A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 3

by Unknown

[SCENE 2.]

Enter Alphonso, Hard., Lassing., Leander, Stro.,
Hosherman, Motto, and Raphe.

Alp. Aye me! what hard extremitie is this? Nor quick nor dead can I beholde my sonne.

Enter Hance in the Princes apparrell.

Hance. Behold your sonne; [your] Blessing, noble father.

Hard. Malipart knave, art thou the Princes sonne?

Han. I, sir, apparrell makes the man.

Alp. Unhappy man, would God I had my sonne, So he had his Hyanthe or my life.

Lea. Should he enjoy Hyanthe [then], my Lord? Would you forsake your love, so he did live?

Alp. My love and life, did my deere sonne survive.

Lea. But were he found or should he live, my Lord,
Although Hyanthe's love were the chiefe cause
Of his mishap and amorous lunacie,
I hope your highnesse loves him over well
To let him repossesse his wits with her.

Alp. My love is dead in sorrow for his death; His life and wits should ransome worlds from me.

Lea. My Lord, I had a vision this last night
Wherein me thought I sawe the prince your sonne
Sit in my fathers garden with Hyanthe
Under the shadow of the Laurell tree.
With anger, therefore, you should be so wrongde
I wakt, but then contemned it as a dreame;
Yet since my minde beates on it mightelie,
And though I thinke it vaine, if you vouchsafe,
Ile make a triall of the truthe hereof. [Exit.

Alp. Do, good Leander. Hardenbergh, your sonne
Perhaps deludes me with a vision[79]
To mocke my vision that deferde the Dutchesse,
And with Hyanthe closlie keepes my sonne.

Hard. Your sonne was madde and drownd: this cannot bee.

Alp. But yet this circumventing speech [of his] Offered suspition of such event.

Stro. My lord, most fortunate were that event That would restore your sonne from death to life.

Har. As though a vision should do such a deed!

Alp. No, no, the boyes young brain was humorous: His servant and his Page did see him drown'd.

Enter Leander, Alberdure, Hyanthe; Alberdure
seeming fearefull to come forward.

Lea. Come on, sweet friend; I warrant thee thy love; Shun not thy fathers sight that longs for thee.

Alb. Go then before, and we will follow straight.

Lea. Comfort, my Lord, my vision proov'd most true:
Even in the place, under the Lawrell shade,
I found them sitting just as I beheld them
In my late vision; see, sir, where they come.

Alp. Am I enchanted or see I my sonne?
I, I, the boy hath plaide the traytor with me.
O, you young villaine, trust you with my love!
How smoothe the cunning treacher lookt on it;

Hard. But, sirra, can this be?

Lea. You knew him to be mad, these thought him drownd. My Lord, take you no more delight to see Your sonne recovered of his life and wits?

Alp. See, see, how boldly the young pollytician
Can urge his practice. Sirra, you shall know
Ile not be over-reacht with your young braine.
All have agreed, I see, to cozen me,
But all shall faile. Come, Ladie, I will have
You spight of all, and, sonne, learne you hereafter
To use more reverend meanes to obtaine
Of me what you desire. I have no joy
To see thee raizd from a deluding death.

Hya. My Lord, 'tis tyrannie t'enforce my love.

Lea. I hope your Highnesse will maintaine your word.

Alp. Doost thou speake, Traitor? straight Ile have you safe For daring to delude me in my love.

Albe. O friend, thou hast betraide my love in vaine:
Now am I worse then eyther mad or drown'd,
Now have I onely wits to know my griefes
And life to feel them.

Hya. Let me go to him.

Alp. Thou shalt not have thy will nor he his love;
Neither of both know what is fit for you.
I love with judgment and upon cold bloud,
He with youths furie, without reasons stay;
And this shall time and my kind usage of thee
Make thee discerne; meane time consider this,
That I neglect for thee a beautious Dutchesse
Who next to thee is fairest in the world.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. My Lord, the Duke of Brunswick and his sister, The beautious Dutchesse, are arrived here.

Alp. Whats that; the Dutchesse?

Mess. Even her grace, my Lord.

Alp. Why, Hardenbergh, ha! is the Dutchesse come?

Hard. I know not, my good Lord. Where is the Dutchesse?

Mess. Hard by, my Lord.

Alp. Sounes, I am not here; go tell her so: Or let her come, my choice is free in love. Come, my Hyanthe, stand thou close to me.

Mess. My Lord, the Duke himselfe has come to urge Your promise to him, which you must not break.

Hosch. Nor will you wish to break it, good my lord,
I am assur'd, when you shall see the Dutchesse,
Whose matchlesse beauties will renew the minde
Of her rare entertainment, and her presence
Put all new thoughts of love out of your minde.

Alp. Well, I do see 'tis best, my sweete Hyanthie, That thou stand further.

Hya. Ile be gone, my Lord.

Alp. Not gone, but mix thy selfe among the rest. What a spight is this! counsell me, Hardenbergh.

Hard. The Dutchesse comes, my Lord.

Alp. Out of my life, how shall I look on her?

Enter Constan., Kather., Lassen., Lucil., Cassi.,
Cornelia, Ite. A Song: after the Dutchesse speakes.

Kath. How now, my Lord? you looke as one dismaid; Have any visions troubled you of late?

Alp. Your grace and your most princely brother here Are highlie welcome to the Saxon Court.

Kath. O you dissemble, sir, nor are we come In hope of welcome, but with this poore head-peece To beare the brunt of all discurtesies.

Const. My Lord, wee come not now to urge the marriage,
You sought with such hot suite, of my faire Sister,
But to resolve ourselves and all the world
Why you retained such mean conceipt of us
To slight so solemne and so high a contract
With vaine pretext of visions or of dreames.

Alp. My Lord, I here protest by earth and heaven
I holde your state right highlie and renowned
And your faire sisters beauties and deserts
To be most worthy the greatest king alive;
Onlie an ominous vision troubled me
And hindred the wisht speede I would have made
(Not to dissolve it, though it were diferd,)
By such portents as, least you thinke I faine,
Lord Hardenbergh can witnesse is most true.

Hard. Most true, my lord, and most prodigious.

Alp. Yet Ile contemne them with my life and all Ere Ile offend your grace or breed suspect Of my firme faith in my most honoured love.

Kath. No, no, my lord: this is your vision That hath not frighted but enamoured you.

Alp. O Madame, thinke you so? by Heaven I sweare
She's my sonnes love.—Sirra, take her to you.
Have I had all this care to do her grace,
To prove her vertues and her love to thee,
And standst thou fearefull now? Take her, I say.

Lea. My Lord, he feares you will be angry with him.

Alp. You play the villaine: wherfore should he feare?
I onely proved her vertues for his sake,
And now you talke of anger. Aye me wretche,
That ever I should live to be thus shamed!

Alb. Madame, I sweare the Ladie is my love; Therefore your highnesse cannot charge my father With any wrong to your high woorth in her.

Con. Sister, you see we utterly mistake
The kinde and princelie dealing of the Duke:
Therefore without more ceremonious doubts
Lets reconfirme the contract and his love.

Kath. I warrant you, my Lord, the Duke dissembles.

Alp. Heere on my knees, at the altar of those feete,
I offer up in pure and sacred breath
The true speech of my hart and hart it selfe.
Require no more if thou be princelie borne
And not of rocks or ruthelesse tygers bred.

Kath. My Lord, I kindlie cry you mercy now,
Ashamed that you should injurie your estate
To kneele to me; and vowe before these lords
To make you all amends you can desire.

Flo. Madame, in admiration of your Grace
And princelie wisedom, and to gratifie
The long wisht joye done to my Lord the Duke,
I here present your highnesse with this cup,
Wrought admirablie by th' art of Spirits,
Of substance faire, more rich then earthly Jemmes,
Whose valew no mans judgement can esteeme.

Alp. Flores, Ile interrupt the Dutchesse thankes
And for the present thou hast given to her
To strengthen her consent to my desires,
I recompence thee with a free release
Of all offences twixt thy selfe and me.

Flo. I humblie thanke your excellence.

Kath. But where is now unkinde Earle Lassinbergh,
That injures his faire love and makes her weare
This worthlesse garland? Come, sir, make amends,
Or we will heere awarde you worthie penance.

Lass. Madame, since her departure I have done More hartie penance then her hart could wish, And vowe hereafter to live ever hers.

Kat. Then let us cast aside these forlorne wreathes, And with our better fortunes change our habits.

Enter Doctor in poste, the Marchant following him.

Doct. O stay, my Lorte, me pray you on knee von staie.

Alp. What's the matter, Doctor?

Doct. O me bret be garr for haste.

Con. What ayles the hastie Doctor?

Doct. My Lort be garr he lyes falslie in his troate; Me proove by the duell dat he be the fallce knave.

Alp. Who is it, man, with whom thou art so bold?

Doct. My Lorte, if me make my contrack of marriage, if me be not as loose as de vide worlde, if me doe not alleadge—

Alp. I pray thee, man, what meanest thou?

Doct. Be garr, enforme your grace vot he dare I will proove by good argument and raison dat he is de falce beggerlie Jeweller, dat I no point marrie Cornelia. Vat say you now?

Cass. My Lord, no doubt some man hath guld the Doctor, Supposing he should be enforste to wed her That is my wife and ever scorned him.

Doct. Vat you say? de Marshan tell a me I marrie Cornelia spit my nose.

Alp. The Marchant I perceive hath trimde you, Doctor. And comb'd you smoothelie. Faith, I can him thanke That thus revives our meeting with such mirth.

Doct. O be bright de heaven, est a possible! and by heaven I be revenge dat vile Marshan, me make de medecine drie up de Sea, seaven towsand, towsand million d'stlloe, fife hundred, hundred dram Fuffian, Marquerite, Balestiae, Hematete, Cortemedian, Churchacholl, Pantasite, Petrofidem, Hynape, and by garr de hot Pepre; me make de vinde, de grease collicke puffe, blowe by garr, teare de Sayle, beate de maste, cracke de Ship in towsand towsand peeces! Exit.

Alp. Farewell, gentle Doctor Doddipoll.
And now, deere Ladie, let us celebrate
Our happie royall nuptials and my sonnes
With this our sweete and generall amitie
Which heaven smile on with his goulden eye.

Finis Actus Quinti & ultimi.

Imprinted at London by Thomas Creede, for Richard Olive, dwelling in Long-lane. 1600.

INTRODUCTION TO THE DISTRACTED EMPEROR.

In the Appendix to Vol. II. I have given some account of this anonymous
play, which is here printed for the first time from Egerton MS. 1994.
As the play bears no title in the MS., I have named it at a venture
"The Distracted Emperor."

An ill-shaped and repulsive piece of work it certainly is; crude and cheerless, but marked with signs of unmistakable power. At the time when I made the extracts for the Appendix, I thought that Cyril Tourneur might possibly be the author. On further reflection, it seemed to me that the stronger passages are much in Marston's manner. The horrid scene where Charlimayne is represented hugging the dead queen recalls the anonymous "Second Maiden's Tragedy." Marston, who shrank from nothing, would not have hesitated to show us the Archbishop, in his search for the magic ring, parting the dead queen's lips, with the ironical observation, "You cannot byte me, Madam." The trenchant satire that abounds throughout the play reminds us frequently of Marston, though there is an absence of that monstrous phraseology which distinguished his "Scourge of Villanie" and early plays. But, looking at the play as a whole, I should have very great hesitation in allowing it to be Marston's. My impression is that Chapman had the chief hand in it. The author's trick of moralising at every possible opportunity, his abundant use of similes more proper to epic than dramatic language, the absence of all womanly grace in the female characters,—these are points in which the present play may be compared with Chapman's published tragedies. Orlando's speech at the beginning of Act ii., "O that my curse had power to wound the starres," &c., in which he compares himself, with epic elaboration, to "an argosie sent rychlye fourthe" and now "meanelye retourninge without mast or helm," to my thinking closely suggests Chapman. It is not quite impossible that the present play may be Chapman's lost "French tragedy" (entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660), a copy of which was among the plays destroyed by Warburton's cook.

It is due to Mr. Fleay that I should mention his solution of the difficulty. Taking the mysterious letters on the last page, "Nella [Greek: ph d ph n r] la B," he says: "La B. is the contraction for La Buffa,[80] one of the characters in the play; and the enigmatic letters, simply substituting the names for the letters themselves, read thus,' Nella fi-deltà fi-ni-ro la buffa,' which is good enough Italian for an anagram, meaning 'I will end trifling in fidelity.' But 'Nella fedelità (or fidelità) finiro la B.' transposed, gives us 'Il Fabro Natanielli (or Natanielle) Field,' i.e., 'Nathaniel Field the author'" (Athenaeum, March 3, 1883). Far be it from me to deny the ingenuity of this explanation, but when Mr. Fleay, not having seen the complete play, proceeds to say that the extracts I gave "are quite consistent with the supposition that it is one of Field's lost works," I must take leave to dissent. Field is the author of two comedies, "A Woman is a Weathercock" and "Amends for Ladies," and he assisted Massinger in the "Fatal Dowry." His comedies are well-constructed, bright, and airy. There is no slovenliness in the workmanship, and success is attained by honest, straightforward endeavour. It seems to me quite incredible that the author of those two admirable comedies should be responsible for the gloomy, ponderous tragi-comedy here presented to the reader. What share Field had in the "Fatal Dowry" I do not intend to discuss minutely. The chief figure in that play, Charolois, I take to be a study in Massinger's gravest manner; but if we allow that Field should be credited with more than the comic scenes in the "Fatal Dowry," his claim to the present play is not at all strengthened. Perhaps, after all, no author's name is concealed under the enigmatic letters.[81] In any case, Field's is the last name that could be put forward with any show of likelihood.