Enter Cowley and Williams.
Cow. Still in your dumpes, goodHarry? yet at last,Utter your motive of this heavinesse.Why go you not unto your maisters house?What, are you parted? if that be the cause,I will provide you of a better place.
Wil. Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke; That is the cause,—because I cannot stay With him whose love is dearer then my life.
Cow. Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?
Wil. We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.
Cow. What, did he feare your truth or honest life?
Wil. No, no, your understanding is but dimme,That farre-remooved cannot iudge the feare.We both were fearefull, and we both did part,Because indeed we both were timerous.
Cow. What accident begot your mutuall feare?
Wil. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.
Cow. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.
Wil. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine; I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.
Cow. It seemes to be a thing of consequence, And therefore prithie,Harry, for my love, Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.
Wil. Were I assur'd my hart should have releaseOf secret torment and distemperature,I would reveale it to you speciallyWhom I have found my faithfull favorite.
Cow. GoodHarrie Williams, make no doubt of that;Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe,Beyond your present expectation.Then tell it,Harry, what soere it be,And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.
Wil. Then have you heard ofBeechofLambert Hill, And of his boy which late were murthered?
Cow. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.
Will. But have you heard of them that murthered them?
Cow. No, would I had, for then Ide blaze their shame, And make them pay due penance for their sinne.
Wil. This I misdoubted, therefore will forbeare To utter what I thought to have reveald.
Cow. Knowst thou the actors of this murthrous deed,And wilt conceale it now the deed is done?Alas, poore man, thou knowest not what thou doost!Thou hast incur'd the danger of the laweAnd thou mongst them must suffer punishment,Unlesse thou do confesse it presentlie.
Wil. What? shall I then betray my maisters life?
Cow. Better then hazard both thy life and soule To boulster out such barbarous villanie. Why, then belike your maister did the deed?
Wil. My maister unawares escapt my mouth;But what the Lord doth please shall come to light,Cannot be hid by humaine pollicie:His haplesse hand hath wrought the fatall endOfRobert BeechandThomas Winchester.
Cow. Could he alone do both those men to death? Hadst thou no share in execution?
Wil. Nor knew not of it, till the deed was done.
Cow. If this be true, thou maist escape with life: Confesse the truth unto the officers, And thou shalt finde the favour of the lawe.
Wil. If I offended, 'twas my Maister's loveThat made me hide his great transgressions:But I will be directed as you please.So save me God, as I am innocent!
[Exeunt.
Enter Alenso in Falleriaes apparell and berd;Falleria shaven in shepheards habilliments.
Fal. Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me,And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee,Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise.I like a shepheard now must learn to know,When to lead foorth my little bleating flock,To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes;In stormie time to drive them to the lee;To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voiceDoth crave the wished comfort of their dams;To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes,In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals;And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away,That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.
Allen. Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe awayFrom sillie creatures wanting intellecte,And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts,To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne!As pure and innocent as any LambePertillowas, which you have fed upon.But things past helpe may better be bewaildWith carefull teares, then finde a remedie;Therefore, for feare our practise be espide,Let us to question of our husbandrie.How many Lambes fell from the middle flock,Since I myselfe did take the latter view?
Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto.
Fall. Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead. But three and twenty scud about the fields, That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.
Vesu. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes, That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.
Allen. What is the time to let the Weathers blood?The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse,Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood,Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes,The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.
Fall. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time, Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]
Vesu. Forbeare a while this idle businesse, And talke of matters of more consequence.
Fall. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,To call a shepheards care an idle toye.What though we have a little merry sportWith flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,And jolly friskins on a holly-day,Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carkeThen sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.
Vesu. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!—And now,Fallerio, in the Princes name,I do arrest you, for the cruell murtherOf youngPertillo, left unto your charge,Which you discharged with a bloody writ,Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne.Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,To ratifie yourStigiancruelty,That cannot be deluded any way.
Allen. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say! As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well: I sent him yesterday toPadua.
Alber. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes, As will not winck at your iniquitie.
Allen. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent! Say what you will, I know my conscience.
Fal.—To be afflicted with a scourge of care, Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.
Turq. Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more; That heart that could invent such treachery, Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.
Alen. I do defie your accusations; Let me have justice, I will answere it.
Vesuv. So, beare him hence! I meane to stay behinde, To take possession of his goods and landes For the Dukes use: it is too manifest.
Allen. I hope youle answere anything you doe. My LordVesuvio, you shall answere it, And all the rest that use extremities.
Alber. I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.
[Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria.
Fal. Thus shades are caught when substances are fled.Indeede they have my garments, but my selfeAm close enough from their discoverie;But not so close but that my verie soule,Is ract with tormentes forPertillosdeath.I amActeon; I doe beare about,My hornes of shame and inhumanitie.My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter meWith hope of great succeeding benefits,Now gin to teare my care-tormented heartWith feare of death and tortring punishment.These are the stings whenas our consciencesAre stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes.Well, I must smoather all these discontentes,And strive to beare a smoother countenaunceThen rugged care would willingly permit.Ile to the Court to seeAllensofree,That he may then relieve my povertie.
[Exit.
Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes.
Con. Who would have thought of all the men alive ThatThomas Merrywould have done this deede So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!
1wat. Of all the men that live inLondonwalles, I would have thought thatMerryhad bin free.
2wat. Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans? I never like such damn'd hipocrisie.
3wat. He would not loase a sermon for a pound,An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine,An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on;And yet two murthers were not scripulous.Such close illusions God will bring to light,And overthrowe the workers with his might.
Con. This is the house; come let us knocke at dore; I see a light, they are not all in bed: [Knockes; Rachell comes downe. How now, faire maide? is your brother up?
Rach. He's not within, sir; would you speake with him?
Con. You doe but iest; I know he is within, And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.
Rach. In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe, And I was loath to trouble him to-night.
Con. Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake; But for your brother, he is knowne to be A damned villaine and an hipocrite.Rachell, I charge thee in her highnesse name, To go with us to prison presently.
Rach. To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?
Con. You know that best, but every one doe know You and your brother murthered MaisterBeech, And his poore boy that dwelt atLambert hill.
Rach. I murthered? my brother knowes that I, Did not consent to either of their deathes.
Con. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?
Rach. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.
Con. Now, MaisterMerry, are you in a sweate? [Throwes his night cap away.
Merry sigh. No verily, I am not in a sweate.
Con. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?
Mer. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.
Con. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise, And presently to goe along with us. [Riseth up.
Mer. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?
Con. We partly doe; when saw you maisterBeech?
Mer. I doe not well remember who you meane.
Con. NotBeech, the Chaundler uponLambert hill?
Mer. I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.
Con. I would you had not, for your sisters sake,For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy.Be not obdurate in your wickednesse;Confession drawes repentance after it.
Mer. Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse,I was the man that did them both to death:As for my sister and my harmlesse man,I doe protest they both are innocent.
Con. Your man is fast in hold, and hath confestThe manner how, and where, the deede was done;Therefore twere vaine to colour anything.Bring them away.
Rach. Ah brother, woe is me!
Mer. I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.
[Exeunt.
Enter Trueth.
Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes;Now,Merry, change thy name and countenance;Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorneThou smile to thinke on thy extremities.Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes,Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt,For thou couldst never number them before.—Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray,And thinke it truth, for Truth dooth tell the tale.Merry, by lawe convict as principall,Receives his doome, to hang till he be dead,And afterwards for to be hangd in chaines.WilliamsandRachelllikewise are convictFor their concealment;Williamscraves his booke[42]And so receaves a brond[43] of infamie;But wretchedRachelssexe denies that grace,And therefore dooth receive a doome of deathTo dye with him whose sinnes she did conceale.Your eyes shall witnesse of their shaded tipes,Which many heere did see perform'd indeed.As forFallerio, not his homelie weedes,His beardlesse face, nor counterfetted speech,Can shield him from deserved punishment;But what he thinkes shall rid him from suspect,Shall drench him in more waves of wretchednesse,Pulling his sonne into relentlesse iawes,Of hungrie death, on tree of infamie.Heere comes the Duke that doomes them both to die;NextMerriesdeath shall end this Tragedie.
[Exit.
Enter Duke, Vesuvio, Turq., Alberto: and Fallerio disguised.
Duke. Where is thatSyren, that incarnate fiend,Monster of Nature, spectacle of shame,Blot and confusion of his familie,False-seeming semblance of true-dealing trust,I meaneFallerio, bloody murtherer:Hath he confest his cursed treacherie,Or will he stand to proove his innocence?
Vesu. We have attach'deFallerio, gracious lord,And did accuse him withPertillosdeath;But he remote will not confesse himselfeNeither the meanes nor author of the same.His mightie vowes and protestationsDo almost seeme to pleade integritie,But that we all do know the contrarie.
Fall.—I know your error stricks your knowledge blinde; His seeming me, doth so delude your minde. [(To the) People.
Duke. Then bring him forth, to answer for himselfe, Since he stands stoutly to denie the deed:
[Alberto and other fetch Alenso.
His sonne can witnesse that the dying manAccusdeFalleriofor his treacherie.—Stand forth thou close disguised hipocrite,And speake directlie to these articles:First, didst thou hire two bloodie murtherersTo massacrePertilloin a wood?
Alen. I never did suborne such murtherers, But ever lov'dPertilloas my life.
Duke. Thy sonne can witnesse to the contrarie.
Alen. I have no sonne to testifie so much.
Fal.—No, for his gravitie is counterfeit, Pluck off his beard, and you will sweare it so.
Vesu. Have you no sonne? doth notAlensolive?
Alen.Alensolives, but is no sonne of mine.
Alber. Indeed his better part had not his source From thy corrupted vice-affecting hart, For vertue is the marke he aimeth at.
Duke. I dare be sworne thatSostratawould blush, Shouldst thou denyAlensofor thy sonne.
Alen. Nay, did she live, she would not challenge me To be the father of that haplesse sonne.
Turq. Nay, then anon you will denie your selfe To be your selfe, unjustFallerio.
Alen. I do confesse my selfe to be my selfe, But will not answere toFallerio.
Duke. Not toFallerio? this is excellent! You are the man was cal'dFallerio.
Alen. He never breathed yet that cal'd me so, Except he were deceiv'd as you are now.
Duke. This impudence shall not excuse your fault;You are well knowne to beFallerio,The wicked husband of deadSostrataAnd father to the vertuousAlenso;And even as sure as all these certeinties,Thou didst contrive thy little Nephewes death.
Alen. True, for I am nor falseFallerio, Husband, nor father, as you do suggest, And therefore did not hire the murtherers; Which to be true acknowledge with your eyes. [Puls off his disguise.
Duke. How now, my Lords! this is a myracle, To shake off thirtie yeares so sodeinlie And turne from feeble age to flourishing youth!
Alb. But he my Lord that wrought this miracle, Is not of power to free himselfe from death, Through the performance of this suddaine change.
Duke. No, were he the chiefest hope of Christendome,He should not live for this presumption:Use no excuse,Alenso, for thy life;My doome of death shall be irrevocable.
Alen. Ill fare his soule that would extenuateThe rigor of your life-confounding doome!I am prepar'd with all my hart to die,For thats th' end of humaine miserie.
Duke. Then thus: you shall be hang'd immediately, For your illusion of the Magistrates With borrowed shapes of false antiquitie.
Alen. Thrice-happy sentence, which I do imbraceWith a more fervent and unfained zealeThen an ambicious rule-desiring manWould do a Iem-bedecked Diadem,Which brings more watchfull cares and discontentThen pompe or honor can remunerate.When I am dead, let it be said of me,Alensodied to set his father free.
Fal. That were a freedome worse than servitudeTo cruell Turke or damned Infidell.Most righteous Judge, I do appeale for Iustice,Justice on him that hath deserved death,Not onAlenso; he is innocent.
Alen. But I am guiltie of abetting him, Contrarie to his Maiestie's Edict, And therefore death is meritorious.
Fall. I am the wretch that did subborne the slaves, To murther poorePertilloin the wood. Spare, spareAlenso! he is innocent.
Duke. What strange appeale is this! we know thee not: None butFalleriois accusde hereof.
Alen. Then, father, get you hence, depart in time, Least being knowne you suffer for the crime.
Fal. Depart, and leave thee clad in horrors cloake,And suffer death for true affection!Although my soule be guiltie of more sinne,Then ever sinfull soule were guiltie of,Yet fiends of hell would never suffer this.I am thy father, though unworthy so:Oh, still I see these weeds do feare your eyes.I amFallerio, make no doubt of me, [Put off.Though thus disguisde, in habite, countenance,Only to scape the terror of the lawe.
Alen. And IAlensothat did succour himGainst your commaundement, mightie Soveraigne.Ponder your oath, your vowe, as God did live,I should not live, if I did rescue him.I did, God lives, and will revenge it home,If you defer my condigne punishment.
Duke. Assure your selves, you both shall suffer death: But forFallerio, he shall hang in chaines After he's dead, for he was principall.
Fall. Unsaverie Woormewood, Hemlock, bitter gall,Brings no such bad, unrelisht, sower taste,Unto the tongue as this death-boding voice,Brings to the eares of pooreFallerio,Not for myselfe but forAllensoessake,Whome I have murthered by my trechery.Ah my dread Lord, if any little sparkeOf melting pittie doth remaine alive,And not extinguisht by my impious deedes,Oh kindle it unto a happie flame,To lightAllensofrom this miserieWhich through dim death he's like to fall into.
Allen. That were to overthrow my soule and all.Should you reverse this sentence of my death,My selfe would play the death-man on my selfeAnd overtake your swift and winged soule,Ere churlishCaronhad transported youUnto the fields of sadProserpina.
Duke. Cease, cease,Fallerio, in thy bootlesse prayers. I am resolv'd, I am inexorable.Vesuvio, see their judgement be performde, And useAlensowith all clemencie, Provided that the lawe be satisfied.
[Exit Duke and Alberto.
Vesu. It shall be done with all respectivenesse; Have you no doubt of that, my gratious Lord.
Fall. Here is a mercie mixt with equitie, To show him favour but cut off his head.
Alen. My reverend father pacifie yourselfe;I can, and will, indure the stroake of death,Were his appearance nere so horrible,To meetePertilloin another world.
Fal. Thou shouldst have tarried untill natures courseHad been extinct, that thou oregrowne with age,Mightst die the death of thy progenitors;Twas not thy meanes he died so soddenly,But mine, that causing his, have murthered thee.
Alen. But yet I slew my mother, did I not?
Fal. I, with reporting of my villanie.The very audit of my wickednesse,Had force enough to give a sodaine death.Ah sister, sister, now I call to minde,Thy dying wordes now prov'd a prophesie,If you deale ill with this distressed childe,God will no doubt revenge the innocent.I have delt ill, and God hath tane revenge.
Allen. Now let us leave remembrance of past deedes, And thinke on that which more concerneth us.
Fal. With all my hart; thou ever wert the spurWhich prict me on to any godlinesse;And now thou doest indevor to inciteMe make my parting peace with God and men.I doe confesse, even from my verie soule,My hainous sinne and grievous wickednesseAgainst my maker manie thousand waies:Ab imo cordisI repent my selfeOf all my sinnes against his maiestie;And, heavenly father, lay not to my chargeThe death of poorePertilloand those menWhich I suborn'd to be his murtherers,When I appeare before thy heavenlie throneTo have my sentence or of life or death.
Vesu. Amen, amen, and God continue still These mercie-moving meditations.
Allen. And thou, great God, which art omnipotent,Powerful! enough for to redeeme our soulesEven from the verie gates of gaping hell,Forgive our sinnes and wash away our faultsIn the sweete river of that precious bloodWhich thy deare sonne did shed inGalgotha,For the remission of all contrite soules.
Fal. Forgive thy death, my thrice-beloved sonne.
Allen. I doe, and, father, pardon my misdeedes Of disobedience and unthankfullnesse.
Fal. Thou never yet wert disobedient,Unlesse I did commaund unlawfulnesse.Ungratefulnesse did never trouble thee;Thou art too bounteous thus to guerdon me.
Allen. Come, let us kisse and thus imbrace in death.Even when you will, come, bring us to the place,Where we may consumate our wretchednesse,And change it for eternall hapinesse.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Merry and Rachel to execution with Officers with Halberdes, the Hangman with a lather [sic] &c.
Mer. Now, sisterRachell, is the houre comeWherein we both must satisfie the lawForBeechesdeath and harmelesseWinchester.Weepe not sweete sister, for that cannot helpe:I doe confesse fore all this companyThat thou wert never privie to their deathes,But onelie helpest me, when the deede was done,To wipe the blood and hide away my sinne;And since this fault hath brought thee to this shame,I doe intreate thee on my bended kneeTo pardon me for thus offending thee.
Rach. I doe forgive you from my verie soule,And thinke not that I shed these store of teares,For that I price my life, or feare to dye,Though I confesse the manner of my deathIs much more grievous then my death it selfe;But I lament for that it hath beene saidI was the author of this crueltieAnd did produce you to this wicked deede,Whereof God knowes that I am innocent.
Mer. Indeede thou art; thy conscience is at peace,[Goe up the lather.And feeles no terror for such wickednesse;Mine hath beene vexed but is now at rest,For that I am assur'd my hainous sinneShall never rise in judgement gainst my soule,But that the blood ofJesus Christhath powerTo make my purple sinne as white as Snowe.One thing, good people, witnesse here with me,That I doe dye in perfect charitie,And do forgive, as I would be forgivenFirst of my God and then of all the world.Cease publishing that I have beene a manTrain'd up in murther or in crueltie,For fore this time, this time is all too soone,I never slue or did consent to kill;So helpe me God as this I speake is true!I could say something of my innocence,In fornication and adulterie,But I confesse the iustest man alive,That beares about the frailtie of a man,Cannot excuse himselfe from daily sinneIn thought, in word, and deed. Such was my life.I never hatedBeechin all my life,Onely desire of money which he had,And the inciting of that foe of man,That greedie gulfe, that greatLeviathan,Did halle [sic] me on to these callamities;For which, even now my very soule dooth bleede.God strengthen me with patience to endureThis chastisement, which I confesse too smallA punishment for this my hainous sinne.Oh be couragious, sister! fight it well!We shall be crown'd with immortallitie.
Rach. I will not faint, but combat manfully; Christ is of power to helpe and strengthen me.
Officer. I pray make hast; the hower is almost past.
Mer. I am prepar'd; oh God, receive my soule; Forgive my sinnes, for they are numberlesse. Receive me, God, for now I come to thee! [Turne of the Lather. Rachel shrinketh.
Offi. Nay shrinke not, woman; have a cheerefull hart.
Rach. I, so I do, and yet this sinfull fleshWill be rebellious gainst my willing spirit.Come, let me clime these steps that lead to heaven,Although they seeme the staires of infamie:Let me be merror to ensuing times,And teach all sisters how they do conceale,The wicked deeds of brethren, or of friends.I not repent me of my love to him,But that thereby I have provoked GodTo heavie wrath and indignation;Which turne away, great God, for Christes sake.Ah,Harry Williams, thou wert chiefest cause,That I doe drinke of this most bitter cup,For hadst thou openedBeechesdeath at first,The boy had liv'd and thou hadst sav'd my life.But thou art branded with a marke of shame,And I forgive thee from my very soule.Let him and me learn all that heare of thisTo utter brothers or their maisters misse;Conceale no murthers, lest it do begetMore bloody deeds of like deformitie.Thus God forgive my sinnes, receive my soule!And though my dinner be of bitter death,I hope my soule shall sup with Jesus Christ,And see his presence everlastingly. [Dyeth.
Offi. The Lord of heaven have mercy on her soule,And teach all others by this spectacle,To shunne such dangers as she ran into,By her misguided taciturnitie:Cut downe their bodies, give hers funerall,But let his body be conveyed hence,ToMile-endgreene, and there be hang'd in chaines.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Truthe.
Tru. See here the end of lucre and desireOf riches, gotten by unlawfull meanes.What monstrous evils this hath brought to passe,Your scarce-drie eyes give testimoniall;The father sonne, the sister brother brings,To open scandall and contemptuous death.
Enter Homicide and Covetousnesse.
But heere come they that wrought these deeds of ruthe,As if they meant to plot new wickednesse.Whether so fast, you damned miscreants,Yee vaine deluders of the credulous,That seeke to traine men to destruction?
Mur. Why, we will on, to set more harmes a flote, That I may swim in rivers of warme blood, Out-flowing from the sides of Innocents.
Cove. I will entice the greedie-minded soule,To pull the fruite from the forbidden tree;YetTantall-like, he shall but glut his eye,Nor feede his body with salubrious fruite.
Tru. Hence Stigmaticks, you shall not harbor heare,To practice execrable butcheries!My selfe will bring your close designes to light,And overthrow your vilde conspiracies.No hart shall intertaine a murthrous thoughtWithin the sea-imbracing continent,Where faireEliza, Prince of pietie,Doth weare the peace-adorned Diadem.
Cove. Mauger the worst, I will have many hartsThat shall affect my secret whisperings;And chinck of golde is such a pleasing crie,That all men wish to heare such harmony,And I will place sternMurtherby my side,That we may do more harmes then haughty pride.
Homi. Truth, now farewell; hereafter thou shalt see Ile vexe thee more with many tragedies.
Truth. The more the pitty; would the hart of manWere not so open wide to entertaineThe harmfull baites of selfe-devouring sinne!But from the first unto the latter times,It hath and will be so eternally.——Now it remaines to have your good adviceUnto a motion of some consequence.There is a Barke thats newly rigd for sea,Unmand, unfurnishd with munition:She must incounter with a greater foeThen greatAlcydesslue inLernaLakeWould you be pleasd to man this willing barkeWith good conceits of her intencion;To store her with the thundring furnitureOf smoothest smiles, and pleasing plaudiats;She shall be able to endure the shockOf snarlingZoylus, and his cursed crue,That seekes to sincke her in reproches waves;And may perchance obteine a victorieGainst curious carpes, and fawning parasites:But if you suffer her, for want of ayde,To be orewhelmed by her insulting foes,Oh then she sinckes, that meant to passe the floodWith stronger force to do her countrie good.It resteth thus; whether she live or dye,She is your Beades-man everlastinglie.
Finis—Rob. Yarington.
Laus Deo
In Sir Henry Herbert's MS. Office-Book, under date Sept. 3rd, 1624, is the entry:—"for the Cock-pit Company[44] a new play called the Captive [sic] or the Lost Recovered, written by Hayward," i.e., Heywood. The lost recovered! Lost for two centuries and a half was this comedy of dear Tom Heywood, until I recovered it from Egerton MS. 1994. I am proud to have rendered this service to a gentle poet who has given me many hours of delight.
The play is without title or author's name in the MS. After reading the first page I judged that the author was Heywood, and this impression was soon confirmed beyond all doubt. In the MS. the present play is immediately followed by a piece calledCalisto, which consists of scenes from Heywood'sGolden AgeandSilver Age. I have elsewhere mentioned (Vol. ii. p. 419) thatCalistoandThe Captivesare written in the same desperately difficult handwriting,—peculiar to these two plays, and not found in any other part of the volume. There can be no doubt that whoever transcribedCalistotranscribed alsoThe Captives. But from internal evidence alone—putting aside the testimony afforded by the handwriting, and ignoring the entry in Sir Henry Herbert's Office-Book—any competent reader could plainly perceive that the play is Heywood's. In the very first scene—in the conversation between Treadway and Raphael—we feel at once the charm of that hearty "Christianism" which is never absent from Heywood's work. There is no affectation in Heywood; he is always natural and simple, though occasionally the writing sprawls.
Everybody knows the droll description in Heywood'sEnglish Travellerof the "Shipwreck by Drink,"[45]—how some unthrift youths, carousing deeply, chanced to turn their talk on ships and storms at sea; whereupon one giddy member of the company suddenly conceived that the room was a pinnace, that the sounds of revelry were the bawlings of sailors, and that his unsteady footing was due to the wildness of the tempest; the illusion spread among his companions, and a scene of whimsical confusion followed. InThe Captives, ii. 2, we have a similar conceit suggested:—
Scrib. Such was the grace heaven sent us, who from perill,Danger of lyfe, the extreamest of all extreamesHathe brought us to the happy patronageOf this most reverent abbott.
Clowne. What dangers? what extreames?
Scrib. From the sea's fury, drowneing; for last night Our shipp was splitt, wee cast upon these rocks.
Clowne. Sayd in a jest, in deede! Shipwreck by land! I perceive you tooke the woodden waggen for a ship and the violent rayne for the sea, and by cause some one of the wheels broake and you cast into some water plashe, you thought the shipp had splitt and you had bene in danger of drowneinge.
The main story ofThe Captivesis borrowed from Plautus'sRudens, many passages being translated almost word for word. It will be remembered that in theEnglish TravellerHeywood was indebted to another of Plautus's plays—theMostellaria. I have not been able to discover the source of the very curious underplot ofThe Captives.
The MS. from which the play is printed bears every appearance of being a play-house copy. Numerous passages have been cancelled, seemingly (for the most part) by the hand of some reviser. In most instances I have restored the cancelled passages to the text—though the task of deciphering them has been cruelly difficult.
A Comedy by THOMAS HEYWOOD.
Licensed by Sir Henry Herbert in 1624, and now first printed from Egerton MS. 1994.
Actus primus.
Enter Mr. Raphael a younge marchaunt, Mr. Treadway his companione and frend.
Raphael. You talke to one thats deaf; I am resolv'd.
Treadway. I knwe [sic] you are not of that stupid sence But you will lyst to reason.
Raphael. Alls but vayne.
Treadway. You saye shees fayre.
Raphael. And there-fore to bee lov'd.
Treadway.[46] No consequentTo trust to collour. Are not the bewtyous lyllyes,The gardens pryde and glorye of the feilds,Thoughe to the eye fayre and delectable,Yet ranke in smell? the stayneles swanneWith all the Oceans water cannot washThe blacknes from her feete, tis borne with her.Oft painted vessayles bringe in poysond cates,And the blackest serpents weare the goldenst scales;And woman, made mans helper at the fyrst,Dothe oft proove his destroyer.
Raphael. Saye perhappsSome frend of yours miscarried in his choyse,Will you condeme all women for that one?Bycause we reade oneLaiswas unchast,Are all Corinthian Ladyes cortesans?Shall I, bycause my neighbours house was burnt,Condeme the necessary use of fyre?One surfeitts, and shall I refuse to eate?That marchant man by shipwreck lost his goodds;Shall I, bycause hee perisht in the sea,Abiure the gainfull trade of merchandyse,Despoyle my shipps, and unbecom [?] the deepesOf theire fayre Sayles and tackles?
Treadway. Not so, frend.[47] Althoughe her person may perhapps content, Consider but the place.
Raphael. I knwe it badd, Nay woorst of Ills.
Treadway. A howse of prostitution And common brothellrie.
Raphael. Which coold not standBut that her vertue guards it and protects itFrom blastinges and heavens thunders. There shee lyvesLyke to a ritche and pretious Jewell lost,Fownd shyninge on a doonge-hill, yet the gemmeNo wyse disparadged of his former wortheNor bated of his glory; out of this fyreOf lust and black temptation sheis [sic] returnedLyke gold repur'd and tryde.
Treadway. Of what byrthe is shee?
Raphael. Unknwne to mee or any: shee protests,Neye to her self; what neede I question that?Sure sutche sweete features, goodnes, modestySuch gentlenes, such vertue cannot beeDeryvd from base and obscure parentadge.
Treadway. Whats then your end and purpose?
Raphael. To redeeme herOut of this gayle of sinne and leprosye,This mart of all diseases, where shee lyvesStill under the comande and TyranyOf a most base hee-bawde: about which businesWee have allready traffict.
Treadway. Well, if so,And to dispose her elsewhere to her goodd,Provided still that vertue be your ayme,I cannot but commende your charityAnd to my power I'l seeke to further it.
Raphael. You so intyre mee to you. Within theire!
Enter the Clowne.
Clowne. Within theire is nowe without heare: your worshipps pleasure?
Raphael. Hye to the next key and inquire for one cald SeigniorMildeweand resolve him from mee that I have kept apointment: the somms redy and present to bee tendred.
Clowne. Who? theFrenshemonster,[48]NeapolitanSeignor, the man-makarel[49] and marchant of madens-fleshe that deales altogether in flawed ware and crackt comodityes? the bawdy broker, I meanes, where a man for his dollers may have choyse of diseases, and som tymes the pox too, if hee will leeve beehind him a good pawne for it.
Raphael. How thou drummst.
Clowne. Marry qothe hee. So I may happen to bringe it awaye in my nose. Well I smell some bawdy business or other in hand. They call this placeMarcellisRoade, the cheiff haven towne inFrance, but hee keepes a road[50] in his oune howse wherein have ridd and bin ridd more leakinge vessayles, more panderly pinks,[51] pimps and punkes, more rotten bottoms ballanst, more fly-boates[52] laden and unladen every morninge and evenning tyde then weare able to fill the huge greate baye ofPortingall. Is this all, syr?
Raphael. Yes all, and heares the somme.
Clowne. A small somme of that is worthe all the busines that I am sent about, for the all in all on't is I am afrayde that all will proove woorthe nothinge.
Treadway. And yet mee thinkes ere folly you conclude You should a little stagger.
Raphael. Should? wherein?
Treadway. For many reasons: Il alleadge som fewe.Who knwes but this your fayre and seeminge saynt,Thoughe disposd well and in her owne conditionOf promisinge goodnes, yet livinge in the seminaryOf all libidinous actions, spectars, sights,Even in the open market where sinne's souldWhere lust and all uncleanes are commerstAs freely as comodityes are vendedAmongst the noblest marchants,—who I sayeSo confident that dare presume a virginOf such a soft and maiden temperature,Deyly and howerly still sollicitedBy gallants of all nations, all degrees,Allmost all ages, even from upright youthTo the stoopinge and decrepitt—
Raphael. Heare mee nowe.
Treadway. Two woords and I have doone: the place considered,The basenes of the person under whomeShee lyves opprest, a slave of sordid lyfe,Conditiond with the devill, temptinge stillSometymes by fayre means, then againe by foul,To prostitute her for his servyle gaynes;And next the dissolute crewe with which shees hows'dEch night, ech deye perswedinge boathe with toongeAnd lewde example; all these circonstancesDuly considered, I shoold dowbt at least,If not presume, the woorst.
Raphael. Oh you have pleasd mee,And in proposinge all these difficultyesGiven of her graces ample testimony.Shee is that miracle, that only oneThat cann doo these; wear't comon in the sexeTwold not appeare to mee so admirable;It is for these I love her.
Treadway. You are resolvd And I'l not staye your purpose.
Enter the Clowne with Mildewe and Sarleboys his guest and frende.
Clowne. I have brought this flesh-fly whome as soone as the butchers wyves sawe comminge throwghe the shambles, they all of them stood with theire flapps in theire hands like fanns. I, demandinge the reason itt was answerd me againe itt was to keepe away his infectious breath least it should fill theire meate with fly-blowes.
Raphael. Well, mett, good Mr.Mildewe.
Mildewe. My returne Of your salutes I cast belowe your feete.
Raphael. Syr, I am yours to treade on. You will then Stand to your former bargen?
Mildewe. I weare else Not woorthy to bee stil'd what I am tearmd, A trewe venereall broaker.
Clowne. That's inItalianA damnable hee bawde.
MildeweY'have such a bargenMarcellis, nor all France, shall yeild the like.Tis such a deynty peece of puritySuch a coy thinge that[53] hee unto whose lottShe shall hereafter fall may boast himselfTo bee a happy husband. For our tradeShees out at that: neather promises, rewards,Example or Intreaty, fayre, fowle meanes,Gaine present or the hope of future goodd,Can force from her a presens; then much lesseA frendly prostitution.
Raphael. Hearst thou this?
Treadway. Yes[54] and comende it in her, if that toonge, Even from his fyrst of speakinge traind to lye, Can now at lengthe speake truth.
Clowne. Ay theres the dowbt.
Sarly. This too yeares I have quested to his howse, And knwe all this most certeine.
Raphael. Witnes too.
Mildewe. I doo protest she spoyles my familyAnd rather growne a hyndrance to my tradeThen benefitt; so that, if not to losse,I wishe that I were clerly ridd of her,For shee hathe gott a trick to[55] my whores;And such as of themselves are impudent,When shee but coms in presens she makes blushe,As if ashamd of what they late had doonOr are about to doo.
Clowne. Well sayde, ould sinner.
Raphael. See, heeres the sum, 3 hundred crownes.
Mildewe. O'th somme.
Raphael. All currant and full weight.
Mildewe. I'l fetch my doughter That hath no lightnes in her, currant too As any lasse i'th cittye.
Raphael.Mildewe, staye.
Clowne. Staye, oh thou father of fornication and marchant of nothinge but mesteryes and mischeife; whele about, thou dung[c]art of diseases; sayle this way thoue galley foyst[56] of galls and garbadge! Dost not heare my master? staye!
Mildewe. Why, did his worshippe call?
Clowne. Didst thou not heare him call, and mee cry out upon thee?
Mildewe. His pleasure then?
Raphael. I have bethought mee better nowe to keepeThis business secrett, least it chance to arryveTo th'eares of some of my most noble frends;And not to make it publicke and this honestPurpose of myne by that meanes misreated,[57]Heare lett her stay till night bycause I am loathIn th'eye of day to move her through the streetes.
Mildewe. Good, syr.
Raphael. Nwe [Now] in the villaige by, that fronts the sea,Som halff league off where stands the monastery,I have bespoake a place to sojorn her.There I this evening do intend[58] a feastWhere only wee and som fewe private frendsHave purpost to bee jhoviall. To that placeI prithee, with what pryvacy thou canst,Conduct her and so add unto our guests.
Mildewe. The place I knwe, the tyme is perfect with mee, And for the feast you saye you have prepared I shall provyde a stomacke.
Raphael. Her caskett, and such other necessaryes Included in our bargen, bring alonge Or lett her mayde do'ot for thee.
Mildewe. I'l not bate her A ruff or ragge; no pinne that's usefull too her Will I keepe backe.
Raphael. To this you are witnes, frend.
Treadway. I am, Syr.
Mildewe. So's my guest.
Clowne. And lookes as if with me Hee only could write witlesse.
Raphael. Supper tyme You will remember,Mildewe.
Mildewe. Possible I should forgett to eate of others' cost? It never was my custom.
Clowne. Choake you for't.
Raphael. Come, frend, mee thinks I have doone a deede this day Crownes all my better actions, for I have raised An Innocent from the hands of an Infidell agent.
Clowne. Farewell, rott, farewell murreine, adiewe.
Mildewe. Farewell till soone.
[Exeunt Raphael, Treadway, and Clowne.
Sarleb. And do you meane to keepe your promisse then, And doo as you have sayde?
Mildewe. Why not, I prithee? What else canst thou advyse mee?
Sarleb. Are not weeBoathe of a rotten conscience, men debosht,Secluded from the company of suchAs either are or else would stryve to beeReputed honest? wherefore then should weeKeepe tutche with any that professe themselvesNot to bee of our ranke?
Mildewe. Proceede, good frend: Thou hast putt project in my brayne allredy, Small tyme woold better fashion.
Sarleb. What if ILaye such a plotte that you shall gayne these crownesThese full three hundred to your proper use,And of these peevishe harletryes at homeMake a much greater market?
Mildewe. Marry, syr, That were a tale worth listeninge.
Sarleb. These crownsAre all your owne in your possession,So are the maydes. I knowe you ritche besydesIn coyne and jewells; heere you lyve despysed,And whats this clime to us of more estemeThen any forreine region? whores and bawdesMay lyve in every corner of the woorld,We knowe tis full of sinners. This, this dayLetts hyre a bark; wee dwell upon the haven,And instantly 'tis done. Shipp all your goodsWith these shee-chatteyles; putt this night to sea—England they saye is full of whormasters;There will bee vent for such comoditye,There strompett them where they (you saye) weare born,Else you inSpaynemay sell them to the stewes,Venyceor any place ofItaly;They are everywhere good chaffer. If not these,What saye you toMorocho, Fesse, Algiers?Faith these are wares in all parts vendible,No matter thoughe toTurkeand infidell,So itt bringe gayne and profitt.
Mildewe. Lett me hugg theeFor this, deare frend; heareafter I will style theeMy better genius; thou hast monied mee in this,Nay landed me, made me thy braynes executor,And putt mee in a lardge possession.Go hyre a barke.
Sarlab. I shall.
Mildewe. And instantly.
Sarlab. I shall.
Mildewe. Ere night wee'l putt into a sea No larger then our full stretcht consciences. Lett mee once more Imbrace thee. [Exeunt.
Enter an Abbot with his covent[59] of Fryars, amongst them Fryar Jhon, and Fryar Ritchard.
Abbot. As I have heare priority of place, Boathe by our patrons favour and your voyce, So give me leave to arbitrate amongst you.
Fr. Jhon. Without respect of person wee acknowledge you. Our prince and cheiff.
Fr. Rich. And to your fatherly And grave advyse humbly submitt our selves.
Abbot. Knwe then in this small covent, which consystsOnly of 12 in nomber, fryars I meaneAnd us the Abbat, I have fownde amongst youMany and grosse abuses; yet for the presentI will insist on fewe. Quarrells, debates,Whisperinge, supplantinges, private calumnyes,These ought not bee in such a brotherhood.Of these FryarJhonand thou FryarRichardareAccused to bee most guilty, ever jarringAnd opposite to peace.
Fr. Jhon. The faults in him.
Fr. Rich. As in all other thinges, so even in this Hee still is apt to wronge mee.
Fr. Jhon. Hee that fyrst gives th'occation, fyrst complaines: It ever was his fashion.
Fr. Rich. Never myne: I appeale to the whole covent.
Abbot. Mallyce rooted,I finde, is woondrous hard to bee supprest.But knwe where consell and advise preveyle not,The fayrest meanes that I can wourk your peace,I'l take upon mee my authority,And where I finde in you the least contemptI shall severely punishe.
Fr. Jhon. I submitt.
Fr. Rich. I yeeld myself to your grave fatherhood.
Abbot. Consider, sonnes, this cloystered place of oursIs but newe reared; the founder, hee still lyves,A souldier once and eminent in the feild,And after many battayles nowe retyrdIn peace to lyve a lyff contemplative.Mongst many other charitable deedes,Unto religion hee hathe vowed this howse,Next to his owne fayre mantion that adjoynesAnd parted only by a slender wall.Who knwes but that hee neighboring us so neareAnd havinge doone this unto pious ends,May carry over us and our behaviouresAn austere eye of censure?
Fr. Jhon. Fitt therefore Wee should bee in our actions cautelous.[60]
Fr. Rich. And carefull least wee may incurr displeasure Of such a noble patron.
Abbot. Well observ'd. His bewtious Lady—
Fr. Jhon. A sweete soule indeede.
Fr. Rich. On whom FryarJhoncasts many a leering eye: I have observd that too.
Abbot. Boath for her outward featureAnd for her inward graces excellentBeyond compare, shee lykewyse is to usA worthy benefactor.
Fr. Rich. Tis confest.
Fr. Jhon. Would I might com to bee her confessor: It is a fayre sweete lady.
Fr. Rich.[61] Howe the lecher Hugges at the very name.
Abbot. Morninge and eveningeThey deyly com to mattens and to evensonge;Such and so greate is theire devotion.That, if not crasd or feylinge in theire healthe,They do not misse us any hower of prayer;And therefore it behooves us all in generallTo sett a carefull watche upon our deedes,Least we that are proffest religiousBee in the least deffective.
Fr. Richard. Noate, FryarJhon, Howe hee makes anticke faces and in scorne Of this your reverent counsell.
Fr. Jhon. I, alas?A weaknes from my childhood, I confesse,I ever had and cannott helpe it nowe,To have a trobled countenance. I make mouthes?This (most observed father) but approovesMy innosens and his envye. Markt you that?FryarRichardbent his fyst and threatned mee.I call all these to witnesse.
Fr. Rich. No such thinge.I have a crampe oft takes me in this handAnd makes mee weare clutcht ringers, and that passionNow came upon mee; but for meanacinge himIt ever was farr from mee. This but showesHis owld inveterate mallice, which in charityI wishe might heare lye buried.—Syrrah, anonI'l have you by the eares.
Fr. Jhon. Doo if thou darst; We'll tugge it out by the teeth.
Fr. Rich. Meete me i'th orchard Just after even song.
Fr. Jhon. I will make short prayers Bycause I'l keepe appointment.
Abbot. I am playneAnd breife with all: eather betwixt you too [sic]Make frendly reconsilement, and in presenceOf this your brotherhood (for what is fryarButfrater, and that's brother?), or my selfeOut of my power will putt you to a penanceShall make you in one weeke fyve fasting-dayes.
Fr. Jhon. Oh terrible!
Abbot. Or, if that will not tame you,I will complayne to'th fownder of your loosenes,Your riotts, and disorders, and petitionThat you, as sowers off seditious hatred[62]And sole disturbers of our common peace,Maye bee excluded this society,Banisht by common barre-law, and shutt outTo publick shame and beggerye.
Fr. Rich. Horrible!
Fr. Jhon. Fyrst then to showe my submisse willingnesAnd forwardnes withall: with as much charityAs any new reformed man maye doo,I with a zeale and hart new reconsiledThus humbly begge his love.(Y'are a rogue,Ritchard.)
Fr. Rich. To meete his trewe And most unfeigned affection, heare in face And viewe of this our holly brotherhoode, As if in open coort with this mi[63] breath I heare confine all hatred. (Jhon, y'are a Jack sauce, I meane a sawcye Jacke.)
Fr. Jhon. The orchard.
Fr. Rich. Theare.
Abbot. Why, this is as it should bee, and becomesA trew religious order. Such as are sequestredAnd vowed unto a strict monasticke lyfe,Ought to putt off these grosse and prophane sinnesMost frequent amongst laye-men. Unity,Due conformation and fraternall love.Devotion, hott zeale, and obediens; theseAre vertues that become a cloyster best.Nowe lett's retyre unto our oresonsAnd p[r]eye for our good fownders; may they stillGrow to our wishe and thryve to theire owne will.
[Exeunt all but Friar Jhon.
Fr. Jhon. More then I woold to have my wishe on thee,Richard, though I have a good stomacke too't,Ey, and to baste thee sowndly, I woold noweTo have my will one her. Tis a sweete creature;Our patron owld, shee younge; som hope in that.Besydes, shee's woondrous kind and affable;And when we duck or congee, smiles as ifShee tooke som pleasure in our shaven crownes.I am the fyrst that every morninge, whenShee passes through the cloyster to her prayers,Attend her with good morrowe, pray for her health.For her content and pleasure, such as canott beeHop't or expected from her husband's age;And these my frendly wishes she returnesNot only in kind language but sweete smiles,The least of which breede som Incoradgement.I will, if shee persist to proove thus kind,If not to speeke my thoughts, to wryte my mynd.
[Exit.
Thunder.
Enter after a greate Tempestuous storme Mr. Ashburne an Englishe marchant and his man Godfrey.
Ashburne. Was ever knowne such a tempestuous nightOf thunder, hayle, wynd, lightninge! Twas as ifThe fower seditious brothers threatned warrAnd weare but nowe at battayle.
Godfrey. The fower winds you meane; blusteringe fellowes they are. Preye God all be well at sea, for I am sure the roofes tyles and ridges have payde for it a shewer.[64]
Ashb. The very rafters of the howses bend;Some breake and are demolisht; barnes blowne downe;The very chimneyes rattle ore our heads;The strongest buildinges tremble just as ifTheire is above a tempest, so beloweThere weare a fearefull earth-quake.
Godfrey. All our howsesAre nothinge nowe but windowes, broad bay windowesSo spatious that carts laded may drive througheAnd neather loush oth' topp or eathere syde.Lights every where, we shall have lightnes inoughe:Heares stupid woork for daubers!
Ashburne. We are forct All to forsake the villaige and to fly Unto the feilds for succor.
Godfrey. Syr, it putt meIn minde of the greate KingAgathocles,Who was, as I have heard you oft relate,Brain'd with a Tyle. Why may not meaner menThen feare the fall of brick batts?
Enter Raphael, Treadway, and the Clowne.
Treadway. A strange night And full of terror; yet, thanks heaven, well past.
Raphael. Oh, but I feare the greater storms to come, A gust that will more shake mee.
Clowne. More, quothe hee; I can scarce see howe that well can bee, for I can assure you the garrett that I laye in putt mee in mind of myne infancye, for I lye all the night longe as if I had bin rockt in a cradle.
Raphael. Oh, frend, I feare this false and perjur'd slave, That hathe not kept apointment, hath deceiv'd mee Boathe of my coyne and pretious marchandyse.
Clowne. Did you ever looke for better from a Judas [?] of his he[yre]?[65]
Raphael. Which if hee have—
Clowne. Why then hee hathe, and the mends is in y'r owne hands: that's all that I can say too't.
Raphael. Hee hathe undone mee dubly.
Treadway. Hope the best.Perhapps the threatninge weather kept him backe:Itt was a trobled skye, the soon set blusheing,The rack cam swiftly rushing from the west;And these presadges of a future storme,Unwillinge for to trust her tendernesUnto such feares, might make him fayle his hower;And yet with purpose what hee slack't last nightHowe to make goodd this morninge.
Raphael. Oh you tent[66]My woonds too gently, dally with my dowbtsAnd flutter my trewe feares: the even was calme,The skye untrobled, and the soon went downeWithout disturbance in a temperate ayr.No, not the least conjecture coold be madeOf such a suddeine storme, of which the woorldTill after midnight was not sensible.His hower was supper, and in faylinge that—
Clowne. Ey, nowe begin I to feare too for thee. Breake his woord if it bee to com to dinner or supper! I'l never trust his bond for the valewe of a threepenny ordenarye after.
Raphael. Post you back to the citty; make inquiriesAnd most strickt search to find thatMildeweout;Whom if you meete, fyrst rate his last neclect,Then hasten his repayer. Heare you shall finde meeOr in the waye home; for in all this villaigeI woll not leave a howse, a place unsearcht.If where hee dwells you misse him, then demandeAtt every bey what shippinge late went out.If any vowed love still remane betwixt us,Make it appear nowe in your present careAnd expedition.
Treadw. I'l be yourMercury, Not fayle you in the least.
Raphael. And so betwixt us Increase a frendshipp that was never flawed.
[Exit[67] Treadway.
Ashburne. This gentleman, itt seemes, hathe in this tempest Sustein'd som losse, he appears so much disturb'd.
Clowne. See, syr, heare are some it may bee beelonge to this villadge; you had best aske of them.
Raphael. And well advysed. Hayle, father!
Godfrey. No more hayle if you love mee; we had too much of that last night.
Ashburne. Of what sexe are you that you call me so?I have bene father of a doughter once,Though not these many yeares blest with her sight,But of a soone yet never.
Raphael. What you have lost May you in som most fayer and fortunate hower Againe find to your comfort.
Ashburne. You wishe well.
Raphael. Sawe you not bowte this villadge late last night, Or early now i'th morninge, a short fellowe Thin heyred, flat nosed, sand-bearded and squint eyde?