A Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. II - Various
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_Enter Thomas_.
_Tho_. Did you see my Master, Captaine _Underwit_?
_Cou_. Yes, hee's talking with the priest and Mistris _Dorothy_.
_Tho_. Her fathers footman was here; she is a knights daughter
And heire, but she does not know it yet.
_Sis_. I thinke so.
_Cou_. Where's my Uncle.
_Tho_. A mile ons way to _London_ by this tyme with
Sir _Richard_. I long to see my Master. [_Exit_.
_Cou_. Wee shall want companie to dance.
_Enter Ladie_.
_Sis_. My Sister.
_Cou_. If you please, Madam, you may call me Brother:
We have been at 'I _John_ take the _Elizabeth_'.
A possett and foure naked thighes a bed
To night will bid faire earnest for a boy, too.
_Sis_. Tis even so; Madam, the preist has done it.
_La_. May then all joyes attend you; if this had
Been knowne, it might have staid Sir _Richard_ and
Your Uncle one day more.
_Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas_.
_Un_. Come for another Couple.
_Tho_. In hell[277]; my Master is married.
_La_. My husband left some letters and a token
Was sent you Mistris _Dorothy_. You did ill
To obscure your selfe so much; you shall not want
Hereafter all respects that may become you.
_Do_. Madam, I know not what you meane.
_Cap_. She wonot take it upon her yet.
_Un_. Theres the sport.
_Enter Device_.
_De_. Oh, Madam, newes, ill newes, an accident
Will blast all your mirth: Sir _Francis_--
_Cou: La_. What of him?
_De_. Has brooke--
_Cou_. His neck?
_De_. You guest very neere it, but his shoulder
Has sav'd that joynt. A fall from's horse, they say,
Hath much endanger'd him.
_Cou_. My Uncle hurt! [_Exit_.
_La_. He has kept his word; now if he but counterfeit handsomely.
_Un_. Mounsier _Device_, I must entreat a Courtesie; you have wit, and
I would have a Masque to entertaine my new father-in-law Sir _Walter
Littleland_. Mistres _Dorothy_, now my wife, is his onely Daughter and
heire.
_Do_. Who has guld you thus? I am no knights _Daughter_;
You may share your poeticall invention, sir.
_De_. Give you joy, Captaine.
_Un_. She is still loth to confesse it.
_Enter Sir Francis, Lady, Courtwell, Sister, Captaine_.
_Fra_. If you have charity a bone setter.
_La_. He does counterfeit rarely.--Wheres Sir _Richard_?
_Fra_. He rid before, but I sent my footman to tell him this misfortune.
Oh, Madam!
_La_.--This is better then the toothack; he carries it excellently.
_Fra_. Aske me no torturing questions; I desire,
Madam, a little conference with you.
Ile thanke the rest if they withdraw: oh!
[_Cou_.[278]] Letts leave him.
_Un_. Wee'le to my chamber, captaine.
_Cap_. You have a mind to examine the business privatly?
_Do_. No, good Captaine, you may be present.
_Cou_. Come, _Thomas_, thou shat be witnes, too.
[_Ext. all but Sir Francis and Lady_.
_La_. They are gone; they feigne most artificially,
Let me embrace you.
_Fra_. Oh, take heed.
_La_. What's the matter?
_Fra_. Tis no dissembling,--Madam; I have had
A fall indeed, a dreadfull fall; I feele it.
I thinke my horse saw the Divell in some hedge:
Ere I had rid three furlongs, gave a start,
Pitcht me of ons back like a barr and broke
A flint with my shoulder, I thinke, which strooke fire too;
There was something like it in my eyes, Ime punish'd.
_La_. But is this serious? are you hurt indeed?
_Fra_. Hurt? I ha broke my shoulder feelingly,
And I am of opinion when I doe
Enjoy you, Madam, I shall breake my neck;
That will be next. Ile take this for a warning
And will leave of in tyme.
_La_. This makes me tremble.
_Fra_. I will be honest now; and so forgive me.
Not the Surgeon come yet?
_La_. Heaven hath cur'd us both.
_Fra_. I am not cured yet. Oh for the bone setter!
If ere I counterfeit agen.
_La_. There is a blessing falne upon my blood.
Your only charme had power to make my thoughts
Wicked, and your conversion disinchants me;
May both our lives be such as heaven may not
Grieve to have shew'd this bounty.
_Enter Courtwell_.
_Cou_. Sir _Richard_, Madam.
_La_. You may enter now, sir.
_Enter the rest and Sir Richard_.
_Ri_. I do not like this stratageme; Sir _Francis_
Must not heere practise his Court tricks; I wo'not
_Enter Surgeon_.
Trust my wives surgerie. Hee's come.--How ist,
Noble Sir _Francis_? Best withdraw; ile see
Him drest my selfe. [_They lead out Sir Francis_.
_Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas_.
_Un_. Madam and gentlemen, Mistris _Dorothy_ wo'not acknowledge she is
a knight's daughter; she sweares she knows no _Littleland_.
_Do_. Till it appeare to whom this gemme was meant,
Deare Madame, be you treasurer. I confesse
I have wealth enough in such a noble husband.
_La_. It shall belong to thee; be honest, _Dorothy_,
And use him well.
_Do_. With my best study, Madam.
_La_. Where is the footman you talke of?
_Tho_. He pretended Letters to carry two mile of to a kinsman of his
Masters, and returne presently. He dranke three or fower beere glasses
of sack, and he ran away so lightlie.
_Do_. His reward shall overtake him.
_Un_. Will you have her? she will doe you service, Captaine, in a _Low
Country_[279] Leaguer. Or thou, _Thomas_? ile give thee a Coppiehold.
_Tho_. You have one life to come in that lease, yet I thank you: I am
free, and that's inheritance; for ought I know she may serve us both.
_La_. Come you may perswade her to looke high and take it upon her for
your credit. The gullery is yet within these walles; let your shame goe
no farther. The wench may prove right, she may.
_Enter Sir Richard_.
_La_. What news from Sir _Francis_?
_Ri_. Wife, I hardly aske thee forgivenes; I had jealous thoughts, but
all's right agen.
_La_. I will deserve your confidence.
_Ri_. No great danger, his blade bone dislocated; the man has put
everything in his right place.
_Un_. Dee heare, Sir _Richard_? wee are married.
_Ri_. Tis well done, send you joy; tis to my mind.
_Un_. Come hither, _Dorothy_.
_Cap_. But where's Mr. _Engine_?
_Ri_. He rid before.
_Cap_. If the rascall have any wit left he will ride quite away with
himselfe; tis his best course to fly oversea.
_Tho_. If he were sure to flie, he were sure to escape.
_Cap_. At the worst, drowning is a most [sic] honourable death then
hanging.
_Do_. My mother died, I have it by tradition,
As soone as I was borne; my father (but
No knight) is now i'th _Indies_, a poore Merchant,
That broke for 20,000 pounds.
_Ri_. The shipps may come home. Hee!
_Do_. You were best use me well, now we are married.
I will be sworne you forc'd me to the Church
And thrice compeld me there to say _I Dorothy_.
The Parsons oath and mine, for ought I know,
May make it halfe a rape.
_Ri_. There is no remedy;
We can prove no conspiracie. And, because
I have been gulld my selfe, gett her with child,
--My Doe is barren,--at birth of her first baby
Ile give her a hundred peeces.
_Un_. That's somewhat yet, when charge comes on. Thy hand! a wife can be
but a wife: it shall cost me 500 pounds but ile make thee a Ladie in
earnest.
_Enter Sir Francis and Surgeon_.
_Ri_. How ist, Sir _Francis_?
_Fra_. My Surgeon sayes no danger; when you please,
I may venture, Sir, to _London_.
_Ri_. No hast now.
_Cou_. Not to-night, Sir; wee must have revells and you salute my Bride.
_Un_. And mine.
_Tho_. A knights Daughter and heire.
_Fra_. May all joy thrive upon your Loves.
--Then you are cosend of your Mistres, Mounseir?
_Do_. But your nephew knowes I have met with my match. Some bodie has
been put to the sword.
_Ri_. Come, we loose tyme.
_Fra_. Preserve your marriage faith: a full increase
Of what you wish confirme your happinesse.
[_Exeunt_.
FINIS.
APPENDIX I.
The folio volume numbered Eg. MS. 1,994 contains 349 leaves. It was
purchased by the British Museum, for the very modest sum of thirty-three
pounds, at the sale of Lord Charlemont's library on August 6, 1865. Mr.
Warner (of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum), to whom the
public are indebted for an excellent catalogue of the Dulwich
Collection, thinks that the volume originally belonged to Dulwich
College. Towards the end of the XVIIth century Cartwright, the actor,
bequeathed to the College a number of MS. plays, which the College
authorities in the middle of the last century exchanged (horrendum
dictu!) for tomes of controversial divinity. Of all the plays left by
the actor only one[280]--and that imperfect--remains. The late Lord
Charlemont was a friend of Malone, and it is well known that Malone had
many of the Dulwich documents in his possession for years. Mr. Warner's
theory is that Malone lent the volume to Lord Charlemont, and that it
was never returned. The objection that naturally suggests itself is,
"How came so acute a scholar as Malone to fail to draw attention to a
Collection of such considerable interest?" And I confess that I am not
able to offer any satisfactory answer.
The volume contains in all fifteen plays, written in various hands. One
piece has the author's initials attached, but the others have neither
name nor initials.
First in order, leaves 1-29, stands Fletcher's _Elder Brother_. I have
compared the MS. with Dyce's text, and find the variations to be few and
unimportant. In III. 3 Dyce follows the old copies in reading:--
What a noise is in this house! my head is broken
Within a parenthesis: in every corner,
As if the earth were shaken with some strange colic,
There are stirs and motions.
As the words "within a parenthesis" were found in all the old copies
Dyce did not feel justified in rejecting them, although he had only the
most grotesque meaning to assign to them. Theobald rightly saw that
"within a parenthesis" was a marginal note, mistaken for a part of the
text when the book was sent to press. The MS. gives--
Sweet heart,
What noyse is in this house? my head is broken
In every corner, as the earth were shaken
With some strange Collick: there are stirs and motions:
What planet rules this house? Whos there?
In III. 5 the MS. supports Mason's correction "Their blue veins _and_
blush disclose," where Dyce followed the old reading "_in_ blush."--At
the end of the play, after the Epilogue, are written the three following
Epigrams:--
A freemans life is like a pilgrimage:
What's his life then that lives in mariage?
Tis _Sisyphus_ his toyle that with a stone
Doth doe what surely for ease must be done.
His labours journey's endles; 'tis no riddle,
Since he's but halfe on's way that stands inth' middle.
_Ad Janum_.
Take comfort, _Janus_; never feare thy head
Which to the quick belongs, not to the dead.
Thy wife did lye with one; thou, being dead drunke,
Then art no Cuckold though she bee a Punke.
Tis not the state nor soveraintie of _Jove_
Could draw thy pure affections from my love:
Nor is there any _Venus_ in the skyes
Could from thy lookes withdraw my greedy eyes.
Leaves 30-51 are taken up with _Dick of Devonshire_. Then follows an
unnamed play (leaves 52-73), written in a villainous hand. If I succeed
in transcribing this play I shall print it in the third volume, for it
seems to be an unpublished play of Heywood's. The next piece, entitled
_Calisto_ (leaves 74-95), which is written in the same hand, consists of
scenes from Heywood's _Golden Age_ and _Silver Age_. There are many
variations from the printed copies, showing that the most active of the
old playwrights found time to revise his works. Here is a song that was
omitted in the printed copy. Its proper place in Pearson's _Reprint_ of
Heywood is vol. iii. p. 67:--
Whether they be awake or sleepe,
With what greate Care ought Virgins keepe,
With what art and indevor,
The Jewell which they ought to pryse
Above the ritchest marchandise,--
And once lost lost for ever!
Virginity is a rare gem,
Rated above a diadem,
And was despised never:
'Tis that at which the most men ayme
And being gott they count their game
And once lost lost for ever.
Of the charming song "Haile beauteous _Dian_, Queene of Shades" the MS.
gives a far inferior version:--
Thou _Trivia_, dost alone excell,
In heaven when thou dost please to dwell
Cald _Cynthia, Proserpine_ in Hell:
But when thou theair art fyred
And takest thy bugle and thy bowe,
To chase on Earth the hart or doe,
Thee for _Diana_ all men knowe,
Who art mongst us admired:
_Pan_ and _Pomona_ boath rejoyce,
So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
Off all chast vestalls thou art queene
Which are, which heretofore have been;
The fawnes and satyres cladd in greene
On earth wayte to attend thee;
And when that thou on huntinge goest,
In which thou art delighted moest,
They off their active swiftnes boast,
For which we all comend thee.
_Pan_ and _Pomona_ boath rejoyce,
So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
We come now to a chronicle play (leaves 97-118), _Edmond Ironside: The
English King_. This piece had a second title--_A trew Chronicle History
called War hath made all friends_. It must be confessed that this old
play is a tedious business, sadly wanting in life and movement. The
following extract will give a taste of the author's quality:--
_Enter Canutus, Edricus with other Lords and souldiers_.
_Canutus_. A plague upon you all for arrant cowards!
Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred
Doth come into the pitt with greater grace,
Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes,
Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out
Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight;
Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke,
Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself:
Even soe my bigbond _Daines_, adrest to fight
As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven,
(And like the Giants graple with the gods)
At first encounter rush uppon theire foes
But straight retire: retire? nay, run awaye
As men distraught with lightninge from above
Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.
_Edricus_. Renowned Soveraigne, doe not fret your self.
Fortune in turninge will exalt your state
And change the Countenaunce of her cloudy browe,
Now you must hope for better still and better
And _Edmond_ must expect still worse and worse,
A lowringe morning proves a fayer daye,
Fortunes ilfavord frowne shewes shee will smile
On you and frowne on _Ironside_.
_Canutus_. What telst thou mee of fortune and her frownes,
Of her sower visage and her rowling stone?
Thy tongue rowles headlong into flattery.
Now by theis heavens above our wretched heades
Ye are but cowards every one of you!
_Edmond_ is blest: oh, had I but his men,
I would not doute to conquer all the world
In shorter time the [then] _Alexander_ did.
But all my _Daines_ are Braggadochios
And I accurst to bee the generall
Of such a stocke of fearefull runawaies.
_South_. Remember you have lost Ten Thousand men,
All _English_ borne except a Thousand _Daines_.
Your pensive lookes will kill them that survive
If thus to Choller you give libertie.
_Canutus_. It weare no matter if they all weare slaine,
Then they should neaver runne awaye againe.
_Uska_. My noble lord, our Cuntrymen are safe:
In all their broyles _English_ gainst _English_ fight;
The _Daines_ or none or very few are slaine.
_Canutus_. It was a signe yee fledd and did not fight.
[_turns towards Uskatant_.
Ist not a dishonour unto you
To see a foraingne nation fight for mee
Whenas my homebred Cuntrymen doe runne,
Leaving theire king amongest his enimies?
_Edricus_. Give not such scoope to humerous discontent,
Wee all are partners of your privat greefes.
Kinges are the heads, and yf the head but ache
The little finger is distempered.
Wee greeve to se you greeved, which hurteth us
And yet availes not to asswage your greefe.
You are the Sunne, my lo:, wee Marigolds;
Whenas you shine wee spred our selves abroad
And take our glory from your influence;
And when you hide your face or darken yt
With th'least incounter of a clowdy looke,
Wee close our eies as partners of your woes,
Droopinge our heades as grasse downe waid with due.
Then cheere ye upp, my lord, and cheere upp us,
For now our valours are extinguished
And all our force lyes drownd in brinish teares,
As Jewells in the bottome of the sea.
--I doe beseech your grace to heare mee speake.
[_Edricus talks to him_.
The next piece (leaves 119-135), which is without a title, is founded on
the Charlemagne romances. My friend, Mr. S.L. Lee, editor of _Huon of
Bordeaux_, in answer to my inquiries writes as follows: "Almost all the
characters in this play are the traditional heroes of the French
Charlemagne romances, and stand in the same relation to one another as
in the _Lyf of Charles the Grete_ and the _Four Sons of Aymon_, both of
which were first printed by Caxton, and secured through later editions a
wide popularity in England during the XVIth century. I believe, however,
that the story of the magic ring is drawn from another source. It is
unknown to the Charlemagne romances of France and England, but it
appears in several German legends of the Emperor, and is said to be
still a living tradition at Aix-la-Chapelle, where the episode is
usually localised (cf. Gaston, Paris, _Histoire Poetique de
Charlemagne_, p. 383). Petrarch has given a succinct account of it in a
letter written from Cologne, in which he states that he learnt it from
the priests of the city, and it is through his narrative that the legend
appears to have reached England. John Skelton in his poem 'Why come ye
not to court?' quotes the story, and refers to the Italian poet as his
authority (cf. Dyce's Skelton, II. 48 and 364, where the letter is
printed at length). Southey has also made the tradition the subject of a
ballad entitled _King Charlemain_ to which he has prefixed a French
translation of the passage of Petrarch. In 1589 George Peele in a
_Farewell_ addressed to Morris and Drake on setting out with the English
forces for Spain tells them to
Bid theatres and proud tragedians,
Bid Mahomet, Scipio, & mighty Tamburlaine,
King _Charlemagne_, Tom Stukeley and the rest
Adieu.
Dyce, in a note on this passage (Dyce's Peele, II. 88) writes: 'No drama
called _Charlemagne_ has come down to us, nor am I acquainted with any
old play in which that monarch figures.' But we know from Henslowe's
diary that in at least two plays that were dramatised from Charlemagne
romances the Emperor must have taken a part." Mr. Lee concludes his most
interesting note by suggesting that the present play may be the one to
which Peele alludes; but he will at once perceive from my extracts that
the date 1589 is much too early. Here is a passage that might have been
written by Cyril Tourneur:--
[_Ganelon_ stabs _Richard_, his dearest friend,
suspecting him of treachery.]
_Rich_. O you've slayne me! tell me, cruell sir,
Why you have doone thys, that myne innocent soule
May teache repentance to you-- _dies_.
_Gan_. Speake it out,--
What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe?
You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so:
You have the trycke of mightie men in courte
To speake at leasure and pretend imployment.
Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall
Whether you speake the resydue behynde
Now or at doomes day. If thy common sence
Be not yet parted from thee, understand
I doe not misse thee dyinge because once
I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that
There is no Devyll in me nor in hell
That could have flesht me to this violent deathe
Hadst thou beene false to all the world but me.
The concentrated bitterness of those lines is surpassed by nothing in
the _Revenger's Tragedy_. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the
whole play, which is very unskilfully constructed, is by Tourneur, or
perhaps by the author[281] of the _Second Maiden's Tragedy_. All the
figures are shrouded in a blank starless gloom; to read the play is to
watch the riot of devils. Here is an extract from the scene where
_Orlando_, returning from the wars, hears that _Charlemagne_, his uncle,
has married _Ganelon's_ niece, and that his own hopes of succession have
been ruined by the birth of a son:--
_Orl[ando.]_ I am the verye foote-ball of the starres,
Th'anottomye of fortune whom she dyssects
With all the poysons & sharpe corrosyves
Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie.
My starres, my starres!
O that my breath could plucke theym from theire spheares
So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.
_Enter La Buffe_.
_Rei[naldo.]_ Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne--
A propertie oth court, that least his owne
Ill manners should be noted thyeks it fytt
In pollycie to scoffe at other mens.
He will taxe all degrees & thynke that that
Keepes hym secure from all taxation.
_Orl_. Y'are deceyvd; it is a noble gentyllman
And hated of hys father for hys vertues.
_Buf_. Healthe and all blessinge wherewith heauen and earthe
May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!
_Orl_. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs
Can ere be heard to my desyred good,
I am not so voyde of humanytie
But I will thancke your loue.
_Rei_. Pray, Sir, what newse
Hath the courte latterly beene deliverd of?
_Buf_. Such as the gallymaufry that is fownd
In her large wombe may promise: he that has
The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte
And knowes no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preists
Invay agaynst plurallytie of liueinge
And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without
The remedye of sugar candye for't.
Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott
Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes,
I & allmost disjested too assoone.
_Oli[ver]_. I, but in sober sadnes whatts doone there?
_Buf_. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes,
For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs
To mere confussyon; nothing there hath forme
But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte
Vice only thrives & merrytt starves in courte.
_Rei_. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte
Oure fayre eied royall empresse?
_Buf_. Trothe I wonderd, Sir,
You spooke of that no sooner, yet I hope
None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke
To kyndell that ill flame.
_Orl_. No, of my trothe,
I knowe thee much too honest; but how fares
The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?
_Buf_. Sir, as a woman in her casse may doe;
Shee's broughte [to] bedd.
_Rei_. What, has she a chylde then?
_Buf_. I, my Lord.
_Orl_. A Sonne?
_Buf_. Mys-fortune hathe inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.
_Orl_. Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche
I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt.
--O harte, will nothing breake the?
_Rei_. Tis most straunge.
_Orl_. Straunge? not a whytt. Why, if she had beene spayd
And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyght
My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde--
Of a son too. Hencefourthe let no man
That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve
Ere let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in't
Would tourne the hope't successe to an event
That would fryghte nature, & make patyence braule
With the most pleasinge obiecte.
_Buf_. Sir, be at peace;
Much may be found by observatyon.
_Orl_. Th'arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable.
Thys observation thou advysest to
Would ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fate
That I should be distrackt. I can observe
Naughte but varyetye of mysseries
Crossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours.
I neare did good for any but great _Charles_,
And the meare doing that hath still brought fourth
To me some plague too heavye to be borne,
But that I am reserud onlye to teach
The studyed envye of mallignant starrs.
If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde,
It is with studyinge myne afflictions:
But, for her standing on a roullinge stone,
Theare learninge faylls theym, for she fixed stands
And onlye against me.
I may perhaps be tempted to print this play in full. The MS. has
suffered somewhat, many lines having been cut away at the foot of some
of the pages. Although the first scene is marked _Act 2, Scene 2_,[282]
the play seemed to me to be complete. On the last leaf is written "Nella
[Greek: phdphnr] la B." Some name is possibly concealed under these
enigmatic letters; but the riddle would defy an Oedipus.
The next play (leaves 136-160) is entitled _The fatal Maryage, or a
second Lucreatya_. _Galeas_, on returning from the wars, crowned with
praises, is requested by his widowed mother to make a journey into the
province of _Parma_ to receive moneys owed by Signor _Jouanny_. On his
arrival he falls in love with _Jouanny's_ daughter, _Lucretia_, runs
away with her, and secretly marries her. _Galeas'_ mother, angered at
the match, practises to convey _Lucretia_ to a nunnery and get her son
married to an earl's daughter; but _Galeas_ defeats his mother's
machinations by killing himself and _Lucretia_. There is a second plot
to this odd play, but enough has been said. The meeting between _Galeas_
and _Jouanny_ is the best thing in the play:--