Four
PLAYS
OR
Moral Representations
IN ONE.
Enter Don Frigozo.
Frig. [Noise within. Away with those bald-pated Rascals there, their wits are bound up in Vellom, they are not currant here. Down with those City-Gentlemen, &c. Out with those —— I say, and in with their wives at the back door. Worship and place, I am weary of ye, ye lye on my shoulders lik a load of Gold on an Asses back. A man in Authority, is but as a candle in the wind, sooner wasted or blown out, than under a bushel. How now, what's the matter?
Who are you, Sir?
Enter Rinaldo.
Rin. Who am I, Sir? why, do y' not know me?
Frig. No by my —— do I not.
Rin. I am sure we din'd together to day.
Frig. That's all one: as I din'd with you in the City, and as you paid for my dinner there, I do know you, and am beholding to you: But as my mind is since transmigrated into my office, and as you come to Court to have me pay you again, and be beholding to me, I know you not, I know you not.
Rin. Nay, but look ye, Sir.
Frig. Pardon me: If you had been my bed-fellow these seven years, and lent me money to buy my place, I must not transgress principles: This very talking with you is an ill example.
Rin. Pish, you are too punctual a Courtier, Sir: why, I am a Courtier too, yet never understood the place or name to be so infectious to humanity and manners, as to cast a man into a burning pride and arrogance, for which there is no cure. I am a Courtier, and yet I will know my friends, I tell you.
Frig. And I tell you, you will thrive accordingly, I warrant you.
Rin. But hark ye, Signior Frigozo, you shall first understand, I have no friends with me to trouble you.
Frig. Humh: That's a good motive.
Rin. No[r] to borrow money of you.
Frig. That's an excellent motive.
Rin. No my sweet Don, nor to ask what you owe me.
Frig. Why, that is the very motive of motives, why I ought and will know thee: and if I had not wound thee up to this promise, I would not have known thee these fifteen years, no more than the errantst, or most founder'd Castillian that followed our new Queens Carriages a-foot.
Rin. Nor for any thing, dear Don, but that you would place me conveniently to see the Play to night.
Frig. That shall I, Signior Rinaldo: but would you had come sooner: you see how full the Scaffolds are, there is scant room for a Lovers thought here. Gentlewomen sit close for shame: Has none of ye a little corner for this Gentleman? I'll place ye, fear not. And how did our brave King of Portugal, Emanuel, bear himself to day? You saw the solemnity of the marriage.
Rin. Why, like a fit Husband for so gracious and excellent a Princess, as his worthy mate Isabella, the King of Castiles Daughter doth in her very external li[ne]aments, mixture of colours, and joyning Dove-like behaviour assure her self to be. And I protest (my dear Don) seriously, I can sing prophetically nothing but blessed Hymns, and happy occasions to this sacred union of Portugal and Castile, which have so wisely and mutually conjoyned two such virtuous and beautiful Princes as these are; and in all opinion like to multiply to their very last minute.
Frig. The King is entring: Signior, hover here about, and as soon as the Train is set, clap into me, we'll stand near the State. If you have any Creditors here, they shall renew bonds a Twelvemonth on such a sight: but to touch the pomel of the King's Chair in the sight of a Citizen, is better security for a thousand double Duckets, than three of the best Merchants in Lisbon. Besides, Signior, we will censure, not only the King in the Play here, that Reigns his two hours; but the King himself, that is to rule his life time: Take my counsel: I have one word to say to this noble Assembly, and I am for you.
Rin. Your method shall govern me.
Why may not then an Huisher Prologize?
Here's a fair sight, and were ye oftner seen
Thus gather'd here, 'twould please our King and Queen
Upon my conscience, ye are welcome all
To Lisbon, and the Court of Portugal;
Where your fair eyes shall feed on no worse sights
Than preparations made for Kings delights.
We wish to men content, the manliest treasure,
And to the Women, their own wish'd for pleasure. [Flourish.
Enter King and Queen, Emanuel and Isabella, Lords and attendants.
The propagation of two Kingdoms flowes,
Never contention rise in eithers brest,
But contestation whose love shall be best.
Me, thy poor tributary Rivolet,
Sun of my beauty, that with radiant beams
Dost gild, and dance upon these humble streams,
Curst be my birth-hour, and my ending day,
When back your love-floods I forget to pay:
Or if this brest of mine, your crystall brook,
Ever take other form in, other look
But yours, or ere produce unto your grace
A strange reflection, or anothers face,
But be your love-book clasp'd, open'd to none
But you, nor hold a storie, but your own;
A water fix'd, that ebbs nor floods pursue,
Frozen to all, onely dissolv'd to you.
To future times, and not be thought to lye?
I look through this hour like a perspective,
And far off see millions of prosperous seeds,
That our reciprocall affection breeds.
Thus my white rib, close in my brest with me,
Which nought shall tear hence, but mortalitie.
Love (me thinks) bathing in milk, and wine in her cheeks:
O! how she clips him, like a plant of Ivie.
Rin. I; Could not you be content to be an Owl in such an ivie-bush, or one of the Oaks of the City to be so clipt?
Frig. Equivocal Don, though I like the clipping well, I could not be content either to be your Owl, or your Ox of the City. The Play begins. [Flourish.
Enter a Poet with a garland.
Her, and her thunder-fearless virdant Bayes.
Four severall Triumphs to your Princely eyes,
Of Honor, Love, Death, and Time do rise
From our approaching subject, which we move
Towards you with fear, since that a sweeter Love,
A brighter Honor, purer Chastitie
March in your brests this day triumphantly,
Then our weak Scenes can show: then how dare we
Present like Apes and Zanies, things that be
Exemplifi'd in you, but that we know,
We ne'r crav'd grace, which you did not bestow?
Enter in triumph with Drums, Trumpets, Colours, Martius, Valerius, Sophocles bound, Nicodemus, Cornelius, Captains and Soldiers.
And not to follow him like his Officer:
I never waited yet on any man.
My blows have conquerd thee.
Cato thy countrey-man (whose constancie,
Of all the Romans, I did honor most)
Rip'd himself twice to avoid slavery,
Making himself his own Anatomie.
But look thee Martius, not a vein runs here
From head to foot, but Sophocles would unseame, and
Like a spring garden shoot his scornfull blood
Into their eyes, durst come to tread on him:
As for thy blows, they did [not] conquer me:
Seven Battailes have I met thee face to face,
And given thee blow for blow, and wound for wound,
And till thou taught'st me, knew not to retire;
Thy sword was then as bold, thy arm as strong;
Thy blows then Martius, cannot conquer me.
Thou art the worse man, and must follow him.
Or his, or your's, or mine, in good or evill
For any certain space, thou hadst spoke truth:
But she but jests with man, and in mischance
Abhors all constancie, flowting him still
With some small touch of good, or seeming good
Midst of his mischief: which vicissitude
Makes him strait doff his armour, and his fence
He had prepar'd before, to break her strokes.
So from the very Zenith of her wheel,
When she has dandled some choice favorite,
Given him his boons in women, honor, wealth,
And all the various delecacies of earth;
That the fool scorns the gods in his excess,
She whirls, and leaves him at th' Antipodes.
His fettred arms say no; his free soul, I.
This Athens nurseth Arts, as well as Arms.
'Tis behind yesterday, but before to morrow:
Who knows what Fortune then will do with thee?
She never yet could make the better man,
The better chance she has: the man that's best
She still contends with, and doth favor least.
Breaks from his lips; I am amaz'd to hear,
And Athens words, more then her swords doth fear.
(And did thy Roman gods so love thy prayers,
And solemn sacrifice, to grant thy suit)
To gather all the valour of the Cæsars
Thy Predecessors, and what is to come,
And by their influence fling it on thee now,
Thou couldst not make my mind go less, not pare
With all their swords one virtue from my soul:
How am I vassall'd then? Make such thy slaves,
As dare not keep their goodness past their graves.
Know General, we two are chances on
The die of Fate; now thrown, thy six is up,
And my poor one beneath thee, next th[y] throw
May set me upmost, and cast thee below.
Is mans true touchstone: Listen insolent Prince,
That dar'st contemn the Master of thy life,
Which I will force here 'fore thy City walls
With barbarous crueltie, and call thy wife
To see it, and then after send her—
Depopulate her, fright away her fame,
And leave succession neither stone nor name.
For mercy, Sophocles, and live happy still.
I never kneel'd, or begg'd of any else.
Thou art a fool, and I will loose no more
Instructions on thee: now I find thy eares [Solemn Musick.
Enter Dorigen, Ladyes bearing a sword.
Oh! must she see me bound?
He breath'd since he was born, I think.
All but the Lady his wife.
The manacles of my hands, that let them not
Embrace my Dorigen.
And ask thy life of Martius thus, and thou
(With thy fair wife) shalt live; Athens shall stand,
And all her priviledges augmented be.
Which (Romans) I do know a worthie one,
Then Sophocles should shrink of Sophocles,
Commit profane Idolatry, by giving
The reverence due to gods to thee blown man.
And of a couser wale, fuller of pride,
Less temperate to bear prosperity.
Thou seest my meer neglect hath rais'd in thee
A storm more boystrous then the Oceans,
My virtue, Patience, makes thee vitious.
Victorious, godlike Martius, your poor handmaid
Kneels, for her husband will not, cannot: speaks
Thus humbly, that he may not. Listen Roman,
Thou whose advanced front doth speak thee Roman
To every Nation, and whose deeds assure 't;
Behold a Princess (whose declining head
Like to a drooping lilly after storms
Bowes to thy feet) and playing here the slave,
To keep her husbands greatness unabated:
All which doth make thy Conquest greater: For,
If he be base in ought whom thou hast taken,
Then Martius hath but taken a base prize.
But if this Jewell hold lustre and value,
Martius is richer then in that he hath won.
O make him such a Captive, as thy self
Unto another wouldst, great Captain, be;
Till then, he is no prisoner fit for thee.
Old crabbed Saturn to sweet sleep, when Jove
Did first incense him with Rebellion:
Athens doth make women Philosophers,
And sure their children chat the talk of gods.
The Generals resolution.
From Sophocles would calm him into tears,
Like gentle showres after tempestuous winds.
A look, a tear, a knee, 'gainst his own judgement,
And the divine composure of his minde:
All which I therefore doe, and here present
This Victors wreathe, this rich Athenian sword,
Trophies of Conqu[e]st, which, great Martius, wear,
And be appeas'd: Let Sophocles still live.
When he shall so forget, then I begin
To command, Martius; and when he kneels,
Dorigen stands; when he lets fall a tear,
I dry mine eyes, and scorn him.
Here in the face of Athens, and thy friends.
Self-will'd, stiff Sophocles, prepare to die,
And by that sword thy Lady honor'd me,
With which her self shall follow. Romans, Friends,
Who dares but strike this stroke, shall part with me
Half Athens, and my half of Victorie.
To Eclipse this great Eclipse labours thy fame;
Valerius thy Brother shall for once
Turn Executioner: Give me the sword.
Now Sophocles, I'll strike as suddenly
As thou dar'st die.
'Tis less dishonour to thee thus to kill me,
Then bid me kneel to Martius: 'tis to murther
The fame of living men, which great ones do;
Their studies strangle, poyson makes away,
The wretched hangman only ends the Play.
Yonder above, 'bout Ariadnes Crown
My spirit shall hover for thee; prethee haste.
Let not soft nature so transform[e]d be
(And lose her gentle[r] sex'd humanitie)
To make me see my Lord bleed. So, 'tis well:
Never one object underneath the Sun
Will I behold before my Sophocles.
Farewell: now teach the Romans how to die.
And therefore not what 'tis to live; to die
Is to begin to live: It is to end
An old stale weary work, and to commence
A newer and a better. 'Tis to leave
Deceitfull knaves for the societie
Of gods and goodness. Thou thy self must part
At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, Triumphs,
And prove thy fortitude, what then 'twill do.
To them I ever lov'd best? now I'll kneel,
But with my back toward thee; 'tis the last duty
This trunk can doe the gods.
Or Martius heart will leap out at his mouth.
This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy Lord,
And live with all the freedome you were wont.
O Love! thou doubly hast afflicted me,
With virtue, and with beauty. Treacherous heart,
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urne,
E're thou transgress this knot of pietie.
Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.
Fit words to follow such a deed as this?
With his disdain of Fortune, and of Death,
Captiv'd himself, hath captivated me:
And though my arm hath ta'ne his body here,
His soul hath subjugated Martius soul:
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;
He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot b[e] gyv'd;
Then we have vanquish'd nothing; he is free,
And Martius walks now in captivitie.
Is sunk down to your heart, and your bright eyes
Have lost their splendor.
When the Sun shines on 'em: I am not well,
An Apoplectick fit I use to have
After my heats in war carelesly coold.
Till this distemper leave him: O! great Roman,
See Sophocles doe that for thee, he could not
Do for himself, weep. Martius, by the——
It grieves me that so brave a soul should suffer
Under the bodies weak infirmitie.
Sweet Lady, take him to thy loving charge,
And let thy care be tender.
I am your Nurse and servant.
My Mistris, nay my Deity; guide me heaven,
Ten wreathes triumphant Martius will give,
To change a Martius for a Sophocles:
Can't not be done (Valerius) with this boot?
Inseparable affection, ever thus
Colleague with Athens Rome.
Whilest Dorigen thus honors Martius brow
With one victorious wreath more.
Thus girds his Sword of conquest to his thigh,
Which ne'r be drawn, but cut out Victorie.
Corn. Corporall Nichodemus, a word with you.
Nic. My worthie Sutler Cornelius, it befits not Nichodemus the Roman Officer to parley with a fellow of thy rank: the affairs of the Empire are to be occupied.
Corn. Let the affaires of the Empire lie a while unoccupied, sweet Nichodemus; I doe require the money at thy hands, which thou doest owe me; and if faire means cannot attain, force of Armes shall accomplish.
Nic. Put up and live.
Corn. I have put up too much already, thou Corporall of Concupiscence, for I suspect thou hast dishonored my flock-bed, and with thy foolish Eloquence, and that bewitching face of thine drawn my Wife, the young harlotrie baggage to prostitute herself unto thee. Draw therefore, for thou shalt find thyself a mortall Corporall.
Nichod. Stay thy dead-doing hand, and heare: I will rather descend from my honor, and argue these contumelies with thee, then clutch thee (poor flye) in these eaglet —— of mine: or draw my sword of Fate on a Pesant, a Besognio, a Cocoloch, as thou art. Thou shalt first understand this foolish eloquence, and intolerable beauty of mine (both which, I protest, are meerly naturall) are the gifts of the gods, with which I have neither sent baudy Sonnet, nor amorous glance, or (as the vulgar call it) sheeps eye to thy betrothed Florence.
Cor. Thou lyest.
To hear these braveries from a poor provant?
Yet when dogs bark, or when the asses bray,
The lion laughs, not roars, but goes his way.
Cornel. A —— o' your poeticall veine: This versifying my wife has hornified me. Sweet Corporall codshead, no more standing on your punctilio's and punketto's of honor, they are not worth a lowse: the truth is, thou art the Generals Bygamie, that is, his fool, and his knave; thou art miscreant and recreant, not an horse-boy in the Legions, but has beaten thee; thy beginning was knap-sack, and thy ending will be halter-sack.
Nich. Me thinks I am now Sophocles, the wise, and thou art Martius, the mad.
Cornel. No more of your tricks good Corporall Letherchops: I say, thou hast dishonour'd me, and since honor now adaies is only repaired by money, pay me, and I am satisfied: Even reckoning keeps long friends.
Nic. Let us continue friends then, for I have been even with thee a long time; and though I have not paid thee, I have paid thy wife.
Corn. Flow forth my tears, thou hast deflowred her Tarquin, the Garden of my delight, hedg'd about, in which there was but one bowling Alley for mine owne private procreation, thou hast, like a thief in the night, leap'd the hedge, entred my Alley, and without my privitie, plaid thine owne rubbers.
Is it my fault, if these attractive eyes,
This budding chin, or rosie-colour'd cheek,
This comely body, and this waxen leg,
Have drawn her into a fools paradise?
By Cupids —— I do swear (no other)
She's chaster far then Lucrece, her grand-mother;
Pure as glass-window, ere the rider dash it,
Whiter then Ladyes smock, when she did wash it:
For well thou wotst (though now my hearts Commandress)
I once was free, and she but the Camps Landress.
Corn. I, she then came sweet to me; no part about her but smelt of Soap-suds, like a Dryad out of a wash-bowl. Pray, or pay.
Nich. Hold.
Was not thy Ale the mightiest of the earth in Malt,
And thy stope fill'd like a tide: was not thy bed soft, and
Thy Bacon fatter then a dropsie? Come, Sir.
Of our Tragedi[a]n Actors. Honor pricks;
And Sutler, now I come with thwacks and thwicks.
Grant us one crush, one pass, and now a high, Cavalto fall:
Then up again, now down again, yet do no harm at all.
Enter Wife.
Wife. O that ever I was born: why Gent?
Corn. Messaline of Rome, away, disloyal Concubine: I will be deafer to thee, then thou art to others: I will have my hundred drachma's he owes me, thou arrant whore.
Wife. I know he is an hundred drachmaes o'the score; but what o' that? no bloodshed, sweet Cornelius. O my heart; o' my conscience 't is faln thorow the bottom of my bellie. O my sweet Didimus, if either of ye miskil one another, what will become of [p]oor Florence? Pacifie your selves, I pray.
Corn. Go to, my heart is not stone; I am not marble: drie your eyes, Florence; the scurvie apes-face knows my blinde side well enough: leave your puling; will this content ye? let him tast thy nether lip, which in signe of amitie I thus take off again: go thy ways, and provide the Cows udder.
Nich. Lilie of Concord. And now, honest Sutler, since I have had proof as well of thy good nature, as of thy wives before, I will acquaint thee with a project shall fully satisfie thee for thy debt. Thou shalt understand I am shortly to be knighted.
Corn. The devil thou art.
Nich. Renounce me else; for the sustenance of which Worship (which Worship many times wants sustenance) I have here the Generals grant to have the leading of two hundred men.
Corn. You jest, you jest.
Nich. Refuse me else to the pit.
Corn. Mercie on us: ha you not forgot your self? by you[r] swearing you should be knighted already.
Nich. Damn me, Sir, here's his hand, read it.
Corn. Alas, I cannot.
Nich. I know that.
It has pleas'd the General to look upon my service. Now, Sir, shall you joyn with me in petitioning for fifty men more, in regard of my arrearages to you; which if granted, I will bestow the whole profit of those fifty men on thee and thine heirs for ever, till Atropos do cut this simple thred.
Corn. No more, dear Corporal, Sir Nichodemus, that shall be, I cry your wishes mercie: I am your servant body and goods, moveables and immoveables; use my house, use my wife, use me, abuse me, do what you list.
Nich. A figment is a candid lye: this is an old Pass. Mark what follows. [Exeunt.
Enter Martius, and two Captains.
Keep me not company, I am turn'd knave,
Have lost my fame and nature. Athens, Athens,
This Dorigen is thy Palladium:
He that will sack thee, must betray her first,
Whose words wound deeper than her husbands sword;
Her eyes make captive still the Conqueror,
And here they keep her only to that end.
O subtill devil, what a golden ball
Did tempt, when thou didst cast her in my way!
Why, foolish Sophocles, broughtst thou not to field
Thy Lady, that thou mightst have overcome?
Martius had kneel'd, and yielded all his wreathes
That hang like Jewels on the seven-fold hill,
And bid Rome, send him out to fight with men,
(For that she knew he durst) and not 'gainst Fate
Or Deities, what mortal conquers them?
Insatiate Julius, when his Victories
Had run ore half the world, had he met her,
There he had stopt the legend of his deeds,
Laid by his Arms, been overcome himself,
And let her vanquish th' other half. And fame
Made beauteous Dorigen, the greater name.
Shall I thus fall? I will not; no, my tears
Cast on my heart, shall quench these lawless fires:
He conquers best, conquers his lewd desires.
Enter Dorigen, with Ladyes.
And thinks your retir'd melancholy proceeds
From some distast of worthless entertainment.
Will't please you take your chamber? how d'ye do, Sir?
Doth Ocean-like oreflow the shallow shore
Of my weak virtue: my desire's a vane,
That the least breath from her turns every way.
And I'll reveal my grief.
Might be enjoyed) are languishing delays.
There is a secret strange lies in my brest,
I will partake wi' you, which much concerns
Your Lord, your self, and me. Oh!
Should not be made so cheap to strangers: yet,
If your strange secret do no lower lie
Then in your brest, discover it.
Oh! can you not see it, Lady, in my sighs?
That master'd monsters, was by beautie tam'd,
Omphale smil'd his club out of his hand,
And made him spin her smocks. O sweet, I love you,
And I love Sophocles: I must enjoy you,
And yet I would not injure him.
You hurt me, Sir: fare well. Stay, is this Martius?
I will not tell my Lord; he'll swear I lye.
Doubt my fidelitie, before thy honor.
How hast thou vex'd the gods, that they would let thee
Thus violate friendship, hospitalitie,
And all the bounds of sacred pietie?
Sure thou but tri'st me out of love to him,
And wouldst reject me, if I did consent.
O Martius, Martius, wouldst thou in one minute,
Blast all thy Laurels, which so many years
Thou hast been purchasing with blood and sweat?
Hath Dorigen never been written, read,
Without the epithet of chast, chast Dorigen?
And wouldst thou fall upon her chastitie,
Like a black drop of ink, to blot it out?
When men shall read the records of thy valour,
Thy hitherto-brave virtue, and approach
(Highly content yet) to this foul assault
Included in this leaf, this ominous leaf,
They shall throw down the Book, and read no more,
Though the best deeds ensue, and all conclude,
That ravell'd the whole story, whose sound heart
(Which should have been) prov'd the most leprous part.
Do fall like rods upon me; but they have
Such silken lines, and silver hooks, that I
Am faster snar'd: my love has ta'en such hold,
That (like two wrestlers) though thou stronger be,
And hast cast me, I hope to pull thee after.
I must, or perish.
For I here vow unto the gods, These rocks,
These rocks we see so fix'd, shall be removed,
Made champion field, ere I so impious prove,
To stain my Lords bed with adulterous love.
Enter Valerius.
From all you wolvish Romanes. [Exit.
Still, brother, in your moods? O th[e]n my doubts
Are truths. Have at it: I must try a way
To be resolv'd.
And lop a villain from the earth; for if
Thou wilt not, on some tree about this place
I'll hang my self; Valerius shall not live
To wound his brothers honor, stain his Countrey,
And branded with ingratitude to all times.
Val. Even to the height of lust; and I must have her or else I die.
On all the confines I have rid my horse,
Was there no other woman for thy choice
But Dorigen? Why, villain, she is mine:
She makes me pine thus, sullen, mad, and fool;
'T is I must have her, or I die.
With mercy look on this declining rock
Of valour, and of virtue; breed not up
(From infancie) in honor, to full man,
As you have done him, to destroy: here, strike;
For I have onely search'd thy wound: dispatch;
Far, far be such love from Valerius,
So far he scorns to live to be call'd brother
By him that dares own such folly and such vice.
If heaven will snatch my sword out of my hand,
And put a rattle in it, what can I do?
He that is destin'd to be odious
In his old age, must undergo his fate.
Enter Cornelius and Nichodemus.