Part 2 out of 9
I will forsake my countrie, goods, and lands,
I, and my selfe will even change my selfe,
In name, in life, in habit, and in all,
And live in some farre-moved continent,
So you will spare my weake and tender youth,
Which cannot entertaine the stroake of death
In budding yeares and verie spring of life.
1 _Mur_. Leave of these bootlesse protestations,
And use no ruth-enticing argumentes,
For if you do, ile lop you lim by lim,
And torture you for childish eloquence.
2 _Mur_. Thou shalt not make his little finger ake.
1 _Mur_. Yes, every part, and this shall proove it true.
[_Runnes Perillo in with his sworde_.
_Per_. Oh I am slaine, the Lord forgive thy fact!
And give thee grace to dye with penitence. [_Dyeth_.
2 _Mur_. A treacherous villaine, full of cowardise!
Ile make thee know that thou hast done amisse.
1 _m_. Teach me that knowledge when you will or dare.
[_They fight and kill one another; the relenter
having some more life, and the other dyeth_.
1 _mur_. Swoones, I am peppered, I had need have salt,
Or else to morrow I shall yeeld a stincke,
Worse then a heape of dirty excrements.
Now by this Hilt, this golde was earn'd too deare:
Ah, how now death, wilt thou be conquerour?
Then vengeance light on them that made me so,
And ther's another farewell ere I goe.
[_Stab the other murtherer againe_.
2 _mur_. Enough, enough, I had my death before.
[_A hunt within_.
_Enter the Duke of Padua, Turqualo, Vesuvio, Alberto, &c_.
_Duke_. How now my Lords, was't not a gallant course,
Beleeve me sirs, I never saw a wretch,
Make better shift to save her little life.
The thickets full of buskes, and scratching bryers,
A mightie dewe, a many deepe mouth'd hounds,
Let loose in every place to crosse their course,--
And yet the Hare got cleanly from them all.
I would not for a hundred pound in faith,
But that she had escaped with her life;
For we will winde a merry hunters home,
And starte her once again tomorrow morne.
_Turq_. In troth my Lord, the little flocked hound,
That had but three good legs to further him,
Twas formost still, and surer of his sent,
Then any one in all the crie besides.
_Vesu_. But yet _Pendragon_ gave the Hare more turnes.
_Alber_. That was because he was more polliticke,
And eyed her closely in her coverts still:
They all did well, and once more we will trie,
The subtile creature with a greater crie.
_Enter Allenso, booted_.
_Duke_. But say, what well accomplished Gentleman
Is that that comes into our company?
_Vesu_. I know him well, it is _Fallerios_ sonne,
_Pandynos_ brother (a kinde Gentleman)
That dyed and left his little pretty sonne,
Unto his brother's good direction.
_Duke_. Stand close awhile, and overheare his wordes;
He seemes much over-gone with passion.
_Allen_. Yee timorous thoughts that guide my giddy steps
In unknowne pathes of dreadfull wildernesse,
Why traitor-like do you conspire to holde
My pained heart twixt feare and jealousie?
My too much care hath brought me carelesly,
Into this woody savadge labyrinth,
And I can finde no way to issue out;
Feare hath so dazeled all my better part,
That reason hath forgot discreations art.
But in good time, see where is company.--
Kinde Gentlemen, if you, unlike my selfe,
Are not incumbred with the circling wayes
Of this erronious winding wildernesse,
I pray you to direct me foorth this wood
And showe the pathe that leades to _Padua_.
_Duke_. We all are _Paduans_, and we all intend
To passe forthwith with speed to _Padua_.
_Allen_. I will attend upon you presently. [_See the bodyes_.
_Duke_. Come then away:--but, gentlemen beholde,
A bloody sight, and murtherous spectacle!
2 _Mur_. Oh, God, forgive me all my wickednesse
And take me to eternall happinesse!
_Duke_. Harke one of them hath some small sparke of life,
To kindle knowledge of their sad mishaps.
_Allen_. Ah gratious Lord, I know this wretched child,
And these two men that here lye murthered.
_Vesu_. Do you, _Allenso_?
_Allen_. I, my gracious Lord:
It was _Pertillo_ my dead Unckles sonne.
Now have my feares brought forth this fearefull childe
Of endlesse care, and everlasting griefe!
_Duke_. Lay hands upon _Allenso_, Gentlemen.
Your presence doth confirme you had a share
In the performance of this crueltie.
_Allen_. I do confesse I have so great a share
In this mishap, that I will give him thankes,
That will let foorth my sorrow-wounded soule
From out this goale of lamentation.
_Duke_. Tis now too late to wish for hadiwist.
Had you withheld your hand from this attempt,
Sorrow had never so imprisoned you.
_Allen_. Oh my good Lord, do not mistake my case,
And yet my griefe is sure infallible.
The Lord of heaven can witnesse with my soule,
That I am guiltelesse of your wrong suspect,
But yet not griefelesse that the deed is done.
_Duke_. Nay if you stand to justifie your selfe,
This gentleman whose life dooth seeme to stay,
Within his body till he tell your shame,
Shall testifie of your integritie:
Speake then, thou sad Anatomy of death,
Who were the Agents of your wofulnesse?
2 _Mur_. O be not blinded with a false surmise,
For least my tongue should faile to end the tale
Of our untimely fate-appointed death,
Know young _Allenso_ is as innocent
As is _Fallerio_ guiltie of the crime.
He, he it was, that with foure hundredth markes,
Whereof two hundred he paide presently,
Did hire this damn'd villaine and my selfe
To massacre this harmelesse innocent:
But yet my conscience, toucht with some remorse,
Would faine have sav'd the young _Pertillos_ life,
But he remorselesse would not let him live,
But unawares thrust in his harmelesse brest
That life-bereaving fatall instrument:
Which cruell deede I seeking to revenge,
Have lost my life and paid the slave his due
Rewarde for spilling blood of innocents.
Surprise _Fallerio_, author of this ill;
Save young _Allenso_, he is guiltlesse still. [_Dyeth_.
_Allen_. Oh sweetest honie mixt with bitter gall,
Oh Nightingale combinde with Ravens notes,
Thy speech is like a woodward that should say,--
Let the tree live, but take the root away.
As though my life were ought but miserie,
Having my father slaine for infamie!
_Duke_. What should incite _Fallerio_ to devise,
The overthrowe of this unhappie boy?
_Vesu_. That may be easily guest, my gracious Lord,
To be the lands _Pandino_ left his sonne,
Which, after that the boy were murthered,
Discend to him by due inheritance.
_Duke_. You deeme aright. See, gentlemen, the fruites,
Of coveting to have anothers right.
Oh wicked thought of greedie covetice!
Could neither nature, feare of punishment,
Scandall to wife and children, nor the feare,
Of Gods confounding strict severitie,
Allay the head-strong furie of thy will?
Beware, my friends, to wish unlawfull gaine;
It will beget strange actions full of feare,
And overthrowe the actor unawares.
For first _Fallerios_ life must satisfie
The large effusion of their guiltlesse bloods,
Traind on by him to these extremities;
Next, wife and children must be disposest,
Of lands and goods, and turnde to beggerie;
But most of all, his great and hainous sinne,
Will be an eye-sore to his guiltlesse kinne.
Beare hence away these models of his shame,
And let us prosecute the murtherer
With all the care and diligence we can.
[_Two must be carrying away Pertillo_
_Allen_. Forbeare awhile to beare away my joy,
Which now is vanisht since his life is fled;
And give me leave to wash his deadly wound
With hartie teares, outflowing from those eyes
Which lov'd his sight, more then the sight of heaven.
Forgive me God for this idolatrie!
Thou ugly monster, grim imperious death,
Thou raw-bonde lumpe of foule deformitie,
Reguardlesse instrument of cruell fate,
Unparciall Sergeant, full of treacherie,
Why didst thou flatter my ill-boding thoughts,
And flesh my hopes with vaine illusions?
Why didst thou say, _Pertillo_ should not dye,
And yet, oh yet, hast done it cruelly?
Oh but beholde, with what a smiling cheere,
He intertain'd thy bloody harbinger!
See, thou transformer of a heavenly face
To Ashie palenesse and unpleasing lookes,
That his fair countenance still retaineth grace
Of perfect beauty in the very grave.
The world would say such beauty should not dye;
Yet like a theefe thou didst it cruelly.
Ah, had thy eyes, deepe-sunke into thy head,
Beene able to perceive his vertuous minde,
Where vertue sat inthroned in a chaire,
With awfull grace and pleasing maiestie,
Thou wouldest not then have let _Pertillo_ die,
Nor like a theefe have slaine him cruellie.
Inevitable fates, could you devise,
No means to bring me to this pilgrimage,
Full of great woes and sad calamities,
But that the father should be principall,
To plot the present downfall of the sonne?
Come then kind death and give me leave to die,
Since thou hast slaine _Pertillo_ cruellie.
_Du_. Forbeare, _Allenso_; hearken to my doome,
Which doth concerne thy fathers apprehension.
First we enjoyne thee, upon paine of death,
To give no succour to thy wicked sire,
But let him perrish in his damned sinne,
And pay the price of such a treacherie.
See that with speede the monster be attach'd,
And bring him safe to suffer punishment.
Prevent it not, nor seeke not to delude
The Officers to whom this charge is given;
For if thou doe, as sure as God doth live,
Thy selfe shall satisfie the lawes contempt.
Therefore forward about this punishment.
[_Exeunt omnes: manet Allenso_.
_Al_. Thankes, gratious God, that thou hast left the meanes
To end my soule from this perplexitie.
Not succour him on paine of present death!
That is no paine; death is a welcome guest
To those whose hearts are overwhelm'd with griefe.
My woes are done, I having leave to die
And after death live ever joyfullie. [_Exit_.
_Enter Murther and Covetousnesse_.
_Mur_. Now, _Avarice_, I have well satisfied
My hungrie thoughtes with blood and crueltie;
Now all my melanchollie discontent
Is shaken off, and I am throughlie pleas'd,
With what thy pollicie hath brought to passe.
Yet am I not so throughlie satisfied
Untill I bring the purple actors forth.
And cause them quaffe a bowle of bitternesse,
That father sonne, and sister brother may
Bring to their deathes with most assur'd decay.
_Ava_. That wilbe done without all question,
For thou hast slaine _Allenso_ with the boy,
And _Rachell_ doth not wish to overlive
The sad remembrance of her brothers sinne.
Leave faithfull love to teach them how to dye,
That they may share their kinsfolkes miserie.
[ACT THE FOURTH.]
_Enter Merrie and Rachell uncovering the head and legges_.
_Mer_. I have bestow'd a watrie funerall
On the halfe bodie of my butchered friend.
The head and legges Ile leave in some darke place;
I care not if they finde them yea or no.
_Ra_. Where do you meane to leave the head and legs?
_Mer_. In some darke place nere to _Bainardes Castle_.
_Ra_. But doe it closelie that you be not seene;
For all this while you are without suspect.
_Mer_. Take you no thought, Ile have a care of that;
Onelie take heede you have a speciall care
To make no shew of any discontent
Nor use too many words to any one.
[_Puts on his Cloake; taketh up the bag_.
I will returne when I have left my loade.
Be merrie, _Rachell_; halfe the feare is past. [_Exit_.
_Ra_. But I shall never thinke my selfe secure.
This deede would trouble any quiet soule,
To thinke thereof, much more to see it done;
Such cruell deedes can never long be hid,
Although we practice nere so cunningly.
Let others open what I doe conceale;
Lo he is my brother, I will cover it,
And rather dye than have it spoken rife,--
Lo where she goes, betrai'd her brothers life.
_Enter Williams and Cowley_.
_Co_. Why, how now, _Harry_, what should be the cause,
That you are growne so discontent of late?
Your sighes do shew some inward heavinesse;
Your heavy lookes, your eyes brimfull of teares,
Beares testimonie of some secret griefe.
Reveale it, _Harry_; I will be thy friend,
And helpe thee to my poore habillity.
_Wil_. If I am heavie, if I often sigh,
And if my eyes beare recordes of my woe,
Condemne me not, for I have mightie cause,
More then I will impart to any one.
_Co_. Do you misdoubt me, that you dare not tell
That woe to me that moves your discontent?
_Wil_. Good Maister _Cowley_, you were ever kinde,
But pardon me; I will not utter it
To any one, for I have past my worde;
And therefore urge me not to tell my griefe.
_Cow_. But those that smother griefe too secretly,
May wast themselves in silent anguishment,
And bring their bodies to so low an ebb,
That all the world can never make it flowe,
Unto the happy hight of former health.
Then be not [so] iniurious to thy selfe,
To wast thy strength in lamentation,
But tell thy case; wele seeke some remedie.
_Wil_. My cause of griefe is now remedilesse,
And all the world can never lessen it;
Then since no meanes can make my sorrowes lesse,
Suffer me waile a woe which wants redresse.
_Cow_. Yet let me beare a part in thy lamentes,
I love thee not so ill but I will mone
Thy heavie haps; thou shalt not sigh alone.
_Wil_. Nay, if you are so curious to intrude
Your selfe to sorrow, where you have no share,
I will frequent some unfrequented place
Where none shall here nor see my lamentations. [_Exit_.
_Cow_. And I will follow wheresoever thou goe;
I will be a partner of thy helplesse woe.
_Enter two Watermen_.
1. _Will_, ist not time we should go to our boates,
And give attendance for this _Bartlemew_ tide?
Folkes will be stirring early in the morning.
2. By my troth I am indifferent whether I go or no. If a fare come,
why so; if not, why so; if I have not their money, they shall have
none of my labour.
1. But we that live by our labours, must give attendance.
But where lyes thy Boate?
2. At _Baynards Castle_ staires.
1. So do's mine, then lets go together.
2. Come, I am indifferent, I care not so much for going; but if I go
with you, why so; if not, why so. [_He falls over the bag_.
Sblood, what rascall hath laide this in my way!
1. A was not very indifferent that did so, but you are so
permentorie, to say, why so, and why so, that every one is glad to do
you iniurie. But lets see: what is it?
[_Taking the Sack by the end, one of the legs and head drops out_.
Good Lord deliver us! a mans legges, and a head with manie wounds!
2. Whats that so much? I am indifferent, yet for mine owne part,
I understand the miserie of it; if you doe, why so, if not, why so.
1. By my troth I understand no other mistery but this:
It is a strange and very rufull sight.
But, prethee, what doost thou conceit of it?
2. In troth I am indifferent, for if I tell you, why so, if not why so.
1. If thou tell me, Ile thanke thee; therefore I prethee tell me.
2. I tell you I am indifferent; but to be plaine with you, I am greeved
to stumble at the hangmans budget.
1. At the hangmans budget? why, this is a sack.
2. And to speake indifferently, it is the hangman's Budget; and because
he thought too much of his labour to set this head upon the bridge, and
the legs upon the gates, he flings them into the streete for men to
stumble at, but If I get him in my boate, Ile so belabour him in a
stretcher, that he had better be stretcht in one of his owne halfepeny
halters. If this be a good conceit, why so; if not, why so.
1. Thou art deceiv'd, this head hath many wounds,
And hoase and shoes remaining on the legs.
_Bull_ always strips all quartered traitors quite.
2. I am indifferent whether you beleeve me or no; these were not worth
taking of, and therefore he left them on. If this be likely why so;
if not, why so.
1. Nay, then I see you growe from worse to worse.
I heard last night, that one neere _Lambert Hill_
Was missing, and his boy was murthered.
It may be this is a part of that same man;
What ere it be, ile beare it to that place.
2. Masse I am indifferent; ile go along with you, if it be so, why so;
if not why so.
_Enter three neighbors knocking at Loneys doore: Loney comes_.
1. Hoe, Maister Loney! here you any newes
What is become of your Tennant _Beech_?
_Lon_. No truely, sir, not any newes at all.
2. What, hath the boy recovered any speach,
To give us light of these suggestions
That do arise upon this accident?
_Lon_. There is no hope he should recover speech;
The wives do say he's ready now to leave
This greevous world, full-fraught with treacherie.
3. Methinkes if _Beech_ himselfe be innocent,
That then the murtherer should not dwell farre off;
The hammer that is sticking in his head,
Was borrowed of a Cutler dwelling by,
But he remembers not who borrowed it:
He is committed that did owe the hammer,
But yet he standes uppon his innocence;
And _Beeches_ absence causeth great suspition.
_Lo_. If _Beech_ be faulty, as I do not thinke,
I never was so much deceiv'd before.
Oh had you knowne his conversation,
You would not have him in suspition.
3. Divels seeme Saints, and in these hatefull times,
Deceite can beare apparraunt signes of trueth,
And vice beare shew of vertues excellence.
_Enter the two Watermen_.
1. Pray is this Maister _Beeches_ house?
_Lo_. My friend this same was maister _Beeches_ shop:
We cannot tell whether he live or no.
1. Know you his head and if I shew it you?
Or can you tell me what hose or shooes he ware,
At that same time when he forsooke the shoppe?
3. What, have you head, and hose, and shooes to show,
And want the body that should use the same?
1. Behold this head, these legges, these hose and shooes,
And see if they were _Beeches_, yea or no.
_Lo_. They are the same; alas, what is become,
Of the remainder of this wretched man!
1 _Wat_. Nay that I know not; onelie these we found,
As we were comming up a narrow lane,
Neere _Baynardes Castle_, where we two did dwell;
And heering that a man was missing hence,
We thought it good to bring these to this place,
3. Thankes, my good friendes; ther's some thing for your paines.
2 _Wat_. We are indifferent, whether you give us anything or nothing;
and if you had not, why so; but since you have, why so.
1 _Wat_. Leave your repining: Sir, we thanke you hartely.
3. Farewell good fellowes.--Neighbour, now be bold: [_Exeunt Watermen_.
They dwell not farre that did this bloodie deed,
As God no doubt will at the last reveale,
Though they conceale it nere so cunninglie.
All houses, gutters, sincks and crevices
Have carefully been sought for, for the blood;
Yet theres no instaunce found in any place.
_Enter a Porter and a Gentleman_.
But who is that that brings a heavy loade,
Behinde him on a painefull porters backe?
_Gen_. Praie, Gentlemen, which call you _Beeches_ shoppe?
2 _Neig_. This is the place; what wold you with the man?
_Gen_. Nothing with him; I heare the man is dead,
And if he be not, I have lost my paines.
_Lo_. Hees dead indeede, but yet we cannot finde
What is become of halfe his hopelesse bodie.
His head and legges are found, but for the rest,
No man can tell what is become of it.
_Gen_. Then I doe thinke I can resolve your doubt
And bring you certain tydings of the rest,
And if you know his doublet and his shirt.
As for the bodie it is so abus'd
That no man can take notice whoes it was.
Set downe this burden of anothers shame.
What, do you know the doublet and the shirt?
_Lo_. This is the doublet, these the seuered limmes,
Which late were ioyned to that mangled trunke:
Lay them together, see if they can make
Among them all a sound and solid man.
3 _neigh_. They all agree, but yet they cannot make
That sound and whole which a remorsles hand
Hath severed with a knife of crueltie.
But say, good sir, where did you finde this out?
_Gent_. Walking betime by _Paris Garden_ ditch,
Having my Water Spaniell by my side,
When we approach'd unto that haplesse place
Where this same trunke lay drowned in a ditch,
My Spaniell gan to sent, to bark, to plunge
Into the water, and came foorth againe,
And fawnd one me, as if a man should say,
Helpe out a man that heere lyes murthered.
At first I tooke delight to see the dog,
Thinking in vaine some game did there lye hid
Amongst the Nettles growing neere the banke;
But when no game, nor anything appear'd,
That might produce the Spaniell to this sport,
I gan to rate and beate the harmlesse Cur,
Thinking to make him leave to follow me;
But words, nor blowes, could moove the dog away,
But still he plung'd, he div'd, he barkt, he ran
Still to my side, as if it were for helpe.
I seeing this, did make the ditch be dragd,
Where then was found this body as you see,
With great amazement to the lookers on.
3. Beholde the mightie miracles of God,
That sencelesse things should propagate their sinne
That are more bestiall farre then beastlinesse
Of any creature most insensible!
2. _Neigh_. Cease we to wonder at Gods wondrous works,
And let us labour for to bring to light
Those masked fiends that thus dishonor him.
This sack is new, and, loe! beholde his marke
Remaines upon it, which did sell the bag.
Amongst the Salters we shall finde it out
When, and to whom, this bloody bag was sold.
3. Tis very likely, let no paines be spar'd,
To bring it out, if it be possible;
Twere pitty such a murther should remaine
Unpunished mongst Turkes and Infidels.
1. _neigh_. Sirs, I do know the man that solde this bag,
And if you please, Ile fetch him presently?
_Gent_. With all our hearts. How say you gentlemen?
Perchance the murther thus may come to light.
3. I pray you do it, we will tarry heere: [_Exit 1. neigh_.
And let the eyes of every passenger
Be satisfied, which may example be
How they commit such dreadfull wickednesse.
_Ent. wom_. And please your maisterships, the boy is dead.
3. _neigh_. Tis very strange that having many wounds
So terrible, so ghastlie; which is more,
Having the hammer sticking in his head;
That he should live and stirre from _Friday_ night,
To _Sunday_ morning, and even then depart,
When that his Maisters mangled course were found.
Bring him foorth too; perchance the murtherers
May have their hearts touched with due remorse,
Viewing their deeds of damned wickednesse.
[_Bring forth the boye and laye him by Beech_.
1 _neigh_. Here is the Salters man that solde the bag.
_Gent_. My friend, how long since did you sell that bag?
And unto whom, if you remember it?
_Sal_. I sould the bag, good sir, but yesterday,
Unto a maide; I do not know her name.
3 _neigh_. Nor where she dwels.
_Sal_. No certeinly.
2 _neigh_. But what apparell had she on her back?
_Sal_. I do not well remember what she wore,
But if I saw her I should know her sure.
3 _neigh_. Go round about to every neighbours house,
And will them shew their maides immediately:
God grant we may finde out the murtherers.
[_Go to one house, and knock at doore, asking_.
Bring forth such maides as are within your house!
1 _housekeeper_. I have but one, ile send her down to you.
3 _neigh_. Is this the maide? [_Come out maide_.
_Salt_. No, sir, this is not she. [_Go to another, &c_.
How many maides do dwell within this house?
2 _house_. Her's nere a woman here, except my wife. [_Go to Merryes_.
3 _neigh_. Whose house is this?
_Lo_. An honest civill mans, cald Maister _Merry_,
Who I dare be sworne, would never do so great a murther;
But you may aske heere to for fashion sake.
[_Rachell sits in the shop_.
3. How now, faire maide, dwels any here but you?
Thou hast too true a face for such a deed.
_Rach_. No, gentle sir; my brother keepes no more.
3 _neigh_. This is not she?
_Salt_. No truly, gentleman.
3. This will not serve; we cannot finde her out.
Bring in those bodyes, it growes towards night;
God bring these damn'd murtherers at length to light!
_Enter Merry and Rachell_.
_Mer_. Why go the neighbours round about the streete
To every house? what hast thou heard the cause?
_Rach_. They go about with that same Salters man,
Of whom I bought the bag but yesterday,
To see if he can know the maide againe
Which bought it: this I think the very cause.
_Mer_. How were my senses overcome with feare,
That I could not foresee this jeopardy!
For had I brought the bag away with me,
They had not had this meanes to finde it out.
Hide thee above least that the Salters man
Take notice of thee that thou art the maide,
And by that knowledge we be all undone.
_Rach_. That feare is past, I sawe, I spake with him,
Yet he denies that I did buy the bag;
Besides the neighbours have no doubt of you,
Saying you are an honest harmelesse man,
And made enquirie heere for fashion sake.
_Mer_. My former life deserves their good conceits,
Which is not blemisht with this treacherie.
My heart is merier then it was before,
For now I hope the greatest feare is past.
The hammer is denyed, the bag unknowne;
Now there is left no meanes to bring it out,
Unless our selves proove Traitors to our selves.
_Rach_. When saw you _Hary Williams_?
_Me_. Why, to day;
I met him comming home from _Powles Crosse_,
Where he had beene to heare a Sermon.
_Rach_. Why brought you not the man along with you
To come to dinner, that we might perswade
Him to continue in his secrecie?
_Mer_. I did intreate him, but he would not come,
But vow'd to be as secret as my selfe.
_Rach_. What, did he sweare?
_Mer_. What neede you aske me that?
You know we never heard him sweare an othe.
But since he hath conceal'd the thing thus long,
I hope in God he will conceale it still.
_Rach_. Pray God he do, and then I have no doubt
But God will overpasse this greevous sinne,
If you lament with true unfained teares
And seeke to live the remnant of your yeares
In Gods true feare with upright conscience.
_Mer_. If it would please him pardon this amisse
And rid my body from the open shame
That doth attend this deed, being brought to light,
I would endevour all my comming dayes
To please my maker and exalt his praise.
But it growes late, come bring me to my bed,
That I may rest my sorrow-charged head.
_Rach_. Rest still in calme secure tranquillitie,
And over-blowe this storme of mightie feare
With pleasant gales of hoped quietnesse.
Go when you will; I will attend, and pray
To send this wofull night a cheerfull day.
_Enter Falleria and Sostrata weeping_.
_Fall_. Passe ore these rugged furrowes of laments
And come to plainer pathes of cheerefulnesse;
Cease thy continuall showers of thy woe.
And let my pleasing wordes of comfort chase
These duskie cloudes of thy uniust dispaire
Farre from thy hart, and let a pleasing hope
Of young _Pertillos_ happy safe returne
Establish all your ill-devining thoughts;
So shall you make me cheerfull that am sad,--
And feede your hopes with fond illusions.
_Sos_. I could be so; but my divided soule,
Twixt feare and hope of young _Pertillos_ life,
Cannot arrive at the desired port
Of firme beleefe, until mine eyes do see
Him that I sent to know the certainetie.
_Fal_. To know the certaintie! of whom, of what?
Whome, whether, when, or whereabout, I praie,
Have you dispatcht a frustrate messenger?--
By heaven, and earth, my heart misgiveth me,
They will prevent my cunning pollicie. [_To the people_.
Why speake you not? what winged Pegasus
Is posted for your satisfaction?
_Sos_. Me thinkes my speach reveales a hidden feare,
And that feare telles me that the childe is dead.
_Fall_. By sweete _S. Andrew_ and my fathers soule,
I thinke the peevish boy be too too well
But speake, who was your passions harbinger?
_Sos_. One that did kindle my misdoubting thoughts,
With the large flame of his timiddity.
_Fall_. Oh then I know the tinder of your feare.
Was young _Allenso_ your white honnie sonne.
Confusion light upon his timerous head,
For broching this large streame of fearefulnesse!
And all the plagues that damned furies feele
For their forepassed bold iniquities,
Afflict you both for thus preventing me!
_Sos_. Preventing you! of what? _Fallerio_, speake,
For if you doe not my poore hart will breake.
_Fall_. Why of the good that I had purposed,
To young _Pertillo_, which I would conceale
From you and him until the deed were done.
_Sost_. If it were good, then we affect him deare,
And would add furtherance to your enterprise.
_Fall_. I say your close eaves-dropping pollicies
Have hindred him of greater benefits
Then I can ever do him after this.--
If he live long, and growe to riper sinne, [_To the people_.
Heele cursse you both, that thus have hindered
His freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.--
But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne,
That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde,
To guarde the safetie of his better part,
Which he hath pend within the childish coope
Of young _Pertillos_ sweete securitie?
_Sost_. That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life,
The root of vertuous magnamitie,
That doth affect with an unfained love,
That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye,
Deserveth most to be affected deare,
Went some two houres after the little boy
Was sent away to keepe at _Padua_.
_Fall_. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade,
A one eyde _Cyclops_, a stigmaticke brat,
That durst attempt to contradict my will,
And prie into my close intendements.
_Enter Alenso sad_.
Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke,
Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.--
I hope the brat is posted to his sire,
That he is growne so lazie of his pace;
Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue
Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.--
Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,
That little _Dromus_ that crept into my sonne,
With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away?
Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note
That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.
_Allen_. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye,
Your note of shame and comming miserie.
_Fall_. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare;
She was almost dead before for very feare.
_Allen_. Would I could roare as instruments of warre,
Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder
Is toucht with part of _Etnas_ Element!
Would I could bellow like enraged Buls,
Whose harts are full of indignation,
To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie!
Would I could thunder like Almightie _Ioue_,
That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie
The wicked hearts of earthly citizens!
Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say,
Mother, lament, _Pertillos_ made away!
_Sost_. What, is he dead? God give me leave to die,
And him repentance for his treacherie!
[_Falleth down and dyeth_.
_Fall_. Never the like impietie was done:
A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne!
Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made,
And seeke to call back life with dilligence.
_Allen_. Call back a happy creature to more woe!
That were a sinne: good Father, let her go.
0 happy I, if my tormenting smart,
Could rend like her's, my griefe-afflicted heart!
Would your hard hart extend unto your wife,
To make her live an everdying life?
What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she,
Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie!
_Fall_. I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide!
But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde:
That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound,
Untimely sent thy mother to the ground:
Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother;
Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother.
_Allen_. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyce
To have such power in my death-bringing voice,
See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes;
Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes,
I doe behold with cheerefull countenance
The livelesse roote of my nativitie,
And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe
To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.--
Now, father, give attention to my tale;
I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue
In bitter wordes of reprehension.
Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head
Then wit or reason can remove againe;
For to be briefe, _Pertillo_, (oh that name
Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!)
Is murthered, and--
_Fal_. What and? this newes is good.
_Allen_. The men which you suborn'd to murther him--
_Fal_. Better and better, then it cannot out,
Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [_sic_]
That it will overthrowe your selfe and me.
_Allen_. The best is last, and yet you hinder me.
The Duke of _Padua_ hunting in the wood,
Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen--
_Fal_. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?
_Allen_. Was made acquainted by the one of them,
(That had some little remnant of his life)
With all your practice and conspiracie.
_Fall_. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell,
To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases,
Rather then bring my life in ieopardie!
Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne,
And make a iest at my calamitie?
_Allen_. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe,
If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.
_Fal_. Declare it then, my wits are now to seeke;
That peece of life hath so confounded mee
That I am wholly overcome with feare.
_Allen_. The Duke hath vow'd to prosecute your life,
With all the strict severitie he can;
But I will crosse his resolution
And keepe you from his furie well enough.
Ile weare your habit, I will seeme the man
That did suborne the bloodie murtherers;
I will not stir from out this house of woe,
But waight the comming of the officers,
And answere for you fore the angrie Duke,
And, if neede be, suffer your punishment.
_Fall_. Ile none of that; I do not like the last;
I love thee dearer then I doe my life,
And all I did, was to advance thy state
To sunne-bright beames of shining happinesse.
_Allen_. Doubte not my life, for when I doe appeare
Before the Duke, I being not the man,
He can inflict no punishment on mee.
_Fall_. Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee;
Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie.
But for my beard thou canst not counterfet
And bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne;
White frostes are never seene in summers spring.
_Allen_. I bought a beard this day at _Padua_,
Such as our common actors use to weare
When youth would put on ages countenance;
So like in shape, in colour, and in all,
To that which growes upon your aged face,
That were I dressed in your abilimentes,
Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.
_Fall_. That's excellent. What shape hast thou devis'd,
To be my vizard to delude the worlde?
_Allen_. Why thus: ile presentlie shave off your haire,
And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede;
Then you will seeme to have the carefull charge
Of some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke,
And so passe currant from suspition.
_Fall_. This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie,
Nature in thee hath firme predominance,
That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch,
Can shake thee with their strongest violence:
In this disguise, ile see the end of thee,
That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.
_Allen_. I am assur'd to be exempt from woe:--
This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe. [_(To the) People_.
_Fall_. I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife,
Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife. [_Exit_.
_Allen_. Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe,
Which hath abridg'd whole numbers numberlesse
Of hart-surcharging deplorations.
She shall have due and Christian funerall,
And rest in peace amongst her auncestors.
As for our bodies, they shall be inter'd,
In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes,
Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers,
That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmes
Of blood-delighting hatefull murtherers.
And yet these many winged sepulchers,
Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall,
At last attaine to earth by funerall.
Well I will prosecute my pollicy,
That wished death may end my miseries.
_Enter Cowley and Williams_.
_Cow_. Still in your dumpes, good _Harry_? yet at last,
Utter your motive of this heavinesse.
Why go you not unto your maisters house?
What, are you parted? if that be the cause,
I will provide you of a better place.
_Wil_. Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke;
That is the cause,--because I cannot stay
With him whose love is dearer then my life.
_Cow_. Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?
_Wil_. We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.
_Cow_. What, did he feare your truth or honest life?
_Wil_. No, no, your understanding is but dimme,
That farre-remooved cannot iudge the feare.
We both were fearefull, and we both did part,
Because indeed we both were timerous.
_Cow_. What accident begot your mutuall feare?
_Wil_. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.
_Cow_. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.
_Wil_. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine;
I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.
_Cow_. It seemes to be a thing of consequence,
And therefore prithie, _Harry_, for my love,
Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.
_Wil_. Were I assur'd my hart should have release
Of secret torment and distemperature,
I would reveale it to you specially
Whom I have found my faithfull favorite.
_Cow_. Good _Harrie Williams_, make no doubt of that;
Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe,
Beyond your present expectation.
Then tell it, _Harry_, what soere it be,
And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.
_Wil_. Then have you heard of _Beech_ of _Lambert Hill_,
And of his boy which late were murthered?
_Cow_. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.
_Will_. But have you heard of them that murthered them?
_Cow_. No, would I had, for then Ide blaze their shame,
And make them pay due penance for their sinne.
_Wil_. This I misdoubted, therefore will forbeare
To utter what I thought to have reveald.
_Cow_. Knowst thou the actors of this murthrous deed,
And wilt conceale it now the deed is done?
Alas, poore man, thou knowest not what thou doost!
Thou hast incur'd the danger of the lawe
And thou mongst them must suffer punishment,
Unlesse thou do confesse it presentlie.
_Wil_. What? shall I then betray my maisters life?
_Cow_. Better then hazard both thy life and soule
To boulster out such barbarous villanie.
Why, then belike your maister did the deed?
_Wil_. My maister unawares escapt my mouth;
But what the Lord doth please shall come to light,
Cannot be hid by humaine pollicie:
His haplesse hand hath wrought the fatall end
Of _Robert Beech_ and _Thomas Winchester_.
_Cow_. Could he alone do both those men to death?
Hadst thou no share in execution?
_Wil_. Nor knew not of it, till the deed was done.
_Cow_. If this be true, thou maist escape with life:
Confesse the truth unto the officers,
And thou shalt finde the favour of the lawe.
_Wil_. If I offended, 'twas my Maister's love
That made me hide his great transgressions:
But I will be directed as you please.
So save me God, as I am innocent!
_Enter Alenso in Falleriaes apparell and berd;
Falleria shaven in shepheards habilliments_.
_Fal_. Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me,
And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee,
Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise.
I like a shepheard now must learn to know,
When to lead foorth my little bleating flock,
To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes;
In stormie time to drive them to the lee;
To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voice
Doth crave the wished comfort of their dams;
To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes,
In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals;
And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away,
That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.
_Allen_. Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe away
From sillie creatures wanting intellecte,
And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts,
To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne!
As pure and innocent as any Lambe
_Pertillo_ was, which you have fed upon.
But things past helpe may better be bewaild
With carefull teares, then finde a remedie;
Therefore, for feare our practise be espide,
Let us to question of our husbandrie.
How many Lambes fell from the middle flock,
Since I myselfe did take the latter view?
_Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto_.
_Fall_. Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead.
But three and twenty scud about the fields,
That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.
_Vesu_. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes,
That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.
_Allen_. What is the time to let the Weathers blood?
The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse,
Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood,
Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes,
The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.
_Fall_. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time,
Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.
_Vesu_. Forbeare a while this idle businesse,
And talke of matters of more consequence.
_Fall_. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,
To call a shepheards care an idle toye.
What though we have a little merry sport
With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,
And jolly friskins on a holly-day,
Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke
Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.
_Vesu_. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!--
And now, _Fallerio_, in the Princes name,
I do arrest you, for the cruell murther
Of young _Pertillo_, left unto your charge,
Which you discharged with a bloody writ,
Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne.
Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,
To ratifie your _Stigian_ cruelty,
That cannot be deluded any way.
_Allen_. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say!
As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well:
I sent him yesterday to _Padua_.
_Alber_. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes,
As will not winck at your iniquitie.
_Allen_. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent!
Say what you will, I know my conscience.
_Fal_.--To be afflicted with a scourge of care,
Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.
_Turq_. Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more;
That heart that could invent such treachery,
Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.
_Alen_. I do defie your accusations;
Let me have justice, I will answere it.
_Vesuv_. So, beare him hence! I meane to stay behinde,
To take possession of his goods and landes
For the Dukes use: it is too manifest.
_Allen_. I hope youle answere anything you doe.
My Lord _Vesuvio_, you shall answere it,
And all the rest that use extremities.
_Alber_. I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.
[_Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria_.
_Fal_. Thus shades are caught when substances are fled.
Indeede they have my garments, but my selfe
Am close enough from their discoverie;
But not so close but that my verie soule,
Is ract with tormentes for _Pertillos_ death.
I am _Acteon_; I doe beare about,
My hornes of shame and inhumanitie.
My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me
With hope of great succeeding benefits,
Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart
With feare of death and tortring punishment.
These are the stings whenas our consciences
Are stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes.
Well, I must smoather all these discontentes,
And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce
Then rugged care would willingly permit.
Ile to the Court to see _Allenso_ free,
That he may then relieve my povertie.
_Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes_.
_Con_. Who would have thought of all the men alive
That _Thomas Merry_ would have done this deede
So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!
1 _wat_. Of all the men that live in _London_ walles,
I would have thought that _Merry_ had bin free.
2 _wat_. Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans?
I never like such damn'd hipocrisie.
3 _wat_. He would not loase a sermon for a pound,
An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine,
An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on;
And yet two murthers were not scripulous.
Such close illusions God will bring to light,
And overthrowe the workers with his might.
_Con_. This is the house; come let us knocke at dore;
I see a light, they are not all in bed:
[_Knockes; Rachell comes downe_.
How now, faire maide? is your brother up?
_Rach_. He's not within, sir; would you speake with him?
_Con_. You doe but iest; I know he is within,
And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.
_Rach_. In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe,
And I was loath to trouble him to-night.
_Con_. Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake;
But for your brother, he is knowne to be
A damned villaine and an hipocrite.
_Rachell_, I charge thee in her highnesse name,
To go with us to prison presently.
_Rach_. To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?
_Con_. You know that best, but every one doe know
You and your brother murthered Maister _Beech_,
And his poore boy that dwelt at _Lambert hill_.
_Rach_. I murthered? my brother knowes that I,
Did not consent to either of their deathes.
_Con_. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?
_Rach_. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.
_Con_. Now, Maister _Merry_, are you in a sweate?
[_Throwes his night cap away_.
_Merry sigh_. No verily, I am not in a sweate.
_Con_. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?
_Mer_. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.
_Con_. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise,
And presently to goe along with us.
_Mer_. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?
_Con_. We partly doe; when saw you maister _Beech_?
_Mer_. I doe not well remember who you meane.
_Con_. Not _Beech_, the Chaundler upon _Lambert hill_?
_Mer_. I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.
_Con_. I would you had not, for your sisters sake,
For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy.
Be not obdurate in your wickednesse;
Confession drawes repentance after it.
_Mer_. Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse,
I was the man that did them both to death:
As for my sister and my harmlesse man,
I doe protest they both are innocent.
_Con_. Your man is fast in hold, and hath confest
The manner how, and where, the deede was done;
Therefore twere vaine to colour anything.
Bring them away.
_Rach_. Ah brother, woe is me!
_Mer_. I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.
Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes;
Now, _Merry_, change thy name and countenance;
Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorne
Thou smile to thinke on thy extremities.
Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes,
Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt,
For thou couldst never number them before.--
Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray,
And thinke it truth, for Truth dooth tell the tale.
_Merry_, by lawe convict as principall,
Receives his doome, to hang till he be dead,
And afterwards for to be hangd in chaines.
_Williams_ and _Rachell_ likewise are convict
For their concealment; _Williams_ craves his booke
And so receaves a brond of infamie;
But wretched _Rachels_ sexe denies that grace,
And therefore dooth receive a doome of death
To dye with him whose sinnes she did conceale.
Your eyes shall witnesse of their shaded tipes,
Which many heere did see perform'd indeed.
As for _Fallerio_, not his homelie weedes,
His beardlesse face, nor counterfetted speech,
Can shield him from deserved punishment;
But what he thinkes shall rid him from suspect,
Shall drench him in more waves of wretchednesse,
Pulling his sonne into relentlesse iawes,
Of hungrie death, on tree of infamie.
Heere comes the Duke that doomes them both to die;
Next _Merries_ death shall end this Tragedie.
[ACT THE FIFTH.]
_Enter Duke, Vesuvio, Turq., Alberto: and Fallerio disguised_.
_Duke_. Where is that _Syren_, that incarnate fiend,
Monster of Nature, spectacle of shame,
Blot and confusion of his familie,
False-seeming semblance of true-dealing trust,
I meane _Fallerio_, bloody murtherer:
Hath he confest his cursed treacherie,
Or will he stand to proove his innocence?
_Vesu_. We have attach'de _Fallerio_, gracious lord,
And did accuse him with _Pertillos_ death;
But he remote will not confesse himselfe
Neither the meanes nor author of the same.
His mightie vowes and protestations
Do almost seeme to pleade integritie,
But that we all do know the contrarie.
_Fall_.--I know your error stricks your knowledge blinde;
His seeming me, doth so delude your minde. [_(To the) People_.
_Duke_. Then bring him forth, to answer for himselfe,
Since he stands stoutly to denie the deed:
[_Alberto and other fetch Alenso_.
His sonne can witnesse that the dying man
Accusde _Fallerio_ for his treacherie.--
Stand forth thou close disguised hipocrite,
And speake directlie to these articles:
First, didst thou hire two bloodie murtherers
To massacre _Pertillo_ in a wood?
_Alen_. I never did suborne such murtherers,
But ever lov'd _Pertillo_ as my life.
_Duke_. Thy sonne can witnesse to the contrarie.
_Alen_. I have no sonne to testifie so much.
_Fal_.--No, for his gravitie is counterfeit,
Pluck off his beard, and you will sweare it so.
_Vesu_. Have you no sonne? doth not _Alenso_ live?
_Alen_. _Alenso_ lives, but is no sonne of mine.
_Alber_. Indeed his better part had not his source
From thy corrupted vice-affecting hart,
For vertue is the marke he aimeth at.
_Duke_. I dare be sworne that _Sostrata_ would blush,
Shouldst thou deny _Alenso_ for thy sonne.
_Alen_. Nay, did she live, she would not challenge me
To be the father of that haplesse sonne.
_Turq_. Nay, then anon you will denie your selfe
To be your selfe, unjust _Fallerio_.
_Alen_. I do confesse my selfe to be my selfe,
But will not answere to _Fallerio_.
_Duke_. Not to _Fallerio_? this is excellent!
You are the man was cal'd _Fallerio_.
_Alen_. He never breathed yet that cal'd me so,
Except he were deceiv'd as you are now.
_Duke_. This impudence shall not excuse your fault;
You are well knowne to be _Fallerio_,
The wicked husband of dead _Sostrata_
And father to the vertuous _Alenso_;
And even as sure as all these certeinties,
Thou didst contrive thy little Nephewes death.
_Alen_. True, for I am nor false _Fallerio_,
Husband, nor father, as you do suggest,
And therefore did not hire the murtherers;
Which to be true acknowledge with your eyes.
[_Puls off his disguise_.
_Duke_. How now, my Lords! this is a myracle,
To shake off thirtie yeares so sodeinlie
And turne from feeble age to flourishing youth!
_Alb_. But he my Lord that wrought this miracle,
Is not of power to free himselfe from death,
Through the performance of this suddaine change.
_Duke_. No, were he the chiefest hope of Christendome,
He should not live for this presumption:
Use no excuse, _Alenso_, for thy life;
My doome of death shall be irrevocable.
_Alen_. Ill fare his soule that would extenuate
The rigor of your life-confounding doome!
I am prepar'd with all my hart to die,
For thats th' end of humaine miserie.
_Duke_. Then thus: you shall be hang'd immediately,
For your illusion of the Magistrates
With borrowed shapes of false antiquitie.
_Alen_. Thrice-happy sentence, which I do imbrace
With a more fervent and unfained zeale
Then an ambicious rule-desiring man
Would do a Iem-bedecked Diadem,
Which brings more watchfull cares and discontent
Then pompe or honor can remunerate.
When I am dead, let it be said of me,
_Alenso_ died to set his father free.
_Fal_. That were a freedome worse than servitude
To cruell Turke or damned Infidell.
Most righteous Judge, I do appeale for Iustice,
Justice on him that hath deserved death,
Not on _Alenso_; he is innocent.
_Alen_. But I am guiltie of abetting him,
Contrarie to his Maiestie's Edict,
And therefore death is meritorious.
_Fall_. I am the wretch that did subborne the slaves,
To murther poore _Pertillo_ in the wood.
Spare, spare _Alenso_! he is innocent.
_Duke_. What strange appeale is this! we know thee not:
None but _Fallerio_ is accusde hereof.
_Alen_. Then, father, get you hence, depart in time,
Least being knowne you suffer for the crime.
_Fal_. Depart, and leave thee clad in horrors cloake,
And suffer death for true affection!
Although my soule be guiltie of more sinne,
Then ever sinfull soule were guiltie of,
Yet fiends of hell would never suffer this.
I am thy father, though unworthy so:
Oh, still I see these weeds do feare your eyes.
I am _Fallerio_, make no doubt of me, [_Put off_.
Though thus disguisde, in habite, countenance,
Only to scape the terror of the lawe.
_Alen_. And I _Alenso_ that did succour him
Gainst your commaundement, mightie Soveraigne.
Ponder your oath, your vowe, as God did live,
I should not live, if I did rescue him.
I did, God lives, and will revenge it home,
If you defer my condigne punishment.
_Duke_. Assure your selves, you both shall suffer death:
But for _Fallerio_, he shall hang in chaines
After he's dead, for he was principall.
_Fall_. Unsaverie Woormewood, Hemlock, bitter gall,
Brings no such bad, unrelisht, sower taste,
Unto the tongue as this death-boding voice,
Brings to the eares of poore _Fallerio_,
Not for myselfe but for _Allensoes_ sake,
Whome I have murthered by my trechery.
Ah my dread Lord, if any little sparke
Of melting pittie doth remaine alive,
And not extinguisht by my impious deedes,
Oh kindle it unto a happie flame,
To light _Allenso_ from this miserie
Which through dim death he's like to fall into.
_Allen_. That were to overthrow my soule and all.
Should you reverse this sentence of my death,
My selfe would play the death-man on my selfe
And overtake your swift and winged soule,
Ere churlish _Caron_ had transported you
Unto the fields of sad _Proserpina_.
_Duke_. Cease, cease, _Fallerio_, in thy bootlesse prayers.
I am resolv'd, I am inexorable.
_Vesuvio_, see their judgement be performde,
And use _Alenso_ with all clemencie,
Provided that the lawe be satisfied.
[_Exit Duke and Alberto_.
_Vesu_. It shall be done with all respectivenesse;
Have you no doubt of that, my gratious Lord.
_Fall_. Here is a mercie mixt with equitie,
To show him favour but cut off his head.
_Alen_. My reverend father pacifie yourselfe;
I can, and will, indure the stroake of death,
Were his appearance nere so horrible,
To meete _Pertillo_ in another world.
_Fal_. Thou shouldst have tarried untill natures course
Had been extinct, that thou oregrowne with age,
Mightst die the death of thy progenitors;
Twas not thy meanes he died so soddenly,
But mine, that causing his, have murthered thee.
_Alen_. But yet I slew my mother, did I not?
_Fal_. I, with reporting of my villanie.
The very audit of my wickednesse,
Had force enough to give a sodaine death.
Ah sister, sister, now I call to minde,
Thy dying wordes now prov'd a prophesie,
If you deale ill with this distressed childe,
God will no doubt revenge the innocent.
I have delt ill, and God hath tane revenge.
_Allen_. Now let us leave remembrance of past deedes,
And thinke on that which more concerneth us.
_Fal_. With all my hart; thou ever wert the spur
Which prict me on to any godlinesse;
And now thou doest indevor to incite
Me make my parting peace with God and men.
I doe confesse, even from my verie soule,
My hainous sinne and grievous wickednesse
Against my maker manie thousand waies:
_Ab imo cordis_ I repent my selfe
Of all my sinnes against his maiestie;
And, heavenly father, lay not to my charge
The death of poore _Pertillo_ and those men
Which I suborn'd to be his murtherers,
When I appeare before thy heavenlie throne
To have my sentence or of life or death.
_Vesu_. Amen, amen, and God continue still
These mercie-moving meditations.
_Allen_. And thou, great God, which art omnipotent,
Powerful! enough for to redeeme our soules
Even from the verie gates of gaping hell,
Forgive our sinnes and wash away our faults
In the sweete river of that precious blood
Which thy deare sonne did shed in _Galgotha_,
For the remission of all contrite soules.
_Fal_. Forgive thy death, my thrice-beloved sonne.
_Allen_. I doe, and, father, pardon my misdeedes
Of disobedience and unthankfullnesse.
_Fal_. Thou never yet wert disobedient,
Unlesse I did commaund unlawfulnesse.
Ungratefulnesse did never trouble thee;
Thou art too bounteous thus to guerdon me.
_Allen_. Come, let us kisse and thus imbrace in death.
Even when you will, come, bring us to the place,
Where we may consumate our wretchednesse,
And change it for eternall hapinesse.
_Enter Merry and Rachel to execution with Officers
with Halberdes, the Hangman with a lather [sic] &c_.
_Mer_. Now, sister _Rachell_, is the houre come
Wherein we both must satisfie the law
For _Beeches_ death and harmelesse _Winchester_.
Weepe not sweete sister, for that cannot helpe:
I doe confesse fore all this company
That thou wert never privie to their deathes,
But onelie helpest me, when the deede was done,
To wipe the blood and hide away my sinne;
And since this fault hath brought thee to this shame,
I doe intreate thee on my bended knee
To pardon me for thus offending thee.
_Rach_. I doe forgive you from my verie soule,
And thinke not that I shed these store of teares,
For that I price my life, or feare to dye,
Though I confesse the manner of my death
Is much more grievous then my death it selfe;
But I lament for that it hath beene said
I was the author of this crueltie
And did produce you to this wicked deede,
Whereof God knowes that I am innocent.
_Mer_. Indeede thou art; thy conscience is at peace,
[_Goe up the lather_.
And feeles no terror for such wickednesse;
Mine hath beene vexed but is now at rest,
For that I am assur'd my hainous sinne
Shall never rise in judgement gainst my soule,
But that the blood of _Jesus Christ_ hath power
To make my purple sinne as white as Snowe.
One thing, good people, witnesse here with me,
That I doe dye in perfect charitie,
And do forgive, as I would be forgiven
First of my God and then of all the world.
Cease publishing that I have beene a man
Train'd up in murther or in crueltie,
For fore this time, this time is all too soone,
I never slue or did consent to kill;
So helpe me God as this I speake is true!
I could say something of my innocence,
In fornication and adulterie,
But I confesse the iustest man alive,
That beares about the frailtie of a man,
Cannot excuse himselfe from daily sinne
In thought, in word, and deed. Such was my life.
I never hated _Beech_ in all my life,
Onely desire of money which he had,
And the inciting of that foe of man,
That greedie gulfe, that great _Leviathan_,
Did halle [_sic_] me on to these callamities;
For which, even now my very soule dooth bleede.
God strengthen me with patience to endure
This chastisement, which I confesse too small
A punishment for this my hainous sinne.
Oh be couragious, sister! fight it well!
We shall be crown'd with immortallitie.
_Rach_. I will not faint, but combat manfully;
Christ is of power to helpe and strengthen me.
_Officer_. I pray make hast; the hower is almost past.
_Mer_. I am prepar'd; oh God, receive my soule;
Forgive my sinnes, for they are numberlesse.
Receive me, God, for now I come to thee!
[_Turne of the Lather. Rachel shrinketh_.
_Offi_. Nay shrinke not, woman; have a cheerefull hart.
_Rach_. I, so I do, and yet this sinfull flesh
Will be rebellious gainst my willing spirit.
Come, let me clime these steps that lead to heaven,
Although they seeme the staires of infamie:
Let me be merror to ensuing times,
And teach all sisters how they do conceale,
The wicked deeds of brethren, or of friends.
I not repent me of my love to him,
But that thereby I have provoked God
To heavie wrath and indignation;
Which turne away, great God, for Christes sake.
Ah, _Harry Williams_, thou wert chiefest cause,
That I doe drinke of this most bitter cup,
For hadst thou opened _Beeches_ death at first,
The boy had liv'd and thou hadst sav'd my life.
But thou art branded with a marke of shame,
And I forgive thee from my very soule.
Let him and me learn all that heare of this
To utter brothers or their maisters misse;
Conceale no murthers, lest it do beget
More bloody deeds of like deformitie.
Thus God forgive my sinnes, receive my soule!
And though my dinner be of bitter death,
I hope my soule shall sup with Jesus Christ,
And see his presence everlastingly. [_Dyeth_.
_Offi_. The Lord of heaven have mercy on her soule,
And teach all others by this spectacle,
To shunne such dangers as she ran into,
By her misguided taciturnitie:
Cut downe their bodies, give hers funerall,
But let his body be conveyed hence,
To _Mile-end_ greene, and there be hang'd in chaines.
_Tru_. See here the end of lucre and desire
Of riches, gotten by unlawfull meanes.
What monstrous evils this hath brought to passe,
Your scarce-drie eyes give testimoniall;
The father sonne, the sister brother brings,
To open scandall and contemptuous death.
_Enter Homicide and Covetousnesse_.
But heere come they that wrought these deeds of ruthe,
As if they meant to plot new wickednesse.
Whether so fast, you damned miscreants,
Yee vaine deluders of the credulous,
That seeke to traine men to destruction?
_Mur_. Why, we will on, to set more harmes a flote,
That I may swim in rivers of warme blood,
Out-flowing from the sides of Innocents.
_Cove_. I will entice the greedie-minded soule,
To pull the fruite from the forbidden tree;
Yet _Tantall_-like, he shall but glut his eye,
Nor feede his body with salubrious fruite.
_Tru_. Hence Stigmaticks, you shall not harbor heare,
To practice execrable butcheries!
My selfe will bring your close designes to light,
And overthrow your vilde conspiracies.
No hart shall intertaine a murthrous thought
Within the sea-imbracing continent,
Where faire _Eliza_, Prince of pietie,
Doth weare the peace-adorned Diadem.
_Cove_. Mauger the worst, I will have many harts
That shall affect my secret whisperings;
And chinck of golde is such a pleasing crie,
That all men wish to heare such harmony,
And I will place stern _Murther_ by my side,
That we may do more harmes then haughty pride.
_Homi_. Truth, now farewell; hereafter thou shalt see
Ile vexe thee more with many tragedies.
_Truth_. The more the pitty; would the hart of man
Were not so open wide to entertaine
The harmfull baites of selfe-devouring sinne!
But from the first unto the latter times,
It hath and will be so eternally.----
Now it remaines to have your good advice
Unto a motion of some consequence.
There is a Barke thats newly rigd for sea,
Unmand, unfurnishd with munition:
She must incounter with a greater foe
Then great _Alcydes_ slue in _Lerna_ Lake
Would you be pleasd to man this willing barke
With good conceits of her intencion;
To store her with the thundring furniture
Of smoothest smiles, and pleasing plaudiats;
She shall be able to endure the shock
Of snarling _Zoylus_, and his cursed crue,
That seekes to sincke her in reproches waves;
And may perchance obteine a victorie
Gainst curious carpes, and fawning parasites:
But if you suffer her, for want of ayde,
To be orewhelmed by her insulting foes,
Oh then she sinckes, that meant to passe the flood
With stronger force to do her countrie good.
It resteth thus; whether she live or dye,
She is your Beades-man everlastinglie.
INTRODUCTION TO THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.
In Sir Henry Herbert's MS. Office-Book, under date Sept. 3rd, 1624, is
the entry:--"for the Cock-pit Company a new play called the Captive
[_sic_] or the Lost Recovered, written by Hayward," i.e., Heywood. The
lost recovered! Lost for two centuries and a half was this comedy of
dear Tom Heywood, until I recovered it from Egerton MS. 1994. I am proud
to have rendered this service to a gentle poet who has given me many
hours of delight.
The play is without title or author's name in the MS. After reading the
first page I judged that the author was Heywood, and this impression was
soon confirmed beyond all doubt. In the MS. the present play is
immediately followed by a piece called _Calisto_, which consists of
scenes from Heywood's _Golden Age_ and _Silver Age_. I have elsewhere
mentioned (Vol. ii. p. 419) that _Calisto_ and _The Captives_ are
written in the same desperately difficult handwriting,--peculiar to
these two plays, and not found in any other part of the volume. There
can be no doubt that whoever transcribed _Calisto_ transcribed also _The
Captives_. But from internal evidence alone--putting aside the testimony
afforded by the handwriting, and ignoring the entry in Sir Henry
Herbert's Office-Book--any competent reader could plainly perceive that
the play is Heywood's. In the very first scene--in the conversation
between Treadway and Raphael--we feel at once the charm of that hearty
"Christianism" which is never absent from Heywood's work. There is no
affectation in Heywood; he is always natural and simple, though
occasionally the writing sprawls.
Everybody knows the droll description in Heywood's _English Traveller_
of the "Shipwreck by Drink,"--how some unthrift youths, carousing
deeply, chanced to turn their talk on ships and storms at sea; whereupon
one giddy member of the company suddenly conceived that the room was a
pinnace, that the sounds of revelry were the bawlings of sailors, and
that his unsteady footing was due to the wildness of the tempest; the
illusion spread among his companions, and a scene of whimsical confusion
followed. In _The Captives_, ii. 2, we have a similar conceit
_Scrib_. Such was the grace heaven sent us, who from perill,
Danger of lyfe, the extreamest of all extreames
Hathe brought us to the happy patronage
Of this most reverent abbott.
_Clowne_. What dangers? what extreames?
_Scrib_. From the sea's fury, drowneing; for last night
Our shipp was splitt, wee cast upon these rocks.
_Clowne_. Sayd in a jest, in deede! Shipwreck by land! I perceive
you tooke the woodden waggen for a ship and the violent rayne for
the sea, and by cause some one of the wheels broake and you cast
into some water plashe, you thought the shipp had splitt and you
had bene in danger of drowneinge.
The main story of _The Captives_ is borrowed from Plautus's _Rudens_,
many passages being translated almost word for word. It will be
remembered that in the _English Traveller_ Heywood was indebted to
another of Plautus's plays--the _Mostellaria_. I have not been able to
discover the source of the very curious underplot of _The Captives_.
The MS. from which the play is printed bears every appearance of being a
play-house copy. Numerous passages have been cancelled, seemingly (for
the most part) by the hand of some reviser. In most instances I have
restored the cancelled passages to the text--though the task of
deciphering them has been cruelly difficult.
THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.
A Comedy by THOMAS HEYWOOD.
Licensed by Sir Henry Herbert in 1624,
and now first printed from Egerton MS. 1994.
_Enter Mr. Raphael a younge marchaunt, Mr. Treadway
his companione and frend_.
_Raphael_. You talke to one thats deaf; I am resolv'd.
_Treadway_. I knwe [_sic_] you are not of that stupid sence
But you will lyst to reason.
_Raphael_. Alls but vayne.
_Treadway_. You saye shees fayre.
_Raphael_. And there-fore to bee lov'd.
_Treadway_. No consequent
To trust to collour. Are not the bewtyous lyllyes,
The gardens pryde and glorye of the feilds,
Thoughe to the eye fayre and delectable,
Yet ranke in smell? the stayneles swanne
With all the Oceans water cannot wash
The blacknes from her feete, tis borne with her.
Oft painted vessayles bringe in poysond cates,
And the blackest serpents weare the goldenst scales;
And woman, made mans helper at the fyrst,
Dothe oft proove his destroyer.
_Raphael_. Saye perhapps
Some frend of yours miscarried in his choyse,
Will you condeme all women for that one?
Bycause we reade one _Lais_ was unchast,
Are all Corinthian Ladyes cortesans?
Shall I, bycause my neighbours house was burnt,
Condeme the necessary use of fyre?
One surfeitts, and shall I refuse to eate?
That marchant man by shipwreck lost his goodds;
Shall I, bycause hee perisht in the sea,
Abiure the gainfull trade of merchandyse,
Despoyle my shipps, and unbecom [?] the deepes
Of theire fayre Sayles and tackles?
_Treadway_. Not so, frend.
Althoughe her person may perhapps content,
Consider but the place.
_Raphael_. I knwe it badd,
Nay woorst of Ills.
_Treadway_. A howse of prostitution
And common brothellrie.
_Raphael_. Which coold not stand
But that her vertue guards it and protects it
From blastinges and heavens thunders. There shee lyves