Burlesque Plays and Poems

by Unknown

ACT IV.—Scene I.

Boy danceth.

Wife. Look, George, the little boy's come again; methinks he looks something like the Prince of Orange, in his long stocking, if he had a little harness about his neck. George, I will have him dance Fading; Fading is a fine jig, I'll assure you, gentlemen. Begin, brother; now a capers, sweetheart; now a turn a th' toe, and then tumble. Cannot you tumble, youth?

Boy. No, indeed, forsooth.

Wife. Nor eat fire?

Boy. Neither.

Wife. Why, then I thank you heartily; there's two pence to buy you points withal.

Enter Jasper and Boy.

Jasp. There, boy, deliver this. But do it well.

Hast thou provided me four lusty fellows,

Able to carry me? And art thou perfect

In all thy business?

Boy. Sir, you need not fear,

I have my lesson here, and cannot miss it:

The men are ready for you, and what else

Pertains to this employment.

Jasp. There, my boy,

Take it, but buy no land.

Boy. Faith, sir, 'twere rare

To see so young a purchaser. I fly,

And on my wings carry your destiny. [Exit.

Jasp. Go, and be happy. Now my latest hope

Forsake me not, but fling thy anchor out,

And let it hold. Stand fixt, thou rolling stone,

Till I possess my dearest. Hear me, all

You Powers, that rule in men, celestial. [Exit.

Wife. Go thy ways, thou art as crooked a sprig as ever grew in London. I warrant him he'll come to some naughty end or other; for his looks say no less. Besides, his father (you know, George) is none of the best; you heard him take me up like a gill flirt, and sing bad songs upon me. But i'faith, if I live, George——

Cit. Let me alone, sweetheart, I have a trick in my head shall lodge him in the Arches for one year, and make him sing Peccavi, ere I leave him, and yet he shall never know who hurt him neither.

Wife. Do, my good George, do.

Cit. What shall we have Ralph do now, boy?

Boy. You shall have what you will, sir.

Cit. Why so, sir, go and fetch me him then, and let the Sophy of Persia come and christen him a child.

Boy. Believe me, sir, that will not do so well; 'tis stale, it has been had before at the Red Bull.

Wife. George, let Ralph travel over great hills, and let him be weary, and come to the King of Cracovia's house, covered with black velvet, and there let the king's daughter stand in her window all in beaten gold, combing her golden locks with a comb of ivory, and let her spy Ralph, and fall in love with him, and come down to him, and carry him into her father's house, and then let Ralph talk with her.

Cit. Well said, Nell, it shall be so. Boy, let's ha't done quickly.

Boy. Sir, if you will imagine all this to be done already, you shall hear them talk together. But we cannot present a house covered with black velvet, and a lady in beaten gold.

Cit. Sir Boy, let's ha't as you can then.

Boy. Besides, it will show ill-favouredly to have a grocer's prentice to court a king's daughter.

Cit. Will it so, sir? You are well read in histories: I pray you what was Sir Dagonet? Was not he prentice to a grocer in London? Read the play of the "Four Prentices of London," where they toss their pikes so. I pray you fetch him in, sir; fetch him in.

Boy. It shall be done, it is not our fault, gentlemen. [Exit.

Wife. Now we shall see fine doings, I warrant thee, George. Oh, here they come; how prettily the King of Cracovia's daughter is drest.

Enter Ralph and the Lady, Squire and Dwarf.

Cit. Ay, Nell, it is the fashion of that country, I warrant thee.

Lady. Welcome, Sir Knight, unto my father's court,

King of Moldavia, unto me Pompiona,

His daughter dear. But sure you do not like

Your entertainment, that will stay with us

No longer but a night.

Ralph. Damsel right fair,

I am on many sad adventures bound,

That call me forth into the wilderness.

Besides, my horse's back is something gall'd,

Which will enforce me ride a sober pace.

But many thanks, fair lady, be to you,

For using errant knight with courtesy.

Lady. But say, brave knight, what is your name and birth?

Ralph. My name is Ralph. I am an Englishman,

As true as steel, a hearty Englishman,

And prentice to a grocer in the Strand,

By deed indent, of which I have one part:

But fortune calling me to follow arms,

On me this holy order I did take,

Of Burning Pestle, which in all men's eyes

I bear, confounding ladies' enemies.

Lady. Oft have I heard of your brave countrymen,

And fertile soil, and store of wholesome food;

My father oft will tell me of a drink

In England found, and Nipitato call'd,

Which driveth all the sorrow from your hearts.

Ralph. Lady, 'tis true, you need not lay your lips

To better Nipitato than there is.

Lady. And of a wildfowl he will often speak,

Which powdered beef and mustard called is:

For there have been great wars 'twixt us and you;

But truly, Ralph, it was not long of me.

Tell me then, Ralph, could you contented be

To wear a lady's favour in your shield?

Ralph. I am a knight of a religious order,

And will not wear a favour of a lady

That trusts in Antichrist, and false traditions.

Cit. Well said, Ralph, convert her if thou canst.

Ralph. Besides, I have a lady of my own

In merry England; for whose virtuous sake

I took these arms, and Susan is her name,

A cobbler's maid in Milk Street, whom I vow

Ne'er to forsake, whilst life and pestle last.

Lady. Happy that cobbling dame, whoe'er she be,

That for her own (dear Ralph) hath gotten thee.

Unhappy I, that ne'er shall see the day

To see thee more, that bear'st my heart away.

Ralph. Lady, farewell; I must needs take my leave.

Lady. Hard-hearted Ralph, that ladies dost deceive.

Cit. Hark thee, Ralph, there's money for thee; give something in the King of Cracovia's house; be not beholding to him.

Ralph. Lady, before I go, I must remember

Your father's officers, who, truth to tell,

Have been about me very diligent:

Hold up thy snowy hand, thou princely maid.

There's twelve pence for your father's chamberlain,

And there's another shilling for his cook,

For, by my troth, the goose was roasted well.

And twelve pence for your father's horse-keeper,

For 'nointing my horse back; and for his butter,

There is another shilling; to the maid

That wash'd my boot-hose, there's an English groat,

And two pence to the boy that wip'd my boots.

And last, fair lady, there is for your self

Three pence to buy you pins at Bumbo Fair.

Lady. Full many thanks, and I will keep them safe

Till all the heads be off, for thy sake, Ralph.

Ralph. Advance, my squire and dwarf, I cannot stay.

Lady. Thou kill'st my heart in parting thus away. [Exeunt.

Wife. I commend Ralph yet, that he will not stoop to a Cracovian; there's properer women in London than any are there, I wis. But here comes Master Humphrey and his love again; now, George.

Cit. Ay, bird, peace.

Enter Merchant, Humphrey, Luce, and Boy.

Merch. Go, get you up, I will not be entreated.

And, gossip mine, I'll keep you sure hereafter

From gadding out again with boys and unthrifts;

Come, they are women's tears, I know your fashion.

Go, sirrah, lock her in, and keep the key [Exeunt Luce and Boy.

Safe as your life. Now, my son Humphrey,

You may both rest assuréd of my love

In this, and reap your own desire.

Humph. I see this love you speak of, through your daughter,

Although the hole be little, and hereafter

Will yield the like in all I may or can,

Fitting a Christian and a gentleman.

Merch. I do believe you, my good son, and thank you,

For 'twere an impudence to think you flattered.

Humph. It were indeed, but shall I tell you why,

I have been beaten twice about the lie.

Merch. Well, son, no more of compliment; my daughter

Is yours again: appoint the time and take her.

We'll have no stealing for it, I myself

And some few of our friends will see you married.

Humph. I would you would i'faith, for be it known

I ever was afraid to lie alone.

Merch. Some three days hence, then.

Humph. Three days, let me see,

'Tis somewhat of the most, yet I agree,

Because I mean against the 'pointed day,

To visit all my friends in new array.

Enter Servant.

Serv. Sir, there's a gentlewoman without would speak with your worship.

Merch. What is she?

Serv. Sir, I asked her not.

Merch. Bid her come in.

Enter Mistress Merry-thought and Michael.

Mist. Mer. Peace be to your worship, I come as a poor suitor to you, sir, in the behalf of this child.

Merch. Are you not wife to Merry-thought?

Mist. Mer. Yes truly, would I had ne'er seen his eyes, he has undone me and himself, and his children, and there he lives at home and sings and hoits, and revels among his drunken companions; but I warrant you, where to get a penny to put bread in his mouth, he knows not. And therefore if it like your worship, I would entreat your letter to the honest host of the Bell in Waltham, that I may place my child under the protection of his tapster, in some settled course of life.

Merch. I'm glad the Heav'ns have heard my prayers. Thy husband,

When I was ripe in sorrows, laughed at me;

Thy son, like an unthankful wretch, I having

Redeem'd him from his fall, and made him mine,

To show his love again, first stole my daughter:

Then wrong'd this gentleman, and last of all

Gave me that grief, had almost brought me down

Unto my grave, had not a stronger hand

Reliev'd my sorrows. Go, and weep as I did,

And be unpitied, for here I profess

An everlasting hate to all thy name.

Mist. Mer. Will you so, sir, how say you by that? Come, Mick, let him keep his wind to cool his pottage; we'll go to thy nurse's, Mick, she knits silk stockings, boy; and we'll knit too, boy, and be beholding to none of them all.

[Exeunt Michael and Mother.

Enter a Boy with a letter.

Boy. Sir, I take it you are the master of this house.

Merch. How then, boy?

Boy. Then to yourself, sir, comes this letter.

Merch. From whom, my pretty boy?

Boy. From him that was your servant, but no more

Shall that name ever be, for he is dead.

Grief of your purchas'd anger broke his heart;

I saw him die, and from his hand receiv'd

This paper, with a charge to bring it hither;

Read it, and satisfy yourself in all.

Letter.

Merch. Sir, that I have wronged your love I must confess, in which I have purchas'd to myself, besides mine own undoing, the ill opinion of my friends; let not your anger, good sir, outlive me, but suffer me to rest in peace with your forgiveness; let my body (if a dying man may so much prevail with you) be brought to your daughter, that she may know my hot flames are now buried, and withal receive a testimony of the zeal I bore her virtue. Farewell for ever, and be ever happy.—Jasper.

God's hand is great in this. I do forgive him,

Yet am I glad he's quiet, where I hope

He will not bite again. Boy, bring the body,

And let him have his will, if that be all.

Boy. 'Tis here without, sir.

Merch. So, sir, if you please

You may conduct it in, I do not fear it.

Humph. I'll be your usher, boy, for though I say it,

He ow'd me something once, and well did pay it. [Exeunt.

Enter Luce alone.

Luce. If there be any punishment inflicted

Upon the miserable, more than yet I feel,

Let it together seize me, and at once

Press down my soul; I cannot bear the pain

Of these delaying tortures. Thou that art

The end of all, and the sweet rest of all,

Come, come, O Death, and bring me to thy peace,

And blot out all the memory I nourish

Both of my father and my cruel friend.

O wretched maid, still living to be wretched,

To be a say to Fortune in her changes,

And grow to number times and woes together.

How happy had I been, if being born

My grave had been my cradle?

Enter Servant.

Serv. By your leave,

Young mistress, here's a boy hath brought a coffin,

What a would say I know not; but your father

Charg'd me to give you notice. Here they come.

Enter two bearing a coffin, Jasper in it.

Luce. For me I hope 'tis come, and 'tis most welcome.

Boy. Fair mistress, let me not add greater grief

To that great store you have already; Jasper

(That whilst he liv'd was yours, now's dead,

And here inclos'd) commanded me to bring

His body hither, and to crave a tear

From those fair eyes, though he deserv'd not pity,

To deck his funeral, for so he bid me

Tell her for whom he died.

Luce. He shall have many. [Exeunt Coffin-Carrier and Boy.

Good friends, depart a little, whilst I take

My leave of this dead man, that once I lov'd:

Hold, yet a little, life, and then I give thee

To thy first Heav'nly Being. O my friend!

Hast thou deceiv'd me thus, and got before me?

I shall not long be after, but believe me,

Thou wert too cruel, Jasper, 'gainst thyself,

In punishing the fault I could have pardon'd,

With so untimely death; thou didst not wrong me,

But ever wert most kind, most true, most loving:

And I the most unkind, most false, most cruel.

Didst thou but ask a tear? I'll give thee all,

Even all my eyes can pour down, all my sighs,

And all myself, before thou goest from me.

These are but sparing rites; but if thy soul

Be yet about this place, and can behold

And see what I prepare to deck thee with,

It shall go up, borne on the wings of peace,

And satisfied. First will I sing thy dirge,

Then kiss thy pale lips, and then die, myself,

And fill one coffin, and one grave together.

Song.

Come you whose loves are dead,

And whilst I sing,

Weep and wring

Every hand, and every head

Bind with cypress and sad yew;

Ribbons black and candles blue,

For him that was of men most true.

Come with heavy moaning,

And on his grave

Let him have

Sacrifice of sighs and groaning;

Let him have fair flowers enow,

White and purple, green and yellow,

For him that was of men most true.

Thou sable cloth, sad cover of my joys,

I lift thee up, and thus I meet with death.

Jasp. And thus you meet the living.

Luce. Save me, Heav'n!

Jasp. Nay, do not fly me, fair, I am no spirit;

Look better on me, do you know me yet?

Luce. O thou dear shadow of my friend!

Jasp. Dear substance,

I swear I am no shadow; feel my hand,

It is the same it was: I am your Jasper,

Your Jasper that's yet living, and yet loving;

Pardon my rash attempt, my foolish proof

I put in practice of your constancy.

For sooner should my sword have drunk my blood,

And set my soul at liberty, than drawn

The least drop from that body, for which boldness

Doom me to anything; if death, I take it

And willingly.

Luce. This death I'll give you for it:

So, now I'm satisfied; you are no spirit;

But my own truest, truest, truest friend,

Why do you come thus to me?

Jasp. First, to see you,

Then to convey you hence.

Luce. It cannot be,

For I am lock'd up here, and watch'd at all hours,

That 'tis impossible for me to 'scape.

Jasp. Nothing more possible: within this coffin

Do you convey yourself; let me alone,

I have the wits of twenty men about me,

Only I crave the shelter of your closet

A little, and then fear me not; creep in

That they may presently convey you hence.

Fear nothing, dearest love, I'll be your second;

Lie close, so, all goes well yet. Boy!

Boy. At hand, sir.

Jasp. Convey away the coffin, and be wary.

Boy. 'Tis done already.

Jasp. Now must I go conjure. [Exit.

Enter Merchant.

Merch. Boy, boy!

Boy. Your servant, sir.

Merch. Do me this kindness, boy; hold, here's a crown: before thou bury the body of this fellow, carry it to his old merry father, and salute him from me, and bid him sing: he hath cause.

Boy. I will, sir.

Merch. And then bring me word what tune he is in,

And have another crown; but do it truly.

I've fitted him a bargain, now, will vex him.

Boy. God bless your worship's health, sir.

Merch. Farewell, boy. [Exeunt.

Enter Master Merry-thought.

Wife. Ah, Old Merry-thought, art thou there again? Let's hear some of thy songs.

Old Mer. "Who can sing a merrier note

Than he that cannot change a groat?"

Not a denier left, and yet my heart leaps; I do wonder yet, as old as I am, that any man will follow a trade, or serve, that may sing and laugh, and walk the streets. My wife and both my sons are I know not where; I have nothing left, nor know I how to come by meat to supper, yet am I merry still; for I know I shall find it upon the table at six o'clock; therefore, hang thought.

"I would not be a serving-man

To carry the cloak-bag still,

Nor would I be a falconer

The greedy hawks to fill;

But I would be in a good house,

And have a good master too;

But I would eat and drink of the best,

And no work would I do."

This is it that keeps life and soul together, mirth. This is the philosopher's stone that they write so much on, that keeps a man ever young.

Enter a Boy.

Boy. Sir, they say they know all your money is gone, and they will trust you for no more drink.

Old Mer. Will they not? Let 'em choose. The best is, I have mirth at home, and need not send abroad for that. Let them keep their drink to themselves.

"For Jillian of Berry, she dwells on a hill,

And she hath good beer and ale to sell,

And of good fellows she thinks no ill,

And thither will we go now, now, now, and

thither will we go now.

And when you have made a little stay,

You need not know what is to pay,

But kiss your hostess and go your way.

And thither, &c."

Enter another Boy.

2nd Boy. Sir, I can get no bread for supper.

Old Mer. Hang bread and supper, let's preserve our mirth,

and we shall never feel hunger, I'll warrant you; let's have a

catch. Boy, follow me; come sing this catch:

"Ho, ho, nobody at home,

Meat, nor drink, nor money ha' we none;

Fill the pot, Eedy,

Never more need I."

So, boys, enough, follow me; let's change our place, and we

shall laugh afresh. [Exeunt.

Wife. Let him go, George, a shall not have any countenance from us, not a good word from any i' th' company, if I may strike stroke in't.

Cit. No more a sha'not, love; but, Nell, I will have Ralph do a very notable matter now, to the eternal honour and glory of all grocers. Sirrah, you there, boy, can none of you hear?

Boy. Sir, your pleasure.

Cit. Let Ralph come out on May-day in the morning, and speak upon a conduit with all his scarfs about him, and his feathers, and his rings, and his knacks.

Boy. Why, sir, you do not think of our plot, what will become of that, then?

Cit. Why, sir, I care not what become on't. I'll have him come out, or I'll fetch him out myself, I'll have something done in honour of the city; besides, he hath been long enough upon adventures. Bring him out quickly, for I come amongst you——

Boy. Well, sir, he shall come out; but if our play miscarry, sir, you are like to pay for't.

[Exit.

Cit. Bring him away, then.

Wife. This will be brave, i'faith. George, shall not he dance the morrice, too, for the credit of the Strand?

Cit. No, sweetheart, it will be too much for the boy. Oh, there he is, Nell; he's reasonable well in reparel, but he has not rings enough.

Enter Ralph.

Ralph. "London, to thee I do present the merry month of May",

Let each true subject be content to hear me what I say:

For from the top of conduit head, as plainly may appear,

I will both tell my name to you, and wherefore I came here.

My name is Ralph, by due descent, though not ignoble I,

Yet far inferior to the flock of gracious grocery.

And by the common counsel of my fellows in the Strand,

With gilded staff, and crossed scarf, the May lord here I stand.

Rejoice, O English hearts, rejoice; rejoice, O lovers dear;

Rejoice, O city, town, and country; rejoice eke every shire;

For now the fragrant flowers do spring and sprout in seemly sort,

The little birds do sit and sing, the lambs do make fine sport;

And now the birchin tree doth bud that makes the schoolboy cry,

The morrice rings while hobby-horse doth foot it featuously:

The lords and ladies now abroad, for their disport and play,

Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, and sometimes in the hay.

Now butter with a leaf of sage is good to purge the blood,

Fly Venus and Phlebotomy, for they are neither good.

Now little fish on tender stone begin to cast their bellies,

And sluggish snail, that erst were mew'd, do creep out of their shellies.

The rumbling rivers now do warm, for little boys to paddle,

The sturdy steed now goes to grass, and up they hang his saddle.

The heavy hart, the blowing buck, the rascal and the pricket,

Are now among the yeoman's pease, and leave the fearful thicket.

And be like them, O you, I say, of this same noble town,

And lift aloft your velvet heads, and slipping of your gown,

With bells on legs, and napkins clean unto your shoulders ty'd,

With scarfs and garters as you please, and Hey for our town! cry'd.

March out and show your willing minds, by twenty and by twenty,

To Hogsdon, or to Newington, where ale and cakes are plenty.

And let it ne'er be said for shame, that we the youths of London,

Lay thrumming of our caps at home, and left our custom undone.

Up then I say, both young and old, both man and maid a-maying,

With drums and guns that bounce aloud, and merry tabor playing.

Which to prolong, God save our king, and send his country peace,

And root out treason from the land; and so, my friends, I cease.

---