Enter a Mask of Beasts.
This Lion was a man of War that died,
As thou wouldst do, to gild his Ladies pride:
This Dog a fool that hung himself for love:
This Ape with daily hugging of a glove,
Forgot to eat and died. This goodly tree,
An usher that still grew before his Ladie,
Wither'd at root. This, for he could not wooe,
A grumbling Lawyer: this pyed Bird a page,
That melted out because he wanted age.
Still these lye howling on the Stygian shore,
O love no more, O love no more. [Exit Memnon.
Eumen. He steals off silently, as though he would sleep,
No more, but all be near him, feed his fancie
Good Stremon still; this may lock up his follie.
Yet Heaven knows I much fear him; away softly. [Exeunt Captains.
Fool. Did I not doe most doggedly?
Strem. Most rarelie.
Fool. He's a brave man, when shall we dog again?
Boy. Unty me first for Gods sake,
Fool. Help the Boy; he's in a wood poor child: good hony Stremon
Let's have a bear-baiting; ye shall see me play
The rarest for a single Dog: at head all;
And if I do not win immortal glorie,
Play Dog play Devil.
Strem. Peace for this time.
Fool. Prethee
Let's sing him a black Santis, then let's all howl
In our own beastly voices; tree keep your time,
Untye there; bow, wow, wow.
Strem. Away ye Asse, away.
Fool. Why let us doe something
To satisfie the Gentleman, he's mad;
A Gentleman-like humour, and in fashion,
And must have men as mad about him.
Strem. Peace,
And come in quicklie, 'tis ten to one else
He'l find a staff to beat a dog; no more words,
I'le get ye all imployment; soft, soft in all. [Exeunt.
Enter Chilax and Cloe.
Chi. When camest thou over wench?
Clo. But now this evening,
And have been ever since looking out Siphax,
I'th' wars he would have lookt me: sure h'as gotten
Some other Mistris?
Chi. A thousand, wench, a thousand,
They are as common here as Caterpillers
Among the corn, they eat up all the Souldiers.
Clo. Are they so hungry? yet by their leave [C]hilax,
I'le have a snatch too.
Chi. Dost thou love him still wench?
Clo. Why should I not? he had my Maiden-head
And all my youth.
Chi. Thou art come the happiest,
In the most blessed time, sweet wench the fittest,
If thou darst make thy fortune: by this light, Cloe,
And so I'le kiss thee: and if thou wilt but let me,
For 'tis well worth a kindness.
Clo. What shou'd I let ye?
Chi. Enjoy thy miniken.
Clo. Thou art still old Chilax.
Chi. Still still, and ever shall be: if, I say,
Thou wo't strike the stroke: I cannot do much harm wench.
Clo. Nor much good.
Chi. Siphax shall be thy Husband,
Thy very Husband woman, thy fool, thy Cuckold,
Or what thou wilt make him: I am over joy'd,
Ravisht, clean ravisht with this fortune; kiss me,
Or I shall lose my self.
Clo. My Husband said ye?
Chi. Said I? and will say, Cloe: nay and do it
And do it home too; Peg thee as close to him
As birds are with a pin to one another;
I have it, I can do it: thou wantst clothes too,
And hee'l be hang'd unless he marry thee
E're he maintain thee: now he has Ladies, Courtiers
More than his back can bend at, multitudes;
We are taken up for threshers, will ye bite?
Clo. Yes.
Chi. And let me—
Clo. Yes and let ye—
Chi. What!
Clo. Why that ye wote of.
Chi. I cannot stay, take your instructions
And something toward houshold, come, what ever
I shall advise ye, follow it exactlie,
And keep your times I point ye; for I'le tell ye
A strange way you must wade through.
Clo. Fear not me Sir.
Chi. Come then, and let's dispatch this modicum,
For I have but an hour to stay, a short one,
Besides more water for another mill,
An old weak over-shot I must provide for,
There's an old Nunnerie at hand.
Clo. What's that?
Chi. A bawdie house.
Clo. A pox consume it.
Chi. If the stones 'tis built on
Were but as brittle as the flesh lives in it,
Your curse came handsomlie: fear not, there's ladies,
And other good sad people: your pinkt Citizens
Think it no shame to shake a sheet there: Come wench. [Exeunt.
Enter Cleanthe and Siphax.
Clean. A Souldier and so fearfull?
Siph. Can ye blame me;
When such a weight lies on me?
Clean. Fye upon ye,
I tell ye, ye shall have her: have her safelie,
And for your wife with her own will.
Siph. Good Sister—
Cle. What a distrustfull man are you! to morrow,
To morrow morning—
Siph. Is it possible?
Can there be such a happiness?
Clean. Why hang me
If then ye be not married: if to morrow night,
Ye doe not—
Siph. O dear Sister—
Clean. What ye wou'd doe,
What ye desire to doe; lie with her: Devil,
What a dull man are you!
Siph. Nay I believe now,
And shall she love me?
Clean. As her life, and stroke ye.
Siph. O I will be her Servant.
Clean. 'Tis your dutie.
Siph. And she shall have her whole will.
Clean. Yes 'tis reason,
She is a Princess, and by that rule boundless.
Si. What wou'd you be? for I wou'd have ye Sister
Chuse some great place about us: as her woman
Is not so fit.
Clean. No, no, I shall find places.
Siph. And yet to be a Ladie of her bed-chamber,
I hold not so fit neither,
Some great title, believe it, shall be look't out.
Clean. Ye may, a Dutchess
Or such a toye, a small thing pleases me Sir.
Sip. What you will Sister: if a neighbour Prince,
When we shall come to raign—
Clean. We shall think on't,
Be ready at the time, and in that place too,
And let me work the rest, within this half hour
The Princess will be going, 'tis almost morning,
Away and mind your business.
Siph. Fortune bless us. [Exeunt.
Enter King, Polydor and Lords.
Pol. I do beseech your grace to banish me.
King. Why Gentleman, is she not worthy marriage?
Pol. Most worthy, Sir, where worth again shall meet her,
But I like thick clouds sailing slow and heavy,
Although by her drawn higher, yet shall hide her,
I dare not be a traitor; and 'tis treason,
But to imagine: as you love your honour—
King. 'Tis her first maiden doting, and if crost,
I know it kills her.
1 Lord. How knows your grace she loves him?
King. Her woman told me all (beside his story)
Her maid Lucippe, on what reason too,
And 'tis beyond all but enjoying.
Polydor. Sir,
Even by your wisdom; by that great discretion
Ye owe to rule and order—
2 Lord. This man's mad sure,
To plead against his fortune—
1 Lord. And the King too,
Willing to have it so!
Pol. By those dead Princes
From whose descents ye stand a star admir'd at,
Lay not so base a lay upon your vertues;
Take heed, for honours sake take heed: the bramble
No wise man ever planted by the rose,
It cankers all her beauty; nor the vine
When her full blushes court the sun, dares any
Choke up with wanton Ivy: good my Lords,
Who builds a monument, the Basis Jasper,
And the main body Brick?
2 Lord. Ye wrong your worth,
Ye are a Gentleman descended nobly.
1 Lord. In both bloods truly noble.
King. Say ye were not,
My will can make ye so.
Pol. No, never, never;
'Tis not descent, nor will of Princes does it,
'Tis Vertue which I want, 'tis Temperance,
Man, honest man: is't fit your Majesty
Should call my drunkenness, my rashness, Brother?
Or such a blessed Maid my breach of faith,
(For I am most lascivious) and fell angers
In which I am also mischievous, her Husband?
O Gods preserve her! I am wild as Winter,
Ambitious as the Devil: out upon me,
I hate my self, Sir, if ye dare bestow her
Upon a Subject, ye have one deserves her.
King. But him she does not love: I know your meaning.
This young mans love unto his noble Brother
Appears a mirrour; what must now be done Lords?
For I am gravel'd, if she have not him,
She dies for certain, if his Brother miss her,
Farewel to him, and all our honours.
1 Lord. He is dead, Sir,
Your Grace has heard of that, and strangely.
King. No,
I can assure you no, there was a trick in't,
Read that, and then know all; what ails the Gentleman?
Hold him; how do ye Sir? [Polydor is sick o'th' sudden.
Pol. Sick o'th' sudden,
Extreamly ill, wondrous ill.
King. Where did it take ye?
Pol. Here in my head, Sir, and my heart, for Heaven sake.
King. Conduct him to his Chamber presently,
And bid my Doctors—
Pol. No, I shall be well, Sir,
I do beseech your Grace, even for the Gods sake
Remember my poor Brother, I shall pray then.
King. Away, he grows more weak still: I will do it,
Or Heaven forget me ever. Now your Counsels, [Ex. Pol.
For I am at my wits end; what with you Sir?
Enter Messenger with a Letter.
Mess. Letters from warlike Pelius.
King. Yet more troubles?
The Spartans are in Arms, and like to win all:
Supplies are sent for, and the General;
This is more cross than t'other; come let's to him,
For he must have her, 'tis necessity,
Or we must lose our honours, let's plead all,
For more than all is needful, shew all reason
If love can hear o' that side, if she yield
We have fought best, and won the noblest field. [Exeunt.