"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 the 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 passage 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, and in 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, vol. 2, 1640 (1631-41);fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;edited by P. Whalley, 7 vols., 1756;by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 vols., 1816, 1846;re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 vols., 1871;in 9 vols., 1875;by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series),with Introduction by C. 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 known setting,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.
SIR,—A thankful man owes a courtesy ever; the unthankful but when he needs it. To make mine own mark appear, and shew by which of these seals I am known, I send you this piece of what may live of mine; for whose innocence, as for the author's, you were once a noble and timely undertaker, to the greatest justice of this kingdom. Enjoy now the delight of your goodness, which is, to see that prosper you preserved, and posterity to owe the reading of that, without offence, to your name, which so much ignorance and malice of the times then conspired to have supprest.
Your true lover,BEN JONSON.
SCENE,-RomeAfter the second sounding.ENVY arises in the midst of the stage.Light, I salute thee, but with wounded nerves,Wishing the golden splendor pitchy darkness.What's here? THE ARRAIGNMENT! ay; this, this is it,That our sunk eyes have waked for all this while:Here will be subject for my snakes and me.Cling to my neck and wrists, my loving worms,And cast you round in soft and amorous folds,Till I do bid uncurl; then, break your knots,Shoot out yourselves at length, as your forced stingsWould hide themselves within his maliced sides,To whom I shall apply you. Stay! the shineOf this assembly here offends my sight;I'll darken that first, and outface their grace.Wonder not, if I stare: these fifteen weeks,So long as since the plot was but an embrion,Have I, with burning lights mixt vigilant thoughts,In expectation of this hated play,To which at last I am arrived as Prologue.Nor would I you should look for other looks,Gesture, or compliment from me, than whatThe infected bulk of Envy can afford:For I am risse here with a covetous hope,To blast your pleasures and destroy your sports,With wrestings, comments, applications,Spy-like suggestions, privy whisperings,And thousand such promoting sleights as these.Mark how I will begin: The scene is, ha!Rome? Rome? and Rome? Crack, eye-strings, and your ballsDrop into earth; let me be ever blind.I am prevented; all my hopes are crost,Check'd, and abated; fie, a freezing sweatFlows forth at all my pores, my entrails burn:What should I do? Rome! Rome! O my vext soul,How might I force this to the present state?Are there no players here? no poet apes,That come with basilisk' s eyes, whose forked tonguesAre steeped in venom, as their hearts in gall?Either of these would help me; they could wrest,Pervert, and poison all they hear or see,With senseless glosses, and allusions.Now, if you be good devils, fly me not.You know what dear and ample facultiesI have endowed you with: I'll lend you more.Here, take my snakes among you, come and eat,And while the squeez'd juice flows in your black jaws,Help me to damn the author. Spit it forthUpon his lines, and shew your rusty teethAt every word, or accent: or else chooseOut of my longest vipers, to stick downIn your deep throats; and let the heads come forthAt your rank mouths; that he may see you arm'dWith triple malice, to hiss, sting, and tear.His work and him; to forge, and then declaim,Traduce, corrupt, apply, inform, suggest;O, these are gifts wherein your souls are blest.What? Do you hide yourselves? will none appear?None answer? what, doth this calm troop affright you?Nay, then I do despair; down, sink again:This travail is all lost with my dead hopes.If in such bosoms spite have left to dwell,Envy is not on earth, nor scarce in hell. [Descends slowly.
The third sounding.[As she disappears, enter PROLOGUE hastily, in armour.Stay, monster, ere thou sink-thus on thy headSet we our bolder foot; with which we treadThy malice into earth: so Spite should die,Despised and scorn'd by noble industry.If any muse why I salute the stage,An armed Prologue; know, 'tis a dangerous age:Wherein who writes, had need present his scenesForty-fold proof against the conjuring meansOf base detractors, and illiterate apes,That fill up rooms in fair and formal shapes.'Gainst these, have we put on this forced defence:Whereof the allegory and hid senseIs, that a well erected confidenceCan fright their pride, and laugh their folly hence.Here now, put case our author should, once more,Swear that his play were good; he doth implore,You would not argue him of arrogance:Howe'er that common spawn of ignorance,Our fry of writers, may beslime his fame,And give his action that adulterate name.Such full-blown vanity he more doth loth,Than base dejection; there's a mean 'twixt both,Which with a constant firmness he pursues,As one that knows the strength of his own Muse.And this he hopes all free souls will allow:Others that take it with a rugged brow,Their moods he rather pities than envies:His mind it is above their injuries.
ACT ISCENE 1—Scene draws, and discovers OVID in his study.
Ovid.Then, when this body falls in funeral fire,My name shall live, and my best part aspire.It shall go so.[Enter Luscus, with a gown and cap.LUSC. Young master, master Ovid, do you hear? Gods a'me! away withyour songs and sonnets and on with your gown and cap quickly: here,here, your father will be a man of this room presently. Come, nay,nay, nay, nay, be brief. These verses too, a poison on 'em! Icannot abide them, they make me ready to cast, by thebanks of Helicon! Nay, look, what a rascally untoward thing thispoetry is; I could tear them now.Ovid. Give me; how near is my father?Lusc. Heart a'man: get a law book in your hand, I will not answeryou else. [Ovid puts on his cap and gown ]. Why so! now there'ssome formality in you. By Jove, and three or four of the gods more,I am right of mine old master's humour for that; this villainouspoetry will undo you, by the welkin.Ovid. What, hast thou buskins on, Luscus, that thou swearest sotragically and high?Lusc. No, but I have boots on, sir, and so has your father too bythis time; for he call'd for them ere I came from the lodging.Ovid. Why, was he no readier?Lusc. O no; and there was the mad skeldering captain, with thevelvet arms, ready to lay hold on him as he comes down: he thatpresses every man he meets, with an oath to lend him money, andcries, Thou must do't, old boy, as thou art a man, a man ofworship.Ovid. Who, Pantilius Tucca?Lus. Ay, he; and I met little master Lupus, the tribune, goingthither too.Ovid. Nay, an he be under their arrest, I may with safety enoughread over my elegy before he come.Lus. Gods a'me! what will you do? why, young master, you are notCastalian mad, lunatic, frantic, desperate, ha!Ovid. What ailest thou, Luscus?Lus. God be with you, sir; I'll leave you to your poetical fancies,and furies. I'll not be guilty, I. [Exit.Ovid.Be not, good ignorance. I'm glad th'art gone;For thus alone, our ear shall better judgeThe hasty errors of our morning muse.Envy, why twit'st thou me my time's spent ill,And call'st my verse, fruits of an idle quill?Or that, unlike the line from whence I sprung,War's dusty honours I pursue not young?Or that I study not the tedious laws,And prostitute my voice in every cause?Thy scope is mortal; mine eternal fame,Which through the world shall ever chaunt my name.Homer will live whilst Tenedos stands, and Ide,Or, to the sea, fleet Simois doth slide:And so shall Hesiod too, while vines do bear,Or crooked sickles crop the ripen'd ear.Callimachus, though in invention low,Shall still be sung, since he in art doth flow.No loss shall come to Sophocles' proud vein;With sun and moon, Aratus shall remain.While slaves be false, fathers hard, and bawds be whorishWhilst harlots flatter, shall Menander flourish.Ennius, though rude, and Accius's high-rear'd strain,A fresh applause in every age shall gain,Of Varro's name, what ear shall not be told,Of Jason's Argo and the fleece of gold?Then shall Lucretius' lofty numbers die,When earth and seas in fire and flame shall fry.Tityrus, Tillage, AEnee shall be read,Whilst Rome of all the conquered world is head!Till Cupid's fires be out, and his bow broken,Thy verses, neat Tibullus, shall be spoken.Our Gallus shall be known from east to west;So shall Lycoris, whom he now loves best.The suffering plough-share or the flint may wear;But heavenly Poesy no death can fear.Kings shall give place to it, and kingly shows,The banks o'er which gold-bearing Tagus flows.Kneel hinds to trash: me let bright Phoebus swellWith cups full flowing from the Muses' well.Frost-fearing myrtle shall impale my head,And of sad lovers I be often read.Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite!For after death all men receive their right.Then, when this body falls in funeral fire,My name shall live, and my best part aspire.Enter OVID senior, followed by Luscus,Tucca, and Lupus.Ovid se. Your name shall live, indeed, sir! you say true: but howinfamously, how scorn'd and contemn'd in the eyes and ears of thebest and gravest Romans, that you think not on; you never so muchas dream of that. Are these the fruits of all my travail andexpenses? Is this the scope and aim of thy studies? Are these thehopeful courses, wherewith I have so long flattered my expectationfrom thee? Verses! Poetry! Ovid, whom I thought to see the pleader,become Ovid the play-maker!Ovid ju. No, sir.Ovid se. Yes, sir; I hear of a tragedy of yours coming forth forthe common players there, call'd Medea. By my household gods, if Icome to the acting of it, I'll add one tragic part more than is yetexpected to it: believe me, when I promise it. What! shall I havemy son a stager now? an enghle for players? a gull, a rook, ashot-clog, to make suppers, and be laugh'd at? Publius, I will setthee on the funeral pile first.Ovid ju. Sir, I beseech you to have patience.Lus. Nay, this 'tis to have your ears damn'd up to good counsel. Idid augur all this to him beforehand, without poring into an ox'spaunch for the matter, and yet he would not be scrupulous.Tuc. How now, goodman slave! what, rowly-powly? all rivals, rascal?Why, my master of worship, dost hear? are these thy best projects?is this thy designs and thy discipline, to suffer knaves to becompetitors with commanders and gentlemen? Are we parallels, rascal,are we parallels?Ovid se. Sirrah, go get my horses ready. You'll still be prating.Tuc. Do, you perpetual stinkard, do, go; talk to tapsters andostlers, you slave; they are in your element, go; here be theemperor's captains, you raggamuffin rascal, and not your comrades.[Exit Luscus.Lup. Indeed. Marcus Ovid, these players are an idle generation, anddo much harm in a state, corrupt young gentry very much, I know it;I have not been a tribune thus long and observed nothing: besides,they will rob us, us, that are magistrates, of our respect, bringus upon their stages, and make us ridiculous to the plebeians; theywill play you or me, the wisest men they can come by still, only tobring us in contempt with the vulgar, and make us cheap.Tur. Thou art in the right, my venerable cropshin, they willindeed; the tongue of the oracle never twang'd truer. Your courtiercannot kiss his mistress's slippers in quiet for them; nor yourwhite innocent gallant pawn his revelling suit to make his punk asupper. An honest decayed commander cannot skelder, cheat, nor beseen in a bawdy-house, but he shall be straight in one of theirwormwood comedies. They are grown licentious, the rogues;libertines, flat libertines. They forget they are in the statute,the rascals; they are blazon'd there; there they are trick'd, theyand their pedigrees; they need no other heralds, I wiss.Ovid se. Methinks, if nothing else, yet this alone, the veryreading of the public edicts, should fright thee from commerce withthem, and give thee distaste enough of their actions. But thisbetrays what a student you are, this argues your proficiency in thelaw!Ovid ju.They wrong me, sir, and do abuse you more,That blow your ears with these untrue reports.I am not known unto the open stage,Nor do I traffic in their theatres:Indeed, I do acknowledge, at requestOf some near friends, and honourable Romans,I have begun a poem of that nature.Ovid se. You have, sir, a poem! and where is it? That's the law youstudy.Ovid ju. Cornelius Gallus borrowed it to read.Ovid se. Cornelius Gallus! there's another gallant too hath drunkof the same poison, and Tibullus and Propertius. But these aregentlemen of means and revenues now. Thou art a younger brother,and hast nothing but they bare exhibition; which I protest shall bebare indeed, if thou forsake not these unprofitable by-courses,and that timely too. Name me a profest poet, that his poetry didever afford him so much as a competency. Ay, your god of poetsthere, whom all of you admire and reverence so much, Homer, hewhose worm-eaten statue must not be spewed against, but withhallow'd lips and groveling adoration, what was he? what was he?Tuc. Marry, I'll tell thee, old swaggerer; he was a poor blind,rhyming rascal, that lived obscurely up and down in booths andtap-houses, and scarce ever made a good meal in his sleep, thewhoreson hungry beggar.Ovid se. He says well:—nay, I know this nettles you now; butanswer me, is it not true? You'll tell me his name shall live; andthat now being dead his works have eternised him, and made himdivine: but could this divinity feed him while he lived? could hisname feast him?Tuc. Or purchase him a senator's revenue, could it?Ovid se. Ay, or give him place in the commonwealth? worship, orattendants? make him be carried in his litter?Tuc. Thou speakest sentences, old Bias.Lup. All this the law will do, young sir, if you'll follow it.Ovid se. If he be mine, he shall follow and observe what I will apthim to, or I profess here openly and utterly to disclaim him.Ovid ju.Sir, let me crave you will forego these moods;I will be any thing, or study any thing;I'll prove the unfashion'd body of the lawPure elegance, and make her rugged'st strainsRun smoothly as Propertius' elegiesOvid se. Propertius' elegies? good!Lup. Nay, you take him too quickly, MarcusOvid se. Why, he cannot speak, he cannot think out of poetry; he isbewitch'd with it.Lup. Come, do not misprise him. Ovid se. Misprise! ay, marry, Iwould have him use some such words now; they have some touch, sometaste of the law. He should make himself a style out of these, andlet his Propertius' elegies go by.Lup. Indeed, young Publius, he that will now hit the mark, mustshoot through the law; we have no other planet reigns, and in thatsphere you may sit and sing with angels. Why, the law makes a manhappy, without respecting any other merit; a simple scholar, ornone at all, may be a lawyer.Tuc. He tells thee true, my noble neophyte; my little grammaticaster, he does: it shall never put thee to thy mathematics,metaphysics, philosophy, and I know not what supposed Suficiencies;if thou canst but have the patience to plod enough, talk, and makea noise enough, be impudent enough, and 'tis enough.Lup. Three books will furnish you. Tuc. And the less art thebetter: besides, when it shall be in the power of thy chevrilconscience, to do right or wrong at thy pleasure, my prettyAlcibiades.Lup. Ay, and to have better men than himself, by many thousanddegrees, to observe him, and stand bare.Tuc. True, and he to carry himself proud and stately, and have thelaw on his side for't, old boy.Ovid se. Well, the day grows old, gentlemen, and I must leaveyou. Publius, if thou wilt hold my favour, abandon these idle,fruitless studies, that so bewitched thee. Send Janus home his backface again, and look only forward to the law: intend that. I will Iallow thee what shall suit thee in the rank of gentlemen, andmaintain thy society with the best; and under these conditions Ileave thee. My blessings light upon thee, if thou respect them; ifnot, mine eyes may drop for thee, but thine own heart will ache foritself; and so farewell! What, are my horses come?Lus. Yes, sir, they are at the gate Without.Ovid se. That's well.—Asinius Lupus, a word. Captain, I shall takemy leave of you?Tuc. No, my little old boy, dispatch with Cothurnus there: I'llattend thee, I—Lus. To borrow some ten drachms: I know his project.[Aside.Ovid se. Sir, you shall make me beholding to you. Now, captainTucca, what say you?Tuc. Why, what should say, or what can I say, my flower O' theorder? Should I say thou art rich, or that thou art honourable, orwise, or valiant, or learned, or liberal? why, thou art all these,and thou knowest it, my noble Lucullus, thou knowest it. Come, benot ashamed of thy virtues, old stump: honour's a good brooch towear in a man's hat at all times. Thou art the man of war'sMecaenas, old boy. Why shouldst not thou be graced then by them, aswell as he is by his poets?[Enter PYRGUS and whispers TUCCA.How now, my carrier, what news?Lus. The boy has stayed within for his cue this half-hour.[Aside.Tuc. Come, do not whisper to me, but speak it out: what; it is notreason against the state I hope, is it?Lus. Yes, against the state of my master's purse.[Aside, and exit.Pyr. [aloud.] Sir, Agrippa desires you to forbear him till the nextweek; his mules are not yet come up.Tuc. His mules! now the bots, the spavin, and the glanders, andsome dozen diseases more, light on him and his mules! What, havethey the yellows, his mules, that they come no faster? or arethey foundered, ha? his mules have the staggers belike, have they?Pyr. O no, sir;—then your tongue might be suspected for one of hismules.[Aside.Tuc He owes me almost a talent, and he thinks to bear it away withhis mules, does he? Sirrah, you nut cracker. Go your ways to himagain, and tell him I must have money, I: I cannot eat stones andturfs, say. What, will he clem me and my followers? ask him an hewill clem me; do, go. He would have me fry my jerkin, would he?Away, setter, away. Yet, stay, my little tumbler, this old boyshall supply now. I will not trouble him, I cannot be importunate,I; I cannot be impudent.Pyr. Alas, sir, no; you are the most maidenly blushing creatureupon the earth.[AsideTuc. Dost thou hear, my little six and fifty, or thereabouts? thouart not to learn the humours and tricks of that old bald cheater,Time; thou hast not this chain for nothing. Men of worth have theirchimeras, as well as other creatures; and they do see monsterssometimes, they do, they do, brave boy.Pyr. Better cheap than he shall see you, I warrant him.[Aside.Tuc. Thou must let me have six-six drachma, I mean, old boy: thoushalt do it; I tell thee, old boy, thou shalt, and in privatetoo,—dost thou see?—Go, walk off: [to the Boy]-There, there. Sixis the sum. Thy son's a gallant spark and must not be put out of asudden. Come hither, Callimachus; thy father tells me thou art toopoetical, boy: thou must not be so; thou must leave them, youngnovice, thou must; they are a sort of poor starved rascals, thatare ever wrap'd up in foul linen; and can boast of nothing but alean visage, peering out of a seam-rent suit, the very emblems ofbeggary. No, dost hear, turn lawyer, thou shalt be my solicitor.—-'Tis right, old boy, is't?Ovid Sr. You were best tell it, captain.Tuc. No; fare thou well, mine honest horseman; and thou, oldbeaver. [To Lupus]-Pray thee, Roman, when thou comest to town, seeme at my lodging, visit me sometimes? thou shalt be welcome. oldboy. Do not balk me, good swaggerer. Jove keep thy chain frompawning; go thy ways, if thou lack money I'll lend thee some; I'llleave thee to thy horse now. Adieu...Ovid Sr. Farewell, good captain.Tuc. Boy, you can have but half a share now, boy[Exit, followed by Pyrgus.Ovid Sr. 'Tis a strange boldness that accompanies this fellow. Come.Ovid ju. I'll give attendance on you to your horse, sir, pleaseyou.Ovid se. No; keep your chamber, and fall to your studies; do so:The gods of Rome bless thee! [Exit with Lupus.Ovid ju.And give me stomach to digest this law:That should have follow'd sure, had I been he.O, sacred Poesy, thou spirit of arts,The soul of science, and the queen of souls;What profane violence, almost sacrilege,Hath here been offered thy divinities!That thine own guiltless poverty should armProdigious ignorance to wound thee thus!For thence is all their force of argument,Drawn forth against thee; or, from the abuseOf thy great powers in adulterate brains:When, would men learn but to distinguish spiritsAnd set true difference 'twixt those jaded witsThat run a broken pace for common hire,And the high raptures of a happy muse,Borne on the wings of her immortal thought,That kicks at earth with a disdainful heel,And beats at heaven gates with her bright hoofs;They would not then, with such distorted faces,And desperate censures, stab at Poesy.They would admire bright knowledge, and their mindsShould ne'er descend on so unworthy objectsAs gold, or titles; they would dread far moreTo be thought ignorant, than be known poor.The time was once, when wit drown'd wealth; but now,Your only barbarism is t'have wit, and want.No matter now in virtue who excels,He that hath coin, hath all perfection else.Tib. [within.] Ovid!Ovid. Who's there? Come in.Enter Tibullus.Tib. Good morrow, lawyer.Ovid. Good morrow, dear Tibullus; welcome: sit down.Tib. Not I. What, so hard at it? Let's see, what's here? Numa indecimo nono. I Nay, I will see itOvid. Prithee awayTib.If thrice in field a man vanquish his foe,'Tis after in his choice to serve or no.How, now, Ovid! Law cases in verse?Ovid. In truth, I know not; they run from my pen unwittingly ifthey be verse. What's the news abroad?Tib. Off with this. gown; I come to have thee walk.Ovid. No, good Tibullus, I'm not now in case. Pray let me alone.Tib. How! Not in case?Slight, thou'rt in too much case, by all this law.Ovid.Troth, if I live, I will new dress the lawIn sprightly Poesy's habiliments.Tib. The hell thou wilt! What! turn law into verseThy father has school'd thee, I see. Here, read that same;There's subject for you; and, if I mistake not, A supersedeasto your melancholy.Ovid. How! subscribed Julia! O my life, my heaven!Tib. Is the mood changed?Ovid.Music of wit! note for th' harmonious spheres!Celestial accents, how you ravish me!Tib. What is it, Ovid?Ovid. That I must meet my Julia, the princess Julia.Tib. Where?Ovid. Why, at—-Heart, I've forgot; my passion so transports me.Tib.I'll save your pains: it is at Albius' house,The jeweller's, where the fair Lycoris lies.Ovid. Who? Cytheris, Cornelius Gallus' love?Tib. Ay, he'll be there too, and my Plautia.Ovid. And why not your Delia?Tib. Yes, and your Corinna.Ovid.True; but, my sweet Tibullus, keep that secretI would not, for all Rome, it should be thoughtI veil bright Julia underneath that name:Julia, the gem and jewel of my soul,That takes her honours from the golden sky,As beauty doth all lustre from her eye.The air respires the pure Elysian sweetsIn which she breathes, and from her looks descendThe glories of the summer. Heaven she is,Praised in herself above all praise; and heWhich hears her speak, would swear the tuneful orbsTurn'd in his zenith only.Tib. Publius, thou'lt lose thyself.Ovid.O, in no labyrinth can I safelier err,Than when I lose myself in praising her.Hence, law, and welcome Muses, though not rich,Yet are you pleasing: let's be reconciled,And new made one. Henceforth, I promise faithAnd all my serious hours to spend with you;With you, whose music striketh on my heart,And with bewitching tones steals forth my spirit,In Julia's name; fair Julia: Julia's loveShall be a law, and that sweet law I'll study,The law and art of sacred Julia's love:All other objects will but abjects prove.Tib. Come, we shall have thee as passionate as Propertius, anon.Ovid. O, how does my Sextus?Tib. Faith, full of sorrow for his Cynthia's death.Ovid. What, still?Tib.Still, and still more, his griefs do grow upon himAs do his hours. Never did I knowAn understanding spirit so take to heartThe common work of Fate.Ovid.O, my Tibullus,Let us not blame him; for against such chancesThe heartiest strife of virtue is not proof.We may read constancy and fortitude.To other souls; but had ourselves been struckWith the like planet, had our loves, like his,Been ravish'd from us by injurious death,And in the height and heat of our best days,It would have crack'd our sinews, shrunk our veins,And made our very heart-strings jar, like his.Come, let's go take him forth, and prove if mirthOr company will but abate his passion.Tib. Content, and I implore the gods it may.[Exeunt.
ACT II
SCENE I. A Room in ALBIUS'S House.Enter ALBIUS and CRISPINUS.Alb. Master Crispinus, you are welcome: pray use a stool, sir. Yourcousin Cytheris will come down presently. We are so busy for thereceiving of these courtiers here, that I can scarce be a minutewith myself, for thinking of them: Pray you sit, sir; pray you sit,sir.Crisp. I am very well, sir. Never trust me, but your are mostdelicately seated here, full of sweet delight and blandishment! anexcellent air, an excellent air!Alb. Ay, sir, 'tis a pretty air. These courtiers run in my mindstill; I must look out. For Jupiter's sake, sit, sir; or please youwalk into the garden? There's a garden on the back-side.Crisp. I am most strenuously well, I thank you, sir.Alb. Much good do you, sir.[Enter CHLOE, with two Maids.Chloe. Come, bring those perfumes forward a little, and strew someroses and violets here: Fie! here be rooms savour the mostpitifully rank that ever I felt. I cry the gods mercy, [seesAlbius] my husband's in the wind of us!Alb. Why, this is good, excellent, excellent! well said, my sweetChloe; trim up your house most obsequiously.Chloe. For Vulcan's sake, breathe somewhere else; in troth youovercome our perfumes exceedingly; you are too predominant.Alb. Hear but my opinion, sweet wife.Chloe. A pin for your pinion! In sincerity, if you be thus fulsometo me in every thing, I'll be divorced. Gods my body! you know whatyou were before I married you; I was a gentlewoman born, I; I lostall my friends to be a citizen's wife, because I heard, indeed,they kept their wives as fine as ladies; and that we might rule ourhusbands like ladies, and do what we listed; do you think I wouldhave married you else?Alb. I acknowledge, sweet wife:—She speaks the best of any womanin Italy, and moves as mightily; which makes me, I had rather sheshould make bumps on my head, as big as my two fingers, than Iwould offend her—But, sweet wife—Chloe. Yet again! Is it not grace enough for you, that I call youhusband, and you call me wife; but you must still be poking me,against my will, to things?Alb. But you know, wife. here are the greatest ladies, andgallantest gentlemen of Rome, to be entertained in our house now;and I would fain advise thee to entertain them in the best sort,i'faith, wife.Chloe. In sincerity, did you ever hear a man talk so idly? Youwould seem to be master! you would have your spoke in my cart! youwould advise me to entertain ladies and gentlemen! Because you canmarshal your pack-needles, horse-combs, hobby-horses, andwall-candlesticks in your warehouse better than I, therefore youcan tell how to entertain ladies and gentlefolks better than I?Alb. O, my sweet wife, upbraid me not with that; gain savourssweetly from any thing; he that respects to get, must relish allcommodities alike, and admit no difference between oade andfrankincense, or the most precious balsamum and a tar-barrel.Chloe. Marry, foh! you sell snuffers too, if you be remember'd; butI pray you let me buy them out of your hand; for, I tell you true,I take it highly in snuff, to learn how to entertain gentlefolks ofyou, at these years, i'faith. Alas, man, there was not a gentlemancame to your house in your t'other wife's time, I hope! nor a lady,nor music, nor masques! Nor you nor your house were so much asspoken of, before I disbased myself, from my hood and myfarthingal, to these bum-rowls and your whale-bone bodice.Alb. Look here, my sweet wife; I am mum, my dear mummia, mybalsamum, my spermaceti, and my very city of—-She has the mostbest, true, feminine wit in Rome!Cris. I have heard so, sir; and do most vehemently desire toparticipate the knowledge of her fair features.Alb. Ah, peace; you shall hear more anon: be not seen yet, I prayyou; not yet: observe.[Exit.Chloe. 'Sbody! give husbands the head a little more, and they'll benothing but head shortly: What's he there?1 Maid. I know not, forsooth.2 Maid. Who would you speak with, sir?Cris. I would speak with my cousin Cytheris.2 Maid. He is one, forsooth, would speak with his cousin Cytheris.Chloe. Is she your cousin, sir?Cris. [coming forward.] Yes, in truth, forsooth, for fault of abetter.Chloe. She is a gentlewoman.Cris. Or else she should not be my cousin, I assure you.Chloe. Are you a gentleman born?Cris. That I am, lady; you shall see mine arms, if it please you.Chloe. No, your legs do sufficiently shew you are a gentleman born,sir; for a man borne upon little legs, is always a gentleman born.Cris. Yet, I pray you, vouchsafe the sight of my arms, mistress;for I bear them about me, to have them seen: My name is Crispinusor Crispinas indeed; which is well expressed in my arms; a facecrying in chief; and beneath it a bloody toe, between three thornspungent.Chloe. Then you are welcome, sir: now you are a gentleman born, Ican find in my heart to welcome you; for I am a gentlewoman borntoo, and will bear my head high enough, though 'twere my fortune tomarry a tradesman.Cris. No doubt of that, sweet feature; your carriage shews it inany man's eye, that is carried upon you with judgment.[Re-enter ALBIUS.Alb. Dear wife, be not angry.Chloe. Gods my passion!Alb. Hear me but one thing; let not your maids set cushions in theparlour windows, nor in the dining-chamber windows; nor uponstools, in either of them, in any case; for 'tis tavern-like: butlay them one upon another, in some out-room or corner of thedining-chamber.Chloe. Go, go; meddle with your bed-chamber only; or rather, withyour bed in your chamber only; or rather with your wife in yourbed only; or on my faith I'll not be pleased with you only.Alb. Look here, my dear wife, entertain that gentleman kindly, Iprithee—mum.[Exit.Chloe. Go, I need your instructions indeed! anger me no more, Iadvise you. Citi-sin, quotha! she's a wise gentlewoman, i'faith,will marry herself to the sin of the city.Alb. [re-entering.] But this time, and no more, by heav'n, wife:hang no pictures in the hall, nor in the dining-chamber, in anycase; But in the gallery only; for 'tis not courtly else, O' myword, wife.Chloe. 'Sprecious, never have done!Alb. Wife—[Exit.Chloe. Do I not bear a reasonable corrigible hand over him,,Crispinus?Cris. By this hand, lady, you hold a most sweet hand over him.Alb. [re-entering.] And then, for the great gilt andirons—Chloe. Again! Would the andirons were in your great guts for me!Alb. I do vanish, wife.[Exit.Chloe. How shall I do, master Crispinus? here will be allthe bravest ladies in court presently to see your cousin Cytheris:O the gods! how might I behave myself now, as to entertain themmost courtly?Cris. Marry, lady, if you will entertain them most courtly, youmust do thus: as soon as ever your maid or your man brings you wordthey are come, you must say, A pox on 'em I what do they here? Andyet, when they come, speak them as fair, and give them the kindestwelcome in words that can be....Chloe. Is that the fashion of courtiers, Crispinus?Cris. I assure you it is, lady; I have observed it.Chloe. For your pox, sir, it is easily hit on; but it is not soeasy to speak fair after, methinks.Alb. [re-entering.] O, wife, the coaches are come, on my word; anumber of coaches and courtiers.Chloe. A pox on them! what do they here?Alb. How now, wife! would'st thou not have them come?Chloe. Come! Come, you are a fool, you.—He knows not the trickon't. Call Cytheris, I pray you: and, good master Crispinus,you can observe, you say; let me entreat you for all the ladies'behaviours, jewels, jests, and attires, that you marking, as wellas I, we may put both our marks together, when they are gone, andconfer of them.Cris. I warrant you, sweet lady; let me alone to observe till Iturn myself to nothing but observation.—[Enter CYTHERIS.Good morrow, cousin Cytheris.Cyth. Welcome, kind cousin. What! are they come?Alb. Ay, your friend Cornelius Gallus, Ovid, Tibullus, Propertius,with Julia, the emperor's daughter, and the lady Plautia, are'lighted at the door; and with them Hermogenes Tigellius, theexcellent musician.Cyth. Come, let us go meet them, Chloe.Chloe. Observe, Crispinus.Crisp. At a hail's breadth, lady, I warrant you.[As they are going out, enterCORNELIUS GALLUS, OVID, TIBULLUS,PROPERTIUS, HERMOGENES, JULIA, and PLAUTIA.Gal. Health to the lovely Chloe! you must pardon me, mistress, thatI prefer this fair gentlewoman.Cyth. I pardon and praise you for it, sir; and I beseech yourexcellence, receive her beauties into your knowledge and favour.Jul. Cytheris, she hath favour and behaviour, that commands as muchof me: and, sweet Chloe, know I do exceedingly love you, and that Iwill approve in any grace my father the emperor may shew you. Isthis your husband?Alb. For fault of a better, if it please your highness.Chloe. Gods my life, how he shames me!Cyth. Not a whit, Chloe, they all think you politic and witty; wisewomen choose not husbands for the eye, merit, or birth, but wealthand sovereignty.Ovid. Sir, we all come to gratulate, for the good report of you.Tib. And would be glad to deserve your love, sir.Alb. My wife will answer you all, gentlemen; I'll come to you againpresently.[Exit.Plau. You have chosen you a most fair companion here, Cytheris, anda very fair house.Cyth. To both which, you and all my friends are very welcome,Plautia.Chloe. With all my heart, I assure your ladyship.Plau. Thanks, sweet mistress Chloe.Jul. You must needs come to court, lady, i'faith, and there be sureyour welcome shall be as great to us.Ovid. She will deserve it, madam; I see, even in her looks, gentry,and general worthiness.Tib. I have not seen a more certain character of an excellentdisposition.Alb. [re-entering.] Wife!Chloe. O, they do so commend me here, the courtiers! what's thematter now?Alb. For the banquet, sweet wife.Chloe. Yes; and I must needs come to court, and be welcome, theprincess says.[Exit with Albius.Gal. Ovid and Tibullus, you may be bold to welcome your mistresshere.Ovid. We find it so, sir.Tib. And thank Cornelius Gallus.Ovid. Nay, my sweet Sextus, in faith thou art not sociable.Prop.In faith I am not, Publius; nor I cannot.Sick minds are like sick men that burn with fevers,Who when they drink, please but a present taste,And after bear a more impatient fit.Pray let me leave you; I offend you all,And myself most.Gal. Stay, sweet Propertius.Tib.You yield too much unto your griefs and fate,Which never hurts, but when we say it hurts us.Prop.O peace, Tibullus; your philosophyLends you too rough a hand to search my wounds.Speak they of griefs, that know to sigh and grieve:The free and unconstrained spirit feelsNo weight of my oppression.[Exit.Ovid.Worthy Roman!Methinks I taste his misery, and couldSit down, and chide at his malignant stars.Jul. Methinks I love him, that he loves so truly.Cyth. This is the perfect'st love, lives after death.Gal. Such is the constant ground of virtue still.Plau. It puts on an inseparable face.[re-enter CHLOE.Chloe. Have you mark'd every thing, Crispinus?Cris. Every thing, I warrant you.Chloe. What gentlemen are these? do you know them?Cris. Ay, they are poets, lady.Chloe. Poets! they did not talk of me since I went, did they?Cris. O yes, and extolled your perfections to the heavens.Chloe. Now in sincerity they be the finest kind of men that everI knew: Poets! Could not one get the emperor to make my husbanda poet, think you?Cris. No, lady, 'tis love and beauty make poets: and since you likepoets so well, your love and beauties shall make me a poet.Chloe. What! shall they? and such a one as these?Cris. Ay, and a better than these: I would be sorry else.Chloe. And shall your looks change, and your hair change, and all,like these?Cris. Why, a man may be a poet, and yet not change his hair, lady.Chloe. Well, we shall see your cunning: yet, if you can change yourhair, I pray do.[Re-enter Albius.Alb. Ladies, and lordlings, there's a slight banquet stays withinfor you; please you draw near, and accost it.Jul. We thank you, good Albius: but when shall we see thoseexcellent jewels you are commended to have?Alb. At your ladyship's service.—I got that speech by seeing aplay last day, and it did me some grace now: I see, 'tis good tocollect sometimes; I'll frequent these plays more than I have done,now I come to be familiar with courtiers. [Aside.Gal. Why, how now, Hermogenes? what ailest thou, trow?Her, A little melancholy; let me alone, prithee.Gal. Melancholy I how so?Her. With riding: a plague on all coaches for me!Chloe. Is that hard-favour'd gentleman a poet too, Cytheris?Cyth. No, this is Hermogenes: as humorous as a poet, though: he isa musician.Chloe. A musician! then he can sing.Cyth. That he can, excellently; did you never hear him?Chloe. O no: will he be entreated, think you?Cyth. I know not.—Friend, mistress Chloe would fain hearHermogenes sing: are you interested in him?Gal. No doubt, his own humanity will command him so far, to thesatisfaction of so fair a beauty; but rather than fail, we'll allbe suitors to him.Her. 'Cannot sing.Gal. Prithee, Hermogenes.Her. 'Cannot sing.Gal. For honour of this gentlewoman, to whose house I know thoumayest be ever welcome.Chloe. That he shall, in truth, sir, if he can sing.Ovid. What's that?Gal. This gentlewoman is wooing Hermogenes for a song.Ovid. A song! come, he shall not deny her. Hermogenes!Her. 'Cannot sing.Gal. No, the ladies must do it; he stays but to have their thanksacknowledged as a debt to his cunning.Jul. That shall not want; ourself will be the first shall promiseto pay him more than thanks, upon a favour so worthily vouchsafed.Her. Thank you, madam; but 'will not sing.Tib. Tut, the only way to win him, is to abstain from entreatinghim.Cris: Do you love singing, lady?Chloe. O, passingly.Cris. Entreat the ladies to entreat me to sing then, I beseech you.Chloe. I beseech your grace, entreat this gentleman to sing.Jul. That we will, Chloe; can he sing excellently?Chloe. I think so, madam; for he entreated me to entreat you toentreat him to sing.Cris. Heaven and earth! would you tell that?Jul. Good, sir, let's entreat you to use your voice.Cris. Alas, madam, I cannot, in truth.Fla. The gentleman is modest: I warrant you he sings excellently.Ovid. Hermogenes, clear your throat: I see by him, here's agentleman will worthily challenge you.Cris. Not I, sir, I'll challenge no man.Tib. That's your modesty, sir; but we, out of an assurance of yourexcellency, challenge him in your behalf.Cris. I thank you, gentlemen, I'll do my best.Her. Let that best be good, sir, you were best.Gal. O, this contention is excellent! What is't you sing, sir?Cris. If I freely may discover, sir; I'll sing that.Ovid. One of your own compositions, Hermogenes. He offers youvantage enough.Cris. Nay, truly, gentlemen, I'll challenge no man.—I can sing butone staff of the ditty neither.Gal. The better: Hermogenes himself will be entreated to sing theother.CRISPINUS sings.If I freely may discoverWhat would please me in my lover,I would have her fair and witty,Savouring more of court than city;A little proud, but full of pity:Light and humorous in her toying,Oft building hopes, and soon destroying,Long, but sweet in the enjoying;Neither too easy nor too hard:All extremes I would have barr'd.Gal. Believe me, sir, you sing most excellently.Ovid. If there were a praise above excellence, the gentleman highlydeserves it.Her. Sir, all this doth not yet make me envy you; for I know I singbetter than you.Tib. Attend Hermogenes, now.HERMOGENES, accompanied.She should be allow'd her passions,So they were but used as fashions;Sometimes froward, and then frowning,Sometimes sickish and then swowning,Every fit with change still crowning.Purely jealous I would have her,Then only constant when I crave her:'Tis a virtue should not save her.Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,Neither her peevishness annoy me.Jill. Nay, Hermogenes, your merit hath long since been 'both knownand admired of us.Her. You shall hear me sing another. Now will I begin.Gal. We shall do this gentleman's banquet too much wrong, thatstays for us, ladies.Jul. 'Tis true; and well thought on, Cornelius Gallus.Her. Why, 'tis but a short air, 'twill be done presently, praystay: strike, music.Ovid. No, good Hermogenes; we'll end this difference within.Jul. 'Tis the common disease of all your musicians, that they knowno mean. to be entreated either to begin or end.Alb. Please you lead the way, gentles.All. Thanks, good Albius.[Exeunt all but Albius.Alb. O, what a charm of thanks was here put upon me! O Jove, what asetting forth it is to a man to have many courtiers come to hishouse! Sweetly was it said of a good old housekeeper, I had, ratherwant meat, than want guests, especially, if they be courtly guests.For, never trust me, if one of their good legs made in a house benot worth all the good cheer a man can make them. He that wouldhave fine guests, let him have a fine wife! he that would have afine wife, let him come to me.[Re-enter CRISPINUS.Cris. By your kind leave, master Albius.Alb. What, you are not gone, master Crispinus?Cris. Yes, faith, I have a design draws me hence: pray, sir,fashion me an excuse to the ladies.Alb. Will you not stay and see the jewels, sir? I pray you stay.Cris. Not for a million, sir, now. Let it suffice, I mustrelinquish; and so, in a word, please you to expiate thiscompliment.Alb. Mum.[Exit.Cris. I'll presently go and enghle some broker for a poet's gown,and bespeak a garland: and then, jeweller, look to your best jewel,i'faith.[Exit.