A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 4

by Unknown

[SCENE IV.]

Enter three neighbors knocking at Loneys doore: Loney comes.

1. Hoe, Maister Loney! here you any newes What is become of your Tennant Beech?

Lon. No truely, sir, not any newes at all.

2. What, hath the boy recovered any speach, To give us light of these suggestions That do arise upon this accident?

Lon. There is no hope he should recover speech; The wives do say he's ready now to leave This greevous world, full-fraught with treacherie.

3. Methinkes if Beech himselfe be innocent,
That then the murtherer should not dwell farre off;
The hammer that is sticking in his head,
Was borrowed of a Cutler dwelling by,
But he remembers not who borrowed it:
He is committed that did owe[33] the hammer,
But yet he standes uppon his innocence;
And Beeches absence causeth great suspition.

Lo. If Beech be faulty, as I do not thinke,
I never was so much deceiv'd before.
Oh had you knowne his conversation,
You would not have him in suspition.

3. Divels seeme Saints, and in these[34] hatefull times, Deceite can beare apparraunt signes of trueth, And vice beare shew of vertues excellence.

Enter the two Watermen.

1. Pray is this Maister Beeches house?

Lo. My friend this same was maister Beeches shop: We cannot tell whether he live or no.

1. Know you his head and if I shew it you? Or can you tell me what hose or shooes he ware, At that same time when he forsooke the shoppe?

3. What, have you head, and hose, and shooes to show, And want the body that should use the same?

1. Behold this head, these legges, these hose and shooes, And see if they were Beeches, yea or no.

Lo. They are the same; alas, what is become, Of the remainder of this wretched man!

1 Wat. Nay that I know not; onelie these we found,
As we were comming up a narrow lane,
Neere Baynardes Castle, where we two did dwell;
And heering that a man was missing hence,
We thought it good to bring these to this place,

3. Thankes, my good friendes; ther's some thing for your paines.

2 Wat. We are indifferent, whether you give us anything or nothing; and if you had not, why so; but since you have, why so.

1 Wat. Leave your repining: Sir, we thanke you hartely.

3. Farewell good fellowes.—Neighbour, now be bold: [Exeunt Watermen.
They dwell not farre that did this bloodie deed,
As God no doubt will at the last reveale,
Though they conceale it nere so cunninglie.
All houses, gutters, sincks and crevices
Have carefully been sought for, for the blood;
Yet theres no instaunce found in any place.

Enter a Porter and a Gentleman.

But who is that that brings a heavy loade,
Behinde him on a painefull porters backe?

Gen. Praie, Gentlemen, which call you Beeches shoppe?

2 Neig. This is the place; what wold you with the man?

Gen. Nothing with him; I heare the man is dead, And if he be not, I have lost my paines.

Lo. Hees dead indeede, but yet we cannot finde
What is become of halfe his hopelesse bodie.
His head and legges are found, but for the rest,
No man can tell what is become of it.

Gen. Then I doe thinke I can resolve your doubt
And bring you certain tydings of the rest,
And if you know his doublet and his shirt.
As for the bodie it is so abus'd
That no man can take notice whoes it was.
Set downe this burden of anothers shame.
What, do you know the doublet and the shirt?

[Ex. Porter.

Lo. This is the doublet, these the seuered limmes,
Which late were ioyned to that mangled trunke:
Lay them together, see if they can make
Among them all a sound and solid man.

3 neigh. They all agree, but yet they cannot make
That sound and whole which a remorsles hand
Hath severed with a knife of crueltie.
But say, good sir, where did you finde this out?

Gent. Walking betime by Paris Garden ditch,
Having my Water Spaniell by my side,
When we approach'd unto that haplesse place
Where this same trunke lay drowned in a ditch,
My Spaniell gan to sent, to bark, to plunge
Into the water, and came foorth againe,
And fawnd one me, as if a man should say,
Helpe out a man that heere lyes murthered.
At first I tooke delight to see the dog,
Thinking in vaine some game did there lye hid
Amongst the Nettles growing neere the banke;
But when no game, nor anything appear'd,
That might produce the Spaniell to this sport,
I gan to rate and beate the harmlesse Cur,
Thinking to make him leave to follow me;
But words, nor blowes, could moove the dog away,
But still he plung'd, he div'd, he barkt, he ran
Still to my side, as if it were for helpe.
I seeing this, did make the ditch be dragd,
Where then was found this body as you see,
With great amazement to the lookers on.

3. Beholde the mightie miracles of God,
That sencelesse things should propagate their sinne
That are more bestiall farre then beastlinesse
Of any creature most insensible!

2. Neigh. Cease we to wonder at Gods wondrous works,
And let us labour for to bring to light
Those masked fiends that thus dishonor him.
This sack is new, and, loe! beholde his marke
Remaines upon it, which did sell the bag.
Amongst the Salters we shall finde it out
When, and to whom, this bloody bag was sold.

3. Tis very likely, let no paines be spar'd,
To bring it out, if it be possible;
Twere pitty such a murther should remaine
Unpunished mongst Turkes and Infidels.

1. neigh. Sirs, I do know the man that solde this bag, And if you please, Ile fetch him presently?

Gent. With all our hearts. How say you gentlemen? Perchance the murther thus may come to light.

3. I pray you do it, we will tarry heere: [Exit 1. neigh.
And let the eyes of every passenger
Be satisfied, which may example be
How they commit such dreadfull wickednesse.

Ent. wom. And please your maisterships, the boy is dead.

3. neigh. Tis very strange that having many wounds
So terrible, so ghastlie; which is more,
Having the hammer sticking in his head;
That he should live and stirre from Friday night,
To Sunday morning, and even then depart,
When that his Maisters mangled course were found.
Bring him foorth too; perchance the murtherers
May have their hearts touched with due remorse,
Viewing their deeds of damned wickednesse.
[Bring forth the boye and laye him by Beech.

1 neigh. Here is the Salters man that solde the bag.

Gent. My friend, how long since did you sell that bag? And unto whom, if you remember it?

Sal. I sould the bag, good sir, but yesterday, Unto a maide; I do not know her name.

3 neigh. Nor where she dwels.

Sal. No certeinly.

2 neigh. But what apparell had she on her back?

Sal. I do not well remember what she wore, But if I saw her I should know her sure.

3 neigh. Go round about to every neighbours house, And will them shew their maides immediately: God grant we may finde out the murtherers. [Go to one house, and knock at doore, asking. Bring forth such maides as are within your house!

1 housekeeper. I have but one, ile send her down to you.

3 neigh. Is this the maide? [Come out maide.

Salt. No, sir, this is not she. [Go to another, &c. How many maides do dwell within this house?

2 house. Her's nere a woman here, except my wife. [Go to Merryes.

3 neigh. Whose house is this?

Lo. An honest civill mans, cald Maister Merry, Who I dare be sworne, would never do so great a murther; But you may aske heere to for fashion sake.

[Rachell sits in the shop.

3. How now, faire maide, dwels any here but you? Thou hast too true a face for such a deed.

Rach. No, gentle sir; my brother keepes no more.

3 neigh. This is not she?

Salt. No truly, gentleman.

[Ex. R.

3. This will not serve; we cannot finde her out. Bring in those bodyes, it growes towards night; God bring these damn'd murtherers at length to light!

[Exeunt omnes.

[SCENE V.]

Enter Merry and Rachell.

Mer. Why go the neighbours round about the streete To every house? what hast thou heard the cause?

Rach. They go about with that same Salters man,
Of whom I bought the bag but yesterday,
To see if he can know the maide againe
Which bought it: this I think the very cause.

Mer. How were my senses overcome with feare,
That I could not foresee this jeopardy!
For had I brought the bag away with me,
They had not had this meanes to finde it out.
Hide thee above least that the Salters man
Take notice of thee that thou art the maide,
And by that knowledge we be all undone.

Rach. That feare is past, I sawe, I spake with him,
Yet he denies that I did buy the bag;
Besides the neighbours have no doubt of you,
Saying you are an honest harmelesse man,
And made enquirie heere for fashion sake.

Mer. My former life deserves their good conceits,
Which is not blemisht with this treacherie.
My heart is merier then it was before,
For now I hope the greatest feare is past.
The hammer is denyed, the bag unknowne;
Now there is left no meanes to bring it out,
Unless our selves proove Traitors to our selves.

Rach. When saw you Hary Williams?

Me. Why, to day; I met him comming home from Powles Crosse, Where he had beene to heare a Sermon.

Rach. Why brought you not the man along with you To come to dinner, that we might perswade Him to continue in his secrecie?

Mer. I did intreate him, but he would not come, But vow'd to be as secret as my selfe.

Rach. What, did he sweare?

Mer. What neede you aske me that?
You know we never heard him sweare an othe.
But since he hath conceal'd the thing thus long,
I hope in God he will conceale it still.

Rach. Pray God he do, and then I have no doubt
But God will overpasse this greevous sinne,
If you lament with true unfained teares
And seeke to live the remnant of your yeares
In Gods true feare with upright conscience.

Mer. If it would please him pardon this amisse
And rid my body from the open shame
That doth attend this deed, being brought to light,
I would endevour all my comming dayes
To please my maker and exalt his praise.
But it growes late, come bring me to my bed,
That I may rest my sorrow-charged head.

Rach. Rest still in calme secure tranquillitie,
And over-blowe this storme of mightie feare
With pleasant gales of hoped quietnesse.
Go when you will; I will attend, and pray
To send this wofull night a cheerfull day.

[Exeunt.

[SCENE VI.]

Enter Falleria and Sostrata weeping.

Fall. Passe ore these rugged furrowes of laments
And come to plainer pathes of cheerefulnesse;
Cease thy continuall showers of thy woe.
And let my pleasing wordes of comfort chase
These[35] duskie cloudes of thy uniust dispaire
Farre from thy hart, and let a pleasing hope
Of young Pertillos happy safe returne
Establish all your ill-devining thoughts;
So shall you make me cheerfull that am sad,—
And feede your hopes with fond illusions.

Sos. I could be so; but my divided soule,
Twixt feare and hope of young Pertillos life,
Cannot arrive at the desired port
Of firme beleefe, until mine eyes do see
Him that I sent to know the certainetie.

Fal. To know the certaintie! of whom, of what?
Whome, whether, when, or whereabout, I praie,
Have you dispatcht a frustrate messenger?—
By heaven, and earth, my heart misgiveth[36] me,
They will prevent my cunning pollicie. [To the people.
Why speake you not? what winged Pegasus
Is posted for your satisfaction?

Sos. Me thinkes my speach reveales a hidden feare, And that feare telles me that the childe is dead.

Fall. By sweete S. Andrew and my fathers soule, I thinke the peevish boy be too too well But speake, who was your passions harbinger?

Sos. One that did kindle my misdoubting thoughts, With the large flame of his timiddity.

Fall. Oh then I know the tinder of your feare.
Was young Allenso your white[37] honnie sonne.
Confusion light upon his timerous head,
For broching this large streame of fearefulnesse!
And all the plagues that damned furies feele
For their forepassed bold iniquities,
Afflict you both for thus preventing me!

Sos. Preventing you! of what? Fallerio, speake, For if you doe not my poore hart will breake.

Fall. Why of the good that I had purposed, To young Pertillo, which I would conceale From you and him until the deed were done.

Sost. If it were good, then we affect him deare, And would add furtherance to your enterprise.

Fall. I say your close eaves-dropping[38] pollicies
Have hindred him of greater benefits
Then I can ever do him after this.—
If he live long, and growe to riper sinne, [To the people.
Heele cursse you both, that thus have hindered
His freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.—
But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne,
That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde,
To guarde the safetie of his better part,
Which he hath pend within the childish coope
Of young Pertillos sweete securitie?

Sost. That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life,
The root of vertuous magnamitie,
That doth affect with an unfained love,
That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye,
Deserveth most to be affected deare,
Went some two houres after the little boy
Was sent away to keepe[39] at Padua.

Fall. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade,
A one eyde Cyclops, a stigmaticke[40] brat,
That durst attempt to contradict my will,
And prie into my close intendements.

Enter Alenso sad.

Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke,
Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.—
I hope the brat is posted to his sire,
That he is growne so lazie of his pace;
Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue
Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.—
Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,
That little Dromus that crept into my sonne,
With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away?
Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note
That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.

Allen. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye, Your note of shame and comming miserie.

Fall. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare; She was almost dead before for very feare.

Allen. Would I could roare as instruments of warre,
Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder
Is toucht with part of Etnas Element!
Would I could bellow like enraged Buls,
Whose harts are full of indignation,
To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie!
Would I could thunder like Almightie Ioue,
That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie
The wicked hearts of earthly citizens!
Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say,
Mother, lament, Pertillos made away!

Sost. What, is he dead? God give me leave to die, And him repentance for his treacherie! [Falleth down and dyeth.

Fall. Never the like impietie was done:
A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne!
Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made,
And seeke to call back life with dilligence.

Allen. Call back a happy creature to more woe!
That were a sinne: good Father, let her go.
0 happy I, if my tormenting smart,
Could rend like her's, my griefe-afflicted heart!
Would your hard hart extend unto your wife,
To make her live an everdying life?
What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she,
Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie!

Fall. I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide!
But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde:
That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound,
Untimely sent thy mother to the ground:
Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother;
Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother.

Allen. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyce
To have such power in my death-bringing voice,
See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes;
Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes,
I doe behold with cheerefull countenance
The livelesse roote of my nativitie,
And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe
To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.—
Now, father, give attention to my tale;
I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue
In bitter wordes of reprehension.
Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head
Then wit or reason can remove againe;
For to be briefe, Pertillo, (oh that name
Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!)
Is murthered, and—

Fal. What and? this newes is good.

Allen. The men which you suborn'd to murther him—

Fal. Better and better, then it cannot out, Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [sic] That it will overthrowe your selfe and me.

Allen. The best is last, and yet you hinder me. The Duke of Padua hunting in the wood, Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen—

Fal. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?

Allen. Was made acquainted by the one of them, (That had some little remnant of his life) With all your practice and conspiracie.

Fall. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell,
To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases,
Rather then bring my life in ieopardie!
Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne,
And make a iest at my calamitie?

Allen. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe, If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.

Fal. Declare it then, my wits are now to seeke; That peece of life hath so confounded mee That I am wholly overcome with feare.

Allen. The Duke hath vow'd to prosecute your life,
With all the strict severitie he can;
But I will crosse his resolution
And keepe you from his furie well enough.
Ile weare your habit, I will seeme the man
That did suborne the bloodie murtherers;
I will not stir from out this house of woe,
But waight the comming of the officers,
And answere for you fore the angrie Duke,
And, if neede be, suffer your punishment.

Fall. Ile none of that; I do not like the last;
I love thee dearer then I doe my life,
And all I did, was to advance thy state
To sunne-bright beames of shining happinesse.

Allen. Doubte not my life, for when I doe appeare Before the Duke, I being not the man, He can inflict no punishment on mee.

Fall. Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee;
Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie.
But for my beard thou canst not counterfet
And bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne;
White frostes are never seene in summers spring.

Allen. I bought a beard this day at Padua,
Such as our common actors use to weare
When youth would put on ages countenance;
So like in shape, in colour, and in all,
To that which growes upon your aged face,
That were I dressed in your abilimentes,
Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.

Fall. That's excellent. What shape hast thou devis'd, To be my vizard to delude the worlde?

Allen. Why thus: ile presentlie shave off your haire,
And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede;
Then you will seeme to have the carefull charge
Of some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke,
And so passe currant from suspition.

Fall. This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie,
Nature in thee hath firme predominance,
That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch,
Can shake thee with their strongest violence:
In this disguise, ile see the end of thee,
That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.

Allen. I am assur'd to be exempt from woe:— This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe. [(To the) People.

Fall. I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife, Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife. [Exit.

Allen. Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe,
Which hath abridg'd whole numbers numberlesse
Of hart-surcharging deplorations.
She shall have due and Christian funerall,
And rest in peace amongst her auncestors.
As for our bodies, they shall be inter'd,
In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes,
Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers,
That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmes
Of blood-delighting hatefull murtherers.
And yet these many winged sepulchers,
Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall,
At last attaine to earth by funerall.
Well I will prosecute my pollicy,
That wished death may end my miseries.

[Exit.

[SCENE VII.]

Enter Cowley and Williams.

Cow. Still in your dumpes, good Harry? yet at last,
Utter your motive of this heavinesse.
Why go you not unto your maisters house?
What, are you parted? if that be the cause,
I will provide you of a better place.

Wil. Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke; That is the cause,—because I cannot stay With him whose love is dearer then my life.

Cow. Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?

Wil. We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.

Cow. What, did he feare your truth or honest life?

Wil. No, no, your understanding is but dimme,
That farre-remooved cannot iudge the feare.
We both were fearefull, and we both did part,
Because indeed we both were timerous.

Cow. What accident begot your mutuall feare?

Wil. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.

Cow. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.

Wil. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine; I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.

Cow. It seemes to be a thing of consequence, And therefore prithie, Harry, for my love, Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.

Wil. Were I assur'd my hart should have release
Of secret torment and distemperature,
I would reveale it to you specially
Whom I have found my faithfull favorite.

Cow. Good Harrie Williams, make no doubt of that;
Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe,
Beyond your present expectation.
Then tell it, Harry, what soere it be,
And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.

Wil. Then have you heard of Beech of Lambert Hill, And of his boy which late were murthered?

Cow. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.

Will. But have you heard of them that murthered them?

Cow. No, would I had, for then Ide blaze their shame, And make them pay due penance for their sinne.

Wil. This I misdoubted, therefore will forbeare To utter what I thought to have reveald.

Cow. Knowst thou the actors of this murthrous deed,
And wilt conceale it now the deed is done?
Alas, poore man, thou knowest not what thou doost!
Thou hast incur'd the danger of the lawe
And thou mongst them must suffer punishment,
Unlesse thou do confesse it presentlie.

Wil. What? shall I then betray my maisters life?

Cow. Better then hazard both thy life and soule To boulster out such barbarous villanie. Why, then belike your maister did the deed?

Wil. My maister unawares escapt my mouth;
But what the Lord doth please shall come to light,
Cannot be hid by humaine pollicie:
His haplesse hand hath wrought the fatall end
Of Robert Beech and Thomas Winchester.

Cow. Could he alone do both those men to death? Hadst thou no share in execution?

Wil. Nor knew not of it, till the deed was done.

Cow. If this be true, thou maist escape with life: Confesse the truth unto the officers, And thou shalt finde the favour of the lawe.

Wil. If I offended, 'twas my Maister's love
That made me hide his great transgressions:
But I will be directed as you please.
So save me God, as I am innocent!

[Exeunt.

[SCENE VIII.]

Enter Alenso in Falleriaes apparell and berd;
Falleria shaven in shepheards habilliments.

Fal. Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me,
And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee,
Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise.
I like a shepheard now must learn to know,
When to lead foorth my little bleating flock,
To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes;
In stormie time to drive them to the lee;
To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voice
Doth crave the wished comfort of their dams;
To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes,
In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals;
And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away,
That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.

Allen. Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe away
From sillie creatures wanting intellecte,
And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts,
To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne!
As pure and innocent as any Lambe
Pertillo was, which you have fed upon.
But things past helpe may better be bewaild
With carefull teares, then finde a remedie;
Therefore, for feare our practise be espide,
Let us to question of our husbandrie.
How many Lambes fell from the middle flock,
Since I myselfe did take the latter view?

Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto.

Fall. Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead. But three and twenty scud about the fields, That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.

Vesu. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes, That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.

Allen. What is the time to let the Weathers blood?
The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse,
Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood,
Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes,
The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.

Fall. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time, Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]

Vesu. Forbeare a while this idle businesse, And talke of matters of more consequence.

Fall. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,
To call a shepheards care an idle toye.
What though we have a little merry sport
With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,
And jolly friskins on a holly-day,
Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke
Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.

Vesu. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!—
And now, Fallerio, in the Princes name,
I do arrest you, for the cruell murther
Of young Pertillo, left unto your charge,
Which you discharged with a bloody writ,
Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne.
Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,
To ratifie your Stigian cruelty,
That cannot be deluded any way.

Allen. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say! As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well: I sent him yesterday to Padua.

Alber. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes, As will not winck at your iniquitie.

Allen. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent! Say what you will, I know my conscience.

Fal.—To be afflicted with a scourge of care, Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.

Turq. Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more; That heart that could invent such treachery, Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.

Alen. I do defie your accusations; Let me have justice, I will answere it.

Vesuv. So, beare him hence! I meane to stay behinde, To take possession of his goods and landes For the Dukes use: it is too manifest.

Allen. I hope youle answere anything you doe. My Lord Vesuvio, you shall answere it, And all the rest that use extremities.

Alber. I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.

[Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria.

Fal. Thus shades are caught when substances are fled.
Indeede they have my garments, but my selfe
Am close enough from their discoverie;
But not so close but that my verie soule,
Is ract with tormentes for Pertillos death.
I am Acteon; I doe beare about,
My hornes of shame and inhumanitie.
My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me
With hope of great succeeding benefits,
Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart
With feare of death and tortring punishment.
These are the stings whenas our consciences
Are stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes.
Well, I must smoather all these discontentes,
And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce
Then rugged care would willingly permit.
Ile to the Court to see Allenso free,
That he may then relieve my povertie.

[Exit.

[SCENE IX.]

Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes.

Con. Who would have thought of all the men alive That Thomas Merry would have done this deede So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!

1 wat. Of all the men that live in London walles, I would have thought that Merry had bin free.

2 wat. Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans? I never like such damn'd hipocrisie.

3 wat. He would not loase a sermon for a pound,
An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine,
An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on;
And yet two murthers were not scripulous.
Such close illusions God will bring to light,
And overthrowe the workers with his might.

Con. This is the house; come let us knocke at dore; I see a light, they are not all in bed: [Knockes; Rachell comes downe. How now, faire maide? is your brother up?

Rach. He's not within, sir; would you speake with him?

Con. You doe but iest; I know he is within, And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.

Rach. In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe, And I was loath to trouble him to-night.

Con. Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake; But for your brother, he is knowne to be A damned villaine and an hipocrite. Rachell, I charge thee in her highnesse name, To go with us to prison presently.

Rach. To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?

Con. You know that best, but every one doe know You and your brother murthered Maister Beech, And his poore boy that dwelt at Lambert hill.

Rach. I murthered? my brother knowes that I, Did not consent to either of their deathes.

Con. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?

Rach. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.

Con. Now, Maister Merry, are you in a sweate? [Throwes his night cap away.

Merry sigh. No verily, I am not in a sweate.

Con. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?

Mer. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.

Con. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise, And presently to goe along with us. [Riseth up.

Mer. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?

Con. We partly doe; when saw you maister Beech?

Mer. I doe not well remember who you meane.

Con. Not Beech, the Chaundler upon Lambert hill?

Mer. I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.

Con. I would you had not, for your sisters sake,
For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy.
Be not obdurate in your wickednesse;
Confession drawes repentance after it.

Mer. Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse,
I was the man that did them both to death:
As for my sister and my harmlesse man,
I doe protest they both are innocent.

Con. Your man is fast in hold, and hath confest
The manner how, and where, the deede was done;
Therefore twere vaine to colour anything.
Bring them away.

Rach. Ah brother, woe is me!

Mer. I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.

[Exeunt.

Enter Trueth.

Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes;
Now, Merry, change thy name and countenance;
Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorne
Thou smile to thinke on thy extremities.
Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes,
Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt,
For thou couldst never number them before.—
Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray,
And thinke it truth, for Truth dooth tell the tale.
Merry, by lawe convict as principall,
Receives his doome, to hang till he be dead,
And afterwards for to be hangd in chaines.
Williams and Rachell likewise are convict
For their concealment; Williams craves his booke[42]
And so receaves a brond[43] of infamie;
But wretched Rachels sexe denies that grace,
And therefore dooth receive a doome of death
To dye with him whose sinnes she did conceale.
Your eyes shall witnesse of their shaded tipes,
Which many heere did see perform'd indeed.
As for Fallerio, not his homelie weedes,
His beardlesse face, nor counterfetted speech,
Can shield him from deserved punishment;
But what he thinkes shall rid him from suspect,
Shall drench him in more waves of wretchednesse,
Pulling his sonne into relentlesse iawes,
Of hungrie death, on tree of infamie.
Heere comes the Duke that doomes them both to die;
Next Merries death shall end this Tragedie.

[Exit.