Part 4 out of 7
_Phy_. Good word, _Ioculo_, of your Lord and mine.
_Io_. As may agree with such a churlish swine.
How dooes his honor?
_Phy_. Indifferently well.
_Io_. I wish him better.
_Io_. Vice-gerent in Hell.
_Phy_. Doest thou wish so for ought that he hath done?
_Io_. I, for the love he beares unto his sonne.
_Phy_. Hees growne of late as fatherly and milde
As ever father was unto his childe,
And sent me forth to search the coast about
If so my hap might be to finde him out;
And if _Eurymine_ alive remaine
To bring them both vnto the Court againe.
Where is thy maister?
_Io_. Walking about the ground.
_Phy_. Oh that his Love _Eurymine_ were found.
_Io_. Why, so she is; come follow me and see;
He bring ye strait where they remaining bee.
_Enter three or foure Muses, Aramanthus, Ascanio,
Silvio, and Gemulo_.
_Asca_. Cease your contention for _Eurymine_,
Nor word nor vowes can helpe her miserie;
But he it is, that did her first transform,
Must calme the gloomy rigor of this storme,
Great _Phoebus_ whose pallace we are neere.
Salute him, then, in his celestiall sphere,
That with the notes of cheerful harmonie
He may be mov'd to shewe his Deitie.
_Sil_. But wheres _Eurymine_? have we lost her sight?
_As_. Poore soule! within a cave, with feare affright,
She sits to shun _Appollos_ angry view
Until she sees what of our prayers ensue,
If we can reconcile his love or no,
Or that she must continue in her woe.
1 _Mu_. Once have we tried, _Ascanio_, for thy sake,
And once againe we will his power awake,
Not doubting but, as he is of heavenly race,
At length he will take pitie on her case.
Sing therefore, and each partie, from his heart,
In this our musicke beare a chearfull part.
_All haile, faire Phoebus, in thy purple throne!
Vouchsafe the regarding of our deep mone;
Hide not, oh hide not, thy comfortable face,
But pittie, but pittie, a virgins poore case_.
1 _Mu_. Illustrate bewtie, Chrystall heavens eye,
Once more we do entreat thy clemencie
That, as thou art the power of us all,
Thou wouldst redeeme _Eurymine_ from thrall.
Graunt, gentle God, graunt this our small request,
And, if abilitie in us do rest,
Whereby we ever may deserve the same,
It shall be seene we reverence _Phoebus_ name.
_Phoe_. You sacred sisters of faire Helli[c]on,
On whom my favours evermore have shone,
In this you must have patience with my vow:
I cannot graunt what you aspire unto,
Nor wast my fault she was transformed so,
But her own fond desire, as ye well know.
We told her, too, before her vow was past
That cold repentance would ensue at last;
And, sith herselfe did wish the shape of man,
She causde the abuse, digest it how she can.
2 _Mu_. Alas, if unto her you be so hard,
Yet of _Ascanio_ have some more regard,
And let him not endure such endlesse wrong
That hath pursude her constant love so long.
_Asca_. Great God, the greevous travells I have past
In restlesse search to finde her out at last;
My plaints, my toiles, in lieu of my annoy
Have well deserv'd my Lady to enjoy.
Penance too much I have sustaind before;
Oh _Phoebus_, plague me not with any more,
Nor be thou so extreame now at the worst
To make my torments greater than at the first.
My father's late displeasure is forgot,
And there's no let nor any churlish blot
To interrupt our ioyes from being compleat,
But only thy good favour to intreat.
In thy great grace it lyes to make my state
Most happie now or most infortunate.
1 _Mu_. Heavenly _Apollo_, on our knees I pray
Vouchsafe thy great displeasure to allay.
What honor to thy Godhead will arise
To plague a silly Lady in this wise?
Beside it is a staine unto thy Deitie
To yeeld thine owne desires the soveraigntie:
Then shew some grace vnto a wofull Dame,
And in these groves our tongues shall sound thy fame.
_Phoe_. Arise, deare Nourses of divinest skill,
You sacred Muses of _Pernassus_ hill;
_Phoebus_ is conquerd by your deare respect
And will no longer clemency neglect.
You have not sude nor praide to me in vaine;
I graunt your willes: she is a mayde againe.
_Asca_. Thy praise shal never die whilst I do live.
2 _Mu_. Nor will we slack perpetual thankes to give.
_Phoe_. _Thalia_, neare the cave where she remaines
The Fayries keepe: request them of their paines,
And in my name bid them forthwith provide
From that darke place to be the Ladies guide;
And in the bountie of their liberall minde
To give her cloathes according to her kinde.
1 _Mu_. I goe, divine _Apollo_.
_Phoe_. Haste againe:
No time too swift to ease a Lovers paine.
_Asca_. Most sacred _Phoebus_, endles thankes to thee
That doest vouchsafe so much to pittie mee;
And, aged father, for your kindnesse showne
Imagine not your friendship ill bestowne:
The earth shall sooner vanish and decay
Than I will prove unthankfull any way.
_Ara_. It is sufficient recompence to me
If that my silly helpe have pleasurde thee;
If you enioy your Love and hearts desire
It is enough, nor doo I more require.
_Phoe_. Grave _Aramanthus_, now I see thy face,
I call to minde how tedious a long space
Thou hast frequented these sad desarts here;
Thy time imployed in heedful minde I bear,
The patient sufferance of thy former wrong,
Thy poore estate and sharpe exile so long,
The honourable port thou bor'st some time
Till wrongd thou wast with undeserved crime
By them whom thou to honour didst advaunce:
The memory of which thy heavy chaunce
Provokes my minde to take remorse on thee.
Father, henceforth my clyent shalt thou bee
And passe the remnant of thy fleeting time
With Lawrell wreath among the Muses nine;
And, when thy age hath given place to fate,
Thou shalt exchange thy former mortall state
And after death a palme of fame shalt weare,
Amongst the rest that live in honor here.
And, lastly, know that faire _Eurymine_,
Redeemed now from former miserie,
Thy daughter is, whom I for that intent
Did hide from thee in this thy banishment
That so she might the greater scourge sustaine
In putting _Phoebus_ to so great a paine.
But freely now enioy each others sight:
No more _Eurymine_: abandon quite
That borrowed name, as _Atlanta_ she is calde.--
And here's the woman, in her right shape instalde.
_Asca_. Is then my Love deriv'de of noble race?
_Phoe_. No more of that; but mutually imbrace.
_Ara_. Lives my _Atlanta_ whom the rough seas wave
I thought had brought unto a timelesse grave?
_Phoe_. Looke not so straunge; it is thy father's voyce,
And this thy Love; _Atlanta_, now rejoice.
_Eu_. As in another world of greater blis
My daunted spirits doo stand amazde at this.
So great a tyde of comfort overflowes
As what to say my faltering tongue scarse knowes,
But only this, vnperfect though it bee;--
Immortall thankes, great _Phoebus_, unto thee.
_Phoe_. Well, Lady, you are retransformed now,
But I am sure you did repent your vow.
_Eury_. Bright Lampe of glory, pardon my rashenesse past.
_Phoe_. The penance was your owne though I did fast.
_Enter Phylander and Ioculo_.
_Asca_. Behold, deare Love, to make your ioyes abound,
Yonder _Phylander_ comes.
_Io_. Oh, sir, well found;
But most especially it glads my minde
To see my mistresse restorde to kinde.
_Phy_. My Lord & Madame, to requite your pain,
_Telemachus_ hath sent for you againe:
All former quarrels now are trodden doune,
And he doth smile that heretofore did frowne.
_Asca_. Thankes, kinde _Phylander_, for thy friendly newes,
Like _Junos_ balme that our lifes blood renewes.
_Phoe_. But, Lady, first ere you your iourney take,
Vouchsafe at my request one grant to make.
_Eu_. Most willingly.
_Phoe_. The matter is but small:
To wear a bunch of Lawrell in your Caull
For _Phoebus_ sake, least else I be forgot;
And thinke vpon me when you see me not.
_Eu_. Here while I live a solemn oath I make
To Love the Lawrell for _Appollo's_ sake.
_Ge_. Our suite is dasht; we may depart, I see.
_Phoe_. Nay _Gemulo_ and _Silvio_, contented bee:
This night let me intreate ye you will take
Such cheare as I and these poore Dames can make:
To morrow morne weele bring you on your way.
_Sil_. Your Godhead shall commaund vs all to stay.
_Phoe_. Then, Ladies, gratulate this happie chaunce
With some delightful tune and pleasaunt daunce,
Meane-space upon his Harpe will _Phoebus_ play;
So both of them may boast another day
And make report that, when their wedding chaunc'te,
_Phoebus_ gave musicke and the Muses daunc'te.
_Since painfull sorrowes date hath end
And time hath coupled friend with friend,
Reioyce we all, reioyce and sing,
Let all these groaves of_ Phoebus _ring:
Hope having wonne, dispaire is vanisht,
Pleasure revives and care is banisht:
Then trip we all this Roundelay,
And still be mindful of the bay_.
INTRODUCTION TO THE _MARTYR'D SOULDIER_.
Anthony A. Wood, in his _Athenae Oxonienses_ (ed. Bliss, III., 740),
after giving an account of James Shirley, adds:--"I find one Henry
Shirley, gent., author of a play called the _Martyr'd Souldier_, London,
1638, 4to.; which Henry I take to be brother or near kinsman to James."
Possibly a minute investigation might discover some connection between
Henry Shirley and the admirable writer who closes with dignity the long
line of our Old Dramatists; but hitherto Wood's conjecture remains
unsupported. On Sept. 9, 1653, four plays of Henry Shirley's were
entered on the _Stationers' Lists_, but they were never published: the
names of these are,--
1. _The Spanish Duke of Lerma_.
2. _The Duke of Guise_.
3. _The Dumb Bawd_.
4. _Giraldo the Constant Lover_.
Among the Ashmolean MSS. (Vol. 38. No. 88) are preserved forty-six
lines signed with the name of "Henrye Sherley." They begin thus:--
"Loe, Amorous style, affect my pen:
For why? I wright of fighting men;
The bloody storye of a fight
Betwixt a Bayliffe and a Knight," &c.
My good friend Mr. S.L. Lee, of Balliol, kindly took the trouble to
transcribe the forty-six lines; but he agrees with me that they are not
The _Martyr'd Souldier_, then, being his sole extant production, it must
be confessed that Henry Shirley's claim to attention is not a very
pressing one. Yet there is a certain dignity of language in this old
play that should redeem it from utter oblivion. It was unfortunate for
Henry Shirley that one of the same name should have been writing at the
same time; for in such cases the weakest must go to the wall. Mr.
Frederick Tennyson's fame has been eclipsed by the Laureate's; and there
was little chance of a hearing for the author of the _Martyr'd Souldier_
when James Shirley was at work. From the address _To the Courteous
Reader_, it would seem that Henry Shirley did not seek for popularity:
"his Muse," we are told, was "seldome seene abroad." Evidently he was
not a professional playwright. In his attempts to gain the ear of the
groundlings he is often coarse without being comic; and sometimes (a
less pardonable fault) he is tedious. But in the person of Hubert we
have an attractive portrait of an impetuous soldier, buoyed up with
self-confidence and hugging perils with a frolic gaiety; yet with
springs of tenderness and pity ready to leap to light. The writer
exhibits some skill in showing how this fiery spirit is tamed by the
gentle maiden, Bellina. When the news comes that Hubert has been made
commander of the King's forces against the Christians, we feel no
surprise to see that in the ecstacy of the moment he has forgotten his
former vows. It is quite a touch of nature to represent him hastening to
acquaint Bellina with his newly-conferred honour and expecting her to
share his exultation. But the maiden's entreaties quickly wake his
slumbering conscience; and, indeed, such earnestness is in her words
that a heart more stubborn than Hubert's might well have been moved:--
"You courted me to love you; now I woe thee
To love thy selfe, to love a thing within thee
More curious than the frame of all this world,
More lasting than this Engine o're our heads
Whose wheeles have mov'd so many thousand yeeres:
This thing is thy soule for which I woe thee!"
Henceforward his resolution is fixed: he is no longer a soldier of
fortune, "seeking the bubble reputation," but the champion of the weak
against the strong, the lively image of a Christian Hero warring
steadfastly against the powers of evil.
Though the chief interest of the play is centred in Hubert the other
characters, also, are fairly well drawn. There is ample matter for
cogitation in watching the peaceful end of Genzerick, who spends his
dying moments in steeling his son's heart against the Christians. The
consultation between the physicians, in Act 3, amusingly ridicules the
pomposity of by-gone medical professors. Eugenius, the good bishop, is a
model of patience and piety; and all respect is due to the Saintly
Victoria and her heroic husband. The songs, too, are smoothly written.
THE MARTYR'D SOULDIER:
As it was sundry times Acted with a
generall applause at the Private
house in Drury lane, and at
other publicke Theaters.
_By the Queenes Majesties servants_.
The Author H. SHIRLEY Gent.
Printed by _I. Okes_, and are to be sold by
_Francis Eglesfield_ at his house in _Paul's_
Church-yard at the Signe of the
To the right Worshipful Sir Kenelme Digby, _Knight_.
Workes of this Nature may fitly be compared to small and narrow
_rivolets_ that at first derive themselves to greater _Rivers_ and
afterwards are discharged into the Maine _Ocean_. So Poesie rising from
_obscure_ and almost unminded beginnings hath often advanc'd it _Selfe_
even to the thrones of _Princes_: witnesse that ever-living _Worke_ of
renowned _Virgil_, so much admired and favoured by magnificent
_Augustus_. Nor can I much wonder that great men, and those of Excellent
parts, have so often preferred _Poesie_, it being indeed the sweetest
and best _speaker_ of all Noble Actions.
Nor were they wont in ancient times to preferre those their _Workes_ to
them they best knew, but unto some Person highly endued with Vallour,
Learning, and such other Graces as render one man farre more Excellent
then many others. And this, I hope, may excuse my boldnesse in this
Dedication, being so much a stranger to your Worships knowledge, onely
presuming upon your Noble temper, ever apt to cherrish well-affected
studies. Likewise this peice seemeth to have a more speciall kind of
relation to your _Selfe_, more then to many others, it being an exact
and _perfect patterne_ of a truly Noble and War-lick Chieftian.
When it first appeared upon the _Stage_ it went off with Applause and
favour, and my hope is it may yeild your Worship as much content as my
_selfe_ can wish, who ever rest to be commanded by your Worship,
_In all duty and observance_,
TO THE COURTEOUS READER.
_To make too large an explanation of this following Poem were but to
beguile thy appetite and somewhat dull thy expectation; but the work it
selfe being now an Orphant, and wanting him to protect that first begot
it, it were an iniury to his memory to passe him unspoken of. For the
man his Muse was much courted but no common mistresse; and though but
seldome seene abroad yet ever much_ admired _at. This worke, not the
meanest of his labours, has much adorned not only one but many Stages,
with such a generall applause as it hath drawne even the Rigid Stoickes
of the Time, who, though not for pleasure yet for profit have gathered
something out of his plentifull Vineyard. My hopes are it wil prove no
lesse pleasing to the_ Reader _then it has formerly beene to the_
Spectators; _and, so prooving, I have my aime and full desire.
The Actors Names.
_Genzerick_, King of the _Vandals_.
_Damianus_ | 3 Noble men.
_Hubert_, A brave Commander.
_Henerick_, the Prince.
_Bellizarius_, the Generall.
_Eugenius_, a Christian Bishop.
_Epidaurus_, a Lord.
_Victoria_, Wife to _Bellizarius_.
_Bellina_, his Daughter.
2 Christians tonguelesse.
3 Other Camell-drivers.
Officers and Souldiers.
The Martyr'd Souldier.
_Enter Genzerick King of the Vandalls, sicke on his
bed, Anthony, Damianus, Cosmo, and Lords_.
_King_. Away, leave off your golden Flatteries,
I know I cannot live, there's one lies here
Brings me the newes; my glories and my greatnes
Are come to nothing.
_Anth_. Be not your selfe the Bell
To tolle you to the Grave; and the good Fates,
For ought we see, may winde upon your bottome
A thred of excellent length.
_Cosm_. We hope the Gods have not such rugged hands
To snatch yee from us.
_King_. _Cosmo, Damianus_, and _Anthony_; you upon whom
The _Vandall_ State doth leane, for my back's too weake;
I tell you once agen that surly Monarch,
Who treads on all Kings throats, hath sent to me
His proud Embassadours: I have given them Audience
Here in our Chamber Royall. Nor could that move me,
To meete Death face to face, were my great worke
Once perfected in _Affrick_ by my sonne;
I meane that generall sacrifice of Christians,
Whose blood would wash the Temples of our gods
And win them bow downe their immortall eyes
Upon our offerings. Yet, I talke not idly,
Yet, _Anthonie_, I may; for sleepe, I think,
Is gone out of my kingdome, it is else fled
To th'poore; for sleepe oft takes the harder bed
And leaves the downy pillow of a King.
_Cosm_. Try, Sir, if Musick can procure you rest.
_King_. _Cosmo_, 'tis sinne to spend a thing so precious
On him that cannot weare it. No, no; no Musick;
But if you needs will charme my o're-watcht eyes,
Now growne too monstrous for their lids to close,
If you so long to fill these Musick-roomes
With ravishing sounds indeed; unclaspe that booke,
Turne o're that Monument of Martyrdomes,
Read there how _Genzerick_ has serv'd the gods
And made their Altars drunke with Christians blood,
Whil'st their loath'd bodies flung in funerall piles
Like Incense burnt in Pyramids of fire;
And when their flesh and bones were all consum'd
Their ashes up in whirle-winds flew i'th Ayre
To show that of foure Elements not one had care
Of them, dead or alive. Read, _Anthony_.
_Anth_. 'Tis swelld to a faire Volume.
_King_. Would I liv'd
To add a second part too't. Read, and listen:
No _Vandall_ ere writ such a Chronicle.
_Anth_. Five hundred broyl'd to death in Oyle and Lead:
Seven hundred flead alive, their Carkasses
Throwne to King _Genzericks_ hounds.
_King_. Ha, ha, brave hunting.
_Anth_. Upon the great day of _Apollo's_ feast,
The fourth Moneth of your Reigne.
_King_. O give me more,
Let me dye fat with laughing.
_Anth_. Thirty faire Mothers, big with Christian brats,
Upon a scaffold in the Palace plac'd
Had first their dugges sear'd off, their wombes ript up,
About their miscreant heads their first borne Sonnes
Tost as a Sacrifice to _Jupiter_,
On his great day and the Ninth Month of _Genzerick_.
_King_. A Play; a Comicall Stage our Palace was.
Any more? oh, let me surfeit.
_Anth_. Foure hundred Virgins ravisht.
_King_. Christian Whores; common, 'tis common.
_Anth_. And then their trembling bodies tost on the Pikes
Of those that spoyl'd 'em, sacrific'd to _Pallas_.
_King_. More, more; hang Mayden-heads, Christian Maiden-heads.
_Anth_. This leafe is full of tortur'd Christians:
Some pauncht, some starv'd, some eyes and braines bor'd out,
Some whipt to death, some torne by Lyons.
_King_. _Damianus_, I cannot live to heare my service out;
Such haste the Gods make to reward me.
_Omnes_. Looke to the King. (_Shouts within_.)
_King_. What shouts are these? see, _Cosmo_.
_Cosmo_. Good newes, my Lord; here comes _Hubert_ from the warres.
_Hub_. Long life and health wait ever on the King.
_King_. _Hubert_, thy wishes are come short of both.
Hast thou good newes? be briefe then and speake quickly:
I must else heare thee in another World.
_Hub_. In briefe, then, know: _Henrick_, your valiant sonne,
With _Bellizarius_ and my selfe come laden
With spoiles to lay them at your feet.
What lives the sword spar'd serve to grace your Triumph,
Till from your lips they have the doome of death.
_King_. What are they?
_Hub_. Christians, and their Chiefe a Church-man,
_Eugenius_, Bishop of _Carthage_, and with him
Seven hundred Captives more, all Christians.
_King_. Hold, Death; let me a little taste these ioyes,
Then take me ravisht hence. Glad mine eyes, _Hubert_,
With the victorious Boy.
_Hub_. Your Starre comes shining.
_King_. Lift me a little higher, yet more:
Doe the Immortall Powers poure blessings downe,
And shall I not returne them?
_Omnes_. See, they come.
_A Flourish; Enter Henricke the Prince, Bellizarius, Hubert,
leading Eugenius in Chaines with other Prisoners and Souldiers_.
_King_. I have now liv'd my full time; tell me, my _Henricke_,
Thy brave successe, that my departing soule
May with the story blesse another world
And purchase me a passage.
_Hen_. O, great Sir,
All we have done dyes here if that you dye,
And heaven, before too prodigal to us,
Shedding beames over-glorious on our heads,
Is now full of Eclipses.
_King_. No, boy; thy presence
Has fetcht life home to heare thee.
_Hen_. Then, Royal Father, thus:
Before our Troopes had reacht the _Affrick_ bounds,
Wearied with tedious Marches and those dangers
Which waite on glorious Warre, the _Affricans_
A farre had heard our Thunder, whilst their Earth
Did feele an earth-quake in the peoples feares
Before our Drummes came near them. Yet, spight of terrour,
They fortifi'd their Townes, cloathed all their fields
With warres best bravery, armed Souldiers.
At this we made a stand, for their bold troopes
Affronted us with steele, dar'd us to come on
And nobly fierd our resolution.
_King_. So, hasten; there's in me a battaile too;
Be quicke, or I shall fall.
_Hen_. Forefend it heaven.
Now, _Bellizarius_, come; here stand, just here;
And on him, I beseech you, fixe your eye,
For you have much to pay to this brave man.
_Hub_. Nothing to me?
_Hen_. Ile give you him in wonder.
_Hub_. Hang him out in a painted cloth for a monster.
_Bel_. My Lord, wrong not your selfe to throw on me
The honours which are all yours.
_Hub_. Is he the Divell? all!
_Bel_. Cast not your eyes on me, Sir, but on him;
And seale this to your soule: never had King
A Sonne that did to his Crowne more honours bring.
_Hen_. Stay, _Bellizarius_; I'me too true to honour
To scant it in the blazing: though to thee
All that report can render leaves thee yet--
_Hub_. A brave man: you are so too, you both fought;
And I stood idle?
_Hen_. No, Sir.
_Hub_. Here's your battaile then, and here's your conquest:
What need such a coyle?
_Bel_. Yet, _Hubert_, it craves more Arethmaticke
Than in one figure to be found.
_King_. _Hubert_, thou art too busie.
_Hub_. So was I in the battaile.
_King_. Prethee peace.
_Hen_. The Almarado was on poynt to sound;
But then a Herald from their Tents flew forth,
Being sent to question us for what we came;
And [At?] which, I must confesse, being all on fire
We cryed for warre and death. Backe rode the Herald
As lightning had persu'd him. But the Captaines,
Thinking us tir'd with marching, did conceive
Rest would make difficult what easie now
Quicke charge might drive us to. So, like a storme
Beating upon a wood of lustie Pines,
Which though they shake they keepe their footing fast,
Our pikes their horses stood. Hot was the day
In which whole fields of men were swept away,
As by sharpe Sithes are cut the golden corne
And in as short time. It was this mans sword
Hew'd ways to danger; and when danger met him
He charm'd it thence, and when it grew agen
He drove it back agen, till at the length
It lost the field. Foure long hours this did hold,
In which more worke was done than can be told.
_Bel_. But let me tell your Father how the first feather
That Victory herselfe pluckt from her wings,
She stuck it in your Burgonet.
_Hub_. Brave still!
_Hen_. No, _Bellizarius_; thou canst guild thy honours
Borne from the reeking breasts of _Affricans_,
When I aloof stood wondering at those Acts
Thy sword writ in the battaile, which were such
Would make a man a souldier but to read 'em.
_Hub_. And what to read mine? is my booke claspt up?
_Bel_. No, it lyes open, where in texed letters read
Each Pioner [?] that your unseason'd valour
Had thrice ingag'd our fortunes and our men
Beyond recovery, had not this arme redeem'd you.
_Bel_. For which your life was lost for doing more
Than from the Generals mouth you had command.
_Hub_. You fill my praise with froth, as Tapsters fill
Their cut-throat Cans; where, give me but my due,
I did as much as you, or you, or any.
_Hub_. Yes, none excepted.
_Bel_. The Prince was there.
_Hub_. And I was there: since you draw one another
I will turne Painter too and draw my selfe.
Was it not I that when the maine Battalia
Totter'd and foure great squadrons put to rout,
Then reliev'd them? and with this arme, this sword,
And this affronting brow put them to flight,
Chac'd em, slew thousands, tooke some few and drag'd em
As slaves, tyed to my saddle bow with Halters?
_Hen_. Yes, Sir, 'tis true; but, as he sayes, your fury
Left all our maine Battalia welnigh lost.
For had the foe but re-inforct againe
Our courages had beene seiz'd (?), any Ambuskado
Cut you and your rash troopes off; if--
_Hub_. What 'if'?
Envy, not honour, still inferres these 'ifs.'
It thriv'd and I returnd with Victory.
_Hub_. I, _Bellizarius_, I; I found your troopes
Reeling and pale and ready to turne Cowards,
But you not in the head; when I (brave sir)
Charg'd in the Reere and shooke their battaile so
The Fever never left them till they fell.
I pulled the Wings up, drew the rascals on,
Clapt 'em and cry'd 'follow, follow.' This is the hand
First toucht the Gates, this foote first tooke the City;
This Christian Church-man snacht I from the Altar
And fir'd the Temple. 'Twas this sword was sheath'd
In panting bosomes both of young and old;
Fathers, sonnes, mothers, virgins, wives and widowes:
Like death I havocke cryed so long till I
Had left no monuments of life or buildings
But these poore ruins. What these brave Spirits did
Was like to this, I must confesse 'tis true,
But not beyond it.
_King_. You have done nobly all.
Nor let the Generall thinke I soyle his worth
In that I raise this forward youth so neare
Those honours he deserves from _Genzericke_;
For he may live to serve my _Henrick_ thus,
And growing vertue must not want reward.
You both allow these deeds he so much boasts of?
_Hen_. Yes, but not equal to the Generals.
_King_. The spoyles they equally shall both divide;
The Generall chuse, 'tis his prerogative.
_Bellizarius_ be Viceregent over all
Those conquerd parts of _Affrick_ we call ours;
_Hubert_ the Master of my _Henricks_ Horse
And President of what the _Goths_ possesse.
Let this our last will stand.
_Bel_. We are richly paid.
_Hub_. Who earnes it must have wages.
_King_. Ile see you imbrac'd too.
_Hub_. With all my heart.
_King_. And _Bellizarius_
Make him thy Scholler.
_Hub_. His Scholler!
_King_. There's stuffe in him
Which temper'd well would make him a noble fellow.
Now for these Prisoners: 'tis my best sacrifice
My pious zeale can tender to the Gods.
I censure thus: let all be naked stript,
Then to the midst of the vaste Wildernesse
That stands 'twixt us and wealthy _Persia_
They shall be driven, and there wildly venture
As Famine or the fury of the Beasts
Conspires to use them. Which is that Bishop?
_Hub_. Stand forth: this is _Eugenius_.
_Eug_. I stand forth
Daring all tortures, kissing Racks and Wheeles
And Flames, to whom I offer up this body.
You keepe us from our Crownes of Martyrdomes
By this delaying: dispatch us hence.
_King_. Not yet, Sir:
Away with them, stay him; and if our Gods
Can win this Christian Champion, now so stout,
To fight upon their sides, give him reward;
Our Gods will reach him praise.
_Eug_. Your Gods! wretched soules!
_King_. My worke is done; and, Henricke, as thou lov'st
Thy Fathers soule, see every thing perform'd.
This last iniunction tyes thee: so, farewell.
Let those I hated in thy hate still dwell,
I meane the Christians.
_Hen_. Oh, what a deale of greatnesse
Is struck down at one blow.
_Hub_. Give me a battell:
'Tis brave being struck downe there.
_Anth_. _Henrick_, my Lord,
And now my Soveraigne, I am by office bound
To offer to your Royall hands this Crowne
Which on my knees I tender, all being ready
To set it on your head.
_Omnes_. Ascend your throne:
Long live the King of _Vandals_ and of _Goths_,
The mighty _Henrick_.
_Hen_. What must now be done?
_Anth_. By me each Officer of State resignes
The Patten that he holds his office by,
To be dispos'd as best shall please your Grace.
_Hen_. And I returne them back to all their trusts.
I rise in clouds, my Morning is begun
From the eternall set of a bright sunne.
_Drumnel flourish: Enter Victoria and Bellina with servants_.
To gratulate his safe and wisht Arrival.
Let Musick with her sweet-tongu'd Rhetorick
Take out those horrours which the loud clamoures
Of Warres harsh harmony hath long besieg'd
His tender sences with. Your Father's come, _Bellina_.
_Bell_. I feele the ioy of it with you, sweet Mother,
And am as ready to receive a blessing from him
As you his chaste imbraces.
_Vic_. So, so, bestirre;
Let all our loves and duties be exprest
In our most diligent and active care.
Here comes my comfort-bringer,
_Belliz_. Dearest _Victoria_;
My second ioy, take thou a Fathers blessing.
_Vic_. Not wounded, Sir, I hope?
_Belliz_. No, _Victoria_;
Those were Rewards that we bestow'd on others;
We gave, but tooke none backe. Had we not you
At home to heare our noble Victories
Our Fame should want her Crowne, although she flew
As high as yonder Axle tree above
And spred in latitude throughout the world.
We have subdu'd those men of strange beleefe
Which Christians call themselves; a race of people
--This must I speake of them--as resolute
And full of courage in their bleeding falls
As should they tryumph for a Victory.
When the last groanes of many thousand mett
And like commixed Whirlwindes fill'd our eares.
As it from us rais'd not a dust of pitty
So did it give no terrour to the rest
That did but live to see their fellows dye.
In all our rigours and afflicting tortures
We cannot say that we the men subdu'd,
Because their ioy was louder than our conquest.
And still more worke of blood we must expect;
Like _Hydra's_ Heads by cutting off they double;
As seed that multiplies, such are their dead--
Next Moone a sheafe of Christians in ones stead.
_Vic_. This is a bloody Trade, my _Bellizarius_;
Would thou wouldst give it over.
_Belliz_. 'Tis worke, _Victoria_, that must be done.
These are the battailes of our blessing,
Pleasing gods and goddesses who for our service
Render us these Conquests.
Our selves and our affaires we may neglect,
But not our Deities, which these Christians
Prophane deride and scoffe at; would new Lawes
Bring in and a new God make.
_Vic_. No, my Lord;
I have heard say they never make their Gods,
But they serve 'em, they say, that did make them:
All made-gods they dispise.
_Belliz_. Tush, tush, _Victoria_, let not thy pitty
Turne to passions; they'le not deserve thy sorrow.
How now? What's the newes?
_Enter a Souldier_.
_Sold_. Strange, my Lord, beyond a wonder,
For 'tis miraculous. Since you forsooke
The bloody fight and horrour of the Christians,
One tortur'd wretch, whose sight was quite extinct,
His eyes no farther seeing than his hands,
Is now by that _Eugenius_, whom they call
Their holy Bishop, cleerely restor'd again
To the astonishment of all your Army,
Who faintly now recoyle with feare and terrour
Not daring to offend so great a power.
_Belliz_. Ha! 'tis strange thou tell'st me.
_Vic_. Oh, take heed, my Lord;
It is no warring against heavenly Powers
Who can command their Conquest when they please.
They can forbeare the Gyants that throw stones,
And smile upon their follies; but when they frowne
Their angers fall downe perpendicular
And strike their weake Opposer into nothing:
The Thunder tells us so.
_Belliz_. Pray leave me all; I shall have company
When you are gone, enough to fill the roome.
_Vic_. The holiest powers give thee their best direction.
[_Exeunt: Manet Bellizarius_.
_Belliz_. What power is that can fortifie a man
To ioy in death, since all we can expect
Is but fruition of the ioyes of life?
If Christians hoped not to become immortall
Why should they seeke for death?
O, then instruct me some Divine power;
Thou that canst give the sight unto the blind,
Open my blind iudgement _Thunder: Enter an Angel_.
That I may see a way to happinesse.
Ha, this is a dreadfull answer; this may chide
The relapse in my blood that 'gins to faint
From further persecution of these people.
Oh shall I backe and double tyranny? (_Thunder_.)
A louder threat[e]ning! oh mould these voyces
Into articulate words, that I may know
Thy meaning better. Shall I quench the flames
Of blood and vengeance, and my selfe become
A penetrable Christian? my life lay downe
Amongst their sufferings? (_Musicke_.)
Ha, these are sweet tunes.
_Belliz_. It names me, too.
_Ang_. Sheath up thy cruelty; no more pursue
In bloody forrage these oppressed Christians,
For now the Thunder will take their part.
Remaine in peace and Musicke is thy banquet,
Or thy selfe number 'mongst their martyring groanes
And thou art numbred with these blessed ones.
_Belliz_. What heavenly voyce is this? shall my eares onely
Be blest with raptures, not mine eyes enioy
The sight of that Celestiall presence
From whence these sweet sounds come?
_Ang_. Yes, thou shalt see; nay, then, 'tis lost agen.
Rise; this is enough; be constant Souldier:
Thy heart's a Christian, to death persever
And then enioy the sight of Angels ever.
_Belliz_. Oh, let me flye into that happy place.
Prepare your tortures now, you scourge of Christians,
For _Bellizarius_ the Christians torturer;
Centuple all that I have ever done;
Kindle the fire and hacke at once with swords;
Teare me by piece-meales, strangle, and extend
My every limbe and ioynt; nay, devise more
Than ever did my bloody Tyrannies.
Oh let me ever lose the sight of men
That I may see an Angell once agen.
_Enter Hubert and Damianus_.
_Hub_. For looke you, _Damianus_, though _Henricke_, now king, did
in the battaile well and _Bellizarius_ enough for a Generall, did not I
tell 'em home?
_Dam_. I heard it.
_Hub_. They shall not make bonefires of their owne glories and set up
for me a poore waxe candle to shew mine. I am full of Gold now: what
shall I doe with it, _Damianus_?
_Dam_. What doe Marriners after boone voyages, but let all flye; and
what Souldiers, when warres are done, but fatten peace?
_Hub_. Pox of Peace! she has churles enough to fatten her. I'll make a
Shamoyes Doublet, embroydered all over with flowers of gold. In these
dayes a woman will not looke upon a man if he be not brave. Over my
Doublet a _Soldado_ Cassacke of Scarlet, larded thicke with Gold Lace;
Hose of the same, cloake of the same, too, lasht up this high and richly
lined. There was a Lady, before I went, was working with her needle a
Scarffe for mee; but the Wagtaile has left her nest.
_Dam_. No matter; there's enough such birds everywhere.
_Hub_. Yes, women are as common as glasses in Tavernes, and often drunke
in and more often crackt. I shall grow lazy if I fight not; I would
faine play with halfe a dozen Fencers, but it should be at sharpe.
_Dam_. And they are all for foyles.
_Hub_. Foyl'd let 'em be then.
_Dam_. You have had fencing enough in the field, and for women the
Christians fill'd your markets.
_Hub_. Yes, and those markets were our Shambles. Flesh enough!
It made me weary of it. Since I came home
I have beene wondrous troubled in my sleepes,
And often heard to sigh in dead of night
As if my heart would cracke. You talk of Christians:
Ile tell you a strange thing, a kind of melting in
My soule, as 'twere before some heavenly fire,
When in their deaths (whom they themselves call Martyrs)
It was all rocky. Nothing, they say, can soften
A Diamond but Goates blood; they perhaps were Lambs
In whose blood I was softened.
_Dam_. Pray tell how.
_Hub_. I will: after some three hours being in _Carthage_
I rusht into a Temple. Starr'd all with lights;
Which with my drawne sword rifling, in a roome
Hung full of Pictures, drawne so full of sweetnesse
They struck a reverence in me, found I a woman,
A Lady all in white; the very Candles
Took brightnesse from her eyes and those cleare Pearles
Which in aboundance falling on her cheekes
Gave them a lovely bravery. At my rough entrance
She shriek'd and kneel'd, and holding up a paire
Of Ivory fingers begg't that I would not
(Though I did kill) dishonour her, and told me
She would pray for me. Never did Christian
So near come to my heart-strings; I let my Sword
Fall from me, stood astonish't, and not onely
Sav'd her my selfe but guarded her from others.
_Dam_. Done like a Souldier.
_Hub_. Blood is not ever
The wholsom'st Wine to drinke. Doubtlesse these Christians
Serve some strange Master, and it needes must bee
A wonderfull sweete wages which he paies them;
And though men murmour, get they once here footing,
Then downe goes our Religion, downe our Altars,
And strange things be set up.--I cannot tell:
We, held so pure, finde wayes enough to hell.
Fall out what can, I care not; Ile to _Bellizarius_.
_Dam_. Will you? pray carry to him my best wishes.
_Hub_. I can carry anything but Blowes, Coles, my Drink, and that
clapper of the Divell, the tongue of a Scould. Farewell.
_Flourish: Enter the King, Antony, Cosmo, all about
the King, and Bellizarius_.
_King_. They swarme like Bees about us, insomuch
Our People cannot sacrifice nor give Incense
But with interruptions; they still are buzzing thus,
Saying: Their Gods delight not in vaine showes
But intellectual thoughts pure and unstain'd,
Therefore reduce them from their heresies
Or build our prison walls with Christians bones.
What thinkes our _Bellizarius_, he that was wont
To be more swift to execute than we to command?
Why sits not _Bellizarius_?
_Belliz_. I dare not.
_King_. Protect me, Iove! Who dare gainesay it?
_Belliz_. I must not.
_King_. Say we command it?
_Belliz_. Truth is, I neither can nor will.
_Omn_. Hee's mad.
_Belliz_. Yes, I am mad
To see such Wolvish Tyrants as you are
Pretend a Justice and condemne the iust.
Oh you white soules that hover in the aire,
Who through my blindnesse were made death his prey;
Be but appeas'd, you spotlesse Innocents,
Till with my blood I have made a true atonement,
And through those tortures, by this braine devis'd,
In which you perisht, I may fall as you
To satisfie your yet fresh bleeding memories
And meete you in that garden where content
Dwels onely. I, that in blood did glory,
Will now spend blood to heighten out your story.
_Anton_. Why, _Bellizarius_--
_Belliz_. Hinder me not:
I'me in a happy progresse, would not change my guest
Nor be deterr'd by Moles and Wormes that cannot see
Such as you are. Alas, I pitty you.
_Dam_. The King's in presence.
_Belliz_. I talke of one that's altitudes above him,
That owes all Principalities: he is no King
That keepes not his decrees, nor am I bound
In duty to obey him in unwist acts.
_King_. All leave the roome.
_Omnes_. We obey your highnesse.
_King_. Sir, nay. Sir; good _Bellizarius_.
_Belliz_. In that I doe obey.
_King_. Doe you make scruple, then, of our command?
_Belliz_. Yes, Sir, where the act's unjust and impure.
_King_. Why, then, are we a king, if not obey'd?
_Belliz_. You are plac'd on earth but as a Substitute
To a Diviner being as subiects are to you;
And are so long a king to be obey'd
As you are iust.
_King_. Good _Bellizarius_, wherein doe I digresse?
Have I not made thee great, given thee authority
To scourge those mis-beleevers, those wild Locusts
That thus infect our Empire with their Scismes?
The World is full of _Bellizarius_ deedes.
Succeeding times will Canonize thy Acts
When they shall read what great ones thou hast done
In honour of us and our sacred gods;
For which, next unto _Iove_, they gave a Laurell
To _Bellizarius_, whose studious braine
Fram'd all these wracks and tortures for these Christians.
Hast thou not all our Treasure in thy power?
Who but your selfe commands as [us?], _Bellizarius_?
Then whence, my _Bellizarius_, comes this change?
_Belliz_. Poore King, I sorrow for thy weakned sence,
Wishing thy eye-sight cleare that Eagle-like,
As I doe now, thou might'st gaze on the Sunne,
The Sunne of brightnesse, Sunne of peace, of plenty.
Made you me great in that you made me miserable,
Thy selfe more wretched farre? in that thy hand
The Engine was to make me persecute
Those Christian soules whom I have sent to death,
For which I ever, ever shall lament?
_King_. Ha, what's this?--Within there!
_Belliz_. Nay, heare me, _Henrick_, and when thou hast heard me out
With _Bellizarius_ thinke that thou art blest
If that with me thou canst participate.
_King_. Thou art mad.
_Belliz_. No; 'tis thou art mad,
And with thy frenzie make this Kingdome franticke.
Forgive me, thou great Power in whom I trust,
Forgive me, World, and blot out all my deeds
From those black Kalends; else, when I lye dead,
My Name will ever lie in obliquie.
Is it a Sinne that can make great men good?
Is prophanation turn'd to sanctity,
Vices to vertues? if such disorder stand
Then _Bellizarius_ Acts may be held iust;
_King_. Some Furie hath possest my _Bellizarius_
That thus he railes. Oh, my dearest,
Call on great _Iupiter_.
_Belliz_. Alas, poore Idoll!
On him! on him that is not, unlesse made:
Had I your _Iove_ I'de tosse him in the Ayre,
Or sacrifice him to his fellow-gods
And see what he could doe to save himselfe.
You call him Thunderer, shaker of _Olympus_,
The onely and deare Father of all gods;
When silly love is shooke with every winde,
A fingers touch can hurle him from his Throne.
Is this a thing to be ador'd or pray'd too?
_King_. My love turnes now to rage.--Attendance there,
_Enter all the Lords_.
And helpe to binde this mad man, that's possest!--
By the powers that we adore thou dyest.
_Belliz_. Here me, thou ignorant King, you dull-brain'd Lords,
Oh heare me for your owne sakes, for your soules sake:
Had you as many gods as you have dayes,
As once the _Assyrians_ had, yet have yee nothing.
Such service as they gave such you may give,
And have reward as had the blinde _Molossians_:
A Toad one day they worship; one of them drunke
A health with 's god and poyson'd so himselfe.
Therefore with me looke up, and as regenerate soules--
_Dam_. Can you suffer this?
This his affront will scare up the devotion
Of all your people. He that persecuted
Become a convertite!
_Belliz_. 'Tis ioy above my ioy: oh, had you scene
What these eyes saw, you would not then
Disswade me from it; nor will I leave that power
By whom I finde such infinite contentments.
_Hen_. _Epidophorus_; your eare:--see't done.
_Epi_. It shall, my Lord.
_Hen_. Then by the gods
And all the powers the _Vandals_ doe adore,
Thou hast not beene more terrible to the world
Than to thy selfe I now will make thee.
_Belliz_. I dare thy worst;
I have a Christian armour to protect me.
You cannot act so much as I will suffer.
_Hen_. Ile try your patience
_Enter Epido, two Christians and officers_.
_Epi_. 'Tis done, my Lord, as you directed.
_Hen_. They are come:
Make signes you'le yet deny your Christianity (_They make signes_.)
And kneele with us to sacred _Iupiter_.
No? make them then a Sacrifice to _Iupiter_
For all the wrongs by _Bellizarius_ done.
Dispatch, I say; to the fire with them.
_Belliz_. Alas, good men! tonguelesse? you'le yet be heard;
The sighes of your tun'd soules are musicall,
And whil'st I breath, as now my tears I shed,
My prayers He send up for you; 'twas I that mangl'd you.
How soone the bodies Organ leaves the sound!
The Life's next too't; a Needles point ends that,
A small thing does it. Now you have quiet roomes
No wrangling, all husht. Now make me a fellow
In this most patient suffering.
_Hen_. Beare them unto the fire, and place him neere
To fright him.
_Belliz_. On, fellow Souldiers!
Your fires will soon be quencht, and for your wrongs
You shall, above, all speake with Angels tongues.
_Enter Clowne, Constable and three watchmen_.
_Clown_. You that are borne Pagans both by father and mother, the
true sonnes of Infidelity, sit downe by me your officiall, or to come
nearer to the efficacy of the word, your undermost Iaylor or staller;
--the word is Lordly and significant.
_Omnes_. O brave Master, yfaith.
_Clowne_. Therefore sit downe; and as by vertue of our place we have
Authority given, so let us as officers doe, knaves of our function as
of others; let us, I say, be unbounded in our Authority, having the
Lawes, I meane the Keyes, in our owne hands.
_Const_. Friend, friend, you are too forward in your Authority; your
command is limited where I am in place: for though you are the
Lieutenants man know, sir, that I am Master of the worke and Constable
Royall under the Kings Maiesty.
_Omnes_. Marry is hee.
_Const_. If their testimonie will not satisfie, here my Title: At this
place, in this time, and upon this occasion I am Prince over these
Publicans, Lord over these Larroones, Regent of these Rugs,
Viceroy over these Vagabonds, King of these Caterpillars; and indeed,
being a Constable, directly Soveraigne over these my Subiects.
2 _Off_. If all these stiles, so hard to climbe over, belong to the
office of a Constable, what kin is he to the Divell?
_Const_. Why to the Devill, my friend?
_Clown_. Ile tell you: because a Constable is King of Nights and the
other is Prince of Darknesse.
_Const_. Darke as it is, by the twilight of my Lanthorne methinks I see
a company of Woodcocks.
_2 Off_. How can you discerne them?
_Enter Epidophorus, Victoria and Bellina_.
_Clown_. Oh excellent well, by their bills: see, see, here comes the
_Epi_. Well sayd, my friends: you keep good watch, I see.
_Clown_. Yes, Sir, we Officers have breath as strong as Garlick: no
Christian by their good wills dare come neare us.
_Epi_. 'Tis well, forbeare.--
Oh, Madam, had you scene with what a vehemency
He did blaspheme the gods,
Like to a man pearcht on some lofty Spire
Amazed which way to relieve himselfe,
You would have stood, as did the King, amaz'd.
_Vict_. God grant him liberty,
And with that give us privacy; I doubt not
But our sweet conference shall work much on him.
_Epi_. _Iove_ grant it: Ile leave the roome.
_Clown_. A Iaylor seldome lookes for a bribe but hee's prevented.
_Enter Bellizarius in his night-gown, with Epidophorus_.
_Epi_. My Lord, your Lady and her most beauteous daughter
Are come to visit you, and here attend.
_Belliz_. My Wife and Daughter? oh welcome, love,
And blessing Crowne thee, my beloved _Bellina_.
_Vict_. My Lord, pray leave us.
_Epi_. Your will be your owne Law.
_Vict_. Why study you, my Lord? why is your eye fixt
On your _Bellina_ more than on me?
_Belliz_. Good, excellent good:
What pretty showes our fancies represent us!
My faire _Bellina_ shines like to an Angel;
Has such a brightnesse in her Christall eyes
That even the radiancy duls my sight.
See, my _Victoria_, lookes she not sweetly?
_Vict_. Shee does, my Lord; but not much better than she was wont.
_Belliz_. Oh shee but beginnes to shine as yet,
But will I hope ere long be stellified.
Alas, my _Victoria_, thou look'st nothing like her.
_Vict_. Not like her? why, my Lord?
_Belliz_. Marke and Ile tell thee how:
Thou art too much o'er growne with sinne and shame,
Hast pray'd too much, offered too much devotion
To him and those that can nor helpe nor hurt,
Which my _Bellina_ has not:
Her yeares in sinne are not, as thine are, old;
Therefore me thinks she's fairer farre than thou.
_Vict_. I, my Lord, guided by you and by your precepts,
Have often cal'd on _Iupiter_.
_Belliz_. I, there's the poynt:
My sinnes like Pullies still drew me downewards:
'Twas I that taught thee first to Idolize,
And unlesse that I can with-draw thy mind
From following that I did with tears intreat,
I'me lost, for ever lost, lost in my selfe and thee.
Oh, my _Bellina_!
_Bellina_. Why, Sir!
Shall we not call on _Iove_ that gives us food,
By whom we see the heavens have all their Motions?
_Belliz_. Shee's almost lost too: alas! my Girle,
There is a higher _Iove_ that rules 'bove him.
Sit, my _Victoria_, sit, my faire _Bellina_,
And with attention hearken to my dreame:
Methought one evening, sitting on a fragrant Virge,
Close by there ranne a silver gliding streame:
I past the Rivolet and came to a Garden,
A Paradise, I should say (for lesse it could not be);
Such sweetnesse the world contains not as I saw;
_Indian Aramaticks_ nor _Arabian_ Gummes
Were nothing sented unto this sweet bower.
I gaz'd about, and there me thought I saw
Conquerors and Captives, Kings and meane men;
I saw no inequality in their places.
Casting mine eye on the other side the Palace,
Thousands I saw my selfe had sent to death;
At which I sigh'd and sob'd, I griev'd and groan'd.
Ingirt with Angels were those glorious Martyrs
Whom this ungentle hand untimely ended,
And beckon'd to me as if heaven had said,
"Beleeve as they and be thou one of them";
At which my heart leapt, for there me thought I saw,
As I suppos'd, you two like to the rest:
With that I wak'd and resolutely vow'd
To prosecute what I in thought had seene.
_Bellina_. 'Twas a sweet dreame; good Sir, make use of it.
_Vict_. And I with _Bellizarius_ am resolv'd
To undergoe the worst of all afflictions,
Where such a glory bids us to performe.
_Belliz_. Now blessings crowne yee both
The first stout Martyr has his glorious end
Though stony-hard yet speedy; when ours comes
I shall tryumph in our affliction.
This adds some comfort to my troubled soule:
I, that so many have depriv'd of breath,
Shall winne two soules to accompany me in death.
_Enter Clowne and Huntsmen severally_.
1 _Hunt_. Ho, rise, sluggards! so, so, ho! so, ho!
2 _Hunt_. So ho, ho! we come.
_Clown_. Morrow, iolly wood-men.
_Omnes_. Morrow, morrow.
_Clown_. Oh here's a Morning like a grey ey'd Wench, able to intice a
man to leap out of his bed if he love hunting, had he as many cornes on
his toes as there are Cuckolds in the City.
1 _Hunt_. And that's enough in conscience to keepe men from going, were
his Boots as wide as the black Iacks or Bombards tost by the Kings
2 _Hunt_. Are the swift Horses ready?
_Clown_. Yes, and better fed than taught; for one of 'em had like to
have kickt my iigumbobs as I came by him.
2 _Hunt_. Where are the Dogges?
_Clown_. All coupled, as Theeves going to a Sessions, and are to be
hang'd if they be found faulty.
2 _Hunt_. What Dogges are they?
_Clown_. A packe of the bravest _Spartan_ Dogges in the world; if they
do but once open and spend there gabble, gabble, gabble it will
make the Forest ecchoe as if a Ring of Bells were in it; admirably
flewd, by their eares you would take 'em to be singing boyes; and
for Dewlaps they are as bigge as Vintners bags in which they straine
_Omnes_. There, boy.
_Clown_. And hunt so close and so round together that you may cover
'em all with a sheete.
2 _Hunt_. If it be wide enough.
_Clown_. Why, as wide as some four or five Acres, that's all.
1 _Hunt_. And what's the game to day?
_Clown_. The wilde Boare.
1 _Hunt_. Which of 'em? the greatest? I have not seene him.
_Clown_. Not seene him? he is as big as an Elephant.
2 _Hunt_. Now will he build a whole Castle full of lies.
_Clown_. Not seen him? I have.
_Omnes_. No, no; seene him? as big as an Elephant?
_Clown_. The backe of him is as broad--let me see--as a pretty Lighter.
1 _Hun_. A Lighter?
_Clown_. Yes; and what do you think the Brissells are worth?
2 _Hunt_. Nothing.
_Clown_. Nothing? one Shoemaker offer'd to finde me and the Heire-male
of my body 22 yeeres, but to have them for his owne ends.
2 _Hunt_. He would put Sparabiles into the soales then?
_Clown_. Not a Bill, not a Sparrow. The Boares head is so huge that a
Vintner but drawing that picture and hanging it up for a Signe it fell
down and broke him.
1 _Hunt_. Oh horrible!
_Clown_. He has two stones so bigge, let me see (a Poxe), thy head is but
a Cherry-stone to the least of' em.
2 _Hunt_. How long are his Tuskes?
_Clown_. Each of them as crooked and as long as a Mowers sith.
1 _Hunt_. There's a Cutter.
_Clown_. And when he whets his Tuskes you would sweare there were a sea
in's belly, and that his chops were the shore to which the Foame was
beaten: if his Foame were frothy Yest 'twere worth tenne groats a paile
1 _Hunt_. What will the King do with him if he kill him?
_Clown_. Bake him, and if they put him in one Pasty a new Oven must be
made, with a mouth as wide as the gates of the City. (_Horne_.)
_Omnes_. There boy, there boy.
_Hornes and Noise within: Enter Antony meeting Damianus_.
_Ant_. _Cosmo_ had like beene kild; the Boare receiving
A Speare full in the Flanke from _Cosmo's_ hand,
Foaming with rage he ranne at him, unhorst him
And had, but that he fell behinde an Oake
Of admirable greatnesse, torne out his bowels;
His very Tuskes, striking into the tree,
Made the old Champion shake.
_Dam_. Where are the Dogges?
_Cosmo_. No matter for the Curres:
I scapt well, but cannot finde the King.
_Anton_. When did you see him?
_Cosmo_. Not since the Boare tos'd up
Both horse and rider.
_Enter Epidophorus and all the Huntsmen in a hurry_.
_Epi_. A Liter for the King; the King is hurt.
_Epi_. No man knowes: some say stung by an Adder
As from his horse he fell; some cry, by the Boare.
_Anton_. The Boare never came neare him.
_Dam_. The King's Physitians!
_Cosmo_. Runne for the King's Physitians.
_Epi_. Conduct us to him.
_Anton_. A fatall hunting when a King doth fall:
All earthly pleasures are thus washt in gall.
_Eugenius discovered sitting loaden with many Irons,
a Lampe burning by him; then enter Clowne with a
piece of browne bread and a Carret roote_.
_Eugen_. Is this my Dyet?
_Clown_. Yes, marry is it; though it be not Dyet bread 'tis bread,
'tis your dinner; and though this be not the roote of all mischiefe yet
'tis a Carret, and excellent good meate if you had powderd Beefe to it.
_Eugen_. I am content with this.
_Clown_. If you bee not I cannot helpe it; for I am threatned to be
hang'd if I set but a Tripe before you or give you a bone to gnaw.
_Eugen_. For me thou shalt not suffer.
_Clown_. I thank you; but were not you better be no good Christian, as
I am, and so fill your belly as to lie here and starve and be hang'd
thus in Chaines?
_Eugen_. No, 'tis my tryumph; all these Chaines to me
Are silken Ribbonds, this course bread a banquet;
This gloomy Dungeon is to me more pleasing
Than the Kings Palace; and cou'd I winne thy soule
To shake off her blacke ignorance, thou, as I doe,
Would'st feele thirst, hunger, stripes and Irons nothing,
Nay, count death nothing. Let me winne thee to me.
_Clown_. Thank yee for that: winne me from a Table full of good meat to
leape at a crust! I am no Scholler, and you (they say) are a great one;
and schollers must eate little, so shall you. What a fine thing is it
for me to report abroad of you that you are no great feeder, no
Cormorant! What a quiet life is it when a womans tongue lies still! and
is't not as good when a mans teeth lyes still?
_Eugen_. Performe what thou art bidden; if thou art charg'd
To starve me, Ile not blame thee but blesse heaven.
_Clown_. If you were starv'd what hurt were that to you?
_Eugen_. Not any; no, not any.
_Clown_. Here would be your praise when you should lie dead: they would
say, he was a very good man but alas! had little or nothing in him.
_Eugen_. I am a slave to any misery
My Iudges doome me too.
_Clown_. If you bee a slave there's more slaves in the world than you.
_Eugen_. Yes, thousands of brave fellows slaves to their vices;
The Usurer to his gold, drunkards to Wine,
Adulterers to their lust.
_Clown_. Right, Sir; so in Trades: the Smith is a slave to the
Ironmonger, the itchy silk-weaver to the Silke-man, the Cloth-worker
to the Draper, the Whore to the Bawd, the Bawd to the Constable, and
the Constable to a bribe.
_Eugen_. Is it the kings will that I should be thus chain'd?
_Clown_. Yes indeed, Sir. I can tell you in some countries they are held
no small fooles that goe in Chaines.
_Eugen_. I am heavy.
_Clown_. Heavy? how can you chuse, having so much Iron upon you?
_Eugen_. Death's brother and I would have a little talk
So thou wouldst leave us.
_Clown_. With all my heart; let Deaths sister talke with you, too, and
shee will, but let not me see her, for I am charg'd to let no body come
into you. If you want any water give mee your Chamber pot; Ile fill it.
_Eugen_. No, I want none, I thanke thee.
Oh sweet affliction, thou blest booke, being written
By Divine fingers! you Chaines that binde my body
To free my soule; you Wheeles that wind me up
To an eternity of happinesse,
Mustre my holy thoughts; and, as I write,
Organ of heavenly Musicke to mine ears,
Haven to my Shipwracke, balme to my wounds,
Sunne-beames which on me comfortably shine
When Clouds of death are covering me; (so gold,
As I by thee, by fire is purified;
So showres quicken the Spring; so rough Seas
Bring Marriners home, giving them gaines and ease);
Imprisonment, gyves, famine, buffetings,
The Gibbet and the Racke; Flint stones, the Cushions
On which I kneele; a heape of Thornes and Briers,
The Pillow to my head; a nasty prison,
Able to kill mankinde even with the Smell:
All these to me are welcome. You are deaths servants;
When comes your Master to me? Now I am arm'd for him.
Strengthen me that Divinity that enlightens
The darknesse of my soule, strengthen this hand
That it may write my challenge to the world
Whom I defie; that I may on this paper
The picture draw of my confession.
Here doe I fix my Standard, here bid Battaile
To Paganisme and infidelity.
_Musicke; enter Angel_.
Mustre my holy thoughts, and, as I write,
In this brave quarrell teach me how to fight.
(_As he is writing an Angel comes and stands before
him: soft musick; he astonisht and dazeld_.)
This is no common Almes to prisoners;
I never heard such sweetnesse--O mine eyes!
I, that am shut from light, have all the light
Which the world sees by; here some heavenly fire
Is throwne about the roome, and burnes so clearely,
Mine eye-bals drop out blasted at the sight.
(_He falls flat on the earth, and whilst a Song is heard
the Angel writes, and vanishes as it ends_.)
_What are earthly honours
But sins glorious banners?
Let not golden gifts delight thee,
Let not death nor torments fright thee;
From thy place thy Captaine gives thee
When thou faintest he relieves thee.
Hearke, how the Larke
Is to the Morning singing;
Harke how the Bells are ringing.
It is for joy that thou to Heaven art flying:
This is not life, true life is got by dying_.
_Eugen_. The light and sound are vanisht, but my feare
Sticks still upon my forehead: what's written here? (_Reads_.)
Goe, and the bold Physitian play;
But touch the King and drive away
The paine he feeles; but first assay
To free the Christians: if the King pay
Thy service ill, expect a day
When for reward thou shalt not stay.
All writ in golden Letters and cut so even
As if some hand had hither reacht from Heaven
To print this Paper.
_Epi_. Come, you must to the King.
_Eugen_. I am so laden with Irons
I scarce can goe.
_Epi_. Wyer-whips shall drive you,
The King is counsell'd for his health to bath him
In the warme blood of Christians; and you, I thinke,
Must give him ease.
_Eugen_. Willingly; my fetters
Hang now, methinks, like feathers at my heeles.
On, any whither; I can runne, sir.
_Epi_. Can you? not very farre, I feare.
_Eugen_. No windes my Faith shake, nor rock[s] split in sunder:
The poore ship's tost here, my strong Anchor's yonder.
_Enter Bellizarius and Hubert_.
_Hub_. My Lord?
_Hub_. Affraid in a close room where no foe comes
Unlesse it be a Weezle or a Rat
(And those besiege your Larder or your Pantry),
Whom the arm'd Foe never frighted in the field?
_Belliz_. 'Tis true, my Lord, there danger was a safety; here
To be secure I thinke most dangerous.
Or what could famine, wounds or all th'extreames
That still attend a Souldiers actions
Could not destroy, one sillable from a Kings breath
Can thus, thus easily win.
_Hub_. Oh, 'tis their long observed policy
To turne away these roaring boyes
When they intend to rock licentious thoughts
In a soft roome, where every long Cushion is
Embroydered with old Histories of peace,
And all the hangings of Warre thrust into the Wardrobe
Till they grow musty or moth-eaten.
_Belliz_. One of those rusty Monuments am I.
_Hub_. A little oyle of favour will secure thee agen,
And make thee shine as bright as in that day
We wonne the famous battaile 'gainst the Christians.
_Enter Bellina and kneeles weeping_.
_Belliz_. Never, _Hubert_, never.
What newes now, Girle? thy heart
So great it cannot tell me?
_Hub_. Sfoot, why shouldst thou be troubled, that art thus visited? Let
the King put me into any roome, the closer the better, and turne but
such a keeper to me, and if ever I strive to runne away, though the
doores be open, may the Virgins curse destroy me, and let me lamentably
and most unmanly dye of the Greene-sicknesse.
_Belliz_. My blessing bring thee patience, gentle Girle;
It is the best thy wronged Father can
Invoke for thee.--Tis my _Bellina, Hubert_:
Know her, honour'd Sir, and pittie her.
_Hub_. How sweetly she becomes the face of woe!
Shee teacheth misery to court her beauty
And to affliction lends a lovely looke.
Happy folkes would sell their blessings for her griefes
But to be sure to meete them thus.
_Bellina_. My honourd Father, your griev'd Daughter thus
Thrice every day to Heaven lifts her poore hand
And payes her vowes to the incensed Powers
For your release and happy patience,
And will grow old in vowes unto those Powers
Till they fall on me loaden with my wishes.
_Belliz_. Thou art the comfort of my Treasure, Girle:
Wee'le live together, if it please the King,
And tell sad Stories of thy wretched Mother;
Give equall sighes to one anothers griefe,
And by discourse of happinesse to come
Trample upon our present miseries.
_Hub_. There is a violent fire runnes round about me,
Which my sighes blow to a consuming flame.
To be her Martyr is a happinesse,
The sainted souls would change their merit for it.
Methinkes griefe dwells about her purest eyes,
As if it begg'd a pardon for those teares
Exhausted hence and onely due to love:
Her Vaile hangs like a Cloud over her face,
Through which her beauty, like a glimmering Starre,
Gives a transparent lustre to the night,
As if no sorrow could Ecclipse her light:
Her lips, as they discourse, methinks, looke pale
For feare they should not kisse agen; but, met,
They blush for joy, as happy Lovers doe
After a long divorce when they encounter.
_Belliz_. Noble Lord, if you dare lose so much precious time
As to be companion to my misery
But one poor houre,
And not esteeme your selfe too prodigall
For that expence, this wretched Maid my Child
Shall waite upon you with her sorrows stories;
Vouchsafe but you to heare it.
_Hub_. Yes, with full eare.
_Belliz_. To your best thoughts I leave you;
I will but read, and answer this my Letter.
_Bellina_. Why do you, seeme to loose your eyes on me?
Here's nothing but a pile of wretchednesse;
A branch that every way is shooke at roote
And would (I think) even fall before you now,
But that Divinity which props it up
Inspires it full of comfort, since the Cause
My father suffers for gives a full glory
To his base fetters of Captivity.
And I beseech you, Sir, if there but dwell
So much of Vertue in you as your lookes
Seeme to expresse possesse your honour'd thoughts,
Bestow your pitty on us, not your scorne;
And wish, for goodnesse sake and your soules weale,
You were a sharer in these sufferings,
So the same cause expos'd your fortunes too't.
_Hub_. Oh, happy woman, know I suffer more,
And for a cause as iust.
_Bellina_. Be proud then of that tryumph; but I am yet
A stranger to the Character of what
You say you suffer for. Is it for Conscience?
_Hub_. For love, divine perfection.
_Bellina_. If of Heaven's love, how rich is your reward!
_Hub_. Of Heaven's best blessing, your most perfect selfe.
_Bellina_. Alas, Sir, here perfection keeps no Court,
Love dresses here no wanton amorous bowers;
Sorrow has made perpetuall winter here,
And all my thoughts are Icie, past the reach
Of what Loves fires can thaw.
_Hub_. Oh doe but take away a part of that
My breast is full of, of that holy fire
The Queene of Loves faire Altar holds not purer
Nor more effectuall; and, sweet, if then
You melt not into passion for my wounds,
Effuse your Virgin vowes to chaine mine ears,
Weepe on my necke and with your fervent sighes
Infuse a soule of comfort into me;
He break the Altar of the foolish God,
Proclaime them guilty of Idolatry
That sacrifice to _Cytheraeas_ sonne.
_Bellina_. Did not my present fortunes and my vowes,
Register'd in the Records of Heaven,
Tye me too strictly from such thoughts as these,
I feare me I should softly yeeld to what
My yet condition has beene stranger to.
To love, my Lord, is to be miserable.
_Hub_. Oh to thy sweetnesse Envy would prove kind,
Tormentor humble, no pale Murderer;
And the Page of death a smiling Courtier.
_Venus_ must then, to give thee noble welcome,
Perfume her Temple with the breath of Nunnes,