A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 3

by Unknown

[SCENE 2.]

Enter Clarence, and Doctor.

Do. I thinke your disease sir, be rather of the minde then the body.

Cla. Be there diseases of the minde Doctor?

Do. No question sir, even as there be of the body.

Cla. And cures for them too?

Do. And cures for them too, but not by Physick.

Cla. You will have their diseases, greifes? will you not?

Do. Yes, oftentimes.

Cla. And doe not greifes ever rise out of passions?

Do. Evermore.

Cla. And doe not passions proceed from corporall distempers?

Do. Not the passions of the minde, for the minde many times is sicke, when the bodie is healthfull.

Cla. But is not the mindes-sicknes of power to make the body sicke?

Do. In time, certaine.

Cla. And the bodies ill affections able to infect the mind?

Do. No question.

Cla. Then if there be such a naturall commerce of Powers betwixt them, that the ill estate of the one offends the other, why shood not the medicines for one cure the other?

Do. Yet it will not you see. Hei mihi quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.[44]

Cla. Nay then, Doctor, since you cannot make any reasonable Connexion of these two contrarieties the minde, and the body, making both subiect to passion, wherein you confound the substances of both, I must tell you there is no disease of the minde but one, and that is Ignorance.

Do. Why what is love? is not that a disease of the mind?

Cla. Nothing so: for it springs naturally out of the bloode, nor are we subject to any disease, or sorrowe, whose causes or effects simply and natively concerne the body, that the minde by any meanes partaketh, nor are there any passions in the soule, for where there are no affections, there are no passions: And Affectus your Master Galen refers parti irascenti, For illic est anima sentiens ubi sunt affectus: Therefore the Rationall Soule cannot be there also.

Do. But you know we use to say, my minde gives me this or that, even in those addictions that concerne the body.

Cla. We use to say so indeed, and from that use comes the abuse of all knowledge and her practice, for when the object in question only concerns the state of the body; why shood the soule bee sorry or glad for it? if she willingly mixe her selfe, then she is a foole, if of necessity, and against her will, a slave, and so, far from that wisdome and freedome that the Empresse of Reason and an eternall Substance shood comprehend.

Do. Divinely spoken, Sir, but verie Paradoxicallie.

Enter Momford, Tales, Kingcob, Furnif; Rudes, Goos: Foul: Eugenia, Penelope, Hippolyta, Winnifred.

Mom. Who's there?

[Fur.?] I, my Lord.

Mom. Bring hether the Key of the gallery, me thought I heard the Doctor, and my friend.

Fur. I did so sure.

Mom. Peace then a while, my Lord, We will be bold to evesdroppe; For I know My friend is as respective in his Chamber And by himselfe, of any thing he does As in a Criticke Synods curious eyes, Following therein Pythagoras golden rule— Maximè omnium teipsum reverere.

Cla. Know you the Countesse Eugenia, Sir?

Do. Exceeding wel, Sir; she's a good learned scholler.

Cla. Then I perceive you know her well indeed.

Do. Me thinks you two shood use much conference.

Cla. Alas sir, we doe verie seldome meet,
For her estate and mine are so unequall,
And then her knowledge passeth mine so farre,
That I hold much too sacred a respect,
Of her high vertues to let mine attend them.

Do. Pardon me, Sir, this humblenes cannot flowe Out of your judgment but from passion.

Cla. Indeed I doe account that passion
The very high perfection of my minde,
That is excited by her excellence,
And therefore willingly, and gladly feele it.
For what was spoken of the most chast Queene
Of rich Pasiaca [?] may be said of her.
Moribus Antevenit sortem[45], virtutibus Annos,
Sexum animo, morum Nobilitate Genus.

Do. A most excellent Distick.

Mom. Come, Lords, away, lets not presume too much
Of a good nature; not for all I have
Wood I have him take knowledge of the wrong
I rudely offer him: come then ile shew
A few rare jewels to your honour'd eyes;
And then present you with a common supper.

Goos. Iewells, my Lord? why is not this candlesticke one of your jewells pray?

Mom. Yes marry is it, sir Gyles, if you will.

Goos. Tis a most fine candlesticke in truth, it wants nothing but the languages.

Pene. The languages servant why the languages?

Goos. Why Mistris; there was a lattin candlesticke here afore, and that had the languages I am sure.

Tal. I thought he had a reason for it Lady.

Pene. I, and a reason of the Sunne too, my Lord, for his father wood have bin ashamed on't. [Exeunt.

Do. Well, master Clarence, I perceive your minde
Hath so incorparate it selfe with flesh
And therein rarified that flesh to spirit,
That you have need of no Physitians helpe.
But, good Sir, even for holy vertues health
And grace of perfect knowledge, doe not make
Those ground workes of eternity you lay
Meanes to your ruine, and short being here:
For the too strict and rationall Course you hold
Will eate your body up; and then the World,
Or that small poynt of it where vertue lives,
Will suffer Diminution: It is now
Brought almost to a simple unity,
Which is (as you well know) Simplicior puncto.
And if that point faile once, why, then alas
The unity must onely be suppos'd.
Let it not faile then, most men else have sold it;
Tho you neglect your selfe, uphould it.
So with my reverend love I leave you sir. [Exit.

Cla. Thanks, worthy Doctour, I do amply quite you;
I proppe poore vertue, that am propt my selfe,
And only by one friend in all the World!
For vertues onely sake I use this wile,
Which otherwise I wood despise, and scorne.
The World should sinke, and all the pompe she hugs
Close in her hart, in her ambitious gripe,
Ere I sustaine it, if this slendrest joynt
Mou'd with the worth that worldlings love so well
Had power to save it from the throate of hell.
[He drawes the curtains, and sits within them.

Enter Eugenia, Penelope, Hippolita.

Eug. Come on, faire Ladies, I must make you both Familiar witnesses of the most strange part And full of impudence, that ere I plaide.

Hip. What's that, good Madam?

Eug. I that have bene so more then maiden-nice
To my deere Lord and uncle not to yeeld
By his importunate suite to his friends love
In looke, or almost thought; will of my selfe,
Farre past his expectation or his hope,
In action and in person greete his friend,
And comfort the poore gentlemans sicke state.

Pene. Is this a part of so much Impudence?

Eug. No but I feare me it will stretch to more.

Hip. Marry, Madam, the more the merrier.

Eug. Marrie Madam? what shood I marrie him?

Hip. You take the word me thinkes as tho you would,
And if there be a thought of such kind heate
In your cold bosome, wood to god my breath
Might blowe it to the flame of your kind hart.

Eug. Gods pretious, Ladie, know ye what you say,
Respect you what I am, and what he is,
What the whole world wood say, & what great Lords
I have refused, and might as yet embrace,
And speake you like a friend to wish me him?

Hip. Madam I cast all this, and know your choyse
Can cast it quite out of the christall dores
Of your Iudiciall eyes: I am but young,
And be it said, without all pride I take
To be a maid, I am one, and indeed
Yet in my mothers wombe to all the wiles
Weeud[46] in the loomes of greatnes, and of state:
And yet even by that little I have learn'd
Out of continuall conference with you,
I have cride haruest home of thus much judgment
In my greene sowing time, that I cood place
The constant sweetnes of good Clarence minde,
Fild with his inward wealth and noblenes,
(Looke, Madam) here, when others outward trash
Shood be contented to come under here.

Pene. And so say I uppon my maidenhead.

Eug. Tis well said, Ladies, thus we differ then,
I to the truth-wife, you to worldly men.
And now sweet dames obserue an excellent jest
(At least in my poore jesting.) Th'Erle my unckle
Will misse me straite, and I know his close drift
Is to make me, and his friend Clarence meete
By some device or other he hath plotted.
Now when he seekes us round about his house
And cannot find us, for we may be sure
He will not seeke me in his sicke friends Chamber,
(I have at all times made his love so strange,)
He straight will thinke, I went away displeas'd,
Or hartely careles of his hardest suite.
And then I know there is no griefe on Earth
Will touch his hart so much; which I will suffer,
To quite his late good pleasure wrought on me,
For ile be sworne in motion, and progresse
Of his friends suite, I never in my life
Wrastled so much with passion or was mov'd
To take his firme love in such jelouse part.

Hip. This is most excellent, Madam, and will prove A neecelike, and a noble friends Revenge.

Eug. Bould in a good cause; then lets greet his friend.—
Where is this sickely gentleman? at his booke?
Now in good truth I wood theis bookes were burnd
That rapp men from their friends before their time,
How does my uncles friend, no other name
I need give him, to whom I give my selfe.

Cla. O Madam let me rise that I may kneele, And pay some duty to your soveraigne grace.

Hip. Good Clarence, doe not worke your selfe disease My Lady comes to ease and comfort you.

Pene. And we are handmaides to her to that end.

Cla. Ladies, my hart will breake if it be held Within the verge of this presumtuous chaire.

Eug. Why, Clarence is your judgement bent to show
A common lovers passion? let the World,
That lives without a hart, and is but showe,
Stand on her empty, and impoisoned forme,
I knowe thy kindenesse and have seene thy hart
Clest [Cleft?] in my uncles free and friendly lippes,
And I am only now to speake and act
The rite's due to thy love: oh, I cood weepe
A bitter showre of teares for thy sicke state,
I cood give passion all her blackest rites
And make a thousand vowes to thy deserts.
But these are common, knowledge is the bond,
The seale, and crowne of our united mindes;
And that is rare and constant, and for that,
To my late written hand I give thee this.
See, heaven, the soule thou gau'st is in this hand.
This is the Knot of our eternitie,
Which fortune, death, nor hell, shall ever loose.

Enter Bullaker, Iack, Wil.

Ia. What an unmannerly tricke is this of thy Countesse to give the noble count her uncle the slippe thus?

Wil. Vnmannerlie, you villaynes? O that I were worthy to weare a Dagger to any purpose for thy sake?

Bul. Why young Gentlemen, utter your anger with your fists.

Wil. That cannot be, man, for all fists are shut you know and utter nothing; and besides I doe not thinke my quarrell just for my Ladies protection in this cause, for I protest she does most abhominablie miscarrie her selfe.

Ia. Protest, you sawsie Iacke, you! I shood doe my country, and Court-ship good service to beare thy coalts teeth out of thy head, for suffering such a reverend word to passe their guarde; why, the oldest Courtier in the World, man, can doe noe more then protest.

Bul. Indeede, Page, if you were in Fraunce, you wood be broken upon a wheele for it, there is not the best Dukes sonne in France dares say I protest, till he be one and thirty yeere old at least, for the inheritance of that word is not to be possest before.

Wil. Well, I am sorry for my presumtion then, but more sory for my Ladies, marie most sorry for thee good Lord Momford, that will make us most of all sory for our selves, if wee doe not fynde her out.

Ia. Why, alas, what shood wee doe? all the starres of our heaven see, we seeke her as fast as we can if she be crept into a rush we will seeke her out or burne her.

Enter Momford.

Mom. Villaines, where are your Ladies? seeke them out.
Hence, home ye monsters, and still keepe you there
Where levity keepes, in her inconstant Spheare. [Exeunt Pages.
Away, you pretious villaines! what a plague,
Of varried tortures is a womans hart?
How like a peacockes taile with different lightes,
They differ from themselves; the very ayre
Alter the aspen humors of their bloods.
Now excellent good, now superexcellent badd:
Some excellent good, some? but one of all:
Wood any ignorant babie serue her friend
Such an uncivill part? Sblood what is learning?
An artificiall cobwebbe to catch flies,
And nourish Spiders? cood she cut my throate
With her departure, I had byn her calfe,
And made a dish at supper for my guests
Of her kinde charge; I am beholding to her.
Puffe, is there not a feather in this ayre
A man may challenge for her? what? a feather?
So easie to be seene, so apt to trace,
In the weake flight of her unconstant wings?
A mote, man, at the most, that with the Sunne,
Is onely seene, yet with his radiant eye,
We cannot single so from other motes,
To say this mote is she. Passion of death,
She wrongs me past a death; come, come, my friend
Is mine, she not her owne, and theres an end.

Eug. Come uncle shall we goe to supper now?

Mom. Zounes to supper? what a dorr is this?

Eug. Alas what ailes my uncle? Ladies, see.

Hip. Is not your Lordshippe well?

Pene. Good, speake my Lord.

Mom. A sweete plague on you all, ye witty rogues; Have you no pitty in your villanous jests, But runne a man quite from his fifteene witts?

Hip. Will not your Lordship see your friend, and Neece.

Mom. Wood I might sinke if I shame not to see her
Tush t'was a passion of pure jealousie,
Ile make her now amends with Adoration.
Goddesse of learning, and of constancy,
Of friendshippe, and of everie other vertue.

Eug. Come, come you have abus'de me now, I know, And now you plaister me with flatteries.

Pene. My Lord, the contract is knit fast betwixt them.

Mom. Now all heavens quire of Angels sing Amen,
And blesse theis true borne nuptials with their blisse;
And Neece tho you have cosind me in this,
Ile uncle you yet in an other thing,
And quite deceive your expectation.
For where you thinke you have contracted harts
With a poore gentleman, he is sole heire
To all my Earledome, which to you and yours
I freely and for ever here bequeath.
Call forth the Lords, sweet Ladies; let them see
This sodaine, and most welcome Noveltie;
But cry you mercy, Neece, perhaps your modesty
Will not have them partake this sodaine match.

Eug. O uncle, thinke you so? I hope I made My choyce with too much Judgment to take shame Of any forme I shall performe it with.

Mom. Said like my Neece, and worthy of my friend.

Enter Furnifall, Tal: King: Goos: Rud: Foul: Ia: Will, Bullaker.

Mom. My Lords, take witnes of an absolute wonder, A marriage made for vertue, onely vertue: My friend, and my deere Neece are man and wife.

Fur. A wonder of mine honour, and withall A worthy presedent for all the World; Heaven blesse you for it, Lady, and your choyce.

Ambo. Thankes, my good Lord.

Ta. An Accident that will make pollicie blush,
And all the Complements of wealth and state,
In the succesfull and unnumbred Race
That shall flow from it, fild with fame and grace.

Ki. So may it speed deere Countesse, worthy Clarence.

Ambo. Thankes, good sir Cuthberd.

Fur. Captaine be not dismaid, Ile marrie thee, For while we live, thou shalt my consort be.

Foul. By France my Lord, I am not griev'd a whit, Since Clarence hath her; he hath bin in Fraunce, And therefore merits her if she were better.

Mom. Then, Knights, ile knit your happie nuptial knots.
I know the Ladies minds better then you;
Tho my rare Neece hath chose for vertue only,
Yet some more wise then some, they chuse for both,
Vertue and wealth.

Eug. Nay, uncle, then I plead This goes with my choise, Some more wise then some, For onely vertues choise is truest wisedome.

Mom. Take wealth, and vertue both amongst you then,
They love ye, Knights, extreamely; and Sir Cut:
I give the chast Hippolita to you;
Sir Gyles, this Ladie—

Pen. Nay, stay there, my Lord. I have not yet prov'd all his Knightly parts I heare he is an excellent Poet too.

Tal. That I forgot sweet Lady; good sir Gyles, Have you no sonnet of your penne about ye?

Goos. Yes, that I have I hope, my Lord, my Cosen.

Fur. Why, this is passing fit.

Goos. I'de be loth to goe without paper about me against my Mistris, hold my worke againe; a man knows not what neede he shall have perhaps.

Mom. Well remembred a mine honour sir Gyles.

Goos. Pray read my Lord, I made this sonnet of my Mistris.

Rud. Nay reade thy selfe, man.

Goos. No intruth, sir Cut: I cannot reade mine owne hand.

Mom. Well I will reade it. Three things there be which thou shouldst only crave, Thou Pomroy or thou apple of mine eye; Three things there be which thou shouldst long to have And for which three each modest dame wood crie; Three things there be that shood thine anger swage, An English mastife and a fine French page.

Rud. Sblood, Asse, theres but two things, thou shamst thy selfe.

Goos. Why sir Cut. thats Poetica licentia, the verse wood have bin too long, and I had put in the third. Slight, you are no Poet I perceive.

Pene. Tis excellent, servant.

Mom. Keepe it Lady then, And take the onely Knight of mortall men.

Goos. Thanke you, good my Lord, as much as tho you had given me twenty shillings in truth; now I may take the married mens parts at football.

Mom. All comforts crowne you all; and you, Captaine, For merry forme sake let the willowe crowne: A wreath of willow bring us hither straite.

Fur. Not for a world shood that have bin forgot Captaine it is the fashion, take this Crowne.

Foul. With all my hart, my Lord, and thanke you too; I will thanke any man that gives me crownes.

Mom. Now will we consecrate our ready supper
To honourd Hymen as his nuptiall rite;
In forme whereof first daunce, faire Lords and Ladies,
And after sing, so we will sing, and daunce,
And to the skies our vertuous joyes advance.

The Measure.

Now to the song and doe this garland grace.

_Canto.

Willowe, willowe, willowe,
our Captaine goes downe:
Willowe, willowe, willowe,
his vallor doth crowne.
The rest with Rosemary we grace;
O Hymen let thy light
With richest rayes guild every face,
and feast harts with delight.
Willowe, willowe, willowe,
we chaunt to the skies;
And with blacke, and yellowe,
give courtship the prize_.

FINIS.

NOTE.—In a letter to the Athenaeum of June 9, 1883, Mr. Fleay suggests that Sir Giles Goosecap is the work of George Chapman. "It was produced by the Children of the Chapel, and must therefore date between 1599 and 1601. The only other plays known to have been represented by the Chapel Children are Lyly's Love's Metamorphosis and the three Comical Satires of Ben Jonson. The present play bears palpable marks of Jonson's influence…. The author, then, must have been a stage writer at the end of the sixteenth century, probably a friend of Jonson's, and not surviving 1636. The only known playwrights who fulfil the time conditions are Marston, Middleton, and Chapman. Internal evidence, to say nothing of Jonson's enmity, is conclusive against Marston and Middleton. Chapman, on the other hand, fulfils the conditions required. He was Jonson's intimate friend, and died in 1634. In 1598 he was writing plays for Henslow at the Rose Theatre; on July 17, 1599, his connexion with the Admiral's Company there performing ceased; and his next appearance in stage history is as a writer for the Children of Her Majesty's Revels, the very company that succeeded, and was, indeed, founded on that of the Children of the Chapel at Blackfriars. If Chapman was not writing for the Chapel boys from 1599 to 1601, we do not know what he was doing at all. The external evidence, then, clearly points to Chapman. The internal is still more decisive. To say nothing of metrical evidence, which seems just now out of fashion, probably on account of the manner in which it has been handled, can there be any doubt of the authorship of such lines as these:—

'According to my master Plato's mind,' &c.—iii. II.

And for the lower comedy, act iv., sc. 1, in which Momford makes Eugenia dictate a letter to Clarence, should be compared with the Gentleman Usher, iii. 1, and Monsieur d'Olive, iv. 1. These are clearly all from one mould." I, like Mr. Fleay, had been struck by the resemblance to Chapman's style in parts of Sir Gyles Goosecappe; but it seems to me that the likeness is stronger in the serious than in the comic scenes. If Chapman was the author, it is curious that his name did not appear on the title-page of the second edition. The reference to the Maréchal de Biron's visit, iii. 1, proves conclusively that the play cannot have been written earlier than the autumn of 1601.

INTRODUCTION TO DOCTOR DODYPOLL.

After reading the passages from "Dr. Dodypoll" in Lamb's "Extracts from the Garrick Plays," many students must have felt a desire to have the play in its entirety. I fear that in gratifying their desire I shall cause them some disappointment; and that, when they have read the play through, they will not care to remember much beyond what they knew already. "Dr. Dodypoll" affords a curious illustration of the astounding inequality in the work of the old dramatists. The opening scene, between Lucilia and Lord Lassenbergh, shows rich imagination and a worthy gift of expression. The writer, whoever he may have been, scatters his gold with a lavish hand. In the fine panegyric[47] on painting, there is a freedom of fancy that lifts us into the higher regions of poetry; and dull indeed must be the reader who can resist the contagion of Lassenbergh's enthusiasm. But this strain of charming poetry is brought too quickly to a close, and then begins the comic business. Haunce, the serving-man, is just tolerable, but the French doctor, with his broken English, is a desperate bore. Soon the stage is crowded with figures, and we have to set our wits on work to follow the intricacies of the plot. Flores, the jeweller, has two daughters, Cornelia and Lucilia. The elder of the two, Cornelia, an ill-favoured virgin, whose affections are fixed on the young Lord Alberdure, has two contending suitors in the doctor and the merchant. Alberdure is in love with Hyanth, but he has a rival in the person of his own father, the Duke of Saxony, who had been previously contracted to the Lady Catherine. Meanwhile Lord Lassenbergh, who is living disguised as a painter under Flores' roof, has gained the affections of Lucilia. In the conduct of the complicated plot no great dexterity is shown. There is a want of fusion and coherence. The reader jumbles the characters together, and would fain see at least one couple cleared off the stage in order to simplify matters. In making Earl Cassimeere marry the deformed Cornelia and share his estate with her father, the author (as Laugbaine observed) has followed Lucian's story of Zenothemis and Menecrates (in "Toxaris, vel De Amicitia"). The third scene of the third act, where Lassenbergh in the hearing of the enchanter chides Lucilia for following him, is obviously imitated from "Midsummer Night's Dream," and in single lines of other scenes we catch Shakespearean echoes. But the writer's power is shown at its highest in the scene (iii. 6) where Lucilia's faltering recollection strives to pierce the veil of her spell-bound senses, gains the light for an instant, and then is lost again in the tumult of contending emotions. The beauty of that scene is beyond the reach of any ordinary poet. And what shall be said of that exquisite description of the cameo in ii. 1?

"Flores. See, then, (my Lord) this Aggat that containes
The image of that Goddesse and her sonne,
Whom auncients held the Soveraignes of Love;
See, naturally wrought out of the stone
(Besides the perfect shape of every limme,
Besides the wondrous life of her bright haire)
A waving mantle of celestiall blew
Imbroydering it selfe with flaming Starres.

Alber. Most excellent: and see besides (my Lords)
How Cupids wings do spring out of the stone
As if they needed not the helpe of Art."

Is there in the whole Greek Anthology anything more absolutely flawless?

As to the authorship of "Dr. Dodypoll" I am unable to form a conjecture. We learn from Henslowe's Diary that a play called the "French Doctor" was popular in 1594; but we are not justified in identifying this piece with "Dr. Dodypoll." Steevens states that the present play was composed before 1596, but he gives no authority for the statement. The song on p. 102, "What thing is love"? is found in William Drummond's MS. extracts from Peele's "Hunting of Cupid" (apud Dyce's Peele).[48]

The Wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll.

As it hath bene sundrie times Acted by the Children of Powles.

LONDON Printed by Thomas Creede, for Richard Oliue, dwelling in Long Lane. 1600.

The Wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll.

Actus Prima.

A Curtaine drawne, Earle Lassingbergh is discovered (like a Painter) painting Lucilia, who sits working on a piece of Cushion worke.

Lassinberge.[49] Welcome, bright Morne, that with thy golden rayes
Reveal'st the variant colours of the world,
Looke here and see if thou canst finde disper'st
The glorious parts of faire Lucilia:
Take[50] them and joyne them in the heavenly Spheares,
And fix them there as an eternall light
For Lovers to adore and wonder at:
And this (long since) the high Gods would have done,
But that they could not bring it back againe
When they had lost so great divinitie.

Lu. You paint your flattering words, [Lord] Lassinbergh,
Making a curious pensill of your tongue;
And that faire artificiall hand of yours
Were fitter to have painted heavens faire storie
Then here to worke on Antickes and on me.
Thus for my sake you (of a noble Earle)
Are glad to be a mercinary Painter.

Lass. A Painter, faire Luci[li]a? Why, the world
With all her beautie was by painting made.
Looke on the heavens colour'd with golden starres,
The firmamentall ground of it all blew:
Looke on the ayre where, with a hundred changes,
The watry Rain-bow doth imbrace the earth:
Looke on the sommer fields adorn'd with flowers,—
How much is natures painting honour'd there?
Looke in the Mynes, and on the Easterne shore,
Where all our Mettalls and deare Jems are drawne,
Thogh faire themselves made better by their foiles:
Looke on that little world, the twofold man,
Whose fairer parcell is the weaker still,
And see what azure vaines in stream-like forme
Divide the Rosie beautie of the skin.
I speake not of the sundry shapes of beasts,
The severall colours of the Elements,
Whose mixture shapes the worlds varietie
In making all things by their colours knowne.
And to conclude, Nature, her selfe divine,
In all things she hath made is a meere Painter.

[She kisses her hand.

[Lu.] Now by this kisse, th'admirer of thy skill,
Thou art well worthie th'onor thou hast given
(With so sweet words) to thy eye-ravishing Art,
Of which my beauties can deserve no part.

Lass. From[51] these base Anticks where my hand hath spearst
Thy severall parts, if I uniting all
Had figur'd there the true Lucilia,
Then might'st thou justly wonder at mine Art
And devout people would from farre repaire,
Like Pilgrims, with there dutuous sacrifice,
Adoring[52] thee as Regent of their loves.
Here, in the Center of this Mary-gold,
Like a bright Diamond I enchast thine eye;
Here, underneath this little Rosie bush,
Thy crimson cheekes peers forth more faire then it;
Here Cupid (hanging downe his wings) doth sit,
Comparing Cherries to thy Ruby lippes:
Here is thy browe, thy haire, thy neck, thy hand,
Of purpose all in severall shrowds disper'st,
Least ravisht I should dote on mine own worke
Or Envy-burning eyes should malice it.

Lu. No more, my Lord; see, here comes Haunce our man.

Enter Haunce.

Haunce. We have the finest Painter here at boord wages that ever made Flowerdelice, and the best bedfellow, too; for I may lie all night tryumphing from corner to corner while he goes to see the Fayries, but I for my part see nothing, but here [sic] a strange noyse sometimes. Well, I am glad we are haunted so with Fairies, for I cannot set a cleane pump down but I find a dollar in it in the morning. See, my Mistresse Lucilia, shee's never from him: I pray God he paints no pictures with her; but I hope my fellowe hireling will not be so sawcie. But we have such a wench a comming for you (Lordings) with her woers: A, the finest wench.

Wink, wink, deare people, and you be wise,
And shut, O shut, your weeping eyes.

Enter Cornelia sola, looking upon the picture of
Alberdure in a little Jewell, and singing. Enter the
Doctor and the Merchant following and hearkning to her.

THE SONG.

What thing is love? for sure I am it is a thing,
It is a prick, it is a thing, it is a prettie, prettie thing;
It is a fire, it is a cole, whose flame creeps in at every hoale;
And as my wits do best devise
Loves dwelling is in Ladies eies.

Haunce. O rare wench!

Cor. Faire Prince, thy picture is not here imprest With such perfection as within my brest.

Mar. Soft, maister Doctor.

Doct. Cornelia, by garr dis paltry marshan be too bolde, is too sawcie by garr. Foole, holde off hand, foole; let de Doctor speake.

Han. Now my brave wooers, how they strive for a Jewes Trump.

Doct. Madam, me love you; me desire to marry you. Me pray you not to say no.

Cor. Maister Doctor, I think you do not love me; I am sure you shall not marry me, And (in good sadnes) I must needs say no.

Mar. What say you to this, maister Doctor. Mistresse, let me speake. That I do love you I dare not say, least I should offend you; that I would marry you I had rather you should conceive then I should utter: and I do live or die upon your Monasi[la]ble, I or no.

Doct. By gar if you will see de Marshan hang himselfe, say no: a good shasse by garr.

Han. A filthy French jest as I am a Dutch gentleman.

Mar. Mistresse, Ile bring you from Arabia, Turckie, and India, where the Sunne doth rise, Miraculous Jemmes, rare stuffes of pretious worke, To beautifie you more then all the paintings Of women with their coullour-fading cheekes.

Doct. You bring stuffe for her? you bring pudding. Me vit one, two, tree pence more den de price buy it from dee and her too by garr: by garr dow sella' dy fader for two pence more. Madam, me gieve you restoratife; me give you tings (but toush you) make you faire; me gieve you tings make you strong; me make you live six, seaven, tree hundra yeere: you no point so, Marshan. Marshan run from you two, tree, foure yere together: who shall kisse you dan? Who shall embrace you dan? Who shall toush your fine hand? ô shall, ô sweete, by garr.

Mar. Indeed, M. Doctor, your commodities are rare; a guard of Urinals in the morning; a plaguie fellow at midnight; a fustie Potticarie ever at hand with his fustian drugges, attending your pispot worship.

Doct. By garr, skurvy marshan, me beat dee starck dead, and make dee live againe for sav'a de law.

Han. A plaguie marshan by gar, make the doctor angre.

Doct. Now, madam, by my trot you be very faire.

Cor. You mock me, M. Doct, I know the contrary.

Doct. Know? what you know? You no see your selfe, by garr me see you; me speake vatt me see; you no point speake so:

Han. Peace, Doctor, I vise you. Do not court in my maisters hearing, you were best.

Enter Flores.

Flo. Where are these wooers heere? poore sillie men,
Highly deceiv'd to gape for marriage heere
Onely for gaine: I have another reache
More high then their base spirits can aspire:
Yet must I use this Doctors secret aide,
That hath alreadie promist me a drug
Whose vertue shall effect my whole desires.

Doct. O Monsieur Flores, mee be your worships servant; mee lay my hand under your Lordships foote by my trot.

Flo. O maister Doctor, you are welcome to us, And you, Albertus, it doth please me much To see you vowed rivalls thus agree.

Doct. Agree? by my trot sheele not have him.

Ma. You finde not that in your urins, M. Doctor.

Doct. Mounsieur Flores, come hedder, pray.

Flo. What sayes maister Doctor? have you remembred me?

Doct. I, by garr: heere be de powdra, you give de halfe at once.

Flo. But are you sure it will worke the effect?

Doct. Me be sure? by garr she no sooner drinke but shee hang your neck about; she stroake your beard; she nippe your sheeke; she busse your lippe, by garr.

Flo. What, wilt thou eate me, Doctor?

Doct. By garr, mee must shew you de vertue by plaine demonstration.

Flo. Well, tell me, is it best in wine or no?

Doct. By garr de Marshan, de Marshan, I tinck he kisse my sweete mistresse.

Flo. Nay, pray thee, Doctor, speake; is't best in wine or no?

Doct. O, good Lort! in vyne: vat else I pray you? you give de vench to loove vatra? be garre me be ashame of you.

Flo. Well, thankes, gentle Doctor. And now (my friends) I looke to day for strangers of great state, And must crave libertie to provide for them. Painter, goe leave your worke, and you, Lucilia, Keepe you (I charge you) in your chamber close. [Exeunt Cass. and Lucilia. Haunce, see that all things be in order set Both for our Musicke and our large Carowse, That (after our best countrie fashion) I may give entertainment to the Prince.

Han. One of your Hault-boyes (sir) is out of tune.

Flo. Out of tune, villaine? which way?

Han. Drunke (sir), ant please you?

Flo. Ist night with him alreadie?—Well, get other Musicke.

Han. So we had need in truth, sir. [Exit Hans.

Doct. Me no trouble you by my fait, me take my leave: see, de unmannerlie Marshan staie, by garr. [Exit.

Mar. Sir, with your leave Ile choose some other time When I may lesse offend you with my staie. [Exit.

Flo. Albertus, welcome.—And now, Cornelia,
Are we alone? looke first; I, all is safe.
Daughter, I charge thee now even by that love
In which we have been partiall towards thee
(Above thy sister, blest with bewties guifts)
Receive this vertuous powder at my hands,
And (having mixt it in a bowle of Wine)
Give it unto the Prince in his carowse.
I meane no villanie heerein to him
But love to thee wrought by that charmed cup.
We are (by birth) more noble then our fortunes;
Why should we, then, shun any meanes we can
To raise us to our auncient states againe?
Thou art my eldest care, thou best deserv'st
To have thy imperfections helpt by love.

Corn. Then, father, shall we seeke sinister meanes
Forbidden by the lawes of God and men?
Can that love prosper which is not begun
By the direction of some heavenly fate?

Flo. I know not; I was nere made Bishop yet;
I must provide for mine, and still preferre
(Above all these) the honour of my house:
Come, therefore, no words, but performe my charge.

Cor. If you will have it so I must consent.

[Exeunt.