THE SPANISH GIPSY.

The Spanish Gipsie. As it was Acted (with great Applause) at the Privat House in Drury-Lane, and Salisbury Court.

Written by bracket Thomas Midleton
and
William Rowley bracket Gent.

Never Printed before. London, Printed by J. G. for Richard Marriot in St. Dunstans Church-yard, Fleetstreet, 1653. 4to.

Another ed. appeared in 1661. 4to.

The Spanish Gipsy has been reprinted in the 4th vol. of A Continuation of Dodsley’s Old Plays, 1816.

I have met with no earlier mention of it than that which occurs under a “Note of such playes as were acted at court in 1623 and 1624,” in Sir Henry Herbert’s office-book; “Upon the fifth of November att Whitehall, the prince being there only, The Gipsye, by the Cockpitt company.” Malone’s Shakespeare (by Boswell), vol. iii. p. 227.

“The Story of Roderigo and Clara,” says Langbaine, “has a near resemblance with (if it be not borrow’d from) a Spanish Novel, writ by Miguel de Cervantes, call’d The Force of Blood.” Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets, p. 373. The editor of 1816 chooses to “think it not improbable that the other plot was suggested to our writers by the Beggar’s Bush of Fletcher, and the play-scene by the similar one in the Hamlet of Shakespeare.”

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Scene, Madrid[169] and its neighbourhood.
THE SPANISH GIPSY.

ACT I. SCENE I.

The neighbourhood of Madrid.
Enter Roderigo, Louis, and Diego.

Louis. Roderigo!

Diego. Art mad?

Rod. Yes, not so much with wine: it’s as rare to see a Spaniard a drunkard as a German sober, an Italian no whoremonger, an Englishman to pay his debts. I am no borachio;[170] sack, malaga, nor canary, breeds the calenture in my brains; mine eye mads me, not my cups.

Louis. What wouldst have us do?

Rod. Do?

Diego. So far as ’tis fit for gentlemen[171] we’ll venture.

Rod. I ask no more. I ha' seen a thing has bewitched me; a delicate body, but this in the waist [shewing the size by a sign]; foot and leg tempting; the face I had [only] a glimpse of, but the fruit must needs be delicious, the tree being so beautiful.

Louis. Prithee, to the point.

Rod. Here ’tis: an old gentleman—no matter who he is—an old gentlewoman—I ha' nothing to do with her—but a young creature that follows them, daughter or servant, or whatsoever she be, her I must have: they are coming this way; shall I have her? I must have her.

Diego. How, how?

Louis. Thou speakest impossibilities.

Rod. Easy, easy, easy! I'll seize the young girl; stop you the old man; stay you the old woman.

Louis. How then?

Rod. I'll fly off with the young bird, that’s all; many of our Spanish gallants act these merry parts every night. They are weak and old, we young and sprightly: will you assist me?

Louis. Troth, Roderigo, any thing in the way of honour.

Rod. For a wench, man, any course is honourable.

Louis. Nay, not any; her father, if he be[172] her father, may be noble.

Rod. I am as noble.

Louis. Would the adventure were so!

Rod. Stand close, they come.

Enter Pedro, Maria, and Clara.
Ped. ’Tis late; would we were in Madrill![173]
Mar. Go faster, my lord.
Ped. Clara, keep close.
[Louis and Diego hold Pedro and Maria,
while Roderigo seizes Clara.
Cla. Help, help, help!
Rod. Are you crying out? I'll be your midwife.
[Exit, bearing off Clara.
Ped. What mean you, gentlemen?
Mar. Villains! thieves! murderers!
Ped. Do you [not] know me? I am De Cortes,
Pedro de Cortes.
Louis. De Cortes?—Diego, come away.
[Exit with Diego.
Ped. Clara!—where is my daughter?
Mar. Clara!—these villains
Have robb’d us of our comfort, and will, I fear,
Her of her honour.
Ped. This had not wont to be
Our Spanish fashion; but now our gallants,
Our gentry, our young dons, heated with wine,—
A fire our countrymen do seldom sit at,—
Commit these outrages.—Clara!—Maria,
Let’s homeward; I will raise Madrill to find
These traitors to all goodness.—Clara!
Mar. Clara! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Another place in the neighbourhood of Madrid.
Enter Louis and Diego.
Louis. O Diego, I am lost, I am mad!
Diego. So we are all.
Louis. ’Tis not with wine; I'm drunk with too much horror,
Inflam’d with rage, to see us two made bawds
To Roderigo’s lust: did not the old man
Name De Cortes, Pedro de Cortes?
Diego. Sure he did.
Louis. O Diego, as thou lov’st me, nay, on the forfeit
Of thine own life or mine, seal up thy lips,
Let ’em not name De Cortes! stay, stay, stay;
Roderigo has into his father’s house
A passage through a garden——
Diego. Yes, my lord.
Louis. Thither I must, find Roderigo out,
And check him, check him home: if he but dare—
No more!—Diego, along! my soul does fight
A thousand battles blacker than this night. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A bed-chamber in Fernando’s house.
Roderigo and Clara discovered.
Cla. Though the black veil of night hath overclouded
The world in darkness, yet ere many hours
The sun will rise again, and then this act
Of my dishonour will appear before you
More black than is the canopy that shrouds it:
What are you, pray? what are you?
Rod. Husht—a friend, a friend.
Cla. A friend? be then a gentle ravisher,
An honourable villain: as you have
Disrob’d my youth of nature’s goodliest portion,
My virgin purity, so with your sword
Let out that blood which is infected now
By your soul-staining lust.
Rod. Pish!
Cla. Are you noble?
I know you then will marry me; say.
Rod. Umh.
Cla. Not speak to me? are wanton devils dumb?
How are so many harmless virgins wrought
By falsehood of prevailing words to yield
Too easy forfeits of their shames and liberty,
If every orator of folly plead
In silence, like this untongu’d piece of violence?
You shall not from me. [Holding him.
Rod. Phew!—no more.
Cla. You shall not:
Whoe’er you are, disease of nature’s sloth,
Birth of some monstrous sin, or scourge of virtue,
Heaven’s wrath and mankind’s burden, I will hold you;
I will: be rough, and therein merciful,
I will not loose my hold else.
Rod. There; ’tis gold. [Offers money.
Cla. Gold? why, alas, for what? the hire of pleasure
Perhaps is payment, mine is misery;
I need no wages for a ruin’d name,
More than a bleeding heart.
Rod. Nay, then, you’re troublesome;
I'll lock you safe enough.
[Shakes her off, and exit.
Cla. They cannot fear
Whom grief hath arm’d with hate and scorn of life.
Revenge, I kneel to thee! alas, ’gainst whom?
By what name shall I pull confusion down
From justice on his head that hath betray’d me?
I know not where I am: up, I beseech thee,
Thou lady regent of the air, the moon,
And lead me by thy light to some brave vengeance!
It is a chamber sure; the guilty bed,
Sad evidence against my loss of honour,
Assures so much. What’s here, a window-curtain?
O heaven, the stars appear too! ha, a chamber,
A goodly one? dwells rape in such a paradise?
Help me, my quicken’d senses! ’tis a garden
To which this window guides the covetous prospect,
A large one and a fair one; in the midst
A curious alablaster[174] fountain stands,
Fram’d like—like what? no matter—swift, remembrance!
Rich furniture within too? and what’s this?
A precious crucifix! I have enough.
[Takes the crucifix, and conceals it in her bosom.
Assist me, O you powers that guard the innocent!
Re-enter Roderigo.
Rod. Now.
Cla. Welcome, if you come armed in destruction:
I am prepar’d to die.
Rod. Tell me your name,
And what you are.
Cla. You urge me to a sin
As cruel as your lust; I dare not grant it.
Think on the violence of my defame;
And if you mean to write upon my grave
An epitaph of peace, forbear to question
Or whence or who I am. I know the heat
Of your desires is,[175] after the performance
Of such a hellish act, by this time drown’d
In cooler streams of penance;[176] and for my part,
I have wash’d off the leprosy that cleaves
To my just shame in true and honest tears;
I must not leave a mention of my wrongs,
The stain of my unspotted birth, to memory;
Let it lie buried with me in the dust;
That never time hereafter may report
How such a one as you have made me live.
Be resolute, and do not stagger; do not,
For I am nothing.
Rod. Sweet, let me enjoy thee
Now with a free allowance.
Cla. Ha, enjoy me?
Insufferable villain!
Rod. Peace, speak low;
I mean no second force; and since I find
Such goodness in an unknown frame of virtue,
Forgive my foul attempt, which I shall grieve for
So heartily, that could you be yourself
Eye-witness to my constant vow’d repentance,
Trust me, you’d pity me.
Cla. Sir, you can speak now.
Rod. So much I am the executioner
Of mine own trespass, that I have no heart
Nor reason to disclose my name or quality;
You must excuse me that; but, trust me, fair one,
Were this ill deed undone, this deed of wickedness,
I would be proud to court your love like him
Whom my first birth presented to the world.
This for your satisfaction: what remains,
That you can challenge as a service from me,
I both expect and beg it.
Cla. First, that you swear,
Neither in riot of your mirth, in passion
Of friendship, or in folly of discourse,
To speak of wrongs done to a ravish’d maid.
Rod. As I love truth, I swear!
Cla. Next, that you lead me
Near to the place you met me, and there leave me
To my last fortunes, ere the morning rise.
Rod. Say more.
Cla. Live[177] a new man, if e’er you marry—
O me, my heart’s a-breaking!—but if e’er
You marry, in a constant love to her
That shall be then your wife, redeem the fault
Of my undoing. I am lost for ever:
Pray, use no more words.
Rod. You must give me leave
To veil you close.
Cla. Do what you will; no time
Can ransom me from sorrows or dishonours.
[Roderigo throws a veil over her.
Shall we now go?
Rod. My shame may live without me,
But in my soul I bear my guilt about me.
Lend me your hand; now follow. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Before Fernando’s house.
Enter Louis, Diego, and Servant.
Louis. Not yet come in, not yet?
Ser. No, I'll assure your lordship; I've seldom known him
Keep out so long; my lord usually observes
More seasonable hours.
Louis. What time of night is’t?
Ser. On the stroke of three.
Louis. The stroke of three? ’tis wondrous strange! Dost hear?——
Ser. My lord?
Louis. Ere six I will be here again;
Tell thy lord so; ere six; ’a must not sleep;
Or if ’a do, I shall be bold to wake him:
Be sure thou tell’st him, do.
Ser. My lord, I shall. [Enters the house.
Louis. Diego,
Walk thou the street that leads about the Prado;
I'll round the west part of the city: meet me
At the Inquisition-chapel; if we miss him,
We’ll both back to his lodgings.[178]
Diego. At the chapel?
Louis. Ay, there we’ll meet.
Diego. Agreed, I this way.
[Exit Louis:[179] as Diego is going out,
Enter John reading.[180]
John. She is not noble, true; wise nature meant
Affection should ennoble[181] her descent,
For love and beauty keep[182] as rich a seat
Of sweetness in the mean-born as the great.
I am resolv’d. [Exit.
Diego. ’Tis Roderigo certainly,
Yet his voice makes me doubt; but I'll o’erhear him.
[Exit.

SCENE V.

A street.
Enter Louis.
Louis. That if [I], only I should be the man
Made accessary and a party both
To mine own torment, at a time so near
The birth of all those comforts I have travail’d with
So many, many hours of hopes and fears;
Now at the instant—
Enter Roderigo.
Ha! stand! thy name,
Truly and speedily.
Rod. Don Louis?
Louis. The same;
But who art thou? speak!
Rod. Roderigo.
Louis. Tell me,
As you’re a noble gentleman, as ever
You hope to be enroll’d amongst the virtuous,
As you love goodness, as you wish t' inherit
The blessedness and fellowship of angels,
As you’re my friend, as you are Roderigo,
As you are any thing that would deserve
A worthy name, where have you been to-night?
O, how have you dispos’d of that fair creature
Whom you led captive from me? speak, O speak!
Where, how, when, in what usage have you left her?
Truth, I require all truth.
Rod. Though I might question
The strangeness of your importunity,
Yet, ’cause I note distraction in the height
Of curiosity, I will be plain
And brief.
Louis. I thank you, sir.
Rod. Instead of feeding
Too wantonly upon so rich a banquet,
I found, even in that beauty that invited me,
Such a commanding majesty of chaste
And humbly glorious virtue, that it did not
More check my rash attempt than draw to ebb
The float[183] of those desires, which in an instant
Were cool’d in their own streams of shame and folly.
Louis. Now all increase of honours
Fall in full showers on thee, Roderigo,
The best man living!
Rod. You are much transported
With this discourse, methinks.
Louis. Yes, I am.
She told ye her name too?
Rod. I could not urge it
By any importunity.
Louis. Better still!
Where did you leave her?
Rod. Where I found her; farther
She would by no means grant me to wait on her:
O Louis, I am lost!
Louis. This self-same lady
Was she to whom I have been long a suiter,
And shortly hope to marry.
Rod. She your mistress, then? Louis, since friendship
And noble honesty conjure[184] our loves
To a continu’d league, here I unclasp
The secrets of my heart. O, I have had
A glimpse of such a creature, that deserves
A temple! if thou lov’st her—and I blame thee not,
For who can look on her, and not give up
His life unto her service?—if thou lov’st her,
For pity’s sake conceal her; let me not
As much as know her name, there’s a temption[185] in’t;
Let me not know her dwelling, birth, or quality,
Or any thing that she calls hers, but thee;
In thee, my friend, I'll see her: and t' avoid
The surfeits and[186] those rarities that tempt me,
So much I prize the happiness of friendship,
That I will leave the city——
Louis. Leave it?
Rod. Speed me
For Salamanca; court my studies now
For physic ’gainst infection of the mind.
Louis. You do amaze me.
Rod. Here to live, and live
Without her, is impossible and wretched.
For heaven’s sake, never tell her what I was,
Or that you know me! and when I find that absence
Hath lost her to my memory, I'll dare
To see ye again. Meantime, the cause that draws me
From hence shall be to all the world untold;
No friend but thou alone, for whose sake only
I undertake this voluntary exile,
Shall be partaker of my griefs: thy hand,
Farewell; and all the pleasures, joys, contents,
That bless a constant lover, henceforth crown thee
A happy bridegroom!
Louis. You have conquer’d friendship
Beyond example.
Enter Diego.
Diego. Ha, ha, ha! some one
That hath slept well to-night, should ’a but see me
Thus merry by myself, might justly think
I were not well in my wits.
Louis. Diego?
Diego. Yes,
’Tis I, and I have had a fine fegary,[187]
The rarest wild-goose chase!
Louis. ’Thad made thee melancholy.
Diego. Don Roderigo here? ’tis well you met him;
For though I miss’d him, yet I met an accident
Has almost made me burst with laughter.
Louis. How so?
Diego. I'll tell you: as we parted, I perceiv’d
A walking thing before me, strangely tickled
With rare conceited raptures; him I dogg’d,
Supposing ’t had been Roderigo landed
From his new pinnace, deep in contemplation
Of the sweet voyage[188] he stole to-night.
Rod. You’re pleasant.
Louis. Prithee, who was’t?
Rod. Not I.
Diego. You’re i' the right, not you indeed;
For ’twas that noble gentleman Don John,
Son to the count Francisco de Carcomo.
Louis. In love, it seems?
Diego. Yes, pepper’d, on my life;
Much good may’t do him; I'd not be so lin’d[189]
For my cap full of double pistolets.
Louis. What should his mistress be?
Diego. That’s yet a riddle
Beyond my resolution; but of late
I have[190] observ’d him oft to frequent the sports
The gipsies newly come to th' city present.
Louis. It is said there is a creature with ’em,
Though young of years, yet of such absolute beauty,
Dexterity of wit, and general qualities,
That Spain reports her not without admiration.
Diego. Have you seen her?
Louis. Never.
Diego. Nor you, my lord?
Rod. I not remember.
Diego. Why, then, you never saw the prettiest toy
That ever sung or danc’d.
Louis. Is she a gipsy?
Diego. In her condition, not in her complexion:
I tell you once more, ’tis a spark of beauty
Able to set a world at gaze; the sweetest,
The wittiest rogue! shall’s see ’em? they’ve fine gambols,
Are mightily frequented; court and city
Flock to ’em, but the country does ’em worship:
This little ape gets money by the sack-full,
It trolls upon her.
Louis. Will ye with us, friend?
Rod. You know my other projects; sights to me
Are but vexations.
Louis. O, you must be merry!—
Diego, we’ll to th' gipsies.
Diego. Best take heed
You be not snapp’d.
Louis. How' snapp’d?
Diego. By that little fairy;
'T has a shrewd tempting face and a notable tongue.
Louis. I fear not either.
Diego. Go, then.
Louis. Will you with us?
Rod. I'll come after.—
[Exeunt. Louis and Diego.
Pleasure and youth like smiling evils woo us
To taste new follies; tasted, they undo us. [Exit.

ACT II. SCENE I.

A room in an Inn.
Enter Alvarez, Carlo, and Antonio, disguised as gipsies.

Alv. Come, my brave boys! the tailor’s shears has cut us into shapes fitting our trades.

Car. A trade free as a mason’s.

Ant. A trade brave as a courtier’s; for some of them do but shark, and so do we.

Alv. Gipsies, but no tanned ones; no red-ochre rascals umbered with soot and bacon as the English gipsies are, that sally out upon pullen,[191] lie in ambuscado for a rope of onions, as if they were Welsh freebooters; no, our stile has higher steps to climb over, Spanish gipsies, noble gipsies.

Car. I never knew nobility in baseness.

Alv. Baseness? the arts of Cocoquismo and Germania,[192] used by our Spanish pickaroes[193]—I mean filching, foisting,[194] nimming, jilting—we defy;[195] none in our college shall study ’em; such graduates we degrade.

Ant. I am glad Spain has an honest company.
Alv. We’ll entertain no mountebanking stroll,
No piper, fiddler, tumbler through small hoops,
No ape-carrier, baboon-bearer;
We must have nothing stale, trivial, or base:
Am I your major-domo, your teniente,[196]
Your captain, your commander?

Ant. Who but you?

Alv. So then: now being entered Madrill,[197] the enchanted circle of Spain, have a care to your new lessons.

Car.
Ant. bracket We listen.

Alv. Plough deep furrows, to catch deep root in th' opinion of the best, grandees,[198] dukes, marquesses, condes, and other titulados; shew your sports to none but them: what can you do with three or four fools in a dish, and a blockhead cut into sippets?

Ant. Scurvy meat!

Alv. The Lacedemonians threw their beards over their shoulders, to observe what men did behind them as well as before; you must do['t].

Car. We shall never do’t.

Ant. Our muzzles are too short.[199]

Alv. Be not English gipsies, in whose company a man’s not sure of the ears of his head, they so pilfer! no such angling; what you pull to land catch fair: there is no iron so foul but may be gilded; and our gipsy profession, how base soever in show, may acquire commendations.

Car. Gipsies, and yet pick no pockets?

Alv. Infamous and roguy! so handle your webs, that they never come to be woven in the loom of justice: take any thing that’s given you, purses, knives, handkerchers, rosaries, tweezes,[200] any toy, any money; refuse not a marvedi,[201] a blank:[202] feather by feather birds build nests, grain pecked up after grain makes pullen[203] fat.

Ant. The best is, we Spaniards are no great feeders.

Alv. If one city cannot maintain us, away to another! our horses must have wings. Does Madrill yield no money? Seville shall; is Seville close-fisted? Valladolid is open; so Cordova,[204] so Toledo. Do not our Spanish wines please us? Italian can then, French can. Preferment’s bow is hard to draw, set all your strengths to it; what you get, keep; all the world is a second Rochelle;[205] make all sure, for you must not look to have your dinner served in with trumpets.

Car. No, no, sack-buts[206] shall serve us.

Alv. When you have money, hide it; sell all our horses but one.

Ant. Why one?

Alv. ’Tis enough to carry our apparel and trinkets, and the less our ambler eats, our cheer is the better. None be sluttish, none thievish, none lazy; all bees, no drones, and our hives shall yield us honey.