[SCENE 4.]
Enter Charlimayne, Turpin, Eudon & Attendants.
Char. What pageants thys that on the fallowd lands Crosses me everye way? I cannot goe But styll he meets me full jumpe.
Tur. Beleve me, Sir.
I have not seen an antycke more disguysed.
A gallopps ore the newe plowde lands as fast
As twere a comon hye way, yet no speeche
Can make hym to forsake theym.
Eud. Nay, whats more,
The beast he rydds on is not usuall,
Tys neyther horsse nor asse, and yet a beast
Nymble & fytt for burthen.
Char. Eudon, goe
Bydd hym dismounte & as he loves hys life
Presentlye come before us. I will knowe [Ex. Eudon.
The ende of thys straunge purposse. Suer there must
Some secrett hange uppon it! thyngs doone thus
Are seldome jests, unlesse jests seryous.
Enter Eudon & Busse, leading in twoe lymes Byrtha
& a Spaniell, hymselfe cladd all in nett.
O tys La Busse; I've founde hys stratagem.—
Nowe, Sir, y'are wellcome; whence growes thys dysguyse?
Bus. Sir, from the fayre protectyon of your grace
And satisfactyon of your vowe; which doone,
Bouldlye I hope I may voutsafe to begge
My fathers deare deliverance.
Char. Noble sonne,
What wouldst thou doe hadst thou a noble father!
But come, sir, synce you putt me to the test,
Resolve the doute: your fathers pardoned
When you shall meet me uppon no hye way.
Bus. Which even nowe I did: the fallowe lands, Newe plowed & tylld are free from passengers.
Char. Tys graunted; but your selfe, Sir, must not ryde Of horse nor mare nor asse, & yet the beast An usuall thynge for burthen.
Bus. Suche is myne, A Mule, that is the bastard breede betwyxte An asse & mare, & onlye fytt for labor.
Char. But, sir, you must be neyther cloathed nor naked.
Bus. Nor am I, myghtie Sir: thys pore thynne nett Nor leaves me nakt nor yet dothe cover me.
Char. You prettylie orereache me; but you must Bringe in your hand the faythfullst frend you challenge.
Bus. Thys is he, my faythfull trustye spanyell, The verye typpe & truthe of true affectyon.
Char. But with hym must be joynd your greatest enemye.
Bus. They are not farre assunder: a curst wife
Is evermore mans worst aflyctyon,
And shee that outgoes myne in bytternes
May fryght the whole worlde.
Char. Come, y'are ingenyous,
And I confes th'ast conquerd, thoughe I knowe
Thy father houlds as much unworthynes
As may excusse tyrranye in a prynce:
Yet for thys goodnes & thys industrye,
Th'example of the sweetest disposytion,
For all th'offences yet reveald unto me
I freelye pardon hym.
Bus. And you are good And like your selfe, a verye god[103] in pyttie.
Ber. And from thys mercye I will new create In me a spyrrytt full of humblenes.
Enter La Fue in gallantrye.
Fue. Roame there & uncover, gentyllmen. I that am myne owne gentyllman usher am the best gentyllman in Fraunce at thys present. Give place & avoyde these.
Bus. What meanes the peasant? syrha, are you madd?
Fue. Yes, and I were halfe nakt as you are. Roame I say!—O my sweete harte, I will [Offers to kisse Charli.] kysse thy whyte lipps in the syght of thys whole assemblye.
Char. Avaunte, I say! what meanes thys lunatycke.
Tur. Pore sott howe hees deceyvd! th'inchauntments vanyshed.— Syrha learne better manners.
Fue. How! syrha to my greatnes! I am not in case to carrye your tokens. Ould man, you had better manners when last I lefte you.—Come, sweete love, I will love thee without more intreatye. Let us withdrawe & in pryvate rumynat our selves together.
Char. Is there no whypps for knaves are impudent? Thys sawcynes will make your skynne [to] smarte.
Fue. Away, away! Y'are an ould man & should be wyse. I tell you I was not in love with you tyll you doated on me; to drawe me into a fooles paradysse[104] & there leave me is not an honest man's parte nor a good chrystyans.
Char. What kynde of madnes call you thys? for shame! Shall I be torturd with hym?
Tur. Tys but a rude grosse weaknes, which anon Ile shoe at full unto your majestie.
Fue. Come, sweete Charles, I knowe thou lovest me, & love will creepe where it cannot goe. Come, letts condole together.
Char. Yes, if I like your example. Goe presentlye And give him fortye lashes: make hym bleede Soundlye, away with hym!
Fue. Howe, howe, how! fortye lashes! so I shall bleede to deathe. Call you that soundlye? Foote! I am sicke with thought on't.
Char. Away with hym! And if a prate, see that you dooble them: Away!
Fue. Well I will never trust the wooeinge of a great man whylst I live agayne: & they be as false to weomen as to men they have sweete eeles to hould by.
Char. Yet has a leave to prate?
Tur. Away with hym, —But on your lives give hym no punyshment.
[Ex. Fue. & guard.
Char. I have not seene a madnes of thys nature:
But let him smarte for't.—Eudon, give comand
That Ganelon attend me presentlye.
But, stay—
What sollemp sound is thys? I am prevented.
[Dead marche.]—Funeral sounde. Enter Orlando, Reinaldo leading Ganelon, Oliver, Didier; two herses, one with Eldegr. & Gab., the other Richard.
The cause of thys?
Orl. O my most sacred lorde, I bring you here
The worlds extreamest monster, suche a man
Whose ills exceede the lawes inventyon.
Fyrst looke on thys, the fayre & comelye braunche
Of Aimons noble famylie; then on theise,
His fayrest syster & hys dearest mother
(O heaven that I should name that dreadfull name
In such a case as murder!) all by hym
And hys right hand, with thys ill mans advyse,
Murderd unjustlye.
Rei. To which I adde
Treasons of daunger & of hye disgrace
Bothe to your crowne & person; and thoughe they
Myght glutt the lawe, yet my brothers blood
And theise twoe inocentts, I hope, will pleade
Dyvorce of all repryvall.
Oli. Lastlye I
With theys stronge proofs, cannot be argued of,
Confyrme all past denyall; hys owne hand
Here of thys pap[er] maks a regyster [Gives the letter.
Of myscheives above wonder. Who reads thys,
Thoughe flynte, must melt in pyttie.
Bus. Dye all my hopes, & in thys masse of shame Be buryed both my memorye & name. [Ex. La Busse.
Gan. What a lardge passage or cyrcompherence
Theise prynces make to come unto the way
Which lyes before theire nosses! tys lost wytt
To seeke an engyne for the desperatt,
Why, deathes in all he looks on; but to hope
Saftye were more then dyetye[105] can promysse.
Let it suffyce all's true, & thus I rest:
If I dye once, not ever, I am blest.
Char. I am amazd: what I have reade & heard
Tournes me like Gorgon into senclessnes.
He speaks heare of a rynge, a wytchcraft rynge,
By which I was inchaunted to hys syster.
Where is that damned juell?
Tur. Here in my safe possessyon, thys is it,
Which at her deathe, lodgd underneathe her tonge,
I found by carefull searche. Good deare sir, keepe it
And hencefourthe onlye love your royall selfe.
The spell is past example, & hys synne
Can onlye ballance downe the wyckednes.
Gan. Butt I confes it, & the sorcerrer
That made it I did murder conynglye,
And at her deathe had I recompast it,
I had beene kynge of Fraunce. Thys noble knave
Was pryvie to the passadge.
Did. Tys toe late Nowe to denye it: deathe never bryngs hys smarte But when a strycks gaynst lawe or gaynst desarte.
Char. Away with them, & see theym presentlye
Broken uppon the wheele.
[Ex. Gan. Did. & guard.
Nephewe, for you
I give you freelye here the realme of Spayne
And all domynions in it; for your guarde
Ten thousand of our best Frenche gentyllmen.
And wishe your fortunes like your valure be
The best of everye lived posterytie.
Orl. Sir[106], you doe bynde me to eternall servyce
Bothe in your love & justyce, for we fynde
Th'instructyons that on evyll men depends
Is to compare theire projects with theire ends.
[Exe.
FINIS. [Greek: Telos]
Terminat hora diem, terminat Author opus.
Nella [Greek: ph d ph n r] la B.[107]
INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF THE TRYALL OF CHEVALRY.
This play was printed in 1605, and is stated on the title-page to have been "lately acted by the right Honorable the Earle of Darby his servants." It has not been reprinted, and copies of the old quarto are exceedingly rare. There is an air of old-fashionedness about the diction and the metre that would lead us to suppose the play was written several years before the date of publication. The wearisome practice, in which the characters so freely indulge, of speaking in the third person is very characteristic of the earlier dramatists, notably of Greene. Yet it is clear, from more than one passage, that the author was acquainted with Shakespeare's historical plays. Dick Bowyer's puns on the sentinels' names (ii. 1) were certainly suggested by Falstaff's pleasantries with the recruits in Henry IV., Part II. Winstanley absurdly ascribes the piece to William Wager, who flourished (?) when Shakespeare was a child. If I were obliged to make a guess at the authorship, I would name Chettle or Munday, or both. It is not altogether improbable that the Tryall of Chevalry may be the play by Chettle and Wentworth Smith, entitled Love Parts Friendship, acted in 1602[108]. Bourbon and Rodorick are just such a pair of villains as young Playnsey and Sir Robert Westford in Chettle and Day's Blind Beggar. The low comedy in both pieces might well have come from the same hand, though Dick Bowyer is certainly more amusing than the roystering companions in the Blind Beggar.
I make no claim for high excellence on behalf of this unknown playwright. The writing is at times thin and feeble, and the versification is somewhat monotonous. But with all its faults, the language is dramatic. The writer was a contemporary of Shakespeare, and something of Shakespeare's spirit breathes through the pages of this forgotten play. Take such a speech as the following, from the second scene of the opening act:—
Must I be spokesman? Pembrooke plead for love?
Whose tounge tuned to the Instruments of war
Never knew straine of fancy; on my breath
Affection never dwelt, but war and death!
But if thou lov'dst to have thy soldiers fight,
Or hearten the spent courages of men,
Pembrooke could use a stile invincible.
Lov'dst thou a towne, Ide teach thee how to woo her
With words of thunder-bullets wrapt in fire,[109]
Till with thy cannon battry she relent
And humble her proud heart to stoop to thee.
Or if not this, then mount thee on a steed
Whose courage never awde an yron Bit,
And thou shalt heare me hollow to the beast
And with commanding accents master him.
This courtship Pembrooke knows, but idle love,
The sick-fac't object of an amorous brayne,
Did never clothe mine eye-balls, never taught
This toung, inurde to broyles and stratagems,
The passionate language of a troubled heart:
I am too blunt and rude for such nice service.
Yet since my friend injoynes me to this taske,
Take courage, Ile both speake, plead, woo for thee,
And when I want fit words to move her mind,
Ile draw my sword and sweare she must be kind.
One may smile at the notion of holloaing "to the beast," but the whole passage is vigorous, and some single lines (e.g. "The passionate language of a troubled heart") are excellent.
THE HISTORY of the tryall of CHEUALRY,
With the life and death of Caualiero Dicke Bowyer.
As it hath bin lately acted by the right Honourable the Earle of Darby his servants.
LONDON Printed by Simon Stafford for Nathaniel Butter, and are to be sold at his shop in Paules Church-Yard, neere S. Austens Gate. 1605.
The Historie of the triall of Chevalry.
Actus Primus.
[SCENE 1.]
Enter Lewes, King of France, Philip his sonne, Katharina his daughter, Roderick and Flaunders, with drum and colours, and soldiers at one dore: at the other enter Navar, Ferdinand, Bellamira, and, the Earle of Pembroke, and Burbon.
[Lew.] Duke Roderick and my noble cozen Flaunders, Are your Battalions ready for the charge?
Rod. Ten thousand men of Orleance I commaund And those are bravely marshald on the playn, Ready to be commaunded by your Highnesse.
Flaund. As many of the warlike brood of Mars
Doe call me Generall: those, my gracious Lord,
Together with my selfe I recommend
To be commaunded by your Majesty.
Lew. Thanks, Earle of Flaunders, Duke of Orleance, thanks. What lets us that we charge not on the foe?
Nav. My Lord of Pembrooke, are your Englishmen Squadron'd with ours and ready for the charge?
Pem. The French and English make one warlike body Whereof your Highnesse is the moving head: Or peace or warre, as pleaseth you, direct.
Nav. Then war and give the signal through the host.
Lew. Navar, Navar, submission were more meete Then to adde bloud to wrong.
Nav. What wrong, King Lewes? The Kingdome of Navar we will acknowledge To hold of none but of the King of Kings.
Lew. Three hundred yeres prescriptions on our sides; So long thy Ancestors by fealty Have helde thy Kingdome of the Crowne of France.
Pem. Talke not of yeres, yeres limit not a Crowne;
There's no prescription to inthrall a King.
He finds it written in the Rowles of time
Navar's a Kingdome solely absolute,
And by collusion of the Kings of France,
The people speaking all one mother toung,
It hath bin wrested for a Royalty
Untruly due unto the Crowne of France.
That Pembrook speaks the truth, behold my sword,
Which shall approve my words substantiall.
Rod. Pembrooke, you are too plaine in your discourse.
Bur. I tell thee, Rodoricke, Pembrooke soldier-like Hath truely opened what ten thousand lives Will hardly doe if warre be made the Judge.
Rod. If war be Judge? Why, shallow-witted Burbon,
Who shall decide this difference but war?
Hath not the Judge put on his Scarlet Robe?
Is not the field prepar'd? our men in armour?
The trumpets ready for the sound of death,
And nothing hinders us but our owne words?
Leave idle parley, my dread soveraigne Lord,
And soone resolve the Duke in fire and smoke
That he maintaines a title false and forg'd,
And that Navar is a usurping Lord.
Na. On that Ile hazzard all these valiant lives. Sound Drums and Trumpets! make King Lewes know He makes his best friend prove his greatest foe.
Lew. Why pause our drums? our trumpets beat as loud! Till the bright ayre be made a purple cloud.
Phil. Pause, gracious father.
Ferd. Noble father, pause. Let Ferdinand thy sonne so far prevayle That peace, not war, may end this difference.
Bel. For Bellamiraes sake abstayne from war.
Phil. Philip thy sonne humbly desires a peace: Let not my father sheathe his warlike sword Within the bowels of his Countrymen.
Kath. Thy daughter Katharina prayes the like.
Nav. From whence proceeds this sudden sound of peace? Comes it from me? what? from my Ferdinand, From Bellamira my sweet second selfe?
Lew. Or rather comes it, Lewes, from thy soule, Thy Philip the true image of thy selfe, Thy Katharina thy heart's chiefest joy?
Rod. Princes, you aske you know not what your selves.
Pem. Rodorick, they aske a sweet and pleasing boone.
Rod. Why, they aske peace and we are set for war.
Fer. Tis a bad peace exceeds not a just war.
Phil. We will not rise from this submissive ground Till we obtayne, if not a peace, a truce.
Fer. Nor shall our feet be guilty of new steps Till I obtayne a truce from murdering war.
Lew. Shew me some reason (sonne) for this demand.
Nav. Shew me some reason (children) for this prayer.
Fer. I love the daughter of thine enemy: Fayre Katherina hath inthrald my heart.
Phil. I love the daughter of thine enemy: Fayre Bellamira hath inthrald my heart.
Pem. Is love the cause? then wherefore wage we war?
What matter ist who weares both Diadems,
When the succession lives in eythers heyre?
If Ferdinand be crown'd king of Navar,
Fayre Katherina shalbe crownd his Queene:
If Philip weare the Diadem of France,
Fayre Bellamira, made his lovely Queene,
Swayes half the Scepter. See what heaven can doe,—
Provide for peace even in the jawes of war!
Kath. How sweetly doth the Earle of Pembrooke speake! Now, trust me, I am ravisht with his voyce.
Lew. What says Navar? What, is t war or peace?
Na. A truce for three moneths, so it please your Highnes,
During which time our children shall have leave
With Drum and Trumpet to surveigh the Campe,
To court our daughters and to feast themselves
As fits the sonnes of honourable foes.
And if it prove a match betweene them both,
There end all difference: Ile bequeath my Crowne
As a rich offering to their nuptiall Rites.
Lew. Here, strike the truce upon my kingly hand, Which is as surely ratified in this As by the testimonial of a world. So now for three moneths space all warres surcease: Our thoughts are wholy fixt on love and peace. [Exe.
Manent Rodorick and Burbon.
Rod. Zounds, here's a truce made up by miracle!
Burb. Ile crosse it by a wily stratageme.
Rod. What stratageme?
Bur. By love to Bellamira.
O could I dive into the Prince's heart
By any insinuation ne're so base,
How easily might I effect my plot
To make the kingdome of Navarre mine owne.
'Twere but a dram or so unto the sonne,
And a small thing would send the old man hence.
What, noble Rodorick? to gayne a Crowne
A Duke would doe much.
Rod. More then poyson two. But you, my Lord, forget your selfe too farre. Know you to whom you have disclosde your heart?
Bur. Why, to the Duke of Orleance.
Rod. The deare friend Of Lewes the French King.
Burb. King me no Kings. Although we seeme to be of severall sides, Rodorick, we love together like true friends. This Truce gives ayme to our intention: Assist me (worthy Orleance) to effect First my desired love and next the Crowne.
Rod. Peter de Lions is your Lordships servant,
A boone companion and a lusty knave.
He is in love with Bellamiraes mayd,
And by that love he may bestead your Highnesse
More then your best friends in your best designes.
Call him forth.
Burb. What! Peter!
Enter Peter.
Pet. Here, my Lord.
Burb. Why dost thou looke so wildly?
Pet. Not with drinke Nor yet with rage.
Rod. His lookes are wild with love.
Pet. With love, surreverence[110]? can there be a face
In all the world patcht up with eyes and lips,
A forhead and a payre of crimson cheeks,
To make me doat on, to make me looke wild?
Rod. Come, come, tis knowne that you love Thomasin.
Pet. Zounds they that know that know my heart & all: I have not the power to deny it, tis most true.
Burb. And tis most true that I love Bellamira.
Now, if thou art in favor of thy wench,
Many a meeting thou mayst helpe me to
And learne besides what sutors seeke her love
And whom she most affects. These things once knowne
Twere worth a Dukedome, Peter.
Pet. Sbloud, give me A Dukedome and Ile warrant you the knowledge Of these things ten times o're.
Rod. Theres Angels for thee, Peter, thinke on them
And doe thy best to helpe thy master's love.—
Well howsoever I smooth it to the Duke,
My thoughts are bent on his destruction.
Pet. You have my heart In your purse; Ile doe anything for you.
Bur. And thou shalt want no gold; and so farwel.
[Exeunt.
Pet. I cannot chuse to farewell, and have the good Angels to comfort me; yet I am melancholy. Heeres gold to make me merry: O but (hey ho) heres love to make me sad. To avoyd prolixity I am crost with a Sutor that wants a piece of his toung, and that makes him come lisping home. They call him Cavaliero Bowyer; he will have no nay but the wench. By these hilts, such another swash-buckler lives not in the nyne quarters of the world. Why, he came over with the Earle of Pembrooke, and he limps and he limps & he devoures more French ground at two paces then will serve Thomasin at nineteene. If ever he speake French, to avoyd prolixity, he will murder the toung. Ile provide for him; theres but small choice. Either he shall renounce the wench or forsake his lame legs, his lisping toung and his life to: for by S. Denis I had rather dye in a ditch then be bobd[111] of my fayre Thomasin.
[Exit.