"We such clusters hadAs made us nobly wild, not mad,And yet each verse of thineOutdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine."
But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles, though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News," "The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing, and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or "Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court; and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the tribe of Ben."
Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;" the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods," including some further entertainments; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry" (also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called "Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly interesting "English Grammar" "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and in use," in Latin and English; and "Timber, or Discoveries" "made upon men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The "Discoveries," as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted. Many passages of Jonson's "Discoveries" are literal translations from the authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it, adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright, Shakespeare. To call such passages—which Jonson never intended for publication— plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words. To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive comments of his masques, and in the "Discoveries," is characterised by clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of form or in the subtler graces of diction.
When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey:
"O rare Ben Jonson."
FELIX E. SCHELLING.
THE COLLEGE, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
The following is a complete list of his published works:—
DRAMAS:Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601;The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609;Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600;Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601;Poetaster, 4to, 1602;Sejanus, 4to, 1605;Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605;Volpone, 4to, 1607;Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616;The Alchemist, 4to, 1612;Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611;Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631;The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631;The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631;The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692;The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640;A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640;The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641;Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640.To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo,and collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, andin the Bloody Brother with Fletcher.POEMS:Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616, 1640;Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640;G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson, 1640;Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692.Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works.PROSE:Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641;The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit ofStrangers, fol., 1640.Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios.WORKS:Fol., 1616, volume. 2, 1640 (1631-41);fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;edited by P. Whalley, 7 volumes., 1756;by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 volumes., 1816, 1846;re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 volumes., 1871;in 9 volumes., 1875;by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction byC. H. Herford, 1893, etc.;Nine Plays, 1904;ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc;Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (UniversalLibrary), 1885;Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905;Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907;Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890.SELECTIONS:J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay,(Canterbury Poets), 1886;Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895;Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901;Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905;Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books,No. 4, 1906;Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest knownsetting, Eragny Press, 1906.LIFE:See Memoirs affixed to Works;J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886;Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden;Shakespeare Society, 1842;ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906;Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.
TO THE SPECIAL FOUNTAIN OF MANNERS THE COURT
THOU art a bountiful and brave spring, and waterest all the noble plants of this island. In thee the whole kingdom dresseth itself, and is ambitious to use thee as her glass. Beware then thou render men's figures truly, and teach them no less to hate their deformities, than to love their forms: for, to grace, there should come reverence; and no man can call that lovely, which is not also venerable. It is not powdering, perfuming, and every day smelling of the tailor, that converteth to a beautiful object: but a mind shining through any suit, which needs no false light, either of riches or honours, to help it. Such shalt thou find some here, even in the reign of Cynthia,—a Crites and an Arete. Now, under thy Phoebus, it will be thy province to make more; except thou desirest to have thy source mix with the spring of self-love, and so wilt draw upon thee as welcome a discovery of thy days, as was then made of her nights.
Thy servant, but not slave,
BEN JONSON.
CYNTHIA.ECHO.MERCURY.ARETE.HESPERUS.PHANTASTE.CRITES.ARGURION.AMORPHUS.PHILAUTIA.ASOTUS.MORIA.HEDON.COS.ANAIDES.GELAIA.MORPHIDES.PROSAITES.MORUS.CUPID.MUTES.—PHRONESIS, THAUMA, TIME
SCENE,—GARGAPHIE
INDUCTION.THE STAGE.AFTER THE SECOND SOUNDING.ENTER THREE OF THE CHILDREN, STRUGGLING.1 CHILD. Pray you away; why, fellows! Gods so, what do you mean?2 CHILD. Marry, that you shall not speak the prologue sir.3 CHILD. Why, do you hope to speak it?2 CHILD. Ay, and I think I have most right to it: I am sure Istudied it first.3 CHILD. That's all one, if the author think I can speak itbetter.1 CHILD. I plead possession of the cloak: gentles, your suffrages,I pray you.[WITHIN.] Why children! are you not ashamed? come in there.3 CHILD. Slid, I'll play nothing in the play: unless I speak it.1 CHILD. Why, will you stand to most voices of the gentlemen? letthat decide it.3 CHILD. O, no, sir gallant; you presume to have the start of usthere, and that makes you offer so prodigally.1 CHILD. No, would I were whipped if I had any such thought; tryit by lots either.2 CHILD. Faith, I dare tempt my fortune in a greater venture thanthis.3 CHILD. Well said, resolute Jack! I am content too; so we drawfirst. Make the cuts.1 CHILD. But will you not snatch my cloak while I am stooping?3 CHILD. No, we scorn treachery.2 CHILD. Which cut shall speak it?3 CHILD. The shortest.1 CHILD. Agreed: draw. [THEY DRAW CUTS.] The shortest is cometo the shortest. Fortune was not altogether blind in this. Now,sir, I hope I shall go forward without your envy.2 CHILD. A spite of all mischievous luck! I was once plucking atthe other.3 CHILD. Stay Jack: 'slid I'll do somewhat now afore I go in,though it be nothing but to revenge myself on the author; since Ispeak not his prologue, I'll go tell all the argument of his playafore-hand, and so stale his invention to the auditory, before itcome forth.1 CHILD. O, do not so.2 CHILD. By no means.3 CHILD. [ADVANCING TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE.] First, the titleof his play is "Cynthia's Revels," as any man that hath hope to besaved by his book can witness; the scene, Gargaphie, which I dovehemently suspect for some fustian country; but let that vanish.Here is the court of Cynthia whither he brings Cupid travelling onfoot, resolved to turn page. By the way Cupid meets with Mercury,(as that's a thing to be noted); take any of our play-books withouta Cupid or a Mercury in it, and burn it for an heretic in poetry.—[IN THESE AND THE SUBSEQUENT SPEECHES, AT EVERY BREAK, THE OTHERTWO INTERRUPT, AND ENDEAVOUR TO STOP HIM.] Pray thee, let mealone. Mercury, he in the nature of a conjurer, raises up Echo, whoweeps over her love, or daffodil, Narcissus, a little; sings;curses the spring wherein the pretty foolish gentleman meltedhimself away: and there's an end of her.—Now I am to informyou, that Cupid and Mercury do both become pages. Cupid attends onPhilautia, or Self-love, a court lady: Mercury follows Hedon, theVoluptuous, and a courtier; one that ranks himself even withAnaides, or the Impudent, a gallant, and, that's my part; one thatkeeps Laughter, Gelaia, the daughter of Folly, a wench in boy'sattire, to wait on him—These, in the court, meet with Amorphus,or the deformed, a traveller that hath drunk of the fountain, andthere tells the wonders of the water. They presently dispatch awaytheir pages with bottles to fetch of it, and themselves go to visitthe ladies. But I should have told you—Look, these emmets putme out here—that with this Amorphus, there comes along acitizen's heir, Asotus, or the Prodigal, who, in imitation of thetraveller, who hath the Whetstone following him, entertains theBeggar, to be his attendant.—Now, the nymphs who are mistressesto these gallants, are Philautia, Self-love; Phantaste, a lightWittiness; Argurion, Money; and their guardian, mother Moria; ormistress Folly.1 CHILD. Pray thee, no more.3 CHILD. There Cupid strikes Money in love with the Prodigal,makes her dote upon him, give him jewels, bracelets, carcanets,etc. All which he most ingeniously departs withal to be madeknown to the other ladies and gallants; and in the heat of this,increases his train with the Fool to follow him, as well as theBeggar—By this time, your Beggar begins to wait close, who isreturned with the rest of his fellow bottlemen.—There they alldrink, save Argurion, who is fallen into a sudden apoplexy—1 CHILD. Stop his mouth.3 CHILD. And then there's a retired scholar there, you would notwish a thing to be better contemn'd of a society of gallants, thanit is; and he applies his service, good gentleman, to the LadyArete, or Virtue, a poor nymph of Cynthia's train, that's scarceable to buy herself a gown; you shall see her play in a black robeanon: a creature, that, I assure you, is no less scorn'd thanhimself. Where am I now? at a stand!2 CHILD. Come, leave at last, yet.3 CHILD. O, the night is come ('twas somewhat dark, methought),and Cynthia intends to come forth; that helps it a little yet. Allthe courtiers must provide for revels; they conclude upon a masque,the device of which is—What, will you ravish me?—that each ofthese Vices, being to appear before Cynthia, would seem other thanindeed they are; and therefore assume the most neighbouring Virtuesas their masking habit—I'd cry a rape, but that you arechildren.2 CHILD. Come, we'll have no more of this anticipation; to givethem the inventory of their cates aforehand, were the discipline ofa tavern, and not fitting this presence.1 CHILD. Tut, this was but to shew us the happiness of his memory.I thought at first he would have plaid the ignorant critic witheverything along as he had gone; I expected some such device.3 CHILD. O, you shall see me do that rarely; lend me thy cloak.1 CHILD. Soft sir, you'll speak my prologue in it.3 CHILD. No, would I might never stir then.2 CHILD. Lend it him, lend it him:1 CHILD. Well, you have sworn. [GIVES HIM THE CLOAK.]3 CHILD. I have. Now, sir; suppose I am one of your genteelauditors, that am come in, having paid my money at the door, withmuch ado, and here I take my place and sit down: I have my threesorts of tobacco in my pocket, my light by me, and thus I begin.[AT THE BREAKS HE TAKES HIS TOBACCO.] By this light, I wonder thatany man is so mad, to come to see these rascally tits play here—They do act like so many wrens or pismires—not the fifth part ofa good face amongst them all.—And then their music is abominable—able to stretch a man's ears worse then ten—pillories and theirditties—most lamentable things, like the pitiful fellows thatmake them—poets. By this vapour, an 'twere not for tobacco—I think—the very stench of 'em would poison me, I should notdare to come in at their gates—A man were better visit fifteenjails—or a dozen or two of hospitals—than once adventure tocome near them. How is't? well?1 CHILD. Excellent; give me my cloak.3 CHILD. Stay; you shall see me do another now: but a more sober,or better-gather'd gallant; that is, as it may be thought, somefriend, or well-wisher to the house: and here I enter.1 CHILD. What? upon the stage too?2 CHILD. Yes; and I step forth like one of the children, and askyou. Would you have a stool sir?3 CHILD. A stool, boy!2 CHILD. Ay, sir, if you'll give me sixpence, I'll fetch you one.3 CHILD. For what, I pray thee? what shall I do with it?2 CHILD. O lord, sir! will you betray your ignorance so much?why throne yourself in state on the stage, as other gentlemen use,sir.3 CHILD. Away, wag; what would'st thou make an implement of me?'Slid, the boy takes me for a piece of perspective, I hold my life,or some silk curtain, come to hang the stage here! Sir crack, I amnone of your fresh pictures, that use to beautify the decayed deadarras in a public theatre.2 CHILD. 'Tis a sign, sir, you put not that confidence in yourgood clothes, and your better face, that a gentleman should do,sir. But I pray you sir, let me be a suitor to you, that you willquit our stage then, and take a place; the play is instantly tobegin.3 CHILD. Most willingly, my good wag; but I would speak with yourauthor: where is he?2 CHILD. Not this way, I assure you sir; we are not so officiouslybefriended by him, as to have his presence in the tiring-house, toprompt us aloud, stamp at the book-holder, swear for ourproperties, curse the poor tireman, rail the music out of tune, andsweat for every venial trespass we commit, as some author would, ifhe had such fine enghles as we. Well, 'tis but our hard fortune!3 CHILD. Nay, crack, be not disheartened.2 CHILD. Not I sir; but if you please to confer with our author, byattorney, you may, sir; our proper self here, stands for him.3 CHILD. Troth, I have no such serious affair to negotiate withhim; but what may very safely be turn'd upon thy trust. It is inthe general behalf of this fair society here that I am to speak;at least the more judicious part of it: which seems much distastedwith the immodest and obscene writing of many in their plays.Besides, they could wish your poets would leave to be promoters ofother men's jests, and to way-lay all the stale apothegms, or oldbooks they can hear of, in print or otherwise, to farce theirscenes withal. That they would not so penuriously glean wit fromevery laundress or hackney-man; or derive their best grace, withservile imitation, from common stages, or observation of thecompany they converse with; as if their invention lived whollyupon another man's trencher. Again, that feeding their friendswith nothing of their own, but what they have twice or thricecooked, they should not wantonly give out, how soon they had drestit; nor how many coaches came to carry away the broken meat,besides hobby-horses and foot-cloth nags.2 CHILD. So, sir, this is all the reformation you seek?3 CHILD. It is; do not you think it necessary to be practised, mylittle wag?2 CHILD. Yes, where any such ill-habited custom is received.3 CHILD. O (I had almost forgot it too), they say, the umbrae, orghosts of some three or four plays departed a dozen years since,have been seen walking on your stage here; take heed boy, if yourhouse be haunted with such hobgoblins, 'twill fright away all yourspectators quickly.2 CHILD. Good, sir; but what will you say now, if a poet, untouch'dwith any breath of this disease, find the tokens upon you, that areof the auditory? As some one civet-wit among you, that knows noother learning, than the price of satin and velvets: nor otherperfection than the wearing of a neat suit; and yet will censureas desperately as the most profess'd critic in the house, presuminghis clothes should bear him out in it. Another, whom it hathpleased nature to furnish with more beard than brain, prunes hismustaccio; lisps, and, with some score of affected oaths, swearsdown all that sit about him; "That the old Hieronimo, as it wasfirst acted, was the only best, and judiciously penn'd play ofEurope". A third great-bellied juggler talks of twenty yearssince, and when Monsieur was here, and would enforce all wits to beof that fashion, because his doublet is still so. A fourthmiscalls all by the name of fustian, that his grounded capacitycannot aspire to. A fifth only shakes his bottle head, and out ofhis corky brain squeezeth out a pitiful learned face, and issilent.3 CHILD. By my faith, Jack, you have put me down: I would I knewhow to get off with any indifferent grace! here take your cloak,and promise some satisfaction in your prologue, or, I'll be swornwe have marr'd all.2 CHILD. Tut, fear not, child, this will never distaste a truesense: be not out, and good enough. I would thou hadst some sugarcandied to sweeten thy mouth.
THE THIRD SOUNDING.
PROLOGUE.If gracious silence, sweet attention,Quick sight, and quicker apprehension,The lights of judgment's throne, shine any where,Our doubtful author hopes this is their sphere;And therefore opens he himself to those,To other weaker beams his labours close,As loth to prostitute their virgin-strain,To every vulgar and adulterate brain.In this alone, his Muse her sweetness hath,She shuns the print of any beaten path;And proves new ways to come to learned ears:Pied ignorance she neither loves, nor fears.Nor hunts she after popular applause,Or foamy praise, that drops from common jawsThe garland that she wears, their hands must twine,Who can both censure, understand, defineWhat merit is: then cast those piercing rays,Round as a crown, instead of honour'd bays,About his poesy; which, he knows, affordsWords, above action; matter, above words.
SCENE I.—A GROVE AND FOUNTAIN.ENTER CUPID, AND MERCURY WITH HIS CADUCEUS, ON DIFFERENT SIDES.CUP. Who goes there?MER. 'Tis I, blind archer.CUP. Who, Mercury?MER. Ay.CUP. Farewell.MER. Stay Cupid.CUP. Not in your company, Hermes, except your hands were riveted atyour back.MER. Why so, my little rover?CUP. Because I know you have not a finger, but is as long as myquiver, cousin Mercury, when you please to extend it.MER. Whence derive you this speech, boy?CUP. O! 'tis your best polity to be ignorant. You did never stealMars his sword out of the sheath, you! nor Neptune's trident! norApollo's bow! no, not you! Alas, your palms, Jupiter knows, theyare as tender as the foot of a foundered nag, or a lady's face newmercuried, they'll touch nothing.MER. Go to, infant, you'll be daring still.CUP. Daring! O Janus! what a word is there? why, my lightfeather-heel'd coz, what are you any more than my uncle Jove'spander? a lacquey that runs on errands for him, and can whisper alight message to a loose wench with some round volubility? waitmannerly at a table with a trencher, warble upon a crowd a little,and fill out nectar when Ganymede's away? one that sweeps the god'sdrinking-room every morning, and sets the cushions in order again,which they threw one at another's head over night; can brush thecarpets, call the stools again to their places, play the crier ofthe court with an audible voice, and take state of a president uponyou at wrestlings, pleadings, negociations, etc. Here's thecatalogue of your employments, now! O, no, I err; you have themarshalling of all the ghosts too that pass the Stygian ferry, andI suspect you for a share with the old sculler there, if the truthwere known; but let that scape. One other peculiar virtue youpossess, in lifting, or leiger-du-main, which few of the house ofheaven have else besides, I must confess. But, methinks, thatshould not make you put that extreme distance 'twixt yourself andothers, that we should be said to "over-dare" in speaking to yournimble deity. So Hercules might challenge priority of us both,because he can throw the bar farther, or lift more join'd stools atthe arm's end, than we. If this might carry it, then we, who havemade the whole body of divinity tremble at the twang of our bow,and enforc'd Saturnius himself to lay by his curled front, thunder,and three-fork'd fires, and put on a masking suit, too light for areveller of eighteen to be seen in—MER. How now! my dancing braggart in decimo sexto! charm yourskipping tongue, or I'll—CUP. What! use the virtue of your snaky tip staff there upon us?MER. No, boy, but the smart vigour of my palm about your ears.You have forgot since I took your heels up into air, on the veryhour I was born, in sight of all the bench of deities, when thesilver roof of the Olympian palace rung again with applause ofthe fact.CUP. O no, I remember it freshly, and by a particular instance;for my mother Venus, at the same time, but stoop'd to embrace you,and, to speak by metaphor, you borrow'd a girdle of her's, as youdid Jove's sceptre while he was laughing; and would have done histhunder too, but that 'twas too hot for your itching fingers.MER. 'Tis well, sir.CUP. I heard, you but look'd in at Vulcan's forge the other day,and entreated a pair of his new tongs along with you for company:'tis joy on you, i' faith, that you will keep your hook'd talons inpractice with any thing. 'Slight, now you are on earth, we shallhave you filch spoons and candlesticks rather than fail: pray Jovethe perfum'd courtiers keep their casting-bottles, pick-tooths, andshittle-cocks from you, or our more ordinary gallants theirtobacco-boxes; for I am strangely jealous of your nails.MER. Never trust me, Cupid, but you are turn'd a most acutegallant of late! the edge of my wit is clean taken off with thefine and subtile stroke of your thin-ground tongue; you fight withtoo poignant a phrase, for me to deal with.CUP. O Hermes, your craft cannot make me confident. I know my ownsteel to be almost spent, and therefore entreat my peace with you,in time: you are too cunning for me to encounter at length, and Ithink it my safest ward to close.MER. Well, for once, I'll suffer you to win upon me, wag; but usenot these strains too often, they'll stretch my patience. Whithermight you march, now?CUP. Faith, to recover thy good thoughts, I'll discover my wholeproject. The huntress and queen of these groves, Diana, in regardof some black and envious slanders hourly breathed against her, forher divine justice on Acteon, as she pretends, hath here in thevale of Gargaphie, proclaim'd a solemn revels, which (her godheadput off) she will descend to grace, with the full and royal expenseof one of her clearest moons: in which time it shall be lawful forall sorts of ingenious persons to visit her palace, to court hernymphs, to exercise all variety of generous and noble pastimes; aswell to intimate how far she treads such malicious imputationsbeneath her, as also to shew how clear her beauties are from theleast wrinkle of austerity they may be charged with.MER. But, what is all this to Cupid?CUP. Here do I mean to put off the title of a god, and take thehabit of a page, in which disguise, during the interim of theserevels, I will get to follow some one of Diana's maids, where, ifmy bow hold, and my shafts fly but with half the willingness andaim they are directed, I doubt not but I shall really redeem theminutes I have lost, by their so long and over nice proscription ofmy deity from their court.MER. Pursue it, divine Cupid, it will be rare.CUP. But will Hermes second me?MER. I am now to put in act an especial designment from my fatherJove; but, that perform'd, I am for any fresh action that offersitself.CUP. Well, then we part. [EXIT.]MER. Farewell good wag.Now to my charge.—Echo, fair Echo speak,'Tis Mercury that calls thee; sorrowful nymph,Salute me with thy repercussive voice,That I may know what cavern of the earth,Contains thy airy spirit, how, or whereI may direct my speech, that thou may'st hear.ECHO. [BELOW] Here.MER. So nigh!ECHO. Ay.MER. Know, gentle soul, then, I am sent from Jove,Who, pitying the sad burthen of thy woes,Still growing on thee, in thy want of wordsTo vent thy passion for Narcissus' death,Commands, that now, after three thousand years,Which have been exercised in Juno's spite,Thou take a corporal figure and ascend,Enrich'd with vocal and articulate power.Make haste, sad nymph, thrice shall my winged rodStrike the obsequious earth, to give thee way.Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise,Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.ECHO. [ASCENDS.] His name revives, and lifts me up from earth,O, which way shall I first convert myself,Or in what mood shall I essay to speak,That, in a moment, I may be deliver'dOf the prodigious grief I go withal?See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weep yetTh' untimely fate of that too beauteous boy,That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature,Who, now transform'd into this drooping flower,Hangs the repentant head, back from the stream,As if it wish'd, "Would I had never look'dIn such a flattering mirror!" O Narcissus,Thou that wast once, and yet art, my Narcissus,Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts,She would have dropt away herself in tears,Till she had all turn'd water; that in her,As in a truer glass, thou might'st have gazedAnd seen thy beauties by more kind reflection,But self-love never yet could look on truthBut with blear'd beams; slick flattery and sheAre twin-born sisters, and so mix their eyes,As if you sever one, the other dies.Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form,And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it?Why do I ask? 'Tis now the known diseaseThat beauty hath, to bear too deep a senseOf her own self-conceived excellence.O, hadst thou known the worth of heaven's rich gift,Thou wouldst have turn'd it to a truer use,And not with starv'd and covetous ignorance,Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem,The glance whereof to others had been more,Than to thy famish'd mind the wide world's store:So wretched is it to be merely rich!Witness thy youth's dear sweets here spent untasted,Like a fair taper, with his own flame wasted.MER. Echo be brief, Saturnia is abroad,And if she hear, she'll storm at Jove's high will.CUP. I will, kind Mercury, be brief as time.Vouchsafe me, I may do him these last rites,But kiss his flower, and sing some mourning strainOver his wat'ry hearse.MER. Thou dost obtain;I were no son to Jove, should I deny thee,Begin, and more to grace thy cunning voice,The humorous air shall mix her solemn tunesWith thy sad words: strike, music from the spheres,And with your golden raptures swell our ears.ECHO. [ACCOMPANIED]Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears:Yet, slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:List to the heavy part the music bears,Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.Droop herbs and flowers,Fall grief and showers;Our beauties are not ours;O, I could still,Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,Drop, drop, drop, drop,Since nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil.—MER. Now have you done?ECHO. Done presently, good Hermes: bide a little;Suffer my thirsty eye to gaze awhile,But e'en to taste the place, and I am vanish'd.MER. Forego thy use and liberty of tongue,And thou mayst dwell on earth, and sport thee there.ECHO. Here young Acteon fell, pursued, and tornBy Cynthia's wrath, more eager than his hounds;And here—ah me, the place is fatal!—seeThe weeping Niobe, translated hitherFrom Phrygian mountains; and by Phoebe rear'd,As the proud trophy of her sharp revenge.MER. Nay but hear—ECHO. But here, O here, the fountain of self-love,In which Latona, and her careless nymphs,Regardless of my sorrows, bathe themselvesIn hourly pleasures.MER. Stint thy babbling tongue!Fond Echo, thou profan'st the grace is done thee.So idle worldlings merely made of voice,Censure the powers above them. Come away,Jove calls thee hence; and his will brooks no stay.ECHO. O, stay: I have but one poor thought to clotheIn airy garments, and then, faith, I go.Henceforth, thou treacherous and murdering spring,Be ever call'd the FOUNTAIN OF SELF-LOVE:And with thy water let this curse remain,As an inseparate plague, that who but tasteA drop thereof, may, with the instant touch,Grow dotingly enamour'd on themselves.Now, Hermes, I have finish'd.MER. Then thy speechMust here forsake thee, Echo, and thy voice,As it was wont, rebound but the last words.Farewell.ECHO. [RETIRING.] Well.MER. Now, Cupid, I am for you, and your mirth,To make me light before I leave the earth.ENTER AMORPHUS, HASTILY.AMO. Dear spark of beauty, make not so fast away:ECHO. Away.MER. Stay, let me observe this portent yet.AMO. I am neither your Minotaur, nor your Centaur, nor your satyr,nor your hyaena, nor your babion, but your mere traveller, believeme.ECHO. Leave me.MER. I guess'd it should be some travelling motion pursued Echoso.AMO. Know you from whom you fly? or whence?ECHO. Hence. [EXIT.]AMO. This is somewhat above strange: A nymph of her feature andlineament, to be so preposterously rude! well, I will but coolmyself at yon spring, and follow her.MER. Nay, then, I am familiar with the issue: I will leave youtoo. [EXIT.]AMOR. I am a rhinoceros, if I had thought a creature of hersymmetry would have dared so improportionable and abrupt adigression.—Liberal and divine fount, suffer my profane hand totake of thy bounties. [TAKES UP SOME OF THE WATER.] By the purityof my taste, here is most ambrosiac water; I will sup of it again.By thy favour, sweet fount. See, the water, a more running,subtile, and humorous nymph than she permits me to touch, andhandle her. What should I infer? if my behaviours had been of acheap or customary garb; my accent or phrase vulgar; my garmentstrite; my countenance illiterate, or unpractised in the encounterof a beautiful and brave attired piece; then I might, with somechange of colour, have suspected my faculties: But, knowing myselfan essence so sublimated and refined by travel; of so studied andwell exercised a gesture; so alone in fashion, able to render theface of any statesman living; and to speak the mere extraction oflanguage, one that hath now made the sixth return upon venture; andwas your first that ever enrich'd his country with the true laws ofthe duello; whose optics have drunk the spirit of beauty in someeight score and eighteen prince's courts, where I have resided, andbeen there fortunate in the amours of three hundred and forty and fiveladies, all nobly, if not princely descended; whose names I have incatalogue: To conclude, in all so happy, as even admirationherself doth seem to fasten her kisses upon me:—certes, I doneither see, nor feel, nor taste, nor savour the least steam orfume of a reason, that should invite this foolish, fastidiousnymph, so peevishly to abandon me. Well, let the memory of herfleet into air; my thoughts and I am for this other element, water.ENTER CRITES AND ASOTUS.CRI. What, the well dieted Amorphus become a water-drinker! I seehe means not to write verses then.ASO. No, Crites! why?CRI. Because—Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus.AMO. What say you to your Helicon?CRI. O, the Muses' well! that's ever excepted.AMO. Sir, your Muses have no such water, I assure you; yournectar, or the juice of your nepenthe, is nothing to it; 'tis aboveyour metheglin, believe it.ASO. Metheglin; what's that, sir? may I be so audacious todemand?AMO. A kind of Greek wine I have met with, sir, in my travels; itis the same that Demosthenes usually drunk, in the composure of allhis exquisite and mellifluous orations.CRI. That's to be argued, Amorphus, if we may credit Lucian, who,in his "Encomio Demosthenis," affirms, he never drunk but water inany of his compositions.AMO. Lucian is absurd, he knew nothing: I will believe mine owntravels before all the Lucians of Europe. He doth feed you withfittons, figments, and leasings.CRI. Indeed, I think, next a traveller, he does prettily well.AMO. I assure you it was wine, I have tasted it, and from the handof an Italian antiquary, who derives it authentically from the dukeof Ferrara's bottles. How name you the gentleman you are in rankthere with, sir?CRI. 'Tis Asotus, son to the late deceased Philargyrus, thecitizen.AMO. Was his father of any eminent place or means?CRI. He was to have been praetor next year.AMO. Ha! a pretty formal young gallant, in good sooth; pity he isnot more genteelly propagated. Hark you, Crites, you may say tohim what I am, if you please; though I affect not popularity, yet Iwould loth to stand out to any, whom you shall vouchsafe to callfriend.CRI. Sir, I fear I may do wrong to your sufficiencies in thereporting them, by forgetting or misplacing some one: yourself canbest inform him of yourself sir; except you had some catalogue orlist of your faculties ready drawn, which you would request me toshow him for you, and him to take notice of.AMO. This Crites is sour: [ASIDE.]—I will think, sir.CRI. Do so, sir.—O heaven! that anything in the likeness of manshould suffer these rack'd extremities, for the uttering of hissophisticate good parts. [ASIDE.]ASO. Crites, I have a suit to you; but you must not deny me; prayyou make this gentleman and I friends.CRI. Friends! why, is there any difference between you?ASO. No; I mean acquaintance, to know one another.CRI. O, now I apprehend you; your phrase was without me before.ASO. In good faith, he's a most excellent rare man, I warranthim.CRI. 'Slight, they are mutually enamour'd by this time. [ASIDE.]ASO. Will you, sweet Crites?CRI. Yes, yes.ASO. Nay, but when? you'll defer it now, and forget it.CRI. Why, is it a thing of such present necessity, that itrequires so violent a dispatch!ASO. No, but would I might never stir, he's a most ravishing man!Good Crites, you shall endear me to you, in good faith; la!CRI. Well, your longing shall be satisfied, sir.ASO. And withal, you may tell him what my father was, and how wellhe left me, and that I am his heir.CRI. Leave it to me, I'll forget none of your dear graces, Iwarrant you.ASO. Nay, I know you can better marshal these affairs than I can—O gods! I'd give all the world, if I had it, for abundance ofsuch acquaintance.CRI. What ridiculous circumstance might I devise now, to bestowthis reciprocal brace of butterflies one upon another? [ASIDE.]AMO. Since I trod on this side the Alps, I was not so frozen in myinvention. Let me see: to accost him with some choice remnant ofSpanish, or Italian! that would indifferently express my languagesnow: marry, then, if he shall fall out to be ignorant, it were bothhard, and harsh. How else? step into some ragioni del stato, andso make my induction! that were above him too; and out of hiselement I fear. Feign to have seen him in Venice or Padua! or someface near his in similitude! 'tis too pointed and open. No, it mustbe a more quaint and collateral device, as—stay: to frame someencomiastic speech upon this our metropolis, or the wisemagistrates thereof, in which politic number, 'tis odds but hisfather fill'd up a room? descend into a particular admiration oftheir justice, for the due measuring of coals, burning of cans, andsuch like? as also their religion, in pulling down a superstitiouscross, and advancing a Venus; or Priapus, in place of it? ha!'twill do well. Or to talk of some hospital, whose walls recordhis father a benefactor? or of so many buckets bestow'd on hisparish church in his lifetime, with his name at length, for want ofarms, trickt upon them? any of these. Or to praise the cleannessof the street wherein he dwelt? or the provident painting of hisposts, against he should have been praetor? or, leaving his parent,come to some special ornament about himself, as his rapier, or someother of his accountrements? I have it: thanks, gracious Minerva!ASO. Would I had but once spoke to him, and then—He comes tome!AMO. 'Tis a most curious and neatly wrought band this same, as Ihave seen, sir.ASO. O lord, sir.AMO. You forgive the humour of mine eye, in observing it.CRI. His eye waters after it, it seems. [ASIDE.]ASO. O lord, sir! there needs no such apology I assure you.CRI. I am anticipated; they'll make a solemn deed of gift ofthemselves, you shall see. [ASIDE.]AMO. Your riband too does most gracefully in troth.ASO. 'Tis the most genteel and received wear now, sir.AMO. Believe me, sir, I speak it not to humour you—I have notseen a young gentleman, generally, put on his clothes with morejudgment.ASO. O, 'tis your pleasure to say so, sir.AMO. No, as I am virtuous, being altogether untravell'd, itstrikes me into wonder.ASO. I do purpose to travel, sir, at spring.AMO. I think I shall affect you, sir. This last speech of yourshath begun to make you dear to me.ASO. O lord, sir! I would there were any thing in me, sir, thatmight appear worthy the least worthiness of your worth, sir. Iprotest, sir, I should endeavour to shew it, sir, with more thancommon regard sir.CRI. O, here's rare motley, sir. [ASIDE.]AMO. Both your desert, and your endeavours are plentiful, suspectthem not: but your sweet disposition to travel, I assure you, hathmade you another myself in mine eye, and struck me enamour'd onyour beauties.ASO. I would I were the fairest lady of France for your sake, sir!and yet I would travel too.AMO. O, you should digress from yourself else: for, believe it,your travel is your only thing that rectifies, or, as the Italiansays, "vi rendi pronto all' attioni," makes you fit for action.ASO. I think it be great charge though, sir.AMO. Charge! why 'tis nothing for a gentleman that goes private,as yourself, or so; my intelligence shall quit my charge at alltime. Good faith, this hat hath possest mine eye exceedingly; 'tisso pretty and fantastic: what! is it a beaver?ASO. Ay, sir, I'll assure you 'tis a beaver, it cost me eightcrowns but this morning.AMO. After your French account?ASO. Yes, sir.CRI. And so near his head! beshrew me, dangerous. [ASIDE.]AMO. A very pretty fashion, believe me, and a most novel kind oftrim: your band is conceited too!ASO. Sir, it is all at your service.AMO. O, pardon me.ASO. I beseech you, sir, if you please to wear it, you shall do mea most infinite grace.CRI. 'Slight, will he be prais'd out of his clothes?ASO. By heaven, sir, I do not offer it you after the Italianmanner; I would you should conceive so of me.AMO. Sir, I shall fear to appear rude in denying your courtesies,especially being invited by so proper a distinction: May I prayyour name, sir?ASO. My name is Asotus, sir.AMO. I take your love, gentle Asotus, but let me win you toreceive this, in exchange.—[THEY EXCHANGE BEAVERS.]CRI. Heart! they'll change doublets anon. [ASIDE.]AMO. And, from this time esteem yourself in the first rank ofthose few whom I profess to love. What make you in company of thisscholar here? I will bring you known to gallants, as Anaides ofthe ordinary, Hedon the courtier, and others, whose society shallrender you graced and respected: this is a trivial fellow, toomean, too cheap, too coarse for you to converse with.ASO. 'Slid, this is not worth a crown, and mine cost me eight butthis morning.CRI. I looked when he would repent him, he has begun to be sad agood while.AMO. Sir, shall I say to you for that hat? Be not so sad, be notso sad: It is a relic I could not so easily have departed with, butas the hieroglyphic of my affection; you shall alter it to whatform you please, it will take any block; I have received it variedon record to the three thousandth time, and not so few: It haththese virtues beside: your head shall not ache under it, nor yourbrain leave you, without license; It will preserve your complexionto eternity; for no beam of the sun, should you wear it under zonatorrida, hath power to approach it by two ells. It is proofagainst thunder, and enchantment; and was given me by a great manin Russia, as an especial prized present; and constantly affirm'dto be the hat that accompanied the politic Ulysses in his tediousand ten years' travels.ASO. By Jove, I will not depart withal, whosoever would give me amillion.ENTER COS AND PROSAITES.COS. Save you sweet bloods! does any of you want a creature, or adependent?CRI. Beshrew me, a fine blunt slave!AMO. A page of good timber! it will now be my grace to entertainhim first, though I cashier him again in private.—How art thoucall'd?COS. Cos, sir, Cos.CRI. Cos! how happily hath fortune furnish'd him with a whetstone?AMO. I do entertain you, Cos; conceal your quality till we beprivate; if your parts be worthy of me, I will countenance you; ifnot, catechise you.—Gentles, shall we go?ASO. Stay, sir: I'll but entertain this other fellow, and then—I have a great humour to taste of this water too, but I'll comeagain alone for that—mark the place.—What's your name, youth?PROS. Prosaites, sir.ASO. Prosaites! a very fine name; Crites, is it not?CRI. Yes, and a very ancient one, sir, the Beggar.ASO. Follow me, good Prosaites; let's talk.[EXEUNT ALL BUT CRITES.]CRI. He will rank even with you, ere't be long.If you hold on your course. O, vanityHow are thy painted beauties doted on,By light and empty idiots! how pursuedWith open, and extended appetite!How they do sweat, and run themselves from breath,Raised on their toes, to catch thy airy forms,Still turning giddy, till they reel like drunkards,That buy the merry madness of one hourWith the long irksomeness of following time!O, how despised and base a thing is man,If he not strive to erect his grovelling thoughtsAbove the strain of flesh? but how more cheap,When, ev'n his best and understanding part,The crown and strength of all his faculties,Floats, like a dead drown'd body, on the streamOf vulgar humour, mixt with common'st dregs!I suffer for their guilt now, and my soul,Like one that looks on ill-affected eyes,Is hurt with mere intention on their follies.Why will I view them then, my sense might ask me?Or is't a rarity, or some new object,That strains my strict observance to this point?O, would it were! therein I could affordMy spirit should draw a little near to theirs,To gaze on novelties; so vice were one.Tut, she is stale, rank, foul; and were it notThat those that woo her greet her with lock'd eyes,In spight of all th' impostures, paintings, drugs,Which her bawd, Custom, dawbs her cheeks withal,She would betray her loath'd and leprous face,And fright the enamour'd dotards from themselves:But such is the perverseness of our nature,That if we once but fancy levity,How antic and ridiculous soe'erIt suit with us, yet will our muffled thoughtChoose rather not to see it, than avoid it:And if we can but banish our own sense,We act our mimic tricks with that free license,That lust, that pleasure, that security;As if we practised in a paste-board case,And no one saw the motion, but the motion.Well, check thy passion, lest it grow too loud:While fools are pitied, they wax fat, and proud.