ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—A Wood in Cyprus.
Enter Fortunatus meanly attired; he walks about cracking nuts ere he speaks.
Fort. So, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Echo [Within.]. Ho, ho, ho, ho.
Fort. There, boy.
Echo. There, boy.
Fort. An thou bee’st a good fellow, tell me how call’st this wood.
Echo. This wood.
Fort. Ay, this wood, and which is my best way out.
Echo. Best way out.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, that’s true, my best way out is my best way out, but how that out will come in, by this maggot I know not. I see by this we are all worms’ meat. Well, I am very poor and very patient; Patience is a virtue: would I were not virtuous, that’s to say, not poor, but full of vice, that’s to say, full of chinks. Ha, ha, so I am, for I am so full of chinks, that a horse with one eye may look through and through me. I have sighed long, and that makes me windy; I have fasted long, and that makes me chaste; marry, I have prayed little, and that makes me I still dance in this conjuring circle; I have wandered long, and that makes me weary. But for my weariness, anon I’ll lie down, instead of fasting I’ll feed upon nuts, and instead of sighing will laugh and be lean, Sirrah Echo.
Echo. Sirrah Echo.
Fort. Here’s a nut.
Echo. Here’s a nut.
Fort. Crack it.
Echo. Crack it.
Fort. Hang thyself.
Echo. Hang thyself.
Fort. Th’art a knave, a knave.
Echo. A knave, a knave.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Echo. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Fort. Why so, two fools laugh at one another, I at my tittle tattle gammer Echo, and she at me. Shortly there will creep out in print some filthy book of the old hoary wandering knight, meaning me: would I were that book, for then I should be sure to creep out from hence. I should be a good soldier, for I traverse my ground rarely; marry I see neither enemy nor friends, but popinjays, and squirrels, and apes, and owls, and daws, and wagtails, and the spite is that none of these grass-eaters can speak my language, but this fool that mocks me, and swears to have the last word, in spite of my teeth, ay, and she shall have it because she is a woman, which kind of cattle are indeed all echo, nothing but tongue, and are like the great bell of St. Michael’s[331] in Cyprus, that keeps most rumbling when men would most sleep. Echo, a pox on thee for mocking me.
Echo. A pox on thee for mocking me.
Fort. Why so, Snip snap, this war is at an end, but this wilderness is world without end. To see how travel can transform: my teeth are turned into nutcrackers, a thousand to one I break out shortly, for I am full of nothing but waxen kernels, my tongue speaks no language but an almond for a parrot, and crack me this nut. If I hop three days more up and down this cage of cuckoos’ nests, I shall turn wild man sure, and be hired to throw squibs among the commonalty upon some terrible day. In the meantime, to tell truth, here will I lie. Farewell, fool!
Echo. Farewell, fool.
Fort. Are not these comfortable words to a wise man? All hail, signor tree, by your leave I’ll sleep under your leaves. I pray bow to me, and I’ll bend to you, for your back and my brows must, I doubt, have a game or two at noddy ere I wake again: down, great heart, down. Hey, ho, well, well. [He lies down and sleeps.
Enter a Shepherd, a Carter,[332] a Tailor,[333] and a Monk, all crowned; a Nymph with a globe, another with Fortune’s wheel; then Fortune. After her, four Kings with broken crowns and sceptres, chained in silver gyves and led by her. The foremost enter singing. Fortune takes her chair, the Kings lying at her feet so that she treads on them as she ascends to her seat.
Song.
Fortune smiles, cry holiday,
Dimples on her cheeks do dwell,
Fortune frowns, cry welladay,
Her love is Heaven, her hate is Hell:
Since Heaven and Hell obey her power.
Tremble when her eyes do lower,
Since Heaven and Hell her power obey,
When she smiles, cry holiday.
Holiday with joy we cry
And bend, and bend, and merrily
Sing hymns to Fortune’s deity,
Sing hymns to Fortune’s deity.
Chorus. Let us sing, merrily, merrily, merrily,
With our song let Heaven resound,
Fortune’s hands our heads have crowned;
Let us sing merrily, merrily, merrily.
1st King. Accursed Queen of chance, what had we done,
Who having sometimes like young Phaeton,
Rid in the burnished chariot of the sun,
And sometimes been thy minions, when thy fingers
Weaved wanton love-nets in our curlèd hair,
And with sweet juggling kisses warmed our cheeks:
Oh how have we offended thy proud eyes,
That thus we should be spurned and trod upon,
Whilst those infected limbs of the sick world,
Are fixed by thee for stars in that bright sphere,
Wherein our sun-like radiance did appear.
The Kings. Accursèd Queen of chance, damned sorceress.
The Others. Most powerful Queen of chance, dread sovereigness.
Fortune. No more: curse on! your cries to me are music,
And fill the sacred rondure of mine ears
With tunes more sweet than moving of the spheres:
Curse on: on our celestial brows do sit
Unnumbered smiles, which then leap from their throne,
When they see peasants dance and monarchs groan.
Behold you not this globe, this golden bowl,
This toy called world, at our imperial feet?
This world is Fortune’s ball, wherewith she sports.
Sometimes I strike it up into the air,
And then create I emperors and kings:
Sometimes I spurn it, at which spurn crawls out
That wild beast Multitude. Curse on, you fools,—
’Tis I that tumble princes from their thrones,
And gild false brows with glittering diadems.
’Tis I that tread on necks of conquerors,
And when, like demi-gods, they have been drawn
In ivory chariots to the capitol,
Circled about with wonder of all eyes,
The shouts of every tongue, love of all hearts,
Being swoll’n with their own greatness, I have pricked
The bladder of their pride, and made them die,
As water-bubbles, without memory.
I thrust base cowards into Honour’s chair,
Whilst the true-spirited soldier stands by
Bare-headed, and all bare, whilst at his scars
They scoff, that ne’er durst view the face of wars.
I set an idiot’s cap on Virtue’s head,[334]
Turn Learning out of doors, clothe Wit in rags,
And paint ten thousand images of loam
In gaudy silken colours. On the backs
Of mules and asses I make asses ride,
Only for sport, to see the apish world
Worship such beasts with sound idolatry.
This Fortune does, and when this is done,
She sits and smiles to hear some curse her name,
And some with adoration crown her fame.
Monk. True centre of this wide circumference,
Sacred commandress of the destinies,
Our tongues shall only sound thy excellence.
The Others. Thy excellence our tongues shall only sound.
2nd King. Thou painted strumpet, that with honeyed smiles,
Openest the gates of Heaven and criest, “Come in;”
Whose glories being seen, thou with one frown,
In pride, lower than hell tumblest us down.
The Kings. Ever, for ever, will we ban thy name.
Fortune. How sweet your howlings relish in mine ears! [She comes down.
Stand by! now rise,—behold, here lies a wretch,
To vex your souls, this beggar I’ll advance
Beyond the sway of thought; take instruments,
And let the raptures of choice harmony,
Thorough the hollow windings of his ear,
Carry their sacred sounds, and wake each sense,
To stand amazed at our bright eminence. [Music. Fortunatus wakes.
Fort. Oh, how am I transported? Is this earth?
Or blest Elysium?
Fortune. Fortunatus, rise.
Fort. Dread goddess, how should such a wretch as I
Be known to such a glorious deity?
Oh pardon me: for to this place I come,
Led by my fate, not folly; in this wood
With weary sorrow have I wanderèd,
And three times seen the sweating sun take rest,
And three times frantic Cynthia naked ride
About the rusty highways of the skies
Stuck full of burning stars, which lent her light
To court her negro paramour grim Night.
Fortune. This travel now expires: yet from this circle,
Where I and these with fairy troops abide,
Thou canst not stir, unless I be thy guide.
I the world’s empress am, Fortune my name,
This hand hath written in thick leaves of steel
An everlasting book of changeless fate,
Showing who’s happy, who unfortunate.
Fort. If every name, dread queen, be there writ down
I am sure mine stands in characters of black;
Though happiness herself lie in my name,
I am Sorrow’s heir, and eldest son to Shame.
The Kings. No, we are sons to Shame, and Sorrow’s heirs.
Fortune. Thou shalt be one of Fortune’s minions:
Behold these four chained like Tartarian slaves,
These I created emperors and kings,
And these are now my basest underlings:
This sometimes was a German emperor,
Henry the Fifth,[335] who being first deposed,
Was after thrust into a dungeon,
And thus in silver chains shall rot to death.
This Frederick Barbarossa, Emperor
Of Almaine[336] once: but by Pope Alexander[337]
Now spurned and trod on when he takes his horse,
And in these fetters shall he die his slave.
This wretch once wore the diadem of France,
Lewis the meek,[338] but through his children’s pride,
Thus have I caused him to be famishèd.
Here stands the very soul of misery,
Poor Bajazet, old Turkish Emperor,
And once the greatest monarch in the East;[339]
Fortune herself is said to view thy fall,
And grieves to see thee glad to lick up crumbs
At the proud feet of that great Scythian swain,
Fortune’s best minion, warlike Tamburlaine:
Yet must thou in a cage of iron be drawn
In triumph at his heels, and there in grief
Dash out thy brains.
4th King. Oh miserable me!
Fortune. No tears can melt the heart of destiny:
These have I ruined and exalted those.
These hands have conquered Spain, these brows fill up
The golden circle of rich Portugal,—
Viriat a monarch now, but born a shepherd;[340]
This Primislaus, a Bohemian king,
Last day a carter;[341] this monk, Gregory,[342]
Now lifted to the Papal dignity;—
Wretches,[343] why gnaw you not your fingers off,
And tear your tongues out, seeing yourselves trod down,
And this Dutch botcher[344] wearing Munster’s crown,
John Leyden,[345] born in Holland poor and base,
Now rich in empery and Fortune’s grace?
As these I have advanced, so will I thee.
Six gifts I spend upon mortality,
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches,
Out of my bounty: one of these is thine,—
Choose then which likes thee best.
Fort. Oh most divine!
Give me but leave to borrow wonder’s eye,
To look amazed at thy bright majesty,
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches.
Fortune. Before thy soul at this deep lottery
Draw forth her prize, ordained by destiny,
Know that here’s no recanting a first choice.
Choose then discreetly for the laws of Fate,
Being graven in steel, must stand inviolate.
Fort. Daughters of Jove and the unblemished Night,
Most righteous Parcae,[346] guide my genius right,
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches.
Fortune. Stay, Fortunatus, once more hear me speak;
If thou kiss Wisdom’s cheek and make her thine,
She’ll breathe into thy lips divinity,
And thou like Phœbus shalt speak oracle,
Thy Heaven-inspired soul, on Wisdom’s wings,
Shall fly up to the Parliament of Jove,
And read the statutes of eternity,
And see what’s past and learn what is to come.
If thou lay claim to strength, armies shall quake
To see thee frown: as kings at mine do lie,
So shall thy feet trample on empery.
Make health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof
’Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting,
Be ever merry, ever revelling.
Wish but for beauty, and within thine eyes
Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim,[347]
And on thy cheeks I’ll mix such white and red,
That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede,
And with immortal arms shall circle thee.
Are thy desires long life?—thy vital thread
Shall be stretched out, thou shalt behold the change
Of monarchies and see those children die,
Whose great great grandsires now in cradles lie.
If through gold’s sacred hunger thou dost pine,
Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run,
To warm their tender bodies in the sun,
Shall stand for number of those golden piles,
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet;
As those are, so shall these be infinite.
Awaken then thy soul’s best faculties,
And gladly kiss this bounteous hand of Fate,
Which strives to bless thy name of Fortunate.
The Kings. Old man, take heed, her smiles will murder thee.
The Others. Old man, she’ll crown thee with felicity.
Fort. Oh, whither am I rapt beyond myself?
More violent conflicts fight in every thought,
Than his whose fatal choice Troy’s downfall wrought.
Shall I contract myself to wisdom’s love?
Then I lose riches: and a wise man poor,
Is like a sacred book that’s never read,—
To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead.
This age thinks better of a gilded fool,
Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom’s school.
I will be strong: then I refuse long life,
And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds,
There’s a lean fellow beats all conquerors:
The greatest strength expires with loss of breath;
The mightiest in one minute stoop to death.
Then take long life, or health: should I do so
I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll
Of months and years, much misery may enroll
Therefore I’ll beg for beauty; yet I will not,
That fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul
Leprous as sin itself; than hell more foul.
The wisdom of this world is idiotism,
Strength a weak reed: health sickness’ enemy,
And it at length will have the victory.
Beauty is but a painting, and long life
Is a long journey in December gone,
Tedious and full of tribulation.
Therefore, dread sacred Empress, make me rich, [Kneels down.
My choice is store of gold; the rich are wise.
He that upon his back rich garments wears,
Is wise, though on his head grow Midas’ ears.
Gold is the strength, the sinews of the world,
The health, the soul, the beauty most divine,
A mask of gold hides all deformities;
Gold is Heaven’s physic, life’s restorative,
Oh therefore make me rich: not as the wretch,
That only serves lean banquets to his eye,
Has gold, yet starves: is famished in his store:
No, let me ever spend, be never poor.
Fortune. Thy latest words confine thy destiny,
Thou shalt spend ever, and be never poor:
For proof receive this purse: with it this virtue
Still when thou thrust thy hand into the same,
Thou shalt draw forth ten pieces of bright gold,
Current in any realm where then thou breathest;
If thou canst dribble out the sea by drops,
Then shalt thou want: but that can ne’er be done,
Nor this grow empty.
Fort. Thanks, great deity.
Fortune. The virtue ends when thou and thy sons end.
This path leads thee to Cyprus,[348] get thee hence;
Farewell, vain covetous fool, thou wilt repent,
That for the love of dross thou hast despised
Wisdom’s divine embrace, she would have borne thee
On the rich wings of immortality;
But now go dwell with cares and quickly die.
The Kings. We dwell with cares, yet cannot quickly die. [Exeunt all singing, except Fortunatus.
Fort. But now go dwell with cares and quickly die? How quickly? if I die to-morrow, I’ll be merry to-day: if next day, I’ll be merry to-morrow. Go dwell with cares? Where dwells Care? Hum ha, in what house dwells Care, that I may choose an honester neighbour? In princes’ courts? No. Among fair ladies? Neither: there’s no care dwells with them, but care how to be most gallant. Among gallants then? Fie, fie, no! Care is afraid sure of a gilt rapier, the scent of musk is her prison, tobacco chokes her, rich attire presseth her to death. Princes, fair ladies and gallants, have amongst you then, for this wet-eyed wench Care dwells with wretches: they are wretches that feel want, I shall feel none if I be never poor; therefore, Care, I cashier you my company. I wonder what blind gossip this minx is that is so prodigal; she should be a good one by her open dealing: her name’s Fortune: it’s no matter what she is, so she does as she says. “Thou shalt spend ever, and be never poor.” Mass, yet I feel nothing here to make me rich:—here’s no sweet music with her silver sound. Try deeper: ho God be here: ha, ha, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten, good, just ten. It’s gold sure, it’s so heavy, try again, one, two, &c. Good again, just ten, and just ten. Ha, ha, ha, this is rare: a leather mint, admirable: an Indian mine in a lamb’s skin, miraculous! I’ll fill three or four bags full for my sons, but keep this for myself. If that lean tawny face tobacconist Death, that turns all into smoke, must turn me so quickly into ashes, yet I will not mourn in ashes, but in music, hey, old lad, be merry. Here’s riches, wisdom, strength, health, beauty, and long life (if I die not quickly). Sweet purse, I kiss thee; Fortune, I adore thee; Care, I despise thee; Death, I defy thee.[349] [Exit.
SCENE II.—Outside the House of Fortunatus.
Enter Ampedo, Shadow after him, both sad: then Andelocia.
Andel. ’Sheart,[350] why how now: two knights of the post?[351]
Shad. Ay, master, and we are both forsworn, as all such wooden knights be, for we both took an oath—marry it was not corporal, you may see by our cheeks, that we would not fast twenty-four hours to amend, and we have tasted no meat since the clock told two dozen.
Andel. That lacks not much of twenty-four, but I wonder when that half-faced moon of thine will be at the full.
Shad. The next quarter, not this, when the sign is in Taurus.
Andel. Ho, that’s to say, when thou eat’st bull beef.
But, Shadow, what day is to-day?
Shad. Fasting day.
Andel. What day was yesterday?
Shad. Fasting day too.
Andel. Will to-morrow be so too?
Shad. Ay, and next day too.
Andel. That will be rare, you slave:
For a lean diet makes a fat wit.
Shad. I had rather be a fool and wear a fat pair of cheeks.
Andel. Now I am prouder of this poverty, which I know is mine own, than a waiting gentlewoman is of a frizzled groatsworth of hair, that never grew on her head. Sir Shadow, now we can all three swear like Puritans at one bare word: this want makes us like good bowlers, we are able to rub out and shift in every place.
Shad. That’s not so, we have shifted ourselves in no place this three months: marry, we rub out in every corner, but here follows no amendment either of life or of livery.
Andel. Why, brother Ampedo, art thou not yet tired with riding post? Come, come, ’light from this logger-headed jade, and walk afoot, and talk with your poor friends.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, he is like me: if his belly be empty, his heart is full.
Andel. The famine of gold gnaws his covetous stomach, more than the want of good victuals: thou hast looked very devilishly ever since the good angel[352] left thee: come, come, leave this broad-brim fashions; because the world frowns upon thee, wilt not thou smile upon us?
Amp. Did but the bitterness of mine own fortunes
Infect my taste, I could paint o’er my cheeks
With ruddy-coloured smiles: ’tis not the want
Of costly diet or desire of gold
Enforces rupture in my wounded breast.
Oh no, our father—if he live—doth lie
Under the iron foot of misery,
And, as a dove gripped in a falcon’s claw,
There pant’th for life being most assured of death.
Brother, for him my soul thus languisheth.
Shad. ’Tis not for my old master that I languish.
Amp. I am not enamoured of this painted idol,
This strumpet World; for her most beauteous looks
Are poisoned baits, hung upon golden hooks:
When fools do swim in wealth, her Cynthian beams
Will wantonly dance on the silver streams;
But when this squint-eyed age sees Virtue poor,
And by a little spark sits shivering,
Begging at all, relieved at no man’s door,
She smiles on her, as the sun shines on fire,
To kill that little heat, and, with her little frown,
Is proud that she can tread poor Virtue down:
Therefore her wrinkled brow makes not mine sour,
Her gifts are toys, and I desire her power.
Shad. ’Tis not the crab-tree faced World neither that makes mine sour.
Andel. Her gifts toys! Well, brother Virtue, we have let slip the ripe plucking of those toys so long, that we flourish like apple-trees in September, which, having the falling sickness, bear neither fruit nor leaves.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, master, none flourish in these withering times, but ancient bearers[353] and trumpeters.
Andel. Shadow, when thou provest a substance, then the tree of virtue and honesty, and such fruit of Heaven, shall flourish upon earth.
Shad. True; or when the sun shines at midnight, or women fly, and yet they are light enough.
Andel. ’Twas never merry world with us, since purses and bags were invented, for now men set lime-twigs to catch wealth: and gold, which riseth like the sun out of the East Indies, to shine upon every one, is like a cony taken napping in a pursenet,[354] and suffers his glistering yellow-face deity to be lapped up in lambskins, as if the innocency of those leather prisons should dispense with the cheveril[355] consciences of the iron-hearted gaolers.
Shad. Snudges[356] may well be called gaolers: for if a poor wretch steal but into a debt of ten pound, they lead him straight to execution.
Andel. Doth it not vex thee, Shadow, to stalk up and down Cyprus, and to meet the outside of a man, lapped all in damask, his head and beard as white as milk, only with conjuring in the snowy circles of the field argent, and his nose as red as scarlet, only with kissing the ruddy lips of angels,[357] and such an image to wear on his thumb, three men’s livings in the shape of a seal ring, whilst my brother Virtue here,—
Shad. And you his brother Vice!
Andel. Most true, my little lean Iniquity—whilst we three, if we should starve, cannot borrow five shillings of him neither in word nor deed: does not this vex thee, Shadow?
Shad. Not me; it vexes me no more to see such a picture, than to see an ass laden with riches, because I know when he can bear no longer, he must leave his burthen to some other beast.
Andel. Art not thou mad, to see money on goldsmiths’ stalls, and none in our purses?
Shad. It mads not me, I thank the destinies.
Andel. By my poverty, and that’s but a thread-bare oath, I am more than mad to see silks and velvets lie crowding together in mercers’ shops, as in prisons, only for fear of the smell of wax—they cannot abide to see a man made out of wax, for these satin commodities have such smooth consciences that they’ll have no man give his word for them or stand bound for their coming forth, but vow to lie till they rot in those shop counters, except Monsieur Money bail them. Shadow, I am out of my little wits to see this.
Shad. So is not Shadow: I am out of my wits, to see fat gluttons feed all day long, whilst I that am lean fast every day: I am out of my wits, to see our Famagosta fools turn half a shop of wares into a suit of gay apparel, only to make other idiots laugh, and wise men to cry, who’s the fool now? I am mad, to see soldiers beg, and cowards brave: I am mad, to see scholars in the broker’s shop, and dunces in the mercer’s: I am mad, to see men that have no more fashion in them than poor Shadow, yet must leap thrice a day into three orders of fashions: I am mad, to see many things, but horn-mad, that my mouth feels nothing.
Andel. Why now, Shadow, I see thou hast a substance:
I am glad to see thee thus mad.
Amp. The sons of Fortunatus had not wont
Thus to repine at others’ happiness:
But fools have always this loose garment wore,
Being poor themselves, they wish all others poor.
Fie, brother Andelocia, hate this madness,
Turn your eyes inward, and behold your soul,
That wants more than your body; burnish that
With glittering virtue, and make idiots grieve
To see your beauteous mind in wisdom shine,
As you at their rich poverty repine.
Enter Fortunatus, gallant.[358]
Andel. Peace, good Virtue; Shadow, here comes another shadow.
Shad. It should be a chameleon: for he is all in colours.
Amp. Oh, ’tis my father. With these tears of joy,
My love and duty greet your fair return!
A double gladness hath refreshed my soul;
One, that you live, and one, to see your fate
Looks freshly howsoever poor in state.
Andel. My father Fortunatus, and thus brave?
Shad. ’Tis no wonder to see a man brave, but a wonder how he comes brave.
Fort. Dear Andelocia and son Ampedo,
And my poor servant Shadow, plume your spirits
With light-winged mirth; for Fortunatus’ hand
Can now pour golden showers into their laps
That sometimes scorned him for his want of gold.
Boys, I am rich, and you shall ne’er be poor;
Wear gold, spend gold, we all in gold will feed,
Now is your father Fortunate indeed.
Andel. Father, be not angry, if I set open the windows of my mind: I doubt for all your bragging, you’ll prove like most of our gallants in Famagosta, that have a rich outside and a beggarly inside, and like mules wear gay trappings, and good velvet foot-cloths[359] on their backs, yet champ on the iron bit of penury—I mean, want coin. You gild our ears with a talk of gold, but I pray dazzle our eyes with the majesty of it.
Fort. First will I wake your senses with the sound
Of gold’s sweet music: tell me what you hear?
Amp. Believe me, sir, I hear not any thing.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. ’Sheart, I thought as much; if I hear any jingling, but of the purse strings that go flip flap, flip flap, flip flap, would I were turned into a flip-flap,[360] and sold to the butchers!
Fort. Shadow, I’ll try thine ears; hark, dost rattle?
Shad. Yes, like three blue beans in a blue bladder, rattle bladder, rattle: your purse is like my belly, th’ one’s without money, th’ other without meat.
Fort. Bid your eyes blame the error of your ears:
You misbelieving pagans, see, here’s gold—
Ten golden pieces: take them, Ampedo.
Hold, Andelocia, here are ten for thee.
Amp. Shadow, there’s one for thee, provide thee food.
Fort. Stay, boy: hold, Shadow, here are ten for thee.
Shad. Ten, master? then defiance to fortune, and a fig for famine.
Fort. Now tell me, wags, hath my purse gold or no?
Andel. We the wags have gold, father; but I think there’s not one angel more wagging in this sacred temple. Why, this is rare: Shadow, five will serve thy turn, give me th’ other five.
Shad. Nay, soft, master, liberality died long ago. I see some rich beggars are never well, but when they be craving: my ten ducats are like my ten fingers, they will not jeopard a joint for you. I am yours, and these are mine; if I part from them, I shall never have part of them.
Amp. Father, if Heaven have blest you once again,
Let not an open hand disperse that store,
Which gone, life’s gone; for all tread down the poor.
Fort. Peace, Ampedo, talk not of poverty.
Disdain, my boys, to kiss the tawny cheeks
Of lean necessity: make not inquiry
How I came rich; I am rich, let that suffice.
There are four leathern bags trussed full of gold:
Those spent, I’ll fill you more. Go, lads, be gallant:
Shine in the streets of Cyprus like two stars,
And make them bow their knees that once did spurn you;
For, to effect such wonders, gold can turn you.
Brave it in Famagosta, or elsewhere;
I’ll travel to the Turkish Emperor,
And then I’ll revel it with Prester John,[361]
Or banquet with great Cham[362] of Tartary,
And try what frolic court the Soldan keeps.
I’ll leave you presently. Tear off these rags;
Glitter, my boys, like angels,[363] that the world
May, whilst our life in pleasure’s circle roams,
Wonder at Fortunatus and his sons.
Andel. Come, Shadow, now we’ll feast it royally.
Shad. Do, master, but take heed of beggary. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A Wood in Cyprus.
Music sounds. Enter Vice with a gilded face, and horns on her head; her garments long, painted before with silver half-moons, increasing by little and little till they come to the full; while in the midst of them is written in capital letters, “Crescit Eundo.” Behind her garments are painted with fools’ faces and heads; and in the midst is written, “Ha, Ha, He.” She, and others wearing gilded vizards and attired like devils, bring out a fair tree of gold with apples on it.
After her comes Virtue, with a coxcomb on her head, and her attire all in white before; about the middle is written “Sibi sapit.” Her attire behind is painted with crowns and laurel garlands, stuck full of stars held by hands thrust out of bright clouds, and among them is written, “Dominabitur astris.” She and other nymphs, all in white with coxcombs on their heads, bring a tree with green and withered leaves mingled together, and with little fruit on it.
After her comes Fortune, with two Nymphs, one bearing her wheel, another her globe.
And last, the Priest.
Fortune. You ministers of Virtue, Vice, and Fortune,
Tear off this upper garment of the earth,
And in her naked bosom stick these trees.
Virtue. How many kingdoms have I measured,
Only to find a climate, apt to cherish
These withering branches? But no ground can prove
So happy; ay me, none do Virtue love.
I’ll try this soil; if here I likewise fade,
To Heaven I’ll fly, from whence I took my birth,
And tell the Gods, I am banished from the earth.
Vice. Virtue, I am sworn thy foe: if there thou plant,
Here, opposite to thine, my tree shall flourish,
And as the running wood-bine spreads her arms,
To choke thy withering boughs in their embrace,
I’ll drive thee from this world: were Virtue fled,
Vice as an angel should be honourèd.
Fortune. Servants of this bright devil and that poor saint,
Apply your task whilst you are labouring:
To make your pains seem short our priest shall sing.
[Whilst the Priest sings, the rest set the trees into the earth.
Song.
Virtue’s branches wither, Virtue pines,
O pity, pity, and alack the time,
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb.
Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity,
She in every land doth monarchize.
Virtue is exiled from every city,
Virtue is a fool, Vice only wise.
O pity, pity, Virtue weeping dies.
Vice laughs to see her faint,—alack the time.
This sinks; with painted wings the other flies:
Alack that best should fall, and bad should climb.
O pity, pity, pity, mourn, not sing,
Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling.
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Virtue’s branches wither, Virtue pines.
Fortune. Flourish or wither, Fortune cares not which,
In either’s fall or height our eminence
Shines equal to the sun: the Queen of chance
Both virtuous souls and vicious doth advance.
These shadows of yourselves shall, like yourselves,
Strive to make men enamoured of their beauties;
This grove shall be our temple, and henceforth
Be consecrated to our deities.
Virtue. How few will come and kneel at Virtue’s shrine?
Vice. This contents Virtue, that she is called divine.
Fortune. Poor Virtue, Fortune grieves to see thy looks
Want cunning to entice: why hang these leaves,
As loose as autumn’s hair which every wind
In mockery blows from his rotten brows?
Why like a drunkard art thou pointed at?
Why is this motley-scorn[364] set on thy head?
Why stands thy court wide open, but none in it?
Why are the crystal pavements of thy temple,
Not worn, not trod upon? All is for this,
Because thy pride is to wear base attire,
Because thine eyes flame not with amorous fire.
Virtue. Virtue is fairest in a poor array.
Fortune. Poor fool, ’tis not this badge of purity,
Nor Sibi sapit, painted on thy breast,
Allures mortality to seek thy love.
No: now the great wheel of thy globe hath run,
And met this first point of creation.
On crutches went this world but yesterday,
Now it lies bed-rid, and is grown so old,
That it’s grown young; for ’tis a child again,
A childish soul it hath, ’tis a mere fool:
And fools and children are well pleased with toys.
So must this world, with shows it must be pleased,
Then, Virtue, buy a golden face like Vice,
And hang thy bosom full of silver moons,
To tell the credulous world, As those increase,
As the bright moon swells in her pearlèd sphere,
So wealth and pleasures them to Heaven shall rear.
Virtue. Virtue abhors to wear a borrowed face.
Vice. Why hast thou borrowed, then, that idiot’s hood?
Virtue. Fools placed it on my head that knew me not,
And I am proud to wear the scorn of fools.
Fortune. Mourn in that pride and die, all the world hates thee.
Virtue. Not all, I’ll wander once more through the world:
Wisdom I know hath with her blessèd wings
Fled to some bosom: if I meet that breast,
There I’ll erect my temple, and there rest.
Fortune nor Vice shall then e’er have the power
By their loose eyes to entice my paramour.
Then will I cast off this deformity,
And shine in glory, and triumph to see
You conquered at my feet, that tread on me.
Fortune. Virtue begins to quarrel: Vice, farewell.
Vice. Stay, Fortune, whilst within this grove we dwell,
If my angelical and saint-like form
Can win some amorous fool to wanton here,
And taste the fruit of this alluring tree,
Thus shall his saucy brows adornèd be,
To make us laugh. [Makes horns.
Fortune. It will be rare: adieu.
Virtue. Foul, hell-bred fiend, Virtue shall strive with you,
If any be enamoured of thine eyes,
Their love must needs beget deformities.
Men are transformed to beasts, feasting with sin;
But if in spite of thee their souls I win,
To taste this fruit, though thou disguise their head,
Their shapes shall be re-metamorphosèd.
Vice. I dare thee do thy worst.
Virtue. My best I’ll try.
Fort. Fortune shall judge who wins the sovereignty. [Exeunt.
