THE NAMES OF THE ACTORS.
| The King. |
| Virro, an old rich count. |
| Polymetes, an old lord. |
| Eugenio, his son. |
| Leocothoe, his daughter. |
| Roscio, his man. |
| Euphues, another lord. |
| Philocles, his son. |
| Clerimont, a gentleman, friend to Philocles. |
| Franklin, an old rich gentleman. |
| Luce,[412] his daughter. |
| Francisco, a young man. |
| Alphonso. |
| Shallow, a foolish gentleman. |
| Nicanor, a courtier. |
| Matho, a lawyer. |
| Psectas,[413] a waiting gentlewoman. |
| A Parson. |
| A Sumner. |
| A Constable and Watch. |
| Servants. |
| Scene, Sicily. |
TO MY HONOURED FRIEND
MASTER THOMAS MAY,
UPON HIS COMEDY, THE HEIR.
The Heir being born, was in his tender age
Rock'd in the cradle of a private stage,
Where, lifted up by many a willing hand,
The child did from the first day fairly stand;
Since having gather'd strength, he dares prefer
His steps into the public theatre—
The world: where he despairs not but to find
A doom from men more able, not less kind.
I but his usher am; yet, if my word
May pass, I dare be bound he will afford
Things must deserve a welcome, if well known,
Such as best writers would have wish'd their own.
You shall observe his words in order meet,
And, softly stealing on with equal feet,
Slide into even numbers with such grace,
As each word had been moulded for that place.
You shall perceive an amorous passion, spun
Into so smooth a web as, had the Sun,
When he pursu'd the swiftly-flying maid,
Courted her in such language, she had stay'd:
A love so well express'd must be the same
The author felt himself from his fair flame.
The whole plot doth alike itself disclose
Through the five acts, as doth a lock, that goes
With letters; for, till every one be known,
The lock's as fast as if you had found none;
And, where his sportive Muse doth draw a thread
Of mirth, chaste matrons may not blush to read.
Thus have I thought it fitter to reveal
My want of art (dear friend) than to conceal
My love. It did appear I did not mean
So to commend thy well-wrought comic scene,
As men might judge my aim rather to be
To gain praise to myself than give it thee;
Though I can give thee none but what thou hast
Deserv'd, and what must my faint breath outlast.
Yet was this garment (though I skill-less be
To take thy measure) only made for thee;
And, if it prove too scant, 'tis 'cause the stuff
Nature allow'd me was not large enough.
Thomas Carew.[414]
PROLOGUS.
Judicious friends, if what shall here be seen
May taste your sense, or ope your tickled spleen,
Our author has his wish: he does not mean
To rub your galls with a satiric scene;
Nor toil your brains, to find the fustian sense
Of those poor lines that cannot recompense
The pains of study: Comedy's soft strain
Should not perplex, but recreate the brain;
His strain is such, he hopes it, but refers
That to the test of your judicious ears.
THE HEIR.
ACT I.
Enter Polymetes, Roscio.
Pol. Roscio,
Ros. My lord.
Pol. Hast thou divulg'd the news,
That my son died at Athens?
Ros. Yes, my lord,
With every circumstance: the time, the place,
And manner of his death; that 'tis believed,
And told for news with as much confidence,
As if 'twere writ in Gallo-belgicus.[415]
Pol. That's well, that's very well: now, Roscio,
Follows my part; I must express a grief
Not usual; not like a well-left heir
For his dead father, or a lusty widow
For her old husband, must I counterfeit:
But in a deeper, a far deeper strain,
Weep like a father for his only son.
Is not that hard to do, ha! Roscio?
Ros. O, no, my lord,
Not for your skill; has not your lordship seen
A player personate Hieronimo?[416]
Pol. By th' mass, 'tis true, I have seen the knave paint grief
In such a lively colour, that for false
And acted passion he has drawn true tears
From the spectators. Ladies in the boxes
Kept time with sighs and tears to his sad accents,
As he had truly been the man he seem'd.
Well, then, I'll ne'er despair: but tell me thou—
Thou that hast still been privy to my bosom,
How will this project take?
Ros. Rarely, my lord,
Even now, methinks, I see your lordship's house
Haunted with suitors of the noblest rank,
And my young lady, your supposed heir,
Tir'd more with wooing than the Grecian queen[417]
In the long absence of her wandering lord.
There's not a ruinous nobility
In all this kingdom, but conceives a hope
Now to rebuild his fortunes on this match.
Pol. Those are not they I look for: no, my nets
Are spread for other game; the rich and greedy—
Those that have wealth enough, yet gape for more—
They are for me.
Ros. Others will come, my lord:
All sorts of fish will press upon your nets;
Then in your lordship's wisdom it must lie
To cull the great ones, and reject the fry.
Pol. Nay, fear not that; there's none shall have access
To see my daughter, or to speak to her,
But such as I approve, and aim to catch.
Ros. The jest will be, my lord, when you shall see,
How your aspiring suitors will put on
The face of greatness, and belie their fortunes,
Consume themselves in show, wasting (like merchants)
Their present wealth in rigging a fair ship
For some ill-ventur'd voyage that undoes 'em.
Here comes a youth with letters from the court,
Bought of some favourite, at such a price
As will for ever sink him; yet, alas!
All's to no purpose, he must lose the prize.
Pol. 'Twill feed me fat with sport, that it shall make,
Besides the large adventures it brings home
Unto my daughter. How now!
Enter Servant.
Ser. My lord, Count Virro is come to see you.
Pol. Conduct him in. So, so, it takes already!
See, Roscio, see, this is the very man
My project aim'd at, the rich count that knows
No end of his large wealth, yet gapes for more.
There was no other loadstone could attract
His iron heart; for could beauty have mov'd him,
Nature has been no niggard to my girl.
But I must to my grief; here comes the count.
Enter Count Virro.
Vir. Is your lord asleep?
Ros. No, sir, I think not.
My lord, Count Virro!
Vir. How do you, sir?
Pol. I do entreat your lordship pardon me:
Grief and some want of sleep have made me at
This time unmannerly, not fit to entertain
Guests of your worth.
Vir. Alas, sir! I know your grief.
Ros. 'Twas that that fetch'd you hither.
[Aside.
Vir. Y' have lost a worthy and a hopeful son;
But heaven, that always gives, will sometimes take,
And that the best. There is no balsam left us
To cure such wounds as these but patience;
There is no disputing with the acts of heaven;
But, if there were, in what could you accuse
Those powers that else have been so liberal to you,
And left you yet one comfort in your age,
A fair and virtuous daughter.
Ros. Now it begins.
[Aside.
Vir. Your blood is not extinct, nor your age childless:
From that fair branch that's left may come much fruit
To glad posterity: think on that, my lord.
Pol. Nay, heaven forbid I should repine,
At what the justice of those powers ordain;
It has pleased them to confine my care
Only to one; and to see her well bestow'd
Is all the comfort that I now must look for;
But if it had pleas'd heaven that my son—
Ah, my Eugenio!
[He weeps.
Vir. Alas, good gentleman!
Ros. 'Fore heaven, he does it rarely!
[Aside.
Vir. But, sir, remember yourself, remember your daughter; let not your grief for the dead make you forget the living, whose hopes and fortunes depend upon your safety.
Pol. O my good lord, you never had a son.
Ros. Unless they were bastards, and for them no doubt but he has done as other lords do.
[Aside.
Pol. And therefore cannot tell what 'tis to lose
A son, a good son, and an only son.
Vir. I would, my lord, I could as well redress,
As I can take compassion of your grief:
You should soon find an ease.
Pol. Pray pardon me, my lord,
If I forget myself toward you at this time;
If it please you to visit my house ofter,
You shall be welcome.
Vir. You would fain sleep, my lord, I'll take my leave.
Heaven send you comfort! I shall make bold shortly
To visit you.
Pol. You shall be wondrous welcome.
Wait on my lord, out there.
[To Attend. Exit Virro.
So, now he's gone: how thinkest thou, Roscio,
Will not this gudgeon bite?
Ros. No doubt, my lord,
So fair a bait would catch a cunning fish.
Pol. And such a one is he; he ever lov'd
The beauty of my girl, but that's not it
Can draw the earthbred thoughts of his gross soul.
Gold is the god of his idolatry,
With hope of which I'll feed him, till at length
I make him fasten, and, Ixion-like,
For his lov'd Juno grasp an empty cloud.
Ros. How stands my young lady affected to him?
Pol. There's all the difficulty; we must win her to love him. I doubt the peevish girl will think him too old; he's well near fifty. In this business I must leave somewhat to thy wit and care: praise him beyond all measure.
Ros. Your lordship ever found me trusty.
Pol. If thou effect it, I will make thee happy.
[Exeunt.
Enter Philocles, Clerimont.
Phil. Eugenio's sister, then, is the rich heir
By his decease?
Cler. Yes, and the fair one too:
She needs no gloss that fortune can set on her;
Her beauty of itself were prize enough
To make a king turn beggar for.
Phil. Heyday!
What, in love, Clerimont? I lay my life 'tis so;
Thou couldst not praise her with such passion else.
Cler. I know not; I slept well enough last night:
But if thou saw'st her once, I would not give
A farthing for thy life; I tell thee, Philocles,
One sight of her would make thee cry, ah me!
Sigh, and look pale: methinks I do imagine
How like an idolatrous lover thou wouldst look
Through the eyelids; know nobody.
Phil. 'Tis very well.
But how did your worship 'scape? You have seen her?
Cler. True, but I have an antidote, and I can teach it thee.
Phil. When I have need on't, I'll desire it.
Cler. And 'twill be worth thy learning, when thou shalt see the tyranny of that same scurvy boy, and what fools he makes of us. Shall I describe the beast?
Phil. What beast?
Cler. A lover.
Phil. Do.
Cler. Then, to be brief, I will pass over the opinion of your ancient fathers, as likewise those strange loves spoken of in the authentic histories of chivalry, Amadis de Gaul, Parismus, the Knight of the Sun, or the witty knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, where those brave men, whom neither enchantments, giants, windmills, nor flocks of sheep, could vanquish, are made the trophies of triumphing love.
Phil. Prythee, come to the matter.
Cler. Neither will I mention the complaints of Sir Guy for the fair Felice, nor the travels of Parismus for the love of the beauteous Laurana; nor, lastly, the most sad penance of the ingenious knight Don Quixote upon the mountains of Sierra Morena,[418] moved by the unjust disdain of the lady Dulcina del Toboso. As for our modern authors, I will not so much as name them; no, not that excellent treatise of Tully's love, written by the master of art.[419]
Phil. I would thou wouldst pass over this passing over of authors, and speak thine own judgment.
Cler. Why, then, to be brief, I think a lover looks like an ass.
Phil. I can describe him better than so myself. He looks like a man that had sitten up at cards all night, or a stale drunkard wakened in the midst of his sleep.
Cler. But, Philocles, I would not have thee see this lady; she has a bewitching look.
Phil. How darest thou venture, man? What strange medicine hast thou found? Ovid ne'er taught it thee. I doubt I guess thy remedy for love: go to a bawdy-house or so, is it not?
Cler. Faith, and that's a good way, I can tell you; we younger brothers are beholden to it. Alas! we must not fall in love, and choose whom we like best; we have no jointures for them, as you blessed heirs can have.
Phil. Well, I have found you, sir. And prythee, tell me how gettest thou wenches?
Cler. Why, I can want no panders. I lie in the constable's house.
Phil. And there you may whore by authority.
But, Clerimont, I doubt this paragon
That thou so praisest is some ill-favoured wench
Whom thou wouldst have me laugh'd at for commending.
Cler. Believe it, I spoke in earnest: trust your eyes:
I'll show you her.
Phil. How canst thou do it?
Thou know'st this lady's father is to mine
A deadly enemy; nor is his house
Open to any of our kindred.
Cler. That's no matter:
My lodging's the next door to this lord's house,
And my back-window looks into his garden;
There every morning fair Leucothoë
(For so I hear her nam'd) walking alone
To please her senses, makes Aurora blush,
To see one brighter than herself appear.
Phil. Well, I will see her then.
[Exeunt.
Enter Franklin, Francisco, and Luce gravida.[420]
Franc. Yet for her sake be advis'd better, sir.
Frank. Impudent rascal! canst look me i' th' face,
And know how thou hast wronged me? Thou
Hast dishonour'd my daughter—made a whore of her.
Franc. Gentle sir,
The wrong my love has made to your fair daughter
'Tis now too late to wish undone again:
But, if you please, it may be yet clos'd up
Without dishonour: I will marry her.
Frank. Marry her! she has a hot catch of that.
Marry a beggar!
What jointure canst thou make her?
Franc. Sir, I am poor, I must confess;
Fortune has bless'd you better: but I swear
By all things that can bind, 'twas not your wealth
Was the foundation of my true-built love;
It was her single uncompounded self—
Herself without addition—that I lov'd,
Which shall for ever in my sight outweigh
All other women's fortunes and themselves;
And were I great, as great as I could wish
Myself for her advancement, no such bar
As fortune's inequality should stand
Betwixt our loves.
Luce. Good father, hear me.
Frank. Dost thou not blush to call me father, strumpet?
I'll make thee an example.
Luce. But hear me, sir; my shame will be your own.
Frank. No more, I say. Francisco, leave my house;
I charge you, come not here.
Franc. I must obey, and will. Dear Luce, be constant.
Luce. Till death.
[Exit Francisco.
Frank. Here's a fine wedding towards! The bridegroom, when he comes for his bride, shall find her great with child by another man! Passion-a-me, minion, how have you hid it so long?
Luce. Fearing your anger, sir, I strove to hide it.
Frank. Hide it one day more, then, or be damned. Hide it till Shallow be married to thee, and then let him do his worst.
Luce. Sir, I should too much wrong him.
Frank. Wrong him! there be great ladies have done the like; 'tis no news to see a bride with child.
Luce. Good sir.
Frank. Then be wise; lay the child to him: he's a rich man, t'other's a beggar.
Luce. I dare not, sir.
Frank. Do it, I say, and he shall father it.
Luce. He knows he never touched me, sir.
Frank. That's all one; lay it to him, we'll out-face him 'tis his: but hark! he is coming, I hear the music. Swear thou wilt do thy best to make him think 'tis his, only for this time; swear quickly.
Luce. I do.
Frank. Go, step aside, and come when thy cue is; thou shalt hear us talk.
[Luce aside.
Enter Shallow, with music.
Shal. Morrow, father.
Frank. Son bridegroom, welcome; you have been looked for here.
Shal. My tailor a little disappointed me; but is my bride ready?
Frank. Yes, long ago; but you and I will talk a little. Send in your music.
Shal. Go, wait within. [Exit music.] And tell me, father, did she not think it long till I came?
Frank. I warrant her, she did; she loves you not a little.
Shal. Nay, that I dare swear; she has given me many tastes of her affection.
Frank. What, before you were married?
Shal. I mean in the way of honesty, father.
Frank. Nay, that I doubt; young wits love to be trying, and, to say truth, I see not how a woman can deny a man of your youth and person upon those terms: you'll not be known on't now.
Shal. I have kissed her, or so.
Frank. Come, come; I know you are no fool, I should think you a very ass—nay, I tell you plainly, I should be loth to marry my daughter to you—if I thought you had not tried her in so long acquaintance: but you have tried her, and she, poor soul, could not deny you.
Shal. Ha, ha, he!
Frank. Faith, tell me, son, 'tis but a merry question: she's yours.
Shal. Upon my virginity, father——
Frank. Swear not by that, I'll ne'er believe you.
Shal. Why, then, as I am a gentleman, I never did it, that I remember.
Fran. That you remember! O, is't thereabouts?
Luce. He'll take it upon him presently.
[Aside.
Fran. You have been so familiar with her, you have forgot the times: but did you never come in half fuddled, and then in a kind humour— cœtera quis nescit?
Shal. Indeed I was wont to serve my mother's maids so, when I came half foxed, as you said, and then next morning I should laugh to myself.
Frank. Why, there it goes; I thought to have chid you, son Shallow; I knew what you had done; 'tis too apparent: I would not have people take notice of it; pray God she hide her great belly, as she goes to church to-day.
Shal. Why, father, is she with child?
Frank. As if you knew not that! fie, fie! leave your dissembling now.
Shal. Sure, it cannot be mine.
Frank. How's this; you would not make my daughter a whore, would you? This is but to try if you can stir my choler: you wits have strange tricks, do things over night when you are merry, and then deny 'em. But stay, here she comes alone; step aside, she shall not see us.
[They step aside.
Luce. Ah, my dear Shallow, thou need'st not have made
Such haste, my heart thou know'st was firm enough
To thee; but I may blame my own fond love,
That could not deny thee.
Shal. She's with child indeed; it swells.
Frank. You would not believe me. 'Tis a good wench: she does it handsomely.
[Aside.
Luce. But yet I know, if thou hadst been thyself, thou wouldst ne'er have offered it; 'twas drink that made thee.
Shal. Yes, sure, I was drunk when I did it, for I had forgot it. I lay my life 'twill prove a girl, because 'twas got in drink.
Luce. I am ashamed to see anybody.
Frank. Alas, poor wretch! go comfort her. Luce!
Shal. Sweetheart! nay, never be ashamed. I was a little too hasty, but I'll make thee amends; we'll be married presently.
Frank. Be cheery, Luce; you were man and wife before; it wanted but the ceremony of the church, and that shall be presently done.
Shal. Ay, ay, sweetheart, as soon as may be.
Frank. But now I think on't, son Shallow, your wedding must not be public, as we intended it.
Shal. Why so?
Frank. Because I would not have people take notice of this fault: we'll go to church, only we three, the minister and the clerk—that's witnesses enough; so, the time being unknown, people will think you were married before.
Shal. But will it stand with my worship to be married in private?
Frank. Yes, yes; the greatest do it, when they have been nibbling beforehand; there is no other way to save your bride's credit.
Shal. Come, let's about it presently.
Frank. This is closed up beyond our wishes.
[Exeunt.
Manet Luce.
Luce. I am undone, unless thy wit, Francisco,
Can find some means to free me from this fool,
Who would have thought the sot could be so gross
To take upon him what he never did,
To his own shame? I'll send to my Francisco,
And I must lose no time; for I am dead,
If not delivered from this loathed bed.