A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. VI
Part 3 out of 9
They are the very instrument, whereby I work their woe.
What, if their friends abound, then can they never lack?
The dearest friends are scattered, when Fortune turns her toe.
If they be noble born, or of a princely blood?
When Fortune frowns, that may procure more harm than do them good.
But wise men evermore upon a rock are set.
Yet can they not escape a scourge, for Fortune hath a net.
I will not in, till things be well discern'd:
Affection shall not mar a lawful cause.
By examples this may best be learn'd,
In elder ages led within your laws.
Therefore, a while hereof I mean to pause;
And bring in, Mercury, in open view
The ghosts of them that Love and Fortune slew.
Thy word my will--
Thou triple-headed Cerberus, give place;
And I command thee, Charon, with thy ferryboat
Transport the souls of such as may report
Fortune and Love, and not in open sort.
Let them appear to us in silent show,
To manifest a truth that we must know.
[_Strikes with his rod three times_.
Are ye mad, my masters? what a stir have we here.
Lord, have mercy upon us! must the devil appear?
Come away, wife; when I pray thee, come away.
Down on your knees, my masters, and pray.
_Enter the show of Troilus and Cressida_.
Behold, how Troilus and Cressida
Cries out on Love, that framed their decay.
That was like the old wife, when her ale would not come,
Thrust a firebrand in the grout, and scratch'd her bum.
_Enter the show of Alexander_.
Alexander the Great, that all the world subdu'd,
Curseth fell Fortune, that did him delude.
'Tis an honest, grim sire at his first coming out, believe me;
And ye had stood in the wind, ye might have smelt me.
_Enter the show of Queen Dido_.
Queen Dido, that Aeneas could not move,
Stabbed herself, and yielded unto Love.
The more fool she, and she were my own brother?
If my wife would not love me, must not I love another?
_Enter the show of Pompey and Caesar_.
Pompey and Caesar, the wonders of their time,
By froward Fortune spoiled in their prime.
They were served well enough, why could not they be content
With a roach and a red herring in the holy time of Lent?
_Enter the show of Leander and Hero_.
[Hero and] Leander presents them very loth,
That felt the force of Love and Fortune both.
Upon him I my sovereignty did show.
And think you, dame, my power she did not know?
But it was I that dashed their delight.
After that I had proved my open might.
What a scolding is here! shall it even thus be?
You look like an honest man in the parish; I pray you, make them agree.
Content ye both: I'll hear no more of this.
And, Mercury, surcease; call out no more.
I have bethought me how to work their wish,
As you have often prov'd it heretofore.
Here in this land, within that princely bower,
There is a Prince beloved of his love,
On whom I mean your sovereignties to prove.
Venus, for that th[e]y love thy sweet delight,
Thou shalt endeavour to increase their joy:
And, Fortune, thou to manifest thy might,
Their pleasures and their pastimes shalt destroy,
Overthwarting them with news of fresh annoy;
And she that most can please them or despite,
I will confirm to be of greatest might.
Your godhead hath devis'd, as I desire,
And I am gladly therewithal content.
And I am prest to do as you require;
Now shall you see the proof of my intent.
Take up your places here to work your will:
When you have done, the rest I shall fulfil.
They are set sunning like a crow in a gutter. What, are they gone?
And you will be quiet, sirs, they will make you good sport with their
Are not these a sort of good, mannerly gods to get them thus away?
I must take the pains to overtake them, for I see they will not stay.
_The end of the first Act_.
THE SECOND ACT.
_Enter_ HERMIONE _and_ FIDELIA.
Why then, my dear, what is the greatest prize in love?
Absence of other griefs, the greatest that loving hearts can prove.
But absence cannot minish love, or make it less in ought.
Yet nevertheless it leaves a doubt within the other's thought.
And what is that?--
Lest change of air should change the absent mind.
That fault is proper but to them whom jealousy makes blind.
O, pardon it, for that the cause from whence it springs is such.
From whence is that?
My mother says, from loving over-much.
Your author I will not admit; that rests us it to prove.
Be sure it is, that jealousy proceeds of fervent love.
Can that be fervent love, wherein suspicion leads the mind?
Most fervent love, where so much love doth make the fancy blind.
But faithful love can never be, wherein suspect doth dwell.
The faithful lovers do suspect, because they love so well.
My dear Fidelia, as I think, thy love is such to me,
So fervent, faithful and unstain'd, as purer none can be,
Admit occasions fall out, then, that I must part from thee,
Tell me, wilt thou mean space suspect inconstancy in me?
If so I do, impute it to the force of lovers' laws,
That oftentimes are touch'd with fear, whereas there is no cause.
What have I heard? what do mine eyes behold?
Dishonour to the house from whence I came!
Unshamefast girl, forgetful, all too bold:
And thou, false traitor, author of the same.
Sufferest not, for guerdon of thy due,
The king my father's gracious countenance,
But must thou climb, ungrateful and untrue,
These steps at first thine honour to advance?
Hath Fortune promised so much hope at first,
To make thy conquest of a prince's child?
And should I stand to question, how thou durst
To leave to think she might be so beguil'd?
But words may not suffice to wreak this wrong,
Hid under cloak of over-hardy love.
Thou upstart fondling, and forborne too long,
To give such cause thy prince's ire to move.
Nay, my good brother, take it not so whot:
The fault is mine, and I will bear the blame.
And to return you an answer, well I wot
How to defend the honour of my name.
But for my love, I am resolved in this,
However you account of his defaults,
With vowed affection wholly to be his,
As one in whom I spy more special parts,
Than fall in fondlings of the baser kind.
To have a word not squaring with the place,
But measure men by their unstained minds,
Let fortune be to virtue no disgrace;
For fortune, when and where it likes her majesty,
With clouds can cover birth and highest degree.
What, dame, and are you shameless in your shame?
No, mistress, no: it will not be let past;
But, wilful wench, this new-attempted game,
Ere it be won, will ask another cast.
And, lady, cloak his virtues as you will,
He'll be but as I said, a fondling still.
Erst had I thought, my lord, a man so wise as you,
Son to a prince, scholar to him that depth of learning knew,
Among many lessons one, this rule could wisely find,
To have the government of wrath and rancour of your mind.
What high offence is given unto your father's grace?
I take it nothing needful here to reason of the case:
But stand he less content, or pleased herewithal,
My lord, that thus you should mislike the cause is very small.
The unremoved love I bear my lady here,
Whose countenance my comfort is, that holds my love as dear,
Commands me to digest such hard and bitter words,
As not with credit of your state your honour here affords.
Else, prince, persuade thyself, my mind were not so base
To pocket, but for such respects, so hard and foul disgrace.
And this, lady--Hermione, for ought that men do know,
By birth may be as nobly born as Prince Armenio.
Traitor, thou shalt not joy that proud comparison.
My good Hermione, come hence; let him alone.
Nay, dame; it likes me not that you should go.
Whether thou wilt, Armenio, she shall, though thou say no.
What, shall she, villain?
Help, help! alas!
_Enter_ PHIZANTIES [_the prince], a_ LORD, _and_
PENULO [_a parasite_].
What stir is here? what means this broil begun?
Give me to know th'occasion of this strife?
How falls it out? Armenio, my son,
Hath wound receiv'd by stroke of naked knife.
Say to me straight, what one hath done this deed?
His blows are big that makes a prince to bleed.
My sovereign father, pardon his offence,
Whose grief of mind is greater than his wound.
My rightful quarrel yields me safe defence,
And here they stand that guilty must be found.
Traitor, O king, unto your majesty,
Whose proud attempt doth touch your grace so near,
As what may be the greatest villainy
Upon recital shall be opened here.
My sister and your far unworthy child,
Forgetting love and fear of gods and thee,
And honour of her name, is thus beguil'd
To love this gentleman, whom here you see--
Hermione, whom for a jewel of some price
Old Hermet gave your highness long ago.
And for I gave rebuke to her device,
In gallant thought he would not take it so;
But, as it seems, to do my body good--
I thank him--deign'd himself to let me blood.
Hermione, and hast thou done this deed?
And couldst thou shrine such treason in thy thought?
Armenio, jest not with thy hurt: take heed.
And thou, fond girl, whose stained blood hath wrought,
How hath mine age and honour been abus'd,
My princely care, Hermione, of thee?
The fault so great it cannot be excus'd,
And you enforc'd the shame thereof to see.
But far we fear some farther ill may fall,
Through love and hate of one and of the other:
Her foolish love, I mean; and therewithal
The hot disdain and stomach of her brother.
Hermione, weigh what our pleasure is.
Whilome, thou knowest, we entertained thee willingly;
Now, seeing thou hast done so far amiss
To reach above thy reach unorderly,
In milder words, because we love thee well,
Lo, we discharge thee of our princely court:
Thou mayest no longer with Fidelia dwell,
Forbidden to her presence to resort.
Behold my 'ward, that am no bitter judge,
And wend thy way, where'er thou likest to go:
This only way I take to end the grudge,
And stop the love that each to other owe.
Among such haps as might my mind content,
Whereof the gracious gods have given me store,
I count this one, if thus I might prevent
The furthest outrage of the swelling sore.
Alas! now have I lived too long, I see,
Confounded so to yield to fortune's will:
My sovereign prince offended thus with me,
And I adjudg'd to death, though living still.
Ah, my good lord! whom I have honoured long,
Long may your highness joy this highest place:
Thyself the root and cause of mine own wrong.
But must I leave to view my lady's face,
And, banish'd from my prince's royal court,
Wander, as erst the unhappy Oedipus,
Whose pain my foes will make their chiefest sport--
My most unhappy chance will have it thus.
No force forsooth: unpitied might he die,
That to his sovereign means such villainy.
Such villainy! who ever meant more good?
The venom of thy villainy withstood.
Armenio, I forbear thee here for reverence;
Yet, by my prince's leave, in my defence
I may allege I lov'd thy sister here;
Which love though I am like to buy full dear;
Yet is her love more precious than the price.
But since hard hap prevents our late device,
Long live my lord, long live my lady's grace:
God send them friends as loyal in my place;
And, trust me, then their fortune shall be such,
As not thy love shall ever prove so much.
Hermione, give me thy hand: adieu:
Think this is done t'avoid a further ill,
And double mischief that might else ensue.
For my sake cease to love Fidelia still:
Unequal love is enemy to rest.
She is too young to love thee as she should--
And thou, Hermione, canst conceive the rest.
My meaning is, she loves not as we would.
Time may afford to both your hearts' desires
New choice to cool these newly-kindled fires.
Never, alas! never will be the day,
That I shall leave to love Hermione.
Sooner shall nature's course quite altered be,
Than I shall leave, dear knight, to honour thee.
Good father, let him stay, who, if he part,
'Gainst law is like to steal away my heart.
May it please your grace to keep the body here,
It's like enough the heart will hover near.
My lord, laugh not oppressed souls to scorn.
Losers, they say, may easily be forborne.
Forbear these words; and thou, Fidelia,
These misbeseeming foolish fashions stay.
Let it suffice that thou shalt live in court,
Where, if among the jolly brave resort
Of sundry knights of noble personage,
Worthy thy love for gifts and parentage,
Thou shalt espy one such as we do like,
Our favours shall not be too far to seek.
Ah, my Hermione!
Sweet lady mine, farewell.
Farewell, the courteous't dame that on earth do dwell.
Sir, now you are packing, let me know your walk,
For I have that may not be past without some talk:
Nor stands it with mine honour to let thee bear it clear,
But I will make thee know Armenio's blood is dear.
My lord, I make no challenge with offence;
But first I will prepare for my defence.
So, sir, you are aforehand: keep you so,
And reckon of Armenio for thy vowed foe.
Go, wend thy ways obscurer than the night,
And Fortune for revenge plague thee with spite.
Farewell, my cruel foe; not thou nor Fortune may
Add more unto the miseries that I have felt to-day;
Nor but by safe return unto this happy place,
Can gods or Fortune make amends in this distressed case.
Then cease, Hermione, to utter speech of this;
Words not suffice this endless woe, but death, i-wis:
And part thou from the place a dead and liveless man,
Robb'd of thy senses and thy joy, since first this stir began.
Ah, good my lord, my good lord Hermione!
I am, indeed, as thou dost say, Hermione;
For that I am Hermione, I am
The unhappiest wight that ever hither came.
Ah, my good lord! would God, poor Penulo
Might any way but mitigate this woe.
And pleaseth it your honour to command
My service, or the help of head or hand,
Penulo, my worthy lord, would prove as just,
As he whom best your honour likes to trust.
Say what it is, wherein my secrecy
May aid your lordship in this extremity?
Penulo, since thou so friendly here dost proffer me
The uttermost of aid that lies in thee,
I do remember that which, brought to pass,
Would make me half so happy as I was.
Say it, my lord, and constantly I vow it,
It shall go hard, but Penulo will do it.
Gramercy, gentle friend: then, thus it is:--
The lady of my life Fidelia is;
Of whom I am, I know, belov'd no less
Than she of me, my gracious mistress,
Sever'd by Fortune and our cruel foe,
My lord her brother, Prince Armenio.
Now could'st thou, Penulo, thyself behave
On trust to bring my lady to the cave,
Where whilome (lovers) we were wont to meet,
In secret sort each other for to greet.
She wots it well, and every corner knows,
And every uncouth step that thither goes:
For what is not sharpsighted lovers see?
This is the sum of my desire to thee.
Accomplish this, and, this in silence done,
My happiness will be again begun.
My lord, I see whereunto this talk doth tend:
I have this lesson at my finger-end.
No more ado; betake you to your flight:
We'll make a plaister for the sore ere night.
[_Aside_.] But such an one as, if it be applied,
Shall do more grief than ease, when it is tried.
Penulo, I yield my life into thy hands.
Ye do, sir, as now the matter stands. [_Aside_.
Hold, Penulo, and I will look for thee.
You will not look for them that come with me. [_Aside_.
I will be gone, and live to see my dear.
Do so, sir, and perchance be never the near.
This is a step that first we use to climb:
We that, forsooth, take hold on every time.
Men of all hours, whose credit such as spites,
In heat forsooth hath call'd us parasites.
But let them spite, and we will bite as fast.
But, Penulo, thou spendest words in waste.
A fool, Hermione, that for hurting thee
On slender trust will give a knave his fee.
_Strike up_ FORTUNE'S _triumphs with drums and trumpets_.
Behold what Fortune, if she list, can do,
High mistress of the rolling wheel of chance,
To overturn, and who can do thereto,
Or graciously, when please her, to advance.
Lo, lordings, this is Fortune's impery,
And in her pleasure to be changing still:
Herein consisteth Fortune's sovereignty;
That Fortune can on earth do what she will.
When men have builded on the surest grounds,
Their strong devices Fortune's power confounds.
Not all in haste; you do not so intend:
You have begun, but I must make an end.
THE THIRD ACT.
_Enter_ BOMELIO _solus, like an_ HERMIT.
He that hath lost his hope, and yet desires to live,
He that is overwhelm'd with woe, and yet would counsel give;
He that delights to sigh, to walk abroad alone,
To drive away the weary time with his lamenting moan;
He that in his distress despaireth of relief,
Let him begin to tell his tale, to rip up all his grief,
And if that wretched man can more than I recite
Of fickle Fortune's froward check and her continual spite,
Of her inconstant change, of her discourtesy,
I will be partner with that man to live in misery.
When first my flow'ring years began to bud their prime,
Even in the April of mine age and May-month of my time;
When, like the tender kid new-weaned from the teat,
In every pleasant springing mead I took my choice of meat;
When simple youth devis'd to length[en] his delight,
Even then, not dreaming I on her, she poured out her spite:
Even then she took her key, and tuned all her strings
To sing my woe: list, lordings, now my tragedy begins.
Behold me, wretched man, that serv'd his prince with pain,
That in the honour of his praise esteem'd my greatest gain:
Behold me, wretched man, that for his public weal
Refused not with thousand foes in bloody wars to deal:
Behold me, wretched man, whose travail, pain, and toil
Was ever prest to save my friends from force of foreign spoil;
And see my just reward, look on my recompense:
Behold by this for labours past what guerdon cometh thence!
Not by my fiercest foes in doubtful fight with us,
But by my fawning friend I was confounded thus.
One word of his despite in question call'd my name;
Two words of his untrusty tongue brought me to open shame.
Then was I banished the city, court and town;
Then every hand that held me up began to pull me down.
O, that the righteous gods should ever grant the power,
That smoothest sands and greenest bogs should soonest me devour.
Yet that I might descry the better their device,
Here have I liv'd almost five years, disguis'd in secret wise:
And now somewhat it is, but what I cannot tell,
Provokes me forward more than wont to leave my darksome cell,
And in my crooked age, instead of mirth and joy,
With broken sighs in doleful tunes to sing of mine annoy.
Go walk the path of plaint, go wander, wretched, now
In uncouth ways, blind corners fit for such a wretch as thou.
There feed upon thy woe; fresh thoughts shall be thy fare,
Musing shall be thy waiting-maid, thy carver shall be care;
Thy dainty dish shall be of fretting melancholy,
And broken sobs with hollow sighs thy savoury sauce shall be.
But further ere I walk, my servant I will send
Into the town to buy such things as now he can intend.
What, Lentulo! [_To_ LENTULO _within_.
What, Lentulo, come forth.
Why, when? I say!
You naughty lout; come out, sir knave, come away.
Will you not give one leave to pull down his points? what, an a should
his breeches beray?
Get you to the market, and buy such things as needful are for us.
Such things as needful are for us! and what are those, I pray?
First, there is needful for us a pot of porridge, for I had none this
many a day;
And then, there are needful for us a feather-bed, for I lie on a
bottle of hay;
And then there is most needful for us a pretty proper wench for to
laugh and play.
Go, buy us some victuals, and hie thee home.
Now, farewell, master mine, good gentle master mome.
Have you seen such a logger-headed fool, to say:
Go, go, good Lentulo, to buy my victuals so, and give me money?--no!
But for the name's sake, swounds, I were as good serve a master
He'll do nothing all day long but sit on his arse, as my mother did
when she made pouts:
And then a' looks a' this fashion, and thus and thus again; and then,
what do ye?
By my troth, I stand even thus at him, and laugh at his simplismity.
Hath the best manners in the world to bid a man fall to his meat,
And then I say: I thank you forsooth, master, and I could tell
what to eat.
We two, look you--that's I and he--can lie a-bed a whole night and a day,
And we eat, and we had it: it vattens a man; look on my cheeks, else,
are they not fall'n away?
Well, I must jog to the town, and I'll tell you what shift I make there.
Marry, ye shall promise me not to steal it away.
When I come to a rich man's gate, I make a low leg, and then
I knock there;
And then I begin to cry in at the keyhole, that I may be sure they
God save my good master and my good mistress, a poor boy, a piece of
bread and meat for God's sake!
Heigh! merrily trick'd! am I not a knave for the nonce,
That can despatch two errands at once?
I have both told her even as I should do,
And told my young master to meet with him too.
Now he, like a gentleman, for the valour of his mind
Hath sworn by his honour not to stay long behind.
The desire of revenge pricketh him forward so,
That I am sure he'll not let but to go,
And that with all haste possible he may.
Then, tantara-tara, we shall have good play.
I like such a knave so can tickle them all,
To set noblemen at brabble and brawl.
Save you, sir, young master, and you be a gentleman?
Whoreson peasant, seest thou not what I am?
Troth, sir, I see you have a good doublet and a pair of hose;
But now-a-days there is so many goes
So like gentlemen, that such a poor fellow as I
Know not how a gentleman from a knave to spy.
Thou may'st perceive I am no such companion:
I am a gentleman, a courtier, and a merry frank franion.
Then, thou merry companion, thou whoreson frank franion,
Why hast thou abused the law?
What, good skipjack, in faith with thwick-thwack your bones I will claw.
Come about, sir knave.
Cot's my passion, what a merry mate have we here?
Give me your hand, sir: faith, I was bold to brush the dust out
of your gear.
Pray, sir, tell me: they say in the country 'tis a common guise,
That gentlemen now-a-days cannot see with both eyes.
It's a lie, knave: I know few gentlemen blind.
No, sir? what will you lay, and I can find
One with a wet finger, that is stark blind?
It may be so, but I think thou canst not.
Will you lay? do wager on it.
What should I lay?
Thou hast no money, I am sure, to pay.
No, faith, sir; but I'll tell you what our wager shall be;
Because I am not able to lay any money,
I'll lay three round raps on the ribs with my cudgel here.
Soft, let me look first if there be no blind man near.
Content, i'faith: that bargain shall stand.
Then, sir, I must be so bold as to search your purse out of hand.
My purse, sir? wherefore?
By my troth, sir, no more but to try,
If you be not as blind a gentleman in the purse as I.
I use not to carry my money in a purse.
All in a pocket? well, never a whit the worse;
I must search your pocket.
What, if it be elsewhere?
Wheresoever it is, I must seek out this gear,
I'll not lose my wager, that's certain.
Very well, sir; will you put me to pain?
Have I never a weapon?--I'll look--I pray thee, be content.
You shall have your wager, sir, as it was meant.
Hold thy hands, good fellow: I'll do anything for thee.
I perceive a wise man of a fool overtaken may be.
Thou blind gentleman! unless it be for my commodiosity,
I'll teach thee to be blind, and go so bravely.
I'll do anything for thee, if thou strike me no more,
Because I perceive thou art almost as poor
As myself am, and yet there is somewhat in thee:
I'll prefer thee to a service in the Court presently.
Ha! wilt thou do so?
That I will.
Wilt thou do so, indeed?
Swear to me by thy ten commandments in thy creed.
I do so.
Troth, then, we are friends: say nothing, I pray,
And you shall see me prove a rank runaway.
Why, when a man may be a courtier, and live at ease,
Should a' not leave his old master to please?
Sirrah blind gentleman, we two blind gentlemen, and [you] do
as thou promis'd here,
Perhaps I may be as good to thee as two pots of beer.
I'll go with thee, i'faith; gaw, let's be gone.
Soft; tarry a while: I'll go with thee anon.
How thinkest thou, Penulo, am I not provided now?
I warrant, sir, a' shall have a cold pull of you,
And a' begin to make another brawl.
Farewell, when thou wilt; I trust I shall
Meet with him: am I not almost at the tree?
That same is it, sir.
Sirrah, what's he?
What car'st thou I come, go thou with me.
Why, I shall have but an ill-favoured courtier of ye.
Now, for a runaway, God send us good chance.
Then, maids, at your marriage I mean me to dance.
Now serves the time to wreak me of my foe--
My bastard foe--that to dishonour me
In privy corners seeks to shame me so,
That my discredit might his credit be.
And hath my father from his tender youth
Vouchsaf'd to bring thee up? did I therefore
Believe so earnestly thy perjur'd truth,
Advancing still thine honour evermore,
That, not contented with a common wrack,
Thou shouldst intend the ruin of us all;
And when thou seemd'st afraid to turn thy back,
To make a glory of our greater fall?
Before thou triumph in thy treachery,
Before thou 'scape untouched for thy sin,
Let never Fates nor Fortune favour me,
But wretched let me live and die therein.
Few words shall serve, my deeds shall prove it now
That, ere I sleep, I mean to meet with you.
Behold the shifts that faithful love can make;
See what I dare adventure for thy sake.
In case extreme make virtue of a need,
But hence the grief which maketh my heart to bleed.
My love and life, wherever that thou be,
I am in dole constrain'd to follow thee:
Hence sprung the hell of my tormented mind,
The fear of some misfortune yet behind.
If thou escape the peril of distress,
My fear and care is twenty times more less.
No reason 'tis that I should live in joy,
When thou art wrapt in fetters of annoy;
Nor to that end I swear to be thy wife,
To live in peace with thee and state of life;
But as to dwell at ease in pleasure's lap,
Even so to bear some part of thy mishap,
And so to draw in equal portion still
Of both our fortunes, either good or ill.
And sith the lots of our unconstant fate
Have turn'd our former bliss to wretched state,
I am content to tread the woful dance,
That sounds the measure of our hapless chance.
I'll wait thy coming; long thou wilt not stay:
High Jove defend and keep thee in the way!
Now weary lay thee down, thy fortune to fulfil:
Go, yield thee captive to thy care, to save thy life or spill.
The pleasures of the field, the prospect of delight,
The blooming trees, the chirping birds, are grievous to thy sight.
The hollow, craggy rock, the shrieking owl to see,
To hear the noise of serpent's hiss, that is thy harmony.
For as unto the sick all pleasure is in vain,
So mirth unto the wounded mind increaseth but his pain.
But, heavens! what do I see? thou nymph or lady fair,
Or else thou goddess of the grove, what mak'st thee to repair
To this unhaunted place, thy presence here unfit?
Ancient father, let it not offend thee any whit,
To find me here alone. I am no goddess, I,
But a mortal maid, subject to misery.
And better that I might lament my heavy moan,
I secret came abroad to recreate myself awhile alone.
Take comfort, daughter mine, for thou hast found him then,
That is of others all that live the most accursed'st man.
O, I have heard it said, our sorrows are the less,
If in our anguish we may find a partner in distress.
O father! but my grief relieved cannot be:
My hope is fled, my help in vain, my hurt my death must be.
Yet not the common death of life that here is led,
But such a death as ever kills, and yet is never dead.
Fair maid, I have been well acquainted with that fit:
Sometime injured with the like, I learn to comfort it.
Come, rest thee here with me, with[in] this hollow cave;
There will I reckon up at large the horrors that I have.
I thank you, father; but I must needs walk another way.
Nay, gentle damsel, be content a while with me to stay.
The longer that I stay with you, the greater is my grief.
The longer that you stay with me, the sooner is relief.
I am provided other ways; good father, let me go.
To him that off'reth thee no wrong, be not uncourteous so.
Perhaps another time I'll come, and visit thee.
Both then and now, if so you please, you shall right welcome be.
Shall she be welcome unto thee, old wretch, indeed?
I'll welcome both of you: come, maid, away with speed.
Good father, help me now.
Have I no weapons, wretch that I am? Well, youth, I'll meet with you.
Must you be gone? is this your meeting-place?
Come, get you home; and pack you, sir, apace.
Were't not for reverence of thine age, I swear,
Thou should'st accurse the time I met thee here.
But, i'faith, sister, my father shall welcome you.
Go tell thine errand, if thou canst.
Ten times adieu: farewell for ever now.
I thank thee. Fortune, that thou didst this deed allow.
Thou heaven and earth, and ye eternal lamps
That restless keep his course in order due;
Thou, Phoebe bright, that scatterest the damps
Of darksome night, I make my plaints to you.
And thou, Alecto, hearken to my call;
Let fall a serpent from thy snaky hair;
Tisiphone, be swift to plague them all,
That make a pastime of my care and fear!
And thou, O Jove, that by thy great foresight
Rulest the earth and reign'st above the skies;
That wreak'st the wrongs of them that master right
Against the wretches that thy name despise.
And Rhadamanth, thou judge of hateful hell,
Where damned ghosts continual moaning make,
Send forth a fury that may further well
The just revenge that here I undertake.
Henceforth accursed be thou evermore,
Accursed all thou tak'st in hand to do,
The time, the day, accursed be the hour,
The earth, the air, and all that 'long thereto!
Dole and despair henceforth be thy delight,
Wrapped now in present and woes to come,
To wail the day and weep the weary night;
And from this time henceforth I strike thee dumb.
Think'st thou I knew thee not? Yes, well, i-wis,
And that thy sister, daughter to my prince.
Now brag abroad what thou hast got by this:
So live thou dumb: that be thy recompense;
And when thy ghost forsakes thy body quite,
Vengeance I wish upon thy soul to light.
Good even, good father: pardon my rudeness here.
O joy and grief! I will dissemble yet my cheer. [_Aside_.
Good sir, methought I heard you speak of one right now,
Daughter unto a prince: that made me bold to trouble you.
I spake of such an one indeed.
Why, do you know her name?
Fidelia. Why do you ask? What, do you know the same?
Yea, father, that I do: I know, and knew her well.
But did you wish those plagues to light on her, I pray you tell?
On her! the gods forbid; but on that wretched wight
Her brother, that from hence right now perforce convey'd her quite.
Alas! what do I hear? Good father, tell me true,
Hath she been here?
She was! Where is she now?
Gone back again.
Gone back! With whom?
Her brother! How?
He secret watched here; and when she should have stay'd
Awhile with me, he rushed out and her from hence convey'd.
Confounded in my grief! And can it suff'red be?
And shall he make a brag at home of his despite to me?
First let me die a thousand deaths; draw, run and meet with him.
Tarry, my son; it is in vain: they are now at home, I ween.
Let him alone; he will not make great reck'ning of his gain.
Wretch that thou art for lingering! everlasting shall be thy pain;
Continual thy complaint, aye-during still thy woe,
Why mad'st thou not more haste to come, and first of all to know?
Content thyself, my son; torment not so thy mind:
Assuage the sorrows of thy heart, in hope some help to find.
Some help! O father, no; all help comes too late.
I am the man of all alive the most unfortunate.
I see thy loyalty, I see thy faithful love,
Else never durst thou this attempt adventured to prove.
Take comfort thereby, my son.
I am the man, I say,
That Love and Fortune once advanc'd, but now have cast away.
The joy, the sweet delight, the rest I had before,
Fell to my lot that now the loss, my plague, might be the more.
O Fortune! froward dame, wilt thou be never sure?
Most constant in inconstancy I see thou wilt endure.
Accuse not Fortune, son, but blame thy love therefor;
For I perceive thou art in love, and then[ce] thy trouble is more.
Father, if this be love: to lead a life in thrall,
To think the rankest poison sweet, to feed on honey-gall;
To be at war and peace, to be in joy and grief,
Then farthest from the hope of help, where nearest is relief;
To live and die, to freeze and sweat, to melt and not to move;
If it be this to live in love, father, I am in love.
Why did you not possess your lady then at home?
At home! where is it, sir? alas! for I have none.
Brought up I know not how, and born I know not where,
When I was in my childhood given unto my prince, then here,
Of whom I cannot tell, wherefore I little know.
But now cast out to seek my fate, unhappy where I go.
Then dare I not be seen; here must I not abide.
Did ever more calamities unto a man betide?
My heart will burst, if I forbear amidst this misery.
Behold, thy father thou hast found, my son Hermione!
Thy father thou hast found, thy father--I am he.
But is it possible my father you should be?
Even from my first exile here have I liv'd forlorn,
And once I gave thee to my prince, for thou wast noble-born;
And now he gives me thee, and welcome home again!
This is my recompense for all my former pain.
Dear father, glad I am to find you here alive:
By your example I may learn with froward chance to strive.
Come, son, content thee now within a cave to dwell.
I will provide for thy redress, and all things shall be well.
A darksome den must be thy lofty lodging now.
Father, I am well content to take such part as you.
Here is a breathing-fit after hard mischance.
O gracious Venus! once vouchsafe thy servants to advance.
_Strike up a noise of viols_: VENUS' _triumph_.
Behold what Love can work for their delight
That put affiance in her deity.
Though heaven and earth against them bend their might,
Yet in the end theirs is the victory:
I will in them, and they triumph in me.
Let Fortune frown, I will uphold their state,
Yea, seem they never so unfortunate.
Brag not too much: what, think'st thou I have done?
Nay, soft, not yet: my sport is not begun.
THE FOURTH ACT.
_Enter_ PENULO _and_ LENTULO.
Come away with thy basket, thou loggerheaded jack.
I think thy basket be cloven to thy back.
My back and my basket; look, dost thou not see,
When my basket is on my back, then my back is under me?
And, O this basket, wott'st thou wherefore I keep it so close?
For all the love of my heart within this basket goes.
Thy love, with a wanion! are you in love, sir, then,
with your leave?
What an ass art thou: couldst thou not all this time perceive,
That I never sleep but when I am not awake,
And I eat and I eat till my belly would ache?
And I fall away like a gammon of bacon.
Am I not in love when I am in this tacon?
Call'st thou this the court? would I had ne'er come thither
To be caught in Cupido. I faint, I faint! O, gather me, gather me!
[_Pretends to swoon_.
Come up, and be hang'd. Alack, poor Lentulo! [_Aside_.
Tell me with whom thou art in love so.
You kill me, and you make me tell her name. No, no.
O terrible torments, that trounce in my toe!
Love, my masters, is a parlous matter! how it runs out of my nose!
It's now in my back, now in my belly; O, now in the bottom of my hose.
The pestilence! there, what is she, my boy?
I'll make her love thee again, be she never so coy.
Wilt thou so? O gods of love! that word plucks up my heart,
I'll tell thee, sirrah--even as we two at the court-gate did wait,
Did'st thou not mark a goodly lady, O lady, lady!
Why should not I as well as he, my dear lady?
Did'st thou not see her come in with a golden lock?
She had a fine gown on her back, and a passing nether-stock.
Well, sir, proceed: I remember her very well.
It's the Duke's daughter the sot means, I can tell. [_Aside_.
Now, sirrah, there was a little dappard ass with her,
that went before:
When I saw him, I came in sneaking more and more.
To have heard them talk; ah! crouching on is good;
For when he had talk['d] awhile, I had come in with, ay forsooth, no
forsooth, that I would,
And she would have look'd upon me: then more 'quaintance we should have.
An excellent device. Ah, sirrah! you are an excellent knave.
_Tu autem, tu autem_: I have it in me. But, sirrah, wott'st thou
As God juggle me, when I came near them, I tell thee true,
The same squall did nothing but thus: I know what's what;
And I ran before him, and did thus too.
A pox upon you, what meant you by that?
What mean I? marry, sir, he meant to give her a box on the ear, if she
spake to me,
And I meant to give him another box on the ear, sir, he should see.
You should have bestow'd it where you meant it, then.
Must you strike me, and mean other men?
'Twas nothing, fellow, but for 'sample's sake.
Well, sir, I am content this once it to take.
But, sirrah, you must know that squall is the duke's son,
That now by mischance is stroken stark dumb,
In fetching home his sister, that ran away from hence.
Is she then a runaway? O passing wench!
I thought as much; now, good Lord, to see
That she and I now akin should be.
O cuckally luck! O heavy chance, O!
I runaway, she runaway: go together, go!
But all the court laments, and sore weeps for it.
All the court? thou liest: the Court-gate weeps not a whit.
_Enter_ BOMELIO, _like a counterfeit Physician_.
_Bien venu, chi diue ve mi nou intendite signeur, no_.
I have a piece of work in hand now, that all the world must not know.
Cock's nowns, the devil! a-God's name, what's he?
Some Spaniard or foreign stranger he seems to be.
_Dio vou salvi, signore, e voutre gratio pavero mouchato_.
I have no pleasure in thee: I pray thee, get thee gone.
What would you, sir?
_Monsieur, par ma foy_, am one have the grand knowledge in the skience
Can make dem hole have been all life sick;
Can make to seco see, and te dumb speak;
Can make te lame go, and be ne'er so weak.
Can you so, sir? what countryman are you, I pray?
E be Italian, Neapolitan: e come a Venice a toder day.
And you can speak any pedlar's French, tell me what I say.
_Ne point entende, signior_.
You are an ass. I can spose him, I.
_Monsieur, parle petit_: e heard now hereby,
Dere be a nobel man dumb, dat made me stay:
If me no help him, me carry no head away.
Will you venture your head to help him, indeed?
Well, sir, I'll tell the Duke with all possible speed.
Tarry me here: I'll return by and by.
Excellent luck! it falls out happily.
Will you venture your head, sirrah, blockhead you?
You be de ass-head, me can tell dat's true.
Swounds! O, but that I am in love, thou shouldst know
What 'twere to move my vengeance so!
Come heter, sirrah; me speak with you: me can tell
You are de runaway from your ma'ter; ah, very well.
You gods and devils eke, what do you mean to do?
Shall I be known a runaway, for and to shame me too?
I a runaway, sirrah? go with your uplandish, go:
I am no runaway, I would you should know.
You no runaway from your ma'ter in de wood,
When he send you to market? Ah, no point good!
O furies fell, and hags of hell, with all that therein be!
What, do ye mean to shame me clean, and tell him then of me?
Hear you, sirrah: you are no devil; mass, and I wist you were,
I would lamback the devil out of you, for all your gear.
Diavolo? ah, fie! me no diavolo, me very fury.
Let-a me see your basket: what meat you buy?
Look in my basket! O villain, rascal, tarry, stay!
Hath opened it? out alas! my love is quite flown away.
My love is gone, my love is gone out of the basket there,
Prepare therefore to kill thyself: farewell, my friends so dear.
Ah, vat-a you do, man?
Uplandish, hence away.
Vat-a you do, man? no point yourself to slay.
Come de be hang-a.
Alas! O my neck, alas!
O frying-pan of my head! uplandish, now, cham worse than ever was.
Adieu! farewell, farewell, my love.
Your love? if you be in love, den do as I bid do,
And you shall 've your love away wit' you, too.
Uplandish, O my friend! if thou do so for me,
Hold here my hand: thy fellow, friend, and partner will I be.
Go you ten, and get-a me some fine, fine, fine colosse,
And wit' te marigol' leaf all-to mus your nose.
Ah, my nose, my nose! O God, is my nose in my hand?
Uplandish, leave your signs; without them I can understand.
And come a me heter wit' a gold ring in your mouth fast:
E make de lady go wit' you weter list at last.
O, let me 'brace thy cursed corpse! O, now I live again!
I will go get apparel straight, although be to my pain.
'Tis th'apparel, a marigol', and a ring.
Noting else, and you tem bring.
Bring them? yes, I warrant thee, I'll bring them by and by.
Now, goodman Venus, lend thy hand, and lady Vulcan high.
A good beginning. I am not descri'd:
They know not me, but I know them too well.
Disguised thus their counsels may be tri'd,
And I may safe return unto my cell;
Where I have left my solitary son,
'Twixt hope and fear, in doubt and danger too,
Till I return to tell him what is done,
Which for his sake I have devis'd to do.
Eternal gods, that know my true intent,
And how unjustly wronged I have been,
Vouchsafe all secret dangers to prevent,
And further me, as yet you do begin.
Sufficeth you my travail heretofore,
My hunger, cold, and all my former pain.
Here make an end, and plague me now no more:
Contented, then, at rest I will remain.
But hark! some comes: dissemble, then, again.
_Enter the_ DUKE, _his_ Son, _and_ PENULO.
My lord, yon is the man whom I have told to you.
My friend, I am inform'd that by thy worthy skill
In physic, thou art able to recover at thy will
The strangest cures that be: if this be true indeed,
As grant the gods it may, I pray thee then with speed
Provide for our relief: recover this my son,
Unto his speech, whom here thou seest before us to be dumb.
You no take care for dat, me nobel prince;
Me make him speak again, or me ne'er come hence.
Thrice welcome, then, to us: despatch it out of hand,
And thou shalt bless the time that e'er thou cam'st unto our land.
Let-a me see him. You hear me?
Ah, dat vel: turn heter; no like it truly.
By the mass, this physic is an excellent art;
It picks such a deal of gold out of every part. [_Aside_.
Vell, vell; me now see vat this matter mean.
Nobel prince, dis ting be done by mashic clean.
'Tis true dat me tell, me perceive it plain:
No natural 'pediment, but cunshering certain.
O double, treble woe! my son, how cometh this?
He saith by magic it is wrought, unnatural it is.
Dost thou remember aught, that so it should appear,
Or can'st thou any reason make it should be true we hear?
What means he by these signs? can any one express?
If you give me leave, sir, to say as I guess,
Methinks he should mean there was some old man,
That threatened to be revenged on him then.
'Tis so you may see: he confirms it again.
Condemned be that man to everlasting pain,
Perpetual his annoy, continual his unrest!
O, that I had him here to plague as I thought best!
But, learned sir, is there no way, is there no remedy?
Can there be found out no device the charm to mollify?
Good sir, if anything, whatever that it be,
Let spare no cost, my will is such, I will allow it thee.
Indeed, and by my trot', dar is o' thing,
But me am vera let' de same to bring;
Yit wit'out dat me am seawer, me tell,
Your son again be never more well.
Good father, tell it me: whatever should befall,
Mine be the danger, mine the loss, you shall be pleased for all.
In any case, express it then.
Fait', then me will.
If you no have your son be so dumb still.
You mus' get-a de grand enemy dat he now have,
And in de tenderest part his dearest blood crave:
Derwit' mus' you wash his tongue-a string.
Noting but dat will his speech bring.
The dearest blood in the tenderest part
Of his great enemy? O, grief to my heart!
Will nothing else cure his disease?
Noting, by my trot'; but do as you please.
My son, my wretched son! and whom dost thou suppose
Thy greatest enemy amongst thy father's foes?
It is Hermione: 'tis he, and none but he.
He hath now proved himself, indeed, thy greatest enemy.
Where lives the wretch? That he were ta'en, and we revenged be?
And must his dearest blood, in his tenderest part,
Help him in his speech? that's an excellent art.
But what part is that, my masters, now about a man
That is the tenderest? guess it, and you can.
I can tell what part a woman thinks tenderest to be,
And there is dear blood in it--but _benedicite_.
And do you think, sir, there is none but he,
That can be thought his greatest enemy?
I have heard it said, there is no hate
Like to a brother or sister's, if they fall at debate.
I will not say, but you may think it as well as I,
If you mark since her coming home his sister's cruelty,
And the continual rancour she beareth unto him.
Is te maid his sister? be Got, den, he say tim.
Bin mine fait' and trot', ser, 'tis true dat he say:
His sister be his greatest enemy to-day.
And must I kill my daughter to help my son to speech?
I'll never do it.
See how a doth beseech!--
I would all our daggers were of his quality,
They should not brawl with a man, then, so for his money.
You kill your daughter! fie, no point so.
Her dearest blood in tenderest part me will show:
'Tis in her paps, her dugs, for der be de tenderest part,
And de blood de dearest; it comes from de heart.
So she be prick'd a little under de breast,
And wash his tongue-a, he speak wit' de best.
This thing is somewhat easier, if she consent thereto;
If not, I can enforce and make her it to do.
Penulo, despatch, and to my marshal bear
This signet for a token that he send her to us here.
I will, my lord.
He that hath felt the zeal, the tender love and care:
The fear, the grief that parents dear unto their children bear,
He may, and only he, conceive mine, inward woe,
Distracted thus 'twixt two extremes that hale me to and fro.
Sometime mistrusting that, and then misliking this--
Have parents such a cause of joy, or is it such a bliss
To see the offspring of their seed in health before them now?
O, little know they what mishap awaits the death for you.
But, son, my dearest son, recomfort thou thy mind;
Fight against fortune and thy fates, when they be most unkind.
And since I understand what may recover thee,
Make sure account of it, myself will do it presently.
But, sir, I pray you, lest my daughter should by fear
Or fright of it be sore abash'd, be always ready here
To stench her wound, when you see good.
Awe, awe, she lose but little blood:
Two or tree ounces sha' be de very most.
Yonder she come, is no she?
The same is she.
_Enter_ FIDELIA _with_ PENULO.
Father, they say you sent for me.
Yea, daughter, I did so;
And mark what I shall say to thee, the cause thereof to show.
Thou seest thy brother here?
In name, but not in kind.
Well, hold thy peace, I say, and let me tell my mind.
Thy brother here, I say, thou seest him stricken dumb,
And, as this learned man declares by magic it is done.
But yet there is a way--one thing--he telleth me,
That will restore him to his speech that resteth inwardly;
Which, though I might command, yet I intreat to know,
Be not so stubborn or unkind thy furtherance to show.
Noble father, you cannot say, but hitherto I have
Been most obedient to your will in all things that you crave;
But herein pardon me, if this I do deny:
I never can be made to grant help to mine enemy,
My deadly enemy, worse than my mortal foe,
And such an one is he to me, for I have found him so;
That laboured evermore to cross me with despite,
But I am glad I may so well his courtesy requite.
A right woman--either love like an angel,
Or hate like a devil--in extremes so to dwell. [_Aside_.
But, daughter, I command, and I thy father, too.
And I, your daughter, anything that lawful is to do.
Is it not right and lawful both to help thy brother's woe?
It's neither right nor lawful, sir, to help my deadly foe.
If he have been thy foe, he may become thy friend.
And when I see that come to pass, I may some succour send.
But wherefore shouldst thou be so cruel unto him?
Because unto my dearest friend so spiteful he hath been.
Nay, stubborn girl, but then I will constrain thee, I.
Lay hold on her: myself will then, sith she doth it deny.
Assist me, righteous gods, in this extremity.
BOMELIO. [_To DUKE, aside_.]
Ah, pardon-a, pardon-a: please you, let me a while wit' her alone,
And me warrant me make her consent to you anon;
Else me give her a powder with a little drink,
Whish make her sleep; and den, when she noting tink,
Wit' de sharp rasher, me prick her by and by,
And stop it again, and she no feel why.
Please you begone, and let us two alone here.
Me make her consent, you no point fear.
Do it, Master Doctor, and I am bound to you for aye.
Ungracious girl, that dost deny the father to obey.
Look to her, sir, and send me word when thou hast done the deed.
Awe, awe; i'fait', i'fait', me make her bleed.
O wretched girl! what hope remains behind?
What comfort can recomfort now thy mind?
Forsaken thus of father and of friend,
Why seek'st thou not to bring thy life to end?
Can greater woes befall unto thy share?
Come, gentleman, despatch, and do not spare:
If it be so his pleasure and thy will,
1 am content my dearest blood to spill.
Defer not then: hold, take thine aim at me,
And strike me through; for I desire to die.
The heavens forbid, fair maiden; no, not I:
I am thy friend, I am no enemy.
Fear not, stand up: it is only for thy sake
That I this toil and travail undertake.
Thy love, my son, is at my cave with me,
Safe and in health, long looking there for thee.
Trust to my words, fair maid, for I am he,
That overtook thee in the wood last day;
And till thy coming, Hermione, I say,
Is in my cave--
What joyful words be these!
And is Hermione your son? do, then, as you shall please.
Behold me ready, prest to follow any way:
Good father, do not thus delude a simple maid, I pray.
I trust unto your words: my life is in your power,
And till I see Hermione, each minute is an hour.
Daughter, dismay no whit; but trust to me;
What I have said performed thou shalt see.
I have dissembled with thy father here,
The better that I might with thee confer.
And since thou art so faithful to thy love,
As I may well report I did thee prove,
Let us be gone now closely as we may.
Yea, my good father, even when you will, I pray.
Thrice-blessed be the hour I met with you!
My father now and brother both adieu:
Unkind to her, most kind that you should be,
I leave them all, my dear, to come to thee.
_Enter_ HERMIONE, _with books under his arm_.
O gods! that deepest griefs are felt in closest smart;
That in the smiling countenance may lurk the wounded heart,
1 see the noble mind can counterfeit a bliss,
When overwhelmed with a care his soul perplexed is.
It is for dastard knights, that stretch on feather beds,
Despairing in adversity so low to hang their heads.
The better born, the more his magnanimity:
The fiercer fight, the deeper wound, the more undaunted he.
So I perceive it now; I well perceive it here:
What I myself could not, I learn by thee, my father dear.
He that in golden age, I mean his lusty youth,
Was thought to spend in pleasure's lap without regard of ruth;
He that had lost his time as bravely as the best,
Only devising how to make his joys surmount the rest:
Not in that wanton youth, not in that pleasant mate,
Could Fortune with her fickleness his wonted mind abate.
He rather challengeth to do her very worst,
And makes a semblance of delight, although indeed accurs'd.
My father thereupon devised how he might
Revenge and wreak himself on her, that wrought him such despite:
And therefore, I perceive, he strangely useth it,
Enchanting and transforming that his fancy did not fit.
As I may see by these his vile blasphemous books;
My soul abhors as often as mine eye upon them looks.
What gain can countervail the danger that they bring,
For man to sell his soul to sin, is't not a grievous thing?
To captivate his mind, and all the gifts therein,
To that which is of others all the most ungracious sin;
Which so entangleth them that thereunto apply,
As at the last forsaketh them in their extremity.
Such is this art, such is the study of this skill,
This supernatural device, this magic, such it will.
In ransacking his cave these books I lighted on,
And with his leave I'll be so bold, while he abroad is gone,
To burn them all; for best that serveth for this stuff.
I doubt not but at his return to please him well enough.
And, gentlemen, I pray, and so desire I shall,
You would abhor this study, for it will confound you all.
_Enter_ LENTULO _with a ring in his mouth, a marigold in his hand,
a fair suit of apparel on his back; after he hath a while made
dumb-show_, PENULO _cometh, running in with two or three other_.
Run, for the love of God! search, villains, out of hand:
Run, I say, rascals: look about ye; how, do you stand?
The Duke's daughter is gone again, and all the court is in an uproar.
A pox on such a physician; he shall counsel her no more.
See you, Master Penulo, who is that yonder so brave?
Cock's blood, you villain! what do you here, you slave?
Swounds! hath robb'd the Duke of a suit of apparel,
Why speak you not, sirrah? yea, will you not tell?
Lay him on, my masters: spare him not, I say.
Speak you by signs? One of you pull the ring away.
Cock's blood, my finger! a bites as pestilence there.
What mean you, my masters; what mean ye here?
Have you found your tongue, sir! O, very well.
I pray you, sir, where had you this suit of apparel?
This 'parel? what, and I stole it: what's that to thee?
Marry, sir, no more but that hang'd you shall be.
Then, all the world shall see there is somewhat in me.
When I am hang'd, O, I shall swing lustily.
Mass, I shall do him great credit that hangs me.
But if I may be hanged by an attorney,
I will desire thee the place to supply.
Yes, marry will I, for courtesy sake.
Come on your way, sir: the pains I will take
To bring you before the Duke, that he may see,
What a proper man in his apparel you be.
Wilt thou, faith? mass, I thank thee heartily;
But I must talk a little with our uplandish here,
And then I'll go with thee, faith, anywhere.
Uplandish, you rascal! where is he now?
He's gone, and stole away the Duke's daughter with him too.
O my heart! what do you say?
Marry, that together they be both run away.
Nay, then, have after ye; behind I'll not stay.
What! no such haste with you, sir, I pray.
And is my lady gone and fled? O, take me up, for I am dead.
Farewell, my marigold; O villain, caitiff, he!
By bones and stones, and all the moons, I will avenged be.
You shall be revenged, sir, that shall you presently.
Away, away with him to the Duke by and by.
I can go by myself, and you will let me alone.
Now as I walk, alas! I make to me my moan.
When I in prison strong, poor soul, shall live and die,
Then will I make my loving song upon mine own pigsny.
Away with him, sirs: why do ye tarry?
And thou wert in my case, thou wouldst not be so hasty.
[_Exit in custody of _SERJEANT.
Fie upon it! what a stir have we here?
Never was nobleman's house in such fear.
Such hurrying and stirring, such running every way;
Such howling, such crying, such accursing the day.
That ever the villain could counterfeit so,
[And] when we least thought of it, away with her to go.
But the world is so full of knavery now,
That we know not whom to trust, I may say to you.
If my wife fall sick, as she may, I'll make a condition,
She shall never take counsel of an uplandish physician.
Hang them, knaves; But what a prating keep I,
When I should have been seven miles of mine errand; for why
I must go set all the country up in a watch,
If it be possible, this physician to catch.
_Enter_ BOMELIO _and_ FIDELIA.
Stay, daughter, stay: forbear thy posting haste.
Thou need'st not fear; all perils now are past.
Thanks to the gods that such success they gave,
Thus happily to bring us to my cave.
O father! still I fear mishap behind:
Suspect is natural unto our kind,
And perils that import a man's decay
Can never be eschewed too soon, they say.
Had I [but] sight of mine Hermione,
I care not then what did become of me.
I will herein accomplish thy desire,
So grant the gods the rest that I require.
Hermione! Hermione! my son, I say,
Come forth and see thy friends that for thee stay.
Welcome, my father; but ten times welcome thou,
The constant lady mine, that liveth now.
And lives Hermione? lives my Hermione?
What can be added more to my felicity?
Thy life, my life; such comfort dost thou give:
Happy my life, because I see thee live.
Whilst they record the sweetness of their bliss,
I will apply to further, as they wish,
Their sweet delight by magic's cunning so,
That happy they shall live in spite of foe.
How doubtful are the lets of loyal love!
Great be the dangers that true lovers prove;
But when the sun, after a shower of rain,
Breaks through the clouds and shows his might again,
More comfortable to [us] his glory then,
Because it was awhile withheld of men.
Peace after war is pleasanter, we find;
A joy deferr'd is sweeter to the mind:
It hath been said that, when Ulysses was
Ten years at Troy, and ten years more, alas!
Wandering abroad as chance and fortune led,
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