ACT I.
Eugeny solus.
Eug. This is the hour which fair Artemia
Promis'd to borrow from all company,
And bless me only with it; to deny
Her beauteous presence to all else, and shine
On me, poor me! Within this garden here,
This happy garden once, while I was happy,[3]
And wanted not a free access unto it;
Before my fatal and accursed crime
Had shut these gates of paradise against me;
When I, without control alone might spend
With sweet Artemia in these fragrant walks
The day's short-seeming hours; and (ravish'd) hear
Her sweet discourses of the lily's whiteness,
The blushing rose, blue-mantled violet,
Pale daffodil, and purple hyacinth:
With all the various sweets and painted glories
Of Nature's wardrobe, which were all eclips'd
By her diviner beauty. But alas!
What boots the former happiness I had,
But to increase my sorrow?[4] My sad crime
Has left me now no entrance but by stealth,
When death and danger dog my vent'rous steps.
But welcome danger, since thou find'st so fair
A recompense as my Artemia's sight!
Enter Artemia.
Art. And art thou come, my dearest Eugeny?
Has thy true love broke through so many hazards
To visit me? I prythee, chide my fondness,
That did command thee such a dangerous task.
I did repent it since, and was in hope
Thou wouldst not come.
Eug. Why hop'd Artemia so?
Wouldst thou not see me then? Or can the hazard
Of ten such lives as mine is countervail
One glance of favour from thy beauteous eyes?
Art. Why dost thou use that language to a heart,
Which is thy captive, Eugeny, and lives,
In nothing happy but in thee?
Eug. Ah, love!
There lies my greatest sorrow; that the storms
Of spiteful fortune, which o'erwhelm my state,
Should draw thy constant goodness to a suff'ring—
A goodness worthy of the happiest man.
Art. Those storms of fortune will be soon o'er-blown,
When once thy cause shall be but truly known,
That chance, not malice, wrought it; and thy pardon
Will be with ease obtain'd.
Eug. It may be, love,
If old Sir Argent do deal truly in it.
Art. But keep thyself conceal'd: do not rashly
Venture two lives in one: or, when thou com'st,
Let it be still in silence of the night.
No visitation then, or other strange
Unlook'd-for accident, can bar our joys.
The moon is now in her full orb, and lends
Securer light to lovers than the sun:
Then only come. But prythee, tell me, love,
How dost thou spend thy melancholy time?
Eug. Within the covert of yon shady wood,
Which clothes the mountain's rough and craggy top,
A little hovel built of boughs and reeds
Is my abode: from whence the spreading trees
Keep out the sun, and do bestow in lieu
A greater benefit, a safe concealment.
In that secure and solitary place
I give my pleas'd imagination leave
To feast itself with thy supposed presence,
Whose only shadow brings more joy to me,
Than all the substance of the world beside.
Art. Just so alone am I; nay, want the presence
Of mine own heart, which strays to find out thee.
But who comes to thee to supply thy wants?
Eug. There Artemia names my happiness—
A happiness which, next thy love, I hold
To be the greatest that the world can give,
And I am proud to name it. I do there
Enjoy a friend, whose sweet society
Makes that dark wood a palace of delight:
One stor'd with all that can commend a man;
In whom refined knowledge and pure art,
Mixing with true and sound morality,
Is crown'd with piety.
Art. What wonder's this,
Whom thou describ'st?
Eug. But I in vain, alas!
Do strive to make with my imperfect skill
A true dissection of his noble parts:
He loses, love, by all that I can say;
For praise can come no nearer to his worth
Than can a painter with his mimic sun
Express the beauty of Hyperion.
Art. What is his name?
Eug. His name is Theodore,
Rich Earthworm's son, lately come home from travel.
Art. O heavens! his son? Can such a caitiff wretch,
Hated and curs'd by all, have such a son?
The miser lives alone, abhorr'd by all,
Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scap'd;
But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts,
That live about him: never has commerce
With any, but to ruin them; his house
Inhospitable as the wilderness,
And never look'd upon but with a curse.
He hoards, in secret places of the earth,
Not only bags of treasure, but his corn,
Whose every grain he prizes 'bove a life,
And never prays at all but for dear years.
Eug. For his son's sake, tread gently on his fame.
Art. O love! his fame cannot be redeemed
From obloquy; but thee I trust so far,
As highly to esteem his worthy son.
Eug. That man is all, and more than I have said:
His wondrous virtues will hereafter make
The people all forgive his father's ill:
I was acquainted with him long ago
In foreign parts. And, now I think on't, love,
He'll be the fittest man to be acquainted
With all our secrecies, and be a means
To further us; and think I trust his truth,
That dare so much commend his worth to thee.
Art. He is my neighbour here: that house is Earthworm's,
That stands alone beside yon grove of trees;
And fear not, dearest love, I'll find a means
To send for him: do you acquaint him first. [Exeunt.
Euphues, Dotterel, Barnet.
Euph. Then shall I tell my cousin that you are
A younger brother, Master Dotterel?
Dot. O yes, by any means, sir.
Euph. What's your reason?
Dot. A crotchet, sir, a crotchet that I have:
Here's one can tell you I have twenty of 'em.
Bar. Euphues, dissuade him not; he is resolv'd
To keep his birth and fortunes both conceal'd;
Yet win her so, or no way. He would know
Whether himself be truly lov'd or no;
And not his fortunes only.
Euph. Well, access
You have already found; pursue it, sir,
But give me leave to wonder at your way.
Another wooer, to obtain his love,
Would put on all his colours; stretch t' appear
At his full height, or a degree beyond it;
Belie his fortunes; borrow what he wanted;
Not make himself less than he truly is.
What reason is there that a man possess'd
Of fortunes large enough, that they may come boldly
A welcome suitor to herself and friends,
And, ten to one, speed in his suit the fair
And usual way, should play the fool, and lose
His precious time in such a hopeless wooing?
Dot. Alas, sir! what is a gentleman's time?
Bar. Euphues, he tells you true; there are some brains
Can never lose their time, whate'er they do:
Yet I can tell you, he has read some books.
Dot. Do not disparage me.
Bar. I warrant thee;
And in those books he says he finds examples
Of greatest beauties that have so been won.
Euph. O, in "Parismus" and the "Knight o' th' Sun!"[5]
Are those your authors?
Dot. Yes, and those are good ones.
Why should a man of worth, though but a shepherd,
Despair to get the love of a king's daughter?
Euph. I prythee, Barnet, how hast thou screw'd up
This fool to such a monstrous confidence?
Bar. He needs no screwing up; but let him have
His swing a little.
Euph. He shall have it freely.
But you have seen your mistress, Master Dotterel?
How do you find her? coming?
Dot. That's all one;
I know what I know.
Bar. He has already got
Some footing in her favour.
Euph. But I doubt
He'll play the tyrant; make her doat too long,
Wear the green-sickness as his livery,
And pine a year or two.
Dot. She's not the first
That has done so for me.
Euph. But if you use
My cousin so, I shall not take it well.
Dot. O, I protest I have no such meaning, sir.
See, here she comes! the Lady Whimsey too.
Enter Lady Whimsey, with Artemia.
Lady W. I thought, sweetheart, th' hadst wanted company.
Art. Why, so I did—yours, madam.
Lady W. Had I known
Your house had been so full of gallants now,
I would have spar'd my visit. But 'tis all one,
I have met a friend here.
Euph. Your poor servant, madam.
Lady W. I was confessing of your cousin here
About th' affairs of love.
Euph. Your ladyship, I hope, will shrieve her gently.[6]
Lady W. But I tell her
She shall not thank me now for seeing her;
For I have business hard by. I am going
A suitor to your old rich neighbour here—
Earthworm.
Euph. A suitor! He is very hard
In granting anything, especially
If it be money.
Lady W. Yes, my suit's for money;
Nay, all his money, and himself to boot.
Bar. His money would do well without himself.
Lady W. And with himself.
Bar. Alas! your ladyship
Should too much wrong your beauty, to bestow it
Upon one that cannot use it, and debar
More able men their wishes.
Euph. That's true, Barnet,
If she should bar all other men: but that
Would be too great a cruelty.
Art. Do you hear my cousin, madam?
Lady W. Yes, he will be heard:
Rather than fail, he'll give himself the hearing.
But, prythee, Euphues, tell me plainly now,
What thou dost think of me? I love thy freeness
Better than any flattery in the world.
Euph. I think you wondrous wise.
Lady W. In what?
Euph. In that
That makes or mars a woman—I mean love.
Lady W. Why, prythee?
Euph. I think you understand so well
What the true use of man is, that you'll ne'er
Trouble your thoughts with care, or spoil your beauty
With the green-sickness, to obtain a thing
Which you can purchase a discreeter way.
Art. How do you like this, madam?
Lady W. Wondrous well;
'Tis that I look'd for. But what entertainment
Would old rich Earthworm give us, do you think?
Bar. Unless your presence, madam, could infuse
A nobler soul into him, 'tis much fear'd
'Twould be but mean.
Lady W. Because (you'll say) he's covetous?
Tut! I can work a change in any man.
If I were married to him, you should see
What I would make him.
Euph. I believe we should,
If cuckold's horns were visible.
Art. But could
Your ladyship be pleas'd with such a husband?
Lady W. Who could not well be pleas'd with such a fortune?
Art. Wealth cannot make a man.
Lady W. But his wealth, lady,
Can make a woman.
Euph. Yet, I doubt, old Earthworm
Would prove too subtle to be govern'd so.
You'll find him, madam, an old crabbed piece:
Some gentle fool were better for a husband.
Art. Fie, cousin, how thou talk'st!
Lady W. He's in the right:
Fools are the only husbands; one may rule 'em.
Why should not we desire to use men so,
As they would us? I have heard men protest
They would have their wives silly, and not studied
In anything, but how to dress themselves;
And not so much as able to write letters.
Just such a husband would I wish to have,
So qualifi'd, and not a jot beyond it;
He should not have the skill to write or read.
Art. What could you get by that?
Lady W. I should be sure
He could not read my letters; and for bonds,
When I should have occasion to use money,
His mark would serve.
Art. I am not of your mind:
I would not have a fool for all the world.
Bar. No, fairest lady, your perfections
None but the wisest and the best of men
Can truly find and value.
Dot. And I protest, lady,
I honour you for not loving a fool.
Lady W. You would love a wife, it seems, that loves not you?
Euph. A tart jest, Barnet!
Bar. But he feels it not. [Aside.
Euph. Fie, Master Dotterel! 'tis not nobly done
In you to hate a fool: a generous spirit
Would take the weakest' part; and fools, you know,
Are weakest still.
Dot. Faith, Master Euphues,
I must confess I have a generous spirit,
And do a little sympathise with fools:
I learn'd that word from a good honest man.
But hark you, cousin Barnet, this same lady
Is a brave woman.
Bar. Are you taken with her?
Dot. I love a wit with all my heart.
Bar. 'Tis well;
He is already taken off, I see,
From fair Artemia, or may be soon;
Upon this t'other I may build a fortune. [Aside.
Euph. But, madam, if your ladyship would marry
Upon those terms, 'twere better that you took
Old Earthworm's son.
Lady W. Has he a son, I prythee?
Euph. Yes, lately come from travel, as they say,
We have not seen him yet; he has kept close
Since his arrival; people give him out
To be his father's own.
Lady W. Nay, then I swear
I'll none of him. If he be covetous,
And young, I shall be troubled too long with him:
I had rather have the old one.
Art. Here's my father.
Enter Master Freeman.
Free. Health to this good society: I am sorry
That my poor house must not to-day enjoy
The happiness to entertain you all.
We are invited to th' old Lady Covet's;
And thither must our company remove.
Lady W. Sir, I'll be govern'd by you. I was bold
To come and see Mistress Artemia.
Free. She's much beholden to your ladyship
For doing her that honour.
Euph. Tell me, uncle:
I hear Sir Argent Scrape is at her house.
Free. Nephew, 'tis true; and, which thou'lt wonder at,
That marriage, which we talk'd of as a jest,
In earnest now's concluded of, and shall
To-morrow morning be solemnised.
Euph. Betwixt Sir Argent and the Lady Covet?
I do not think it strange; there's but one hedge
Has a long time divided them—I mean
Their large estates; and 'tis th' estate that marries.
Free. But is't not strange, nay, most unnatural—
And I may say ridiculous, for those years
To marry, and abuse the ordinance?
My Lady Covet is, at least, fourscore,
And he, this year, is fourscore and fifteen:
Besides, he has been bed-rid long, and lame
Of both his feet.
Euph. Uncle, he's not too old
To love—I mean her money; and in that
The chiefest end of marriage is fulfill'd:
He will increase and multiply his fortunes:
Increase, you know, is the true end of marriage!
Free. They have already almost the whole country.
Euph. But you shall see how now they'll propagate.
Free. Is such a marriage lawful?
Euph. Ah! good uncle,
Dispute not that, the church has nought in this;
Their lawyer is the priest that marries them,
The banns of matrimony are the indentures,
The bounds and landmarks are the ring that joins them.
Art. But there's no love at all.
Euph. Yes, pretty cousin,
If thou art read in amorous books, thou'lt find
That Cupid's arrow has a golden head;
And 'twas a golden shaft that wounded them.
Free. Well, thither we must go; but, prythee, nephew,
Forbear thy jesting there.
Euph. I warrant you;
I'll flatter the old lady, and persuade her
How well she looks: but when they go to bed,
I'll write their epitaph.
Free. How, man! their epitaph?
Their epithalamium thou mean'st.
Euph. No, sirs;
Over their marriage-bed I'll write their ages,
And only say, Here lies Sir Argent Scrape,
Together with his wife, the Lady Covet.
And whosoever reads it will suppose
The place to be a tomb, no marriage-bed.
Lady W. How strangely thou art taken with this wedding,
Before thou see'st it!
Euph. And then, let me see:
To fit them for an Hymeneal song,
Instead of those so high and spirited strains,
Which the old Grecian lovers us'd to sing
When lusty bridegrooms rifled maidenheads,
I'll sing a quiet dirge, and bid them sleep
In peaceful rest, and bid the clothes, instead
Of earth, lie gently on their aged bones——[7]
Free. Thou'lt ne'er have done. Well, gallants, 'tis almost
The time that calls us: I must needs be gone.
Lady W. We'll wait upon you, sir.
Free. Your servant, madam.
[Exeunt Lady Whimsey, Freeman, Dotterel, and Barnet.
Art. Stay, cousin, I have a request to thee.
Euph. Thou canst not fear that I'll deny it thee.
Speak it: 'tis done.
Art. Why, then, in short, 'tis this—
Old Earthworm, cousin, has a son (they say)
Lately come home; his name, as I have heard,
Is Theodore.
Euph. Yes, I have heard of him.
Art. I would entreat you, by some means or other,
To draw him hither; I'd fain speak with him:
Ask not the cause, but do what I request—
You may hereafter know.
Eup. Well, I'll not question't,
But bring him hither, though I know him not.
Art. Cousin, farewell; I shall be look'd for straight.
[Exit Artemia.
Manet Euphues.
Euph. Rich Earthworm's son! why, in the name of wonder,
Should it be her desire to speak with him?
She knows him not. Well, let it be a riddle;
I have not so much wit as to expound it;
Nor yet so little as to lose my thoughts
Or study to find out what the no reason
Of a young wench's will is. Should I guess—
I know not what to think; she may have heard
That he's a proper man, and so desire
To satisfy herself? What reason then
Can she allege to him? Tut, that's not it:
Her beauty and large dow'r need not to seek
Out any suitors; and the odious name
Of his old wretched father would quite choke it.
Or have some tattling gossips or the maids
Told her, perchance, that he's a conjuror?
He goes in black: they say he is a scholar:
Has been beyond sea, too; there it may lie:
And he must satisfy her longing thought,
What or how many husbands she shall have;
Of what degree; upon what night she shall
Dream of the man; when she shall fast,[8] and walk
In the churchyard, to see him passing by,
Just in those clothes that first he comes a suitor.
These things may be; but why should she make me
To be her instrument? Some of the men
Or maids might do't as well. Well, since you have
Us'd me, fair cousin, I will sound your drifts,
Or't shall go hard. The fellow may abuse her;
Therefore, I'll watch him too, and straight about it.
But now I think on't, I'll solicit him
By letter first, and meet him afterward. [Exit.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] [It is difficult to allow that this piece is particularly allegorical in any of its parts or characters. It has the air of a drama which had lain by for some time, and been hastily finished, as some of the incidents and characters are not developed with due regard to dramatic propriety. The conversion of Earthworm, especially, is unnaturally abrupt and violent.]
[2] "The Goblins" was publicly performed, whereas the "Old Couple" does not seem to have been so. Suckling died early in 1641. I confess that the evidence appears to me to lie strongly against May, who was a great borrower—even from himself, the most allowable kind of plagiarism.
[3] Former editions—
"This happy garden, once while I was happy."
—Pegge.
[4] Dante ("Inferno," c. v.) says—
"Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Ne la miseria."
—Collier.
[5] Two romances of the time, very well known, often reprinted, and frequently mentioned in old authors.—Collier.
[6] i.e., Shrive her, hear her at confession. So in Shakespeare's "King Richard III."—
"What, talking with a priest, Lord Chamberlain?
Your lordship hath no shriving-work in hand."
—Steevens.
[7] These lines seem a parody on the following one in "Bonduca," by Beaumont and Fletcher, act iv. sc. 3—
"Lie lightly on my ashes, gentle earth."
The time when Prior wrote his beautiful Ode to the Memory of Colonel George Villiers, drowned in the river Piave, in Friuli, 1703, is so near the period in which Mr Pope composed his elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, that it is difficult to say which of these great men borrowed from the other. It appears certain, however, that one of them, in the following lines, was indebted to his friend, unless it can be supposed that both of them were obliged to the above line of Beaumont and Fletcher. Prior says—
"Lay the dead hero graceful in a grave
(The only honour he can now receive),
And fragrant mould upon his body throw.
And plant the warrior laurel o'er his brow;
Light lie the earth, and flourish green the bough."
Mr Pope writes thus—
"What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,
And thy green turf lie lightly on thy breast."
I know not why we should suppose that Pope borrowed from Prior, or that either of them was indebted to Beaumont and Fletcher on this occasion. Sit tibi terra levis! is a wish expressed in many of the ancient Roman inscriptions. So in that on Pylades—
"Dicite qui legitis, solito de more, sepulto,
Pro meritis, Pylade, sit tibi terra levis!"
Again, in the sepulchral dialogue supposed to pass between Atimetus and Homonœa—
"Sit tibi terra levis, mulier dignissima vita!"
Again, in Propertius, El. xvii. lib. 1—
"Et mihi non ullo pondere terra foret."
Again, in Ovid—
"Et sit humus cineri non onerosa tuo!"
Thus also Juvenal, Sat. vii.—
"Di majorum umbris tenuem et sine pondere terram,
Spirantesque crocos, et in urna perpetuum ver!"
Again, in Persius, Sat. i.—
"Non levior cippus nunc imprimit ossa?
... nunc non e manibus illis,
Nunc non e tumulo fortunataque favilla
Nascentur violæ?"
On the contrary, Sit tibi terra gravis and Urgeat ossa lapis were usual maledictions, the ancients supposing that the soul remained for some time after death with the body, and was partner in its confinement. The latter of these wishes is ludicrously adopted by Dr Evans, in his epitaph on Sir J. Vanbrugh—
"Lie heavy on him, earth! for he
Laid many a heavy weight on thee."
It may be observed that such ideas, however poetical, have no great degree of propriety when introduced into Christian elegies, as we have no belief that the soul is in danger of being oppressed by a monument or stifled in a grave.—Steevens.
[8] These customs are still preserved by the inferior ranks of females in different parts of the kingdom. Among others, they frequently fast on St Agnes' Eve, and at the same time make use of several singular rites and ceremonies; all which are described and ridiculed in Gay's comedy of the "Wife of Bath." See also ["Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," 1870, i. 20, et alibi.]
[ACT II.]
Earthworm, Theodore.
Earth. I do not more rejoice in all my stores,
My wealthy bags, fill'd garners, crowded chests,
And all the envi'd heaps that I have glean'd
With so long care and labour, than I do
In thy most frugal nature, Theodore,
Concurring just with mine. In thee, my son,
I see, methinks, a perpetuity
Of all the projects which my soul has hatch'd,
And their rich fruits: I see my happiness,
When I consider what great hoards of wealth,
With long care rak'd together, I have seen
Even in a moment scatter'd; when I view
The gaudy heirs of thriving aldermen
Fleeting like short-liv'd bubbles into air,
And all that fire expiring in one blaze,
That was so long a-kindling. But do thou,
Do thou, my son, go on, and grow in thrift;
It is a virtue that rewards itself.
'Tis matterless in goodness who excels;
He that hath coins hath all perfections else.
Theo. Sir, I am wholly yours, and never can
Degenerate from your frugality;
Or, if my nature did a little stray,
Your good example would direct it still,
Till it were grown in me habitual.
Earth. 'Twill be a greater patrimony to thee
Than all my wealth: strive to be perfect in't;
Study the rules. One rule is general.
And that is, give away nothing, son;
For thrift is like a journey; every gift,
Though ne'er so small, is a step back again.
He that would rise to riches or renown
Must not regard, though he pull millions down.
Theo. That lesson, sir, is easy to be learn'd.
Earth. Laugh at those fools that are ambitious
Of empty air, to be styl'd liberal!
That sell their substance for the breath of others,
And with the flattering thanks of idle drones
Are swelled, while their solid parts decay.
What clothes to wear?—the first occasion
Of wearing clothes will teach a wise man best.
Theo. True, sir; it teacheth us how vain a thing
It is for men to take a pride in that,
Which was at first the emblem of their shame.[9]
Earth. Thou hitt'st it right: but canst thou be content
With my poor diet too?
Theo. O, wondrous well!
'Twas such a diet which that happy age,
That poets style the golden, first did use.
Earth. And such a diet to our chests will bring
The golden age again.
Theo. Beside the gain
That flows upon us, health and liberty
Attend on these bare meals: if we all were bless'd
With such a temperance, what man would fawn,
Or to his belly sell his liberty?
There would be then no slaves, no sycophants
At great men's tables. If the base Sarmentus
Or that vile Galba[10] had been thus content,
They had not borne the scoffs of Cæsar's board.
He whose cheap thirst the springs and brooks can quench,
How many cares is he exempted from?
He's not indebted to the merchant's toil,
Nor fears that pirates' force or storms should rob him
Of rich Canaries or sweet Candian wines:
He smells nor seeks no feasts; but in his own
True strength contracted lives, and there enjoys
A greater freedom than the Parthian king.
Earth. Thou mak'st me more in love with my bless'd life.
Theo. Besides, pure cheerful health ever attends it;
Which made the former ages live so long.
With riotous banquets sicknesses came in;
When death 'gan muster all his dismal band
Of pale diseases, such as poets feign
Keep sentinel before the gates of hell,
And bad them wait about the gluttons' tables,
Whom they, like venom'd pills in sweetest wines,
Deceiv'd, swallow down, and hasten on
What most they would eschew—untimely death.
But from our tables here no painful surfeits,
No fed diseases grow, to strangle nature
And suffocate the active brain; no fevers,
No apoplexies, palsies, or catarrhs
Are here, where nature, not entic'd at all
With such a dangerous bait as pleasant cates,
Takes in no more than she can govern well.
Earth. But that which is the greatest comfort, son,
Is to observe with pleasure our rich hoards
Daily increase, and stuff the swelling bags.
Come, thou art mine, I see! Here, take these keys.
[Gives Theodore the keys.
These keys can show thee such amazing plenty,
Whose very sight would feed a famish'd country.
I durst not trust my servants.
Theo. Me you may,
Who equal with my life do prize your profit.
Earth. Well, I'll go in: I feel myself half sleepy
After the drink I took. [Exit.
Theo. 'Twill do you good, sir.
Work sweetly, gentle cordial! and restore
Those spirits again which pining avarice
Has 'reft him of. Ah me! how wondrous thin,
How lean and wan he looks! How much, alas!
Has he defrauded his poor genius
In raking wealth, while the pale, grisly sighs
Of famine dwell upon his aged cheeks.
O avarice! than thee a greater plague
Did ne'er infest the life of wretched man!
Heaven aid my work! That rare extraction
Which he has drunk, beside the nourishment,
Will cast him in a safe and gentle sleep,
While I have liberty to work my ends;
And with his body's cure a means I'll find
To cure his fame, and (which is more) his mind.
Jasper!
Enter Jasper.
Jas. Sir!
Theo. Are those disguises ready,
Which I bespoke?
Jas. They are all fitted, sir.
Theo. Then at the hour, which I appointed thee,
Invite those people, Jasper; but be true
And secret to me.
Jas. As your own heart, sir.
Theo. Take this: I will reward thy service better,
As soon as these occasions are dispatch'd.
Jas. I thank you, sir. I have a letter for you,
Left here but now, from Master Euphues,
Old Master Freeman's nephew.
Theo. Give it me;
I will anon peruse it. But my haste
Permits not now: Eugeny waits my coming. [Exit Theodore.
Jas. I like this well; yet, if I should prove false
To my old master for my young master's sake,
Who can accuse me? For the reason's plain
And very palpable; I feel it here.
This will buy ale; so will not all the hoards,
Which my old master has: his money serves
For nothing but to look upon; but this
Knows what the common use of money is.
Well, for my own part, I'm resolv'd to do
Whatever he commands me; he's too honest
To wrong his father in it: if he should,
The worst would be his own another day. [Exit.
Eugeny solus.
Eug. Just thus, in woods and solitary caves,
The ancient hermits liv'd; but they liv'd happy!
And in their quiet contemplations found
More real comforts than society
Of men could yield, than cities could afford,
Or all the lustres of a court could give.
But I have no such sweet preservatives
Against the sadness of this desert place.
I am myself a greater wilderness
Than are these woods, where horror and dismay
Make their abodes; while different passions
By turn do reign in my distracted soul.
Fortune makes this conclusion general—
All things shall help th' unfortunate man to fall.
First sorrow comes, and tells me I have done
A crime whose foulness must deserve a sea
Of penitent tears to wash me clean again.
Then sear[11] steps in, and tells me, if surpris'd,
My wretched life is forfeit to the law.
When these have done, enters the tyrant love,
And sets before me fair Artemia;
Displays her virtues and perfections;
Tells me that all those graces, all those beauties,
Suffer for me, for my unhappiness,
And wounds me more in her than in myself.
Ah, Theodore! would I could ever sleep
But when thou com'st, for in myself I find
No drop of comfort? Welcome, dearest friend!
Enter Theodore.
Theo. Pardon the slowness of my visit, friend;
For such occasions have detain'd me hence,
As, if thou knew'st, I know thou wouldst excuse.
Eug. I must confess, I thought the hours too long;
But the fruition of thy presence now
Makes me forget it all.
Thou droop'st too much, my dearest Eugeny,
And art too harsh and sour a censurer
Of that unhappy crime which thou wert forc'd
Lately to act. I did allow in thee
That lawful sorrow that was fit; but let
Well-grounded comforts cure thee: nought extreme
Is safe in man.
Eug. 'Tis time must work that cure.
Theo. But why thy pardon is not yet obtain'd,
Let me be free in my conjectures to thee.
Eug. Speak, friend, as to thyself.
Theo. Sir Argent Scrape,
Your old rich kinsman, who to-morrow morning
Is to be married to the Lady Covet——
Eug. Is that match come about? O avarice!
What monsters thou begett'st in this vile age!
Theo. Sir Argent Scrape, I say, is next heir male,
On whom thy whole estate was long ago
Entail'd.
Eug. 'Tis true.
Theo. He must inherit it,
Should thy life fail.
Eug. 'Tis granted.
Theo. Then, friend, hear
What not a bare conjecture, but strong grounds
Move me to utter. Think upon that word
Thou spok'st so lately: think what avarice
Can make her bondmen do—that such a price
As fifteen hundred pounds a year will make
Him labour, not thy pardon, but thy death.
Eug. Can there be such a miscreant in nature?
Theo. I should not think so, if I weigh'd him only,
As he's thy kinsman. I have been inform'd
He labours underhand to apprehend thee
Just at the assizes now, and has laid plots
To stop all pardons, which in that short time
Might be procur'd: and then what bribes may do
In hastening execution, do but consider.
If this be false, some courtiers have abus'd
His fame: and pardon me, my dearest friend,
If I suspect the worst for fear of thee.
Eug. When I consider what accurs'd effects
Proceed from wretched avarice, I begin
To feel a fear.
Theo. This very age hath given
Horrid examples lately: brothers have been
Betray'd by brothers in that very kind.
When pardons have been got by the next heirs,
They have arriv'd too late. No tie so near,
No band so sacred, but the cursed hunger
Of gold has broke it, and made wretched men
To fly from nature, mock religion,
And trample under feet the holiest laws.
Eug. He has been ever noted for that vice
Which, with his age, has still grown stronger in him.
Theo. Ah, Eugeny! how happy were that last
Age of a man, when long experience
Has taught him knowledge, taught him temperance,
And freed him from so many loose desires
In which rash youth is plung'd, were not this vice—
But hark, hark, friend! what ravishing sound is that?
Eug. Ha! wondrous sweet! 'tis from th' adjoining thicket.
Song.
This is not the Elysian grove;
Nor can I meet my slaughter'd love
Within these shades. Come, Death, and be
At last as merciful to me,
As in my dearest Scudmore's fall,
Thou show'dst thyself tyrannical.
Then did I die when he was slain;
But kill me now, I live again,
And shall go meet him in a grove
Fairer than any here above.
O, let this woful breath expire!
Why should I wish Evadne's fire,
Sad Portia's coals, or Lucrece' knife,
To rid me of a loathed life?
'Tis shame enough that grief alone
Kills me not now, when thou art gone!
But, life, since thou art slow to go,
I'll punish thee for lasting so;
And make thee piecemeal every day
Dissolve to tears, and melt away.
Theo. Ah, Eugeny! some heavenly nymph descends
To make thee music in these desert woods,
To quench or feed thy baleful melancholy:
It is so sweet, I could almost believe,
But that 'tis sad, it were an angel's voice.
Eug. What, in the name of miracle, is this?
Theo. Remove not thou; I'll make discovery
Within this thicket.
Eug. Ha! what means thy wonder?
What dost thou see?
Theo. I know not how to tell thee:
Now I could wish myself to be all eyes,
As erst all ears. I see a shape as fair,
And as divine, as was the voice it sent;
But clouded all with sorrow: a fair woman,
If by a name so mortal I may term her.
In such a sorrow sat the Queen of Love,
When in the wood she wail'd Adonis' death,
And from her crystal-dropping eyes did pay
A lover's obsequy.
Theo. Sure, black is Cupid's colour; Death and he
Have chang'd their liveries now, as in the fable
They did their quivers once.[12]
Eug. Ah, woe is me!
Theo. What means that woe?
Eug. Ah, Theodore! my guilt
Pursues me to the woods! No place can keep
The monuments of my misdeeds away.
Theo. I understand you not.
Eug. It is Matilda,
The slaughter'd Scudmore's love, his virtuous love,
Whose life by me unhappily was spilt.
The sad, melodious ditty, which so late
Did pierce our ravish'd ears, was but the note
Of this fair turtle for her slaughter'd mate;
In which perchance, amidst her woes, she sends
Black curses up against my spotted self.
But I with prayers and blessings will repay
Whate'er thou vent'st 'gainst me. O, do not wish
More wretchedness to my distracted soul
Than I already feel! Sad sighs and tears
Are all the satisfaction that is left
For me to make to thy dead love and thee.
Theo. Those lips can vent no curses; 'twould take off
Much from the sweetness of her virtuous sorrow.
Where lives this lovely maid?
Eug. In the next village.
Theo. Has she a father living?
Eug. No, friend; he died
When she was in her infancy. Her mother
Two years ago deceas'd, and left her all
The substance that she had; which was not great,
But does maintain her. In that little house,
E'er since this fatal accident, she lives
A miracle of truth and constancy,
Wailing her love; and now, it seems, has[13] come
To vent her woful passions to the woods.
Theo. How happy had he been in such a love,
If fate had spar'd his life! But he is dead,
And time at last may wear this sorrow off,
And make her relish the true joys of love.
But why do I thus wander in my thoughts?
This passion must be curb'd in the beginning;
'Twill prove too stubborn for me, if it grow. [Aside.
Eug. Come, let us to my cave, as we intended,
Ere this sad object stay'd us.
Theo. Sad indeed!
Believe me, friend, I suffer with thee in it;
But we were wounded in two different kinds. [Aside.
Come, let's be gone; though—I could still—dwell here. [Exeunt.
Enter Matilda.
Mat. Methought I heard a noise within the wood;
As if men talk'd together not far off;
But could discover none. The time has been,[14]
In such a solitary place as this,
I should have trembled at each moving leaf;
But sorrow and my miserable state
Have made me bold. If there be savages
That live by rapine in such woods as these,
As I have heard in ancient times there were,
My wretched state would move their pity rather
Than violence. I'll confidently go,
Guarded with nothing but my innocence. [Exit.
Enter Fruitful, Trusty.
Fruit. Come, master steward, you have had a time
Of sweating for this wedding.
Trusty. I have ta'en
A little pains to-day: yours, Master Fruitful,
Is yet to come; I mean your sermon.
Fruit. Yes, but the pains are pass'd; and that's the study.
But to our business that more concerns us:
Is the deed ready-written that my lady
Must seal to-day?
Trusty. Do you believe she'll seal it?
Fruit. I warrant you; I have so followed her,
And laid it to her conscience, that I dare
Hazard my life 'tis done.
Trusty. Well, here's the deed: 'tis plainly written.
Fruit. I'll peruse't anon.
I know the other feoffees are as true
And honest men as any are i' th' world. [Exit Trusty.
Enter Freeman, Euphues, Barnet, Dotterel, Lady Whimsey.
Free. Save you, Master Fruitful!
Fruit. Worthy Master Freeman!
Free. How does my lady, sir? I have made bold
To bring her company.
Fruit. Please you draw near, sir;
I will go up and signify unto my lady
That you are here. [Exit Fruitful.
Bar. What's he? her chaplain, Euphues?
Euph. O yes.
Lady W. She uses praying then, it seems?
Euph. Yes, madam, and fasting too, but gives no alms.
Lady W. Cannot he teach her that?
Euph. 'Tis to be doubted:
But he has other ways, which are far safer—
To speak against the fashion, against painting,
Or fornication. If he were your chaplain,
He would inveigh as much 'gainst covetousness.
Lady W. He would hurt me little in that.
But has he learning?
Euph. No, surely, madam; he is full of knowledge,
But has no learning at all: he can expound,
But understands nothing. One thing in him
Is excellent: though he do hate the bishops,
He would not make them guilty of one sin,
Which was to give him orders; for he hates
Orders as much as them.
Free. Well, I have heard,
Though he came lately to her, he has got
A great hand over her, and sways her conscience
Which way he list.
Euph. Uncle, 'tis very easy
To rule a thing so weak as is her conscience.
I'll undertake, that a twin'd thread would do it
As well as a strong cable. If he could
Rule her estate too, he would have a place on't.
Free. Why, that will follow t'other.
Euph. I think not;
Rather her conscience follows her estate,
Oppression had not else increas'd it so.
She wrong'd a worthy friend of mine—young Scudmore,
And by mere fraud and bribery took away
His whole estate, five hundred pound a year.
Free. I must confess, 'twas a foul cause indeed;
And he, poor man, lack'd means to prosecute
The cause against her. But he feels it not
At this time, nephew.
Bar. Was't that Scudmore, sir,
Whom Eugeny, Sir Argent Scrape's young kinsman,
Unfortunately kill'd?
Free. The same. Well, let
All these things pass: we come now to be merry.
Lady W. Let's eat up her good cheer: a niggard's feast
Is best, they say.
Dot. Shall we have wine good store?
Bar. O, fear not that.
Dot. Hold, belly, hold, i' faith!
Bar. Yes, and brain too.
Dot. Nay, for my brain,
Let me alone, I fear not that: no wine
Can hurt my brain.
Lady W. Say you so, Master Dotterel?
Why, such a brain I love.
Dot. Madam, I am glad
I had it for you.
Lady W. For me, sir?
Dot. Yes, lady,
'Tis at your service; so is the whole body.
Did I not tickle her there, old lad?
Bar. Yes, rarely.
Lady W. Shall I presume to call you servant, then?
Dot. O Lord, madam! if I were worthy to be.
Lady W. Nay, I know you have good courtship, servant.
Wear this for my sake. [Gives him a scarf.
Dot. 'Tis your livery, madam.
Bar. Well, th' art a happy man, if thou knew'st all.
Euph. Madam, I see your ladyship can tell
How to make choice in dealing of your favours.
Dot. It pleases you to say so, good Master Euphues.
Euph. Why, sir, I speak of the lady's judgment.
Dot. 'Twas more of her courtesy than my desert.
Enter Lady Covet on crutches.
Euph. Here comes the lady bride.
Free. Joy to your ladyship!
Lady C. I thank you, sir: y' are very welcome all.
Free. I have made bold to bring my friends along,
As you commanded, lady.
Lady C. They are most welcome.
Euph. Methinks your ladyship looks fresh to-day,
And like a bride indeed.
Lady C. Ah, Master Euphues!
You, I perceive, can flatter.
Euph. Does your glass
Tell you I flatter, madam?
Lady C. Bestow this
Upon young maids; but let me tell you, sir,
Old folks may marry too. It was ordain'd
At first to be as well a stay to age
As to please youth. We have our comforts too,
Though we be old.
Euph. Madam, I doubt it not:
You are not yet so old but you may have
Your comfort well; and if Sir Argent Scrape
Were but one threescore years younger than he is——
Bar. What a strange but thou mak'st!
Euph. You would perceive it.
Lady W. Servant, could you find in your heart to marry
Such an old bride?
Dot. No, mistress, I protest
I had rather have none.
Lady W. What age would you desire
To choose your wife of?
Dot. Just as old as you are.
Lady W. Well, servant, I believe you can dissemble.
Lady C. Will't please you to draw near? Sir Argent stays
Expecting within.
Free. We'll wait upon you. [Exeunt.
Manent Barnet, Dotterel.
Bar. To what strange fortune, friend, are some men born,
I mean by thee. Surely, when thou wert young,
The fairies dandled thee.
Dot. Why, prythee, Barnet?
Bar. That ladies thus should doat upon thy person.
Dost thou not see how soon the Lady Whimsey
Is caught in love with thee?
Dot. But is she, think'st thou?
Bar. Is she! Come, thou perceiv'st it well enough;
What else should make her court thee, and bestow
Her favours openly? And such a lady!
So full of wit as she is, too! Would she
Betray the secrets of her heart so far,
But that love plays the tyrant in her breast,
And forces her?
Dot. True, and, as thou say'st, Barnet,
She's a brave, witty lady; and I love
A wit with all my heart. What would she say
If she should know me truly, that thus loves,
And thinks I am but a poor younger brother?
Bar. Why, still the greater is thy happiness:
Thou may'st be sure she loves thee truly now,
And not thy fortunes.
Dot. Has she found me out,
For all I sought to hide myself?
Bar. The more
Thy worth appears, the more her judgment's seen.
O, 'tis a gallant lady! Well, she might
Have cast her eye on me or Euphues;
But 'twas not our good fortune!
Dot. Do not despair;
Some other woman may love thee as well:
Come, thou hast worth, Barnet, as well as I.
Bar. Nay, nay, abuse not your poor friends; but tell me,
What dost thou think of young Artemia now?
Dot. Of her! a foolish girl, a simple thing!
She'd make a pretty wife for me! I confess
I courted her; but she had not the wit
To find out what I was, for all my talk.
Bar. And that was strange she should not; but 'tis fate
That governs marriages.
Dot. Let her repent,
And know what she hath lost, when 'tis too late.
But dost thou think this gallant Lady Whimsey
Will marry me?
Bar. Mak'st thou a doubt of that?
'Tis thy own fault, boy, if thou hast her not.
Dot. That I protest it shall not be; but, tell me,
Shall I express my love to her in verse
Or prose?
Bar. In which you will.
Dot. I am alike at both of them indeed.
Bar. I know thou art.
Dot. Come, let's go in.
Bar. Thou long'st to see thy mistress?
Dot. We'll drink her health in a crown'd cup,[15] my lad. [Exeunt.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Richard Braithwaite printed precisely the same thought in 1621, in his "Times Curtaine Drawne"—
"For who (remembering the cause why clothes were made,
Even then when Adam fled unto his shade,
For covert nakedness) will not blame
Himself to glory in his parents' shame?"
The coincidence is remarkable.—Collier.
"Quæ nec Sarmentus iniquas
Cæsaris ad mensas, nec vilis Galba tulisset."
—Juv., Sat. v. 3.
[11] [Conscience.]
[12] Mr Gifford, in a note on Massinger's "Virgin Martyr," points out an elegy by Secundus as the origin of this pretty fancy, which is thus employed by Fairfax in his translation of Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered"—
"Death hath again exchanged his darts with Love,
And Cupid thus lets borrow'd arrows fly."
The allusion is not to be found in the original Italian (bk. ii. s. 34). Davenant, in bk. ii. c. 7, of his "Gondibert," also mentions the fable, and it would be easy among foreign writers to point out many instances in which more extensive use has been made of it. The sonnets by Annibale Nozzolini and by Girolamo Pompei are well known.—Collier.
[13] [Old copy, was.]
[14] So in "Macbeth," act v. sc. 5—
"I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir
As life were in't. I have supt full with horrors!
Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me."
[And see note to the "Heir," xi. 449.]
[ACT III.]
[Earthworm's house.]
Theodore, Neighbours with sacks.
Theo. Come, neighbours, pray draw near; my fellow Jasper
Has told you wherefore you were sent for hither.
1st Neigh. Ay, I thank you, friend.
2d Neigh. And my good master too.
Theo. My master, touch'd with sorrow and remorse
For that unhappy error of his life—
That fault (alas!) which by too true a name
Is termed misery, determines now
By deeds of tender charity to make
The wronged poor amends, and to the world
Declare the fruits of a reformed life.
And first your pardon, neighbours, he would beg,
And, next to heaven, be reconcil'd to you.
1st Neigh. Now blessing on his heart!
2d Neigh. Good tender soul!
3d Neigh. I ever thought him a right honest man.
Theo. He that before did churlishly engross
And lock those blessings up, which from the hand
Of heaven were shower'd upon him, has at last
Found their true use, and will henceforth redeem
The former misspent time. His wealthy stores
Shall be no longer shut against the poor;
His bags seal'd up no longer, to debar
The course of fitting bounty. To you all,
Of corn and money, weekly he'll allow
In recompense a greater quantity
By far than men of greater rank shall do:
Nor will he come himself to take your thanks,
Till, as he says, he has deserv'd them better.
Meantime, by me he pours his bounty forth,
Which he desires with greatest secrecy
May be perform'd; for all vainglorious shows
And ostentation does his soul abhor.
He sounds no trumpet to bestow his alms;
Nor in the streets proclaims his charity,
Which makes the virtue vice; nor would he have
The world take notice of you at his doors.
1st Neigh. See, see, religious man!
2d Neigh. Ah, neighbour!
Some in the world have been mistaken in him.
Theo. Nor would he have you blaze his bounty forth,
And praise him openly: forbear it, neighbours;
Your private prayers only he desires
And hearty wishes; for true charity,
Though ne'er so secret, finds a just reward.
I am his servant, newly entertain'd,
But one to whom he does commit the trust
Of his desires in this; and I should wrong
His goodness strangely, if I should keep
The least of what his bounty doth intend.
Come in with me; I'll fill your sacks with corn,
And let you see what money he bestows.
Omnes Neigh. We'll pray to heaven to reward his goodness.
[Exeunt.
Euphues, Barnet.
Euph. Our Dotterel, then, is caught?
Bar. He is, and just
As Dotterels[16] used to be: the lady first
Advanc'd toward him, stretch'd forth her wing, and he
Met her with all expressions; and he's caught
As fast in her lime-twigs as he can be,
Until the church confirm it.
Euph. There will be
Another brave estate for her to spend.
Bar. Others will be the better for't; and if
None but a Dotterel suffer for't, what loss
Of his can countervail the least good fortune
That may from thence blow to another man?
Euph. She spent her t'other husband a great fortune.
Bar. Dotterel's estate will find her work again
For a great while: two thousand pounds a year
Cannot be melted suddenly; when 'tis,
Men can but say her prodigality
Has done an act of justice, and translated
That wealth, which fortune's blindness had misplac'd
On such a fellow. What should he do with it?
Euph. And thou say'st right: some men[17] were made to be
The conduit-pipes of an estate, or rather
The sieves of fortune, through whose leaking holes
She means to scatter a large flood of wealth,
Besprinkling many with refreshing showers.
So usurers, so dying aldermen
Pour out at once upon their sieve-like heirs
Whole gusts of envi'd wealth; which they together
Through many holes let out again in showers,
And with their ruin water a whole country.
But will it surely be a match?
Bar. As sure
As the two old death's-heads to-morrow morning
Are to be join'd together.
Euph. Who, Sir Argent and his lady?
Bar. Yes, if she keep touch
In what she promis'd me, I'll undertake
Her Dotterel shall be sure, and given to her
In matrimony.
Euph. Given to his wife?
I see thou mean'st in Dotterel to bring back
The ancient Spanish custom, where the women
Inherited the land, rul'd the estates;
The men were given in marriage to the women
With portions, and had jointures made to them:
Just so will be his case; he will be married
Unto a brave subjection. How the fool
Is caught in his own noose! What confidence
Had he, that he would never marry any,
But such, forsooth, as must first fall in love
With him, not knowing of his wealth at all?
Bar. Well, now he's fitted: he begun at first
With fair Artemia.
Euph. He might have told
Her of his wealth, and miss'd her too, or else
I am deceiv'd in her: true virtuous love
Cannot be bought so basely; she besides
Has been in love, I'm sure; and may be still,
Though he be fled the land. But, now I think on't,
I must go see whether old Earthworm's son
Has yet perform'd what she desir'd: she stays
At home.
Bar. I'll in, and see how Dotterel
Courts his brave mistress: I left him composing
A sonnet to her. There are the old couple
Within too.
Euph. If a man could get to hear
Their way of courting, 'twould be full as strange
As Dotterel's is ridiculous: but stay,
Sir Argent Scrape and Lady Covet brought in in chairs.
Here come the lovely bride and bridegroom forth.
Prythee, let's venture to stay here a little
Behind the hangings, man: we shall be sure
To hear their love; they are both somewhat deaf,
And must speak loud.
Bar. Content, I'll stay with thee.
Sir Arg. Leave us awhile. Now, madam, you have seen,
So have your learned counsel, that I deal
Squarely with you: my personal estate
Is no less worth than I profess'd, when first
I mov'd my loving suit.
Bar. Ay, marry, sir, a loving suit indeed!
[Aside.
Euph. Let 'em go on in their own proper dialect.
[Aside.
Lady C. I find it;
And should be loth but to requite your truth
In the same kind: you seem'd at first to question,
How strong my title was in that estate
Which was young Scudmore's once: 'tis a fair manor.
Euph. 'Tis true, old rottenness—too good for you.
[Aside.
Lady C. My counsel can inform you that I kept it,
And did enjoy possession while he liv'd;
And now he's dead, who should recover it?
The heirs are poor and beggarly.
Sir Arg. Nay, I think
We need not fear their suing against us.
Lady C. If they should stir, a little piece of money
Would stop their mouths.
Euph. A little piece of dirt
Will stop your mouth ere long, and then the suit
Will go against thee, mischief!
[Aside.
Bar. Prythee, peace;
Thou art not merry now, but choleric. [Aside.
Euph. I think of my wrong'd friend. [Aside.
Lady C. But you were saying
You made no doubt but shortly to enjoy
Your kinsman Eugeny's estate: that were
A fair addition to your land; they say
It goes at fifteen hundred pounds a year.
Sir Arg. 'Tis true, and 'tis well worth it.
Lady C. But what hopes have you to gain it shortly?
Sir Arg. He, you know,
By Scudmore's death has forfeited his life
Unto the law; and the estate's entail'd
On me as the next heir.
Lady C. But he is fled.
Sir Arg. No, no; I know he lurks not far from hence,
And I shall shortly learn the very place
By some intelligence. I have provided
My secret scouts; and then you know th' assizes
Are now at hand: the time will be too short
To get a pardon, specially as I
Have laid some friends to stall it underhand.
Euph. Here's a new mischief, Barnet! [Aside.
Bar. And a strange one. [Aside.
Lady C. And then you must not spare a little money
To hasten execution at an hour
Unusual. Those things may well be done:
Else what were money good for?
Sir Arg. You say right.
If 'twere once come to that, I fear it not.
Lady C. Well, sir, I see all's right and straight between us.
You understand how welcome you are hither;
I need not tell it o'er again.
Sir Arg. No, lady;
I will be bold to say, I do not come
Now as a stranger, but to take possession
Both of your house and you.
Euph. He cannot speak
Out of that thriving language in his love. [Aside.
Lady C. Will you go in again? our guests, perhaps,
Think the time long.
Sir Arg. With all my heart:
A cup of sack would not do much amiss.
Lady C. We'll have it with a toast. Who's near there, ho!
Enter Servants, and carry them out.
Bar. What a strange kind of pageant have we seen?
Euph. Barnet, I cannot tell whether such strange
Unsatiable desires in these old folks,
That are half earth already, should be thought
More impious or more ridiculous.
Bar. They are both alike.
Euph. But such a monstrous
Unnatural plot as his, to apprehend
His kinsman, I ne'er heard of! If I knew
Where Eugeny remain'd, though 'twere his fortune
To kill a friend of mine, I'd rescue him
From this unnatural and wolfish man.
Bar. That would betray his life to satisfy
His avarice, not justice of the law.
Enter Dotterel, Lady Whimsey.
Here comes another piece of matrimony,
That may be shortly.
Euph. 'Tis better far than t'other:
They are the last couple in hell.
Dot. Save you, gallants!
Bar. You are the gallant, sir, that on your arm
Do wear the trophies of a conquer'd lady.
Euph. Madam, I had almost mistaken my salutation,
And bid God give you joy.
Lady W. Of what, I prythee?
Euph. Of this young gallant, call him by what name
Or title you are pleas'd, husband or servant.
Bar. He may be both, sir: he is not the first
Has been a husband and a servant too.
Dot. I am her servant, sir: and I confess
Have an ambition, and so forth.
Lady W. How now, servant!
Euph. I tell you truly, madam, 'tis reported
(And those reports are fatal still, you know)
That Master Dotterel and you are purpos'd
To bear the old knight and lady company
To-morrow to the church.
Lady W. That I confess, and so will you, I think.
Euph. Nay, but to do
As they do, madam—tie the lasting knot.
Lady W. Do you hear, servant? This it is to have
So proper a servant: every one supposes
I must needs be in love.
Dot. I would you were
As deep in Cupid's books as I.
Euph. That is
In Cupid's favour: you are a happy man.
Lady W. My servant has been searching Cupid's books,
I think, to find that sonnet that he gave me.
Are you content that I should show your poetry?
Dot. Do, mistress, I am not asham'd on't;
But you shall give me leave to read it to 'em.
'Tis but a sonnet, gentlemen, that I fitted
To my fair mistress here.
Euph. Let us be happy
To hear it, sir.
Dot. Take it as it is— [He reads.
Dear, do not your fair beauty wrong;
In thinking still you are too young.
Euph. How! too young?
Bar. Let him alone; I know the song.
Dot. The rose and lilies in your cheek
Flourish, and no more ripeness seek;
Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet,
Proclaims such fruit for taste most meet:
Then lose no time, for love has wings,
And flies away from aged things.
How do you like it, gentlemen?
Euph. Very well. The song's a good one.
Bar. O, monstrous!
Never man stole with so little judgment.
Euph. Of all the love-songs that were ever made,
He could not have chose out one more unfit,
More palpably unfit, that must betray
His most ridiculous theft.
Lady W. Who would have thought
My servant should suppose I think myself
Too young to love, that have already had
One husband!
Euph. O, excuse him, gentle madam,
He found it in the song.
Bar. And, it should seem,
He could get no other song but this.
Lady W. Surely a woman of five-and-thirty year old
Is not too young to love!
Bar. O, spare him, madam!
Euph. Let's raise him up. I think the sonnet's good:
There's somewhat in't to th' purpose. Read it again.
[He reads it again.
Euph. ——For taste most meet.
Very good; and there he tickled it?
Mark'd you that, madam! The two last of all?
Then lose no time, for love hath wings—
He gives you fitting counsel.
Dot. I thought, when they understood it, they would like it:
I am sure, I have heard this song prais'd ere now.
Lady W. This does deserve a double favour, servant.
Dot. Let this be the favour, sweet mistress. [Kisses her.
Euph. How some men's poetry happens to be rewarded!
Lady W. Shall we go in? But, prythee, Euphues,
What is the reason sweet Artemia,
Thy cousin, is not here?
Euph. I know not, madam;
But her pretence was business. I am going
To visit her. If you go in to keep
Th' old couple company, I'll fetch her to you.
Lady W. I prythee, do! Farewell. Come, servant,
Shall we go in?
Dot. I'll wait upon you, mistress. [Exeunt.
Theodore, Artemia.
Theo. I will acquaint him, lady, with the hour,
And to his longing ear deliver all
Your sweet salutes; which is the only air
Of life and comfort Eugeny takes in.
Your constant love and virtues, sweetest lady,
Are those preservatives, which from his heart
Expel the killing fits of melancholy,
And do, in spite of fortune, quicken him.
Art. O, would those comforts could arrive at him,
That from my wishing thoughts are hourly sent!
Theo. Such virtuous wishes seldom are in vain.
Art. I should be far more sad in the behalf
Of my dear Eugeny, but that I know
He does enjoy your sweet society,
Which he beyond all value does esteem.
Theo. His own is recompense enough for mine.
And I the gainer in it; did not grief
For his misfortune stain that perfect joy,
Which I could take in his dear company.
Art. If I should speak, sir, how he values you,
I should too much oppress your modesty.
Theo. Our friendship, fairest lady, is more old,
And he more true, than that his heart so long
Should be unknown to me. I'll not be long,
Before I visit him to let him know,
What hour shall make him happy in your sight.
My longer stay, sweet lady, might be more
Observ'd and pry'd into: let me be bold
To leave you now, but be your servant ever.
Art. All happiness attend you, worthy sir. [Exit Theodore.
Would I myself might go as well as send,
And see that seeming solitary place,
That place of woe. Sure, it would be to me
No desert wood, while Eugeny were there,
But a delightful palace. Here at home,
The more that company comes in, the more
I am alone, methinks. Wanting that object
On which my heart is fix'd, I cannot be
Possess'd of anything. Nothing can be
My comfort but a hope that these sad clouds
Of our misfortunes will at last blow over.
But mischief's like a cockatrice's eyes—
Sees first and kills, or is seen first and dies.
Enter Euphues.
Euph. How dost thou, coz? I wrote a letter for thee
To Earthworm's son: has the young ten-i'-th'-hundred
Been here?
Art. I thank you, cousin; the gentleman
Was with me, and but newly parted hence.
Euph. H' has got a title then by coming hither:
But he may be a gentleman; his wealth
Will make it good.
Art. His virtues make it good:
Believe it, cousin, there's a wealthy mind
Within that plain outside.
Euph. How's this?
Have your quick eyes found out his worth already?
Art. They must be blind that cannot, when they know him.
Well, cousin, you may laugh at me.
Euph. By no means;
I know your judgment's good.
Art. As good as 'tis,
It must content a woman. When you know him,
You'll find a man that may deserve your friendship,
And far above all slighting.
Euph. I am sorry
I came not soon enough: but prythee, cousin,
What are the ways have taken thee so soon?
Art. What taking do you mean? You promis'd me
You would not ask the cause I sent for him,
Though you shall know hereafter. But I hope
You do not think I am in love with him?
Euph. I'll look upon the man, and then resolve you.
Art. Well, do; perhaps you'll know him better, then:
He knows you well.
Euph. Me! Has he told you how?
Art. Did you ne'er meet one Theodore at Venice?
Art. Yes, very well; although
He be old Earthworm's son, and make no shew
At home.
Euph. And have you found out so much worth
In him already?
Art. How do you esteem him?
We women well may err.
Euph. I smell a rat;
And, if my brain fail not, have found out all
Your drifts, though ne'er so politicly carri'd.
Art. I know your brain, cousin, is very good;
But it may fail.
Euph. It comes into my head
What old Sir Argent Scrape told to his lady.
His kinsman Eugeny lurk'd hereabouts:
He was her sweetheart once, and may be still;
I think she's constant, though she keep it close.
This Theodore and he were fam'd for friendship.
[Aside.
I have collected, cousin, and have at you?
Art. Let's hear it, pray.
Euph. You shall. This Theodore
I do confess a most deserving man;
And so perchance your lover Eugeny
Has told you, cousin. Ha! do you begin
To blush already? I am sure those two
Were most entirely friends; and I am sorry
To hear what I have heard to-day, concerning
Young Eugeny.
Art. What, prythee, cousin? Tell me.
Euph. Now you are mov'd; but I may err, you know.
Art. Good cousin, tell me what.
Euph. Nay, I believe
I shall worse startle you, though you would make
Such fools as I believe he is in France.
Yes, yes, it may be so; and then, you know,
He's safe enough.
Art. O cousin, I'll confess
What you would have me do; but tell me this.
Euph. Nay, now I will not thank you; I have found it:
And though you dealt in riddles so with me,
I'll plainly tell you all, and teach you how
You may perchance prevent your lover's danger.
Art. O, I shall ever love you.
Euph. Well, come in;
I'll tell you all, and by what means I knew it.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] I suppose he means a bumper, a cup filled till the wine rises above the top of it. Such a character as Dotterel is hardly made to allude to the pocula coronata of the Romans.—Steevens.
A crowned cup was not an unusual expression for a bumper: thus, in "All Fools," Fortunio says—
"True, and to welcome Dariotto's lateness
He shall (unpledg'd) carouse one crowned cup
To all these ladies' health."
Dotterel might therefore very properly employ words in ordinary use, without supposing him acquainted with "the pocula coronata of the Romans."—Collier.
[16] [Compare vol. iv. p. 68.]
[17] So Pope—
"Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir to keep and spare;
The next, a fountain, spouting through his heir,
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst."
—"Moral Essays," Ep. iii. l. 170.
[ACT IV.]
Earthworm, Jasper.
Earth. Out, villain! how could any fire come there
But by thy negligence? I do not use
To keep such fires as should at all endanger
My house, much less my barn.
Jas. I know not, sir;
But there I'm sure it was, and still continues,
Though without danger now; for the poor people,
Ere this, have quench'd it.
Earth. There my wonder lies.
Why should the people come to quench my fire?
Had it been a city, where one house
Might have endanger'd all, it justly then
Might have engag'd the people's utmost aid,
And I ne'er bound to give them thanks at all;
But my house stands alone, and could endanger
No other building. Why should all the people
Come running hither so to quench the fire?
They love not me.
Jas. Sure, sir, I cannot tell;
Perhaps the people knew not what to do,
And might be glad to see a sight.
Earth. Methought,
As I came by, I saw them wondrous busy;
Nay, more—methought I heard them pray for me,
As if they lov'd me. Why should they do so?
I ne'er deserv'd it at the people's hands.
Go, Jasper, tell me whether it be quench'd,
And all secure: I long to hear the news.
Enter Theodore.
Theo. I come to bring you happy tidings, sir.
The fire is quench'd, and little hurt is done.
Earth. That's well, my son.
Theo. But, sir, if you had seen
How the poor people labour'd to effect it,
And (like so many salamanders) rush'd
Into the fire, scorching their clothes and beards,
You would have wonder'd justly, and have thought
That each man toil'd to save his father's house
Or his own dear estate; but I conceive
'Twas nothing but an honest charity,
That wrought it in them.
Earth. Ha! a charity!
Why should that charity be show'd to me?
Theo. If I mistake not strangely, he begins
To apprehend it.
Earth. As I came along,
I heard them pray for me; but those good prayers
Can never pierce the skies in my behalf,
But will return again, and ever lodge
Within those honest breasts, that sent them forth.
Theo. Surely it works.
Earth. O! all the world but I are honest men! [He weeps.
Theo. What is't that troubles you?
Your goods are safe; there's nothing lost at all.
You should rejoice, methinks. You might have suffer'd
A wondrous loss in your estate!
Earth. Ah, son!
'Tis not the thought of what I might have lost,
That draws these tears from me.
Theo. Does he not weep,
Or do my flattering hopes deceive my sight?
He weeps, and fully too; large show'rs of tears
Bedew his aged cheeks. O happy sorrow,
That makes me weep for joy! Never did son
So justly glory in a father's tears. [Aside.
Sir, you are sad, methinks.
Earth. No sadness, son,
Can be enough to expiate the crimes
That my accursed avarice has wrought.
Where are the poor?
Theo. Why, sir, what would you do?[18]
Earth. Ask me not, Theodore. Alas, I fear
Thou art too much my son; my bad example
Has done thee much more harm than all the large
Increase of treasure I shall leave behind
Can recompence. But leave those wretched thoughts,
And let me teach thee a new lesson now:
But thou art learned, Theodore, and soon
Wilt find the reasons of it.
Theo. Do you please
To speak it, sir, and I will strive to frame
Myself to follow.
Earth. Where are all the poor?
Jasper, go call them in. Now, prythee, learn
(For this late accident may truly teach
A man what value he should set on wealth)
Fire may consume my houses; thieves may steal
My plate and jewels; all my merchandise
Is at the mercy of the winds and seas;
And nothing can be truly term'd mine own,
But what I make mine own by using well.
Those deeds of charity which we have done,
Shall stay for ever with us; and that wealth
Which we have so bestowed, we only keep:
The other is not ours.
Theo. Sir, you have taught me
Not to give anything at all away.
Earth. When I was blind, my son, and did miscall
My sordid vice of avarice true thrift:
But now forget that lesson; I prythee, do.
That cosening vice, although it seem to keep
Our wealth, debars us from possessing it,
And makes us more than poor.
Theo. How far beyond
All hope my happy project works upon him!
Enter Neighbours.
Earth. Y' are welcome, neighbours; welcome heartily!
I thank you all, and will hereafter study
To recompence your undeserved love.
My house shall stand more open to the poor,
More hospitable, and my wealth more free
To feed and clothe the naked hungry souls.
I will redeem the ill that I have done
(If heaven be pleas'd to spare my life awhile)
With true unfeigned deeds of charity.
1st Neigh. We thank your worship.
2d Neigh. We know full well
Your worship has a good heart toward us.
Earth. Alas! you do not know it; but have had
Too sad a cause to know the contrary.
Pray do not thank me, till you truly find
How much my heart is chang'd from what it was;
Till you, by real and substantial deeds,
Shall see my penitence, and be fully taught
How to forget or pardon all the errors
Of that my former miserable life.
Jasper, go in with them; show them the way
Into my house.
Jas. I think I had need to show 'em;
No poor folks heretofore have us'd this way.
Earth. And I'll come to you, neighbours, presently.
1st Neigh. Long may you live.
2d Neigh. All happiness betide you.
3d Neigh. And a reward fourfold in th' other world.
Earth. How dost thou like this music, Theodore?
I mean, the hearty prayers of the poor,
Whose curses pierce more than two-edged swords.
What comfort like to this can riches give?
What joy can be so great, as to be able
To feed the hungry, clothe the naked man?
Theo. Now, sir, you think aright; for to bestow
Is greater pleasure far than to receive.
Earth. No vice, so much as avarice, deprives
Our life of sweetest comforts, and debars
So much the fair society of men.
I taught thee once far otherwise, but now
Study this last and better lesson, son.
Theo. With more delight than e'er I did the former.
You never yet knew scholar covetous.
Earth. And now I think on't, Theodore, I have
A niece, the daughter of my only sister;
Her mother died a widow two years since.
How she has left her orphan daughter there,
I do not know; if she have left her ill,
I'll be a father to her. Prythee, go
Inquire her out, and bring her to my house,
How well soe'er the world may go with her
Bounty's a spice of virtue. Whoso can,
And won't, relieve the poor, he is no man.
Theo. Where lives she, sir?
Earth. 'Tis not a mile from hence,
In the next village. Thou ne'er saw'st her yet;
But fame has spoke her for a virtuous maid.
Young Scudmore, while he liv'd, and was possess'd
Of his estate, thought to have married her,
Whose death, they say, she takes most heavily,
And with a wond'rous constant sorrow mourns.
Theo. Sure, 'tis the same fair maid. [Aside.
Earth. Her name's Matilda.
Theo. The very same! [Aside.] I can inquire her out;
And, if you please, will presently about it.
Earth. Do, while I my neighbours visit. He doth live
Mighty that hath the pow'r and will to give. [Exit.
Theo. This is the same fair nightingale that tun'd
Her sweet sad accents lately to the woods,
And did so far enthral my heart: but that
Fond love is vanish'd. Like a kinsman now
I'll comfort her, and love her virtuous soul.
O, what a blessed change this day has wrought
In my old father's heart! You pow'rs, that gave
Those thoughts, continue them! This day will I
Still celebrate as my nativity. [Exit.
Lady Covet, Fruitful.
Lady C. But is that lawful, to convey away
All my estate, before I marry him?
Fruit. 'Tis more than lawful, madam: I must
Tell you 'tis necessary; and your ladyship
Is bound in conscience so to do; for else
'Twill be no longer yours, but all is his,
When he has married you. You cannot then
Dispose of anything to pious uses;
You cannot show your charity at all,
But must be govern'd by Sir Argent Scrape:
And can you tell how he'll dispose of it?
Lady C. 'Tis true: perchance he'll take my money all,
And purchase for himself, to give away
To his own name, and put me, while I live,
To a poor stipend.
Fruit. There you think aright.
You can relieve no friends; you can bequeath
Nothing at all, if he survive you, madam,
As 'tis his hope he shall.
Lady C. That hope may fail him.
I am not yet so weak, but I may hop
Over his grave.
Fruit. That is not in our knowledge.
But if you do survive him, as I hope,
Madam, you will, there is no law at all
Can bar you of your thirds in all his land,
And you besides are mistress of your own.
And all the charitable deeds, which you
After your death shall do, as building schools
Or hospitals, shall go in your own name;
Which otherwise Sir Argent Scrape would have,
And with your riches build himself a fame.
Lady C. I grant 'tis true: but will it not seem strange
That I should serve him so?
Fruit. Strange, madam! no;
Nothing is now more usual: all your widows
Of aldermen, that marry lords of late,
Make over their estates, and by that means
Retain a power to curb their lordly husbands.
When they, to raise the ruins of their houses,
Do marry so: instead of purchasing
What was expected, they do more engage
Their land in thirds for them.
Lady C. Well, I must trust
The feoffees then: but they are honest men.
Fruit. You need not fear them; they are zealous men,
Honest in all their dealings, and well known
In London, madam. Will you seal it now?
Enter Trusty.
Lady C. Yes, have you it?
Fruit. 'Tis here: Here's Master Trusty too,
Your steward, madam; he and I shall be
Enough for witnesses.
Lady C. 'Tis true: give me
The seal. So now dispose of it as I
Intended, Master Fruitful. [Seals and delivers.
Fruit. I will, madam.
Lady C. Trusty, come you along with me. [Exeunt.
Manet Fruitful.
Fruit. Now all our ends are wrought! this is the thing,
Which I so long have labour'd to effect.
Old covetous lady, I will purge your mind
Of all this wealth, that lay so heavy there,
And by evacuation make a cure
Of that your golden dropsy, whose strange thirst
Could ne'er be satisfied with taking in.
You once had wealth—But soft, let me consider!
If she should marry old Sir Argent Scrape,
We could not keep it; for his money then
Would make a suit against us, and perchance
Recover hers again; which to prevent
I will go spoil the marriage presently.
The sight of this will soon forbid the banns,
And stop his love. Then she wants means to sue us.
Be sure to keep thine adversary poor,
If thou wouldst thrive in suits. The way to 'scape
Revenge for one wrong is to do another:
The second injury secures the former.
I'll presently to old Sir Argent Scrape,
And tell him this: he's meditating now,
What strange additions to his large revenue
Are coming at one happy clap; what heaps
Of wealth to-morrow he shall be possess'd of;
What purchases to make; how to dispose
Of her and hers. But soft, the cards must turn:
The man must be deceived, and she much more.
To cosen the deceitful is no fraud. [Exit.
Enter Sir Argent Scrape.
Sir Arg. Methinks a youthful figure doth possess
My late stiff limbs; and (like a snake) I feel
A second spring succeed my age of winter.
O gold! how cordial, how restorative
Art thou! What, though thou canst not give me legs
Nor active hands, alas! I need them not;
Possess'd of thee, I can command the legs,
The hands, the tongues, the brains, of other men
To move for me. What need he hands or brains,
That may command the lawyer's subtlety,
The soldier's valour, the best poet's wit,
Or any writer's skill? O gold! to thee
The sciences are servants; the best trades
Are but thy slaves, indeed thy creatures rather:
For thee they were invented, and by thee
Are still maintained. 'Tis thou alone that art
The nerves of war, the cement of the state,
And guide of human actions. 'Tis for thee
Old Argent lives. O, what a golden shower
Will rain on me to-morrow! Let me see:
Her personal estate alone will buy
Upon good rates a thousand pound a year.
Where must that lie? Not in our country here—
Not all together; no; then my revenue
Will have too great a notice taken of it;
I shall be rais'd in subsidies, and 'sess'd
More to the poor. No, no, that must not be.
I'll purchase all in parcels, far from home,
And closely as I can: a piece in Cornwall;
In Hampshire some; some in Northumberland.
I'll have my factors forth in all those parts,
To know what prodigals there be abroad,
What pennyworths may be had: so it shall be.
Enter Fruitful.
Sir Arg. Ha! Master Fruitful! welcome. How go the squares?
What do you think of me to make a bridegroom?
Do I look young enough?
Fruit. Sir, I am come
To tell you news; such news as will, perhaps,
A little trouble you; but, if your worship
Should not have known it, 'twould have vex'd you more.
Sir Arg. Vex'd me! What's that can vex me now? speak, man.
Fruit. I thought that I was bound in conscience, sir,
To tell it you: 'tis conscience, and the love
I bear to truth, makes me reveal it now.
Sir Arg. What is the business? speak.
Fruit. Do not suppose
That I am treacherous to my Lady Covet,
To whom I do belong, in uttering this.
In such a case I serve not her, but truth,
And hate dishonest dealing.
Sir Arg. Come to th' purpose.
Fruit. Then thus it is: my Lady Covet, sir,
Merely to cosen you, has pass'd away
Her whole estate; you shall not get a penny
By marrying her.
Sir Arg. How, man? is't possible?
Fruit. 'Tis very certain, sir; I, for a need,
Could show you the conveyance; for my hand
Is as a witness there; so is her steward's.
Sir Arg. O horrible deceit!
Fruit. Ask her herself;
If she deny it, I can justify it;
So can her steward too.
Sir Arg. You make me mad.
Fruit. I keep you from being so by a mature
Prevention of your cosening.
Sir Arg. O, what hopes
Am I fall'n from; who would believe these false
Deceitful creatures?
Fruit. Sir, I could but wonder,
That she would cheat so honest a gentleman,
That came a suitor to her for pure love.
Sir Arg. Love! Mischief of love!
Fruit. Alas, I know
It was not her estate that you sought after,
Your love was honester: and then that she
Should cosen you!
Sir Arg. She shall not cosen me:
I'll have my horse-litter made ready straight,
And leave her house.
Fruit. But when you see her, sir,
It may be your affection will return.
If you should leave her only upon this,
The world would think that you were covetous;
And covetousness is such a sin, you know.
Sir Arg. You do not mock me, do you?
Fruit. Who? I, sir?
I know your worship does abhor the sin
Of covetousness; but I confess indeed
'Twould vex a man to have been cosen'd so.
Sir Arg. Have I liv'd all this while to be o'er-reach'd
And cheated by a woman? I'll forsake her
Immediately.
Fruit. Sir, 'tis a happy thing,
When men can love with such discretion,
As to forsake when they shall see just cause.
Some are so fond in their affections
That, though provok'd by all the injuries
That can be offer'd, they can never leave
The mistress of their hearts.
Sir Arg. I warrant her,
For any such affection in old Argent.
Fruit. I do believe it, sir; you are too wise. [Retires.
Enter Lady Covet.
Lady C. How do you, sir?
Sir Arg. E'en as I may:
You do not mean I shall be e'er the better
For you.
Lady C. How's this? I do not understand
What you should mean.
Sir Arg. You may, if you consider:
But if you do not, I'll explain it to you.
Have I deserv'd such dealing at your hands?
Lady C. As what?
Sir Arg. As that you should speak one thing to me
And mean another; but I'll make it plainer;
You seem'd to love me, and for love it seems,
Thinking to marry me, have made away
All your estate.
Sir Arg. Nay, 'tis too true,
Or else your chaplain does you wrong.
Lady C. O villain!
Sir Arg. Nay, villain him no villains; is it so,
Or not?
Fruit. If she deny it to you, sir,
I can produce her hand, and have the deed.
Lady C. O monstrous villany! O impudence!
Can'st thou abuse me thus, that first of all
Did'st counsel me to do it?
Fruit. I confess
I gave you way, and for the time did wink
At your false dealing; but at last my conscience
Would not permit me to conceal it longer.
I have discharg'd it now, and told the truth.
Sir Arg. Twas well done of you, sir: well, I'll away.
Madam, seek out some other man to cheat.
For me you shall not.
Lady. C. Stay, sir, my estate
Shall still be good; the feoffees will be honest.
Fruit. Ay, that they will, to keep what is their own.
Lady C. O monstrous wickedness! was e'er the like
Heard of before?
Fruit. I know the feoffees' minds.
Enter Freeman, Euphues, Barnet, Dotterel, Lady Whimsey.
Free. How fare you, madam. Wherefore look you sadly
At such a joyful time?
Lady C. O Master Freeman,
I am undone and ruin'd.
Fruit. No, good madam,
We'll see you shall not want.
Free. How's this?
Fruit. You shall have a fair competence allow'd you.
Euph. What riddle have we here?
Lady C. Out, thou ungracious, dissembling villain.
Fruit. An indifferent means
Will keep your ladyship; for you are past
Those vanities which younger ladies use:
You need no gaudy clothes, no change of fashions,
No paintings nor perfumes.
Euph. I would fain know the bottom of this.
Lady W. Servant, can you discover
What this should mean?
Dot. No, mistress, I protest:
With all the wit I have.
Fruit. And for your house,
You shall have leave to stay here, till we have
Provided for you.
Lady C. O, my heart will break!
Euph. Here is the finest turn that e'er I saw.
Sir Arg. I will resolve you, gentlemen. This lady,
To cosen me in marriage, had (it seems)
Pass'd her estate away: into what hands
'Tis fallen, I know not, nor I care not, I.
Fruit. 'Tis fallen into the hands of wise men, sir,
That know how to make use of what is theirs.
Lady C. This hypocrite persuaded me to do't,
And then discover'd all, as if on purposes
He sought my ruin.
Fruit. No, not I, good madam:
'Twas for your soul's health; I have done you good,
And eas'd you of a burden, and a great one.
So much estate would have been still a cause
Of cares unto you, and those cares have hinder'd
Your quiet passage to a better life.
Euph. Excellent devil! how I love him now!
Never did knavery play a juster part.
Fruit. And why should you, at such an age as this,
Dream of a marriage? A thing so far
Unfit, nay most unnatural and profane,
To stain that holy ordinance, and make it
But a mere bargain! For two clods of earth
Might have been join'd as well in matrimony.
Tis for your soul's health, madam, I do this.
Euph. How much was I mistaken in this chaplain!
I see he has brains.
Free. Though't be dishonesty
In him, yet justly was it plac'd on her:
And I could even applaud it.
Lady W. I protest I love this chaplain.
Dot. So do I, sweet mistress, or I am an errant fool.
Lady C. But yet I hope
The feoffees may prove honest: I'll try them.
Fruit. I'll go and bring them to your ladyship. [Exit Fruitful.
Sir Arg. I'll stay no longer. Make my litter ready.
Lady, farewell; and to you all.
Free. Nay, sir.
Then let me interpose; let me entreat you,
By all the rites of neighbourhood, Sir Argent,
Make not so sudden a departure now.
What, though the business has gone so cross,
You may part fairly yet. Stay till to-morrow;
Let not the country take too great a notice
Of these proceedings and strange breach: 'twill be
Nothing but a dishonour to you both.
Pray, sir, consent: give me your hand, Sir Argent.
Sir Arg. At your entreaty, sir, I'll stay till morning.
Free. Before that time, you may consider better. [Exeunt.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] [A MS. note in one of the former edits. says: "This sudden and total change, unnatural as it is, is one of the characteristics of the old plays.">[
[ACT V.]
Matilda, Theodore.
Mat. I'll not refuse my uncle's courtesy,
But go and see his house. I should before
Have done that duty to him, but I thought
My visits were not welcome, since he liv'd
So close and privately.
Theo. Sweet cousin, you'll find
A happy alteration in my father,
And that there dwells a kind and honest soul
Within his breast. Though wretched avarice,
The usual fault of age, has heretofore
Too much kept back the good expressions
Of such-like thoughts, he now will make amends
To all the world; and has begun already
With his poor neighbours.
Mat. Cousin, I shall be
Too bad a guest at this sad time, and bring
Nothing but sorrow to my uncle's house.
Theo. You'll be yourself a welcome guest to him;
And I shall think our roof exceeding happy,
If it may mitigate that killing grief,
Which your so solitary life too much
Has nourish'd in you. Cousin, feed it not:
'Tis a disease that will in time consume you.
I have already given the best advice,
That my poor knowledge will afford, to ease
Your troubled thoughts. If time, which Heaven allows
To cure all griefs, should not have power to do it:
If death of father, mother, husband, wife,
Should be lamented still, the world would wear
Nothing but black: sorrow alone would reign
In every family that lives, and bring
Upon poor mortals a perpetual night.
You must forget it, cousin.
Mat. Never can I
Forget my love to him.
Theo. Nor do I strive
To teach you to forget that love you bear
To his dear memory; but that grief which lies
Wrapp'd in amongst it, and turns all to poison,
Making it mortal to that soul that tastes it—
'Tis that, sweet cousin, which I hope that time
May by degrees extinguish. Will you please
To walk along? My father long ere this
Expects us, I am sure, and longs to see you. [Exeunt.
Eugeny in the Officers' hands.
Eug. I blame you not at all, that by the law
And virtue of your places are requir'd
To apprehend me.
Officer. We are sorry, sir, we were enforc'd to seize you.
Eug. But I wonder
What curious eye it was that search'd so far
Into my secret walks, that did discover
This dark abode of mine, and envied me
My solitary sorrow: such a life,
As I enjoy'd, a man might well afford
To his most great and mortal enemy.
Officer. 'Twas a plain fellow, sir, that brought us hither
In the king's name, and left us when we had you.
But, sir, we wish you all the good we may.
Eug. I thank you, friends: I cannot tell at all
Whom to suspect; nor will I further vex
My thoughts in search of such a needless thing.
I call to mind what once my Theodore
Told me by way of a surmise; but, sure,
It cannot be so foul. Shall I entreat you
To carry me to old Sir Argent Scrape,
My kinsman? I would only speak with him,
Before I go to prison: and let one,
If you can spare a man, go run for me
To Master Earthworm's house, and bid his son
Meet me with old Sir Argent; he lies now
At my Lady Covet's house. I have about me
What will reward your pains, and highly too.
Officer. It shall be done, as you would have it, sir.
Eug. I dare not send to fair Artemia:
The sight of her and of so dear a sorrow
As she would show, would but afflict me more.
Perchance I may come safely off; till then
I would conceal this accident from her.
But fame is swiftest still, when she goes laden
With news of mischief: she too soon will hear,
And in her sorrow I shall doubly suffer.
Thus are we fortune's pastimes: one day live
Advanc'd to heaven by the people's breath,
The next, hurl'd down into th' abyss of death.
Enter Euphues, Artemia.
Euph. But are you sure 'tis hereabouts he lives?
Ha! who is that? 'Tis he, and in the hands
Of officers! Cousin, the mischief's done
Before we come.
Art. O my dear Eugeny!
Eug. Artemia too! Ah me! she swoons! Help, help!
Look up, my love! There is no fear at all
For me; no danger: all is safe, and full
Of hope and comfort.
Euph. She begins to come
Unto herself again.
Eug. But pray, sir, tell
How came you hither, noble Euphues?
Euph. I never knew the place; but now, by her
Instructions, found it out. I came to bear
Her company, and her intent of coming
Was to inform you of a danger near—
Of such a monstrous mischief, as perchance
You scarce can credit. Old Sir Argent Scrape,
By me and by another gentleman,
Was overheard to say that he had scouts,
And had laid certain plots to apprehend
His kinsman Eugeny, just before th' assizes.
Besides, what further means he did intend,
Closely to work your death, he then declar'd
To the old covetous lady, whom he came
A suitor to.
Eug. Prophetic Theodore, how right thou wert!
Euph. This thing, when I had heard,
I told it her, and we with speed made hither;
But ere we came, the mischief was fulfill'd.
Eug. I thank you, sir, for this discovery:
Howe'er I speed, pray pardon me, if I
Shall by the hand of justice die your debtor.
How soon from virtue and an honour'd spirit
Man may receive what he can never merit!
Be not thou cruel, my Artemia;
Do not torment me with thy grief, and make
Me die before my time: let hope a while
Suspend thy sorrow; if the worst should fall,
Thy sorrow would but more enfeeble me,
And make me suffer faintly for thy sake.
Art. If worst should fall, my love (which heaven forfend),
How could I choose but suffer?
Euph. I will hope
Your safety yet may well be wrought; and knowing
Sir Argent's mind, you know what ways to trust.
Art. Good cousin, help us with thy counsel now,
If thou dost love my life.
Euph. Fear it not, cousin:
If I may aid you, sir, in anything,
You shall command it.
Eug. Sir, I cannot thank you
So much as it deserves: this timely favour,
If not in life, yet shall at least in death
Endear me to you.
Art. Do not name that word,
My dearest love!
Euph. You must be speedy, sir,
In all your courses now.
Eug. Then let me beg
That you would meet me at my Lady Covet's.
I'll ring Sir Argent Scrape so loud a peal,
As shall, perchance, awake his bed-rid soul,
And rouse it, though so deeply sunk in dross—
Drown'd and o'erwhelm'd with muck. Go you together,
And leave me to my way.
Art. Farewell, dear love! [Exeunt severally.
Enter Barnet, Lady Whimsey.
Bar. Madam, 'tis sure; I know your ladyship
Is so possess'd.
Lady W. I think he loves me well,
And will not now start back from marrying me.
Bar. That is the happy hour he only longs for;
But if so strange a thing should come to pass,
Which yet I think impossible, that this
Your marriage should break off, I will give back
Into your hand this bond, which I receiv'd;
And 'tis worth nothing, madam, as you know
By the condition.
Lady W. True, I fear it not;
But I durst trust you, if 'twere otherwise.
Bar. He waits the hour, when you will please to tie
The happy knot with him.
Lady W. He shall no longer
Wait for it now: I'll go confirm him.
Bar. But think not, gentle madam, that I shark[19]
Or cheat him in it: I have to a sum
Greater than this from him as good a title
As right can give, though my unhappy fortunes
Made me forbear the trial of my title,
While his old crafty father was alive.
He held from me a farm of greater value,
As all the neighbours know: I then forbore it,
And will do still, since by an easier way
I may have satisfaction. But here comes
One that has lost a marriage.
Enter Trusty, Lady Covet.
Lady C. Tell me, Trusty, what say the feoffees?
Trusty. They'll say nothing, madam;
Make me no answer, but that they know how
To manage their own fortunes.
Lady C. All the world
Conspires against me; I am quite undone!
Trusty. I promise you truly, madam, I believe
They mean little better than plain knavery.
Lady C. Ay, 'tis too true.
Lady W. How does your ladyship?
I was in hope to-day we should have seen you
A joyful bride.
Lady C. Ah, madam! 'twas my folly
To dream of such a thing; 'tis that has brought me
To all this sorrow, and undone me quite.
Lady W. I hope not so. But, madam, I confess
The marriage could have done you little good:
One of your years, and then a man so old!
Lady C. O, do not mention it; I am justly punish'd.
Lady W. Pardon me, madam; I must make so bold
As leave you for a while. Come, Master Barnet,
Shall we go see the party?
Bar. I wait you, madam. [Exeunt.
Lady C. My sorrow will not leave me. But, alas!
'Tis a deserved punishment I suffer
For my unjust oppressions; I detain'd
Scudmore's estate injuriously, and had
No conscience to restore what was not mine,
And now all's ta'en away! What then I would not,
I cannot now perform, though I desire.
Enter Freeman, Artemia.
Free. Fear not, Artemia, there shall no means
Be left untri'd to save the gentleman.
I did approve thy choice, and still will do,
If fortune will consent. My Lady Covet,
Are you sad still?
Lady C. Never had any woman
A greater cause of sorrow, Master Freeman;
For I protest it does not trouble me
So much, that by this cheat I lose the power
Of my estate, as that I lose all means
Of charity or restitution
To any person whom I wrong'd before.
Free. Why, then, you make a true and perfect use
Of such a cross, and may hereafter take
True comfort from it.
Lady C. If my conscience
Were satisfi'd, I could forsake the rest.
Enter Euphues.
Euph. My cousin, I perceive, has made more haste
Hither than I; but I have seen a pageant
That, in the saddest time, would make one laugh.
Free. What, prythee?
Euph. I have seen your neighbour Earthworm
In such a mood, as you would wonder at,
And all that ever knew him heretofore.
He is inveighing 'gainst Sir Argent Scrape
For being so basely covetous, as thus
For hope of lucre to betray his kinsman:
A thing that he himself would scorn as much,
He does protest, as can be.
Free. I have known
It otherwise. What may not come to pass,
When Earthworm is a foe to avarice?
Euph. But he, they say, has made it good in deeds.
Free. He has been so exceeding bountiful
Now to our poor, and vows to be so still,
That we may well believe he is quite chang'd,
And strives to make amends for what is pass'd.
He has, they say, a brave and virtuous son,
Lately come home, that has been cause of all.
Euph. It well may be: I know young Theodore.
Uncle, he is of strange abilities;
And to convert his father was an act
Worthy of him.
Enter Servant, and Sir Argent in his chair.
Ser. Madam, Sir Argent Scrape would take his leave
Of you.
Lady C. When it pleases him.
Sir Arg. Get me my litter
Ready presently; I will be gone. Madam,
I now am come to give you loving thanks
For my good cheer, and so bid you farewell.
But let me tell you this, before we part:
Things might have been carried another way
For your own good; but you may thank yourself
For what has happened now.
Lady C. If you suppose
It had been for my good to marry you,
You are deceiv'd; for that, in my esteem
(Though once I was so foolish to give way
To that ridiculous motion), had brought with it
As great a misery as that which now
Is fall'n upon me.
Sir Arg. How! as great a misery
As to be beggar'd?
Lady C. Yes, sir, I'll assure you,
I am of that opinion, and still shall be.
But know, Sir Argent, though I now want pow'r
To give you that which you still gap'd for, wealth,
I can be charitable, and bestow
Somewhat upon you that is better far.
Sir Arg. Better than wealth! what's that?
Lady C. Honest counsel.
Let my calamity admonish you
To make a better use of your large wealth,
While you may call it yours. Things may be chang'd;
For know, that hand that has afflicted me,
Can find out you. You do not stand above it.
Sir Arg. I hope I shall know how to keep mine own.
Euph. I do begin to pity the poor lady.
Free. This has wrought goodness in her. Who are these?
Enter Earthworm and Theodore.
My neighbour Earthworm? Lord! how he is chang'd!
Earth. 'Twas basely done, and like a covetous wretch,
I'll tell him to his face: what care I for him?
I have a purse as well as he.
Euph. How's this?
Earth. Betray a kinsman's life to purchase wealth!
O, detestable!
Euph. O miraculous change!
Do you not hear him, uncle?
Earth. Master Freeman, happily met.
Free. Sir, I am glad to see you.
Earth. I have been long your neighbour, sir, but liv'd
In such a fashion, as I must endeavour
To make amends hereafter for, and strive
To recompence with better neighbourhood.
Free. It joys me much to see this change in you.
Earth. Pardon my boldness, madam, that I make
This intrusion.
Lady C. Y'are welcome, Master Earthworm.
Euph. Let me be bold, then, noble Theodore,
To claim our old acquaintance.
Theo. I shall think it
My honour, worthy sir, to hold that name.
Earth. Is that Sir Argent Scrape in the chair yonder?
Free. Yes, sir.
Earth. O, fie upon him! But soft,
He will be told on't now. [Eugeny brought in.
Sir Arg. Ha! Eugeny!
Why have they brought him hither?
Eug. I am come.
Methinks these looks of mine, inhumane wretch!
Though I were silent, should have power to pierce
That treacherous breast, and wound thy conscience,
Though it be hard and senseless as the idol
Which thou ador'st, thy gold.
Sir Arg. Is this to me, kinsman, you speak?
Eug. Kinsman! Do not wrong
That honest name with thy unhallowed lips.
To find a name for thee and thy foul guilt,
Has so far pos'd me, as I cannot make
Choice of a language fit to tell thee of it.
Treacherous, bloody man! that has betray'd
And sold my life to thy base avarice!
Sir Arg. Who? I betray you?
Eug. Yes; can you deny it?
Lady C. I'll witness it against him, if he do.
'Twas his intent, I know.
Euph. And so do I:
I overheard his counsels.
Earth. Out upon him,
Unworthy man!
Euph. I could e'en laugh to hear
Old Earthworm chide.
Eug. But think upon the deed,
Think on your own decrepit age, and know
That day, by nature's possibility,
Cannot be far from hence, when you must leave
Those wealthy hoards that you so basely lov'd,
And carry nothing with thee, but the guilt
Of impious getting: then, if you would give
To pious uses what you cannot keep,
Think what a wretched charity it is;
And know, this act shall leave a greater stain
On your detested memory, than all
Those seeming deeds of charity can have
A pow'r to wash away: when men shall say
In the next age: this goodly hospital,
This house of alms, this school, though seeming fair,
Was the foul issue of a cursed murder,
And took foundation in a kinsman's blood.
The privilege that rich men have in evil,
Is, that they go unpunish'd to the devil.
Sir Arg. O! I could wish the deed undone again.
Ah me! what means are left to help it now?
Free. Sure, the old man begins to melt indeed.
Eug. Now let me turn to you, my truer friends,
And take my last farewell.
Enter Fruitful and Trusty.
Euph. My noble chaplain!
What pranks comes he to play now? I had thought
His business had been done.
Fruit. Health to you, madam!
Lady C. How can you wish me health, that have so labour'd
To ruin me in all things?
Fruit. No, good madam;
'Twas not your ruin, but your good I sought:
Nor was it to deprive you of your means,
But only rectify your conscience.
Free. How's this?
Euph. Another fetch! this may be worth the hearing.
Fruit. Madam, you convey'd away
To three good honest men your whole estate.
Lady C. They have not prov'd so honest: I had thought
I might have trusted them.
Fruit. Then give me hearing.
They, by the virtue of that deed possess'd,
Have back again convey'd it all to you.
Lady C. Ha!
Fruit. Madam, 'twas done before good witnesses,
Of which your steward here was one.
Trusty. Most true.
Fruit. And all the other are well-known to you.
Here is the deed.
Free. Let me peruse it, madam.
Lady C. Good Master Freeman, do.
[Freeman reads it to himself.
Euph. What plot is this?
Fruit. One manor only they except from hence.
Which they suppose you did unjustly hold
From the true heir: his name was Scudmore, madam.
Lady C. I do confess I did unjustly hold it;
And since have griev'd me much, that while I might,
I made not restitution.
Fruit. He was poor,
And by the law could not recover it;
Therefore this means was taken. By this deed
They have convey'd it hither, where it ought
Of right to be: are you content with this?
And all the rest of your estate is yours.
Lady C. With all my heart.
Free. Madam, the deed is good.
Lady C. For that estate which justly is pass'd over
To Scudmore's heir, I am so well content,
As that, before these gentlemen, I promise
To pay him back all the arrearages
Of whatsoever profits I have made.
Fruit. I thank your ladyship. Now know your chaplain,
That wanted orders. [Discovers himself.
Lady C. Master Scudmore living!
Euph. My friend, how couldst thou keep conceal'd so long
From me?
Scud. Excuse it, noble Euphues.
Art. O happiness beyond what could be hop'd!
My Eugeny is safe, and all his griefs
At quiet now.
Eug. Is this a vision,
A mere fantastic show, or do I see
Scudmore himself alive? then let me beg
Pardon from him.
Scud. Long ago 'twas granted:
Thy love I now shall seek. But though awhile
For these my ends I have conceal'd myself,
I ever meant to secure thee from danger.
Eug. What strange unlook'd-for happiness this day
Has brought forth with it!
Scud. To tell you by what means
I was most strangely cur'd, and found a way
How to conceal my life, will be too long
Now to discourse of here; I will anon
Relate at large. But one thing much has griev'd me,
That my too long concealment has been cause
Of so much sorrow to my constant love,
The fair Matilda. Sir, she is your niece,
Let me intreat my pardon, next to her,
From you.
Earth. You have it. Go, good Theodore,
And bring her hither, but prepare her first:
Too sudden apprehension of a joy
Is sometimes fatal.
Theo. I'll about it gladly. [Exit.
Sir Arg. Dear cousin Eugeny, if I yet may be
Thought worthy of that name, pardon my crime,
And my whole life, how short soe'er it be,
Shall testify my love to be unfeigned.
Eug. I do forgive you freely. Now to you,
Grave sir, in whose rich bounty it must lie,
To make me happy in conferring on me
So bright a jewel as Artemia,
'Tis your consent I beg.
Free. You have it freely;
Her heart I know she gave you long ago,
And here I give her hand.
Eug. A richer gift
Than any monarch of the world can give:
Bless'd happiness? Gently my joys distil,[20]
Lest you do break the vessel you should fill.
Enter Barnet, Dotterel, Lady Whimsey.
Euph. Here comes another couple to make up
The day's festivity. Joy to you, madam!
Lady W. Thanks, noble Euphues.
Dot. We have tied the knot,
That cannot be undone: this gentleman is witness
Of it.
Bar. Yes, I saw it finish'd.
Lady W. Mistress Artemia, as I suppose,
I may pronounce as much to you?
Art. You may as much as I shall wish your ladyship.
Enter Theodore and Matilda.
Scud. Here comes the dearest object of my soul,
In whom too much I see my cruelty,
And chide myself. O, pardon me, dear love,
That I too long a time have tyranniz'd
Over thy constant sorrow.
Mat. Dearest Scudmore,
But that my worthy cousin has prepar'd
My heart for this, I should not have believ'd
My flattering eyes.
Scud. To know brave Theodore,
Next to enjoying thee, was my ambition;
Which now affinity hath bless'd me with.
Eug. His friendship, worthy Scudmore, is a treasure.
Theo. I shall endeavour to deserve your loves.
Earth. Come, leave your compliments at all hands now,
And hear an old man speak. I must intreat
This favour from all this noble company,
Especially from you, good Master Freeman,
Although this be your daughter's wedding-day,
That you would all be pleas'd to be my guests,
And keep with me your marriage festivals.
Grant my request.
Free. 'Tis granted, sir, from me.
Eug. And so, I think, from all the company.
Earth. Then let's be merry: Earthworm's jovial now,
And that's as much as he desires from you. [To the Pit.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] i.e., Collect my prey like the shark-fish. So in "Hamlet"—
"Shark'd up a troop of landless resolutes."
—Steevens.
[20] [See Introduction to this play, p. 4.]
[A WOMAN NEVER VEXED.]
EDITION.
A New Wonder, A Woman never Vext. A Pleasant Conceited Comedy: sundry times Acted: never before printed. Written by William Rowley, one of his Maiesties Servants. London, Imprinted by G. P., for Francis Constable, and are to be sold at his shop, at the signe of the Crane in Saint Pauls Churchyard. 1632. 4o.
[DILKE'S PREFACE]
(With Additions, &c.)[21]
This writer is ranked by the editors of the "Biographia Dramatica" in the third class of dramatic writers, and Mr Gifford justly observes it is impossible to place him higher. [Mr Collier, in a note to Rowley's "Match at Midnight," 1633, Introd., supposed that Samuel Rowley, the writer of the historical play on "Henry VIII.," 1605, might be the "Master Rowley, once a rare scholar of Pembroke Hall," mentioned by Meres ("Politeuphuia," 1598, "Anc. Crit. Essays," iii. 154), as one of the best for comedy; but Meres, who was himself a university man, would scarcely confound either Samuel or William Rowley with the Ralph Rowley of Pembroke Hall, writer of certain occasional poetry now forgotten (Cooper's "Athenæ," ii. 388); and it is grossly improbable, surely, that Meres should cite Ralph Rowley as "one of the best for comedy" on the strength of such pieces as are connected with Samuel Rowley's name. Mr Collier remarks, that it appears from Henslowe's memoranda ("Diary," pp. 120, 218) that "in the very year in which Meres wrote, [Samuel Rowley] was reduced to accept the situation of a hireling at Henslowe's theatre." There is no trace of anything written by him earlier than Jan. 7, 1601-2, when he assisted William Haughton and William Borne in writing a piece called "Judas." As to William, he could scarcely have acquired any reputation so early, and what, on the whole, is most likely to have been the truth is, that Ralph Rowley composed pieces which, like those of the Earl of Oxford and others, have not survived.[22] Of the time or place of his birth, or decease, we are altogether ignorant. Of his life it is only known that he was a player. That he lived on terms of intimacy with the dramatic writers of his time is sufficiently evident from his having written in conjunction with many of them; and, if we may believe the title-page, [which we cannot, we should be able to believe that] in one[23] he received assistance from Shakespeare himself. He was a comedian, and one of the Prince's company of players; and Oldys observes, in his MSS. notes to Langbaine, on the authority of [transcripts made by Vertue from] the office books of Lord Harrington, Treasurer of the Chambers in those years, that "One William Rowley was head of the Prince's company of comedians from 1613 to 1616:" this, there can be [no] doubt, was our author; and [he continued to belong to that company till the death of James I.[24]] The tragedy of "All's Lost by Lust" (as it is better known) would perhaps have been selected in preference, but for the resemblance it bears, in the general outline, to the "Women beware Women" of Middleton, and the "Appius and Virginia" of Webster,[25] to either of which, in my opinion, it is inferior. On the present play Langbaine observes that the passage of the widow's finding her wedding-ring, which she dropped in crossing the Thames, in the belly of a fish which her maid bought accidently in the market, is founded either upon the story of Polycrates of Samos, as the author may read at large in Herodotus, lib. 3, sive Thalia; or upon the like story related of one Anderson of Newcastle, by Doctor Fuller, in his "Worthies of England." The story here referred to is this: "A citizen of Newcastle (whose name I take to be M. Anderson) talking with a friend of his upon Newcastle bridge, and fingering his ring, before he was aware let it fall into the river; and was much troubled with the losse of it, till by a fish caught in the river that losse was repaired, and his ring restored to him." It is quite impossible, however, that our author could have had this story from Fuller's "Worthies," which was not published till many years after this drama was in print: he might, however, have found it, whence indeed Fuller himself took it (and the story of Polycrates is likewise quoted there), in the Preface to a little work called "Vox Piscis, or the Book-Fish, containing three Treatises, which were found in the belly of a Cod-fish in Cambridge Market, on Midsummer Eve last, Anno Domini 1626;" published in London in 1627. It is not noticed either by Langbaine or the editors of the "Biographia Dramatica" that this play is, in part, historical. This, however, is the case; and I have collected together, from various scattered notices in Stow and Strype, the best account I was enabled of Stephen Foster, his wife, and Alderman Brewen,[26] three of the principal persons in the drama. Sir Stephen Foster was the son of Robert Foster of London, stock-fishmonger; he was elected Sheriff of London in the year 1444, and Lord Mayor in 1454, and served as member for that city in the parliament held at Westminster in the thirteenth of Henry VI. Speaking of Ludgate, Strype says, (Append, p. 26), "There happened to be prisoner there, one Stephen Foster, who (as poor men are at this day) was a cryer at the grate, to beg the benevolent charities of pious and commiserate benefactors that passed by. As he was doing his doleful office, a rich widow of London hearing his complaint, enquired of him what would release him? To which he answered, Twenty pound; which she in charity expended; and clearing him out of prison, entertained him in her service; who, afterward falling into the way of merchandise, and increasing as well in wealth as courage, wooed his mistress, Dame Agnes, and married her.
"Her riches and his industry brought him both great wealth and honour, being afterwards no less than Sir Stephen Foster, Lord Mayor of the honourable city of London: yet whilst he lived in this great honour and dignity, he forgot not the place of his captivity; but, mindful of the sad and irksome place wherein poor men were imprisoned, bethought himself of enlarging it, to make it a little more delightful and pleasant for those who in aftertimes should be imprisoned and shut up therein. And, in order thereunto, acquainted his lady with this his pious purpose and intention, in whom likewise he found so affable and willing a mind to do good to the poor, that she promised to expend as much as he should do for the carrying on of the work; and, having possessions adjoining thereunto, they caused to be erected and built the rooms and places following, that is to say, the paper house, the porch, the watch-hall, the upper and lower lumbries, the cellar, the long ward, and the chapel for divine service; in which chapel is an inscription upon the wall, containing these words—
"This chapel was erected and ordained for the divine worship and service of God, by the Right Honourable Sir Stephen Foster, Knight, some time Lord Maior of this honourable city, and by Dame Agnes his wife, for the use and godly exercise of the prisoners in this prison of Ludgate, Anno 1454.
" ... He likewise gave maintenance for a preaching minister," ... and "ordained what he had so built, with that little which was before, should be free for all free-men, and that they providing their own bedding should pay nothing at their departure for lodging or chamber-rent."[27]
There can be little doubt from the inscription in the chapel, that this worthy man was alive in the year 1454; it is still more certain from the following extract from Stow, that he was dead in 1463: "In the year 1463, the third of Edward the Fourth, Mathew Philip being mayor, in a common counsaile, at the request of the well-disposed, blessed, and devout woman, Dame Agnes Foster, widow, late wife to Stephen Foster, fishmonger, sometime mayor, for the comfort and reliefe of all the poore prisoners, certaine articles were established. In primis, that the new works then late edified by the same Dame Agnes, for the inlarging of the prison of Ludgate, from thenceforth should be had and taken as a parte and parcell of the saide prison of Ludgate, so that both the old and new works of Ludgate aforesaid, be one prison, gaile, keeping, and charge for evermore." To this Stow adds, "The said quadrant strongly builded of stone, by the fore-named Stephen Foster, and Agnes his wife, contayneth a large walking-place by ground, ... the like roome it hath over it for lodgings, and over all a fayre leades to walke upon, well imbattayled, all for ease of prisoners, to the ende they shoulde have lodging and water free without charge: as by certaine verses grauen in copper, and fixed on the said quadrant, I have read in forme following—
'Deuout soules that passe this way,
for Stephen Foster late mayor, hartely pray,
And Dame Agnes his spouse, to God consecrate,
that of pitty this house made for Lōdoners in Ludgate.
So that for lodging and water prisoners here nought pay,
as there keepers shall answere at dreadfull domes day.'
"This plate, and one other of his armes, taken downe with the old gate, I caused to be fixed over the entrie of the said quadrant, but the verses being unhappily turned inward to the wall, the like in effect is graven outward in prose, declaring him to be a fishmonger, because some upon a light occasion (as a maydens heade in a glasse window) had fabuled him to bee a mercer, and to have begged there at Ludgate." "They were both buried (Stow, p. 163, edit. 1598) at Butolph's church, Billingsgate." How far the poet has deviated from the tradition as recorded by Strype, the reader will be now as well able to decide as myself: when I speak of the tradition, I allude only to the circumstance of his having been confined a prisoner in Ludgate, and to his release by his wife (by his nephew according to the drama); and this I do on the authority of Stow, the elder of the historians who, in his concluding remarks, refers to it as a fable. Of the charitable acts of these worthy people there can be no doubt. In relation to the character of Bruin, I find (Strype, ii. 260) that "In the year 1197, Walter Brune, a citizen of London, and Rosia his wife, founded the hospital of Our Lady, called Domus Dei, or St Mary the Spittle, without Bishopsgate in London, an house of such relief to the needy, that there was found standing at the surrender thereof nine score beds well furnished for receipt of poor people." The reader cannot fail to notice the gross anachronisms with which the plot of this drama abounds; something, however, may be said in excuse of the bringing together such men as Foster and Bruin; but the introduction of Henry III. is so wanton and unnecessary, that there can be little doubt it is an error of the printer's, and that Henry VI. is the character intended, in whose time Sir Stephen Foster lived. I did not, however, think it necessary to disturb the text; not out of respect to the quarto, for a more disgraceful work never issued from the press even of the printers of that age, but because, the circumstance having been once noticed, it becomes of little consequence. While on this subject I may just observe, that in the original this play is, with very trifling limitations, throughout printed as blank verse: by what possible rule or ear the division was made it is absolutely impossible to conceive; some scenes have without hesitation been reduced to prose; and by changing the construction of whole speeches, innumerable couplets have been restored: if yet the attentive reader shall discover passages (and that many have escaped my notice I cannot doubt), on which he would willingly exercise his skill, I can only observe that he must not make too free with the pruning knife; that it is difficult to distinguish between a licentious metre and measured prose; and that very little good dramatic dialogue of the higher walks can be found, that, with moderate torturing to the eye and ear, may not pass for such metre.
The following is a list of his dramatic works—
1. "A New Wonder," "A Woman never vext," C. 4o, 1632.
2. A Tragedy called, All's Lost by Lust. Written by William Rowley. Divers times Acted by the Lady Elizabeths Servants. And now lately by her Maiesties Servants, with great applause, at the Phœnix in Drury-Lane. 4o, 1633.
3. "A Match at Midnight," C. 4o, 1633, printed post.
4. "A Shoemaker's a Gentleman," C. 4o, 1638.
He wrote also, in conjunction with Day and Wilkins,
5. "The Travels of Three English Brothers," Sir Thomas, Sir Anthony, and Mr Robert Sherley. 4o, 1607.
With Middleton,
6. "A Fair Quarrel," C. 4o, 1617.
7. "The World toss'd at Tennis," M. 4o, 1620.
8. "The Spanish Gipsy," C. 4o, 1663.
And,
9. "The Changeling," T. 4o, 1653.
With Fletcher,
10. "The Maid of the Mill," fol. 1647.
With Massinger and Middleton,
11. "The Old Law," T. C. 4o, 1656.
With Dekker and Ford,
12. "The Witch of Edmonton," T. C. 4o, 1658.
And (it is, however, very doubtful) with Shakespeare,
13. "The Birth of Merlin." T. C. 4o, 1662.
With Webster (though Webster's participation is equally problematical),
14. "A Cure for a Cuckold," C. 1661.
And,
15. "The Thracian Wonder," C. H. 4o, 1661.
And with Heywood,
16. "Fortune by Land and Sea," C. 4o, 1655.
The following are also entered in his name on the Books of the Stationers' Company—
- "The Fool without Book."
- "A Knave in Print; or, One for Another."
- "The Nonesuch."[28]
- "The Book of the Four Honoured Loves."
- And,
- "The Parliament of Love."
In the Dramatis Personæ, prefixed to his own play of "All's Lost by Lust," the part of Jaques, a simple clownish gentleman, is said to have been personated by the poet; and in Middleton's "Inner Temple Masque," 1619, he performed the part of Plumb-porridge.
It appears from Sir H. Herbert's office book, that one of the Rowleys wrote "A Match or No Match;" this is most probably our author's "Match at Midnight." Rowley wrote also a [prose] pamphlet called, "A Search for Money; or, The Lamentable Complaint for the Loss of the Wandering Knight, Monsieur L'Argent," &c., 4o, 1609;[29] [an elegy on a fellow-performer, Hugh Atwell, who died on the 25th September 1621; printed on a broadside, and two or three other poetical trifles.][30]
FOOTNOTES:
[21] [This play having been printed by Dilke, and the following one (by the same author) in Dodsley's collection, the two prefaces presented, of course, many repetitions, as well as certain mistakes. That now given (from a collation of the two) will, it is hoped, be found to contain the whole matter of both without these accidental oversights.]
[22] Malone (Sh. by Bosw. II. 172) expresses his conviction that this "rare scholar of Pembroke Hall" was neither William nor Samuel Rowley, but Ralph Rowley, who became a student of Pembroke Hall in 1579, and was elected fellow in 1583.—Collier.
[23] ["The Birth of Merlin," 1662.]
[24] [Halliwell's "New Illustrations of the Life of Shakespeare," 1875, pp. 29, 30, where a curious anecdote of him is given.]
[25] The title of "All's Lost by Lust" might, at least with equal propriety, be given to the others.
[26] [In the old copy and by Dilke the name is given as Bruin.]
[27] [See further Stow, edit. 1720, bk. i. p. 21.]
[28] [This and the two following plays were in Warburton's collection of MSS. dramas, and appear to have perished.]
[29] [Chalmers, and after him Dilke, confounded Samuel with William Rowley, supposing the latter to be the writer of the historical play on the reign of Henry VIII. 4o, 1605, 1613, &c.]
[30] [Hazlitt's "Handbook," in v.]