ORDELLA.

Let it be what it may be then, what it dare,
I have a mind will hasard it.

THIERRY.

But, hark you;
What may that woman merit, makes this blessing?

ORDELLA.

Only her duty sir.

THIERRY.

'Tis terrible!

ORDELLA.

'Tis so much the more noble.

THIERRY.

'Tis full of fearful shadows!

ORDELLA.

So is sleep, sir,
Or anything that's merely ours and mortal.
We were begotten Gods else. But those fears,
Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts,
Fly, like the shapes of the clouds we form, to nothing.

THIERRY.

Suppose it death!

ORDELLA.

I do.

THIERRY.

And endless parting
With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness
With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason!
For in the silent grave, no conversation,
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,
No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard,
Nor nothing is, but all oblivion,
Dust and an endless darkness: and dare you, woman,
Desire this place?

ORDELLA.

'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest:
Children begin it to us, strong men seek it
And kings from height of all their painted glories,
Fall, like spent exhalations, to this centre....

THIERRY.

Then you can suffer?

ORDELLA.

As willingly as say it.

THIERRY.

Martell, a wonder!
Here's a woman that dares die.—Yet tell me,
Are you a wife?

ORDELLA.

I am, sir.

THIERRY.

And have children?
She sighs, and weeps.

ORDELLA.

Oh none, sir.

THIERRY.

Dare you venture,
For a poor barren praise you never shall hear,
To part with these sweet hopes?

ORDELLA.

With all but heaven.

(Thierry and Theodoret, acte IV.)

This lady
Walks discontented, with her watery eyes
Bent on the earth. The unfrequented woods
Are her delights; and when she sees a bank
Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell
Her servants what a pretty place it were
To bury lovers in; and make her maids
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corpse.
She carries with her an infectious grief,
That strikes all her beholders; she will sing
The mournful'st things that ever ear hath heard,
And sigh, and sing again; and when the rest
Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood,
Tell mirthful tales in course, that fill the room
With laughter, she will, with so sad a look,
Bring forth a story of the silent death
Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief
Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end,
She'll send them weeping, one by one, away.

(The Maid's tragedy, acte I.)

PENTHEA.

Pray, kill me....
Kill me, pray, nay, will you?

ITHOCLES.

How does thy lord esteem thee?

PENTHEA.

Such an one
As only you have made me; a faith-breaker,
A spotted whore. Forgive me, I am one,
In act, not in desires, the Gods must witness...:
For she that's wife to Orgilus, and lives
In known adultery with Bassanes
Is, at the best, a whore. Will kill me now?
The hand-maid to the wages
Of country toil, drinks the untroubled streams
With leaping kids and with the bleating lambs,
And so allays her thirst secure; whilst I
Quench my hot sighs with fleetings of my tears.

(Ford, the Broken heart.)

My glass of life, sweet princess, has few minutes
Remaining to run down; the sands are spent.
For by an inward messenger I feel
The summons of departure short and certain.
Glories
Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams
And shadows soon decaying; on the stage
Of my mortality, my youth has acted
Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length
By varied pleasures, sweetened in the mixture,
But tragical in issue.
That remedy
Must be a winding sheet, a fold of lead,
And some untrod-on corner in the earth.

(Ibid.)

In vain we labour in this course of life
To piece our journey out at length, or crave
Respite of breath; our home is in the grave.

(Ibid.)

Sure if we were all sirens, we should sing pitifully,
And 'twere a comely music, when in parts
One sung another's knell; the turtle sighs
When he hath lost his mate; and yet some say
He must be dead first. 'Tis a fine deceit
To pass away in a dream! Indeed, I've slept
With mine eyes open, a great while. No falsehood
Equals a broken faith. There's not a hair
Sticks on my head, but, like a leaden plummet,
It sinks me to the grave; I must creep thither,
This journey is not long.
.... Since I was first a wife, I might have been
Mother to many pretty prattling babes;
They would have smiled when I smiled; and, for certain,
I would have cried, when they cried;—Truly, brother,
My father would have pick'd me out a husband,
And then my little ones had been no bastards;
But 'tis too late for me to marry now,
I am past child bearing; 'tis not my fault....
Spare your hand.
Believe me, I'll not hurt it....
Complain not though I wring it hard; I'll kiss it;
Oh 'tis a fine soft palm!—Hark, in thine ear;
Like whom I look, prithee?—Nay, no whispering.
Goodness! we had been too happy; too much happiness
Will make folk proud, they say....
There is no peace left for a ravish'd wife
Widow'd by lawless marriage. To all memory
Penthea's, poor Penthea's name is strumpeted....
Forgive me, oh, I faint.

(Ibidem.)

There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead-men's fingers call them.
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.

(Hamlet, acte V, sc. i.)

With fairest flowers,...
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shallt not lack
The flower, that's like thy face; pale primrose; nor
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Outsweeten'd not thy breath.

(Cymbeline, IV, ii.)

Hunting the buck
I found him sitting by a fountain's side,
Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again so much in tears.
A garland laid him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me: but ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep,
As if he meant to make 'em grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields.
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.
Then he took up his garland, and did shew
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify; and how all, order'd thus
Express'd his grief; and to my thoughts, did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wish'd....
.... I gladly entertain'd him,
Who was as glad to follow, and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy,
That ever master kept.

(Philaster, I, 2.)

Through yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods, have I run,
Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun
Since the lusty spring began....

(The Faithful Shepherdess, acte I, sc. i.)

For to that holy wood is consecrate
A virtuous well, about whose flow'ry banks
The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds,
By the pale moon-shine, dipping oftentimes.
Their stolen children, so to make them free
From dying flesh, and dull mortality.

(Ibid., sc. ii.)

See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is,
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground.

(Ibid., acte II, sc. i.)

Oh, you are fairer far
Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star
That guides the wandering seaman through the deep!
.... I do believe thee: 'Tis as hard for me
To think thee false, and harder than for thee
To hold me foul.

(Ibid., acte I, sc. ii.)

Speak if thou be there, My Perigot! Thy Amoret, thy dear, Calles on thy loved name....

'Tis thy friend,
Thy Amoret; come hither, to give end
To these consumings. Look up, gentle boy!
I have forgot those pains and dear annoy
I suffer'd for thy sake, and am content
To be thy love again. Why hast thou rent
Those curled locks, where I have often hung
Ribbons and damask roses, and have flung
Waters distill'd to make thee fresh and gay,
Sweeter than nosegays on a bridal day?
Why dost thou cross thine arms, and hang thy face
Down to thy bosom, letting fall apace
From those two little heavens, upon the ground,
Showers of more price, more orient, and more round,
Than those that hang upon the moon's pale brow?
Cease these complainings, shepherd! I am now
The same I ever was, as kind and free,
And can forgive before you ask of me:
Indeed I am and will....
So this work hath end!
Farewell and live! Be constant to thy friend
That loves thee next!
I am thy love!
Thy Amoret, for ever more thy love!
Strike once more on my naked breast, I'll prove
As constant still. Oh! could'st thou love me yet,
How soon could I my former griefs forget!

(The Faithful Shepherdess, acte V, sc. iii et v.)

If you expect more than you had to-night,
The maker is sick and sad....
All that his faint and faltering tongue doth crave,
Is, that you not impute it to his brain,
That's yet unhurt, although, set round with pain,
It cannot long hold out.

(The New Inn, épilogue.)

Disease the enemy, and his engineers,
Want, with the rest of his conceal'd compeers
Have cast a trench about me, now five years....
The muse not peeps out, one of hundred days;
But lies block'd up, and straiten'd, narrow'd in,
Fix'd to bed and boards, unlike to win
Health, or scarce breath, as she had never been.

(An Epistle mendicant, 1631.)

With an armed and resolute hand,
I'll strip the ragged follies of the time.
Naked as at their birth....
And with a whip of steel,
Print wounding lashes in their iron ribs.
I fear no mood stamp'd in a private brow,
When I am pleased t'unmask a public vice;
I fear no strumpet's drugs, no ruffian's stab,
Shoud I detect their hateful luxuries.

(Every man out of his humour; Prologue.)

O sacred Poesy, thou spirit of arts
The soul of science, and the queen of souls,
What profane violence, almost sacrilege,
Hath here been offered thy divinities!
That thine own guiltless poverty should arm
Prodigious ignorance to wound thee thus!...
.... Would men learn but to distinguish spirits,
And set true difference 'twixt those jaded wits,
That run a broken pace for common hire,
And the high raptures of a happy muse,
Borne on the wings of her immortal thought
That kicks at earth with a disdainful heel,
And beats at heaven gates with her bright hoofs;
They would not then, with such distorted faces,
And desperate censures, stab at Poesy.

(Poetaster, acte I, sc. i.)

.... Now I see your wisdom, judgment, strength,
Quickness and will, to apprehend the means
To your own good and greatness, I protest
Myself through rarified, and turn'd all flame
In your affection.

(Sejan, acte II, sc. i.)

LIVIA.

How do I look to-day?

EUDEMUS.

Excellent clear, believe it. This same fucus
Was well laid on.

LIVIA.

Methinks 'tis here not white.

EUDEMUS.

Lend me your scarlet, lady. 'Tis the sun,
Hath giv'n some little taint unto the ceruse.
You should have used of the white oil I gave you.
Sejanus for your love! his very name
Commandeth above Cupid or his shafts....
'Tis now well, lady, you should
Use the dentifrice I prescribed to you too,
To clear your teeth, and the prepared pomatum
To smooth the skin.—A lady cannot be
Too curious of her form, that still would hold
The heart of such a person, made her captive,
As you have his; who to endear him more
In your clear eye, hath put away his wife,
Fair Apicata, and made spacious room
To your new pleasures.

LIVIA.

Have not we return'd
That with our hate to Drusus, and discovery
Of all his counsels?

When will you take some physik, lady?

LIVIA.

When
I shall, Eudemus; but let Drusus' drug
Be first prepared.

EUDEMUS.

Were Lygdus made, that's done;
I have it ready. And to morrow morning
I'll sent you a perfume, first to resolve
And procure sweat; and then prepare a bath
To cleanse and clear the cutis; against when
I'll have an excellent new fucus made
Resistive gainst the Sun, the rain or wind
Which you shall lay on with a breath or oil
As you but like, and last some fourteen hours.
This change came timely, lady, for your health....

(Ibidem.)

Protest not.
Thy looks are vows to me....
Thou art a man made to make consuls. Go.

(Acte I, sc. ii.)

Cæsar,
Live long and happy, great and royal Cæsar;
The Gods preserve thee, and thy modesty,
Thy wisdom and thy innocence!
Guard
His meekness, Jove; his piety, his care,
His bounty.

(Acte III, sc. i.)

The majesty of great Tiberius Cæsar
Propounds to this grave senate the bestowing
Upon the man he loves, honour'd Sejanus,
The tribunitial dignity and power.
Here are his letters, signed with his signet.
What pleaseth now the fathers to be done?

SENATORS.

Read them, read them, open, publicly read them.

COTTA.

Cæsar hath honour'd his own greatness much
In thinking of this act.

TRIO.

It was a thought
Happy, and worthy Cæsar.

LATIARIS.

And the lord
As worthy it, on whom it is directed!

HATERIUS.

Most worthy!

SANQUINIUS.

Rome did never boast the virtue
That could give envy bounds but his: Sejanus.

FIRST SENATOR.

Honour'd and noble!

SECOND SENATOR.

Good and great Sejanus!

PRÆCO.

Silence!

(Acte V, sc. x.)

«Some there be that would interpret his public severity to be particular ambition; and under a pretext of service to us, he doth but remove his own lets; alleging the strength he has made to himself by the prætorian soldiers, by his faction in court and senate, by the offices he holds himself, and confers on others, his popularity and dependents, his urging and almost driving us to this our unwilling retirement, and, lastly, his aspiring to be our son-in-law.

SENATOR.

«This is strange!»

SENATOR.

«O, he has restored all; list!

«Yet they are offered to be avered, and on the lives of the informers....»

FIRST SENATOR.

Away.

SECOND SENATOR.

Sit farther.

COTTA.

Let's remove....

REGULUS.

Take him hence.
And all the gods guard Cæsar!

TRIO.

Take him hence.

HATERIUS.

Hence.

COTTA.

To the dungeon with him.

SANQUINIUS.

He deserves it.

SENATOR.

Crown all our doors with bays.

SANQUINIUS.

And let an ox,
With gilded horns and garlands, straight be led
Unto the Capitol.

HATERIUS.

And sacrified
To Jove, for Cæsar's safety.

TRIO.

All our Gods
Be present still to Cæsar!...

COTTA.

Let all the traitor's titles be defaced.

TRIO.

His images and statues be pull'd down.

SENATOR.

Liberty! liberty! liberty! Lead on,
And praised be Macro, that hath saved Rome!

(Ibidem.)

Though need make many poets, and some such
As art and nature have not better'd much,
Yet ours for want hath not so loved the stage,
As he dare serve the ill customs of the age,
Or purchase your delight at such a rate,
As, for it, he himself must justly hate.
To make a child new-swaddled to proceed
Man, and then shoot up, in one beard and weed,
Past threescore years; or with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot and half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars....
He rather prays you will be pleas'd to see
One such to-day as other plays should be;
Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas,
Nor creaking throne comes down the boys to please,
Nor nimble squib is seen to make afear
The gentlewomen....
But deeds and language such as men do use....
You, that have so grac'd monsters, may like men.

(Every man in his humour, Prologue.)

I will scourge those apes,
And to those courteous eyes oppose a mirror,
As large as is the stage whereon we act;
Where they shall see the time's deformity
Anatomized in every nerve and sinew,
With constant courage and contempt of fear....
My strict hand
Was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe
Squeeze out the humour of such spongy souls
As lick up every idle vanity.

(Every man out of his humour, Prologue.)

Good morning to the day, and, next, my gold!
Open the shrine, that I may see my saint.
Hail the world's soul and mine!... O thou son of Sol,
But brighter than thy father, let me kiss,
With adoration, thee and every relick
Of sacred treasure in this blessed room!

(Acte I, sc. i.)

Letting the cherry knock against their lips,
And draw it by their mouths, and back again.

(Ibidem.)

VOLTORE.

Am I inscribed his heir for certain?

MOSCA.

Are you?
I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe
To write me in your family. All my hopes
Depend upon your worship. I am lost,
Except the rising sun do shine on me.

VOLTORE.

It shall both shine and warm thee, Mosca.

MOSCA.

Sir, I am a man that hath not done your love
All the worst offices; here I wear your keys,
See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,
Your plate and monies; am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods here.

VOLTORE.

But am I sole heir?

MOSCA.

Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this morning;
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.

VOLTORE.

Happy, happy me!
By what good chance, sweet Mosca?

MOSCA.

Your desert, sir;
I know no second cause....
When will you have your inventory brought, sir?
Or see a copy of the will?

(Acte I, sc. i.)

MOSCA.

His mouth
Is ever gaping and his eyelids hang.

CORBACCIO.

Good.

MOSCA.

A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints
And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.

CORBACCIO.

'Tis good.

MOSCA.

His pulse beats slow and dull.

CORBACCIO.

Good symptoms still.

MOSCA.

And from his brain....

CORBACCIO.

I conceive you; good.

MOSCA.

Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum,
Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

CORBACCIO.

Is't possible? Yet I am better, ha!
How does he, with the swimming of his head?

MOSCA.

O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy; he now
Hath left his feeling, and has left to snort:
You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes.

CORBACCIO.

Excellent, excellent! Sure, I shall outlast him.
This makes me young again, a score of years.

(Ibid.)

CORVINO.

Am I his heir?

MOSCA.

Sir, I am sworn, I may not show the will
Till he be dead; but here has been Corbaccio,
Here has been Voltore, here were others too;
I cannot number 'em, they were so many,
All gaping here for legacies; but I,
Taking the vantage of his naming you,
Signior Corvino, signior Corvino, took
Paper and pen and ink, and there I asked him,
Whom he would have his heir? Corvino. Who
Should be executor? Corvino. And
To any question he was silent to,
I still interpreted the nods he made
Through weakness for consent, and sent home th' others,
Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse.

CORVINO.

O, my dear Mosca!... Has he children?

MOSCA.

Bastards, Some dozen or more, that he begat on beggars,
Gypsies and Jews, and black-moors, when he was drunk....
Speak out,
You may be louder yet.
Faith, I could stifle him rarely with a pillow,
As well as any woman that should keep him.

CORVINO.

Do as you will; but I'll begone.

My divine Mosca!
Thou hast to-day outgone thyself....
Prepare
Me music, dances, banquets, all delights;
The Turk is not more sensual in his pleasures
Than will Volpone.

(Ibid.)

VOLPONE.

Mosca, take my keys,
Gold, plate and jewels, all's at thy devotion;
Employ them how thou wilt; nay, coin me too,
So thou, in this, but crown my longings, Mosca....

MOSCA.

Have you no kinswoman?...
... Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir.
One o' the doctors offer'd his daughter.

CORVINO.

How?

MOSCA.

Yes, signior Lupo, the physician.

CORVINO.

His daughter!

MOSCA.

And a virgin, sir....

CORVINO.

Wretch!
Covetous wretch!

(Acte II, sc. iii.)

Be damn'd!
Heart, I will drag thee hence, home, by the hair,
Cry thee a strumpet through the streets; rip up
Thy mouth into thine ears; and slit thy nose,
Like a raw rocket!—Do not tempt me, come,
Yield, I am loth.—Death! I will buy some slave
Whom I will kill, and bind thee to him, alive,
And at my window hang you forth, devising
Some monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters,
Will eat into thy flesh with aqua-fortis,
And burning corsives on this stubborn breast.
Now, by the blood thou hast incensed, I'll do it!

CELIA.

Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr.

CORVINO.

Be not thus obstinate; I have not deserved it.
Think who it is intreats you. 'Prithee, sweet.
Good faith, thou shalt have jewels, gowns, attires,
What thou wilt think and ask. Do but go kiss him.
Or touch him, but. For my sake, at my suit.
This once.—No? not? I shall remember this.
Will you disgrace me thus? Do you thirst my undoing?

(Acte III, v.)

MOSCA.

Sir,
Signior Corvino.... hearing of the consultation had
So lately for your health, is come to offer,
Or rather, sir, to prostitute....

CORVINO.

Thanks, sweet Mosca.

MOSCA.

Freely, unask'd, or unintreated.

CORVINO.

Well.

MOSCA.

As the true fervent instance of his love,
His own most fair and proper wife; the beauty
Only of price in Venice.

CORVINO.

'Tis well urged.

(Ibid.)

Take these,
And wear, and lose them; yet remains an ear ring,
To purchase them again, and this whole state.
A gem but worth a private patrimony
Is nothing. We will eat such at a meal.
The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales,
The brains of peacocks and of estriches
Shall be our food....
Conscience? 'Tis the beggar's virtue....
Thy bathes shall be the juice of july-flower,
Spirit of roses and violets,
The milk of unicorns and panther's breath
Gather'd in bags, and mixt with Cretan wines.
Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber,
Which we will take, until my roof whirl round
With the vertigo; and my dwarf shall dance,
My eunuch sing, my fool make up the antic,
Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovid's tales,
Thou like Europa now, and I like Jove,
Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine,
So of the rest, till we have quite run through,
And wearied all the fables of the Gods.

(Acte III, sc. v.)

CORVINO.

This woman, please your fatherhoods, is a whore,
Of most hot exercise, more than a partrich,
Upon record.

FIRST AVOCAT.

No more.

CORVINO.

Neighs like a jennet.

NOTARY.

Preserve the honour of the court.

CORVINO.

I shall,
And modesty of your most reverend ears.
And yet I hope that I may say, these eyes
Have seen her glued unto that piece of cedar,
That fine well timber'd gallant; and that here
The letters may be read, through the horn,
That make the story perfect.

THIRD AVOCAT.

His grief hath made him frantic.

(Cœlia swoons.)

CORVINO.

Rare!
Prettily feign'd; again!...

MOSCA.

To gull the court.

VOLPONE.

And quite divert the torrent
Upon the innocent....

MOSCA.

You are not taken with it enough, methinks.

VOLPONE.

O, more than if I had enjoy'd the wench!

(Acte IV, sc. ii; acte V, sc. i.)

Why would you stay here? With what thought, what promise?
Hear you; do you not know, I know you an ass,
And that you would most fain have been a wittol,
If fortune would have let you? That you are
A declared cuckold, on good terms? This pearl,
You'll say, was yours? Right. This diamond?
I'll not deny't, but thank you. Much here else?
It may be so. Why, think that all these good works
May help to hide your bad....

CORBACCIO.

I am cozen'd, cheated, by a parasite slave;
Harlot, thou hast gull'd me.

MOSCA.

Yes, sir; stop your mouth,
Or I shall draw the only tooth is left.
Are you not he, that filthy covetous wretch,
With the three legs, that here, in hope of prey,
Have, any time, this three years, snuff'd about,
With your most grovelling nose, and would have hired
Me to the poisoning of my patron, sir?
Are you not he that have to day in court
Profess'd the disinheriting of your son,
Perjured yourself? Go home, and die, and stink.

(Acte V, sc. i.)

CORVINO.

Yes,
And have mine eyes beat out with stinking fish,
Bruised fruit, and rotten eggs.—'Tis well. I am glad
I shall not see my shame yet.

(Acte V, sc. viii.)

Why, did you think you had married a statue, or a motion only? one of the French puppets, with the eyes turned with a wire? or some innocent out of the hospital that would stand with her hands thus, and a plaise mouth, and look upon you?

(Acte III, scène ii.)