ACT THE FOURTH.
Chorus. Gentles, if e’er you have beheld the passions,
The combats of his soul, who being a king,
By some usurping hand hath been deposed
From all his royalties: even such a soul,
Such eyes, such heart swol’n big with sighs and tears,
The star-crossed son of Fortunatus wears.
His thoughts crowned him a monarch in the morn,
Yet now he’s bandied by the seas in scorn
From wave to wave: his golden treasure’s spoil
Makes him in desperate language to entreat
The winds to spend their fury on his life:
But they, being mild in tyranny, or scorning
To triumph in a wretch’s funeral,
Toss him to Cyprus. Oh, what treachery
Cannot this serpent gold entice us to?
He robs his brother of the Soldan’s prize,
And having got his wish, the wishing hat,
He does not, as he vowed, seek misery,
But hopes by that to win his purse again,
And in that hope from Cyprus is he fled.
If your swift thoughts clap on their wonted wings,
In Genoa may you take this fugitive,
Where having cozened many jewellers,
To England back he comes; step but to court,
And there disguised you find him bargaining
For jewels with the beauteous Agripyne,
Who wearing at her side the virtuous purse,
He clasps her in his arms, and as a raven,
Griping the tender-hearted nightingale,
So flies he with her, wishing in the air
To be transported to some wilderness:
Imagine this the place; see, here they come!
Since they themselves have tongues, mine shall be dumb. [Exit.
SCENE I.—A Wilderness.
Enter Andelocia with the wishing hat on, and dragging Agripyne by the hand.
Agrip. What devil art thou that affright’st me thus,
Haling a princess from her father’s court,
To spoil her in this savage wilderness?
Andel. Indeed the devil and the pick-purse should always fly together, for they are sworn brothers: but Madam Covetousness, I am neither a devil as you call me, nor a jeweller as I call myself; no, nor a juggler,—yet ere you and I part, we’ll have some legerdemain together. Do you know me?
Agrip. I am betrayed: this is the Cypriot.
Forgive me, ’twas not I that changed thy purse,
But Athelstane my father; send me home,
And here’s thy purse again: here are thy jewels,
And I in satisfaction of all wrongs—
Andel. Talk not you of satisfaction, this is some recompense, that I have you. ’Tis not the purse I regard: put it off, and I’ll mince it as small as pie meat. The purse? hang the purse: were that gone, I can make another, and another, and another, ay, and another: ’tis not the purse I care for, but the purser, you, ay you. Is’t not a shame that a king’s daughter, a fair lady, a lady not for lords, but for monarchs, should for gold sell her love, and when she has her own asking, and that there stands nothing between, then to cheat your sweetheart? O fie, fie, a she cony-catcher? You must be dealt fondly with.
Agrip. Enjoin what pains thou wilt, and I’ll endure them,
So thou wilt send me to my father’s court.
Andel. Nay God’s lid, y’are not gone so: set your heart at rest, for I have set up my rest, that except you can run swifter than a hart, home you go not. What pains shall I lay upon you? Let me see: I could serve you now but a slippery touch: I could get a young king or two, or three, of you, and then send you home, and bid their grandsire king nurse them: I could pepper you, but I will not.
Agrip. O, do not violate my chastity.
Andel. No, why I tell you I am not given to the flesh, though I savour in your nose a little of the devil, I could run away else, and starve you here.
Agrip. If I must die, doom me some easier death.
Andel. Or transform you, because you love picking, into a squirrel, and make you pick out a poor living here among the nut trees: but I will not neither.
Agrip. What will my gentle Andelocia do?
Andel. Oh, now you come to your old bias of cogging.[394]
Agrip. I pray thee, Andelocia, let me go:
Send me to England, and by Heaven I swear,
Thou from all kings on earth my love shalt bear.
Andel. Shall I in faith?
Agrip. In faith, in faith thou shalt.
Andel. Hear, God a mercy: now thou shalt not go.
Agrip. Oh God.
Andel. Nay, do you hear, lady? Cry not, y’are best; no nor curse me not. If you think but a crabbed thought of me, the spirit that carried you in mine arms through the air, will tell me all; therefore set your Sunday face upon’t. Since you’ll love me, I’ll love you, I’ll marry you, and lie with you, and beget little jugglers: marry, home you get not. England, you’ll say, is yours: but, Agripyne, love me, and I will make the whole world thine.
Agrip. I care not for the world, thou murd’rest me;
Between my sorrow, and the scalding sun
I faint, and quickly will my life be done,
My mouth is like a furnace, and dry heat
Drinks up my blood. O God, my heart will burst,
I die, unless some moisture quench my thirst.
Andel. ’Sheart, now I am worse than ere I was before:
For half the world I would not have her die.
Here’s neither spring nor ditch, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor bread nor drink: my lovely Agripyne,
Be comforted, see here are apple trees.
Agrip. Climb up for God’s sake, reach me some of them.
Andel. Look up, which of these apples likes thee best?
Agrip. This hath a withered face, ’tis some sweet fruit.
Not that, my sorrows are too sour already.
Andel. Come hither, here are apples like gold.
Agrip. O, ay, for God’s sake, gather some of these.
Ay me, would God I were at home again!
Andel. Stand farther, lest I chance to fall on thee. [Climbs up.
Oh here be rare apples, rare red-cheeked apples, that cry come kiss me: apples, hold your peace, I’ll teach you to cry. [Eats one.
Agrip. O England, shall I ne’er behold thee more?
Andel. Agripyne, ’tis a most sugared delicious taste in one’s mouth, but when ’tis down, ’tis as bitter as gall.
Agrip. Yet gather some of them. Oh, that a princess
Should pine for food: were I at home again,
I should disdain to stand thus and complain.
Andel. Here’s one apple that grows highest, Agripyne; an’ I could reach that, I’ll come down. [Fishes with his girdle for it.
Agrip. Make haste, for the hot sun doth scald my cheeks.
Andel. The sun kiss thee? hold, catch, put on my hat, I will have yonder highest apple, though I die for’t.
Agrip. I had not wont be sun-burnt, wretched me.
O England, would I were again in thee! [Exit.
Andelocia leaps down.
Andel. ’Swounds, Agripyne, stay, Oh I am undone!
Sweet Agripyne, if thou hear’st my voice,
Take pity of me, and return again.
She flies like lightning: Oh she hears me not!
I wish myself into a wilderness,
And now I shall turn wild: here I shall famish,
Here die, here cursing die, here raving die,
And thus will wound my breast, and rend mine hair.
What hills of flint are grown upon my brows?
O me, two forkèd horns, I am turned beast,
I have abused two blessings, wealth and knowledge,
Wealth in my purse, and knowledge in my hat,
By which being borne into the courts of kings,
I might have seen the wondrous works of Jove,
Acquired experience, learning, wisdom, truth,
But I in wildness tottered out my youth,
And therefore must turn wild, must be a beast,
An ugly beast: my body horns must bear,
Because my soul deformity doth wear.
Lives none within this wood? If none but I
Live here,—thanks Heaven! for here none else shall die. [Lies down and sleeps under the tree.
Enter Fortune, Vice, Virtue, the Priest: and Satyrs with music, playing before Fortune.
Fortune. See where my new-turned devil has built his hell.
Vice. Virtue, who conquers now? the fool is ta’en.
Virtue. O sleepy sin.
Vice. Sweet tunes, wake him again. [Music sounds awhile, and then ceases.
Fortune. Vice sits too heavy on his drowsy soul,
Music’s sweet concord cannot pierce his ear.
Sing, and amongst your songs mix bitter scorn.
Virtue. Those that tear Virtue, must by Vice be torn.
Song.
Virtue, stand aside: the fool is caught.
Laugh to see him, laugh aloud to wake him;
Folly’s nets are wide, and neatly wrought,
Mock his horns, and laugh to see Vice take him.
Chorus. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, laugh, laugh in scorn,
Who’s the fool? the fool, he wears a horn. [Andelocia wakens and stands up.
Virtue, stand aside, mock him, mock him, mock him,
Laugh aloud to see him, call him fool.
Error gave him suck, now sorrows rock him,
Send the riotous beast to madness’ school.
Chorus. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, laugh, laugh in scorn.
Who’s the fool? the fool, he wears a horn.
Virtue, stand aside: your school he hates.
Laugh aloud to see him, mock, mock, mock him.
Vanity and hell keep open gates,
He’s in, and a new nurse, Despair, must rock him.
Chorus. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, laugh, laugh in scorn,
Fool, fool, fool, fool, fool, wear still the horn.
[Vice and Virtue hold apples out to Andelocia, Vice laughing, Virtue grieving.
Andel. O me, what hell is this? fiends, tempt me not.
Thou glorious devil, hence. O now I see,
This fruit is thine, thou hast deformèd me:
Idiot, avoid, thy gifts I loathe to taste.
Away: since I am entered madness’ school,
As good to be a beast, as be a fool.
Away, why tempt you me? some powerful grace
Come and redeem me from this hideous place.
Fortune. To her hath Andelocia all his life
Sworn fealty; would’st thou forsake her now?
Andel. Whose blessed tongue names Andelocia?
Fortune. Hers, who, attended on by destinies,
Shortened thy father’s life, and lengthens thine.
Andel. O sacred Queen of chance, now shorten mine,
Else let thy deity take off this shame.
Fortune. Woo her, ’twas she that set it on thy head.
Andel. She laughs to see me metamorphosèd. [Rises.
Virtue. Woo me, and I’ll take off this ugly scorn.
Vice. Woo me, and I’ll clap on another horn.
Andel. I am beset with anguish, shame and death.
O bid the Fates work fast, and stop my breath.
Fortune. No, Andelocia, thou must live to see
Worse torments, for thy follies, light on thee.
This golden tree, which did thine eyes entice,
Was planted here by Vice: lo, here stands Vice:
How often hast thou sued to win her grace?
Andel. Till now, I never did behold her face.
Fortune. Thou didst behold her at thy father’s death,
When thou in scorn didst violate his will;
Thou didst behold her, when thy stretched-out arm
Catched at the highest bough, the loftiest vice,
The fairest apple, but the foulest price;
Thou didst behold her, when thy liquorish eye
Fed on the beauty of fair Agripyne;
Because th’ hadst gold, thou thought’st all women thine.
When look’st thou off from her? for they whose souls
Still revel in the nights of vanity,
On the fair cheeks of Vice still fix their eye.
Because her face doth shine, and all her bosom
Bears silver moons, thou wast enamoured of her.
But hadst thou upward looked, and seen these shames,
Or viewed her round about, and in this glass
Seen idiots’ faces, heads of devils and hell,
And read this “Ha, ha, he,” this merry story,
Thou wouldst have loathed her: where, by loving her,
Thou bear’st this face, and wear’st this ugly head,
And if she once can bring thee to this place,
Loud sounds these “Ha, ha, he!” She’ll laugh apace.
Andel. O, re-transform me to a glorious shape,
And I will learn how I may love to hate her.
Fortune. I cannot re-transform thee, woo this woman.
Andel. This woman? wretched is my state, when I,
To find out wisdom, to a fool must fly.
Fortune. Fool, clear thine eyes, this is bright Aretë,[395]
This is poor virtue, care not how the world
Doth crown her head, the world laughs her to scorn,
Yet “Sibi sapit,” Virtue knows her worth.
Run after her, she’ll give thee these and these,
Crowns and bay-garlands, honour’s victories:
Serve her, and she will fetch thee pay from Heaven,
Or give thee some bright office in the stars.
Andel. Immortal Aretë, Virtue divine: [Kneels.
O smile on me, and I will still be thine.
Virtue. Smile thou on me, and I will still be thine:
Though I am jealous of thy apostasy,
I’ll entertain thee: here, come taste this tree,
Here’s physic for thy sick deformity.
Andel. Tis bitter: this fruit I shall ne’er digest.
Virtue. Try once again, the bitterness soon dies.
Vice. Mine’s sweet, taste mine.
Virtue. But being down ’tis sour,
And mine being down has a delicious taste.
The path that leads to Virtue’s court is narrow,
Thorny and up a hill, a bitter journey,
But being gone through, you find all heavenly sweets,
The entrance is all flinty, but at th’ end,
To towers of pearl and crystal you ascend.
Andel. O delicate, O sweet Ambrosian relish,
And see, my ugliness drops from my brows,
Thanks, beauteous Aretë: O had I now
My hat and purse again, how I would shine,
And gild my soul with none but thoughts divine.
Fortune. That shall be tried, take fruit from both these trees,
By help of them, win both thy purse and hat,
I will instruct thee how, for on my wings
To England shalt thou ride; thy virtuous brother
Is, with that Shadow who attends on thee,
In London, there I’ll set thee presently.
But if thou lose our favours once again,
To taste her sweets, those sweets must prove thy bane.
Virtue. Vice, who shall now be crowned with victory?
Vice. She that triumphs at last, and that must I. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—London. The Court of Athelstane.
Enter Athelstane, Lincoln with Agripyne, Cyprus, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Longaville and Montrose.
Athelst. Lincoln, how set’st thou her at liberty?
Linc. No other prison held her but your court,
There in her chamber hath she hid herself
These two days, only to shake off that fear,
Which her late violent rapture cast upon her.
Cypr. Where hath the beauteous Agripyne been?
Agrip. In Heaven or hell, in or without the world,
I know not which, for as I oft have seen,
When angry Thamesis hath curled her locks,
A whirlwind come, and from her frizzled brows,
Snatch up a handful of those sweaty pearls,
That stood upon her forehead, which awhile,
Being by the boist’rous wind hung in the air,
At length hath flung them down and raised a storm,—
Even with such fury was I wherried up,
And by such force held prisoner in the clouds,
And thrown by such a tempest down again.
Cornw. Some soul is damned in hell for this black deed.
Agrip. I have the purse safe, and anon your grace
Shall hear the wondrous history at full.
Cypr. Tell me, tormentor, shall fair Agripyne,
Without more difference be now christened mine!
Agrip. My choice must be my father’s fair consent.
Athelst. Then shall thy choice end in this Cyprus prince.
Before the sun shall six times more arise,
His royal marriage will we solemnise.
Proclaim this honoured match! Come, Agripyne,
I am glad th’ art here, more glad the purse is mine.
[As they are going in, enter Andelocia and Shadow, disguised as Irish coster-mongers. Agripyne, Longaville, and Montrose stay listening to them, the rest exeunt.
Both. Buy any apples, feene apples of Tamasco,[396] feene Tamasco peepins: peeps feene, buy Tamasco peepins.
Agrip. Damasco apples? good my Lord Montrose,
Call yonder fellows.
Montr. Sirrah coster-monger.
Shad. Who calls: peeps of Tamasco, feene peeps: Ay, fat ’tis de sweetest apple in de world, ’tis better den de Pome water,[397] or apple John.[398]
Andel. By my trat, madam, ’tis reet Tamasco peepins, look here els.
Shad. I dare not say, as de Irishman my countryman say, taste de goodness of de fruit: no, sayt, ’tis farie teere, mistriss, by Saint Patrick’s hand ’tis teere Tamasco apple.
Agrip. The fairest fruit that ever I beheld.
Damasco apples, wherefore are they good?
Longa. What is your price of half a score of these?
Both. Half a score, half a score? dat is doos many, mester.[399]
Longa. Ay, ay, ten, half a score, that’s five and five.
Andel. Feeve and feeve? By my trat and as Creeze save me la, I cannot tell wat be de price of feeve and feeve, but ’tis tree crown for one peepin, dat is de preez if you take ’em.
Shad. Ay fat, ’tis no less for Tamasco.
Agrip. Three crowns for one? what wondrous virtues have they?
Shad. O, ’tis feene Tamasco apple, and shall make you a great teal wise, and make you no fool, and make feene memory.
Andel. And make dis fash be more fair and amiable, and make dis eyes look always lovely, and make all de court and country burn in desire to kiss di none sweet countenance.
Montr. Apples to make a lady beautiful?
Madam, that’s excellent.
Agrip. These Irishmen,
Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear
These two the badge of their own country wear.
Andel. By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt he love di countryman, ’tis no dissembler: dis feene Tamasco apple can make di sweet countenance, but I can take no less but three crowns for one, I wear out my naked legs and my foots, and my tods,[400] and run hidder and didder to Tamasco for dem.
Shad. As Creez save me la, he speaks true: Peeps feene.
Agrip. I’ll try what power lies in Damasco fruit.
Here are ten crowns for three. So fare you well.
Montr. Lord Longaville, buy some.
Longa. I buy? not I:
Hang them, they are toys; come, madam, let us go. [Exeunt Agripyne, Longaville and Montrose.
Both. Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels look upon dat fash and make it fair.
Re-enter Montrose softly.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! she’s sped, I warrant.
Andel. Peace, Shadow, buy any peepins, buy.
Both. Peeps feene, feene Tamasco apples.
Montr. Came not Lord Longaville to buy some fruit?
Andel. No fat, master, here came no lords nor ladies, but di none sweet self.
Montr. ’Tis well, say nothing, here’s six crowns for two:
You say the virtues are to make one strong.
Both. Yes fat, and make sweet countenance and strong too.
Montr. ’Tis excellent: here! farewell! if these prove,
I’ll conquer men by strength, women by love. [Exit.
Re-enter Longaville.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha! why this is rare.
Shad. Peace, master, here comes another fool.
Both. Peepes feene, buy any peepes of Tamasco?
Longa. Did not the Lord Montrose return to you?
Both. No fat, sweet master, no lord did turn to us: peepes feene!
Longa. I am glad of it; here are nine crowns for three.
What are the virtues besides making fair?
Andel. O, ’twill make thee wondrous wise.
Shad. And dow shall be no more a fool, but sweet face and wise.
Longa. ’Tis rare, farewell, I never yet durst woo.
None loves me: now I’ll try what these can do. [Exit.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. So, this is admirable, Shadow, here end my torments in Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, but thine shall continue longer.
Shad. Did I not clap on a good false Irish face?
Andel. It became thee rarely.
Shad. Yet that’s lamentable, that a false face should become any man.
Andel. Thou art a gull,[401] tis all the fashion now, which fashion because we’ll keep, step thou abroad, let not the world want fools; whilst thou art commencing thy knavery there, I’ll precede Dr. Dodipoll[402] here: that done, thou, Shadow, and I will fat ourselves[403] to behold the transformation of these fools: go fly.
Shad. I fear nothing, but that whilst we strive to make others fools, we shall wear the cock’s combs ourselves. Pips fine. [Exit Shadow.
Enter Ampedo.
Andel. S’heart, here’s my brother whom I have abused:
His presence makes me blush, it strikes me dead,
To think how I am metamorphosèd.
Feene peepins of Tamasco!
Amp. For shame cast off this mask.
Andel. Wilt thou buy any pips?
Amp. Mock me no longer
With idle apparitions: many a land
Have I with weary feet and a sick soul
Measured to find thee; and when thou art found,
My greatest grief is that thou art not lost.
Yet lost thou art, thy fame, thy wealth are lost,
Thy wits are lost, and thou hast in their stead,
With shame and cares, and misery crowned thy head.
That Shadow that pursues thee, filled mine ears
With sad relation of thy wretchedness,
Where is the purse, and where my wishing hat?
Andel. Where, and where? are you created constable? You stand so much upon interrogatories. The purse is gone, let that fret you, and the hat is gone, let that mad you: I run thus through all trades to overtake them, if you be quiet, follow me, and help, if not, fly from me, and hang yourself. Wilt thou buy any pippins? [Exit.
Amp. Oh, how I grieve, to see him thus transformed?
Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes
He shall not start, till he have repossessed
Those virtuous jewels, which found once again,
More cause they ne’er shall give me to complain,
Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames,
And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. [Exit.
