Arden of Feversham

by Unknown

ACT III

SCENE I

A Room in Franklin’s House, at Aldersgate.

Enter Arden and Franklin.

Arden. No, Franklin, no: if fear or stormy threats,
If love of me or care of womanhood,
If fear of God or common speech of men,
Who mangle credit with their wounding words,
And couch dishonour as dishonour buds,
Might join repentance in her wanton thoughts,
No question then but she would turn the leaf
And sorrow for her dissolution;
But she is rooted in her wickedness,
Perverse and stubborn, not to be reclaimed; 10
Good counsel is to her as rain to weeds,
And reprehension makes her vice to grow
As Hydra’s head that plenished by decay.
Her faults, methink, are painted in my face,
For every searching eye to overread;
And Mosbie’s name, a scandal unto mine,
Is deeply trenchèd in my blushing brow.
Ah, Franklin, Franklin, when I think on this,
My heart’s grief rends my other powers
Worse than the conflict at the hour of death. 20

Franklin. Gentle Arden, leave this sad lament:
She will amend, and so your griefs will cease;
Or else she’ll die, and so your sorrows end.
If neither of these two do haply fall,
Yet let your comfort be that others bear
Your woes, twice doubled all, with patience.

Arden. My house is irksome; there I cannot rest.

Franklin. Then stay with me in London; go not home.

Arden. Then that base Mosbie doth usurp my room
And makes his triumph of my being thence. 30
At home or not at home, where’er I be,
Here, here it lies, ah Franklin, here it lies
That will not out till wretched Arden dies.

Here enters Michael.

Franklin. Forget your griefs a while; here comes your man.

Arden. What a-clock is’t, sirrah?

Michael. Almost ten.

Arden. See, see, how runs away the weary time!
Come, Master Franklin, shall we go to bed?

[Exeunt Arden and Michael. Manet Franklin.

Franklin. I pray you, go before: I’ll follow you.
—Ah, what a hell is fretful jealousy! 40
What pity-moving words, what deep-fetched sighs,
What grievous groans and overlading woes
Accompanies this gentle gentleman!
Now will he shake his care-oppressèd head,
Then fix his sad eyes on the sullen earth,
Ashamed to gaze upon the open world;
Now will he cast his eyes up towards the heavens,
Looking that ways for redress of wrong:
Sometimes he seeketh to beguile his grief
And tells a story with his careful tongue; 50
Then comes his wife’s dishonour in his thoughts
And in the middle cutteth off his tale,
Pouring fresh sorrow on his weary limbs.
So woe-begone, so inly charged with woe,
Was never any lived and bare it so.

Here enters Michael.

Michael. My master would desire you come to bed.

Franklin. Is he himself already in his bed?

[Exit Franklin. Manet Michael.

Michael. He is, and fain would have the light away.
—Conflicting thoughts, encampèd in my breast,
Awake me with the echo of their strokes, 60
And I, a judge to censure either side,
Can give to neither wishèd victory.
My master’s kindness pleads to me for life
With just demand, and I must grant it him:
My mistress she hath forced me with an oath,
For Susan’s sake, the which I may not break,
For that is nearer than a master’s love:
That grim-faced fellow, pitiless Black Will,
And Shakebag, stern in bloody stratagem,
—Two rougher ruffians never lived in Kent,— 70
Have sworn my death, if I infringe my vow,
A dreadful thing to be considered of.
Methinks I see them with their bolstered hair
Staring and grinning in thy gentle face,
And in their ruthless hands their daggers drawn,
Insulting o’er thee with a peck of oaths,
Whilst thou submissive, pleading for relief,
Art mangled by their ireful instruments.
Methinks I hear them ask where Michael is,
And pitiless Black Will cries: ‘Stab the slave! 80
The peasant will detect the tragedy!’
The wrinkles in his foul death-threat’ning face
Gapes open wide, like graves to swallow men.
My death to him is but a merriment,
And he will murder me to make him sport.
He comes, he comes! ah. Master Franklin, help!
Call on the neighbours, or we are but dead!

Here enters Franklin and Arden.

Franklin. What dismal outcry calls me from my rest?

Arden. What hath occasioned such a fearful cry?
Speak, Michael: hath any injured thee? 90

Michael. Nothing, sir; but as I fell asleep,
Upon the threshold leaning to the stairs,
I had a fearful dream that troubled me,
And in my slumber thought I was beset
With murderer thieves that came to rifle me.
My trembling joints witness my inward fear:
I crave your pardons for disturbing you.

Arden. So great a cry for nothing I ne’er heard.
What? are the doors fast locked and all things safe?

Michael. I cannot tell; I think I locked the doors. 100

Arden. I like not this, but I’ll go see myself.—
Ne’er trust me but the doors were all unlocked:
This negligence not half contenteth me.
Get you to bed, and if you love my favour,
Let me have no more such pranks as these.
Come, Master Franklin, let us go to bed.

Franklin. Ay, by my faith; the air is very cold.
Michael, farewell; I pray thee dream no more.

[Exeunt.

III. i. 5. Couch dishonour as dishonour buds. Warnke explains Couch = ‘spread,’ comparing ‘couch-grass’; but there is no authority for this use. Is the word used in its surgical sense? The line would then = ‘Cut the bud of dishonour so that it bursts into flower.’ The surgical sense occurs in Holland’s Pliny, 1601.

III. i. 13. plenished is Warnke’s reading for the Quartos’ perisht. Delius and Bullen read flourished.

III. i. 19. Cf. ‘Sorrow and grief have vanquished all my powers.’—2 Henry VI., II. i. 83.

III. i. 45. For this use of sullen cf. ‘Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth?’—2 Henry VI., I. ii. 5, and Sonnet XXIX. 13.

SCENE II

Outside Franklin’s house.

Here enters Will, Greene, and Shakebag.

Shakebag. Black night hath hid the pleasures of the day,
And sheeting darkness overhangs the earth,
And with the black fold of her cloudy robe
Obscures us from the eyesight of the world,
In which sweet silence such as we triumph.
The lazy minutes linger on their time,
As loth to give due audit to the hour,
Till in the watch our purpose be complete
And Arden sent to everlasting night.
Greene, get you gone, and linger here about, 10
And at some hour hence come to us again,
Where we will give you instance of his death.

Greene. Speed to my wish, whose will so e’er says no;
And so I’ll leave you for an hour or two.

[Exit Greene.

Will. I tell thee, Shakebag, would this thing were done:
I am so heavy that I can scarce go;
This drowsiness in me bodes little good.

Shakebag. How now, Will? become a precisian?
Nay, then let’s go sleep, when bugs and fears
Shall kill our courages with their fancy’s work. 20

Will. Why, Shakebag, thou mistakes me much,
And wrongs me too in telling me of fear.
Were’t not a serious thing we go about,
It should be slipt till I had fought with thee,
To let thee know I am no coward, I.
I tell thee, Shakebag, thou abusest me.

Shakebag. Why, thy speech bewrayed an inly kind of fear,
And savoured of a weak relenting spirit.
Go forward now in that we have begun,
And afterwards attempt me when thou darest. 30

Will. And if I do not, heaven cut me off!
But let that pass, and show me to this house,
Where thou shalt see I’ll do as much as Shakebag.

Shakebag. This is the door; but soft, methinks ’tis shut.
The villain Michael hath deceived us.

Will. Soft, let me see, Shakebag; ’tis shut indeed.
Knock with thy sword, perhaps the slave will hear.

Shakebag. It will not be; the white-livered peasant
Is gone to bed, and laughs us both to scorn.

Will. And he shall buy his merriment as dear 40
As ever coistril bought so little sport:
Ne’er let this sword assist me when I need,
But rust and canker after I have sworn,
If I, the next time that I meet the hind,
Lop not away his leg, his arm, or both.

Shakebag. And let me never draw a sword again,
Nor prosper in the twilight, cockshut light,
When I would fleece the wealthy passenger,
But lie and languish in a loathsome den,
Hated and spit at by the goers-by, 50
And in that death may die unpitied,
If I, the next time that I meet the slave,
Cut not the nose from off the coward’s face
And trample on it for this villainy.

Will. Come, let’s go seek out Greene; I know he’ll swear.

Shakebag. He were a villain, an he would not swear.
’Twould make a peasant swear among his boys,
That ne’er durst say before but ‘yea’ and ‘no,’
To be thus flouted of a coistril.

Will. Shakebag, let’s seek out Greene, and in the morning 60
At the alehouse butting Arden’s house
Watch the out-coming of that prick-eared cur,
And then let me alone to handle him. [Exeunt.

III. ii. 47. A cockshut was a large net used to catch woodcocks after sunset. Cf. ‘Cockshut time.’—Richard III., V. iii. 70.

SCENE III

Room in Franklin’s house as before.

Here enters Arden, Franklin, and Michael.

Arden. Sirrah, get you back to Billingsgate
And learn what time the tide will serve our turn;
Come to us in Paul’s. First go make the bed,
And afterwards go hearken for the flood.

[Exit Michael.

Come, Master Franklin, you shall go with me.
This night I dreamt that, being in a park,
A toil was pitched to overthrow the deer,
And I upon a little rising hill
Stood whistly watching for the herd’s approach.
Even there, methoughts, a gentle slumber took me, 10
And summoned all my parts to sweet repose;
But in the pleasure of this golden rest
An ill-thewed foster had removed the toil,
And rounded me with that beguiling home
Which late, methought, was pitched to cast the deer.
With that he blew an evil-sounding horn,
And at the noise another herdman came,
With falchion drawn, and bent it at my breast,
Crying aloud, ‘Thou art the game we seek!’
With this I woke and trembled every joint, 20
Like one obscured in a little bush,
That sees a lion foraging about,
And, when the dreadful forest-king is gone,
He pries about with timorous suspect
Throughout the thorny casements of the brake,
And will not think his person dangerless,
But quakes and shivers, though the cause be gone:
So, trust me, Franklin, when I did awake,
I stood in doubt whether I waked or no:
Such great impression took this fond surprise. 30
God grant this vision bedeem me any good.

Franklin. This fantasy doth rise from Michael’s fear,
Who being awaked with the noise he made,
His troubled senses yet could take no rest;
And this, I warrant you, procured your dream.

Arden. It may be so, God frame it to the best:
But oftentimes my dreams presage too true.

Franklin. To such as note their nightly fantasies,
Some one in twenty may incur belief;
But use it not, ’tis but a mockery. 40

Arden. Come, Master Franklin; we’ll now walk in Paul’s
And dine together at the ordinary,
And by my man’s direction draw to the quay,
And with the tide go down to Feversham.
Say, Master Franklin, shall it not be so?

Franklin. At your good pleasure, sir; I’ll bear you company. [Exeunt.

III. iii. 14. rounded me = brought me round.

III. iii. 40. use: Warnke quotes Macbeth, III. ii. 10, ‘Using those thoughts which should indeed have died.’

III. iii. 44. with the tide, i.e. by boat on the Thames. Holinshed makes Greene and Black Will go to London, from Gravesend apparently, ‘at the tide.’

SCENE IV

Aldersgate.

Here enters Michael at one door.

Here enters Greene, Will, and Shakebag at another door.

Will. Draw, Shakebag, for here’s that villain Michael.

Greene. First, Will, let’s hear what he can say.

Will. Speak, milksop slave, and never after speak.

Michael. For God’s sake, sirs, let me excuse myself:
For here I swear, by heaven and earth and all,
I did perform the utmost of my task,
And left the doors unbolted and unlocked.
But see the chance: Franklin and my master
Were very late conferring in the porch,
And Franklin left his napkin where he sat 10
With certain gold knit in it, as he said.
Being in bed, he did bethink himself,
And coming down he found the doors unshut:
He locked the gates, and brought away the keys,
For which offence my master rated me.
But now I am going to see what flood it is,
For with the tide my master will away;
Where you may front him well on Rainham Down,
A place well-fitting such a stratagem.

Will. Your excuse hath somewhat mollified my choler.
Why now, Greene, ’tis better now nor e’er it was. 21

Greene. But, Michael, is this true?

Michael. As true as I report it to be true.

Shakebag. Then, Michael, this shall be your penance,
To feast us all at the Salutation,
Where we will plat our purpose thoroughly.

Greene. And, Michael, you shall bear no news of this tide,
Because they two may be in Rainham Down
Before your master.

Michael. Why, I’ll agree to anything you’ll have me,
So you will except of my company. [Exeunt.

III. iv. 18. ‘The country near Rainham seems in the sixteenth century to have been so open as to have entitled it to the appellation of a Down.’—Donne. The spot had a bad reputation.

III. iv. 25. The Salutation is an inn mentioned in Bartholomew Fair.

III. iv. 31. Except is probably the printer’s spelling of accept.

SCENE V

Arden’s House at Feversham.

Here enters Mosbie.

Mosbie. Disturbèd thoughts drives me from company
And dries my marrow with their watchfulness;
Continual trouble of my moody brain
Feebles my body by excess of drink,
And nips me as the bitter north-east wind
Doth check the tender blossoms in the spring.
Well fares the man, howe’er his cates do taste,
That tables not with foul suspicion;
And he but pines amongst his delicates,
Whose troubled mind is stuffed with discontent. 10
My golden time was when I had no gold;
Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure;
My daily toil begat me night’s repose,
My night’s repose made daylight fresh to me.
But since I climbed the top-bough of the tree
And sought to build my nest among the clouds,
Each gentle stirry gale doth shake my bed,
And makes me dread my downfall to the earth.
But whither doth contemplation carry me?
The way I seek to find, where pleasure dwells, 20
Is hedged behind me that I cannot back,
But needs must on, although to danger’s gate.
Then, Arden, perish thou by that decree;
For Greene doth ear the land and weed thee up
To make my harvest nothing but pure corn.
And for his pains I’ll hive him up a while,
And after smother him to have his wax:
Such bees as Greene must never live to sting.
Then is there Michael and the painter too,
Chief actors to Arden’s overthrow; 30
Who when they shall see me sit in Arden’s seat,
They will insult upon me for my meed,
Or fright me by detecting of his end.
I’ll none of that, for I can cast a bone
To make these curs pluck out each other’s throat,
And then am I sole ruler of mine own.
Yet Mistress Arden lives; but she’s myself,
And holy Church rites makes us two but one.
But what for that? I may not trust you, Alice:
You have supplanted Arden for my sake, 40
And will extirpen me to plant another.
’Tis fearful sleeping in a serpent’s bed,
And I will cleanly rid my hands of her.

Here enters Alice.

But here she comes, and I must flatter her.
—How now, Alice? what, sad and passionate?
Make me partaker of thy pensiveness:
Fire divided burns with lesser force.

Alice. But I will dam that fire in my breast
Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah, Mosbie! 50

Mosbie. Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon’s burst
Discharged against a ruinated wall,
Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.
Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
Thou know’st it well, and ’tis thy policy
To forge distressful looks to wound a breast
Where lies a heart that dies when thou art sad.
It is not love that loves to anger love.

Alice. It is not love that loves to murder love.

Mosbie. How mean you that? 60

Alice. Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me.

Mosbie. And then?

Alice. And then—conceal the rest, for ’tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried with the wind,
And published in the world to both our shames.
I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither;
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
Forget, I pray thee, what hath passed betwixt us,
For how I blush and tremble at the thoughts!

Mosbie. What? are you changed? 70

Alice. Ay, to my former happy life again,
From title of an odious strumpet’s name
To honest Arden’s wife, not Arden’s honest wife.
Ha, Mosbie! ’tis thou has rifled me of that
And made me slanderous to all my kin;
Even in my forehead is thy name ingraven,
A mean artificer, that low-born name.
I was bewitched: woe worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me!

Mosbie. Nay, if you ban, let me breathe curses forth, 80
And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
Let me repent the credit I have lost.
I have neglected matters of import
That would have stated me above thy state,
Forslowed advantages, and spurned at time:
Ay, Fortune’s right hand Mosbie hath forsook
To take a wanton giglot by the left.
I left the marriage of an honest maid,
Whose dowry would have weighed down all thy wealth,
Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee: 90
This certain good I lost for changing bad,
And wrapt my credit in thy company.
I was bewitched,—that is no theme of thine,
And thou unhallowed has enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,
And put another sight upon these eyes
That showed my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair, I viewed thee not till now;
Thou art not kind, till now I knew thee not;
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt, 100
Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
I am too good to be thy favourite.

Alice. Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true,
Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth,
Which too incredulous I ne’er believed.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two; 110
I’ll bite my tongue if it speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or I’ll kill myself:
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look.
If thou cry war, there is no peace for me;
I will do penance for offending thee,
And burn this prayer-book, where I here use
The holy word that had converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves, and in this golden cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell; 120
And thereon will I chiefly meditate,
And hold no other sect but such devotion.
Wilt thou not look? is all thy love o’erwhelmed?
Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thine ears?
Why speaks thou not? what silence ties thy tongue?
Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is,
And heard as quickly as the fearful hare,
And spoke as smoothly as an orator,
When I have bid thee hear or see or speak,
And art thou sensible in none of these? 130
Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie’s muddy looks.
A fence of trouble is not thickened still:
Be clear again, I’ll ne’er more trouble thee.

Mosbie. O no, I am a base artificer:
My wings are feathered for a lowly flight.
Mosbie? fie! no, not for a thousand pound.
Make love to you? why, ’tis unpardonable;
We beggars must not breathe where gentles are.

Alice. Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king, 140
And I too blind to judge him otherwise.
Flowers do sometimes spring in fallow lands,
Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns;
So, whatsoe’er my Mosbie’s father was,
Himself is valued gentle by his worth.

Mosbie. Ah, how you women can insinuate,
And clear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue!
I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice,
Provided I’ll be tempted so no more.

Here enters Bradshaw.

Alice. Then with thy lips seal up this new-made match.

Mosbie. Soft, Alice, here comes somebody. 151

Alice. How now, Bradshaw, what’s the news with you?

Bradshaw. I have little news, but here’s a letter
That Master Greene importuned me to give you.

Alice. Go in, Bradshaw; call for a cup of beer;
’Tis almost supper-time, thou shalt stay with us.

[Exit Bradshaw.

Then she reads the letter.

‘We have missed of our purpose at London, but shall
perform it by the way. We thank our neighbour
Bradshaw.—Yours, Richard Greene.’
How likes my love the tenor of this letter? 160

Mosbie. Well, were his date completed and expired.

Alice. Ah, would it were! Then comes my happy hour:
Till then my bliss is mixed with bitter gall.
Come, let us in to shun suspicion.

Mosbie. Ay, to the gates of death to follow thee. [Exeunt.

III. v. 4. drink: perhaps we ought to read think.

III. v. 17. stirry: this is meant by the starry of the Quartos.

III. v. 26. hive: Delius’s correction of heave, A, B, C.

III. v. 51. deep pathaires: Delius conjectures deep fet airs; but Mr. Gollancz has probably solved the crux of the play by his suggestion,—‘“Pathaire,” I take to be some special form of “petarre,” i.e. “petard,” probably used in the metaphorical sense of passionate outburst.’—(Lamb’s Specimens, I. i. 297.) The use may be quite literal; for the form cf. Powell’s Tom of All Trades, p. 163, ‘An Enginere for making of Patars.’

III. v. 58. Quoted by Bullen as of ‘genuine Shakesperean flavour.’ He adds III. v. 112-130.

III. v. 116. Mr. Bullen puts a comma at use.

III. v. 131. Thy: several editors read my; but the sense is ‘the good turns I have done you.’

III. v. 133. Warnke explains ‘the quarrel has not yet thickened to so impenetrable a fence as to separate us for ever.’ Perhaps we should read ‘is not thick-set ill.’

III. v. 157. An inconsistency. Cf. II. i. 75. Holinshed quotes from the letter, ‘We have got a man for our purpose, we may thank my brother Bradshaw.’ The Wardmote Book says nothing of Bradshaw’s innocence.

SCENE VI

Country near Rochester.

Here enters Greene, Will, and Shakebag.

Shakebag. Come, Will, see thy tools be in a readiness!
Is not thy powder dank, or will thy flint strike fire?

Will. Then ask me if my nose be on my face,
Or whether my tongue be frozen in my mouth.
Zounds, here’s a coil!
You were best swear me on the interrogatories
How many pistols I have took in hand,
Or whether I love the smell of gunpowder,
Or dare abide the noise the dag will make,
Or will not wink at flashing of the fire. 10
I pray thee, Shakebag, let this answer thee,
That I have took more purses in this down
Than e’er thou handledst pistols in thy life.

Shakebag. Ay, haply thou has picked more in a throng:
But, should I brag what booties I have took,
I think the overplus that’s more than thine
Would mount to a greater sum of money
Then either thou or all thy kin are worth.
Zounds, I hate them as I hate a toad
That carry a muscado in their tongue, 20
And scarce a hurting weapon in their hand.

Will. O Greene, intolerable!
It is not for mine honour to bear this.
Why, Shakebag, I did serve the king at Boulogne,
And thou canst brag of nothing that thou hast done.

Shakebag. Why, so can Jack of Feversham,
That sounded for a fillip on the nose,
When he that gave it him holloed in his ear,
And he supposed a cannon-bullet hit him.

Then they fight.

Greene. I pray you, sirs, list to Æsop’s talk: 30
Whilst two stout dogs were striving for a bone,
There comes a cur and stole it from them both;
So, while you stand striving on these terms of manhood,
Arden escapes us, and deceives us all.

Shakebag. Why, he begun.

Will. And thou shalt find I’ll end;
I do but slip it until better time:
But, if I do forget——

[Then he kneels down and holds up his hands to heaven.

Greene. Well, take your fittest standings, and once more
Lime well your twigs to catch this wary bird.
I’ll leave you, and at your dag’s discharge 40
Make towards, like the longing water-dog
That coucheth till the fowling-piece be off,
Then seizeth on the prey with eager mood.
Ah, might I see him stretching forth his limbs,
As I have seen them beat their wings ere now!

Shakebag. Why, that thou shalt see, if he come this way.

Greene. Yes, that he doth, Shakebag, I warrant thee:
But brawl not when I am gone in any case.
But, sirs, be sure to speed him when he comes,
And in that hope I’ll leave you for an hour. 50

[Exit Greene.

Here enters Arden, Franklin, and Michael.

Michael. ’Twere best that I went back to Rochester:
The horse halts downright; it were not good
He travelled in such pain to Feversham;
Removing of a shoe may haply help it.

Arden. Well, get you back to Rochester; but, sirrah, see
Ye o’ertake us ere we come to Rainham Down,
For ’t will be very late ere we get home.

Michael. Ay, God he knows, and so doth Will and Shakebag,
That thou shalt never go further than that down;
And therefore have I pricked the horse on purpose,
Because I would not view the massacre. 61

[Exit Michael.

Arden. Come, Master Franklin, onwards with your tale.

Franklin. I do assure you, sir, you task me much:
A heavy blood is gathered at my heart,
And on the sudden is my wind so short
As hindereth the passage of my speech;
So fierce a qualm yet ne’er assailed me.

Arden. Come, Master Franklin, let us go on softly:
The annoyance of the dust or else some meat
You ate at dinner cannot brook with you. 70
I have been often so, and soon amended.

Franklin. Do you remember where my tale did leave?

Arden. Ay, where the gentleman did check his wife.

Franklin. She being reprehended for the fact,
Witness produced that took her with the deed,
Her glove brought in which there she left behind,
And many other assured arguments,
Her husband asked her whether it were not so.

Arden. Her answer then? I wonder how she looked,
Having forsworn it with such vehement oaths, 80
And at the instant so approved upon her.

Franklin. First did she cast her eyes down to the earth,
Watching the drops that fell amain from thence;
Then softly draws she forth her handkercher,
And modestly she wipes her tear-stained face;
Them hemmed she out, to clear her voice should seem,
And with a majesty addressed herself
To encounter all their accusations.—
Pardon me, Master Arden, I can no more;
This fighting at my heart makes short my wind. 90

Arden. Come, we are almost now at Rainham Down:
Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way;
I would you were in state to tell it out.

Shakebag. Stand close, Will, I hear them coming.

Here enters Lord Cheiny with his men.

Will. Stand to it, Shakebag, and be resolute.

L. Cheiny. Is it so near night as it seems,
Or will this black-faced evening have a shower?
—What, Master Arden? you are well met,
I have longed this fortnight’s day to speak with you:
You are a stranger, man, in the Isle of Sheppy. 100

Arden. Your honour’s always! bound to do you service.

L. Cheiny. Come you from London, and ne’er a man with you?

Arden. My man’s coming after, but here’s
My honest friend that came along with me.

L. Cheiny. My Lord Protector’s man I take you to be.

Franklin. Ay, my good lord, and highly bound to you.

L. Cheiny. You and your friend come home and sup with me.

Arden. I beseech your honour pardon me;
I have made a promise to a gentleman,
My honest friend, to meet him at my house; 110
The occasion is great, or else would I wait on you.

L. Cheiny. Will you come to-morrow and dine with me,
And bring your honest friend along with you?
I have divers matters to talk with you about.

Arden. To-morrow we’ll wait upon your honour.

L. Cheiny. One of you stay my horse at the top of the hill.
—What! Black Will? for whose purse wait you?
Thou wilt be hanged in Kent, when all is done.

Will. Not hanged, God save your honour;
I am your bedesman, bound to pray for you. 120

L. Cheiny. I think thou ne’er said’st prayer in all thy life.—
One of you give him a crown:—
And, sirrah, leave this kind of life;
If thou beest tainted for a penny-matter,
And come in question, surely thou wilt truss.
—Come, Master Arden, let us be going;
Your way and mine lies four miles together.

[Exeunt. Manet Black Will and Shakebag.

Will. The devil break all your necks at four miles’ end!
Zounds, I could kill myself for very anger!
His lordship chops me in, 130
Even when my dag was levelled at his heart.
I would his crown were molten down his throat.

Shakebag. Arden, thou hast wondrous holy luck.
Did ever man escape as thou hast done?
Well, I’ll discharge my pistol at the sky,
For by this bullet Arden might not die.

Here enters Greene.

Greene. What, is he down? is he dispatched?

Shakebag. Ay, in health towards Feversham, to shame us all.

Greene. The devil he is! why, sirs, how escaped he?

Shakebag. When we were ready to shoot, 140
Comes my Lord Cheiny to prevent his death.

Greene. The Lord of Heaven hath preserved him.

Will. Preserved a fig! The Lord Cheiny hath preserved him,
And bids him to a feast to his house at Shorlow.
But by the way once more I’ll meet with him,
And, if all the Cheinies in the world say no,
I’ll have a bullet in his breast to-morrow.
Therefore come, Greene, and let us to Feversham.

Greene. Ay, and excuse ourselves to Mistress Arden:
O, how she’ll chafe when she hears of this! 150

Shakebag. Why, I’ll warrant you she’ll think we dare
not do it.

Will. Why, then let us go, and tell her all the matter,
And plat the news to cut him off to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

III. vi. 144. Shorlow should be Shurland in Sheppey.