Enter three or foure neighbours together.
1Neigh. Neighbours, tis bruted all about the towneThatRobert Beech, a honest Chaundelor,Had his man deadly wounded yester night,At twelve a clock, when all men were a sleepe.
2. Where was his maister, when the deed was done?
3. No man can tell, for he is missing to,Some men suspect that he hath done the fact,And that for feare the man is fled away;Others, that knew his honest harmlesse life,Feare that himselfe is likewise made away.
4. Then let commaundement every where be given,That sinkes and gutters, privies, crevises,And every place where blood may be conceald,Be throughly searcht, swept, washt, and neerely sought,To see if we can finde the murther out.And least thatBeechbe throwne into theThames,Let charge be given unto the watermenThat, if they see the body of a man,Floting in any place about theThames,That straight they bring it untoLambert Hill,WhereBeechdid dwell when he did live in health.
1Neigh. Ile see this charge performd immediatly.
4. Now let us go to MaisterBeechesshop, [Exit. To see if that the boy can give us light, Of those suspitions which this cause doth yeeld.
2. This is the house; call MaisterLoneyforth.
3. Hoe, MaisterLoney! doth the boy yet live?
Enter Loney.
Or can he utter who hath done him wrong.
Lo. He is not dead but hath a dying life, For neither speech, nor any sense at all, Abideth in the poore unhappie youth.
4. Here [sic] you of anie where his Maister is?
Lo. No, would we could; we all, that knew his life, Suspect him not for any such offence.
4. Bring forth the boy, that we may see his wounds.
[Bringes him forth in a chaire with a hammer sticking in his head.
What say the Surgeons to the youngmans woundes?
Lo. They give him over, saying everie wound, Of sixe, whereof theres seav'n in his head, Are mortall woundes and all incurable.
[They survey his woundes.
Enter Merrie and Williams.
Mer. How now, goodHarry, hast thou hid my fault?The boy that knew I train'd his Maister forth,Lies speechlesse, and even at the point of death.If you prove true, I hope to scape the brunt.
Will. Whie, feare not me, I have conceal'd it yet, And will conceale it, have no doubt of me.
Mer. Thanks, gentleHarry, thou shalt never lacke;But thou and I will live as faithfull friendes,And what I have, shalbe thine owne to use.There is some monie for to spend to-day,I know you meane to goe and see the faire.
Will. I faine would go, but that I want a cloake.
Mer. Thou shalt not want a cloake, or ought beside,So thou wilt promise to be secret. [Gives him his cloake.Here, take my Cloake, ile weare my best my selfe.But where did you lie this last night?
Wil. At thethree Cranes, in a Carmans hay loft, But ile have better lodging soone at night.
Mer. Thou wilt be secret. I will go and see, [Exit Willi.What stir they keepe aboutBeechesshop,Because I would avoyde suspition. [Go to them.God save you, Gentlemen! is this the boyThat is reported to be murthered?
4. He is not dead outright, but pleas'd it God, Twere better he had left this wicked world, Then to live thus in this extremitie.
Mer. A cruell hand no doubt that did the deede. Whie pull you not the hammer from his head?
4. That must not be before the youth be dead,Because the crowner and his quest may see,The manner how he did receive his death.Beare hence the bodie, and endevor all,To finde them out that did the villanie.
[Exeunt omnes: manet Merrie.
Mer. Do what you can, cast all your wits about,Rake kennells, gutters, seeke in everie place,Yet I will overgoe your cunning heads,IfWilliamsand my sister hold their tongues.My neighbours holdes not me in least suspect,Weighing of my former conversation.WereBeechesboy well conveid awaie,Ide hope to overblow this stormie day.
[Exit.
Enter Falleria, Sostrata, Allenso, Pertillo, and two Murtherers booted.
Fall. Now little cooze, you are content to goe,From me your Unckle and your loving Aunt,Your faithfull cozen, and your dearest friendes:And all to come to be a skilfull man,In learned artes and happy sciences?
Per, I am content, because it pleaseth you.My father bid I should obey your will,And yeelde my selfe to your discretion:Besides my cozen gave me yesternight,A prettie nag to ride toPadua.Of all my friendsAllensoloves me best.
Fall. I thinke thou art inspir'd with prophesie: [To the people. He loves thee better then I would he did.— Why, wherefore think you so, my prettie Nephew?
Per. Because he taught me how to say my prayers,To ride a horse, to start the fearfull hare.He gave this dagger to me yester night,This little Ring, and many pretie things;For which, kind cooze, I rest your true debtor,And one day I will make you recompence.
Fall. I, with thy lands and goods thou leav'st behinde.
Allen. Pray, father, let me go along with him.— Now, by the Saviour of my sinfull soule, [To the people. I do not like those fellowes countenance.
Fall. Sonne be content, weele go a seavenight hence,And see him in his universitie weedes.These will conduct him safely to the place;Be well assured they'l have a care of him—That you shall never seePertillomore. [To the people.
Allen. Father, I pray you to withdraw your selfe, Ide have a word or two in secresie.
[They speake together.
Sost. Come living image of thy dead mother,And take my loving farewell, ere we part.I love thee dearly for thy fathers sake,But for thy mothers dote with jealousie.Oh I do feare, before I see thy face,Or thou or I shall taste of bitternesse.Kisse me, sweete boy, and, kissing, folde thine AunteWithin the circle of thy little armes.I neede not feare, death cannot offer wrong;The majestie of thy presaging face,Would vanquish him, though nere so terrible.The angry Lionesse that is bereav'dOf her imperious crew of forrest kings,Would leave her furie, and defend thee safeFrom Wolves, from Panthers, Leopards, and Shee Beares,That live by rapine, stealth and crueltie.Therefore to God I do commend thy state,Who will be sure to guard thee tenderly.And now to you, that carry hence this wealth,This precious Jewell, this unprized good,Have a regarde to use him carefully,When he is parted from that serious care,Which was imployde for his securitie.I urge it not, that I misdoubt your truth;I hope his Unckle doth perswade himselfeYou will be courteous, kinde, and affable.Ther's some rewarde for hoped carefulnesse.
Allen. Now by my soule I do suspect the men,Especially the lower of the two:See, what a hollow discontented lookeHe casts, which brings apparant cause of feare:The other, though he seeme more courteous,Yet dooth his lookes presadge this thought in me.As if he scorn'd to thinke on courtesie.
Fall. Upon my life, my sonne you are to blame,The gentlemen are honest, vertuous,And will protectPertillohappily.These thoughts proceed out of aboundant love,Because you grieve to leave his company.If ought betide him otherwise then well,Let God require due vengaunce on my head,And cut my hopes from all prosperitie.
Allen. A heavie sentence, full of wondrous feare:I cannot choose but credit such a vowe.Come hether then, my joy, my chiefest hopes,My second selfe, my earthly happinesse,Lend me thy little prety cherry lip,To kisse me, cozen; lay thy little handUpon my cheeke, and hug me tenderly.Would the cleere rayes of thy two glorious sunnesCould penetrate the corners of my heart,That thou might see how much I tender thee.My friends, beholde, within this little bulkeTwo perfect bodyes are incorporate;His life holdes mine, his heart conteines my hart,His every lim containes my every part;Without his being I can never be,He being dead, prepare to bury me.Oh thou immortall mover of the sphearesWithin their circled revolusions,Whose glorious image this small orphant beares,Wrought by thy all-sufficient majestie,Oh never suffer any wicked handTo harme this heavenly workmanship of thine,But let him live, great God, to honor theeWith vertuous life and spotlesse pietie!
Per. Cease, my kind cooze; I cannot choose but weepe, To see your care of my securitie.
Allen.—Knewst thou my reason, that perswades my hart,Thou wouldst not wonder, why I grieve to part:But yet I would suspect my fathers vowe,Did any other make it by your leave.
Fall. What have you done? this lothnesse to depart,Seemes you were trained up in tediousnesse,Thou knowst not when and where to make an end.Take him my friends, I know you will dischargeThe hope and trust that I repose in you.
Both. Assure your selfe, in every circumstance.
Fall. Then to your horses quicklie, speedily, Else we shall put our fingers in the eye, And weepe for kindnesse till tomorrow morne.
Per. Farewell good Unckle, Aunt, and loving cooze.
[Sostratus [sic] kisseth the boy weeping.
Allen. Farewell.—I fear me everlastinglie.
[Exeunt Sostratus and Allenso.
[One of the Murtherers takes Falleria by the sleeve.
1mu. You meane not now to have him murthered?
Fall. Not murthered, what else? kill him, I say: But wherefore makes thou question of my will?
Mur. Because you wisht that God should be revenged, If any ill betide the innocent.
Fall. Oh that was nothing but to blind the eyes Of my fond sonne, which loves him too too well.
Mer. It is enough, it shall be surely done.
[Exeunt om.
Enter Merry and Rachel with a bag.
Mer. What, hast thou sped? have you bought the bag?
Rach. I, brother, here it is; what is't to do?
Mer. To beare henceBeechesbody in the night.
Rach. You cannot beare so great a waight your selfe, And tis no trusting of another man.
Mer. Yes well enough, as I will order it.Ile cut him peece-meale; first his head and legsWill be one burthen; then the mangled rest,Will be another, which I will transport,Beyond the water in a Ferryboate,And throw it intoParis-gardenditch,[16]Fetch me the chopping knife, and in the meaneIle move the fagots that do cover him.[Remove the Fagots.
Rach. Oh can you finde in hart to cut and carve, His stone-colde flesh, and rob the greedy grave, Of his dissevered blood-besprinkled lims?
Mer. I, mary can I:—fetch the chopping knife.
Rach. This deed is worse, then when you took his life. [Exit.
Mer. But worse, or better, now it must be so, Better do thus than feele a greater woe.
Enter Rach.
Here is the knife, I cannot stay to seeThis barbarous deed of inhumanitie. [Exit Rachel.
[Merry begins to cut the body, and bindes the armes behinde his back with Beeches garters; leaves out the body, covers the head and legs againe.
Enter Truth.
Yee glorious beames of that bright-shining lampeThat lights the starre-bespangled firmament,And dimnes the glimmering shadowes of the night,Why doost thou lend assistance to this wretch,To shamble forth with bold audacitieHis lims, that beares thy makers semblance!All you the sad spectators of this Acte,Whose harts do taste a feeling pensivenesseOf this unheard of, savadge massacre,Oh be farre of to harbour such a thoughtAs this audacious murtherer put in ure![17]I see your sorrowes flowe up to the brim,And overflowe your cheekes with brinish teares,But though this sight bring surfet to the eye,Delight your eares with pleasing harmonie,[18]That eares may counterchecke your eyes, and say,Why shed you teares, this deede is but a playe?His worke is done, he seekes to hide his sinne;Ile waile his woe before his woe begin. [Exit Trueth.
Mer. Now will I high me to the water side,And fling this heavie burthen in a ditche,Whereof my soule doth feele so great a waightThat it doth almost presse me downe with feare.
Enter Rachell.
Harke,Rachell, I will crosse the water straightAnd fling this middle mention of a manInto some ditch; then high me home againe,To rid my house of that is left behinde.
Rach. Where have you laid the legs & battered head?
Mer. Under the fagots where it lay before. Helpe me to put this trunk into the bag.
Rach. My heart will not endure to handle it, The sight hereof doth make me quake for feare,
Mer. Ile do't my selfe; onely drie up the blood, And burne the clothes as you have done before. [Exit.
Rach. I feare thy soule will burne in flames of hell,Unless repentance wash wash away thy sinneWith clensing teares of true contrition.Ah, did not nature oversway my will,The world should know this plot of damned ill.
[Exit.
Enter two Murtherers with Pertillo.
Per. I am so wearie in this combrous wood, That I must needes go sit me downe and rest.
1Mur. What were we best? to kill him unawares, Or give him notice what we doe intend?
2Mur. Whie then belike you meane to do your charge, And feel no tast of pittie in your hart.
1Mur. Of pittie, man! that never enters heere,And if it should, Ide threat my craven heartTo stab it home for harbouring such a thought.I see no reason whie I should relent;It is a charitable vertuous deede,To end this princkocke[19] from this sinfull world.
2Mur. Such charitie will never have reward,Unlesse it be with sting of conscience;And thats a torment worse than Sisipus,That rowles a restlesse stone against the hill.
1Mur. My conscience is not prickt with such conceit.
2Mur. That shews thee further off from hoped grace.
1Mur. Grace me no graces, I respect no grace,But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab;To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes,To see what shift theile make to scramble home;Pick out mens eyes, and tell them thats the sportOf hood-man-blinde, without all sportivenesse.If with a grace I can perform such pranckes,My hart will give mine agents many thankes.
2Mur. Then God forbid I should consort my selfeWith one so far from grace and pietie,Least being found within thy companie,I should be partner of thy punishment.
1Mur. When wee have done what we have vowed to do,My hart desires to have no fellowshipWith those that talk of grace or godlinesse.I nam'd not God, unleast twere with an othe,Sence the first hour that I could walk alone;And you that make so much of conscience,By heaven thou art a damned hipocrite,For thou hast vow'd to kill that sleeping boy,And all to gaine two hundreth markes in gold.I know this purenesse comes of pure deceit,To draw me from from the murthering of the child,That you alone might have the benefit.You are too shallow; if you gull me so,Chop of my head to make a Sowsing-tub,And fill it full of tripes and chitterlinges.
2Mur. That thou shalt see my hart is far from fraud,Or vaine illusion in this enterprize,Which doth import the safetie of our soules,There take my earnest of impietie. [Give him his mony.Onely forbeare to lay thy ruder handesUpon the poore mistrustlesse tender child.As for our vowes, feare not their violence;God will forgive on hartie penitence.
1Mur. Thou Eunuch, Capon, Dastard, fast and loose,Thou weathercocke of mutabilitie,White-livered Paisant, wilt thou vowe and sweare,Face and make semblance with thy bagpipe othesOf that thou never meanst to execute?Pure cowardice, for feare to cracke thy neckeWith the huge Caos of thy bodies waight,Hath sure begot this true contrition.Then fast and pray, and see if thou canst winne,A goodlie pardon for thy hainous sinne.As for the boy, this fatall instrumentWas mark'd by heaven to cut his line[20] of life,And must supplie the knife ofAtropos,And if it doe not, let this maister-piece(Which nature lent the world to wonder at)Be slit in Carbonadoes[21] for the jawesOf some men-eating hungrie Canniball.By heaven ile kill him onely for this cause,For that he came of vertuous Auncestors.
2m. But by that God which made that wondrous globe,Wherein is seene his powerfull dietie,[22]Thou shalt not kill him maugre all thy spight.Sweare, and forsweare thyselfe ten thousand times.AwakePertillo, for thou art betrai'd;This bloody slave intends to murther thee. [Draw both.
1mur. Both him, and all, that dare to rescue him.
Per. Wherefore? because I slept without your leave? Forgive my fault, ile never sleepe againe.
2Mur. No Child, thy wicked Unckle hath suborn'dBoth him and me to take thy life away,Which I would save, but that this hellish impeWill not content to spare thy guiltlesse blood.
Per. Why shouldFalleriaseeke to have my life?
2mur. The lands and goods, thy father left his sonne, Do hale thee on to thy destruction.
Per. Oh needy treasure, harme-begetting good! That safety[23] should procure the losse of blood!
2mur. Those lands and goods, thy father got with paine, Are swords wherewith his little sonne is slaine.
1mu. Then let our swords let out his guiltlesse life.
Per. Sweete, sowre, kinde, cruell, hold thy murthering knife, And here [sic] me speake, before you murther me.
2mu. Feare not, sweet child, he shall not murther thee.
1mu. No, but my sword shall let his puddings forth.
Per. First here me speake, thou map of Butcherie:Tis but my goods and lands my Unckle seekes;Having that safely, he desires no more.I do protest by my dead parents soules,By the deare love of falseFalleriossonne,Whose heart, my heart assures me, will be griev'dTo heare his fathers inhumanitie,I will forsake my countrie, goods, and lands,I, and my selfe will even change my selfe,In name, in life, in habit, and in all,And live in some farre-moved continent,So you will spare my weake and tender youth,Which cannot entertaine the stroake of deathIn budding yeares and verie spring of life.
1Mur. Leave of these bootlesse protestations,And use no ruth-enticing argumentes,For if you do, ile lop you lim by lim,And torture you for childish eloquence.
2Mur. Thou shalt not make his little finger ake.
1Mur. Yes, every part, and this shall proove it true. [Runnes Perillo in with his sworde.
Per. Oh I am slaine, the Lord forgive thy fact! And give thee grace to dye with penitence. [Dyeth.
2Mur. A treacherous villaine, full of cowardise! Ile make thee know that thou hast done amisse.
1m. Teach me that knowledge when you will or dare.
[They fight and kill one another; the relenter having some more life, and the other dyeth.
1mur. Swoones, I am peppered, I had need have salt,Or else to morrow I shall yeeld a stincke,Worse then a heape of dirty excrements.Now by this Hilt, this golde was earn'd too deare:Ah, how now death, wilt thou be conquerour?Then vengeance light on them that made me so,And ther's another farewell ere I goe.[Stab the other murtherer againe.
2mur. Enough, enough, I had my death before.
[A hunt within.
Enter the Duke of Padua, Turqualo, Vesuvio, Alberto, &c.
Duke. How now my Lords, was't not a gallant course,Beleeve me sirs, I never saw a wretch,Make better shift to save her little life.The thickets full of buskes,[24] and scratching bryers,A mightie dewe,[25] a many deepe mouth'd hounds,Let loose in every place to crosse their course,—And yet the Hare got cleanly from them all.I would not for a hundred pound in faith,But that she had escaped with her life;For we will winde a merry hunters home,And starte her once again tomorrow morne.
Turq. In troth my Lord, the little flocked[26] hound,That had but three good legs to further him,Twas formost still, and surer of his sent,Then any one in all the crie besides.
Vesu. But yetPendragongave the Hare more turnes.
Alber. That was because he was more polliticke,And eyed her closely in her coverts still:They all did well, and once more we will trie,The subtile creature with a greater crie.
Enter Allenso, booted.
Duke. But say, what well accomplished Gentleman Is that that comes into our company?
Vesu. I know him well, it isFalleriossonne,Pandynosbrother (a kinde Gentleman) That dyed and left his little pretty sonne, Unto his brother's[27] good direction.
Duke. Stand close awhile, and overheare his wordes; He seemes much over-gone with passion.
Allen. Yee timorous thoughts that guide my giddy stepsIn unknowne pathes of dreadfull wildernesse,Why traitor-like do you conspire to holdeMy pained heart twixt feare and jealousie?My too much care hath brought me carelesly,Into this woody savadge labyrinth,And I can finde no way to issue out;Feare hath so dazeled all my better part,That reason hath forgot discreations art.But in good time, see where is company.—Kinde Gentlemen, if you, unlike my selfe,Are not incumbred with the circling wayesOf this erronious winding wildernesse,I pray you to direct me foorth this woodAnd showe the pathe that leades toPadua.
Duke. We all arePaduans, and we all intend To passe forthwith with speed toPadua.
Allen. I will attend upon you presently. [See the bodyes.
Duke. Come then away:—but, gentlemen beholde, A bloody sight, and murtherous spectacle!
2Mur. Oh, God, forgive me all my wickednesse And take me to eternall happinesse!
Duke. Harke one of them hath some small sparke of life, To kindle knowledge of their sad mishaps.
Allen. Ah gratious Lord, I know this wretched child, And these two men that here lye murthered.
Vesu. Do you,Allenso?
Allen. I, my gracious Lord:It wasPertillomy dead Unckles sonne.Now have my feares brought forth this fearefull childeOf endlesse care, and everlasting griefe!
Duke. Lay hands uponAllenso, Gentlemen. Your presence doth confirme you had a share In the performance of this crueltie.
Allen. I do confesse I have so great a shareIn this mishap, that I will give him thankes,That will let foorth my sorrow-wounded souleFrom out this goale of lamentation.
Duke. Tis now too late to wish for hadiwist.[28] Had you withheld your hand from this attempt, Sorrow had never so imprisoned you.
Allen. Oh my good Lord, do not mistake my case,And yet my griefe is sure infallible.The Lord of heaven can witnesse with my soule,That I am guiltelesse of your wrong suspect,But yet not griefelesse that the deed is done.
Duke. Nay if you stand to justifie your selfe,This gentleman whose life dooth seeme to stay,Within his body till[29] he tell your shame,Shall testifie of your integritie:Speake then, thou sad Anatomy of death,Who were the Agents of your wofulnesse?
2Mur. O be not blinded with a false surmise,For least my tongue should faile to end the taleOf our untimely fate-appointed death,Know youngAllensois as innocentAs isFallerioguiltie of the crime.He, he it was, that with foure hundredth markes,Whereof two hundred he paide presently,Did hire[30] this damn'd villaine and my selfeTo massacre this harmelesse innocent:But yet my conscience, toucht with some remorse,Would faine have sav'd the youngPertilloslife,But he remorselesse would not let him live,But unawares thrust in his harmelesse brestThat life-bereaving fatall instrument:Which cruell deede I seeking to revenge,Have lost my life and paid the slave his dueRewarde for spilling blood of innocents.SurpriseFallerio, author of this ill;Save youngAllenso, he is guiltlesse still. [Dyeth.
Allen. Oh sweetest honie mixt with bitter gall,Oh Nightingale combinde with Ravens notes,Thy speech is like a woodward that should say,—Let the tree live, but take the root away.As though my life were ought but miserie,Having my father slaine for infamie!
Duke. What should inciteFallerioto devise, The overthrowe of this unhappie boy?
Vesu. That may be easily guest, my gracious Lord,To be the landsPandinoleft his sonne,Which, after that the boy were murthered,Discend to him by due inheritance.
Duke. You deeme aright. See, gentlemen, the fruites,Of coveting to have anothers right.Oh wicked thought of greedie covetice!Could neither nature, feare of punishment,Scandall to wife and children, nor the feare,Of Gods confounding strict severitie,Allay the head-strong furie of thy will?Beware, my friends, to wish unlawfull gaine;It will beget strange actions full of feare,And overthrowe the actor unawares.For firstFallerioslife must satisfieThe large effusion of their guiltlesse bloods,Traind on by him to these extremities;Next, wife and children must be disposest,Of lands and goods, and turnde to beggerie;But most of all, his great and hainous sinne,Will be an eye-sore to his guiltlesse kinne.Beare hence away these models of his shame,And let us prosecute the murthererWith all the care and diligence we can.
[Two must be carrying away Pertillo
Allen. Forbeare awhile to beare away my joy,Which now is vanisht since his life is fled;And give me leave to wash his deadly woundWith hartie teares, outflowing from those eyesWhich lov'd his sight, more then the sight of heaven.Forgive me God for this idolatrie!Thou ugly monster, grim imperious death,Thou raw-bonde lumpe of foule deformitie,Reguardlesse instrument of cruell fate,Unparciall Sergeant, full of treacherie,Why didst thou flatter my ill-boding thoughts,And flesh my hopes with vaine illusions?Why didst thou say,Pertilloshould not dye,And yet, oh yet, hast done it cruelly?Oh but beholde, with what a smiling cheere,He intertain'd thy bloody harbinger!See, thou transformer of a heavenly faceTo Ashie palenesse and unpleasing lookes,That his fair countenance still retaineth graceOf perfect beauty in the very grave.The world would say such beauty should not dye;Yet like a theefe thou didst it cruelly.Ah, had thy eyes, deepe-sunke into thy head,Beene able to perceive his vertuous minde,Where vertue sat inthroned in a chaire,With awfull grace and pleasing maiestie,Thou wouldest not then have letPertillodie,Nor like a theefe have slaine him cruellie.Inevitable fates, could you devise,No means to bring me to this pilgrimage,Full of great woes and sad calamities,But that the father should be principall,To plot the present downfall of the sonne?Come then kind death and give me leave to die,Since thou hast slainePertillocruellie.
Du. Forbeare,Allenso; hearken to my doome,Which doth concerne thy fathers apprehension.First we enjoyne thee, upon paine of death,To give no succour to thy wicked sire,But let him perrish in his damned sinne,And pay the price of such a treacherie.See that with speede the monster be attach'd,And bring him safe to suffer punishment.Prevent it not, nor seeke not to deludeThe Officers to whom this charge is given;For if thou doe, as sure as God doth live,Thy selfe shall satisfie the lawes contempt.Therefore forward about this punishment.
[Exeunt omnes: manet Allenso.
Al. Thankes, gratious God, that thou hast left the meanesTo end my soule from this perplexitie.Not succour him on paine of present death!That is no paine; death is a welcome guestTo those whose hearts are overwhelm'd with griefe.My woes are done, I having leave to dieAnd after death live ever joyfullie. [Exit.
Enter Murther and Covetousnesse.
Mur. Now,Avarice, I have well satisfiedMy hungrie thoughtes with blood and crueltie;Now all my melanchollie discontentIs shaken off, and I am throughlie pleas'd,With what thy pollicie hath brought to passe.Yet am I not so throughlie satisfiedUntill I bring the purple actors forth.And cause them quaffe a bowle of bitternesse,That father sonne, and sister brother mayBring to their deathes with most assur'd decay.
Ava. That wilbe done without all question,For thou hast slaineAllensowith the boy,AndRachelldoth not wish to overliveThe sad remembrance of her brothers sinne.Leave faithfull love to teach them how to dye,That they may share their kinsfolkes miserie.
[Exeunt.
Enter Merrie and Rachell uncovering the head and legges.
Mer. I have bestow'd a watrie funerallOn the halfe bodie of my butchered friend.The head and legges Ile leave in some darke place;I care not if they finde them yea or no.
Ra. Where do you meane to leave the head and legs?
Mer. In some darke place nere toBainardes Castle.[31]
Ra. But doe it closelie that you be not seene; For all this while you are without suspect.
Mer. Take you no thought, Ile have a care of that; Onelie take heede you have a speciall care To make no shew of any discontent Nor use too many words to any one. [Puts on his Cloake; taketh up the bag. I will returne when I have left my loade. Be merrie,Rachell; halfe the feare is past. [Exit.
Ra. But I shall never thinke my selfe secure.This deede would trouble any quiet soule,To thinke thereof, much more to see it done;Such cruell deedes can never long be hid,Although we practice nere so cunningly.Let others open what I doe conceale;Lo he is my brother, I will cover it,And rather dye than have it spoken rife,—Lo where she goes, betrai'd her brothers life.
[Exit.
Enter Williams and Cowley.
Co. Why, how now,Harry, what should be the cause,That you are growne so discontent of late?Your sighes do shew some inward heavinesse;Your heavy lookes, your eyes brimfull of teares,Beares testimonie of some secret griefe.Reveale it,Harry; I will be thy friend,And helpe thee to my poore habillity.
Wil. If I am heavie, if I often sigh,And if my eyes beare recordes of my woe,Condemne me not, for I have mightie cause,More then I will impart to any one.
Co. Do you misdoubt me, that you dare not tell That woe to me that moves your discontent?
Wil. Good MaisterCowley, you were ever kinde,But pardon me; I will not utter itTo any one, for I have past my worde;And therefore urge me not to tell my griefe.
Cow. But those that smother griefe too secretly,May wast themselves in silent anguishment,And bring their bodies to so low an ebb,That all the world can never make it flowe,Unto the happy hight of former health.Then be not [so] iniurious to thy selfe,To wast thy strength in lamentation,But tell thy case; wele seeke some remedie.
Wil. My cause of griefe is now remedilesse,And all the world can never lessen it;Then since no meanes can make my sorrowes lesse,Suffer me waile a woe which wants redresse.
Cow. Yet let me beare a part in thy lamentes, I love thee not so ill but I will mone Thy heavie haps; thou shalt not sigh alone.
Wil. Nay, if you are so curious to intrudeYour selfe to sorrow, where you have no share,I will frequent some unfrequented placeWhere none shall here nor see my lamentations. [Exit.
Cow. And I will follow wheresoever thou goe; I will be a partner of thy helplesse woe.
[Exit.
Enter two Watermen.
1.Will, ist not time we should go to our boates, And give attendance for thisBartlemewtide? Folkes will be stirring early in the morning.
2. By my troth I am indifferent whether I go or no. If a fare come, why so; if not, why so; if I have not their money, they shall have none of my labour.
1. But we that live by our labours, must give attendance. But where lyes thy Boate?
2. AtBaynards Castlestaires.
1. So do's mine, then lets go together.
2. Come, I am indifferent, I care not so much for going; but if I go with you, why so; if not, why so. [He falls over the bag. Sblood, what rascall hath laide this in my way!
1. A[32] was not very indifferent that did so, but you are so permentorie, to say, why so, and why so, that every one is glad to do you iniurie. But lets see: what is it?
[Taking the Sack by the end, one of the legs and head drops out.
Good Lord deliver us! a mans legges, and a head with manie wounds!
2. Whats that so much? I am indifferent, yet for mine owne part, I understand the miserie of it; if you doe, why so, if not, why so.
1. By my troth I understand no other mistery but this: It is a strange and very rufull sight. But, prethee, what doost thou conceit of it?
2. In troth I am indifferent, for if I tell you, why so, if not why so.
1. If thou tell me, Ile thanke thee; therefore I prethee tell me.
2. I tell you I am indifferent; but to be plaine with you, I am greeved to stumble at the hangmans budget.
1. At the hangmans budget? why, this is a sack.
2. And to speake indifferently, it is the hangman's Budget; and because he thought too much of his labour to set this head upon the bridge, and the legs upon the gates, he flings them into the streete for men to stumble at, but If I get him in my boate, Ile so belabour him in a stretcher, that he had better be stretcht in one of his owne halfepeny halters. If this be a good conceit, why so; if not, why so.
1. Thou art deceiv'd, this head hath many wounds, And hoase and shoes remaining on the legs.Bullalways strips all quartered traitors quite.
2. I am indifferent whether you beleeve me or no; these were not worth taking of, and therefore he left them on. If this be likely why so; if not, why so.
1. Nay, then I see you growe from worse to worse.I heard last night, that one neereLambert HillWas missing, and his boy was murthered.It may be this is a part of that same man;What ere it be, ile beare it to that place.
2. Masse I am indifferent; ile go along with you, if it be so, why so; if not why so.
[Exeunt.
Enter three neighbors knocking at Loneys doore: Loney comes.
1. Hoe, Maister Loney! here you any newes What is become of your TennantBeech?
Lon. No truely, sir, not any newes at all.
2. What, hath the boy recovered any speach, To give us light of these suggestions That do arise upon this accident?
Lon. There is no hope he should recover speech; The wives do say he's ready now to leave This greevous world, full-fraught with treacherie.
3. Methinkes ifBeechhimselfe be innocent,That then the murtherer should not dwell farre off;The hammer that is sticking in his head,Was borrowed of a Cutler dwelling by,But he remembers not who borrowed it:He is committed that did owe[33] the hammer,But yet he standes uppon his innocence;AndBeechesabsence causeth great suspition.
Lo. IfBeechbe faulty, as I do not thinke,I never was so much deceiv'd before.Oh had you knowne his conversation,You would not have him in suspition.
3. Divels seeme Saints, and in these[34] hatefull times, Deceite can beare apparraunt signes of trueth, And vice beare shew of vertues excellence.
Enter the two Watermen.
1. Pray is this MaisterBeecheshouse?
Lo. My friend this same was maisterBeechesshop: We cannot tell whether he live or no.
1. Know you his head and if I shew it you? Or can you tell me what hose or shooes he ware, At that same time when he forsooke the shoppe?
3. What, have you head, and hose, and shooes to show, And want the body that should use the same?
1. Behold this head, these legges, these hose and shooes, And see if they wereBeeches, yea or no.
Lo. They are the same; alas, what is become, Of the remainder of this wretched man!
1Wat. Nay that I know not; onelie these we found,As we were comming up a narrow lane,NeereBaynardes Castle, where we two did dwell;And heering that a man was missing hence,We thought it good to bring these to this place,
3. Thankes, my good friendes; ther's some thing for your paines.
2Wat. We are indifferent, whether you give us anything or nothing; and if you had not, why so; but since you have, why so.
1Wat. Leave your repining: Sir, we thanke you hartely.
3. Farewell good fellowes.—Neighbour, now be bold: [Exeunt Watermen.They dwell not farre that did this bloodie deed,As God no doubt will at the last reveale,Though they conceale it nere so cunninglie.All houses, gutters, sincks and crevicesHave carefully been sought for, for the blood;Yet theres no instaunce found in any place.
Enter a Porter and a Gentleman.
But who is that that brings a heavy loade,Behinde him on a painefull porters backe?
Gen. Praie, Gentlemen, which call youBeechesshoppe?
2Neig. This is the place; what wold you with the man?
Gen. Nothing with him; I heare the man is dead, And if he be not, I have lost my paines.
Lo. Hees dead indeede, but yet we cannot findeWhat is become of halfe his hopelesse bodie.His head and legges are found, but for the rest,No man can tell what is become of it.
Gen. Then I doe thinke I can resolve your doubtAnd bring you certain tydings of the rest,And if you know his doublet and his shirt.As for the bodie it is so abus'dThat no man can take notice whoes it was.Set downe this burden of anothers shame.What, do you know the doublet and the shirt?
[Ex. Porter.
Lo. This is the doublet, these the seuered limmes,Which late were ioyned to that mangled trunke:Lay them together, see if they can makeAmong them all a sound and solid man.
3neigh. They all agree, but yet they cannot makeThat sound and whole which a remorsles handHath severed with a knife of crueltie.But say, good sir, where did you finde this out?
Gent. Walking betime byParis Gardenditch,Having my Water Spaniell by my side,When we approach'd unto that haplesse placeWhere this same trunke lay drowned in a ditch,My Spaniell gan to sent, to bark, to plungeInto the water, and came foorth againe,And fawnd one me, as if a man should say,Helpe out a man that heere lyes murthered.At first I tooke delight to see the dog,Thinking in vaine some game did there lye hidAmongst the Nettles growing neere the banke;But when no game, nor anything appear'd,That might produce the Spaniell to this sport,I gan to rate and beate the harmlesse Cur,Thinking to make him leave to follow me;But words, nor blowes, could moove the dog away,But still he plung'd, he div'd, he barkt, he ranStill to my side, as if it were for helpe.I seeing this, did make the ditch be dragd,Where then was found this body as you see,With great amazement to the lookers on.
3. Beholde the mightie miracles of God,That sencelesse things should propagate their sinneThat are more bestiall farre then beastlinesseOf any creature most insensible!
2.Neigh. Cease we to wonder at Gods wondrous works,And let us labour for to bring to lightThose masked fiends that thus dishonor him.This sack is new, and, loe! beholde his markeRemaines upon it, which did sell the bag.Amongst the Salters we shall finde it outWhen, and to whom, this bloody bag was sold.
3. Tis very likely, let no paines be spar'd,To bring it out, if it be possible;Twere pitty such a murther should remaineUnpunished mongst Turkes and Infidels.
1.neigh. Sirs, I do know the man that solde this bag, And if you please, Ile fetch him presently?
Gent. With all our hearts. How say you gentlemen? Perchance the murther thus may come to light.
3. I pray you do it, we will tarry heere: [Exit 1. neigh.And let the eyes of every passengerBe satisfied, which may example beHow they commit such dreadfull wickednesse.
Ent. wom. And please your maisterships, the boy is dead.
3.neigh. Tis very strange that having many woundsSo terrible, so ghastlie; which is more,Having the hammer sticking in his head;That he should live and stirre fromFridaynight,ToSundaymorning, and even then depart,When that his Maisters mangled course were found.Bring him foorth too; perchance the murtherersMay have their hearts touched with due remorse,Viewing their deeds of damned wickednesse.[Bring forth the boye and laye him by Beech.
1neigh. Here is the Salters man that solde the bag.
Gent. My friend, how long since did you sell that bag? And unto whom, if you remember it?
Sal. I sould the bag, good sir, but yesterday, Unto a maide; I do not know her name.
3neigh. Nor where she dwels.
Sal. No certeinly.
2neigh. But what apparell had she on her back?
Sal. I do not well remember what she wore, But if I saw her I should know her sure.
3neigh. Go round about to every neighbours house, And will them shew their maides immediately: God grant we may finde out the murtherers. [Go to one house, and knock at doore, asking. Bring forth such maides as are within your house!
1housekeeper. I have but one, ile send her down to you.
3neigh. Is this the maide? [Come out maide.
Salt. No, sir, this is not she. [Go to another, &c. How many maides do dwell within this house?
2house. Her's nere a woman here, except my wife. [Go to Merryes.
3neigh. Whose house is this?
Lo. An honest civill mans, cald MaisterMerry, Who I dare be sworne, would never do so great a murther; But you may aske heere to for fashion sake.
[Rachell sits in the shop.
3. How now, faire maide, dwels any here but you? Thou hast too true a face for such a deed.
Rach. No, gentle sir; my brother keepes no more.
3neigh. This is not she?
Salt. No truly, gentleman.
[Ex. R.
3. This will not serve; we cannot finde her out. Bring in those bodyes, it growes towards night; God bring these damn'd murtherers at length to light!
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Merry and Rachell.
Mer. Why go the neighbours round about the streete To every house? what hast thou heard the cause?
Rach. They go about with that same Salters man,Of whom I bought the bag but yesterday,To see if he can know the maide againeWhich bought it: this I think the very cause.
Mer. How were my senses overcome with feare,That I could not foresee this jeopardy!For had I brought the bag away with me,They had not had this meanes to finde it out.Hide thee above least that the Salters manTake notice of thee that thou art the maide,And by that knowledge we be all undone.
Rach. That feare is past, I sawe, I spake with him,Yet he denies that I did buy the bag;Besides the neighbours have no doubt of you,Saying you are an honest harmelesse man,And made enquirie heere for fashion sake.
Mer. My former life deserves their good conceits,Which is not blemisht with this treacherie.My heart is merier then it was before,For now I hope the greatest feare is past.The hammer is denyed, the bag unknowne;Now there is left no meanes to bring it out,Unless our selves proove Traitors to our selves.
Rach. When saw youHary Williams?
Me. Why, to day; I met him comming home fromPowles Crosse, Where he had beene to heare a Sermon.
Rach. Why brought you not the man along with you To come to dinner, that we might perswade Him to continue in his secrecie?
Mer. I did intreate him, but he would not come, But vow'd to be as secret as my selfe.
Rach. What, did he sweare?
Mer. What neede you aske me that?You know we never heard him sweare an othe.But since he hath conceal'd the thing thus long,I hope in God he will conceale it still.
Rach. Pray God he do, and then I have no doubtBut God will overpasse this greevous sinne,If you lament with true unfained tearesAnd seeke to live the remnant of your yearesIn Gods true feare with upright conscience.
Mer. If it would please him pardon this amisseAnd rid my body from the open shameThat doth attend this deed, being brought to light,I would endevour all my comming dayesTo please my maker and exalt his praise.But it growes late, come bring me to my bed,That I may rest my sorrow-charged head.
Rach. Rest still in calme secure tranquillitie,And over-blowe this storme of mightie feareWith pleasant gales of hoped quietnesse.Go when you will; I will attend, and prayTo send this wofull night a cheerfull day.
[Exeunt.
Enter Falleria and Sostrata weeping.
Fall. Passe ore these rugged furrowes of lamentsAnd come to plainer pathes of cheerefulnesse;Cease thy continuall showers of thy woe.And let my pleasing wordes of comfort chaseThese[35] duskie cloudes of thy uniust dispaireFarre from thy hart, and let a pleasing hopeOf youngPertilloshappy safe returneEstablish all your ill-devining thoughts;So shall you make me cheerfull that am sad,—And feede your hopes with fond illusions.
Sos. I could be so; but my divided soule,Twixt feare and hope of youngPertilloslife,Cannot arrive at the desired portOf firme beleefe, until mine eyes do seeHim that I sent to know the certainetie.
Fal. To know the certaintie! of whom, of what?Whome, whether, when, or whereabout, I praie,Have you dispatcht a frustrate messenger?—By heaven, and earth, my heart misgiveth[36] me,They will prevent my cunning pollicie. [To the people.Why speake you not? what winged PegasusIs posted for your satisfaction?
Sos. Me thinkes my speach reveales a hidden feare, And that feare telles me that the childe is dead.
Fall. By sweeteS. Andrewand my fathers soule, I thinke the peevish boy be too too well But speake, who was your passions harbinger?
Sos. One that did kindle my misdoubting thoughts, With the large flame of his timiddity.
Fall. Oh then I know the tinder of your feare.Was youngAllensoyour white[37] honnie sonne.Confusion light upon his timerous head,For broching this large streame of fearefulnesse!And all the plagues that damned furies feeleFor their forepassed bold iniquities,Afflict you both for thus preventing me!
Sos. Preventing you! of what?Fallerio, speake, For if you doe not my poore hart will breake.
Fall. Why of the good that I had purposed, To youngPertillo, which I would conceale From you and him until the deed were done.
Sost. If it were good, then we affect him deare, And would add furtherance to your enterprise.
Fall. I say your close eaves-dropping[38] polliciesHave hindred him of greater benefitsThen I can ever do him after this.—If he live long, and growe to riper sinne, [To the people.Heele cursse you both, that thus have hinderedHis freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.—But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne,That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde,To guarde the safetie of his better part,Which he hath pend within the childish coopeOf youngPertillossweete securitie?
Sost. That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life,The root of vertuous magnamitie,That doth affect with an unfained love,That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye,Deserveth most to be affected deare,Went some two houres after the little boyWas sent away to keepe[39] atPadua.
Fall. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade,A one eydeCyclops, a stigmaticke[40] brat,That durst attempt to contradict my will,And prie into my close intendements.
Enter Alenso sad.
Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke,Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.—I hope the brat is posted to his sire,That he is growne so lazie of his pace;Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongueIs even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.—Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,That littleDromusthat crept into my sonne,With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away?Say, I, and please me with the sweetest noteThat ever relisht in a mortals mouth.
Allen. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye, Your note of shame and comming miserie.
Fall. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare; She was almost dead before for very feare.
Allen. Would I could roare as instruments of warre,Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powderIs toucht with part ofEtnasElement!Would I could bellow like enraged Buls,Whose harts are full of indignation,To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie!Would I could thunder like AlmightieIoue,That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifieThe wicked hearts of earthly citizens!Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say,Mother, lament,Pertillosmade away!
Sost. What, is he dead? God give me leave to die, And him repentance for his treacherie! [Falleth down and dyeth.
Fall. Never the like impietie was done:A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne!Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made,And seeke to call back life with dilligence.
Allen. Call back a happy creature to more woe!That were a sinne: good Father, let her go.0 happy I, if my tormenting smart,Could rend like her's, my griefe-afflicted heart!Would your hard hart extend unto your wife,To make her live an everdying life?What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she,Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie!
Fall. I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide!But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde:That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound,Untimely sent thy mother to the ground:Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother;Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother.
Allen. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyceTo have such power in my death-bringing voice,See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes;Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes,I doe behold with cheerefull countenanceThe livelesse roote of my nativitie,And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goeTo keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.—Now, father, give attention to my tale;I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongueIn bitter wordes of reprehension.Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your headThen wit or reason can remove againe;For to be briefe,Pertillo, (oh that nameCannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!)Is murthered, and—
Fal. What and? this newes is good.
Allen. The men which you suborn'd to murther him—
Fal. Better and better, then it cannot out, Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [sic] That it will overthrowe your selfe and me.
Allen. The best is last, and yet you hinder me. The Duke ofPaduahunting in the wood, Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen—
Fal. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?
Allen. Was made acquainted by the one of them, (That had some little remnant of his life) With all your practice and conspiracie.
Fall. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell,To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases,Rather then bring my life in ieopardie!Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne,And make a iest at my calamitie?
Allen. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe, If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.
Fal. Declare it then, my wits are now to seeke; That peece of life hath so confounded mee That I am wholly overcome with feare.
Allen. The Duke hath vow'd to prosecute your life,With all the strict severitie he can;But I will crosse his resolutionAnd keepe you from his furie well enough.Ile weare your habit, I will seeme the manThat did suborne the bloodie murtherers;I will not stir from out this house of woe,But waight the comming of the officers,And answere for you fore the angrie Duke,And, if neede be, suffer your punishment.
Fall. Ile none of that; I do not like the last;I love thee dearer then I doe my life,And all I did, was to advance thy stateTo sunne-bright beames of shining happinesse.
Allen. Doubte not my life, for when I doe appeare Before the Duke, I being not the man, He can inflict no punishment on mee.
Fall. Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee;Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie.But for my beard thou canst not counterfetAnd bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne;White frostes are never seene in summers spring.
Allen. I bought a beard this day atPadua,Such as our common actors use to weareWhen youth would put on ages countenance;So like in shape, in colour, and in all,To that which growes upon your aged face,That were I dressed in your abilimentes,Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.
Fall. That's excellent. What shape hast thou devis'd, To be my vizard to delude the worlde?
Allen. Why thus: ile presentlie shave off your haire,And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede;Then you will seeme to have the carefull chargeOf some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke,And so passe currant from suspition.
Fall. This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie,Nature in thee hath firme predominance,That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch,Can shake thee with their strongest violence:In this disguise, ile see the end of thee,That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.
Allen. I am assur'd to be exempt from woe:— This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe. [(To the) People.
Fall. I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife, Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife. [Exit.
Allen. Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe,Which hath abridg'd whole numbers numberlesseOf hart-surcharging deplorations.She shall have due and Christian funerall,And rest in peace amongst her auncestors.As for our bodies, they shall be inter'd,In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes,Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers,That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmesOf blood-delighting hatefull murtherers.And yet these many winged sepulchers,Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall,At last attaine to earth by funerall.Well I will prosecute my pollicy,That wished death may end my miseries.
[Exit.