Chapter II: Part 2

_Mer_. That is because thou knowest I laide him there: To guiltinesse each thought begetteth feare. But go, my true, though wofull comforter, Wipe up the blood in every place above, So that no drop be found about the house: I know all houses will be searcht anon. Then burne the clothes, with which you wipe the ground That no apparant signe of blood be found.

_Rach_. I will, I will; oh, would to God I could As cleerely wash your conscience from the deed As I can cleanse the house from least suspect Of murthrous deed, and beastly crueltie!

_Mer_. Cease to wish vainely, let us seeke to save Our names, our fames, our lives and all we have.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE IV.]

_Enter three or foure neighbours together_.

1 _Neigh_. Neighbours, tis bruted all about the towne That _Robert Beech_, a honest Chaundelor, Had his man deadly wounded yester night, At twelve a clock, when all men were a sleepe.

2. Where was his maister, when the deed was done?

3. No man can tell, for he is missing to, Some men suspect that he hath done the fact, And that for feare the man is fled away; Others, that knew his honest harmlesse life, Feare that himselfe is likewise made away.

4. Then let commaundement every where be given, That sinkes and gutters, privies, crevises, And every place where blood may be conceald, Be throughly searcht, swept, washt, and neerely sought, To see if we can finde the murther out. And least that _Beech_ be throwne into the _Thames_, Let charge be given unto the watermen That, if they see the body of a man, Floting in any place about the _Thames_, That straight they bring it unto _Lambert Hill_, Where _Beech_ did dwell when he did live in health.

1 _Neigh_. Ile see this charge performd immediatly.

4. Now let us go to Maister _Beeches_ shop, [_Exit_. To see if that the boy can give us light, Of those suspitions which this cause doth yeeld.

2. This is the house; call Maister _Loney_ forth.

3. Hoe, Maister _Loney_! doth the boy yet live?

_Enter Loney_.

Or can he utter who hath done him wrong.

_Lo_. He is not dead but hath a dying life, For neither speech, nor any sense at all, Abideth in the poore unhappie youth.

4. Here [_sic_] you of anie where his Maister is?

_Lo_. No, would we could; we all, that knew his life, Suspect him not for any such offence.

4. Bring forth the boy, that we may see his wounds.

[_Bringes him forth in a chaire with a hammer sticking
in his head_.

What say the Surgeons to the youngmans woundes?

_Lo_. They give him over, saying everie wound, Of sixe, whereof theres seav'n in his head, Are mortall woundes and all incurable.

[_They survey his woundes_.

_Enter Merrie and Williams_.

_Mer_. How now, good _Harry_, hast thou hid my fault? The boy that knew I train'd his Maister forth, Lies speechlesse, and even at the point of death. If you prove true, I hope to scape the brunt.

_Will_. Whie, feare not me, I have conceal'd it yet, And will conceale it, have no doubt of me.

_Mer_. Thanks, gentle _Harry_, thou shalt never lacke; But thou and I will live as faithfull friendes, And what I have, shalbe thine owne to use. There is some monie for to spend to-day, I know you meane to goe and see the faire.

_Will_. I faine would go, but that I want a cloake.

_Mer_. Thou shalt not want a cloake, or ought beside, So thou wilt promise to be secret. [_Gives him his cloake_. Here, take my Cloake, ile weare my best my selfe. But where did you lie this last night?

_Wil_. At the _three Cranes_, in a Carmans hay loft, But ile have better lodging soone at night.

_Mer_. Thou wilt be secret. I will go and see, [_Exit Willi_. What stir they keepe about _Beeches_ shop, Because I would avoyde suspition. [_Go to them_. God save you, Gentlemen! is this the boy That is reported to be murthered?

4. He is not dead outright, but pleas'd it God, Twere better he had left this wicked world, Then to live thus in this extremitie.

_Mer_. A cruell hand no doubt that did the deede. Whie pull you not the hammer from his head?

4. That must not be before the youth be dead, Because the crowner and his quest may see, The manner how he did receive his death. Beare hence the bodie, and endevor all, To finde them out that did the villanie.

[_Exeunt omnes: manet Merrie_.

_Mer_. Do what you can, cast all your wits about, Rake kennells, gutters, seeke in everie place, Yet I will overgoe your cunning heads, If _Williams_ and my sister hold their tongues. My neighbours holdes not me in least suspect, Weighing of my former conversation. Were _Beeches_ boy well conveid awaie, Ide hope to overblow this stormie day.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE V.]

_Enter Falleria, Sostrata, Allenso, Pertillo,
and two Murtherers booted_.

_Fall_. Now little cooze, you are content to goe, From me your Unckle and your loving Aunt, Your faithfull cozen, and your dearest friendes: And all to come to be a skilfull man, In learned artes and happy sciences?

_Per_, I am content, because it pleaseth you. My father bid I should obey your will, And yeelde my selfe to your discretion: Besides my cozen gave me yesternight, A prettie nag to ride to _Padua_. Of all my friends _Allenso_ loves me best.

_Fall_. I thinke thou art inspir'd with prophesie: [_To the people_. He loves thee better then I would he did.-- Why, wherefore think you so, my prettie Nephew?

_Per_. Because he taught me how to say my prayers, To ride a horse, to start the fearfull hare. He gave this dagger to me yester night, This little Ring, and many pretie things; For which, kind cooze, I rest your true debtor, And one day I will make you recompence.

_Fall_. I, with thy lands and goods thou leav'st behinde.

_Allen_. Pray, father, let me go along with him.-- Now, by the Saviour of my sinfull soule, [_To the people_. I do not like those fellowes countenance.

_Fall_. Sonne be content, weele go a seavenight hence, And see him in his universitie weedes. These will conduct him safely to the place; Be well assured they'l have a care of him-- That you shall never see _Pertillo_ more. [_To the people_.

_Allen_. Father, I pray you to withdraw your selfe, Ide have a word or two in secresie.

[_They speake together_.

_Sost_. Come living image of thy dead mother, And take my loving farewell, ere we part. I love thee dearly for thy fathers sake, But for thy mothers dote with jealousie. Oh I do feare, before I see thy face, Or thou or I shall taste of bitternesse. Kisse me, sweete boy, and, kissing, folde thine Aunte Within the circle of thy little armes. I neede not feare, death cannot offer wrong; The majestie of thy presaging face, Would vanquish him, though nere so terrible. The angry Lionesse that is bereav'd Of her imperious crew of forrest kings, Would leave her furie, and defend thee safe From Wolves, from Panthers, Leopards, and Shee Beares, That live by rapine, stealth and crueltie. Therefore to God I do commend thy state, Who will be sure to guard thee tenderly. And now to you, that carry hence this wealth, This precious Jewell, this unprized good, Have a regarde to use him carefully, When he is parted from that serious care, Which was imployde for his securitie. I urge it not, that I misdoubt your truth; I hope his Unckle doth perswade himselfe You will be courteous, kinde, and affable. Ther's some rewarde for hoped carefulnesse.

_Allen_. Now by my soule I do suspect the men, Especially the lower of the two: See, what a hollow discontented looke He casts, which brings apparant cause of feare: The other, though he seeme more courteous, Yet dooth his lookes presadge this thought in me. As if he scorn'd to thinke on courtesie.

_Fall_. Upon my life, my sonne you are to blame, The gentlemen are honest, vertuous, And will protect _Pertillo_ happily. These thoughts proceed out of aboundant love, Because you grieve to leave his company. If ought betide him otherwise then well, Let God require due vengaunce on my head, And cut my hopes from all prosperitie.

_Allen_. A heavie sentence, full of wondrous feare: I cannot choose but credit such a vowe. Come hether then, my joy, my chiefest hopes, My second selfe, my earthly happinesse, Lend me thy little prety cherry lip, To kisse me, cozen; lay thy little hand Upon my cheeke, and hug me tenderly. Would the cleere rayes of thy two glorious sunnes Could penetrate the corners of my heart, That thou might see how much I tender thee. My friends, beholde, within this little bulke Two perfect bodyes are incorporate; His life holdes mine, his heart conteines my hart, His every lim containes my every part; Without his being I can never be, He being dead, prepare to bury me. Oh thou immortall mover of the spheares Within their circled revolusions, Whose glorious image this small orphant beares, Wrought by thy all-sufficient majestie, Oh never suffer any wicked hand To harme this heavenly workmanship of thine, But let him live, great God, to honor thee With vertuous life and spotlesse pietie!

_Per_. Cease, my kind cooze; I cannot choose but weepe, To see your care of my securitie.

_Allen_.--Knewst thou my reason, that perswades my hart, Thou wouldst not wonder, why I grieve to part: But yet I would suspect my fathers vowe, Did any other make it by your leave.

_Fall_. What have you done? this lothnesse to depart, Seemes you were trained up in tediousnesse, Thou knowst not when and where to make an end. Take him my friends, I know you will discharge The hope and trust that I repose in you.

_Both_. Assure your selfe, in every circumstance.

_Fall_. Then to your horses quicklie, speedily, Else we shall put our fingers in the eye, And weepe for kindnesse till tomorrow morne.

_Per_. Farewell good Unckle, Aunt, and loving cooze.

[_Sostratus [sic] kisseth the boy weeping_.

_Allen_. Farewell.--I fear me everlastinglie.

[_Exeunt Sostratus and Allenso_.

[_One of the Murtherers takes Falleria by the sleeve_.

1 _mu_. You meane not now to have him murthered?

_Fall_. Not murthered, what else? kill him, I say: But wherefore makes thou question of my will?

_Mur_. Because you wisht that God should be revenged, If any ill betide the innocent.

_Fall_. Oh that was nothing but to blind the eyes Of my fond sonne, which loves him too too well.

_Mer_. It is enough, it shall be surely done.

[_Exeunt om_.

[SCENE VI.]

_Enter Merry and Rachel with a bag_.

_Mer_. What, hast thou sped? have you bought the bag?

_Rach_. I, brother, here it is; what is't to do?

_Mer_. To beare hence _Beeches_ body in the night.

_Rach_. You cannot beare so great a waight your selfe, And tis no trusting of another man.

_Mer_. Yes well enough, as I will order it. Ile cut him peece-meale; first his head and legs Will be one burthen; then the mangled rest, Will be another, which I will transport, Beyond the water in a Ferryboate, And throw it into _Paris-garden_ ditch,[16] Fetch me the chopping knife, and in the meane Ile move the fagots that do cover him. [_Remove the Fagots_.

_Rach_. Oh can you finde in hart to cut and carve, His stone-colde flesh, and rob the greedy grave, Of his dissevered blood-besprinkled lims?

_Mer_. I, mary can I:--fetch the chopping knife.

_Rach_. This deed is worse, then when you took his life. [_Exit_.

_Mer_. But worse, or better, now it must be so, Better do thus than feele a greater woe.

_Enter Rach_.

Here is the knife, I cannot stay to see This barbarous deed of inhumanitie. [_Exit Rachel_.

[_Merry begins to cut the body, and bindes the armes
behinde his back with Beeches garters; leaves out the
body, covers the head and legs againe_.

_Enter Truth_.

Yee glorious beames of that bright-shining lampe That lights the starre-bespangled firmament, And dimnes the glimmering shadowes of the night, Why doost thou lend assistance to this wretch, To shamble forth with bold audacitie His lims, that beares thy makers semblance! All you the sad spectators of this Acte, Whose harts do taste a feeling pensivenesse Of this unheard of, savadge massacre, Oh be farre of to harbour such a thought As this audacious murtherer put in ure![17] I see your sorrowes flowe up to the brim, And overflowe your cheekes with brinish teares, But though this sight bring surfet to the eye, Delight your eares with pleasing harmonie,[18] That eares may counterchecke your eyes, and say, Why shed you teares, this deede is but a playe? His worke is done, he seekes to hide his sinne; Ile waile his woe before his woe begin. [_Exit Trueth_.

_Mer_. Now will I high me to the water side, And fling this heavie burthen in a ditche, Whereof my soule doth feele so great a waight That it doth almost presse me downe with feare.

[ACT THE THIRD.]

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Rachell_.

Harke, _Rachell_, I will crosse the water straight And fling this middle mention of a man Into some ditch; then high me home againe, To rid my house of that is left behinde.

_Rach_. Where have you laid the legs & battered head?

_Mer_. Under the fagots where it lay before. Helpe me to put this trunk into the bag.

_Rach_. My heart will not endure to handle it, The sight hereof doth make me quake for feare,

_Mer_. Ile do't my selfe; onely drie up the blood, And burne the clothes as you have done before. [_Exit_.

_Rach_. I feare thy soule will burne in flames of hell, Unless repentance wash wash away thy sinne With clensing teares of true contrition. Ah, did not nature oversway my will, The world should know this plot of damned ill.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE II.]

_Enter two Murtherers with Pertillo_.

_Per_. I am so wearie in this combrous wood, That I must needes go sit me downe and rest.

1 _Mur_. What were we best? to kill him unawares, Or give him notice what we doe intend?

2 _Mur_. Whie then belike you meane to do your charge, And feel no tast of pittie in your hart.

1 _Mur_. Of pittie, man! that never enters heere, And if it should, Ide threat my craven heart To stab it home for harbouring such a thought. I see no reason whie I should relent; It is a charitable vertuous deede, To end this princkocke[19] from this sinfull world.

2 _Mur_. Such charitie will never have reward, Unlesse it be with sting of conscience; And thats a torment worse than Sisipus, That rowles a restlesse stone against the hill.

1 _Mur_. My conscience is not prickt with such conceit.

2 _Mur_. That shews thee further off from hoped grace.

1 _Mur_. Grace me no graces, I respect no grace, But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab; To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes, To see what shift theile make to scramble home; Pick out mens eyes, and tell them thats the sport Of hood-man-blinde, without all sportivenesse. If with a grace I can perform such pranckes, My hart will give mine agents many thankes.

2 _Mur_. Then God forbid I should consort my selfe With one so far from grace and pietie, Least being found within thy companie, I should be partner of thy punishment.

1 _Mur_. When wee have done what we have vowed to do, My hart desires to have no fellowship With those that talk of grace or godlinesse. I nam'd not God, unleast twere with an othe, Sence the first hour that I could walk alone; And you that make so much of conscience, By heaven thou art a damned hipocrite, For thou hast vow'd to kill that sleeping boy, And all to gaine two hundreth markes in gold. I know this purenesse comes of pure deceit, To draw me from from the murthering of the child, That you alone might have the benefit. You are too shallow; if you gull me so, Chop of my head to make a Sowsing-tub, And fill it full of tripes and chitterlinges.

2 _Mur_. That thou shalt see my hart is far from fraud, Or vaine illusion in this enterprize, Which doth import the safetie of our soules, There take my earnest of impietie. [_Give him his mony_. Onely forbeare to lay thy ruder handes Upon the poore mistrustlesse tender child. As for our vowes, feare not their violence; God will forgive on hartie penitence.

1 _Mur_. Thou Eunuch, Capon, Dastard, fast and loose, Thou weathercocke of mutabilitie, White-livered Paisant, wilt thou vowe and sweare, Face and make semblance with thy bagpipe othes Of that thou never meanst to execute? Pure cowardice, for feare to cracke thy necke With the huge Caos of thy bodies waight, Hath sure begot this true contrition. Then fast and pray, and see if thou canst winne, A goodlie pardon for thy hainous sinne. As for the boy, this fatall instrument Was mark'd by heaven to cut his line[20] of life, And must supplie the knife of _Atropos_, And if it doe not, let this maister-piece (Which nature lent the world to wonder at) Be slit in Carbonadoes[21] for the jawes Of some men-eating hungrie Canniball. By heaven ile kill him onely for this cause, For that he came of vertuous Auncestors.

2 _m_. But by that God which made that wondrous globe, Wherein is seene his powerfull dietie,[22] Thou shalt not kill him maugre all thy spight. Sweare, and forsweare thyselfe ten thousand times. Awake _Pertillo_, for thou art betrai'd; This bloody slave intends to murther thee. [_Draw both_.

1 _mur_. Both him, and all, that dare to rescue him.

_Per_. Wherefore? because I slept without your leave? Forgive my fault, ile never sleepe againe.

2 _Mur_. No Child, thy wicked Unckle hath suborn'd Both him and me to take thy life away, Which I would save, but that this hellish impe Will not content to spare thy guiltlesse blood.

_Per_. Why should _Falleria_ seeke to have my life?

2 _mur_. The lands and goods, thy father left his sonne, Do hale thee on to thy destruction.

_Per_. Oh needy treasure, harme-begetting good! That safety[23] should procure the losse of blood!

2 _mur_. Those lands and goods, thy father got with paine, Are swords wherewith his little sonne is slaine.

1 _mu_. Then let our swords let out his guiltlesse life.

_Per_. Sweete, sowre, kinde, cruell, hold thy murthering knife, And here [_sic_] me speake, before you murther me.

2 _mu_. Feare not, sweet child, he shall not murther thee.

1 _mu_. No, but my sword shall let his puddings forth.

_Per_. First here me speake, thou map of Butcherie: Tis but my goods and lands my Unckle seekes; Having that safely, he desires no more. I do protest by my dead parents soules, By the deare love of false _Fallerios_ sonne, Whose heart, my heart assures me, will be griev'd To heare his fathers inhumanitie, 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,[24] and scratching bryers, A mightie dewe,[25] 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[26] 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[27] 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.[28] 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[29] 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[30] 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.

[_Exeunt_.

[ACT THE FOURTH.]

[SCENE I.]

_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_.[31]

_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.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE II.]

_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.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE III.]

_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[32] 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.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE IV.]

_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[33] 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[34] 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?

[_Ex. Porter_.

_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.

[_Ex. R_.

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!

[_Exeunt omnes_.

[SCENE V.]

_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.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE VI.]

_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[35] 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[36] 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[37] 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[38] 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[39] at _Padua_.

_Fall_. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade, A one eyde _Cyclops_, a stigmaticke[40] 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.