Chapter IV: Introduction: To Dick of Devonshire (3)

_Pike_. Ile fight till every Joynt be cutt in pieces To please such brave spectators; yes Ile fight While I can stand, be you but pleasd, my Lords, The noble Dukes here, to allow me choice Of my owne Country weapon.

_All_. What?

_Pike_. A Quarter staffe,--this, were the head off.

_Mac_. Off with the head, and roome! How dost thou like this _Spaniard_?

_Pike_. Well: he's welcome. Here's my old trusty frend: are there no more? One! what, but one? why, I shall make no play, No sport before my princely Judges with one. More sackes to the Mill! come, another! what, no more?

_Mac_. How many wouldst thou have?

_Pike_. Any number under six.

_All_. Ha, ha, sure he's mad!

_Mac_. Dar'st coape with Three?

_Pike_. Where are they? let 'em shew their faces: so; welcome!

_Mac_. How dost thou like these chickens?

_Pike_. When I have drest them With sorrell sopps Ile tell you.

_Lady_. Now guard him heaven!

[_Drums. They fight, one is killd, the other 2 disarmed_.

1. Hell take thy Quarter staffe!

2. Pox on thy quarters!

_Mac_. The matter? why this noyse?

[_A noyse within of Diable Englese_.

_Jay_. The soldiers rayle, stampe & stare, and sweare to cutt His throat for all the Jaylors care of him.

_Mac_. Make proclamation, my lord _Fernando_, That who soever dares but touch his finger To hurt him, dyes.

_Fer_. I will, sir. [_Exit_.

_Lady_. This is done nobly.

_Mac_. Here, give him this gold.

_Ten_. The Duke _Macada_ gives you this gold.

_All_. And this.

_Ten_. The Duke of _Medina_ this; Duke _Gyron_ this; &, looke you, the Marquesse _Alqueveza_ as much as all the rest.

_Alq_. Where's any of my men? give him your Cloake, sirra; Fetch him cleane Band and Cuffs. I embrace thee, _Pike_; And hugg thee in my armes: scorne not to weare A _Spanish_ livery.

_Pike_. Oh, my Lord, I am proud of't.

_Mac_. He shalbe with a Convoy sent to the King.

_Alq_. 4 of my gentlemen shall along with him: Ile beare thy charges, soldier, to _Madrid_, 5 peeces of 8 a day in travell, & Lying still thou shalt have halfe that.

_Pike_. On my knees Your vassaile thankes heaven, you, and these Princes.

_Mac_. Breake up the Court till afternoon: then the 2 _Guzmans_ tryall.

_All_. Come, _Englishman_.

_Med_. How we honour valour thus our loves epresse: Thou hast a guard of Dukes and Marquesses.

[_Exeunt all_.

_Actus Quintus_.

(SCENE 1.)

_Enter Teniente & Henrico_.

_Ten_. The Lords are not yett risen: let us walke & talke. Were not you better yeild to marry her Then yeild to suffer death? know you the law?

_Hen_. Law! yes; the spiders Cobweb[46], out of which great flyes breake and in which the little are hangd: the Tarriers snaphance[47], limetwiggs, weavers shuttle & blankets in which fooles & wrangling coxcombes are tossd. Doe I know't now or not?

_Ten_. If of the rape she accuse you 'tis in her choise To have you marry her or to have you hangd[48].

_Hen_. Hangd, hangd by any meanes! marry her? had I The King of _Spaines_ 7 Kingdomes, _Gallicia, Navarre_, the 2 _Castiles, Leon, Arragon, Valentia, Granada_, And _Portugall_ to make up 8, Ide lose them All to be rid of such a piece of flesh.

_Ten_. How? such a piece of flesh? Why, she has limbes Mad out of wax.[49]

_Hen_. Then have her to some faire And shew her for money.

_Ten_. Is she not sweet complexiond?

_Hen_. As most Ladyes are that studye painting.

_Ten_. What meate will downe your throat, when you scorne pheasant, partridge, woodcocke & coney? Would I had such a dish.

_Hen_. Woodcocke and coney take to you, my _Don Teniente_; Ile none; and because you keepe such a wondering why my stomach goes against the wench (albeit I might find better talke, considering what ladder I stand upon) Ile tell you, signior, what kind of wife I must have or none.

_Ten_. Pray let me see her picture.

_Hen_. Draw then this curtaine: Give me a wife that's sound of wind and limbe; Whose teeth can tell her age; whose hand nere felt A touch lascivious; whose eyes are balls Not tossd by her to any but to me; Whose breath stinkes not of sweatmeates; whose lippes kisse Onely themselves and mine; whose tongue nere lay At the signe of the _Bell_. She must not be a scold, No, nor a foole to be in love with Bables[50]; No, nor too wise to think I nere saile true But when she steares the rudder. I'de not have Her belly a drum, such as they weave points on, Unles they be taggd with vertue; nor would I have Her white round breasts 2 sucking bottles to nurse Any Bastards at them.

_Ten_. I believe you would not.

_Hen_. I would not have her tall, because I love not To dance about a May pole; nor too lowe (Litle clocks goe seldome true); nor, sir, too fatt (Slug[51] shipps can keepe no pace); no, nor too leane, To read Anatomy lectures ore her Carcas. Nor would I have my wife exceeding faire, For then she's liquorish meate; & it would mad me To see whoremasters teeth water at her, Red haird by no meanes, though she would yeild money To sell her to some Jew for poyson. No, My wife shall be a globe terrestriall, Moving upon no axeltree but mine; Which globe when I turne round, what land soever I touch, my wife is with me, still Ime at home.

_Ten_. But where will you find such a wife on earth?

_Hen_. No, such a wife in the Moone for me doth tarry: If none such shine here I with none will marry.

_Ten_. The Lordes are come.

_Hen_. I care neyther for Lords nor Ladies.

_Enter the Nobles as before; Fernando, Manuell, Clarke, Jaylor_.

_Mac_. Where are these gentlemen? sett 'em both to a Barre And opposite, face to face: a Confrontation May perhaps daunt th'offender & draw from him More then he'de utter. You accuse your Brother As murtherer of your father: where's the proofe?

_Hen_. First call my fathers man in.

_Clark_. What's his name?

_Hen_. _Buzzano_.

_Clark_. Call _Buzzano_ in!

_Enter Buzzano_.

_Buz_. Here I am, here.

_Clark_. Stand out: whither goe you?

_Buz_. To stand out.

_Clark_. Stand there.

_Mac_. Now what can he say?

_Hen_. First, my Lord, heare mee: My brother & I lying in one bed together, And he just under us--

_Buz_. In my fleabitten Trundle bed.[52]

_Clark_. Peace, sirra.

_Hen_. About midnight I awaking, And this _Buzzano_ too, my brother in his sleepe Thus cryde out, "Oh, twas I that murtherd him, This hand that killd him"!

_Gyr_. Heard you this, sirra?

_Buz_. As sure as I heare you now.

_Alq_. And you'le be sworne 'twas he that so cryde out?

_Buz_. If I were going to be hangd Ide sweare.

_Clark_. Forbeare the Court.
[_Exit Buzzano_.

_Mac_. All this is but presumption: if this be all The shott you make against him your bullets stick In a mud wall, or if they meete resistance They backe rebound & fly in your owne face.

_Med_. Bring your best forces up, for these are weak ones.

_Hen_. Then here I throw my glove & challenge him To make this good upon him: that at comming home He first told me my father dyed in France, Then some hours after that he was not dead But that he left him in _Lorraine_ at _Nancy_, Then at _Chaalons_ in _Burgundy_, & lastly He said to _Don Fernando_ he was in _Paris_.

_Fer_. He did indeed.

_Mac_. What then?

_Hen_. Then, when in's chamber we were going to bed, He suddenly lookd wild, catchd me by the hand And, falling on his knees, with a pale face And troubled conscience he confessed he killd him, Nay, swore he basely murtherd him.

_Mac_. What say you to this?

_Alq_. Now he comes close up to you.

_Man_. He is my murtherer For I am none, so lett my Innocence guard me. I never spake with a distracted voice; Nere fell to him on my knees; spake of no father, No murtherd father. He's alive as I am, And some foule divell stands at the fellowes elbow, Jogging him to this mischefe. The Villaine belyes me, And on my knees, my lord, I beg that I And my white Innocence may tread the path Beaten out before us by that man, my brother. Command a case of rapiers to be sent for, And lett me meete his daring. I know him valiant; But I am doubly armd, both with a Courage Fiery as his can be, and with a cause That spitts his accusation full in the face.

_Mac_. The combate in this case cannot be granted, And here's the reason: when a man accuses A frend, much more a brother, for a fact So foule as murther (murther of a father), The Law leapes straight way to the Challenger To take his part. Say he that doth accuse Should be decrepitt, lame and weake, or sickly, The other strong and lusty; thinke you a kingdome Will hazard so a subject, when the quarrell Is for a kingdomes right? If y'are so valiant You then must call the law into the field But not the man.

_Man_. I have done; let law proceed.

_Mac_. This cannot serve your turne, say he does belye you; He stakes against your body his owne soule. Say there is no such murther, yet the Law Fastens on you; for any man accusd For killing of his father may be rackd To draw confession from him. Will you confesse?

_Man_. I cannot, must not, will not.

_Mac_. Jaylour, take & prepare him for the racke: Wele see it done here.

_Hen_. You are righteous Judges.

_Man_. Oh villaine, villaine, villaine!

[_Exit with the Jaylour_.

_Med_. Where's the wrongd Lady?

_Alq_. Stand you still at the Barre. You are now another man, sir; your scale turnes.

_Fernando fetches in Eleonora_.

_Mac_. Looke on the prisoner: doe you know him, Lady?

_Ele_. Would I had nere had cause to say I know him.

_Mac_. Of what doe you accuse him?

_Ele_. As the murtherer Both of my name and honour. In the hurry, When the Citty (they said) was ready to be taken, I being betrothed to this young gentleman, My father brought me to his father's house, Telling me their dwelt safety.--There dwelt villany, Treason, lust, basenes! for this godlesse man (The storme being ore) came in & forcd from me The Jewell of my virgin honour.

_Hen_. False!

_Fer_. I would not have thee thinke (thou graceles wretch) She, being contracted to thee, loving thee, Loving thee far more dearly then her selfe, Would wound her vertue soe, so blott her fame And bring a scandall on my house & me, Were not the fact most true.

_Hen_. Most false by all that ever man can sweare by. We falling out, I told her once I nere Would marry her; & soe she workes this mischiefe.

_Gyr_. You here stand chargd for ravishing her, & you Must marry her or she may have your life.

_Mac_. Lady, what say you? which had you rather have, His life or him?

_Ele_. I am not cruell; pay me my first Bond Of marriage, which you seald to, & I free you And shall with Joy run flying to your armes.

_All_. Law you?[53]

_Mac_. That's easy enough.

_Hen_. Rackes, Gibbetts, wheeles make sausages of my flesh first! Ile be ty'd to no man's Strumpet.

_Alq_. Then you muste look to dye.

_Mac_. Lady, withdraw.

_Hen_. Well, if I doe, somebody shall packe.

_Ele_. Oh me, unfortunate Creature! [_Exit_.

_Enter Manuell to be rackt; Jaylour & Officers_.

_Med_. _Don Manuell Guzman_ ere you taste the tortures, Which you are sure to feele, will you confesse This murther of your father?

_Man_. Pray, give me privacy a little with my brother.

_All_. [_Alq_.?] Take it.

_Man_. O brother your owne Conscience knowes you wrong me: Ile rather suffer on the Gallow Tree Then thus be torne in pieces. Canst thou see mee Thus worryed amongst hangmen? deare _Henrico_, For heavens sake, for thine owne sake pitty mee.

_All_. [_Alq_.?] What sayes he?

_Hen_. Cunning, cunning, cunning Traytour! In my eare he confesses all again and prayes me To speake to you.

_Mac_. Will you openly confesse?

_Man_. No, no, I cannot. Caytiffe, I spake not soe: I must not wound my Conscience to lay on it A guilt it knowes not. Ile not so dishonour My father, nor my ancestours before me, Nor my posterity with such an earthquake To shake our noble house.

_Mac_. Give him the Law then.

_Man_. Ile meete a thousand deaths first.

_Hen_. Plucke, & plucke home, for he's a murtherous Villaine.

_Man_. Thou worse, a divell.

_Mac_. Racke him!

_Man_. Oh stay! for heavens sake spread your mercy! I doe confesse the murther; I killd my father.

_All_. Take him off!

_Man_. This hand stabbd him.

_Mac_. Where?

_Man_. Neere _St. Germains_ In _Paris_, in a darke night, & then I fled.

_Mac_. Thy owne tongue is thy Judge; take him away: To-morrow looke to dye: send him a Confessour.

_Jay_. Ile have a holy care of him.

[_Exit Manuell, led by the Jaylour_.

_Hen_. Who's now, my lords, the Villaine?

_Enter Eleonora & Buzzano_.

_Ele_. Oh Justice, here's a witnesse of my Rape.

_Mac_. Did you see't, sirra?

_Buz_. See't! no, sir, would I had; but when she was in labour I heard her cry out "helpe! helpe!" & the Gamboll being ended she came in like a mad woman, ruffled & crumpled, her haire about her eares; & he all unbrac'd, sweating as if he had bene thrashing; & afterwards he told me, my lords, that he had downe diddled her.

_Hen_. I now am lost indeed, & on my knee Beg pardon of that goodnes, that pure Temple Which my base lust prophand, & will make good My wrongs to her by marriage.

_Mac_. What say you, Lady?

_Ele_. He spurnd my mercy when it flew to him And courted him to kisse it; therefore now Ile have his life.

_Fer_. That life, so had, redeemes Thine & thy fathers infamy. Justice! my Lords.

_Hen_. Cruell Creature!

_Mac_. Take him away & lead him to his brother; You both must die next morning.

_Hen_. I deserve it; And so that Slave, too, that betrayed his Master.

_Buz_. Why should I not betray my Master, when he betrayed his Mistris.

_Ele_. Get you gone, sirra.

[_Exeunt Henrico & Buzzano_.

_Mac_. You are dismissd: Faire Lady, You shall have Law, your Ravisher shall dye.

_Ele_. Oh that my life from death could sett him free!
[_Exit_.

_Mac_. Pray, _Don Fernando_, follow her & soften Her heart to pitty the poore gentleman: The Crime is not so Capitall.

_Fer_. Ile doe my best.
[_Exit_.

_Mac_. That such a noble _Spanyard_ as _Don Pedro_ Should be so cursed in's Children!

_Enter Buzzano, Don Pedro, Fernando & Eleonora_.

_Buz_. Hee's come, hee's come, my Lord! _Don Pedro Gusman_ is still alive,--see, see!

_Mac_. Let us descend to meet a happinesse Crownes all our expectations.

_Pedro_. Whilst I meet A Thunder strikes me dead. Oh, poore, wrongd Lady, The poyson which the villaine poures on thy honour Runs more into my veines then all the Venome He spitts at me or my deare Boy, his brother. My Lords, your pardon that I am transported With shame & sorrow thus beyond my selfe, Not paying to you my duty.

_All_. Your love, _Don Pedro_.

_Mac_. Conceale your selfe a while; your sons wele send for, And shew them deaths face presently.

_Pedro_. Ile play a part in't. [_Exit_.

_Mac_. Let them be fetcht, & speake not of a father.

_Ten_. This shall be done. [_Exit_.

_Mac_. Is your Compassion, Lady, yet awake? Remember that the scaffold, hangman, sword, And all the Instruments death playes upon, Are hither calld by you; 'tis you may stay them. When at the Barre there stood your Ravisher You would have savd him, then you made your choyce To marry him: will you then kill your husband?

_Ele_. Why did that husband then rather chuse death Then me to be his bride? is his life mine? Why, then, because the Law makes me his Judge, Ile be, like you, not cruell, but reprieve him; My prisoner shall kisse mercy.

_Mac_. Y'are a good Lady.

_Med_. Lady, untill they come, repose your selfe.

[_Exit Eleonora_.

_Mac_. How now? so soone come back? why thus returned?

_Enter Pike & a Gentleman, with Letters_.

_Gen_. Our Journey to _Madrid_ the Kinge himselfe Cutts off, by these his royall letters sent Upon the wings of speed to all your Graces. He lay one night since at your house, my Lord Where, by your noble Wife, he had a wellcome Fitting his greatnes & your will.

_Alq_. I'me glad of't.

_Mac_. The King, our Master, writes heere, _Englishman_, He has lost a subiect by you; yet referres Himselfe to us about you.

_Pike_. Againe, I stand heere To lay my own life downe, please his high Maiesty To take it: for what's lost his fate to fall Was _fortune de la guerre_, & at the feete Of his most royal Maiesty & at yours (My Princely Lords & Judges) low as th'earth I throw my wretched selfe & begg his mercy.

_Mac_. Stand up; that mercy which you aske is signd By our most royall master.

_Pike_. My thankes to heaven, him & your Graces.

_Mac_. The King further writes heere, That though your Nation came in Thunder hither Yet he holds out to you his Enemy 2 friendly proffers: serve him in his dominions Eyther by land or sea, & thou shalt live Upon a golden pension, such a harvest As thou nere reapst in _England_.

_Pike_. His kingly favours Swell up in such high heapes above my merit, Could I reare up a thousand lives, they cannot Reach halfe the way. Ime his, to be his Vassaile, His Gally Slave, please you to chaine me to the oare; But, with his highnes pardon & your allowance, I beg one Boone.

_All_. What is't?

_Pike_. That I may once more See my owne Country Chimneys cast out smoake. I owe my life and service to the King, (The king of _England_) let me pay that Bond Of my allegeance; &, that being payd, There is another obligation, One to a woefull Wife & wretched Children Made wretched by my misery. I therefore beg, Intreat, emplore, submissively hold up my hands To have his Kingly pitty & yours to lett me goe.

_All_. [_Alq_.?] Let him ene goe.

_Mac_. Well, since we cannot win you to our service, We will not weane you from your Countryes love. The king, our lord, commands us here to give you A hundred pistoletts to beare you home.

_Pike_. A royall bounty, which my memory Shall never loose; no, nor these noble favours Which from the _Lady Marquesse Alquevezze_ Raynd plenteously on me.

_Alq_. What did she to thee?

_Gyr_. How did she entertaine thee?

_Pike_. Rarely; it is a brave, bounteous, munificent, magnificent Marquezza! the great Turke cannot tast better meat then I have eaten at this ladies Table.

_Alq_. So, so.

_Pike_. And for a lodging, if the curtaines about my bed had bene cutt of Sunbeames, I could not lye in a more glorious Chamber.

_Mac_. You have something, then, to speake of our weomen when y'are in _England_.

_Pike_. This Box, with a gold chaine in't for my Wife & some pretty things for my Children, given me by your honourd Lady would else cry out on me. There's a _Spanish_ shirt, richly lacd & seemd, her guift too; & whosoever layes a foul hand upon her linnen in scorne of her bounty, were as good flea[54] the Divells skin over his eares.

_Mac_. Well said: in _England_ thou wilt drinke her health?

_Pike_. Were it a glasse as deepe to the bottome as a _Spanish_ pike is long, an _Englishman_ shall doe't. Her health, & _Don Johns_ wives too.

_Enter Jaylor_.

_Jay_. The Prisoners are upon comming.

_Mac_. Stand by, _Englishman_.

_Enter Teniente, Henrico, Manuell, Pedro (as a fryer);
at another dore Eleonora_.

_Mac_. Give the Lady roome there!

_Clark_. Peace!

_Mac_. Your facts are both so foule your hated lives Cannot be too soone shortned; therefore these Lords Hold it not fitt to lend you breath till morning, But now to cutt you off.

_Both_. The stroke is welcome.

_Pedro_. Shall I prepare you?

_Hen_. Save your paynes, good father.

_Man_. We have allready cast up our accounts And sent, we hope, our debts up into heaven.

_Fer_. Our sorrowes & our sighes fly after them.

_Ped_. Then your confession of the murther stands As you your selfe did sett it downe?

_Man_. It does; But on my knees I beg this marginall note May sticke upon the paper; that no guilt, But feare of Tortures frighted me to take That horrid sin upon me. I am as innocent And free as are the starres from plotting treason Gainst their first mover.

_Pedro_. I was then in _France_ When of your fathers murther the report Did fill all _Paris_.

_Man_. Such a reverend habit Should not give harbour to so blacke a falshood.

_Hen_. Tis blacke, & of my dying; for 'twas I To cheate my brother of my fathers lands, Layd this most hellish plott.

_Fer_. 3[55] hellish sins, Robbery, Rape & Murther.

_Hen_. I'me guilty of all Three; his soul's as white And cleare from murther as this holy man From killing mee.

_Pedro_. No [know], there's a thing about me Shall strike thee into dust & make thy tongue With trembling to proclayme thyselfe a Villaine More then thou yet hast done:--See, tis my Eye.

_Hen_. Oh, I am confounded! [_Falls_.

_Man_. But I comforted With the most heavenly apparition Of my deare honourd father.

_Fer_. Take thou comfort By two more apparitions, of a father And a lost daughter, yet heere found for thee.

_Man_. Oh, noble sir, I pray forgive my brother.

_Ele_. See, sir, I doe; & with my hand reach to him My heart to give him new life.

_Fer_. Rise, my _Henrico_!

_Mac_. Rise & receive a noble minded wife Worth troupes of other weomen.

_Hen_. Shame leaves me speechles.

_Pedro_. Gett thee a tongue againe, & pray, & mend.

_Mac_. Letters shall forthwith fly into _Madrid_ To tell the King the storyes of Two Brothers, Worthy the Courtiers reading. Lovers, take hands: _Hymen_ & gentle faeryes strew your way: Our Sessions turnes into a Bridall day.

_All_. Fare thee well, _Englishman_.

_Pike_. I will ring peales of prayers of you all, My Lords & noble Dons.

_Mac_. Doe soe, if thou hast iust cause: howsoever, When thy swift ship cutts through the curled mayne, Dance to see _England_, yet speake well of _Spayne_.

_Pike_. I shall.--Where must I leave my pistoletts?

_Gent_. Follow mee.

[_Exeunt Omnes_.

FINIS.