Alexander(aside). Behold Diogenes talking with one at his tub.Crysus.One penny, Diogenes; I am a Cynic.Diogenes.He made thee a beggar, that first gave thee anything.Crysus.Why, if thou wilt give nothing, nobody will give thee.Diogenes.I want nothing, till the springs dry and the earth perish.Crysus.I gather for the Gods.Diogenes.And I care not for those Gods which want money.Crysus.Thou art not a right Cynic that wilt give nothing.Diogenes.Thou art not, that wilt beg anything.Crysus.(seeing Alexander). Alexander, King Alexander, give a poor Cynic a groat.Alexander.It is not for a king to give a groat.Crysus.Then give me a talent.Alexander.It is not for a beggar to ask a talent. Away!
Alexander(aside). Behold Diogenes talking with one at his tub.
Crysus.One penny, Diogenes; I am a Cynic.
Diogenes.He made thee a beggar, that first gave thee anything.
Crysus.Why, if thou wilt give nothing, nobody will give thee.
Diogenes.I want nothing, till the springs dry and the earth perish.
Crysus.I gather for the Gods.
Diogenes.And I care not for those Gods which want money.
Crysus.Thou art not a right Cynic that wilt give nothing.
Diogenes.Thou art not, that wilt beg anything.
Crysus.(seeing Alexander). Alexander, King Alexander, give a poor Cynic a groat.
Alexander.It is not for a king to give a groat.
Crysus.Then give me a talent.
Alexander.It is not for a beggar to ask a talent. Away!
The charm of the play lies in the romance of Apelles' love for Campaspe, and in the delicacy of his wooing. Here is pure Romantic Comedy, such as Greene imitated and Shakespeare made delightful. Not at first will Campaspe yield the gates of her heart, nor does the artist press the attack with heated fervour. So gentle a besieger is he, that we perceive the young couple drifting into love on the stream of destiny, almost reluctant to betray their growing feelings through fear of the wrath of Alexander. Apelles is already smitten but Campaspe is still 'fancy free' when, in the artist's studio, she questions him about his pictures.
Campaspe.What counterfeit is this, Apelles?Apelles.This is Venus, the Goddess of love.Campaspe.What, be there also loving Goddesses?Apelles.This is she that hath power to command the very affections of the heart.Campaspe.How is she hired? by prayer, by sacrifice, or bribes?Apelles.By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes.Campaspe.What prayer?Apelles.Vows irrevocable.Campaspe.What sacrifice?Apelles.Hearts ever sighing, never dissembling.Campaspe.What bribes?Apelles.Roses and kisses. But were you never in love?Campaspe.No, nor love in me.Apelles.Then have you injured many.Campaspe.How so?Apelles.Because you have been loved of many.Campaspe.Flattered perchance of some.Apelles.It is not possible that a face so fair, and a wit so sharp, both without comparison, should not be apt to love.Campaspe.If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray dip your pencil in colours; and fall to that you must do, not that you would do.
Campaspe.What counterfeit is this, Apelles?
Apelles.This is Venus, the Goddess of love.
Campaspe.What, be there also loving Goddesses?
Apelles.This is she that hath power to command the very affections of the heart.
Campaspe.How is she hired? by prayer, by sacrifice, or bribes?
Apelles.By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes.
Campaspe.What prayer?
Apelles.Vows irrevocable.
Campaspe.What sacrifice?
Apelles.Hearts ever sighing, never dissembling.
Campaspe.What bribes?
Apelles.Roses and kisses. But were you never in love?
Campaspe.No, nor love in me.
Apelles.Then have you injured many.
Campaspe.How so?
Apelles.Because you have been loved of many.
Campaspe.Flattered perchance of some.
Apelles.It is not possible that a face so fair, and a wit so sharp, both without comparison, should not be apt to love.
Campaspe.If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray dip your pencil in colours; and fall to that you must do, not that you would do.
Thus she sets him aside. Poor Apelles, alone, in a later scene laments his fate in loving her whom Alexander desires, ending his mournful soliloquy with a song, the most beautiful of all that Lyly has scattered so lavishly through his plays.
Cupid and my Campaspe playedAt cards for kisses; Cupid paid.He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then, down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on 's cheek, (but none knows how)With these the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple of his chin:All these did my Campaspe win.At last he set her both his eyes;She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O love! has she done this to thee?What shall (alas!) become of me?
Cupid and my Campaspe playedAt cards for kisses; Cupid paid.He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then, down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on 's cheek, (but none knows how)With these the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple of his chin:All these did my Campaspe win.At last he set her both his eyes;She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O love! has she done this to thee?What shall (alas!) become of me?
But when the picture is nearly finished, when the sittings are almost over and with them the intimacy of artist and model, then we discover that the tender sighs of Apelles have sweetened the friendship of Campaspeinto love, and the secret of each soul is known to the other.
Apelles.I have now, Campaspe, almost made an end.Campaspe.You told me, Apelles, you would never end.Apelles.Never end my love, for it shall be eternal.Campaspe.That is, neither to have beginning nor ending.Apelles.You are disposed to mistake: I hope you do not mistrust.Campaspe.What will you say if Alexander perceive your love?Apelles.I will say it is no treason to love.Campaspe.But how if he will not suffer thee to see my person?Apelles.Then will I gaze continually on thy picture.Campaspe.That will not feed thy heart.Apelles.Yet shall it fill mine eye: besides, the sweet thoughts, the sure hopes, thy protested faith, will cause me to embrace thy shadow continually in mine arms, of the which by strong imagination I will make a substance.Campaspe.Well, I must be gone. But of this assure yourself, that I had rather be in thy shop grinding colours than in Alexander's court, following higher fortunes.
Apelles.I have now, Campaspe, almost made an end.
Campaspe.You told me, Apelles, you would never end.
Apelles.Never end my love, for it shall be eternal.
Campaspe.That is, neither to have beginning nor ending.
Apelles.You are disposed to mistake: I hope you do not mistrust.
Campaspe.What will you say if Alexander perceive your love?
Apelles.I will say it is no treason to love.
Campaspe.But how if he will not suffer thee to see my person?
Apelles.Then will I gaze continually on thy picture.
Campaspe.That will not feed thy heart.
Apelles.Yet shall it fill mine eye: besides, the sweet thoughts, the sure hopes, thy protested faith, will cause me to embrace thy shadow continually in mine arms, of the which by strong imagination I will make a substance.
Campaspe.Well, I must be gone. But of this assure yourself, that I had rather be in thy shop grinding colours than in Alexander's court, following higher fortunes.
By a happy stroke of wit Alexander, guessing the truth of the matter, makes Apelles confess indirectly and unconsciously what discretion would enjoin him to keep concealed. Apelles and Alexander are talking together when a servant rushes up, crying out that the former's studio is on fire. 'Aye me!' exclaims the horrified artist; 'if the picture of Campaspe be burnt I am undone!' Alexander smiles, for the servant's alarm is false and pre-arranged, but the alarm of Apelles is too genuine to have less than the one meaning.
For its own sake, as too choice an example of euphuistic prose to be missed, we add an extract from the speech of Hephestion, Alexander's friend and adviser, urging thatking to shake off the fetters of love that bind his arms from further conquest.
Beauty is like the blackberry, which seemeth red when it is not ripe, resembling precious stones that are polished with honey, which the smoother they look the sooner they break. It is thought wonderful among the seamen that Mugill, of all fishes the swiftest, is found in the belly of the Bret, of all the slowest: and shall it not seem monstrous to wise men, that the heart of the greatest conqueror of the world should be found in the hands of the weakest creature of nature? of a woman? of a captive? Ermines have fair skins but foul livers; sepulchres, fresh colours but rotten bones; women, fair faces but false hearts. Remember, Alexander, thou hast a camp to govern, not a chamber; fall not from the armour of Mars to the arms of Venus, from the fiery assaults of war to the maidenly skirmishes of love, from displaying the eagle in thine ensign to set down the sparrow. I sigh, Alexander, that, where fortune could not conquer, folly should overcome.
Beauty is like the blackberry, which seemeth red when it is not ripe, resembling precious stones that are polished with honey, which the smoother they look the sooner they break. It is thought wonderful among the seamen that Mugill, of all fishes the swiftest, is found in the belly of the Bret, of all the slowest: and shall it not seem monstrous to wise men, that the heart of the greatest conqueror of the world should be found in the hands of the weakest creature of nature? of a woman? of a captive? Ermines have fair skins but foul livers; sepulchres, fresh colours but rotten bones; women, fair faces but false hearts. Remember, Alexander, thou hast a camp to govern, not a chamber; fall not from the armour of Mars to the arms of Venus, from the fiery assaults of war to the maidenly skirmishes of love, from displaying the eagle in thine ensign to set down the sparrow. I sigh, Alexander, that, where fortune could not conquer, folly should overcome.
InEndymionwe find a much more complex plot, but less that is natural and attractive. Historical tradition and the unchanging habits of lovers give their sanction to most of the scenes inCampaspe. ButEndymioncarries us into the realm of mythology, where all is unreal and where the least heaviness in the pencil of fancy must convert things that should appear golden into dull lead. Lyly's wit strives gallantly to maintain the light tints, pressing fairies and moonbeams into his service, and ransacking the stores of improbability in despair of mingling the impossible and the possible effectively; but the gilt, if not entirely lost, wears very thin in places.
Endymion is in love with Cynthia, the Moon, though aware that his aspiration must remain for ever hopeless. Tellus, the Earth, herself enamoured of Endymion, jealously resolves to punish his indifference to her bydeep melancholy. Accordingly she visits the witch, Dipsas, by whose magic aid the youth, found resting on a bank of lunary, is bewitched to sleep until old age. Not for this crime but for a minor one, Tellus is sentenced by Cynthia to imprisonment under the care of Corsites. Eumenides, the loyal friend of Endymion, seeks everywhere for the means to awaken his comrade, until he finds a clue in the magic fountain of Geron, husband to old Dipsas, but banished by her wicked power. With this clue, which is interpreted as requiring the moon to kiss the sleeper, Eumenides hastens to Cynthia. Meanwhile Tellus, finding that her beauty has taken Corsites captive, and wishing to be rid of his attentions, sets him, as a trial of his affection, the impossible, though apparently easy, task of removing Endymion from the bank of lunary. Corsites fails, and fairies send him to sleep, dancing around him with a song and pinching his unresisting body black and blue. A chance visit of Cynthia and her train fortunately arouses him, but Endymion still sleeps his forty years of manhood away undisturbed. At last Eumenides returns with his oracular clue and persuades Cynthia to attempt the cure. Very graciously the queen kisses the pale forehead. At once consciousness returns, and as a white-haired old man the once handsome young courtier arises. He has two dreams to tell (shown in Dumb Show in an earlier scene) but can offer no explanation of his bewitchment. Then Bagoa, the servant of Dipsas, betrays the secret of her mistress's crime. Dipsas and Tellus are summoned before Cynthia, who now hears for the first time the story of Endymion's devotion to her. The fact is pleasing. So far from visiting the presumption with displeasure she bids him love on, not in any hope of marriage, since that is impossible, but in the assurance of her special favour.With that she smiles kindly upon him; like mists before the sunrise his white hairs and wrinkles vanish, his pristine beauty being restored by her genial condescension. Matters hasten to a close. Tellus is willing to marry Corsites, Eumenides wins the consent of sharp-tongued Semele to be his bride, Dipsas and Geron agree to reconciliation, and Bagoa, saved from the blasting curse of her angry mistress, weds Sir Tophas, the eccentric and ludicrous knight whose folly is thrust into the play whenever there is a danger of the main plot becoming tedious.
Certainly one cannot complain of a want of incident here. Nor is there any lack of that complex subordination of scene to scene, that building of one event upon another which is the foundation of skilful plot-structure. In this play Lyly justifies himself against those who would conclude from others of his plays that he could not construct a plot. Yet it is a disappointing comedy. Nor is the reason hard to discover. The first dozen pages show that, apart from the caricatured Sir Tophas and the inevitable Pages (or Servants), all the characters speak in exactly the same way, in fact are the same persons in all but condition. The well-managed contrast noticed inDamon and Pythiashas no place in Lyly's arrangement of characters. Were the relation of circumstance and individual hidden, no one would know from a given speech whether Cynthia, Tellus, or Dipsas was speaking; nor would Endymion, Eumenides and Geron be better distinguished. This, for example, is from the lips of the old hag, Dipsas, as, spreading her enchantments around her victim, she mutters over his head the curse of a blasted life.
Thou that layest down with golden locks shalt not awake until they be turned to silver hairs; and that chin,on which scarcely appeareth soft down, shall be filled with bristles as hard as broom: thou shalt sleep out thy youth and flowering time, and become dry hay before thou knewest thyself green grass; and ready by age to step into the grave when thou wakest, that was youthful in the court when thou laidest thee down to sleep.
Thou that layest down with golden locks shalt not awake until they be turned to silver hairs; and that chin,on which scarcely appeareth soft down, shall be filled with bristles as hard as broom: thou shalt sleep out thy youth and flowering time, and become dry hay before thou knewest thyself green grass; and ready by age to step into the grave when thou wakest, that was youthful in the court when thou laidest thee down to sleep.
There is one scene in the main plot which invites special mention, namely, that in which the fairies appear. This, their first entrance into English drama, must have created a mild sensation amongst the surprised and delighted spectators, as, in shimmering dress and gossamer wings, these airy sprites danced around the astonished Corsites and sang the lyrical decree of punishment for his intrusion upon their domain. The incident is worth quoting in full, from the point where Corsites' labours are suddenly interrupted.
[EnterFairies.]Corsites.But what are these so fair fiends that cause my hairs to stand upright, and spirits to fall down? Hags, out alas, Nymphs, I crave pardon. Aye me, but what do I hear?[TheFairiesdance, and with a Song pinch him, and he falleth asleep. They kissEndymionand depart.]
[EnterFairies.]
Corsites.But what are these so fair fiends that cause my hairs to stand upright, and spirits to fall down? Hags, out alas, Nymphs, I crave pardon. Aye me, but what do I hear?
[TheFairiesdance, and with a Song pinch him, and he falleth asleep. They kissEndymionand depart.]
Omnes.Pinch him, pinch him, black and blue;Saucy mortals must not viewWhat the Queen of Stars is doing,Nor pry into our fairy wooing.1 Fairy.Pinch him blue.2 Fairy.And pinch him black.3 Fairy.Let him not lackSharp nails to pinch him blue and red,Till sleep has rock'd his addle head.4 Fairy.For the trespass he hath done,Spots o'er all his flesh shall run.Kiss Endymion, kiss his eyes,Then to our midnight heidegyes. [Exeunt.]
Omnes.Pinch him, pinch him, black and blue;Saucy mortals must not viewWhat the Queen of Stars is doing,Nor pry into our fairy wooing.
1 Fairy.Pinch him blue.
2 Fairy.And pinch him black.
3 Fairy.Let him not lackSharp nails to pinch him blue and red,Till sleep has rock'd his addle head.
4 Fairy.For the trespass he hath done,Spots o'er all his flesh shall run.Kiss Endymion, kiss his eyes,Then to our midnight heidegyes. [Exeunt.]
An additional interest of allegorical meaning attaches to the story of Endymion and Cynthia as told by Lyly, curious students tracing behind it all the details of theaffairebetween the Earl of Leicester and Queen Elizabeth. To learn the extent to which the inquiry has been pursued we may turn to Professor Ward'sEnglish Dramatic Literatureand read the following: 'Mr. Halpin has examined at length the question of the secret meaning of Lyly's comedy, and has come to the conclusion that it is a dramatic representation of the disgrace brought upon Leicester (Endymion) by his clandestine marriage with the Countess of Sheffield (Tellus), pending his suit for the hand of his royal mistress (Cynthia). Endymion's forty years' sleep upon the bank of lunary is his imprisonment at Elizabeth's favourite Greenwich; the friendly intervention of Eumenides is that of the Earl of Sussex; and the solution of the difficulty in Tellus's marriage to Corsites is the marriage of the Countess of Sheffield to Sir Edward Stafford. I need pursue this solution no further, except to note that under the three heads of "highly probable", "probable", and "not improbable", Mr. Halpin has assigned originals to all the important characters of the piece. I am inclined to think the attempt successful.'
More entertaining to the reader than either the devotion of Endymion or the mischievous jealousy of Tellus is the character of Sir Tophas. His position in the play is that of Diogenes inCampaspe, and we observe the same tendency to eccentric speech and action. When we pursue the comparison further, however, we discover a marked decline in wit in the second creation. Lyly had a tradition of truth to help him in his conception of the crusty philosopher. In his picture of the foolish, boastful knight he followed the author ofThersitesinhis exaggerated caricature until the least semblance of truth to nature is banished from the portrait. It is interesting to compare him with Ralph Roister Doister. Nevertheless if we project Sir Tophas upon the stage, and by our imagination dress him and make him strut and gesticulate after such a fashion as the text seems to indicate, we shall probably discover ourselves smiling over puns and remarks which, on casual perusal, we might pronounce flavourless imbecilities. Indeed, for sheer laughable absurdity on the stage, Sir Tophas would be hard to beat. The following scene will also show the decent quality of wit which Lyly bestowed upon his Pages—lineal descendants of the old Vice through those younger sons, Will and Jack.[53]
[Sir Tophasand his page,Epiton,have just metSamiasandDares.]Tophas.What be you two?Samias.I am Samias, page to Endymion.Dares.And I Dares, page to Eumenides.Tophas.Of what occupation are your masters?Dares.Occupation, you clown! Why, they are honourable and warriors.Tophas.Then are they my prentices.Dares.Thine! And why so?Tophas.I was the first that ever devised war, and therefore by Mars himself had given me for my arms a whole armoury; and thus I go as you see, clothed with artillery; it is not silks (milksops), nor tissues, nor the fine wool of Ceres, but iron, steel, swords, flame, shot, terror, clamour, blood and ruin that rocks asleep my thoughts, which never had any other cradle but cruelty. Let me see, do you not bleed?Dares.Why so?Tophas.Commonly my words wound.Samias.What then do your blows?Tophas.Not only wound, but also confound.Samias.How darest thou come so near thy master, Epi? Sir Tophas, spare us.Tophas.You shall live. You, Samias, because you are little; you, Dares, because you are no bigger; and both of you, because you are but two; for commonly I kill by the dozen, and have for every particular adversary a peculiar weapon....Samias.What is this? Call you it your sword?Tophas.No, it is my scimitar; which I, by construction often studying to be compendious, call my smiter.Dares.What, are you also learned, sir?Tophas.Learned? I am all Mars and Ars.Samias.Nay, you are all mass and ass.Tophas.Mock you me? You shall both suffer, yet with such weapons as you shall make choice of the weapon wherewith you shall perish. Am I all a mass or lump? Is there no proportion in me? Am I all ass? Is there no wit in me? Epi, prepare them to the slaughter.Samias.I pray, sir, hear us speak! We call you mass, which your learning doth well understand is all man, forMas marisis a man. ThenAs(as you know) is a weight, and we for your virtues account you a weight.Tophas.The Latin hath saved your lives, the which a world of silver could not have ransomed. I understand you, and pardon you.Dares.Well, Sir Tophas, we bid you farewell, and at our next meeting we will be ready to do you service.
[Sir Tophasand his page,Epiton,have just metSamiasandDares.]
Tophas.What be you two?
Samias.I am Samias, page to Endymion.
Dares.And I Dares, page to Eumenides.
Tophas.Of what occupation are your masters?
Dares.Occupation, you clown! Why, they are honourable and warriors.
Tophas.Then are they my prentices.
Dares.Thine! And why so?
Tophas.I was the first that ever devised war, and therefore by Mars himself had given me for my arms a whole armoury; and thus I go as you see, clothed with artillery; it is not silks (milksops), nor tissues, nor the fine wool of Ceres, but iron, steel, swords, flame, shot, terror, clamour, blood and ruin that rocks asleep my thoughts, which never had any other cradle but cruelty. Let me see, do you not bleed?
Dares.Why so?
Tophas.Commonly my words wound.
Samias.What then do your blows?
Tophas.Not only wound, but also confound.
Samias.How darest thou come so near thy master, Epi? Sir Tophas, spare us.
Tophas.You shall live. You, Samias, because you are little; you, Dares, because you are no bigger; and both of you, because you are but two; for commonly I kill by the dozen, and have for every particular adversary a peculiar weapon....
Samias.What is this? Call you it your sword?
Tophas.No, it is my scimitar; which I, by construction often studying to be compendious, call my smiter.
Dares.What, are you also learned, sir?
Tophas.Learned? I am all Mars and Ars.
Samias.Nay, you are all mass and ass.
Tophas.Mock you me? You shall both suffer, yet with such weapons as you shall make choice of the weapon wherewith you shall perish. Am I all a mass or lump? Is there no proportion in me? Am I all ass? Is there no wit in me? Epi, prepare them to the slaughter.
Samias.I pray, sir, hear us speak! We call you mass, which your learning doth well understand is all man, forMas marisis a man. ThenAs(as you know) is a weight, and we for your virtues account you a weight.
Tophas.The Latin hath saved your lives, the which a world of silver could not have ransomed. I understand you, and pardon you.
Dares.Well, Sir Tophas, we bid you farewell, and at our next meeting we will be ready to do you service.
A happy combination of the romance ofCampaspewith the mythology ofEndymionis found in the graceful and charming comedy,Gallathea. Its plot is really double, though happily blended, while yet a third and independent thread of lower comedy is drawn through it. On the shores of the Humber in Lincolnshire dwell two shepherds, Tyterus and Melebeus, each the possessor of a beautiful daughter, by name Gallathea and Phillida.Every year the god Neptune is accustomed to exact the sacrifice of the fairest girl of the country to his pet monster, the Agar (the Humber eagre), and this year each fond father dreads lest his daughter will be chosen for the victim. To save them the girls are disguised as boys. Strangers to each other, they meet and fall in love, each believing the other to be what she appears, though many a doubt is raised by replies which seem more befitting a maid than a youth. In a neighbouring forest range Diana and her chaste nymphs, amongst whom Cupid, out of pure mischief, lets fly his golden-headed arrows. At once the nymphs feel strange emotions within them, which quicken into uneasiness and longing at the sight of Gallathea and Phillida. But Diana detects the change, guesses at the cause, and promptly makes capture of Cupid. His wings clipped, his bow burnt, all his arrows broken, he is beaten and set to a task. Meanwhile the day of sacrifice has arrived and, in default of a better, a victim is found. But Neptune will have no second-best: what promises to be a tragedy changes to joy on the god's refusal to accept the proffered girl. However, the sacrifice is only postponed. Moreover the delay has given rise to a stricter search, which means increased peril for the disguised maidens. Fortunately intervention arrives before discovery. Venus, having learnt of Cupid's captivity, and not being powerful enough to effect his release unaided, invokes the help of Neptune against Diana. Instead of the use of force, however, a compact is arrived at; Cupid is released on condition that Neptune remits his claim upon a yearly victim. Thus are Gallathea and Phillida saved; but for a harder fate of hopeless love—for their constancy is irrevocable—were it not that Venus interposes with a promise that one of them shall be changed into a boyin reality. Happy in this future they depart to prepare for marriage.—The thread of lower comedy introduces the customary three merry lads, but deals mainly with the fortunes of one of them, Raffe, who finds employment successively with an alchemist and an astronomer, only to find their promises out of all proportion to their performances. The wonderful prospects held out before him, and his disillusionment, afford scope for much sarcastic wit at the expense of quackery.
The pre-eminent feature of the play is the delicate handling of the romantic plot. We see the same fine brush at work as limned the picture of Apelles and Campaspe, while this time the artist has chosen a more harmonious background of meadow and woodland and river, of shepherds and forest nymphs. To Peele the priority in the use of pastoralism in drama must doubtless be assigned; but the play ofGallathealoses none of its merit on that account. Coupled with a pretty ambiguity of sex, this pastoral setting completes the model from whichAs You Like Itwas yet to be moulded. Probably Peele, in hisSir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes, preceded Lyly also in the introduction of sex-disguise, but his Neronis stirs up no serious difficulties by her appearance as a shepherd boy and a page, whereas inGallatheathe disguise is the core of the plot. To Lyly, therefore, may be given all the credit for the discovery of the dramatic value of this simple device. With his return to the mutual loves of ordinary human beings (for they are that, however extraordinary the conditions) he happily restores to his characters the naturalness which they enjoyed in the earlier play. The machinery of gods and goddesses is perhaps to be regretted, though euphuistic drama could hardly spare it; but if we boldly swallow it as inevitable, the motive for the disguises at once becomes perfectlyreasonable, while the whole consequent behaviour of the girls is charged with most amusing and delightfulnaïveté. Less natural, of course, is the story of Cupid's mischief; yet mythology never gave to the stage a prettier piece of love-moralizing than is found in the scene of Cupid at his penal task of untying love-knots.—The very opening lines of the play announce the presence of Nature with her sunshine and grass and good substantial oaks.
Tyterus.The sun doth beat upon the plain fields; wherefore let us sit down, Gallathea, under this fair oak, by whose broad leaves being defended from the warm beams, we may enjoy the fresh air which softly breathes from Humber floods.Gallathea.Father, you have devised well; and whilst our flock doth roam up and down this pleasant green, you shall recount to me, if it please you, for what cause this tree was dedicated unto Neptune, and why you have thus disguised me.
Tyterus.The sun doth beat upon the plain fields; wherefore let us sit down, Gallathea, under this fair oak, by whose broad leaves being defended from the warm beams, we may enjoy the fresh air which softly breathes from Humber floods.
Gallathea.Father, you have devised well; and whilst our flock doth roam up and down this pleasant green, you shall recount to me, if it please you, for what cause this tree was dedicated unto Neptune, and why you have thus disguised me.
It is hard to do justice to such a play as this except by considerable generosity in the matter of quotations. Accordingly we offer three passages illustrative of the delicacy of our author's art.
(1)[GallatheaandPhillida,in disguise, meet for the first time.]Gallathea(at the close of a soliloquy). But whist! here cometh a lad. I will learn of him how to behave myself.Phillida(entering). I neither like my gate nor my garments, the one untoward, the other unfit, both unseemly. O Phillida! But yonder stayeth one, and therefore say nothing. But O, Phillida!Gallathea.I perceive that boys are in as great disliking of themselves as maids; therefore, though I wear the apparel, I am glad I am not the person.Phillida.It is a pretty boy and a fair; he might well have been a woman. But because he is not I am glad I am, for now, under the colour of my coat, I shall decipher the follies of their kind.Gallathea.I would salute him, but I fear I should make a curtsey instead of a leg.Phillida.If I durst trust my face as well as I do my habit I would spend some time to make pastime, for say what they will of a man's wit, it is no second thing to be a woman.Gallathea.All the blood in my body would be in my face if he should ask me (as the question among men is common), 'Are you a maid?'Phillida.Why stand I still? Boys should be bold. But here cometh a brave train that will spill all our talk.[EnterDiana,&c.]
(1)
[GallatheaandPhillida,in disguise, meet for the first time.]
Gallathea(at the close of a soliloquy). But whist! here cometh a lad. I will learn of him how to behave myself.
Phillida(entering). I neither like my gate nor my garments, the one untoward, the other unfit, both unseemly. O Phillida! But yonder stayeth one, and therefore say nothing. But O, Phillida!
Gallathea.I perceive that boys are in as great disliking of themselves as maids; therefore, though I wear the apparel, I am glad I am not the person.
Phillida.It is a pretty boy and a fair; he might well have been a woman. But because he is not I am glad I am, for now, under the colour of my coat, I shall decipher the follies of their kind.
Gallathea.I would salute him, but I fear I should make a curtsey instead of a leg.
Phillida.If I durst trust my face as well as I do my habit I would spend some time to make pastime, for say what they will of a man's wit, it is no second thing to be a woman.
Gallathea.All the blood in my body would be in my face if he should ask me (as the question among men is common), 'Are you a maid?'
Phillida.Why stand I still? Boys should be bold. But here cometh a brave train that will spill all our talk.
[EnterDiana,&c.]
(2)[GallatheaandPhillidaendeavour to sound the affection of each other, but only succeed in raising disturbing doubts.]Phillida.Suppose I were a virgin (I blush in supposing myself one) and that under the habit of a boy were the person of a maid, if I should utter my affection with sighs, manifest my sweet love by my salt tears, and prove my loyalty unspotted and my griefs intolerable, would not then that fair face pity this true heart?Gallathea.Admit that I were as you would have me suppose that you are, and that I should with entreaties, prayers, oaths, bribes, and whatever can be invented in love, desire your favour,—would you not yield?Phillida.Tush! you come in with 'admit'!Gallathea.And you with 'suppose'!Phillida(aside). What doubtful speeches be these? I fear me he is as I am, a maiden.Gallathea(aside). What dread riseth in my mind? I fear the boy to be as I am, a maiden.Phillida(aside). Tush! it cannot be: his voice shows the contrary.Gallathea(aside). Yet I do not think it—for he would then have blushed.Phillida.Have you ever a sister?Gallathea.If I had but one, my brother must needs have two; but, I pray, have you ever a one?Phillida.My father had but one daughter, and therefore I could have no sister.Gallathea(aside). Aye me! he is as I am, for his speeches be as mine are.Phillida(aside). What shall I do? Either he is subtle, or my sex simple.... (to Gallathea) Come, let us into the grove and make much one of another, that cannot tell what to think one of another. [Exeunt.]
(2)
[GallatheaandPhillidaendeavour to sound the affection of each other, but only succeed in raising disturbing doubts.]
Phillida.Suppose I were a virgin (I blush in supposing myself one) and that under the habit of a boy were the person of a maid, if I should utter my affection with sighs, manifest my sweet love by my salt tears, and prove my loyalty unspotted and my griefs intolerable, would not then that fair face pity this true heart?
Gallathea.Admit that I were as you would have me suppose that you are, and that I should with entreaties, prayers, oaths, bribes, and whatever can be invented in love, desire your favour,—would you not yield?
Phillida.Tush! you come in with 'admit'!
Gallathea.And you with 'suppose'!
Phillida(aside). What doubtful speeches be these? I fear me he is as I am, a maiden.
Gallathea(aside). What dread riseth in my mind? I fear the boy to be as I am, a maiden.
Phillida(aside). Tush! it cannot be: his voice shows the contrary.
Gallathea(aside). Yet I do not think it—for he would then have blushed.
Phillida.Have you ever a sister?
Gallathea.If I had but one, my brother must needs have two; but, I pray, have you ever a one?
Phillida.My father had but one daughter, and therefore I could have no sister.
Gallathea(aside). Aye me! he is as I am, for his speeches be as mine are.
Phillida(aside). What shall I do? Either he is subtle, or my sex simple.... (to Gallathea) Come, let us into the grove and make much one of another, that cannot tell what to think one of another. [Exeunt.]
(3)[Cupid,in captivity, is set to his task by four nymphs.]Telusa.Come, sirrah! to your task! First you must undo all these lovers' knots, because you tied them.Cupid.If they be true love knots 'tis unpossible to unknit them; if false, I never tied them.Eurota.Make no excuse, but to it.Cupid.Love knots are tied with eyes, and cannot be undone with hands; made fast with thoughts, and cannot be unloosed with fingers. Had Diana no task to set Cupid to but things impossible? I will to it.Ramia.Why, how now? you tie the knots faster.Cupid.I cannot choose; it goeth against my mind to make them loose.Eurota.Let me see;—now 'tis unpossible to be undone.Cupid.It is the true love knot of a woman's heart, therefore cannot be undone.Ramia.That falls in sunder of itself.Cupid.It was made of a man's thought, which will never hang together.Larissa.You have undone that well.Cupid.Aye, because it was never tied well.Telusa.To the rest; for she will give you no rest. These two knots are finely untied!Cupid.It was because I never tied them. The one was knit by Pluto, not Cupid, by money, not love; the other by force, not faith, by appointment, not affection.Ramia.Why do you lay that knot aside?Cupid.For death.Telusa.Why?Cupid.Because the knot was knit by faith, and must only be unknit of death.
(3)
[Cupid,in captivity, is set to his task by four nymphs.]
Telusa.Come, sirrah! to your task! First you must undo all these lovers' knots, because you tied them.
Cupid.If they be true love knots 'tis unpossible to unknit them; if false, I never tied them.
Eurota.Make no excuse, but to it.
Cupid.Love knots are tied with eyes, and cannot be undone with hands; made fast with thoughts, and cannot be unloosed with fingers. Had Diana no task to set Cupid to but things impossible? I will to it.
Ramia.Why, how now? you tie the knots faster.
Cupid.I cannot choose; it goeth against my mind to make them loose.
Eurota.Let me see;—now 'tis unpossible to be undone.
Cupid.It is the true love knot of a woman's heart, therefore cannot be undone.
Ramia.That falls in sunder of itself.
Cupid.It was made of a man's thought, which will never hang together.
Larissa.You have undone that well.
Cupid.Aye, because it was never tied well.
Telusa.To the rest; for she will give you no rest. These two knots are finely untied!
Cupid.It was because I never tied them. The one was knit by Pluto, not Cupid, by money, not love; the other by force, not faith, by appointment, not affection.
Ramia.Why do you lay that knot aside?
Cupid.For death.
Telusa.Why?
Cupid.Because the knot was knit by faith, and must only be unknit of death.
The plot ofMother Bombiemust be briefly sketched because it is the only one in which Lyly dispenses with the aid of classical tradition and mythology and attempts a Comedy of Intrigue. As such it has a certain historical interest.—The scene is Rochester, Kent. Memphio and Stellio, the fathers respectively of son Accius and daughter Silena, separately and craftily resolve to bring about by fraud the wedding of these two young people, for the reason that each knows his child to be weak-minded, and, believing his neighbour's child to be sound-witted and of good heritage, perceives that only deceit can accomplish the union. In this attempt to overreach each other they employ their servants, Dromio and Riscio, as principal agents. Not far away live two young people, Livia and Candius, whose mutual love is made unhappy by the opposition of their fathers, Prisius and Sperantius, since these latter covet rather their children's marriage with Accius and Silena. In pursuit of this other object these two countrymen send their servants, Lucio and Halfpenny, to spy out the land. By the ordinary chance of good comradeship the four servants meet and make known to each other their errands, when the opportunity of a mischievous entangling of the threads at once becomes apparent. Disguises are used, with the result that the loving couple, Livia and Candius, marry under the unconscious benisons of their parents. The trick being discovered, there is general trouble, especially at the exposure of the hitherto concealed imbecility of Accius and Silena; but a certain woman, Vicina, nowcomes forward, with her two children, Maestius and Serena, to explain that the imbeciles are really her own offspring and that the son and daughter of Memphio and Stellio are Maestius and Serena. The willing alliance of these two brings the original plans to a happy conclusion. Mother Bombie herself is a fortune-teller to whom recourse is had at various times by the young folk, and whose oracular statements provide mysterious clues to the final events.
As a consequence of the meaner nature of its characters this play is less tainted with euphuism than the rest, while its dialogue is as lively as ever, the four servants finding in their masters excellent foils to practise their wit upon. Deception and cross purposes are conducted with much skill to their conclusion, though the elaborate balance of households rather oppresses one by its artificiality. As one of the earliest Comedies of Intrigue, if not actually the first, it presents possibilities in that direction which were eagerly developed by later writers. Thus again we observe the originality of the author preparing the way for his successors.
In summing up the contributions of Lyly to drama we naturally lay stress upon three points, namely, his creation of lively prose dialogue, his uplifting of comedy from the level of coarse humour and buffoonery to the region of high comedy and wit, and his painting of pure romantic love. We attach value, also, to his discovery of the dramatic possibilities of sex disguises, to his introduction of fairies upon the stage, to his persistence in the good fashion of interspersing songs amongst the scenes, and to his use of pastoralism as a background for romance. Nor may his efforts in Comedy of Intrigue be overlooked. On the other hand, we lament as a grievous failing his inability to draw real men andwomen, or indeed to differentiate his characters at all except by gross caricature or the copying of traditional eccentricities. Sir Tophas and Diogenes we remember as distinct personalities only for their peculiar and very obvious traits: the rest of his characters either stay in our memory solely through the charm of particular scenes in which they take part, or fade from it altogether. As less regrettable faults, because hardly avoidable if euphuism was to bring its benefits, may be remembered the weakness of his plots (notably inCampaspe,Sapho and PhaoandMydas), the stilted, flowery talk that does duty for so many conversations, and the unreality brought in the train of his dearly-loved Greek mythology. Not unfittingly we may conclude our criticism of his plays with his own description of his art, given in the first prologue toSapho and Phao.
Our intent was at this time to move inward delight, not outward lightness, and to breed (if it might be) soft smiling, not loud laughing; knowing it to the wise to be as great pleasure to hear counsel mixed with wit, as to the foolish to have sport mingled with rudeness. They were banished the theatre of Athens, and from Rome hissed, that brought parasites on the stage with apish actions, or fools with uncivil habits, or courtesans with immodest words. We have endeavoured to be as far from unseemly speeches, to make your ears glow, as we hope you will be free from unkind reports, to make our cheeks blush.
Our intent was at this time to move inward delight, not outward lightness, and to breed (if it might be) soft smiling, not loud laughing; knowing it to the wise to be as great pleasure to hear counsel mixed with wit, as to the foolish to have sport mingled with rudeness. They were banished the theatre of Athens, and from Rome hissed, that brought parasites on the stage with apish actions, or fools with uncivil habits, or courtesans with immodest words. We have endeavoured to be as far from unseemly speeches, to make your ears glow, as we hope you will be free from unkind reports, to make our cheeks blush.
Unlike Lyly, Robert Greene is the dramatizer of actions rather than speeches. Primarily a writer of romances, he carries the same principle with him to the stage, providing a throng of characters and an abundance of incident, with rapid transition from place to place, regardless of time and the technicalities of acts andscenes. The result is a continuous flow of pictures, in subject darting about from one set of characters to another lest any section of the narrative drag behind the rest, hardly ever dull yet rarely impressive, bearing the complexity of many issues to its appointed end in general content. This is plot-structure in its elementary yet ambitious form: an abounding wealth of material is condensed within the limits of a play, but its arrangement reveals no attempt at a gradual and subtle evolution of events to a climax. It succeeds in maintaining interest by its variety, leaving the pleased spectator with the sense of having looked on at a number of very entertaining scenes. Unfortunately the bustle of action invites superficiality of treatment: the end is attained by the use of bold splashes of colour rather than by accurate drawing. Spaniards, Italians, Turks, Moors fill the stage like a pageant; in the best known play,Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, magicians perform wonders, country squires kill each other for love, prince and fool exchange places, simple folk go a-fairing, kings pay state visits, devils fly off with people, all to hold the eye by their rapidly interchanging diversity; but few of them pause to be painted in detail as individuals. Only the women steal from the author's gift-box a few qualities not hackneyed by other writers, and, decked in these, make rich return by bestowing upon their master a reputation which no other part of his work could have won for him.
Probably we have not all the plays that Greene wrote. Evidence points to the loss of his earlier ones. Those preserved are (the order is approximately that in which they were written)—Alphonsus, King of Arragon,A Looking-Glass for London and England,Orlando Furioso,Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay,James the Fourth, andGeorge-a-Greene, the Pinner of Wakefield. The authorship of the lastis not certain, and that of the second was shared with Lodge. With regard to the dates it is hardly safe to be more definite than to allot them to the period 1587-92. In all we see a preference for ready-made stories. The writer rarely invents a plot, choosing instead to dramatize the history, romance, epic or ballad of another. Where he does invent, as in the love plot inFriar Bacon and Friar Bungay, the result is notable. Blank verse is his medium, but in all except the first prose is freely used for the speech of the uncultured persons. Most of the verse is quite good, modelled on the form of Marlowe's; it is commonly least satisfactory where the imitation is most deliberate. The prose, adopted from Lyly's 'servants' and 'pages', not from his courtly 'goddesses', is clear and vigorous. Euphuism asserts itself occasionally in the verse, and the affectation of scholarship, customary in that day, is responsible for a superabundance of classical allusions in unexpected places.
Since Greene was at first much under the influence of Marlowe it is necessary to say something here of that dramatist's work. For a full consideration of the essential qualities of Marlowe the reader must be asked to wait. Perhaps he has already discovered them in the ordinary course of his reading, for Marlowe is too widely known to need introduction through any text-book. Briefly,Tamburlaine—the play which made the greatest impression on the playwrights of its time—may be described as a magniloquent account of the career of a world-conqueror whose resistless triumph over kingdoms and potentates, signalized by acts of monstrous insolence, provides excuse for outbursts of extravagant vainglory. Such a description is intended to indicate the traditional Marlowesque qualities: it is a very inadequate criticism of the play as a whole. This kind of loud, richly coloureddrama leapt into instant popularity, and it was in direct imitation of it that Greene wrote the first of the plays credited to him.
Alphonsus, King of Arragon, shares withJames the Fourththe distinction of a division into five acts, and adheres throughout to blank verse. Alphonsus, the conqueror, begins his career as an exiled claimant to the throne of Arragon. Fighting as a common soldier, under an agreement that he shall hold all he wins, he slays the Spanish usurper in battle and at once demands the crown. On this being granted him he as promptly turns upon the donor to claim from him feudal homage. This, however, can only be insisted upon by force, and war ensues, with complete overthrow of his enemies. Grandly bestowing upon his three chief supporters all his present conquests, namely, the thrones of Arragon, Naples and Milan, as too trifling for himself, Alphonsus follows his opponents to their refuge at the court of Amurack, the great Turk. Through a misleading oracle of Mahomet they rashly engage in battle without their ally and are slain. With their heads impaled at the corners of his canopy Alphonsus now confronts Amurack, just such another bold and arrogant conqueror as himself. In the conflict that follows he is temporarily put to flight by Amurack's daughter, Iphigena, and her band of Amazons; but, smitten with sudden love, he turns to offer his hand and heart on the battlefield. She spurns his overtures, and a very ungallant hand-to-hand combat follows, in which he proves victor and drives his lovely foe to flight in her turn. The conquest is complete, and with all his enemies captives Alphonsus carries things with a high hand, threatening to add Amurack's head to those on his canopy unless that monarch consent to his marriage with Iphigena. Fortunately Alphonsus's old father, whohas gained entrance in a pilgrim's garb, intervenes with parental remonstrance and by the exercise of a little tact brings about both the marriage and general happiness.
A noticeable feature, which shows the closeness of the imitation, is the absence of all intentionally humorous scenes, in spite of Greene's very considerable natural aptitude for comic by-play. Everywhere the influence ofTamburlaineis markedly visible, in the subject, in particular scenes, in such staging as the gruesome canopy, and above all in the incessant bombast. Euphuism also is more pronounced than in his other plays: Venus recites the prologues to the acts. All the male characters are drawn on the same pattern, in differing degrees according to their condition, and the two women, Iphigena and her mother, Fausta, are without attractive qualities. Marlowe, as we know, rarely expended any care on his female characters; Greene, however, proved capable in his later, independent plays, of very different work. Utter disregard of normal conceptions of time and distance produces occasional confusion in the reader's mind as to his supposed imaginary whereabouts. From almost every point of view, then, the play is a poor production. A redeeming trait is the occasional vigour of the verse. For an illustrative passage one may turn to the meeting of Alphonsus and Amurack:
Amurack.Why, proud Alphonsus, think'st thou Amurack,Whose mighty force doth terrify the gods,Can e'er be found to turn his heels and flyAway for fear from such a boy as thou?No, no! Although that Mars this mickle whileHath fortified thy weak and feeble arm,And Fortune oft hath view'd with friendly faceThy armies marching victors from the field,Yet at the presence of high AmurackFortune shall change, and Mars, that god of might,Shall succour me, and leave Alphonsus quite.Alphonsus.Pagan, I say, thou greatly art deceiv'd.I clap up Fortune in a cage of gold,To make her turn her wheel as I think best;And as for Mars, whom you do say will change,He moping sits behind the kitchen door,Prest[54]at command of every scullion's mouth,Who dares not stir, nor once to move a whit,For fear Alphonsus then should stomach[55]it.
Amurack.Why, proud Alphonsus, think'st thou Amurack,Whose mighty force doth terrify the gods,Can e'er be found to turn his heels and flyAway for fear from such a boy as thou?No, no! Although that Mars this mickle whileHath fortified thy weak and feeble arm,And Fortune oft hath view'd with friendly faceThy armies marching victors from the field,Yet at the presence of high AmurackFortune shall change, and Mars, that god of might,Shall succour me, and leave Alphonsus quite.
Alphonsus.Pagan, I say, thou greatly art deceiv'd.I clap up Fortune in a cage of gold,To make her turn her wheel as I think best;And as for Mars, whom you do say will change,He moping sits behind the kitchen door,Prest[54]at command of every scullion's mouth,Who dares not stir, nor once to move a whit,For fear Alphonsus then should stomach[55]it.
A Looking-Glass for London and Englandshows less bondage toTamburlaine, but falls into a worse error by a recurrence to the deliberate didacticism of the old Moralities. The lessons for London, drawn from the sins of Nineveh, are formally and piously announced by the prophets Oseas and Jonas after the exposure of each offence. Devoid of any proper plot, the play merely brings together various incidents to exhibit such social evils as usury, legal corruption, filial ingratitude, friction between master and servant. Intermingled, with only the slightest connexion, are the widely different stories of King Rasni's amours, of the thirsty career of a drunken blacksmith, and of the prophet Jonah—his disobedience, strange sea-journey, mission in Nineveh and subsequent ill-temper being set forth in full. Vainglorious Rasni talks like Alphonsus, and his ladies are even less charming than Iphigena. Ramilia boasts as outrageously as her brother, and is only prevented by sudden death from an incestuous union with him; Alvida, after poisoning her first husband to secure Rasni, shamelessly attempts to woo the King of Cilicia. Quite the most successful character, perhaps the most amusing of all Greene's clowns, is Adam, the blacksmith. His loyal defence ofhis trade against derogatory aspersions, his rare drunkenness, his detection and beating of the practical joker who comes disguised as a devil to carry him off like a Vice on his back, his tactful replenishings of his cup at the king's table, and his dissemblings to avoid being discovered in possession of food during the fast are most entertaining. Poor fellow, he ends on the gallows, but goes to his death with a stout heart and a full stomach. No better example is needed of the prose which Greene puts into the mouths of his low characters than that which Adam uses. The following incident occurs during the fast proclaimed by Rasni after Jonah's denunciations:
Adam(alone). Well, Goodman Jonas, I would you had never come from Jewry to this country; you have made me look like a lean rib of roast beef, or like the picture of Lent painted upon a red-herring-cob. Alas, masters, we are commanded by the proclamation to fast and pray! By my faith, I could prettily so-so away with praying; but for fasting, why, 'tis so contrary to my nature that I had rather suffer a short hanging than a long fasting. Mark me, the words be these, 'Thou shalt take no manner of food for so many days'. I had as lief he should have said, 'Thou shalt hang thyself for so many days'. And yet, in faith, I need not find fault with the proclamation, for I have a buttery and a pantry and a kitchen about me; for proof,ecce signum! This right slop (leg of his garments) is my pantry—behold a manchet [Draws it out]; this place is my kitchen, for, lo, a piece of beef [Draws it out]: O, let me repeat that sweet word again! for, lo, a piece of beef! This is my buttery; for see, see, my friends, to my great joy, a bottle of beer [Draws it out]. Thus, alas, I make shift to wear out this fasting; I drive away the time. But there go searchers about to seek if any man breaks the king's command. O, here they be; in with your victuals, Adam. [Puts them back into his slops. Enter twoSearchers.]First Searcher.How duly the men of Nineveh keep the proclamation! how are they armed to repentance! Wehave searched through the whole city, and have not as yet found one that breaks the fast.Second Searcher.The sign of the more grace.—But stay! here sits one, methinks, at his prayers; let us see who it is.First S.'Tis Adam, the smith's man.—How now, Adam!Adam.Trouble me not; 'Thou shalt take no manner of food, but fast and pray.'First S.How devoutly he sits at his orisons! But stay, methinks I feel a smell of some meat or bread about him.Second S.So thinks me too.—You, sirrah, what victuals have you about you?Adam.Victuals! O horrible blasphemy! Hinder me not of my prayer, nor drive me not into a choler. Victuals! why, heardest thou not the sentence, 'Thou shalt take no food, but fast and pray'?Second S.Truth, so it should be; but methinks I smell meat about thee.Adam.About me, my friends! these words are actions in the case. About me! No, no! hang those gluttons that cannot fast and pray.First S.Well, for all your words, we must search you.Adam.Search me! Take heed what you do: my hose are my castles; 'tis burglary if you break ope a slop; no officer must lift up an iron hatch; take heed, my slops are iron. [They searchAdam.]Second S.O villain!—See how he hath gotten victuals, bread, beef, and beer, where the king commanded upon pain of death none should eat for so many days!
Adam(alone). Well, Goodman Jonas, I would you had never come from Jewry to this country; you have made me look like a lean rib of roast beef, or like the picture of Lent painted upon a red-herring-cob. Alas, masters, we are commanded by the proclamation to fast and pray! By my faith, I could prettily so-so away with praying; but for fasting, why, 'tis so contrary to my nature that I had rather suffer a short hanging than a long fasting. Mark me, the words be these, 'Thou shalt take no manner of food for so many days'. I had as lief he should have said, 'Thou shalt hang thyself for so many days'. And yet, in faith, I need not find fault with the proclamation, for I have a buttery and a pantry and a kitchen about me; for proof,ecce signum! This right slop (leg of his garments) is my pantry—behold a manchet [Draws it out]; this place is my kitchen, for, lo, a piece of beef [Draws it out]: O, let me repeat that sweet word again! for, lo, a piece of beef! This is my buttery; for see, see, my friends, to my great joy, a bottle of beer [Draws it out]. Thus, alas, I make shift to wear out this fasting; I drive away the time. But there go searchers about to seek if any man breaks the king's command. O, here they be; in with your victuals, Adam. [Puts them back into his slops. Enter twoSearchers.]
First Searcher.How duly the men of Nineveh keep the proclamation! how are they armed to repentance! Wehave searched through the whole city, and have not as yet found one that breaks the fast.
Second Searcher.The sign of the more grace.—But stay! here sits one, methinks, at his prayers; let us see who it is.
First S.'Tis Adam, the smith's man.—How now, Adam!
Adam.Trouble me not; 'Thou shalt take no manner of food, but fast and pray.'
First S.How devoutly he sits at his orisons! But stay, methinks I feel a smell of some meat or bread about him.
Second S.So thinks me too.—You, sirrah, what victuals have you about you?
Adam.Victuals! O horrible blasphemy! Hinder me not of my prayer, nor drive me not into a choler. Victuals! why, heardest thou not the sentence, 'Thou shalt take no food, but fast and pray'?
Second S.Truth, so it should be; but methinks I smell meat about thee.
Adam.About me, my friends! these words are actions in the case. About me! No, no! hang those gluttons that cannot fast and pray.
First S.Well, for all your words, we must search you.
Adam.Search me! Take heed what you do: my hose are my castles; 'tis burglary if you break ope a slop; no officer must lift up an iron hatch; take heed, my slops are iron. [They searchAdam.]
Second S.O villain!—See how he hath gotten victuals, bread, beef, and beer, where the king commanded upon pain of death none should eat for so many days!
Orlando Furioso, a dramatized version of an incident in Ariosto's poem, need not delay us long. It is the story of Orlando's madness (due to jealousy) and the sufferings of innocent, patient Angelica. In this heroine we have the first of several pictures from the author's hand of a gentle, constant, ill-used maiden, but she is very little seen. Most of the play is taken up with warfare, secretenmities, and Orlando's madness. The evil genius, Sacripant, may be the first, as Iago is the greatest, of that school of villains whose treachery finds expression in the deliberate undermining of true love by forged proofs of infidelity. There is less rodomontade than in the previous plays, but again we have to record an absence of humour. In the following lines Orlando is meditating on his love: