SCAENA 3.
Enter 2 Captaines[210] & their Soldiers, severally.
1 Cap. Here stand we fast.
2 Cap. Cock all your Musketts, Soldiers, now, And gentlemen be ready to bend your pikes; The prisoner's comming out.
1 Cap. But doe you thinck They meane to take his head of, or to fright him?
2 Cap. Heaven keep me from such frights. Why are theis Guards Commaunded to make good the Execution, If they intend not death?
1 Cap. But dare they doe it?
2 Cap. What dare not Justice do that's right and honest?
Is he not proov'd a guilty man? What bugs
Should publick safety be afraid to looke on?
Do you hold the United States so tame to feare him,—
Feare him a Traitor, too?
1 Cap. You know hee's much lov'd, And every where they stir in his Compassion.
2 Cap. They'll stir so long till some of 'em will sinck for't, Some of the best I feare that glewd his faction; Their building lyes discoverd and their bases broken.
1 Cap. There is much money laid in every place, too, Hundreds and thousands, that they dare not strike him.
2 Cap. Give loosers leave to play the fooles; 'tis lost all.
Secure yourself he dyes; nor is it wisdom
To go an ace lesse with him: he is monstrous.
—The people hurry now; stand fast, he is comming.
Enter Provost, Soldiers & Executioners, with a Coffin & a Gibbett.
Pro. Make roome before! cleere all theis gaping people And stop their passage.
1 Cap. How now? What wonder's this?
Prov. Stay! or ile make ye stay: I charge ye stir not.
2 Cap. What thinck you now? dare not theis men do Justice? This is the body of Leidenberg, that killd himself To free his Cause: his shame has found him yet.
Prov. Up with him, come: set all your hands & heave him!
Exec. A plaguy, heavy Lubber! Sure this fellow
Has a bushell of plot in's belly, he weighes so massy.
Heigh! now againe! he stincks like a hung poll cat.
This rotten treason has a vengeance savour;
This venison wants pepper and salt abhominably.
Prov. Pyn him aloft, and pin him sure.
Exec. I warrant ye; If ere he run away againe ile swing for him. This would make a rare signe for a Cookes shop, The Christmas pie. [Exeunt Executioners.
Prov. Come; now about the rest.—Keepe the Court cleere still.
[Exeunt Provost and Soldiers.
2 Cap. What thinck you now?
1 Cap. Now I am afraid of him. This prologue should portend a fatall Tragedie: Theis examples will make 'em shake.
2 Cap. 'Tis well they have 'em;
Their stubbornenes and pride requires 'em greater.
The Prince strikes iust ith' nick and strikes home nobely:
This new pretending faction had fird all els;
They had floong a generall ruyn on the Cuntry.
Enter Boyes & Burgers.
1 Boy. He comes, he comes, he comes! ô for a place now!
2 Boy. Let's climb the Battlements.
Cap. Away with theis rogues.
1 Burg. I saw the Guard goe for him: Where shall we be now?
2 Burg. He will make a notable Speech, I warrant him.
3 Burg. Let's get us neere the Skaffold.
1 Cap. Keep of, Turnops: Ye come upon our Pikes els.
1 Burg. Pox o' theis Soldiers? We cannot see our frends hangd in quiet for 'em. Come, come, to th' top oth' hall.
[Exeunt Boys & Burgers.]
2 Cap. Away, good pilchers![211] Now blow your matches and stand fast: he comes here.
1 Cap. And now bend all your pikes.
Enter Provost, Barnavelt, Lords, Guard.
(A Scaffold put out) Executioner.
Prov. Cleere all the Skaffold; Let no more into th'Court; we are choakd with people.
Bar. You are curteous in your preparations, gentlemen,
1 Lord. You must ascend, Sir.
Bar. Feareles I will, my lords,
And, what you can inflict, as feareles suffer.
Thus high you raise me, a most glorious kindnes
For all my Cares! For my most faithfull service
For you and for the State thus ye promote me!
I thanck ye, Cuntrymen, most nobely thanck ye.
—Pull of my Gowne. Of what place are ye, frend?
Exec. Of Utrich, Sir.
Bar. Of Utrich! Wherefore, prethee, Art thou appointed here?
Exec. To tell you true, Sir, I won this place at dyce: we were three appointed.
Bar. Am I becom a generall game? a Rest[212]
For every Slave to pull at? Thanck ye still:
You are growne the noblest in your favours, gentlemen.
—What's that hangs there? what Coffin?
Lord. How it stirrs him.
2 Lord. The body, Sir, of Leidenberch[213] the Traitour.
Bar. The traitour?
2 Lord. I, the Traitour, the fowle Traitour, Who, though he killd himself to cleere his cause, Justice has found him out and so proclaimd him.
Bar. Have mercy on his soule! I dare behold him.
1 Lord. Beleeve me, he's much moved.
2 Lord. He has much reason.
Bar. Are theis the holly praires ye prepare for me—
The comforts to a parting soule? Still I thanck ye,
Most hartely and lovingly I thanck ye.
Will not a single death give satisfaction,
O you most greedy men and most ungratefull,—
The quiet sleep of him you gape to swallow,
But you must trym up death in all his terrors
And add to soules departing frights and feavors?
Hang up a hundred Coffins; I dare view 'em,
And on their heads subscribe a hundred treasons
It shakes not me, thus dare I smile upon 'em
And strongly thus outlooke your fellest Justice.
2 Lord. Will ye bethinck ye, Sir, of what ye come for.
Bar. I come to dye: bethinck you of your Justice
And with what Sword ye strike, the edge of mallice.
Bethinck ye of the travells I had for ye,
The throaes and grones to bring faire peace amongst ye;
Bethinck ye of the dangers I have plundgd through
And almost gripes of death, to make you glorious.
Thinck when the Cuntry, like a Wildernes,
Brought nothing forth but desolation,
Fire, Sword and Famine; when the earth sweatt under ye
Cold dewes of blood, and Spanish flames hoong ore ye,
And every man stood markt the child of murder
And women wanted wombes to feed theis cruelties;—
Thinck then who stept in to you, gently tooke ye
And bound your bleeding wounds up; from your faces
Wipd of the sweatts of sorrow, fed and nurssd ye;
Who brought the plowgh againe to crowne your plenty;
Your goodly meadowes who protected (Cuntrymen)
From the armd Soldiers furious marches; who
Unbard the Havens that the floating Merchant
Might clap his lynnen wings up to the windes
And back the raging waves to bring you proffit.
Thinck through whose care you are a Nation
And have a name yet left,—a fruitfull Nation
(Would I could say as thanckfull)—bethinck ye of theis things
And then turne back and blush, blush [for] my ruyne.
1 Lord. 'Tis strange how this [man b]rags; 'tis a strange impudence
Not to be pittied in his [case], not sufferd.
You breed the peace, you bring the plowgh againe?
You wipe the fire and blood of from this Cuntry,
And you restore hir to hir former Beuty?
Blush in thine age, bad man; thy grave blush for thee
And scorne to hide that man that holds no Creadit.
Beare witnes all the world that knowes our Trobles
Or ever greiv'd our plagues, what we have sufferd
And, under Heaven, by what armes we have cur'd theis,—
Councells and frends; in which I tell thee (Barnavelt),
And through thy Impudence I here proclaime it,
Thou hadst the least and last share. 'Tis not your face, Sir,
The greatnes of your friends, corruptly purchast,
The Crying up of your manie Services,
Which lookd into wither away like Mushrumps,
Shall scandall us.
2 Lord. Your Romaine end, to make men
Imagine your strong conscience fortifide,
No, nor your ground Religion. Examine all men
Branded with such fowle syns as you now dye for,
And you shall find their first stepp still Religion.
Gowrie in Scotland, 'twas his maine pretention:
Was not he honest, too? his Cuntries father?
Those fyery Speritts next that hatchd in England
That bloody Powder-Plot, and thought like meteors
To have flashd their Cuntryes peace out in a Moment:
Were not their Barrells loden with Religion?
Were not they pious, iust and zealous Subiects?
Humble your soule for shame, and seeke not now, Sir,
To tumble from that happines even Angells
Were throwne from for their pride. Confes, and dye well.
1 Lord. Will ye confes your faultes?
Bar. I come not heather To make myself guilty; yet one fault I must utter, And 'tis a great one.
2 Lord. The greater mercy.
Bar. I dye for saving this unthanckfull Cuntry.
1 Lord. Play not with heaven.
Bar. My Game's as sure as yours is,
And with more care and inocence I play it.
Take of my doblet; and I prethee, fellow,
Strike without feare.
Exec. I warrant ile fitt ye. I pray forgive me, Sir.
Bar. Most hartely,
And heer's my hand. I love thee, too: thy physick
Will quickly purge me from the worldes abuses.
When I speak lowdest, strike.
Exec. I shall observe ye.
Bar. Farwell, my lords: to all your Counsailes fortune,
Happie succes and proffit; peace to this Cuntry;
And to you all, that I have bredd like children,
Not a more faithfull father but more fortunate.
Doe not I stay too long?
2 Lord. Take your owne time, Sir.
Bar. I have a wiffe, my lords, and wretched children,
Unles it please his Grace to looke upon 'em
And your good honours with your eies of favour.
'Twill be a litle happines in my death
That they partake not with their fathers ruyns.
1 Lord. Let not that troble ye: they shall not find it.
Bar. Commend my last breath to his Excellence;
Tell him the Sun he shot at is now setting,
Setting this night, that he may rise to morrow,
For ever setting. Now let him raigne alone
And with his rayes give life and light to all men.
May he protect with honour, fight with fortune,
And dye with generall love, an old and good Prince.
My last petition, good Cuntrymen, forget me:
Your memories wound deeper then your mallice,
And I forgive ye all.—A litle stay me.—
Honour and world I fling ye thus behind me,
And thus a naked poore man kneele to heaven:
Be gracious to me, heare me, strengthen me.
I come, I come, ô gracious heaven! now, now,
Now, I present—
Exec. Is it well don mine Heeres?
1 Lord. Somewhat too much; you have strooke his fingers, too, But we forgive your haste. Draw in the body; And Captaines, we discharge your Companies.
Vand. Make cleere the Court.—Vaine glory, thou art gon! And thus must all build on Ambition.
2 Lord. Farwell, great hart; full low thy strength now lyes: He that would purge ambition this way dies.
Exeunt.
INTRODUCTION TO CAPTAIN UNDERWIT.
This anonymous Comedy is printed, for the first time, from Harl. MS.
7,650,—a small quarto of eighty-nine leaves. I have followed Halliwell
(Dictionary of Old Plays) in adopting the title, Captain Underwit.
There is no title-page to the MS.
An editor with plenty of leisure on his hands would find ample opportunities in Captain Underwit for discursive comment. Sometimes I have been obliged to pass over odd phrases and out-of-the-way allusions without a line of explanation; but in the index at the end of the fourth volume I hope to settle some difficulties that at present are left standing.
The date of the play I take to be circ. 1640 or 1642. In I. 1 there is a mention of the "league at Barwick and the late expeditions," where the reference can only be to Charles I.'s march into Scotland in the spring of 1639, and to the so-called Pacification of Berwick. Again, in III. 3, there is an allusion to the Newmarket Cup. Historians of the Turf say that Newmarket races date from 1640; but this statement is incorrect, for in Shirley's Hyde Park (V. 1),—a play licensed in 1632 and printed in 1637,—mention is made of a certain "Bay Tarrall that won the Cup at Newmarket." We find also an allusion to the "great ship" (III. 3), which was built in 1637. Of Mr. Adson's "new ayres" (IV. 1) I know very little. He brought out in 1621 a volume of "Courtly Masquing Ayres," but published nothing later,—although, of course, he may have continued writing long afterwards. Hawkins and Mr. Chappell are altogether silent about Adson's achievements.
Gerard Langbaine tells us that Shirley left at his death some plays in manuscript: I have little doubt, or rather no doubt at all, that Captain Underwit is one of them. In the notes I have pointed out several parallelisms to passages in Shirley's plays; and occasionally we find actual repetitions, word for word. But apart from these strong proofs, it would be plain from internal evidence that the present piece is a domestic comedy of Shirley's, written in close imitation of Ben Jonson. All the characters are old acquaintances. Sir Richard Huntlove, who longs to be among his own tenants and eat his own beef in the country; his lady, who loves the pleasures of the town, balls in the Strand, and masques; Device, the fantastic gallant,—these are well-known figures in Shirley's plays. No other playwright of that day could have given us such exquisite poetry as we find in Captain Underwit. The briskness, too, and cleverness of the dialogue closely recall Shirley; but it must be owned that there are few plays of Shirley's written with such freedom, not to say grossness.