The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mermaid Series. Edited by H. Ellis. The best plays of the old dramatists. Thomas Dekker. Edited, with an introduction and notes by Ernest Rhys., by Thomas Dekker

Fortune. Fool, clear thine eyes, this is bright Aretë,[395]
This is poor virtue, care not how the world
Doth crown her head, the world laughs her to scorn,
Yet “Sibi sapit,” Virtue knows her worth.
Run after her, she’ll give thee these and these,
Crowns and bay-garlands, honour’s victories:
Serve her, and she will fetch thee pay from Heaven,
Or give thee some bright office in the stars.

Andel. Immortal Aretë, Virtue divine: [Kneels.
O smile on me, and I will still be thine.

Virtue. Smile thou on me, and I will still be thine:
Though I am jealous of thy apostasy,
I’ll entertain thee: here, come taste this tree,
Here’s physic for thy sick deformity.

Andel. Tis bitter: this fruit I shall ne’er digest.

Virtue. Try once again, the bitterness soon dies.

Vice. Mine’s sweet, taste mine.

Virtue. But being down ’tis sour,
And mine being down has a delicious taste.
The path that leads to Virtue’s court is narrow,
Thorny and up a hill, a bitter journey,
But being gone through, you find all heavenly sweets,
The entrance is all flinty, but at th’ end,
To towers of pearl and crystal you ascend.

Andel. O delicate, O sweet Ambrosian relish,
And see, my ugliness drops from my brows,
Thanks, beauteous Aretë: O had I now
My hat and purse again, how I would shine,
And gild my soul with none but thoughts divine.

Fortune. That shall be tried, take fruit from both these trees,
By help of them, win both thy purse and hat,
I will instruct thee how, for on my wings
To England shalt thou ride; thy virtuous brother
Is, with that Shadow who attends on thee,
In London, there I’ll set thee presently.
But if thou lose our favours once again,
To taste her sweets, those sweets must prove thy bane.

Virtue. Vice, who shall now be crowned with victory?

Vice. She that triumphs at last, and that must I. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—London. The Court of Athelstane.

Enter Athelstane, Lincoln with Agripyne, Cyprus, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Longaville and Montrose.

Athelst. Lincoln, how set’st thou her at liberty?

Linc. No other prison held her but your court,
There in her chamber hath she hid herself
These two days, only to shake off that fear,
Which her late violent rapture cast upon her.

Cypr. Where hath the beauteous Agripyne been?

Agrip. In Heaven or hell, in or without the world,
I know not which, for as I oft have seen,
When angry Thamesis hath curled her locks,
A whirlwind come, and from her frizzled brows,
Snatch up a handful of those sweaty pearls,
That stood upon her forehead, which awhile,
Being by the boist’rous wind hung in the air,
At length hath flung them down and raised a storm,—
Even with such fury was I wherried up,
And by such force held prisoner in the clouds,
And thrown by such a tempest down again.

Cornw. Some soul is damned in hell for this black deed.

Agrip. I have the purse safe, and anon your grace
Shall hear the wondrous history at full.

Cypr. Tell me, tormentor, shall fair Agripyne,
Without more difference be now christened mine!

Agrip. My choice must be my father’s fair consent.

Athelst. Then shall thy choice end in this Cyprus prince.
Before the sun shall six times more arise,
His royal marriage will we solemnise.
Proclaim this honoured match! Come, Agripyne,
I am glad th’ art here, more glad the purse is mine.

[As they are going in, enter Andelocia and Shadow, disguised as Irish coster-mongers. Agripyne, Longaville, and Montrose stay listening to them, the rest exeunt.

Both. Buy any apples, feene apples of Tamasco,[396] feene Tamasco peepins: peeps feene, buy Tamasco peepins.

Agrip. Damasco apples? good my Lord Montrose,
Call yonder fellows.

Shad. Who calls: peeps of Tamasco, feene peeps: Ay, fat ’tis de sweetest apple in de world, ’tis better den de Pome water,[397] or apple John.[398]

Shad. I dare not say, as de Irishman my countryman say, taste de goodness of de fruit: no, sayt, ’tis farie teere, mistriss, by Saint Patrick’s hand ’tis teere Tamasco apple.

Agrip. The fairest fruit that ever I beheld.
Damasco apples, wherefore are they good?

Andel. Feeve and feeve? By my trat and as Creeze save me la, I cannot tell wat be de price of feeve and feeve, but ’tis tree crown for one peepin, dat is de preez if you take ’em.

Shad. O, ’tis feene Tamasco apple, and shall make you a great teal wise, and make you no fool, and make feene memory.

Andel. And make dis fash be more fair and amiable, and make dis eyes look always lovely, and make all de court and country burn in desire to kiss di none sweet countenance.

Montr. Apples to make a lady beautiful?
Madam, that’s excellent.

Agrip. These Irishmen,
Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear
These two the badge of their own country wear.

Andel. By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt he love di countryman, ’tis no dissembler: dis feene Tamasco apple can make di sweet countenance, but I can take no less but three crowns for one, I wear out my naked legs and my foots, and my tods,[400] and run hidder and didder to Tamasco for dem.

Agrip. I’ll try what power lies in Damasco fruit.
Here are ten crowns for three. So fare you well.

Montr. Lord Longaville, buy some.

Longa. I buy? not I:
Hang them, they are toys; come, madam, let us go. [Exeunt Agripyne, Longaville and Montrose.

Both. Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels look upon dat fash and make it fair.

Montr. ’Tis well, say nothing, here’s six crowns for two:
You say the virtues are to make one strong.

Both. Yes fat, and make sweet countenance and strong too.

Montr. ’Tis excellent: here! farewell! if these prove,
I’ll conquer men by strength, women by love. [Exit.

Longa. I am glad of it; here are nine crowns for three.
What are the virtues besides making fair?

Longa. ’Tis rare, farewell, I never yet durst woo.
None loves me: now I’ll try what these can do. [Exit.

Andel. Ha, ha, ha. So, this is admirable, Shadow, here end my torments in Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, but thine shall continue longer.

Andel. Thou art a gull,[401] tis all the fashion now, which fashion because we’ll keep, step thou abroad, let not the world want fools; whilst thou art commencing thy knavery there, I’ll precede Dr. Dodipoll [402] here: that done, thou, Shadow, and I will fat ourselves [403] to behold the transformation of these fools: go fly.

Shad. I fear nothing, but that whilst we strive to make others fools, we shall wear the cock’s combs ourselves. Pips fine. [Exit Shadow.

Andel. S’heart, here’s my brother whom I have abused:
His presence makes me blush, it strikes me dead,
To think how I am metamorphosèd.
Feene peepins of Tamasco!

Amp. For shame cast off this mask.

Andel. Wilt thou buy any pips?

Amp. Mock me no longer
With idle apparitions: many a land
Have I with weary feet and a sick soul
Measured to find thee; and when thou art found,
My greatest grief is that thou art not lost.
Yet lost thou art, thy fame, thy wealth are lost,
Thy wits are lost, and thou hast in their stead,
With shame and cares, and misery crowned thy head.
That Shadow that pursues thee, filled mine ears
With sad relation of thy wretchedness,
Where is the purse, and where my wishing hat?

Andel. Where, and where? are you created constable? You stand so much upon interrogatories. The purse is gone, let that fret you, and the hat is gone, let that mad you: I run thus through all trades to overtake them, if you be quiet, follow me, and help, if not, fly from me, and hang yourself. Wilt thou buy any pippins? [Exit.

Amp. Oh, how I grieve, to see him thus transformed?
Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes
He shall not start, till he have repossessed
Those virtuous jewels, which found once again,
More cause they ne’er shall give me to complain,
Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames,
And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. [Exit.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.—London. The Court of Athelstane.

Enter Athelstane, followed by Agripyne, Montrose, and Longaville with horns; then Lincoln and Cornwall.

Athelst. In spite of sorcery try once again,
Try once more in contempt of all damned spells.

Agrip. Your majesty fights with no mortal power.
Shame, and not conquest, hangs upon this strife.
O, touch me not, you add but pain to pain,
The more you cut, the more they grow again.

Linc. Is there no art to conjure down this scorn?
I ne’er knew physic yet against the horn.

Athelst. See, Prince of Cyprus, thy fair Agripyne
Hath turned her beauty to deformity.

Cypr. Then I defy thee, Love; vain hopes, adieu,
You have mocked me long; in scorn I’ll now mock you.
I came to see how the Lord Longaville
Was turned into a monster, and I find
An object, which both strikes me dumb and blind.
To-morrow should have been our marriage morn,
But now my bride is shame, thy bridegroom scorn.
tell me yet, is there no art, no charms,
No desperate physic for this desperate wound?

Athelst. All means are tried, but no means can be found.

Cypr. Then, England, farewell: hapless maid, thy stars,
Through spiteful influence set our hearts at wars.
I am enforced to leave thee, and resign
My love to grief.

Agrip. All grief to Agripyne.

Cypr. Adieu, I would say more, had I a tongue
Able to help his master: mighty king,
I humbly take my leave; to Cyprus I;
My father’s son must all such shame defy. [Exit.

Orle. So doth not Orleans; I defy all those
That love not Agripyne, and him defy,
That dares but love her half so well as I.
O pardon me! I have in sorrow’s jail
Been long tormented, long this mangled bosom
Hath bled, and never durst expose her wounds,
Till now, till now, when at thy beauteous feet
I offer love and life. Oh, cast an eye
Of mercy on me, this deformèd face
Cannot affright my soul from loving thee.

Agrip. Talk not of love, good Orleans, but of hate.

Orle. What sentence will my love pronounce on me?

Gall. Will Orleans then be mad? O gentle friend.

Orle. O gentle, gentle friend, I am not mad:
He’s mad, whose eyes on painted cheeks do doat,
O Galloway, such read beauty’s book by rote.
He’s mad, that pines for want of a gay flower,
Which fades when grief doth blast, or sickness lower,
Which heat doth wither, and white age’s frost
Nips dead: such fairness, when ’tis found, ’tis lost.
I am not mad, for loving Agripyne,
My love looks on her eyes with eyes divine;
I doat on the rich brightness of her mind,
That sacred beauty strikes all other blind.
O make me happy then, since my desires
Are set a burning by love’s purest fires.

Athelst. So thou wilt bear her far from England’s sight,
Enjoy thy wishes.

Agrip. Lock me in some cave,
Where staring wonder’s eye shall not be guilty
To my abhorrèd looks, and I will die
To thee, as full of love as misery.

Athelst. I am amazed and mad, some speckled soul
Lies pawned for this in hell, without redemption,
Some fiend deludes us all.

Cornw. O unjust Fates,
Why do you hide from us this mystery?

Linc. My Lord Montrose, how long have your brows worn
This fashion? these two feather springs of horn?

Montr. An Irish kerne sold me Damasco apples
Some two hours since, and like a credulous fool—
He swearing to me that they had this power
To make me strong in body, rich in mind—
I did believe his words, tasted his fruit,
And since have been attired in this disguise.

Longa. I fear that villain hath beguiled me too.

Cornw. Nay before God he has not cozened you,
You have it soundly.

Longa. Me he made believe,
One apple of Damasco would inspire
My thoughts with wisdom, and upon my cheeks
Would cast such beauty that each lady’s eye,
Which looked on me, should love me presently.

Agrip. Desire to look more fair, makes me more fool,[404]
Those apples did entice my wandering eye,
To be enamoured of deformity.

Athelst. This proves that true, which oft I have heard in schools,
Those that would seem most wise, do turn most fools.

Linc. Here’s your best hope, none needs to hide his face,
For hornèd foreheads swarm in every place.

Athelst. Now, Chester, what physicians hast thou found?

Chest. Many, my liege, but none that have true skill
To tame such wild diseases: yet here’s one,
A doctor and a Frenchman, whom report
Of Agripyne’s grief hath drawn to court.

Athelst. Cure her, and England’s treasury shall stand,
As free for thee to use, as rain from Heaven.

Montr. Cure me, and to thy coffers I will send
More gold from Scotland than thy life can spend.

Longa. Cure Longaville, and all his wealth is thine.

Andel. He Monsieur Long-villain,[405] gra tanck you: Gra tanck your mashesty a great teal artely by my trat: where be dis Madam Princeza dat be so mush tormenta? O Jeshu: one, two: an tree, four an five, seez horn: Ha, ha, ha, pardona moy prea wid al mine art, for by my trat, me can no point shose but laugh, Ha, ha, ha, to mark how like tree bul-beggera, dey stand. Oh, by my trat and fat, di divela be whoreson, scurvy, paltry, ill favore knave to mock de madam, and gentill-home so: Ha, ha, ha, ha.

Andel. No, by my trat la, but me lova musha musha merymant: come, madam, pre-artely stand still, and letta me feel you. Dis horn, O ’tis pretty horn, dis be facile, easy for pull de vey; but, madam, dis O be grand, grand horn, difficil, and very deep; ’tis perilous, a grand laroone. But, madam, prea be patient, we shall take it off vell.

Athelst. Thrice have we pared them off, but with fresh pain,
In compass of a thought they rise again.

Andel. It’s true, ’tis no easy mattra, to pull horn off, ’tis easy to pull on, but hard for pull off; some horn be so good fellow, he will still inhabit in de man’s pate, but ’tis all one for tat, I shall snap away all dis. Madam, trust dis down into your little belly.

Agrip. Father, I am in fear to taste his physic.
First let him work experiments on those.

Andel. I’ll sauce you for your infidelity.
In no place can I spy my wishing hat. [Aside.

Longa. Thou learned Frenchman, try thy skill on me,
More ugly than I am, I cannot be.

Montr. Cure me, and Montrose wealth shall all be thine.

Andel. ’Tis all one for dat! Shall do presently, madam, prea mark me. Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur Long-villain; dis so; now dis; fear noting, ’tis eshelent medicine! so, now cram dis into your guts, and belly; so, now snap away dis whoreson four divela; Ha, ha, is no point good? [Pulls Longaville’s horns off.

Athelst. This is most strange.
Was’t painful, Longaville?

Longa. Ease took them off, and there remains no pain.

Agrip. O try thy sacred physic upon me.

Andel. No by my trat, ’tis no possibla, ’tis no possibla, al de mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine, be among his and his belly: ’tis no possibla, till me prepare more.

Athelst. Prepare it then, and thou shalt have more gold
From England’s coffers, than thy life can waste.

Andel. I must buy many costly tings, dat grow in Arabia, in Asia, and America, by my trat ’tis no possibla till anoder time, no point.

Agrip. There’s nothing in the world, but may for gold
Be bought in England; hold your lap, I’ll rain
A shower of angels.

Andel. Fie, fie, fie, fie, you no credit le dockature? Ha, but vel, ’tis all one for tat: ’tis no mattera for gold! vel, vel, vel, vel, vel, me have some more, prea say noting, shall be presently prepara for your horns.

(Aside.) She has my purse, and yonder lies my hat,
Work, brains, and once more make me fortunate.—

Vel, vel, vel, vel, be patient, madam, presently, presently! Be patient, me have two, tree, four and five medicines for de horn: presently, madam, stand you der, prea wid all my art, stand you all der, and say noting,—so! nor look noting dis vey. So, presently, presently, madam, snip dis horn off wid de rushes and anoder ting by and by, by and by, by and by. Prea look none dis vey, and say noting. [Takes his hat.

Athelst. Let no man speak, or look, upon his life.
Doctor, none here shall rob thee of thy skill.

Would I were with my brother Ampedo! [Exit with Agripyne.

Agrip. Help, father, help, I am hurried hence perforce.

Athelst. Draw weapons, where’s the princess? follow him,
Stay the French doctor, stay the doctor there. [Cornwall and others run out, and presently re-enter.

Cornw. Stay him! ’s heart, who dare stay him? ’tis the devil
In likeness of a Frenchman, of a doctor.
Look how a rascal kite having swept up
A chicken in his claws, so flies this hell-hound
In th’ air with Agripyne in his arms.

Orle. Mount every man upon his swiftest horse.
Fly several ways, he cannot bear her far.

Gall. These paths we’ll beat. [Exeunt Galloway and Orleans.

Linc. And this way shall be mine. [Exit.

Cornw. This way, my liege, I’ll ride. [Exit.

Athelst. And this way I:
No matter which way, to seek misery. [Exit.

Longa. I can ride no way, to out-run my shame.

Montr. Yes, Longaville, let’s gallop after too;
Doubtless this doctor was that Irish devil,
That cozened us, the medicine which he gave us
Tasted like his Damasco villany.
To horse, to horse, if we can catch this fiend,
Our forkèd shame shall in his heart blood end.

Longa. O how this mads me, that all tongues in scorn,
Which way soe’er I ride, cry, ’ware the horn! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of Stocks in the background.

Agrip. O gentle Andelocia, pity me,
Take off this infamy, or take my life.

Andel. Your life? you think then that I am a true doctor indeed, that tie up my living in the knots of winding sheets: your life? no, keep your life, but deliver your purse: you know the thief’s salutation,—“Stand and deliver.” So, this is mine, and these yours: I’ll teach you to live by the sweat of other men’s brows.

Andel. Right, Shadow: therefore vanish, you have made me turn juggler, and cry “hey-pass,” but your horns shall not repass.[406]

Andel. Therefore not a word; go, trudge to your father. Sigh not for your purse, money may be got by you, as well as by the little Welshwoman in Cyprus, that had but one horn in her head;[407] you have two, and perhaps you shall cast both. As you use me, mark those words well, “as you use me,” nay, y’are best fly, I’ll not endure one word more. Yet stay too, because you entreat me so gently, and that I’ll make some amends to your father,—although I care not for any king in Christendom, yet hold you, take this apple, eat it as you go to court, and your horns shall play the cowards and fall from you.

Andel. Tricks, Ampedo, tricks, devices, and mad hieroglyphics, mirth, mirth, and melody. O, there’s more music in this, than all the gamut airs, and sol fa res, in the world; here’s the purse, and here’s the hat: because you shall be sure I’ll not start, wear you this, you know its virtue. If danger beset you, fly and away: a sort of broken-shinned limping-legged jades run hobbling to seek us. Shadow, we’ll for all this have one fit of mirth more, to make us laugh and be fat.

Shad. And when we are fat, master, we’ll do as all gluttons do, laugh and lie down.

Andel. Hie thee to my chamber, make ready my richest attire, I’ll to court presently.

Shad. I’ll go to court in this attire, for apparel is but the shadow of a man, but shadow is the substance of his apparel. [Exit Shadow.

Andel. Away, away, and meet me presently.

Amp. I had more need to cry away to thee.
Away, away with this wild lunacy,
Away with riots.

Andel. Away with your purity, brother, y’are an ass. Why doth this purse spit out gold but to be spent? why lives a man in this world, to dwell in the suburbs of it, as you do? Away, foreign simplicity, away: are not eyes made to see fair ladies? hearts to love them? tongues to court them, and hands to feel them? Out, you stock, you stone, you log’s end: Are not legs made to dance, and shall mine limp up and down the world after your cloth-stocking-heels? You have the hat, keep it. Anon I’ll visit your virtuous countenance again; adieu! Pleasure is my sweet mistress, I wear her love in my hat, and her soul in my heart: I have sworn to be merry, and in spite of Fortune and the black-browed Destinies, I’ll never be sad. [Exit.

Amp. Go, fool; in spite of mirth, thou shalt be sad.
I’ll bury half thy pleasures in a grave
Of hungry flames; this fire I did ordain
To burn both purse and hat: as this doth perish,
So shall the other; count what good and bad
They both have wrought, the good is to the ill
As a small pebble to a mighty hill.
Thy glory and thy mischiefs here shall burn;
Good gifts abused to man’s confusion turn.

Longa. This is his brother: soldiers, bind his arms.

Montr. Bind arms and legs, and hale the fiend away.

Amp. Uncivil: wherefore must I taste your spite?

Longa. Art thou not one of Fortunatus’ sons?

Amp. I am, but he did never do you wrong.

Longa. The devil thy brother has; villain, look here.

Montr. Where is the beauteous purse and wishing hat?

Amp. My brother Andelocia has the purse,
This way he’ll come anon to pass to court.
Alas, that sin should make men’s hearts so bold,
To kill their souls for the base thirst of gold.
The wishing hat is burnt.

SCENE II.—London. The Court of Athelstane.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.—London. The Court of Athelstane.

SCENE II.—An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of Stocks in the background.