ACT THE FIFTH
SCENE I.—A Battle-field.
Alarums: enter Sacripant crowned, and pursuing Marsilius and Mandricard.
Sac. Viceroys, you are dead;
For Sacripant, already crown'd a king,
Heaves up his sword to have your diadems.
Mars. Traitor, not dead, nor any whit dismay'd;
For dear we prize the smallest drop of blood.
Enter Orlando with a scarf before his face.
Orl. Stay, princes, 'base not yourselves to combat such a dog.
Mount on your coursers, follow those that fly,
And let your conquering swords be tainted in their bloods:
Pass ye for him; he shall be combated.
[Exeunt Marsilius and Mandricard.
Sac. Why, what art thou that brav'st me thus?
Orl. I am, thou see'st, a mercenary soldier,
Homely attir'd, but of so haughty thoughts,
As naught can serve to quench th' aspiring flames,
That burn as do the fires of Sicily,
Unless I win that princely diadem,
That seems so ill upon thy coward's head.
Sac. Coward! To arms, sir boy! I will not brook these braves,
If Mars himself, even from his fiery throne
Came arm'd with all his furnitures of war.
[They fight, and Sacripant falls.
O villain! thou hast slain a prince.
Orl. Then mayst thou think that Mars himself came down,
To vail thy plumes and heave thee from thy pomp.
Proud that thou art, I reck not of thy gree,
But I will have the conquest of my sword,
Which is the glory of thy diadem.
Sac. These words bewray thou art no base-born Moor,
But by descent sprung from some royal line:
Then freely tell me, what's thy name?
Orl. Nay, first let me know thine.
Sac. Then know that thou hast slain Prince Sacripant.
Orl. Sacripant! Then let me at thy dying day entreat,
By that same sphere wherein thy soul shall rest,
If Jove deny not passage to thy ghost,
Thou tell me whether thou wrong'dst Angelica or no?
Sac. O, that's the sting that pricks my conscience!
O, that's the hell my thoughts abhor to think!
I tell thee, knight, for thou dost seem no less,
That I engrav'd the roundelays on the trees,
And hung the schedules of poor Medor's love,
Intending so to breed debate
Between Orlando and Angelica:
O, thus I wrong'd Orlando and Angelica!
Now tell me, what shall I call thy name?
Orl. Then dead is the fatal author of my ill.
Base villain, vassal, unworthy of a crown,
Know that the man that struck the fatal stroke
Is Orlando, the County Palatine,
Whom fortune sent to quittance all my wrongs.
Thou foil'd and slain, it now behoves me straight
To hie me fast to massacre thy men:
And so, farewell, thou devil in shape of man. [Exit.
Sac. Hath Demogorgon, ruler of the fates,
Set such a baleful period on my life
As none might end the days of Sacripant
But mighty Orlando, rival of my love?
Now hold the fatal murderers of men
The sharpen'd knife ready to cut my thread,
Ending the scene of all my tragedy:
This day, this hour, this minute ends the days
Of him that liv'd worthy old Nestor's age.
Phœbus, put on thy sable-suited wreath,
Clad all thy spheres in dark and mourning weeds:
Parch'd be the earth, to drink up every spring:
Let corn and trees be blasted from above;
Heaven turn to brass, and earth to wedge of steel;
The world to cinders. Mars, come thundering down,
And never sheath thy swift-revenging sword,
Till, like the deluge in Deucalion's days,
The highest mountains swim in streams of blood.
Heaven, earth, men, beasts, and every living thing,
Consume and end with County Sacripant! [Dies.
SCENE II.—The Camp of Marsilius.
Enter Marsilius, Mandricard, and the Twelve Peers with Angelica.
Mars. Fought is the field, and Sacripant is slain,
With such a massacre of all his men,
As Mars, descending in his purple robe,
Vows with Bellona in whole heaps of blood
To banquet all the demigods of war.
Mand. See, where he lies slaughter'd without the camp,
And by a simple swain, a mercenary,
Who bravely took the combat to himself:
Might I but know the man that did the deed,
I would, my lord, etérnize him with fame.
Ogier. Leaving the factious county to his death,
Command, my lord, his body be convey'd[166]
Unto some place, as likes your highness best.
See, Marsilius, posting through Africa,
We have found this straggling girl, Angelica,
Who, for she wrong'd her love Orlando,
Chiefest of the western peers, conversing
With so mean a man as Medor was,
We will have her punish'd by the laws of France,
To end her burning lust in flames of fire.
Mars. Beshrew you, lordings, but you do your worst;
Fire, famine, and as cruel death
As fell to Nero's mother in his rage.
Angelica. Father, if I may dare to call thee so,
And lords of France, come from the western seas,
In quest to find mighty Orlando out,
Yet, ere I die, let me have leave to say,
Angelica held ever in her thoughts
Most dear the love of County Palatine.
What wretch hath wrong'd us with suspect of lust
I know not, I, nor can accuse the man;
But, by the heavens, whereto my soul shall fly,
Angelica did never wrong Orlando.
I speak not this as one that cares to live,
For why my thoughts are fully malcontent;
And I conjure you by your chivalry,
You quit Orlando's wrong upon Angelica.
Enter Orlando, with a scarf before his face.
Oliver. Strumpet, fear not, for, by fair Maia's son,
This day thy soul shall vanish up in fire,
As Semele, when Juno wil'd the trull
To entertain the glory of her love.
Orl. Frenchman, for so thy quaint array imports,
Be thou a peer, or be thou Charlemagne,
Or hadst thou Hector's or Achilles' heart,
Or never-daunted thoughts of Hercules,
That did in courage far surpass them all,
I tell thee, sir, thou liest in thy throat,—
The greatest brave Transalpine France can brook,—
In saying that sacred Angelica
Did offer wrong unto the Palatine.
I am a common mercenary soldier;
Yet, for I see my princess is abus'd
By new-come stragglers from a foreign coast,
I dare the proudest of these western lords
To crack a blade in trial of her right.
Mand. Why, foolish-hardy, daring, simple groom,
Follower of fond-conceited[167] Phaëton,
Know'st thou to whom thou speak'st?
Mars. Brave soldier, for so much thy courage says,
These men are princes, dipt within the blood
Of kings most royal, seated in the west,
Unfit to accept a challenge at your hand:
Yet thanks that thou wouldst in thy lord's defence
Fight for my daughter; but her guilt is known.
Ang. Ay, rest thee, soldier, Angelica is false,—
False, for she hath no trial of her right:
Soldier, let me die for the 'miss[168] of all.
Wert thou as stout as was proud Theseus,
In vain thy blade should offer my defence;
For why these be the champions of the world,
Twelve Peers of France that never yet were foil'd.
Orl. How, madam, the Twelve Peers of France!
Why, let them be twelve devils of hell,
What I have said, I'll pawn my sword,
To seal it on the shield of him that dares,
Malgrado[169] of his honour, combat me.
Oliver. Marry, sir, that dare I.
Orl. Y'ar'[170] a welcome man, sir.
Turpin. Chastise the groom, Oliver, and learn him know
We are not like the boys of Africa.
Orl. Hear you, sir? You that so peremptorily bade him fight,
Prepare your weapons, for your turn is next:
'Tis not one champion can discourage me.
Come, are ye ready?
[He fights first with one, and then with the other, and overcomes them both.
So stand aside:—and, madam, if my fortune last it out,
I'll guard your person with Twelve Peers of France.
Ogier. [aside]. O Ogier, how canst thou stand, and see a slave
Disgrace the house of France?—Sirrah, prepare you;
For angry Nemesis sits on my sword to be reveng'd.
[They fight a good while, and then breathe.
Ogier. Howe'er disguis'd in base or Indian shape,
Ogier can well discern thee by thy blows;
For either thou art Orlando or the devil.
Orl. [taking off his scarf].
Then, to assure you that I am no devil,
Here's your friend and companion, Orlando.
Ogier. And none can be more glad than Ogier is,
That he hath found his cousin in his sense.
Oliver. Whenas I felt his blows upon my shield,
My teeth did chatter, and my thoughts conceiv'd,
Who might this be, if not the Palatine.
Turpin. So had I said, but that report did tell
My lord was troubled with a lunacy.
Orl. So was I, lordings; but give me leave awhile,
Humbly as Mars did to his paramour,
So to submit to fair Angelica.—
Pardon thy lord, fair saint Angelica,
Whose love, stealing by steps into extremes,
Grew by suspect to causeless lunacy.
Ang. O no, my lord, but pardon my amiss;
For had not Orlando lov'd Angelica,
Ne'er had my lord fall'n into these extremes,
Which we will parley private to ourselves.
Ne'er was the Queen of Cyprus half so glad
As is Angelica to see her lord,
Her dear Orlando, settled in his sense.
Orl. Thanks, my sweet love.—
But why stand the Prince of Africa,
And Mandricard the King of Mexico,
So deep in dumps, when all rejoice beside?
First know, my lord, I slaughter'd Sacripant;
I am the man that did the slave to death;
Who frankly there did make confession,
That he engrav'd the roundelays on the trees,
And hung the schedules of poor Medor's love,
Intending by suspect to breed debate
Deeply 'twixt me and fair Angelica:
His hope had hap, but we had all the harm;
And now revenge, leaping from out the seat
Of him that may command stern Nemesis,
Hath pour'd those treasons justly on his head.
What saith my gracious lord to this?
Mars. I stand amaz'd, deep over-drench'd with joy,
To hear and see this unexpected end:
So well I rest content.—Ye peers of France,
Sith it is prov'd Angelica is clear,
Her and my crown I freely will bestow
Upon Orlando, the County Palatine.
Orl. Thanks my good lord.—And now, my friends of France,
Frolic, be merry; we will hasten home,
So soon as King Marsilius will consent
To let his daughter wend with us to France.
Meanwhile we'll richly rig up all our fleet
More brave[171] than was that gallant Grecian keel
That brought away the Colchian fleece of gold:
Our sails of sendal[172] spread into the wind;
Our ropes and tacklings all of finest silk,
Fetch'd from the native looms of labouring worms,
The pride of Barbary, and the glorious wealth
That is transported by the western bounds;
Our stems cut out of gleaming ivory;
Our planks and sides fram'd out of cypress-wood,
That bears the name of Cyparissus' change,
To burst the billows of the ocean-sea,
Where Phœbus dips his amber tresses oft,
And kisses Thetis in the day's decline;
That Neptune proud shall call his Tritons forth
To cover all the ocean with a calm:
So rich shall be the rubbish of our barks,
Ta'en here for ballass to the ports of France,
That Charles himself shall wonder at the sight.
Thus, lordings, when our banquetings be done,
And Orlando espousèd to Angelica,
We'll furrow through the moving ocean,
And cheerly frolic with great Charlemagne.
[Exeunt omnes.
[FRIAR BACON AND FRIAR BUNGAY]
Of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay there are three quartos, dated 1594, 1630 and 1655. The first quarto was published by Edward White, and 14th May 1594, the play is entered by the publisher on the Stationery Registers. The two exemplars of this quarto are in the British Museum and in Bridgewater House. In Henslowe's Diary, Friar Bacon heads the list of plays by my Lord Strange's men in an entry for 19th February 1592. At this time it was not a new play. Between this date and 6th May it was performed by Strange's men once every three weeks, and once a week between the following 10th January and 30th January. 1st April 1594, it was taken over by the original owners, the Queen's players, who were then acting with Sussex' players, and was performed 1st and 5th April at the Rose Theatre. Presumably it was sent to press by the Queen's men. At Christmas 1602 Middleton wrote a Prologue and Epilogue for a performance of the play by the Admiral's men at Court, for which he received five shillings. After this the play was probably kept in the possession of the Admiral's players, for the 1630 title-page indicates its performance by the Palsgrave's men. In no sense a plagiarism, the play is strictly a rival of Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, and it must have been performed within a year after Marlowe's play appeared in 1587. With James IV. it represents Greene's dramatic workmanship at its best. A few months after the appearance of the play it was parodied in Fair Em, The Miller's Daughter of Manchester. Greene's play is based on a romance written at the end of the sixteenth century, and probably accessible to both Greene and Marlowe. The "wall of brass" is common to both plays, and comes in each case directly from the source-book, the Famous History of Friar Bacon. This popular old story, of which the earliest extant edition is dated 1630, is now accessible in Thoms' Early English Prose Romances, Vol. I. To his source-material Greene added, probably out of his own head, the character of Margaret and her touching love-story. For the historical portions of the play there is no warrant in actual events.