not have us'd me so: But God is just.

MRS MA. Now, Arthur, if I knew What in this world would most torment thy soul, That I would do; would all my evil usage Could make thee straight despair and hang thyself! Now, I remember:—where is Arthur's man, Pipkin? that slave! go, turn him out of doors; None that loves Arthur shall have house-room here.

Enter PIPKIN.

Yonder he comes; Brabo, discard the fellow.

Y. ART. Shall I be over-master'd in my own? Be thyself, Arthur:—strumpet! he shall stay.

MRS MA. What! shall he, Brabo? shall he, Mistress Splay?

BRA. Shall he? he shall not: breathes there any living Dares say he shall, when Brabo says he shall not?

Y. ART. Is there no law for this? she is my wife; Should I complain, I should be rather mock'd. I am content; keep by thee whom thou list. Discharge whom thou think'st good; do what thou wilt, Rise, go to bed, stay at home, or go abroad At thy good pleasure, keep all companies; So that, for all this, I may have but peace. Be unto me as I was to my wife; Only give me, what I denied her then, A little love, and some small quietness— If he displease thee, turn him out of doors.

PIP. Who, me? Turn me out of doors? Is this all the wages I shall have at the year's end, to be turned out of doors? You, mistress! you are a—

MRS SPLAY. A what? speak, a what? touch her and touch me, taint her and taint me; speak, speak, a what?

PIP. Marry, a woman that is kin to the frost.[22]

MRS SPLAY. How do you mean that?

PIP. And you are akin to the Latin word, to understand.

MRS SPLAY. And what's that?

PIP. Subaudi, subaudi? and, sir, do you not use to pink doublets?

MRS SPLAY. And why?

PIP. I took you for a cutter, you are of a great kindred; you are a common cozener, everybody calls you cousin; besides, they say you are a very good warrener, you have been an old coneycatcher: but, if I be turned a-begging, as I know not what I am born to, and that you ever come to the said trade, as nothing is unpossible, I'll set all the commonwealth of beggars on your back, and all the congregation of vermin shall be put to your keeping; and then if you be not more bitten than all the company of beggars besides, I'll not have my will: zounds! turned out of doors! I'll go and set up my trade; a dish to drink in, that I have within; a wallet, that I'll make of an old shirt; then my speech, For the Lord's sake, I beseech your worship; then I must have a lame leg; I'll go to football and break my shins—and I am provided for that.

BRA. What! stands the villain prating? hence, you slave!

[Exit PIPKIN.

Y. ART. Art thou yet pleas'd?

MRS MA. When I have had my humour.

Y. ART. Good friends, for manners' sake awhile withdraw.

BRA. It is our pleasure, sir, to stand aside.

[MISTRESS SPLAY and BRABO stand aside.

Y. ART. Mary, what cause hast thou to use me thus? From nothing I have rais'd thee to much wealth; 'Twas more than I did owe thee: many a pound, Nay, many a hundred pound, I spent on thee In my wife's time; and once, but by my means, Thou hadst been in much danger: but in all things My purse and credit ever bare thee out. I did not owe thee this. I had a wife, That would have laid herself beneath my feet To do me service; her I set at nought For the entire affection I bare thee. To show that I have lov'd thee, have I not, Above all women, made chief choice of thee? An argument sufficient of my love! What reason then hast thou to wrong me thus?

MRS MA. It is my humour.

Y. ART. O, but such humours honest wives should purge: I'll show thee a far greater instance yet Of the true love that I have borne to thee. Thou knew'st my wife: was she not fair?

MRS MA. So, so.

Y. ART. But more than fair: was she not virtuous? Endued with the beauty of the mind?

MRS MA. Faith, so they said.

Y. ART. Hark, in thine ear: I'll trust thee with my life, Than which what greater instance of my love: Thou knew'st full well how suddenly she died? T'enjoy thy love, even then I poison'd her!

MRS MA. How! poison'd her? accursed murderer! I'll ring this fatal 'larum in all ears, Than which what greater instance of my hate?

Y. ART. Wilt thou not keep my counsel?

MRS MA. Villain, no! Thou'lt poison me, as thou hast poison'd her.

Y. ART. Dost thou reward me thus for all my love? Then, Arthur, fly, and seek to save thy life! O, difference 'twixt a chaste and unchaste wife! [Exit.

MRS MA. Pursue the murd'rer, apprehend him straight.

BRA. Why, what's the matter, mistress?

MRS MA. This villain Arthur poison'd his first wife, Which he in secret hath confess'd to me; Go and fetch warrants from the justices T'attach the murd'rer; he once hang'd and dead, His wealth is mine: pursue the slave that's fled.

BRA. Mistress, I will; he shall not pass this land, But I will bring him bound with this strong hand.

[Exeunt.



SCENE II.

The Street before the House of Anselm's Mother.

Enter MISTRESS ARTHUR, poorly.

MRS ART. O, what are the vain pleasures of the world, That in their actions we affect them so? Had I been born a servant, my low life Had steady stood from all these miseries. The waving reeds stand free from every gust, When the tall oaks are rent up by the roots. What is vain beauty but an idle breath? Why are we proud of that which so soon changes? But rather wish the beauty of the mind, Which neither time can alter, sickness change, Violence deface, nor the black hand of envy Smudge and disgrace, or spoil, or make deform'd. O, had my riotous husband borne this mind, He had been happy, I had been more blest, And peace had brought our quiet souls to rest.

Enter YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.

Y. ART. O, whither shall I fly to save my life When murder and despair dogs at my heels? O misery! thou never found'st a friend; All friends forsake men in adversity: My brother hath denied to succour me, Upbraiding me with name of murderer; My uncles double-bar their doors against me; My father hath denied to shelter me, And curs'd me worse than Adam did vile Eve. I that, within these two days, had more friends Than I could number with arithmetic, Have now no more than one poor cypher is, And that poor cypher I supply myself: All that I durst commit my fortunes to, I have tried, and find none to relieve my wants. My sudden flight and fear of future shame Left me unfurnish'd of all necessaries, And these three days I have not tasted food.

MRS ART. It is my husband; O, how just is heaven! Poorly disguis'd, and almost hunger-starv'd! How comes this change?

Y. ART. Doth no man follow me? O, how suspicious guilty murder is! I starve for hunger, and I die for thirst. Had I a kingdom, I would sell my crown For a small bit of bread: I shame to beg, And yet, perforce, I must or beg or starve. This house, belike, 'longs to some gentlewoman, And here's a woman: I will beg of her. Good mistress, look upon a poor man's wants. Whom do I see? tush! Arthur, she is dead. But that I saw her dead and buried, I would have sworn it had been Arthur's wife; But I will leave her; shame forbids me beg Of one so much resembles her.

MRS ART. Come hither, fellow! wherefore dost thou turn Thy guilty looks and blushing face aside? It seems thou hast not been brought up to this.

Y. ART. You say true, mistress; then for charity, And for her sake whom you resemble most. Pity my present want and misery.

MRS ART. It seems thou hast been in some better plight; Sit down, I prythee: men, though they be poor, Should not be scorn'd; to ease thy hunger, first Eat these conserves; and now, I prythee, tell me What thou hast been—thy fortunes, thy estate, And what she was that I resemble most?

Y. ART. First, look that no man see or overhear us: I think that shape was born to do me good. [Aside.]

MRS ART. Hast thou known one that did resemble me?

Y. ART. Ay, mistress; I cannot choose but weep To call to mind the fortunes of her youth.

MRS ART. Tell me, of what estate or birth was she?

Y. ART, Born of good parents, and as well brought up; Most fair, but not so fair as virtuous; Happy in all things but her marriage; Her riotous husband, which I weep to think, By his lewd life, made them both miscarry.

MRS ART. Why dost thou grieve at their adversities?

Y. ART. O, blame me not; that man my kinsman was, Nearer to me a kinsman could not be; As near allied was that chaste woman too, Nearer was never husband to his wife; He whom I term my friend, no friend of mine, Proving both mine and his own enemy, Poison'd his wife—O, the time he did so! Joyed at her death, inhuman slave to do so! Exchang'd her love for a base strumpet's lust; Foul wretch! accursed villain! to exchange so.

MRS ART. You are wise and blest, and happy to repent so: But what became of him and his new wife?

Y. ART. O, hear the justice of the highest heaven: This strumpet, in reward of all his love, Pursues him for the death of his first wife; And now the woful husband languisheth, And flies abroad,[23] pursu'd by her fierce hate; And now too late he doth repent his sin, Ready to perish in his own despair, Having no means but death to rid his care.

MRS ART. I can endure no more, but I must weep; My blabbing tears cannot my counsel keep. [Aside.

Y. ART. Why weep you, mistress? if you had the heart Of her whom you resemble in your face— But she is dead, and for her death The sponge of either eye Shall weep red tears, till every vein is dry.

MRS ART. Why weep you, friend? your rainy drops pray keep; Repentance wipes away the drops of sin. Yet tell me, friend—he did exceeding ill, A wife that lov'd and honour'd him to kill. Yet say one like her, far more chaste than fair, Bids him be of good comfort, not despair. Her soul's appeased with his repentant tears, Wishing he may survive her many years. Fain would I give him money to supply His present wants, but fearing he should fly, And getting over to some foreign shore, These rainy eyes should never see him more. My heart is full, I can no longer stay, But what I am, my love must needs bewray. [Aside. Farewell, good fellow, and take this to spend; Say, one like her commends her to your friend. [Exit.

Y. ART. No friend of mine. I was my own soul's foe, To murther my chaste wife, that lov'd me so! In life she lov'd me dearer than her life: What husband here but would wish such a wife? I hear the officers with hue and cry; She saved my life but now, and now I die. And welcome, death! I will not stir from hence; Death I deserv'd, I'll die for this offence.

Enter BRABO, with OFFICERS, MISTRESS SPLAY, and HUGH.

BRA. Here is the murderer; and, Reason's man, You have the warrant: sirs, lay hands on him; Attach the slave, and lead him bound to death.

HUGH. No, by my faith, Master Brabo, you have the better heart, at least you should have; I am sure you have more iron and steel than I have; do you lay hands on him; I promise you I dare not.

BRA. Constables, forward; forward, officers; I will not thrust my finger in the fire. Lay hands on him, I say: why step you back? I mean to be the hindmost, lest that any Should run away, and leave the rest in peril. Stand forward: are you not asham'd to fear?

Y. ART. Nay, never strive; behold, I yield myself. I must commend your resolution That, being so many and so weapon'd, Dare not adventure on a man unarm'd. Now, lead me to what prison you think best. Yet use me well; I am a gentleman.

HUGH. Truly, Master Arthur, we will use you as well as heart can think; the justices sit to-day, and my master is chief: you shall command me.

BRA. What! hath he yielded? if he had withstood us, This curtle-axe of mine had cleft his head; Resist he durst not, when he once spied me. Come, lead him hence: how lik'st thou this, sweet witch? This fellow's death will make our mistress rich.

MRS SPLAY. I say, I care not who's dead or alive, So by their lives or deaths we two may thrive.

HUGH. Come, bear him away.

[Exeunt.



SCENE III.

A Room, in Justice Season's House.

Enter JUSTICE REASON, OLD MASTER ARTHUR, and OLD MASTER LUSAM.

JUS. Old Master Arthur and Master Lusam, so It is that I have heard both your complaints, But understood neither, for, you know, Legere et non intelligere negligere est.

O. ART. I come for favour, as a father should, Pitying the fall and ruin of his son.

O. LUS. I come for justice, as a father should, That hath by violent murder lost his daughter.

JUS. You come for favour, and you come for justice: Justice with favour is not partial, And, using that, I hope to please you both.

O. ART. Good Master Justice, think upon my son.

O. LUS. Good Master Justice, think upon my daughter.

JUS. Why, so I do; I think upon them both; But can do neither of you good; For he that lives must die, and she that's dead Cannot be revived.

O. ART. Lusam, thou seek'st to rob me of my son, My only son.

O. LUS. He robb'd me of my daughter, my only daughter.

JUS. And robbers are flat felons by the law.

O. ART. Lusam, I say thou art a blood-sucker, A tyrant, a remorseless cannibal: Old as I am, I'll prove it on thy bones.

O. LUS. Am I a blood-sucker or cannibal? Am I a tyrant that do thirst for blood?

O. ART. Ay, if thou seek'st the ruin of my son, Thou art a tyrant and a blood-sucker.

O. LUS. Ay, if I seek the ruin of thy son, I am indeed.

O. ART. Nay, more, thou art a dotard; And, in the right of my accused son, I challenge thee the field. Meet me, I say, To-morrow morning beside Islington, And bring thy sword and buckler, if thou dar'st.

O. LUS. Meet thee with my sword and buckler? There's my glove. I'll meet thee, to revenge my daughter's death. Call'st thou me dotard? Though these threescore years I never handled weapon but a knife, To cut my meat, yet will I meet thee there. God's precious! call me dotard?

O. ART. I have cause, Just cause, to call thee dotard, have I not?

O. LUS. Nay, that's another matter; have you cause? Then God forbid that I should take exceptions To be call'd dotard of one that hath cause.

JUS. My masters, you must leave this quarrelling, for quarrellers are never at peace; and men of peace, while they are at quiet, are never quarrelling: so you, whilst you fall into brawls, you cannot choose but jar. Here comes your son accused, and his wife the accuser; stand forth both. Hugh, be ready with your pen and ink to take their examinations and confessions.

Enter MISTRESS MARY, BRABO, YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, MISTRESS SPLAY, HUGH, and OFFICERS.

Y. ART. It shall not need; I do confess the deed, Of which this woman here accuseth me; I poison'd my first wife, and for that deed I yield me to the mercy of the law.

O. LUS. Villain! thou mean'st my only daughter, And in her death depriv'dst me of all joys.

Y. ART. I mean her. I do confess the deed; And though my body taste the force of law, Like an offender, on my knee I beg Your angry soul will pardon me her death.

O. LUS. Nay, if he kneeling do confess the deed, No reason but I should forgive her death.

JUS. But so the law must not be satisfied; Blood must have blood, and men must have death; I think that cannot be dispens'd withal.

MRS MA. If all the world else would forgive the deed, Yet would I earnestly pursue the law.

Y. ART. I had a wife would not have us'd me so; The wealth of Europe could not hire her tongue To be offensive to my patient ears; But, in exchanging her, I did prefer A devil before a saint, night before day, Hell before heaven, and dross before tried gold; Never was bargain with such damage sold.

BRA. If you want witness to confirm the deed, I heard him speak it; and that to his face, Before this presence, I will justify; I will not part hence, till I see him swing.

MRS SPLAY. I heard him too: pity but he should die, And like a murderer be sent to hell. To poison her, and make her belly swell!

MRS MA. Why stay you, then? give judgment on the slave, Whose shameless life deserves a shameful grave.

Y. ART. Death's bitter pangs are not so full of grief As this unkindness: every word thou speak'st Is a sharp dagger thrust quite through my heart. As little I deserve this at thy hands, As my kind patient wife deserv'd of me: I was her torment, God hath made thee mine; Then wherefore at just plagues should I repine?

JUS. Where did'st thou buy this poison? for such drugs Are felony for any man to sell.

Y. ART. I had the poison of Aminadab: But, innocent man, he was not accessory To my wife's death; I clear him of the deed.

JUS. No matter; fetch him, fetch him, bring him To answer to this matter at the bar. Hugh, take these officers and apprehend him.

BRA. I'll aid him too; the schoolmaster, I see, Perhaps may hang with him for company.

Enter ANSELM and FULLER.

ANS. This is the day of Arthur's examination And trial for the murder of his wife; Let's hear how Justice Reason will proceed, In censuring of his strict punishment.

FUL. Anselm, content; let's thrust in 'mong the throng.

Enter AMINADAB, brought in with OFFICERS.

AMIN. O Domine! what mean these knaves, To lead me thus with bills and glaves? O, what example would it be To all my pupils for to see, To tread their steps all after me, If for some fault I hanged be; Somewhat surely I shall mar, If you bring me to the bar. But peace; betake thee to thy wits, For yonder Justice Reason sits.

JUS. Sir Dab, Sir Dab, here's one accuseth you, To give him poison, being ill-employ'd: Speak, how in this case you can clear yourself.

AMIN. Hei mihi! what should I say? the poison given I deny; He took it perforce from my hands, and, Domine, why not? I got it of a gentleman; he most freely gave it, As he knew me; my meaning was only to have it.[24]

Y. ART. 'Tis true, I took it from this man perforce, And snatch'd it from his hand by rude constraint, Which proves him in this act not culpable.

JUS. Ay, but who sold the poison unto him? That must be likewise known; speak, schoolmaster.

AMIN. A man verbosus, that was a fine generosus; He was a great guller, his name I take to be Fuller; See where he stands, that unto my hands convey'd a powder; And, like a knave, sent her to her grave, obscurely to shroud her.

JUS. Lay hands on him; are you a poison-seller? Bring him before us: sirrah, what say you? Sold you a poison to this honest man?

FUL. I sold no poison, but I gave him one To kill his rats?

JUS. Ha, ha! I smell a rat. You sold him poison then to kill his rats? The word to kill argues a murd'rous mind; And you are brought in compass of the murder So set him by, we will not hear him speak: That Arthur, Fuller, and the schoolmaster, Shall by the judges be examined.

ANS. Sir, if my friend may not speak for himself, Yet let me his proceedings justify.

JUS. What's he that will a murther justify? Lay hands on him, lay hands on him, I say; For justifiers are all accessories, And accessories have deserved to die. Away with him! we will not hear him speak; They all shall to the High Commissioners.

Enter MISTRESS ARTHUR.

MRS ART. Nay, stay them, stay them yet a little while! I bring a warrant to the contrary; And I will please all parties presently.

Y. ART. I think my wife's ghost haunts me to my death; Wretch that I was, to shorten her life's breath!

O. ART. Whom do I see, my son's wife?

O. LUS. What, my daughter?

JUS. Is it not Mistress Arthur that we see, That long since buried we suppos'd to be?

MRS ART. This man's condemn'd for pois'ning of his wife; His poison'd wife yet lives, and I am she; And therefore justly I release his bands: This man, for suff'ring him these drugs to take, Is likewise bound, release him for my sake: This gentleman that first the poison gave, And this his friend, to be releas'd I crave: Murther there cannot be where none is kill'd; Her blood is sav'd, whom you suppos'd was spill'd. Father-in-law, I give you here your son, The act's to do which you suppos'd was done. And, father, now joy in your daughter's life, Whom heaven hath still kept to be Arthur's wife.

O. ART. O, welcome, welcome, daughter! now I see God by his power hath preserved thee.

O. LUS. And 'tis my wench, whom I suppos'd was dead; My joy revives, and my sad woe is fled.

Y. ART. I know not what I am, nor where I am; My soul's transported to an ecstasy, For hope and joy confound my memory.

MRS MA. What do I see? lives Arthur's wife again? Nay then I labour for his death in vain. [Aside.

BRA. What secret force did in her nature lurk, That in her soul the poison would not work? [Aside.

MRS SPLAY. How can it be the poison took no force? She lives with that which would have kill'd a horse! [Aside.

MRS ART. Nay, shun me not; be not asham'd at all; To heaven, not me, for grace and pardon fall. Look on me, Arthur; blush not at my wrongs.

Y. ART. Still fear and hope my grief and woe prolongs. But tell me, by what power thou didst survive? With my own hands I temper'd that vile draught, That sent thee breathless to thy grandsire's grave, If that were poison I receiv'd of him.

AMIN. That ego nescio, but this dram Receiv'd I of this gentleman; The colour was to kill my rats, But 'twas my own life to despatch.

FUL. Is it even so? then this ambiguous doubt No man can better than myself decide; That compound powder was of poppy made and mandrakes, Of purpose to cast one into a sleep, To ease the deadly pain of him whose leg Should be saw'd off; That powder gave I to the schoolmaster.

AMIN. And that same powder, even that idem, You took from me, the same, per fidem!

Y. ART. And that same powder I commix'd with wine, Our godly knot of wedlock to untwine.

O. ART. But, daughter, who did take thee from thy grave?

O. LUS. Discourse it, daughter.

ANS. Nay, that labour save; Pardon me, Master Arthur, I will now Confess the former frailty of my love. Your modest wife with words I tempted oft; But neither ill I could report of you, Nor any good I could forge for myself, Would win her to attend to my request; Nay, after death I lov'd her, insomuch That to the vault where she was buried My constant love did lead me through the dark, There ready to have ta'en my last farewell. The parting kiss I gave her I felt warm; Briefly, I bare her to my mother's house, Where she hath since liv'd the most chaste and true, That since the world's creation eye did view.

Y. ART. My first wife, stand you here: my second, there, And in the midst, myself; he that will choose A good wife from a bad, come learn of me, That have tried both, in wealth and misery. A good wife will be careful of her fame, Her husband's credit, and her own good name; And such art thou. A bad wife will respect Her pride, her lust, and her good name neglect; And such art thou. A good wife will be still Industrious, apt to do her husband's will; But a bad wife, cross, spiteful and madding, Never keep home, but always be a-gadding; And such art thou. A good wife will conceal Her husband's dangers, and nothing reveal That may procure him harm; and such art thou. But a bad wife corrupts chaste wedlock's vow. On this hand virtue, and on this hand sin; This who would strive to lose, or this to win? Here lives perpetual joy, here burning woe; Now, husbands, choose on which hand you will go. Seek virtuous wives, all husbands will be blest; Fair wives are good, but virtuous wives are best. They that my fortunes will peruse, shall find No beauty's like the beauty of the mind.

[Exeunt.

THE END.



THE RETURN FROM PARNASSUS.



_EDITION.

The Retvrne from Pernassvs: Or, The Scourge of Simony. Publiquely acted by the Students in Saint Iohns Colledge in Cambridge. At London Printed by G. Eld, for Iohn Wright, and are to bee sold at his shop at Christchurch Gate_. 1606. 4to.

[See Hazlitt's "Handbook," p. 470. Almost all the extant copies of this drama—and no fewer than ten have been examined—appear to vary in certain literal particulars. Of two copies in the Malone collection, one presents additions which might bespeak it a later impression than the other; and yet, on the other hand, has errors (some of a serious kind) peculiar to itself. The text has now been considerably improved by the collection of the quartos at Oxford.

It was the intention of my kind acquaintance, the Rev. J.W. Ebsworth, Vicar of Moldash, by Ashford, Kent, to have reprinted the "Return from Parnassus" separately; but on learning that I intended to include it in my series, Mr Ebsworth not only gave way, but obligingly placed the annotated copy which he had prepared, at my free disposal.

I have also to thank Dr Ingleby, of Valentines, near Ilford, Essex, for lending me a copy of the play corresponding with one of those in the Bodleian, as regards its occasionally various readings.

A long account, and very favourable estimate, of this drama will be found in Hazlitt's "Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth," 1820.]



[HAWKINS'S PREFACE.]

We can learn no more of the history of this play than what the title-page gives us, viz., that it was "publickly acted by the students in Saint John's College, Cambridge."[25] The merits and characters of our old poets and actors are censured by the author with great freedom; and the shameful prostitution of Church preferment, by the selling of livings to the ignorant and unworthy, laid the foundation of Dr Wild's "Benefice, a Comedy," 4to, 1689.

[Hawkins himself elsewhere (in his "General Introduction") remarks:—]

As the piece which follows, called "The Return from Parnassus," is, perhaps, the most singular composition in our language, it may be proper to give a succinct analysis of it. This satirical drama seems to have been composed by the wits and scholars of Cambridge, where it was acted at the opening of the last century. The design of it was to expose the vices and follies of the rich in those days, and to show that little attention was paid by that class of men to the learned and ingenious. Several students of various capacities and dispositions leave the university in hopes of advancing their fortunes in the metropolis. One of them attempts to recommend himself by his publications; another, to procure a benefice by paying his court to a young spark named Amoretto, with whom he had been intimate at college; two others endeavour to gain a subsistence by successively appearing as physicians, actors, and musicians: but the Man of Genius is disregarded, and at last prosecuted for his productions; the benefice is sold to an illiterate clown; and in the end three of the scholars are compelled to submit to a voluntary exile; another returns to Cambridge as poor as when he left it; and the other two, finding that neither their medicines nor their music would support them, resolve to turn shepherds, and to spend the rest of their days on the Kentish downs. There is a great variety of characters in this play, which are excellently distinguished and supported; and some of the scenes have as much wit as can be desired in a perfect comedy. The simplicity of its plan must naturally bring to our mind the old species of comedy described by Horace, in which, before it was restrained by a public edict, living characters were exposed by name upon the stage, and the audience made merry at their expense without any intricacy of plot or diversity of action: thus in the piece before us Burbage and Kempe, two famous actors, appear in their proper persons; and a number of acute observations are made on the poets of that age, of whom the editor has given an account in the notes, and has added some chosen specimens of their poetry.

[The late Mr Bolton Corney thought that this play was from the pen of John Day. We learn from the Prologue that a drama, of which nothing is now known, preceded it, under the title of "The Pilgrimage to Parnassus." The loss is perhaps to be regretted.]



THE PROLOGUE.

BOY, STAGEKEEPER, MOMUS, DEFENSOR.

BOY. Spectators, we will act a comedy: non plus.

STAGEKEEPER. A pox on't, this book hath it not in it: you would be whipped, thou rascal; thou must be sitting up all night at cards, when thou should be conning thy part.

BOY. It's all along on you; I could not get my part a night or two before, that I might sleep on it.

[STAGEKEEPER carrieth the BOY away under his arm.

MOMUS. It's even well done; here is such a stir about a scurvy English show!

DEFENSOR. Scurvy in thy face, thou scurvy Jack: if this company were not,—you paltry critic gentleman, you that know what it is to play at primero or passage—you that have been student at post and pair, saint and loadam —you that have spent all your quarter's revenues in riding post one night in Christmas, bear with the weak memory of a gamester.

MOMUS. Gentlemen, you that can play at noddy, or rather play upon noddies—you that can set up a jest at primero instead of a rest, laugh at the prologue, that was taken away in a voider.

DEFENSOR. What we present, I must needs confess, is but slubber'd invention: if your wisdom obscure the circumstance, your kindness will pardon the substance.

MOMUS. What is presented here is an old musty show, that hath lain this twelvemonth in the bottom of a coal-house amongst brooms and old shoes; an invention that we are ashamed of, and therefore we have promised the copies to the chandler to wrap his candles in.

DEFENSOR. It's but a Christmas toy; and may it please your courtesies to let it pass.

MOMUS. It's a Christmas toy, indeed! as good a conceit as sloughing[26] hotcockles or blindman-buff.

DEFENSOR. Some humours you shall see aimed at, if not well-resembled.

MOMUS. Humours, indeed! Is it not a pretty humour to stand hammering upon two individuum vagum, two scholars, some whole year? These same Philomusus and Studioso have been followed with a whip and a verse, like a couple of vagabonds, through England and Italy. The Pilgrimage to Parnassus and the Return from Parnassus have stood the honest stagekeepers in many a crown's expense for links and vizards; purchased a sophister a knock with[27] a club; hindered the butler's box,[28] and emptied the college barrels: and now, unless you know the subject well, you may return home as wise as you came, for this last is the least part of the return from Parnassus: that is both the first and last time that the author's wit will turn upon the toe in this vein, and at this time the scene is not at Parnassus, that is, looks not good invention in the face.

DEFENSOR. If the catastrophe please you not, impute it to the unpleasing fortunes of discontented scholars.

MOMUS. For catastrophe, there's never a tale in Sir John Mandeville or Bevis of Southampton, but hath a better turning.

STAGEKEEPER. What, you jeering ass! begone, with a pox!

MOMUS. You may do better to busy yourself in providing beer; for the show will be pitiful dry, pitiful dry. [Exit.

STAGEKEEPER. No more of this: I heard the spectators ask for a blank verse. What we show is but a Christmas jest; Conceive of this, and guess of all the rest: Full like a scholar's hapless fortune's penn'd, Whose former griefs seldom have happy end. Frame as well we might with easy strain, With far more praise and with as little pain, Stories of love, where forne[29] the wond'ring bench The lisping gallant might enjoy his wench; Or make some sire acknowledge his lost son: Found, when the weary act is almost done.[30] Nor unto this, nor unto that our scene is bent; We only show a scholar's discontent. In scholars' fortunes, twice forlorn and dead, Twice hath our weary pen erst laboured; Making them pilgrims in Parnassus' Hill, Then penning their return with ruder quill. Now we present unto each pitying eye The scholars' progress in their misery: Refined wits, your patience is our bliss; Too weak our scene, too great your judgment is: To you we seek to show a scholar's state, His scorned fortunes, his unpity'd fate; To you: for if you did not scholars bless, Their case, poor case, were too-too pitiless. You shade the muses under fostering, And made[31] them leave to sigh, and learn to sing.



THE NAMES OF THE ACTORS.

INGENIOSO. JUDICIO. DANTER. PHILOMUSUS. STUDIOSO. FUROR POETICUS. PHANTASMA. Patient. RICARDETTO. THEODORE, a Physician. BURGESS, a Patient. JAQUES, a Studioso. ACADEMICO. AMORETTO. Page. SIGNIOR IMMERITO. STERCUTIO, his Father. SIR RADERIC. Recorder. Page. PRODIGO. BURBAGE. KEMP. Fiddlers. Patient's man.



THE RETURN FROM PARNASSUS.



ACTUS I, SCAENA 1.

INGENIOSO, with Juvenal in his hand.

INGENIOSO. Difficile est satyram non scribere. Nam quis iniquae Tam patiens Urbis, tam ferreus,[32] ut teneat se? Ay, Juvenal, thy jerking hand is good, Not gently laying on, but fetching blood; So, surgeon-like, thou dost with cutting heal, Where nought but lancing[33] can the wound avail: O, suffer me, among so many men, To tread aright the traces of thy pen, And light my link at thy eternal flame, Till with it I brand everlasting shame On the world's forehead, and with thine own spirit Pay home the world according to his merit. Thy purer soul could not endure to see Ev'n smallest spots of base impurity, Nor could small faults escape thy cleaner hands. Then foul-fac'd vice was in his swaddling-bands, Now, like Anteus, grown a monster is, A match for none but mighty Hercules: Now can the world practise in plainer guise Both sins of old and new-born villanies: Stale sins are stole; now doth the world begin To take sole pleasure in a witty sin: Unpleasant as[34] the lawless sin has been, At midnight rest, when darkness covers sin; It's clownish, unbeseeming a young knight, Unless it dare outface the glaring light: Nor can it nought our gallant's praises reap, Unless it be done in staring Cheap, In a sin-guilty coach, not closely pent, Jogging along the harder pavement. Did not fear check my repining sprite, Soon should my angry ghost a story write; In which I would new-foster'd sins combine, Not known erst by truth-telling Aretine.



ACTUS I, SCAENA 2.

Enter JUDICIO and INGENIOSO.

JUDICIO. What, Ingenioso, carrying a vinegar bottle about thee, like a great schoolboy giving the world a bloody nose?[35]

INGENIOSO. Faith, Judicio, if I carry the vinegar bottle, it's great reason I should confer it upon the baldpated world: and again, if my kitchen want the utensils[36] of viands, it's great reason other men should have the sauce of vinegar; and for the bloody nose, Judicio, I may chance, indeed, give the world a bloody nose, but it shall hardly give me a crack'd crown, though it gives other poets French crowns.

JUDICIO. I would wish thee, Ingenioso, to sheathe thy pen, for thou canst not be successful in the fray, considering thy enemies have the advantage of the ground.

INGENIOSO. Or rather, Judicio, they have the grounds with advantage, and the French crowns with a pox; and I would they had them with a plague too: but hang them, swads, the basest corner in my thoughts is too gallant a room to lodge them in. But say, Judicio, what news in your press? did you keep any late corrections upon any tardy pamphlets?

JUDICIO. Veterem jubes renovare dolorem, Ingenioso: whate'er befalls thee, keep thee from the trade of the corrector of the press.

INGENIOSO. Marry, so I will, I warrant thee; if poverty press not too much, I'll correct no press but the press of the people.

JUDICIO. Would it not grieve any good spirits to sit a whole month knitting out a lousy, beggarly pamphlet, and, like a needy physician, to stand whole years tossing and tumbling the filth that falleth from so many draughty inventions as daily swarm in our printing-house.

INGENIOSO. Come, I think we shall have you put finger in the eye, and cry, O friends, no friends! Say, man, what new paper hobby-horses, what rattle-babies, are come out in your late May morris-dance?

JUDICIO. Fly[37] my rhymes as thick as flies in the sun; I think there be never an alehouse in England, not any so base a maypole on a country green, but sets forth some poet's petronels or demi-lances to the paper wars in Paul's Churchyard.

INGENIOSO. And well too may the issue of a strong hop learn to hop all over England, when as better wits sit, like lame cobblers, in their studies. Such barmy heads will always be working, when as sad vinegar wits sit souring at the bottom of a barrel; plain meteors, bred of the exhalation of tobacco and the vapours of a moist pot, that soar[38] up into the open air, when as sounder wit keeps below.

JUDICIO. Considering the furies of the times, I could better endure to see those young can-quaffing hucksters shoot off their pellets, so they would keep them from these English Flores poetarum; but now the world is come to that pass, that there starts up every day an old goose that sits hatching up those eggs which have been filched from the nest of crows and kestrels. Here is a book, Ingenioso; why, to condemn it to clear [fire,][39] the usual Tyburn of all misliving papers, were too fair a death for so foul an offender.

INGENIOSO. What's the name of it, I pray thee, Judicio?

JUDICIO. Look, it's here; "Belvidere."[40]

INGENIOSO. What, a bell-wether in Paul's Churchyard! so called because it keeps a bleating, or because it hath the tinkling bell of so many poets about the neck of it? What is the rest of the title?

JUDICIO. "The Garden of the Muses."

INGENIOSO. What have we here, the poet garish, gaily bedecked, like fore-horses of the parish? What follows?

JUDICIO. Quem, referent musae, vivet, dum robora tellus, Dum coelum stellas, dum vehit amnis aquas. Who blurs fair paper with foul bastard rhymes, Shall live full many an age in latter times: Who makes a ballad for an alehouse door, Shall live in future times for evermore: Then ( )[41] thy muse shall live so long, As drafty ballads to thy praise are sung. But what's his device? Parnassus with the sun and the laurel?[42] I wonder this owl dares look on the sun; and I marvel this goose flies not the laurel: his device might have been better, a fool going into the market-place to be seen, with this motto: Scribimus indocti; or, a poor beggar gleaning of ears in the end of harvest, with this word: Sua cuique gloria.

JUDICIO. Turn over the leaf, Ingenioso, and thou shalt see the pains of this worthy gentleman: Sentences, gathered out of all kind of poets, referred to certain methodical heads, profitable for the use of these times, to rhyme upon any occasion at a little warning. Read the names.

INGENIOSO. So I will, if thou wilt help me to censure them.

Edmund Spenser. Thomas Watson. Henry Constable. Michael Drayton. Thomas Lodge. John Davis. Samuel Daniel. John Marston. Kit Marlowe.

Good men and true; stand together; hear your censure. What's thy judgment of Spenser?

JUDICIO. A sweeter[43] swan than ever sung in Po, A shriller nightingale than ever bless'd The prouder groves of self-admiring Rome. Blithe was each valley, and each shepherd proud, While he did chant his rural minstrelsy: Attentive was full many a dainty ear, Nay, hearers hung upon his melting tongue, While sweetly of his Fairy Queen he sung; While to the waters' fall he tun'd for fame, And in each bark engrav'd Eliza's name: And yet for all this unregarding soil Unlac'd the line of his desired life, Denying maintenance for his dear relief; Careless care to prevent his exequy, Scarce deigning to shut up his dying eye.

INGENIOSO. Pity it is that gentler wits should breed, Where thickskin chuffs laugh at a scholar's need. But softly may our honour's ashes rest, That lie by merry Chaucer's noble chest. But, I pray thee, proceed briefly in thy censure, that I may be proud of myself; as in the first, so in the last, my censure may jump with thine.—Henry Constable, Samuel Daniel,[44] Thomas Lodge, Thomas Watson.

JUDICIO. Sweet Constable[45] doth take the wond'ring ear, And lays it up in willing prisonment: Sweet honey-dropping Daniel doth wage War with the proudest big Italian, That melts his heart in sugar'd sonneting; Only let him more sparingly make use Of others' wit, and use his own the more, That well may scorn base imitation. For Lodge[46] and Watson,[47] men of some desert, Yet subject to a critic's marginal; Lodge for his oar in ev'ry paper boat, He, that turns over Galen ev'ry day, To sit and simper Euphues' Legacy.[48]

INGENIOSO. Michael Drayton?

JUDICIO. Drayton's sweet muse is like a sanguine dye, Able to ravish the rash gazer's eye.

INGENIOSO. However, he wants one true note of a poet of our times, and that is this: he cannot swagger it well in a tavern, nor domineer in a hothouse. John Davis?[49]

JUDICIO. Acute John Davis, I affect thy rhymes, That jerk in hidden charms these looser times; Thy plainer verse, thy unaffected vein, Is graced with a fair and sweeping[50] train.

INGENIOSO. Lock and Hudson?[51]

JUDICIO. Lock and Hudson, sleep, you quiet shavers, among the shavings of the press, and let your books lie in some old nooks amongst old boots and shoes; so you may avoid my censure.

INGENIOSO. Why, then, clap a lock on their feet, and turn them to commons. John Marston?[52]

JUDICIO. What, Monsieur Kinsayder, lifting up your leg, and pissing against the world? put up, man, put up, for shame! Methinks he is a ruffian in his style, Withouten bands or garters' ornament: He quaffs a cup of Frenchman's Helicon; Then roister doister in his oily terms, Cuts, thrusts, and foins, at whomsoever he meets, And strews about Ram-Alley meditations. Tut, what cares he for modest close-couch'd terms, Cleanly to gird our looser libertines? Give him plain naked words, stripp'd from their shirts, That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine. Ay, there is one, that backs a paper steed, And manageth a penknife gallantly, Strikes his poinardo at a button's breadth, Brings the great battering-ram of terms to towns; And, at first volley of his cannon-shot, Batters the walls of the old fusty world.

INGENIOSO. Christopher Marlowe?

JUDICIO. Marlowe was happy in his buskin'd muse; Alas! unhappy in his life and end: Pity it is that wit so ill should dwell Wit lent from heav'n, but vices sent from hell.[53]

INGENIOSO. Our theatre hath lost, Pluto hath got, A tragic penman for a dreary plot. Benjamin Jonson?

JUDICIO. The wittiest fellow of a bricklayer in England.

INGENIOSO. A mere empiric, one that gets what he hath by observation, and makes only nature privy to what he indites; so slow an inventor, that he were better betake himself to his old trade of bricklaying; a bold whoreson, as confident now in making of[54] a book, as he was in times past in laying of a brick. William Shakespeare?

JUDICIO. Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece' rape, His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life, Could but a graver subject him content, Without love's foolish, lazy[55] languishment.

INGENIOSO. Churchyard?[56] Hath not Shore's wife, although a light-skirts she, Giv'n him a chaste, long-lasting memory?

JUDICIO. No; all light pamphlets once I finden shall, A Churchyard and a grave to bury all! Thomas Nash.[57]

INGENIOSO. Ay, here is a fellow, Judicio, that carried the deadly stock[58] in his pen, whose muse was armed with a gag-tooth,[59] and his pen possessed with Hercules' furies.

JUDICIO. Let all his faults sleep with his mournful chest, And then for ever with his ashes rest: His style was witty, though he had some gall, Something he might have mended; so may all: Yet this I say that, for a mother-wit, Few men have ever seen the like of it.

INGENIOSO reads the rest of the names.

JUDICIO. As for these, they have some of them been the old hedge-stakes of the press; and some of them are, at this instant, the bots and glanders of the printing-house: fellows that stand only upon terms to serve the term,[60] with their blotted papers, write, as men go to stool, for needs; and when they write, they write as a bear pisses, now and then drop a pamphlet.

INGENIOSO. Durum telum necessitas. Good faith, they do, as I do—exchange words for money. I have some traffic this day with Danter[61] about a little book which I have made; the name of it is, A Catalogue of Cambridge Cuckolds. But this Belvidere, this methodical ass, hath made me almost forget my time; I'll now to Paul's Churchyard; meet me an hour hence at the sign of the Pegasus in Cheapside, and I'll moist thy temples with a cup of claret, as hard as the world goes.

[Exit JUDICIO.



ACTUS I., SCAENA 3.

Enter DANTER the Printer.

INGENIOSO. Danter, thou art deceived, wit is dearer than thou takest it to be: I tell thee, this libel of Cambridge has much fat and pepper in the nose; it will sell sheerly underhand, when all these books of exhortations and catechisms lie moulding on thy shopboard.

DANTER. It's true: but, good faith, Master Ingenioso, I lost by your last book; and, you know, there is many a one that pays me largely for the printing of their inventions: but, for all this, you shall have forty shillings and an odd bottle of wine.

INGENIOSO. Forty shillings! a fit reward for one of your rheumatic poets, that beslavers all the paper he comes by, and furnishes all the chandlers with waste-papers to wrap candles in; but as for me, I'll be paid dear even for the dregs of my wit: little knows the world what belongs to the keeping of a good wit in waters, diets, drinks, tobacco, &c. It is a dainty and a costly creature; and therefore I must be paid sweetly. Furnish me with money, that I may put myself in a new suit of clothes, and I'll suit thy shop with a new suit of terms. It's the gallantest child my invention was ever delivered of: the title is, A Chronicle of Cambridge Cuckolds. Here a man may see what day of the month such a man's commons were enclosed, and when thrown open; and when any entailed some odd crowns upon the heirs of their bodies unlawfully begotten. Speak quickly: else I am gone.

DANTER. O, this will sell gallantly; I'll have it, whatsoever it cost: will you walk on, Master Ingenioso? We'll sit over a cup of wine, and agree on it.

INGENIOSO. A cup of wine is as good a constable as can be to take up the quarrel betwixt us. [Exeunt.



ACTUS I., SCAENA 4.

PHILOMUSUS in a physician's habit: STUDIOSO, that is, JAQUES man, and PATIENT.

PHILOMUSUS. Tit, tit, tit, non point;[62] non debet fieri phlebotomia in coitu Lunae. Here is a recipe.

PATIENT. A recipe?

PHILOMUSUS. Nos Gallia non curamus quantitatem syllabarum: let me hear how many stools you do make. Adieu, monsieur: adieu, good monsieur.—What, Jaques, il n'y a personne apres ici?

STUDIOSO. Non.

PHILOMUSUS. Then let us steal time for this borrowed shape, Recounting our unequal haps of late: Late did the ocean grasp us in his arms; Late did we live within a stranger air, Late did we see the cinders of great Rome: We thought that English fugitives there ate Gold for restorative, if gold were meat. Yet now we find by bought experience That, wheresoe'er we wander up and down On the round shoulders of this massy world, Or our ill-fortunes or the world's ill-eye Forespeak our good, procure[63] our misery.

STUDIOSO. So oft the northern wind with frozen wings Hath beat the flowers that in our garden grew, Thrown down the stalks of our aspiring youth; So oft hath winter nipp'd our trees' fair rind, That now we seem nought but two bared boughs, Scorn'd by the basest bird that chirps in grove. Nor Rome, nor Rhemes, that wonted are to give A cardinal cap to discontented clerks, That have forsook the home-bred, thatched[64] roofs, Yielded us any equal maintenance: And it's as good to starve 'mongst English swine, As in a foreign land to beg and pine.

PHILOMUSUS. I'll scorn the world, that scorneth me again.

STUDIOSO. I'll vex the world, that works me so much pain.

PHILOMUSUS. Thy[65] lame revenging power the world well weens.

STUDIOSO. Flies have their spleen, each silly ant his teens.

PHILOMUSUS. We have the words, they the possession have.

STUDIOSO. We all are equal in our latest grave.

PHILOMUSUS. Soon then, O, soon may we both graved be.

STUDIOSO. Who wishes death doth wrong wise destiny.

PHILOMUSUS. It's wrong to force life-loathing men to breathe.

STUDIOSO. It's sin 'fore doomed day to wish thy death.

PHILOMUSUS. Too late our souls flit to their resting-place.

STUDIOSO. Why, man's whole life is but a breathing space.

PHILOMUSUS. A painful minute seems a tedious year.

STUDIOSO. A constant mind eternal woes will bear.

PHILOMUSUS. When shall our souls their wearied lodge forego?

STUDIOSO. When we have tired misery and woe.

PHILOMUSUS. Soon may then fates this gaol[66]-deliver send us: Small woes vex long, [but] great woes quickly end us. But let's leave this capping of rhymes, Studioso, and follow our late device, that we may maintain our heads in caps, our bellies in provender, and our backs in saddle and bridle. Hitherto we have sought all the honest means we could to live, and now let us dare aliqua brevibus gyris[67] et carcere dignum; let us run through all the lewd forms of lime-twig, purloining villanies; let us prove coneycatchers, bawds, or anything, so we may rub out. And first my plot for playing the French doctor—that shall hold; our lodging stands here fitly[68] in Shoe Lane: for, if our comings-in be not the better, London may shortly throw an old shoe after us; and with those shreds of French that we gathered up in our host's house in Paris, we'll gull the world, that hath in estimation foreign physicians: and if any of the hidebound brethren of Cambridge and Oxford, or any of those stigmatic masters of art that abused us in times pass'd, leave their own physicians, and become our patients, we'll alter quite the style of them; for they shall never hereafter write, Your lordship's most bounden, but, Your lordship's most laxative.

STUDIOSO. It shall be so: see what a little vermin poverty altereth a whole milky disposition.

PHILOMUSUS. So then myself straight with revenge I'll sate.[69]

STUDIOSO. Provoked patience grows intemperate.



ACTUS I, SCAENA 5.

Enter RICHARDETTO, JAQUES, Scholar learning French.

JAQUES. How now, my little knave? Quelle nouvelle, monsieur?

RICHARDETTO. There's a fellow with a nightcap on his head, an urinal in his hand, would fain speak with Master Theodore.

JAQUES. Parle Francois, mon petit garcon.

RICHARDETTO.[70] Ici un homme, avec le bonnet de nuit sur la tete, et un urinal en la main, que veut parler avec Maistre Theodore.

JAQUES. Fort bien.

THEODORE. Jaques, a bonne heure.

[Exeunt.



ACTUS I., SCAENA 6.

FUROR POETICUS; and presently after enters PHANTASMA.

FUROR POETICUS, rapt with contemplation. Why, how now, pedant Phoebus?[71] are you smouching Thaly on her tender lips? There, hoi! peasant, avaunt! Come, pretty short-nosed nymph. O sweet Thalia, I do kiss thy foot. What, Clio? O sweet Clio! Nay, prythee, do not weep, Melpomene. What, Urania, Polyhymnia, and Calliope! let me do reverence to your deities. [PHANTASMA pulls him by the sleeve. I am your holy swain that, night and day, Sit for your sakes, rubbing my wrinkled brow, Studying a month for a epithet. Nay, silver Cynthia, do not trouble me; Straight will I thy Endymion's story write, To which thou hastest me on day and night. You light-skirt stars, this is your wonted guise, By gloomy light perk out your doubtful heads; But when Dan[72] Phoebus shows his flashing snout, You are sky-puppies;[73] straight your light is out.

PHANTASMA. So ho, Furor! Nay, prythee, good Furor, in sober sadness—

FUROR. Odi profanum vulgus, et arceo.

PHANTASMA. Nay, sweet Furor,—ipsae te, Tityre, pinus—

FUROR. Ipsi te fontes, ipsa haec arbusta vocarunt. Who's that runs headlong on my quill's sharp point, That, wearied of his life and baser breath, Offers himself to an Iambic verse?

PHANTASMA. Si, quoties peccant homines, sua fulmina mittat Jupiter, exiguo tempore inermis erit.

FUROR. What slimy, bold, presumptuous groom[74] is he, Dares with his rude, audacious, hardy chat Thus sever me from sky-bred[75] contemplation?

PHANTASMA. Carmina vel coelo possunt deducere lunam.

FUROR. O Phantasma! what, my individual[76] mate?

PHANTASMA. O, mihi post nullos, Furor, memorande sodales!

FUROR. Say, whence comest thou? sent from what deity? From great Apollo or sly Mercury?

PHANTASMA. I come from the little Mercury Ingenioso: for, Ingenio pollet, cui vim natura negavit.

FUROR. Ingenioso? He is a pretty inventor of slight prose; But there's no spirit in his grov'lling speech. Hang him, whose verse cannot outbelch the wind, That cannot beard and brave Dan Aeolus; That, when the cloud of his invention breaks, Cannot outcrack the scarecrow thunderbolt. Hang him, I say![77]

PHANTASMA. Pendo, pependi; tendo, tetendi; pedo, pepedi. Will it please you, Master Furor, to walk with me? I promise to bring you to a drinking-inn in Cheapside, at the sign of the Nag's Head; for

Tempore lenta pati fraena docentur equi.

FUROR. Pass thee before, I'll come incontinent.

PHANTASMA. Nay, faith, Master Furor, let's go together, quoniam convenimus ambo.

FUROR. Let us march on unto the house of fame; There, quaffing bowls of Bacchus' blood full nimbly, Indite a-tiptoe strutting poesy. [They offer the way one to the other.

PHANTASMA. Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui plenum? Tu major: tibi me est aequum parere, Menalca.



ACTUS II., SCAENA 1.

Enter PHILOMUSUS, THEODORE, his patient, the BURGESS, and his man with his staff.

THEODORE. [Puts on his spectacles.] Monsieur, here are atomi natantes, which do make show your worship to be as lecherous as a bull.

BURGESS. Truly, Master Doctor, we are all men.

THEODORE. This vater is intention of heat: are you not perturbed with an ache in your vace[78] or in your occipit? I mean your headpiece. Let me feel the pulse of your little finger.

BURGESS. I'll assure you, Master Theodore, the pulse of my head beats exceedingly; and I think I have disturbed myself by studying the penal statutes.

THEODORE. Tit, tit, your worship takes care of your speeches. O, Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent: it is an aphorism in Galen.

BURGESS. And what is the exposition of that?

THEODORE. That your worship must take a gland, ut emittatur sanguis: the sign is fort excellent, fort excellent.

BURGESS. Good Master Doctor, use me gently; for, mark you, sir, there is a double consideration to be had of me: first, as I am a public magistrate; secondly, as I am a private butcher; and but for the worshipful credit of the place and office wherein I now stand and live, I would not hazard my worshipful apparel with a suppository or a glister: but for the countenancing of the place, I must go oftener to stool; for, as a great gentleman told me, of good experience, that it was the chief note of a magistrate not to go to the stool without a physician.

THEODORE. Ah, vous etes un gentilhomme, vraiment.—What, ho, Jaques! Jaques, donnez-vous un fort gentil purgation for Monsieur Burgess.

JAQUES. Votre tres-humble serviteur, a votre commandment.

THEODORE. Donnez-vous un gentil purge a Monsieur Burgess.—I have considered of the crasis and syntoma of your disease, and here is un fort gentil purgation per evacuationem excrementorum, as we physicians use to parley.

BURGESS. I hope, Master Doctor, you have a care of the country's officer. I tell you, I durst not have trusted myself with every physician; and yet I am not afraid for myself, but I would not deprive the town of so careful a magistrate.

THEODORE. O Monsieur, I have a singular care of your valetudo. It is requisite that the French physicians be learned and careful; your English velvet-cap is malignant and envious.

BURGESS. Here is, Master Doctor, fourpence—your due, and eightpence—my bounty. You shall hear from me, good Master Doctor; farewell, farewell, good Master Doctor.

THEODORE. Adieu, good Monsieur; adieu, good sir Monsieur. Exit BURGESS. Then burst with tears, unhappy graduate; Thy fortunes still wayward and backward been; Nor canst thou thrive by virtue nor by sin.

STUDIOSO. O, how it grieves my vexed soul to see Each painted ass in chair of dignity! And yet we grovel on the ground alone, Running through every trade, yet thrive by none: More we must act in this life's tragedy.

PHILOMUSUS. Sad is the plot, sad the catastrophe.

STUDIOSO. Sighs are the chorus in our tragedy.

PHILOMUSUS. And rented thoughts continual actors be.[79]

STUDIOSO. Woe is the subject, Phil.;[80] earth the loath'd stage Whereon we act this feigned personage; Most like[81] barbarians the spectators be, That sit and laugh at our calamity.

PHILOMUSUS. Bann'd be those hours when, 'mongst the learned throng, By Granta's muddy bank we whilome sung!

STUDIOSO. Bann'd be that hill, which learned wits adore, Where erst we spent our stock and little store!

PHILOMUSUS. Bann'd be those musty mews, where we have spent Our youthful days in paled languishment!

STUDIOSO. Bann'd be those cos'ning arts that wrought our woe, Making us wand'ring pilgrims to and fro.

PHILOMUSUS. And pilgrims must we be without relief; And wheresoe'er we run, there meets us grief.

STUDIOSO. Where'er we toss upon this crabbed stage, Griefs our companion; patience be our page.

PHILOMUSUS. Ah, but this patience is a page of ruth, A tired lackey to our wand'ring youth!



ACTUS II., SCAENA 2.

ACADEMICO, solus. Fain would I have a living, if I could tell how to come by it. Echo. Buy it. Buy it, fond Echo? why, thou dost greatly mistake it. Echo. Stake it. Stake it? what should I stake at this game of simony? Echo. Money. What, is the world a game? are livings gotten by paying?[82] Echo. Paying. Paying? But say, what's the nearest way to come by a living? Echo. Giving. Must his worship's fists be needs then oiled with angels? Echo. Angels. Ought his gouty fists then first with gold to be greased? Echo. Eased. And is it then such an ease for his ass's back to carry money? Echo. Ay. Will, then, this golden ass bestow a vicarage gilded? Echo. Gelded. What shall I say to good Sir Raderic, that have no[83] gold here? Echo. Cold cheer. I'll make it my lone request, that he would be good to a scholar. Echo. Choler. Yea, will he be choleric to hear of an art or a science? Echo. Hence. Hence with liberal arts? What, then, will he do with his chancel? Echo. Sell. Sell it? and must a simple clerk be fain to compound then? Echo. Pounds then. What, if I have no pounds? must then my suit be prorogued? Echo. Rogued. Yea? given to a rogue? Shall an ass this vicarage compass? Echo. Ass. What is the reason that I should not be as fortunate as he? Echo. Ass he. Yet, for all this, with a penniless purse will I trudge to his worship. Echo. Words cheap. Well, if he give me good words, it's more than I have from an Echo. Echo. Go.

[Exit.



ACTUS II, SCAENA 3.

AMORETTO with an Ovid in his hand, IMMERITO.

AMORETTO. Take it on the word of a gentleman, thou cannot have it a penny under; think on it, think on it, while I meditate on my fair mistress— Nunc sequor imperium, magne Cupido, tuum. Whate'er become of this dull, threadbare clerk, I must be costly in my mistress' eye: Ladies regard not ragged company. I will with the revenues of my chaffer'd church First buy an ambling hobby for my fair, Whose measur'd pace may teach the world to dance, Proud of his burden, when he 'gins to prance. Then must I buy a jewel for her ear, A kirtle of some hundred crowns or more. With these fair gifts when I accompani'd go, She'll give Jove's breakfast; Sidney terms it so. I am her needle, she is my adamant, She is my fair rose, I her unworthy prick.

ACADEMICO. Is there nobody here will take the pains to geld his mouth? [Aside.

AMORETTO. She's Cleopatra, I Mark Antony.

ACADEMICO. No, thou art a mere mark for good wits to shoot at: and in that suit thou wilt make a fine man to dash poor crows out of countenance. [Aside.

AMORETTO. She is my Moon, I her Endymion.

ACADEMICO. No, she is thy shoulder of mutton, thou her onion: or she may be thy Luna, and thou her lunatic. [Aside.

AMORETTO. I her Aeneas, she my Dido is.

ACADEMICO. She is thy Io, thou her brazen ass, Or she Dame Phantasy, and thou her gull; She thy Pasiphae, and thou her loving bull.[84] [Aside.



ACTUS II, SCAENA 4.

Enter IMMERITO and STERCUTIO, his father.

STERCUTIO. Son, is this the gentleman that sells us the living?

IMMERITO. Fie, father! thou must not call it selling: thou must say, Is this the gentleman that must have the gratuito?

ACADEMICO. What have we here? old truepenny come to town, to fetch away the living in his old greasy slops? Then, I'll none: the time hath been when such a fellow meddled with nothing but his ploughshare, his spade, and his hobnails; and so to a piece of bread and cheese, and went his way. But now these fellows are grown the only factors for preferment. [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. O, is this the grating gentleman? And how many pounds must I pay?

IMMERITO. O, thou must not call them pounds, but thanks. And, hark thou, father; thou must tell of nothing that is done, for I must seem to come clear to it.

ACADEMICO. Not pounds, but thanks? See, whether this simple fellow that hath nothing of a scholar, but that the draper hath blacked him over, hath not gotten the style of the time. [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. By my faith, son, look for no more portion.

IMMERITO. Well, father, I will not—upon this condition, that when thou have gotten me the gratuito of the living, thou wilt likewise disburse a little money to the bishop's poser;[85] for there are certain questions I make scruple to be posed in.

ACADEMICO. He means any question in Latin, which he counts a scruple. O. this honest man could never abide this popish tongue of Latin. O, he is as true an Englishman as lives. [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. I'll take the gentleman, now he is in a good vein, for he smiles.

AMORETTO. Sweet Ovid, I do honour every page.

ACADEMICO. Good Ovid, that in his lifetime lived with the Getes; and now, after his death, converseth with a barbarian. [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. God be at your work, sir. My son told me you were the grating gentleman; I am Stercutio his father, sir, simple as I stand here.

AMORETTO. Fellow, I had rather given thee an hundred pounds than thou shouldst have put me out of my excellent meditation: by the faith of a gentleman, I was wrapp'd in contemplation.

IMMERITO. Sir, you must pardon my father: he wants bringing up.

ACADEMICO. Marry, it seems he hath good bringing up, when he brings up so much money. [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. Indeed, sir, you must pardon me; I did not know you were a gentleman of the Temple before.

AMORETTO. Well, I am content in a generous disposition to bear with country education: but, fellow, what's thy name?

STERCUTIO. My name, sir? Stercutio, sir.

AMORETTO. Why then, Stercutio, I would be very willing to be the instrument to my father, that this living might be conferred upon your son: marry, I would have you know that I have been importuned by two or three several lords, my kind cousins, in the behalf of some Cambridge man, and have almost engaged my word. Marry, if I shall see your disposition to be more thankful than other men, I shall be very ready to respect kind-natured men; for, as the Italian proverb speaketh well, chi ha, havra.

ACADEMICO. Why, here is a gallant young drover of livings. [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. I beseech you, sir, speak English; for that is natural to me and to my son, and all our kindred, to understand but one language.

AMORETTO. Why thus, in plain English, I must be respected with thanks.

ACADEMICO. This is a subtle tractive, when thanks may be felt and seen. [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. And I pray you, sir, what is the lowest thanks that you will take?

ACADEMICO. The very same method that he useth at the buying of an ox. [Aside.]

AMORETTO. I must have some odd sprinkling of an hundred pounds; if so, so—I shall think you thankful, and commend your son as a man of good gifts to my father.

ACADEMICO. A sweet world! give an hundred pounds; and this is but counted thankfulness! [Aside.]

STERCUTIO. Hark thou, sir; you shall have eighty thanks.

AMORETTO. I tell thee, fellow, I never opened my mouth in this kind so cheap before in my life: I tell thee, few young gentlemen are found that would deal so kindly with thee as I do.

STERCUTIO. Well, sir, because I know my son to be a toward thing, and one that has taken all his learning on his own head, without sending to the university, I am content to give you as many thanks as you ask, so you will promise me to bring it to pass.

AMORETTO. I warrant you for that, if I say it once. Repair you to the place, and stay there. For my father, he is walked abroad to take the benefit of the air: I'll meet him, as he returns, and make way for your suit. Gallant, i'faith.[86]

[Exeunt STERCUTIO and IMMERITO.



ACTUS II., SCAENA 5.

ACADEMICO, AMORETTO.

ACADEMICO. I see, we scholars fish for a living in these shallow fords without a silver hook. Why, would it not gall a man to see a spruce gartered youth of our college, a while ago, be a broker for a living and an old bawd for a benefice? This sweet sir preferred me much kindness when he was of our college, and now I'll try what wind remains in his bladder. God save you, sir.

AMORETTO. By the mass, I fear me, I saw this genus and species in Cambridge before now: I'll take no notice of him now. [Aside.] By the faith of a gentleman, this is pretty elegy. Of what age is the day, fellow? Sirrah boy, hath the groom saddled my hunting hobby? Can Robin hunter tell where a hare sits? [Soliloquising.

ACADEMICO. See a poor Old friend of yours of S—— College in Cambridge.

AMORETTO. Good faith, sir, you must pardon me: I have forgotten you.

ACADEMICO. My name is Academico, sir; one that made an oration for you once on the Queen's day, and a show that you got some credit by.

AMORETTO. It may be so, it may be so; but I have forgotten it. Marry, yet I remember that there was such a fellow that I was beneficial unto in my time. But, howsoever, sir, I have the courtesy of the town for you. I am sorry you did not take me at my father's house; but now I am in exceeding great haste, for I have vowed the death of a hare that we found this morning musing on her meaze.

ACADEMICO. Sir, I am emboldened by that great acquaintance that heretofore I had with you, as likewise it hath pleased you heretofore—

AMORETTO. Look, sirrah, if you see my hobby come hitherward as yet.

ACADEMICO. —to make me some promises, I am to request your good mediation to the worshipful your father in my behalf: and I will dedicate to yourself, in the way of thanks, those days I have to live.

AMORETTO. O good sir, if I had known your mind before; for my father hath already given the induction to a chaplain of his own—to a proper man—I know not of what university he is.

ACADEMICO. Signior Immerito, they say, hath bidden fairest for it.

AMORETTO. I know not his name; but he is a grave, discreet man, I warrant him: indeed, he wants utterance in some measure.

ACADEMICO. Nay, methinks he hath very good utterance for his gravity, for he came hither very grave; but, I think, he will return light enough, when he is rid of the heavy element he carries about him. [Aside.

AMORETTO. Faith, sir, you must pardon me: it is my ordinary custom to be too studious; my mistress hath told me of it often, and I find it to hurt my ordinary discourse: but say, sweet sir, do ye affect the most gentlemanlike game of hunting?

ACADEMICO. How say you to the crafty gull? he would fain get me abroad to make sport with me in their hunters' terms, which we scholars are not acquainted with. [Aside.] Sir, I have loved this kind of sport; but now I begin to hate it, for it hath been my luck always to beat the bush, while another killed the hare.

AMORETTO. Hunters' luck, hunters' luck, sir; but there was a fault in your hounds, that did spend well.

ACADEMICO. Sir, I have had worse luck always at hunting the fox.

AMORETTO. What, sir, do you mean at the unkennelling, untapezing, or earthing of the fox?

ACADEMICO. I mean, earthing, if you term it so;—for I never found yellow earth enough to cover the old fox your father. [Aside.

AMORETTO. Good faith, sir, there is an excellent skill in blowing for the terriers; it is a word that we hunters use. When the fox is earthed, you must blow one long, two short; the second wind, one long, two short. Now, sir, in blowing, every long containeth seven quavers, one short containeth three quavers.

ACADEMICO. Sir, might I find any favour in my suit, I would wind the horn, wherein your boon[87] deserts should be sounded with so many minims, so many quavers.

AMORETTO. Sweet sir, I would I could confer this or any kindness upon you:—I wonder, the boy comes not away with my hobby. Now, sir, as I was proceeding—when you blow the death of your fox in the field or covert, then must you sound three notes with three winds, and recheat, mark you, sir, upon the same with three winds.

ACADEMICO. I pray you, sir.

AMORETTO. Now, sir, when you come to your stately gate, as you sounded the recheat before, so now you must sound the relief three times.

ACADEMICO. Relief, call you it? it were good, every patron would find the horn. [Aside.

AMORETTO. O sir, but your relief is your sweetest note: that is, sir, when your hounds hunt after a game unknown; and then you must sound one long and six short; the second wind, two short and one long; the third wind, one long and two short.

ACADEMICO. True, sir, it is a very good trade nowadays to be a villain; I am the hound that hunts after a game unknown, and blows the villain. [Aside.]

AMORETTO. Sir, I will bless your ears with a very pretty story: my father, out of his own cost and charges, keeps an open table for all kind of dogs.

ACADEMICO. And he keeps one more by thee. [Aside.]

AMORETTO. He hath your greyhound, your mongrel, your mastiff, your levrier, your spaniel, your kennets, terriers, butchers' dogs, bloodhounds, dunghill-dogs, trundle-tails, prick-eared curs, small ladies' puppies, raches,[88] and bastards.

ACADEMICO. What a bawdy knave hath he to his father, that keeps his Rachel, hath his bastards, and lets his sons be plain ladies' puppies to bewray a lady's chamber. [Aside.]

AMORETTO. It was my pleasure, two days ago, to take a gallant leash of greyhounds; and into my father's park I went, accompanied with two or three noblemen of my near acquaintance, desiring to show them some of the sport. I caused the keeper to sever the rascal deer from the bucks of the first head. Now, sir, a buck the first year is a fawn, the second year a pricket, the third year a sorel, the fourth year a sore, the fifth a buck of the first head, the sixth year a complete buck; as likewise your hart is the first year a calf, the second year a brocket, the third year a spade, the fourth year a stag, the fifth year a great stag, the sixth year a hart; as likewise the roebuck is the first year a kid, the second year a girl, the third year a hemuse: and these are your special beasts for chase, or, as we huntsmen call it, for venery.

ACADEMICO. If chaste be taken for venery, thou art a more special beast than any in thy father's forest. [Aside.] Sir, I am sorry I have been so troublesome to you.

AMORETTO. I know this was the readiest way to chase away the scholar, by getting him into a subject he cannot talk of for his life. [Aside.] Sir, I will borrow so much time of you as to finish this my begun story. Now, sir, after much travel we singled a buck; I rode that same time upon a roan gelding, and stood to intercept from the thicket; the buck broke gallantly; my great swift being disadvantaged in his slip was at the first behind; marry, presently coted and outstripped them, when as the hart presently descended to the river, and being in the water, proffered and reproffered, and proffered again: and, at last, he upstarted at the other side of the water, which we call soil of the hart, and there other huntsmen met him with an adauntreley;[89] we followed in hard chase for the space of eight hours; thrice our hounds were at default, and then we cried A slain! straight, So ho; through good reclaiming my faulty hounds found their game again, and so went through the wood with gallant noise of music, resembling so many viols de gambo. At last the hart laid him down, and the hounds seized upon him; he groaned, and wept, and died. In good faith, it made me weep too, to think of Actaeon's fortune, which my Ovid speaks of— [He reads Ovid.

Militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido.

ACADEMICO. Sir, can you put me in any hope of obtaining my suit?

AMORETTO. In good faith, sir, if I did not love you as my soul, I would not make you acquainted with the mysteries of my art.

ACADEMICO. Nay, I will not die of a discourse yet, if I can choose. [Exit unperceived.

AMORETTO. So, sir, when we had rewarded our dogs with the small guts, and the lights, and the blood, the huntsmen hallooed, So ho! Venue, a coupler; and so coupled the dogs, and then returned homeward. Another company of hounds, that lay at advantage, had their couples cast off, and we might hear the huntsmen cry, Horse, decouple, avant; but straight we heard him cry, Le amond, and by that I knew that they had the hare, and on foot; and by and by I might see sore and resore, prick and reprick. What, is he gone! ha, ha, ha, ha! these scholars are the simplest creatures!



ACTUS II., SCAENA 6.

Enter Amoretto's PAGE.

PAGE. I wonder what is become of that Ovid de arte amandi.[90] My master, he that for the practice of his discourse is wont to court his hobby abroad and at home, in his chamber makes a set speech to his greyhound, desiring that most fair and amiable dog to grace his company in a stately galliard; and if the dog, seeing him practise his lusty points, as his cross-point back-caper, chance to bewray the room, he presently doft's his cap, most solemnly makes a low leg to his ladyship, taking it for the greatest favour in the world that she would vouchsafe to leave her civet-box or her sweet glove behind her.

[Enter AMORETTO, reading Ovid.]

Not a word more. Sir, an't please you, your hobby will meet you at the lane's end.

AMORETTO. What, Jack? i'faith, I cannot but vent unto thee a most witty jest of mine.

PAGE. I hope my master will not break wind. [Aside.] Will't please you, sir, to bless mine ears with the discourse of it?

AMORETTO. Good faith, the boy begins to have an elegant smack of my style. Why, then, thus it was, Jack, a scurvy mere Cambridge scholar, I know not how to define him—

PAGE. Nay, master, let me define a mere scholar. I heard a courtier once define a mere scholar to be animal scabiosum, that is, a living creature that is troubled with the itch; or, a mere scholar is a creature that can strike fire in the morning at his tinder-box, put on a pair of lined slippers, sit rheuming[91] till dinner, and then go to his meat when the bell rings: one that hath a peculiar gift in a cough, and a licence to spit. Or, if you will have him defined by negatives, he is one that cannot make a good leg; one that cannot eat a mess of broth cleanly; one that cannot ride a horse without spur-galling; one that cannot salute a woman, and look on her directly; one that cannot—

AMORETTO. Enough, Jack; I can stay no longer; I am so great in childbirth with this jest. Sirrah, this predicable, this saucy groom, because, when I was in Cambridge, and lay in a trundlebed under my tutor, I was content, in discreet humility, to give him some place at the table; and because I invited the hungry slave sometimes to my chamber, to the canvassing of a turkey-pie or a piece of venison which my lady grandmother sent me, he thought himself therefore eternally possessed of my love, and came hither to take acquaintance of me; and thought his old familiarity did continue, and would bear him out in a matter of weight. I could not tell how to rid myself better of the troublesome burr than by getting him into the discourse of hunting; and then tormenting him a while with our words of art, the poor scorpion became speechless, and suddenly vanished![92] These clerks are simple fellows, simple fellows. [He reads Ovid.]

PAGE. Simple, indeed, they are; for they want your courtly composition of a fool and of a knave. [Aside.] Good faith, sir, a most absolute jest; but, methinks, it might have been followed a little further.

AMORETTO. As how, my little knave?

PAGE. Why thus, sir; had you invited him to dinner at your table, and have put the carving of a capon upon him, you should have seen him handle the knife so foolishly, then run through a jury of faces, then wagging his head and showing his teeth in familiarity, venture upon it with the same method that he was wont to untruss an apple-pie, or tyrannise an egg and butter: then would I have applied him all dinner-time with clean trenchers, clean trenchers; and still when he had a good bit of meat, I would have taken it from him by giving him a clean trencher, and so have served him in kindness.

AMORETTO. Well said, subtle Jack; put me in mind, when I return again, that I may make my lady mother laugh at the scholar. I'll to my game; for you, Jack, I would have you employ your time, till my coming, in watching what hour of the day my hawk mutes. [Exit.

PAGE. Is not this an excellent office, to be apothecary to his worship's hawk, to sit scouting on the wall how the physic works? And is not my master an absolute villain, that loves his hawk, his hobby, and his greyhound, more than any mortal creature? Do but dispraise a feather of his hawk's train, and he writhes his mouth, and swears (for he can do that only with a good grace) that you are the most shallow-brained fellow that lives. Do but say his horse stales with a good presence, and he's your bondslave. When he returns, I'll tell twenty admirable lies of his hawk; and then I shall be his little rogue and his white villain for a whole week after. Well, let others complain; but I think there is no felicity to the serving of a fool.



ACTUS III., SCAENA 1.

SIR RADERIC, RECORDER, PAGE, SIGNIOR IMMERITO.

SIR RADERIC. Signior Immerito, you remember my caution for the tithes, and my promise for farming my tithes at such a rate?

IMMERITO. Ay, and please your worship, sir.

SIR RADERIC. You must put in security for the performance of it, in such sort as I and Master Recorder shall like of.

IMMERITO. I will, an't please your worship.

SIR RADERIC. And because I will be sure that I have conferred this kindness upon a sufficient man, I have desired Master Recorder to take examination of you.

PAGE. My master, it seems, takes him for a thief; but he hath small reason for it. As for learning, it's plain he never stole any; and for the living, he knows himself how he comes by it; for let him but eat a mess of furmenty this seven year, and yet he shall never be able to recover himself. Alas, poor sheep, that hath fallen into the hands of such a fox! [Aside.

SIR RADERIC. Good Master Recorder, take your place by me, and make trial of his gifts: is the clerk there to record his examination? O, the page shall serve the turn.

PAGE. Trial of his gifts! never had any gifts a better trial: why, Immerito's gifts have appeared in as many colours as the rainbow; first, to Master Amoretto, in colour of the satin suit he wears: to my lady, in the similitude of a loose gown: to my master, in the likeness of a silver basin and ewer: to us pages, in the semblance of new suits and points. So Master Amoretto plays the gull in a piece of a parsonage; my master adorns his cupboard with a piece of a parsonage; my mistress, upon good days, puts on a piece of a parsonage; and we pages play at blowpoint for a piece of a parsonage: I think here's trial enough for one man's gifts. [Aside.

RECORDER. Forasmuch as nature hath done her part in making you a handsome likely man—

PAGE. He is a handsome young man indeed, and hath a proper gelded parsonage.[93] [Aside.

RECORDER. In the next place, some art is requisite for the perfection of nature: for the trial whereof, at the request of my worshipful friend, I will in some sort propound questions fit to be resolved by one of your profession. Say, what is a person that was never at the university?

IMMERITO. A person that was never in the university is a living creature that can eat a tithe-pig.

RECORDER. Very well answered; but you should have added—and must be officious to his patron. Write down that answer to show his learning in logic.