THE ACTORS' NAMES.
| Old Lord Wealthy. | |
| Young Lord, his son. | |
| Maria, his daughter. | |
| Carracus, } Albert, } | two gentlemen, near friends. |
| Lightfoot, a country gentleman. | |
| Haddit, a youthful gallant. | |
| Hog, an usurer. | |
| Rebecca, his daughter. | |
| Peter Servitude, his man. | |
| Atlas, a porter. | |
| A Priest. | |
| A Player. | |
| A Servingman. | |
| A Nurse. |
[PROLOGUE]
Our long-time-rumour'd Hog, so often cross'd
By unexpected accidents, and toss'd
From one house to another: still deceiving
Many men's expectations, and bequeathing
To some lost labour: is at length got loose,
Leaving his servile yoke-stick to the goose;
Hath a knight's license, and may range at pleasure,
Spite of all those that envy our Hog's treasure.
And thus much let me tell you, that our swine
Is not, as divers critics did define,
Grunting at state-affairs, or invecting
Much at our city vices; no, nor detecting
The pride or fraud in it; but, were it now
He had his first birth, wit should teach him how
To tax these times' abuses, and tell some
How ill they did in running oft from home;
For to prevent (O men more hard than flint!)
A matter, that shall laugh at them in print.
Once to proceed in this play we were mindless,
Thinking we liv'd 'mongst Jews, that lov'd no swine's flesh:
But now that trouble's past, if it deserve a hiss
(As questionless it will through our amiss),
Let it be favour'd by your gentle sufferance:
Wise men are still indu'd with patience:
We are not half so skill'd as strolling players,
Who could not please here, as at country fairs:
We may be pelted off, for aught we know,
With apples, eggs, or stones, from thence below;
In which we'll crave your friendship, if we may,
And you shall have a dance worth all the play:
And if it prove so happy as to please,
We'll say 'tis fortunate, like Pericles.[363]
[THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL.]
ACTUS PRIMI, SCENA PRIMA.
Enter Lightfoot, a country gentleman, passing over the stage, and knocks at the other door.
Light. Ho! who's within here?
Enter Atlas, a porter.
Atlas. Ha' ye any money to pay, you knock with such authority, sir?
Light. What if I have not? may not a man knock without money, sir?
Atlas. Seldom; women and servants will not put it up so, sir.
Light. How say you by that, sir? but, I prythee, is not this one Atlas's house, a porter?
Atlas. I am the rent-payer thereof.
Light. In good time, sir.
Atlas. Not in good time neither, sir, for I am behind with my landlord a year and three-quarters at least.
Light. Now, if a man would give but observance to this fellow's prating, he would weary his ears sooner than a barber. Do y' hear, sir? lies there not one Haddit, a gentleman, at this house?
Atlas. Here lies such a gentleman, sir, whose clothes (were they not greasy) would bespeak him so.
Light. Then I pray, sir, when your leisure shall permit, that you would vouchsafe to help me to the speech of him.
Atlas. We must first crave your oath, sir, that you come not with intent to molest, perturb, or endanger him; for he is a gentleman, whom it hath pleased fortune to make her tennis-ball of, and therefore subject to be struck by every fool into hazard.
Light. In that I commend thy care of him, for which friendship here's a slight reward; tell him a countryman of his, one Lightfoot, is here, and[364] [he] will not any way despair of his safety.
Atlas. With all respect, sir; pray, command my house.
[Exit Atlas.
Light. So now I shall have a sight of my cousin gallant: he that hath consumed £800 a year in as few years as he hath ears on his head: he that was wont never to be found without three or four pair of red breeches running before his horse or coach: he that at a meal hath had more several kinds than, I think, the ark contained: he that was admired by niters[365] for his robes of gallantry, and was indeed all that an elder brother might be—prodigal; yet he, whose unthriftiness kept many a house, is now glad to keep house in a house that keeps him, the poor tenant of a porter. And see his appearance! I'll seem strange to him.
Enter Haddit, in poor array.
Had. Cousin Lightfoot, how dost? welcome to the city.
Light. Who calls me cousin? where's my cousin Haddit? he's surely putting on some rich apparel for me to see him in. I ha' been thinking all the way I came up, how much his company will credit me.
Had. My name is Haddit, sir, and your kinsman, if parents may be trusted; and therefore you may please to know me better when you see me next.
Light. I prythee, fellow, stay: is it possible thou shouldst be he? why, he was the generous spark of men's admiration.
Had. I am that spark, sir, though now raked up in ashes;
Yet when it pleaseth fortune's chaps to blow
Some gentler gale upon me, I may then
From forth of embers rise and shine again.
Light. O, by your versifying I know you now, sir: how dost? I knew thee not at first, thou'rt very much altered.
Had. Faith, and so I am, exceeding much since you saw me last—about £800 a year; but let it pass, for passage[366] carried away the most part of it: a plague of fortune.
Light. Thou'st more need to pray to Fortune than curse her: she may be kind to thee when thou art penitent: but that, I fear, will be never.
Had. O, no, if she be a woman, she'll ever love those that hate her. But, cousin, thou art thy father's first-born; help me but to some means, and I'll redeem my mortgag'd lands, with a wench to boot.
Light. As how, I pray thee?
Had. Marry thus: Hog the usurer hath one only daughter.
Light. Is his name Hog? It fits him exceeding well; for as a hog in his lifetime is always devouring, and never commodious in aught till his death; even so is he, whose goods at that time may be put to many good uses.
Had. And so I hope they shall before his death. This daughter of his did, and I think doth, love me; but I, then thinking myself worthy of an empress, gave but slight respect unto her favour, for that her parentage seemed not to equal my high thoughts, puffed up——
Light. With tobacco, surely.
Had. No; but with as bad a weed—vainglory.
Light. And you could now be content to put your lofty spirits into the lowest pit of her favour. Why, what means will serve, man? 'Sfoot, if all I have will repair thy fortune, it shall fly at thy command.
Had. Thanks, good coz, the means shall not be great, only that I may first be clad in a generous outside, for that is the chief attraction that draws female affection. Good parts, without habiliments of gallantry, are no more set by in these times than a good leg in a woollen stocking. No, 'tis a glistering presence and audacity brings women into fool's felicity.
Light. You've a good confidence, coz; but what do ye think your brave outside shall effect?
Had. That being had, we'll to the usurer, where you shall offer some slight piece of land to mortgage, and if you do it to bring ourselves into cash, it shall be ne'er the farther from you, for here's a project will not be frustrate of this purpose.
Light. That shall be shortly tried. I'll instantly go seek for a habit for thee, and that of the richest too; that which shall not be subject to the scoff of any gallant, though to the accomplishing thereof all my means go. Alas! what's a man unless he wear good clothes?
[Exit Lightfoot.
Had. Good speed attend my suit! Here's a never-seen nephew kind in distress; this gives me more cause of admiration than the loss of thirty-five settings together at passage. Ay, when 'tis performed—but words and deeds are now more different than puritans and players.
Enter Atlas.
Atlas. Here's the player would speak with you.
Had. About the jig I promised him. My pen and ink! I prythee, let him in, there may be some cash rhymed out of him.
Enter Player.
Player. The Muses assist you, sir: what, at your study so early?
Had. O, chiefly now, sir: for Aurora Musis amica.
Player. Indeed, I understand not Latin, sir.
Had. You must then pardon me, good Master Change-coat; for I protest unto you, it is so much my often converse that, if there be none but women in my company, yet cannot I forbear it.
Player. That shows your more learning, sir; but, I pray you, is that small matter done I entreated for?
Had. A small matter! you'll find it worth Meg of Westminster,[367] although it be but a bare jig.
Player. O Lord, sir, I would it had but half the taste of garlic.[368]
Had. Garlic stinks to this; if it prove that you have not more whores than e'er garlic had, say I am a boaster of my own works, disgrace me on the open stage, and bob me off with ne'er a penny.
Player. O Lord, sir, far be it from us to debar any worthy writer of his merit; but I pray you, sir, what is the title you bestow upon it?
Had. Marry, that which is full as forcible as garlic: the name of it is, Who buys my four ropes of hard onions? by which four ropes is meant, four several kind of livers; by the onions, hangers-on—as at some convenient time I will more particularly inform you in so rare a hidden and obscure mystery.
Player. I pray, let me see the beginning of it. I hope you have made no dark sentence in't; for, I'll assure you, our audience commonly are very simple, idle-headed[369] people, and if they should hear what they understand not, they would quite forsake our house.
Had. O, ne'er fear it; for what I have writ is both witty to the wise, and pleasing to the ignorant: for you shall have those laugh at it far more heartily that understand it not, than those that do.
Player. Methinks the end of this stave is a foot too long.
Had. O no, sing it but in tune, and I dare warrant you.
Player. Why, hear ye.
[He sings.
And you that delight in trulls and minions,
Come buy my four ropes of hard St Thomas's onions.[370]
Look ye there, St Thomas might very well have been left out; besides, hard should have come next the onions.
Had. Fie! no; the dismembering of a rhyme to bring in reason shows the more efficacy in the writer.
Player. Well, as you please; I pray you, sir, what will the gratuity be? I would content you as near hand as I could.
Had. So I believe. [Aside.] Why, Master Change-coat, I do not suppose we shall differ many pounds; pray, make your offer: if you give me too much, I will, most doctor-of-physic-like, restore.
Player. You say well; look you, sir, there's a brace of angels, besides much drink of free-cost, if it be liked.
Had. How, Master Change-coat! a brace of angels, besides much drink of free-cost, if it be liked! I fear you have learned it by heart; if you have powdered up my plot in your sconce, you may home, sir, and instruct your poet over a pot of ale the whole method on't. But if you do so juggle, look to't. Shrove-Tuesday[371] is at hand, and I have some acquaintance with bricklayers and plasterers.
Player. Nay, I pray, sir, be not angry; for as I am a true stage-trotter, I mean honestly; and look ye, more for your love than otherwise, I give you a brace more.
Had. Well, good words do much; I cannot now be angry with you, but see henceforward you do like him that would please a new-married wife, show your most at first, lest some other come between you and your desires; for I protest, had you not suddenly shown your good-nature, another should have had it, though it had been for nothing.
Player. Troth, I'm sorry I gave you such cause of impatiency; but you shall see hereafter, if your invention take, I will not stand off for a brace more or less, desiring I may see your works before another.
Had. Nay, before all others; and shortly expect a notable piece of matter, such a jig whose tune, with the natural whistle of a carman, shall be more ravishing to the ears of shopkeepers than a whole consort of barbers at midnight.
Player. I am your man for't; I pray you, command all the kindness belongs to my function, as a box for your friend at a new play, although I procure the hate of all my company.
Had. No, I'll pay for it rather; that may breed a mutiny in your whole house.
Player. I care not, I ha' played a king's part any time these ten years; and if I cannot command such a matter, 'twere poor, faith.
Had. Well, Master Change-coat, you shall now leave me, for I'll to my study; the morning hours are precious, and my Muse meditates most upon an empty stomach.
Player. I pray, sir, when this new invention is produced, let me not be forgotten.
Had. I'll sooner forget to be a jig-maker. [Exit Player.] So, here's four angels I little dreamt of. Nay, and there be money to be gotten by foolery, I hope fortune will not see me want. Atlas, Atlas!
Enter Atlas.
What, was my country coz here since?
Atlas. Why, did he promise to come again, seeing how the case stood wi' ye?
Had. Yea, and to advance my downfallen fortunes, Atlas.
Atlas. But ye are not sure he meant it ye, when he spake it.
Had. No, nor is it in man to conjecture rightly the thought by the tongue.
Atlas. Why, then, I'll believe it when I see it. If you had been in prosperity when he had promised you this kindness——
Had. I had not needed it.
Atlas. But being now you do, I fear you must go without it.
Had. If I do, Atlas, be it so: I'll e'en go write this rhyme over my bed's head—
Undone by folly; fortune, lend me more.
Canst thou, and wilt not? pox on such a whore!
and so I'll set up my rest. But see, Atlas, here's a little of that that damns lawyers; take it in part of a further recompense.
Atlas. No, pray keep it; I am conceited of your better fortunes, and therefore will stay out that expectation.
Had. Why, if you will, you may; but the surmounting of my fortunes is as much to be doubted as he whose estate lies in the lottery—desperate.
Atlas. But ne'er despair. 'Sfoot, why should not you live as well as a thousand others that wear change of taffata, whose means were never anything?
Had. Yes, cheating, theft and panderising, or, maybe, flattery: I have maintained some of them myself. But come, hast aught to breakfast?
Atlas. Yes, there's the fag-end of a leg of mutton.
Had. There cannot be a sweeter dish; it has cost money the dressing.
Atlas. At the barber's, you mean.
[Exeunt.
Enter Albert solus.
Alb. This is the green, and this the chamber-window:
And see, the appointed light stands in the casement,
The ladder of ropes set orderly; yet he
That should ascend, slow in his haste, is not
As yet come hither.
Were't any friend that lives but Carracus,
I'd try the bliss which this fine time presents.
Appoint to carry hence so rare an heir,
And be so slack! 'sfoot, it doth move my patience.
Would any man, that is not void of sense,
Not have watch'd night by night for such a prize?
Her beauty's so attractive that, by heav'n,
My heart half grants to do my friend a wrong.
Forego these thoughts; for,[372] Albert, be not slave
To thy affection; do not falsify
Thy faith to him, whose only friendship's worth
A world of women. He is such a one,
Thou canst not live without his good:
A' is and was ever as thine own heart's blood.
[Maria beckons him in the window.
'Sfoot, see, she beckons me for Carracus:
Shall my base purity cause me neglect
This present happiness? I will obtain it,
Spite of my timorous conscience. I am in person,
Habit, and all so like to Carracus,
It may be acted, and ne'er call'd in question.
Maria calls. Hist! Carracus, ascend:
All is as clear as in our hearts we wish'd.
Alb. Nay, if I go not now, I might be gelded, i' faith!
[Albert ascends; and, being on the top of the ladder, puts out the candle.
Mar. O love, why do you so?
Alb. I heard the steps of some coming this way.
Did you not hear Albert pass by as yet?
Mar. [No;] nor any creature pass this way this hour.
Alb. Then he intends, just at the break of day,
To lend his trusty help to our departure.
'Tis yet two hours' time thither, till when, let's rest.
For that our speedy flight will not yield any.
Mar. But I fear,
We, possessing of each other's presence,
Shall overslip the time. Will your friend call?
Alb. Just at the instant: fear not of his care.
Mar. Come then, dear Carracus, thou now shalt rest
Upon that bed, where fancy oft hath thought thee;
Which kindness until now I ne'er did grant thee,
Nor would I now, but that thy loyal faith
I have so often tried; even now
Seeing thee come to that most honour'd end,
Through all the dangers which black night presents,
For to convey me hence and marry me.
Alb. If I do not do so, then hate me ever.
Mar. I do believe thee, and will hate thee never.
[Exeunt.
Enter Carracus.
How pleasing are the steps we lovers make,
When in the paths of our content we pace,
To meet our longings! What happiness it is
For man to love! But O, what greater bliss
To love and be belov'd! O, what one virtue
E'er reign'd in me, that I should be enrich'd
With all earth's good at once! I have a friend,
Selected by the heavens as a gift
To make me happy, whilst I live on earth:
A man so rare of goodness, firm of faith,
That earth's content must vanish in his death.
Then for my love and mistress of my soul,
A maid of rich endowments, beautifi'd[373]
With all the virtues nature could bestow
Upon mortality, who this happy night
Will make me gainer of her heav'nly self.
And see, how suddenly I have attain'd
To the abode of my desired wishes!
This is the green; how dark the night appears!
I cannot hear the tread of my true friend.
Albert! hist, Albert!—he's not come as yet,
Nor is th' appointed light set in the window.
What, if I call Maria? it may be
She fear'd to set a light, and only hark'neth
To hear my steps; and yet I dare not call,
Lest I betray myself, and that my voice,
Thinking to enter in the ears of her,
Be of some other heard: no, I will stay,
Until the coming of my dear friend Albert.
But now think, Carracus, what the end will be
Of this thou dost determine: thou art come
Hither to rob a father of that wealth,
That solely lengthens his now drooping years,
His virtuous daughter, and all of that sex left,
To make him happy in his aged days:
The loss of her may cause him to despair,
Transport his near-decaying sense to frenzy,
Or to some such abhorred inconveniency,
Whereto frail age is subject. I do too ill in this,
And must not think, but that a father's plaint
Will move the heavens to pour forth misery
Upon the head of disobediency.
Yet reason tells us, parents are o'erseen,
When with too strict a rein they do hold in
Their child's affections, and control that love,
Which the high pow'rs divine inspire them with,
When in their shallowest judgments they may know,
Affection cross'd brings misery and woe.
But whilst I run contemplating on this,
I softly pace to my desired bliss.
I'll go into the next field, where my friend
Told me the horses were in readiness.
[Exit.
Albert descending from Maria.
Maria. But do not stay. What, if you find not Albert?
Alb. I'll then return alone to fetch you hence.
Maria. If you should now deceive me, having gain'd
What you men seek for——
Alb. Sooner I'll deceive
My soul—and so, I fear, I have.
[Aside.
Maria. At your first call, I will descend.
Alb. Till when this touch of lips be the true pledge
Of Carracus' constant true devoted love.
Maria. Be sure you stay not long; farewell;
I cannot lend an ear to hear you part.
[Exit Maria.
Alb. But you did lend a hand unto my entrance.
[He descends.
How have I wrong'd my friend, my faithful friend!
Robb'd him of what's more precious than his blood,
His earthly heaven, the unspotted honour
Of his soul-joying mistress! the fruition of whose bed
I yet am warm of; whilst dear Carracus
Wanders this cold night through th' unshelt'ring field,
Seeking me, treacherous man; yet no man neither,
Though in an outward show of such appearance,
But am a devil indeed; for so this deed
Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me.
I may compare my friend to one that's sick,
Who, lying on his deathbed, calls to him
His dearest-thought friend, and bids him go
To some rare-gifted man, that can restore
His former health: this his friend sadly hears,
And vows with protestations to fulfil
His wish'd desires with his best performance;
But then, no sooner seeing that the death
Of his sick friend would add to him some gain,
Goes not to seek a remedy to save,
But, like a wretch, hies[374] him to dig his grave;
As I have done for virtuous Carracus.
Yet, Albert, be not reasonless, to endanger
What thou may'st yet secure; who can detect
The crime of thy licentious appetite?—
I hear one's pace! 'tis surely Carracus.
Enter Carracus.
Car. Not find my friend! sure, some malignant planet
Rules o'er this night, and, envying the content
Which I in thought possess, debars me thus
From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence
Of a dear friend and love.
Alb. 'Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness:
I have no power now to reveal myself.
Car. The horses stand at the appointed place,
And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety.
My friend is surely fall'n into a slumber
On some bank hereabouts; I will call him.
Friend Albert, Albert!
Alb. Whate'er you are that call, you know my name.
Car. Ay, and thy heart, dear friend.
Alb. O Carracus, you are a slow-pac'd lover!
Your credit had been touch'd, had I not been.
Car. As how, I prythee, Albert?
Alb. Why, I excus'd you to the fair Maria;
Who would have thought you else a slack performer.
For coming first under her chamber-window,
She heard me tread, and call'd upon your name;
To which I answer'd with a tongue like yours,
And told her I would go to seek for Albert,
And straight return.
Car. Whom I have found; thanks to thy faith and heav'n.
But had not she a light when you came first?
Alb. Yes, but hearing of some company,
She at my warning was forc'd to put it out.
And had I been so too, you and I too
Had still been happy.
[Aside.
Car. See, we are now come to the chamber-window.
Alb. Then you must call, for so I said I would.
Car. Maria.
Maria. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd?
I see you'll keep your promise.
Car. Who would not do so, having pass'd it thee,
Cannot be fram'd of aught but treachery:
Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing
We may make firm the bliss of our content.
Maria. Is your friend Albert with you?
Alb. Yes, and your servant, honoured lady.
Maria. Hold me from falling, Carracus.
[She descends.
Car. I will do now so, but not at other times.
Maria. You are merry, sir:
But what d' y' intend with this your scaling-ladder,
To leave it thus, or put it forth of sight?
Car. Faith, 'tis no great matter which:
Yet we will take it hence, that it may breed
Many confus'd opinions in the house
Of your escape. Here, Albert, you shall bear it;
It may be you may chance to practise that way;
Which when you do, may your attempts so prove,
As mine have done—most fortunate in love.
Alb. May you continue ever so!
But it's time now to make some haste to horse;
Night soon will vanish. O, that it had power
For ever to exclude day from our eyes,
For my looks, then, will show my villany.
[Aside.
Car. Come, fair Maria, the troubles of this night
Are as forerunners to ensuing pleasures.
And, noble friend, although now Carracus
Seems, in the gaining of this beauteous prize,
To keep from you so much of his lov'd treasure,
Which ought not to be mixed; yet this heart
Shall so far strive in your wish'd happiness,
That if the loss and ruin of itself
Can but avail your good——
Alb. O friend! no more; come, you are slow in haste;
Friendship ought never be discuss'd in words,
Till all her deeds be finish'd. Who, looking in a book,
And reads but some part only, cannot judge
What praise the whole deserves, because his knowledge
Is grounded but on part. As thine, friend, is
Ignorant of that black mischief I have done thee.
[Aside.
Mar. Carracus, I am weary; are the horses far?
Car. No, fairest, we are now even at them:
Come, do you follow, Albert?
Alb. Yes, I do follow; would I had done so ever,
And ne'er had gone before.
[Aside. Exeunt.