Chapter VIII: Prologue: Of the Play (4)

WIFE. What, I say? what meaneth this weeping? What aileth thee to make all this crying?

HUSBAND. I weep not, forsooth, nor cry not as yet.

WIFE. No, nor thou wilt not, if thou hast any wit; It is not thy weeping that can ought avail, And therefore this matter no longer bewail. Come off, I say, and run by the river, And wash these clothes in the water.

HUSBAND. Wife, I will thither hie me fast.

WIFE. Yet I advise thee, thou cullon,[361] make haste.

HUSBAND. O, how unhappy and eke unfortunate Is the most part of married men's condition! I would to death I had been agate,[362] When my mother in bearing me made lamentation. What shall I do? whither shall I turn? Most careful man now under the sky! In the flaming fire I had rather burn, Than with extreme pain live so heavily. There is no shift; to my wife I must go, Whom that I did wed; I am full wo! Where are ye, wife? your clothes are washed clean, As white as a lily,[363] without spot or stain.

WIFE. Thou thief, thou caitiff, why is not this lace Washed as fair as all the rest? Thou shalt for this gear now smoke apace! By Jis,[364] I swear, thou brutish beast!

[_Here she must knock her Husband_.

HUSBAND. Alas, alas! I am almost quite dead! My wife so pitifully hath broken my head!

[_Here her Husband must lie along on the ground,
as though he were sore beaten and wounded_.

WIFE. Well, I perceive the time will away, And into the country to go I have promised; Look therefore thou go not from hence to-day, Till home again I am returned. Take heed, I say, this house thee retain, And stir not for any thing out of my door, Until that I come hither again, As thou wilt be rewarded therefore.

[_Here his Wife goeth out, and the Husband
tarrieth behind alone_.

HUSBAND. The flying fiend[365] go with my wife, And in her journey ill may she speed! I pray God Almighty to shorten her life! The earth at no time doth bear such a weed! Although that I be a gentleman born, And come by my ancètors of a good blood, Yet am I like to wear a coat torn, And hither and thither go carry wood! But rather than I this life will abide, To-morrow morning I do intend Home to my father again to ride, If some man to me his horse will lend. She is to her gossips gone to make merry, And there she will be for three or four days: She cares not, though I do now miscarry, And suffer such pain and sorrow always. She leaveth to me neither bread nor drink, But such, as I judge, no body would eat: I might by the walls lie dead and stink, For any great wholesomeness in my meat. She walketh abroad, and taketh her pleasure: Herself to cherish is all her care: She passeth not what grief I endure, Or how I can live with noughty[366] fare: And since it is so, without further delay To my father to-morrow I will away.

[_Here he goeth out, and in cometh the Devil_.[367]

SATAN THE DEVIL. Ho, ho, ho, what a fellow am I! Give room, I say, both more and less: My strength and power, hence to the sky, No earthly tongue can well express! O, what inventions, crafts and wiles Is there contained within this head! I know that he is within few miles, Which of the same is throughly sped. O, it was all my study day and night Cunningly to bring this matter to pass: In all the earth there is no wight, But I can make to cry alas. This man and wife, that not long ago Fell in this place together by the ears: It was only I that this strife did sow, And have been about it certain years. For after that I had taken a smell Of their good will and fervent love, Me-thought I should not tarry in hell, But unto debate them shortly move: O, it was I that made him to despise All wisdom, goodness, virtue, and learning, That he afterward could in no wise Once in his heart fancy teaching: O, it was I that made him refuse The wholesome monition of his father dear, And caused him still of a wife to muse, As though she should be his joy and cheer! O, it was I that made him go hence, And suppose that his father was very unkind; It was I that did drive him to such expense, And made him as bare as an ape is behind. And now that I have this business ended, And joined him and his wife together, I think that I have my part well played: None of you all would do it better. Ho, ho, ho! this well-favoured head of mine, What thing soever it hath in hand, Is never troubled with ale or wine, Neither by sea, nor yet by land. I tell you I am a marvellous body, As any is at this day living: My head doth devise each thing so trimly, That all men may wonder of the ending. O, I have such fetches,[368] such toys in this head, Such crafty devices and subtle train, That whomsoever of you I do wed, Ye are like at my hands to take small gain. There is no gentleman, knight, or lord: There is no duke, earl, or king, But, if I list, I can with one word Shortly send unto their lodging. Some I disquiet with covetousness: Some with wrath, pride and lechery; And some I do thrust into such distress, That he feeleth only pain and misery. Some I allure to have their delight Always in gluttony, envy and murder, And those things to practise with all their might, Either by land or else by water. Ho, ho, ho! there is none to be compared To me, I tell you, in any point: With a great sort[369] myself I have tried, That boldly ventured many a joint, And when for a long time we had wrestled, And showed our strength on either side, Yet oftentimes a fall they received, When through my policy their feet did slide. Wherefore (my dear children) I warn ye all: Take heed, take heed of my temptation, For commonly at the last ye have the fall, And also [be] brought to desperation. O! it is a folly for many to strive, And think of me to get the upper hand, For unless that God make them to thrive, They cannot against me stick or stand: And though that God on high have his dominion, And ruleth the world everywhere, Yet by your leave I have a portion Of this same earth that standeth here. The kingdom of God is above in heaven, And mine is, I tell you, beneath in hell; But yet a greater place, if he had dealt even, He should have given me and mine to dwell: For to my palace of every nation, Of what degree or birth soever they be, Come running in with such festination,[370] That otherwhiles they amazed me. O, all the Jews and all the Turks, Yea, and a great part of Christendom, When they have done my will and my works, In the end they fly hither all and some:[371] There is no minute of the day, There is no minute of the night, But that in my palace there is alway Crowding together a marvellous sight; They come on thicker than swarms of bees, And make such a noise and crying out, That many a one lieth on his knees, With thousands kept under and closed about: Not so much as my parlours, halls, and every chamber: My porches, my galleries, and my court: My entries, my kitchen, and my larder, But with all manner people be filled throughout! What shall I say more, I cannot tell, But of this (my children) I am certain, There comes more in one hour unto hell, Than unto heaven in a month or twain. And yet for all this my nature is such, That I am not pleased with this company, But out of my kingdom I must walk much, That one or other I may take tardy. Ho, ho, ho! I am never once afraid With these my claws you for to touch, For I will not leave, till you be paid Such treasure as is within my pouch. The world is my son, and I am his father, And also the flesh is a daughter of mine; It is I alone that taught them to gather Both gold and silver that is so fine; Wherefore I suppose that they love me well, And my commandments gladly obey, That at the last then unto hell They may come all the ready way. But now (I know), since I came hither, There is such a multitude at my gate, That I must again repair down thither After mine old manner and rate.

[_Here the Devil goeth out, and in cometh the Rich Man's Son alone_.

THE SON. How glad am I that my journey is ended, Which I was about this whole day! My horse to stand still I never suffered, Because I would come to the end of my way: But yet I am sorry that I cannot find My loving father at home at his place, That unto him I may break my mind, And let him know my miserable case.

[_Here he confesseth his naughtiness, uttering the
same with a pitiful voice_.

I have been wild, I have been wanton, I have ever followed my fancy and will: I have been to my father a froward son, And from day to day continued still. I have always proudly disdained those That in my madness gave me good counsel: I counted them most my mortal foes, And stoutly against them did rebel. The thing that was good I greatly hated, As one which lacked both wit and reason; The thing that was evil I ever loved, Which now I see is my confusion. I could not abide of the school to hear; Masters and teachers my heart abhorred; Methought the book was not fit gear For my tender fingers to have handled; I counted it a pleasure to be daintily fed, And to be clothed in costly array: I would most commonly slug in my bed, Until it were very far-forth day. And (to be short) anon after this, There came such fancies in my brain, That to have a wife, whom I might kiss, I reckoned to be the greatest gain. But yet, alas, I was quite deceived; The thing itself doth easily appear; I would, alas, I had been buried, When to my father I gave not ear! That which I had I have clean spent, And kept so much riot with the same, That now I am fain a coat that is rent, Alas, to wear for very shame. I have not a cross left in my purse To help myself now in my need, That well I am worthy of God's curse, And of my father to have small meed.

[_Here the Rich Man must be as it were coming in_.

But except mine eyes do me beguile, That man is my father, whom I do see: And now that he comes, without craft or wile, To him I will bend on either knee. Ah, father, father, my father most dear!

FATHER. Ah! mine own child, with thee what cheer?

SON. All such sayings as in my mind At the first time ye studied to settle, Most true, alas, I do them find, As though they were written in the Gospel.

FATHER. Those words, my son, I have almost forgotten; Stand up, therefore, and kneel no longer, And what it was I spake so often, At two or three words recite to thy father.

SON. If that ye be, father, well remembered, As the same I believe ye cannot forget, You said that, so soon as I were married, Much pain and trouble thereby I should get.

FATHER. Hast thou by proof, son, this thing tried?

SON. Yea, alas, too much I have experienced: My wife I did wed all full of frenzy. My seely poor shoulders hath now so bruised, That like to a cripple I move me weakly, Being full often with the staff thwacked: She spareth no more my flesh and bone, Than if my body were made of stone! Her will, her mind, and her commandment From that day hither I have fulfilled, Which if I did not, I was bitterly shent, And with many strokes grievously punished: That would God, the hour when I was married, In the midst of the church I might have sinked. I think there is no man under the sun, That here on the earth beareth life, Which would do such drudgery as I have done, At the unkind words of such a wife; For how I was used, and in what wise, A day to declare will not suffice. If this be not true, as I have spoken, To my good neighbours I me report, Who other whiles, when I was smitten, My wife to be gentle did then exhort: For glad I was to abide all labour, Whereby the less might be my dolour.[372] Wherefore, good father, I you humbly desire To have pity of me and some compassion, Or else I am like to lie fast in the mire, Without any succour or consolation: For at this hour I have not a penny, Myself to help in this great misery.

FATHER. For so much as by my advice and counsel In no manner wise thou wouldest be ruled. Therefore to thee I cannot do well, But let thee still suffer as thou hast deserved, For that thou hast suffered is yet nothing To that tribulation which is behind coming.

SON. Alas, father, what shall I do? My wits of themselves cannot devise What thing I were best go unto, Whereof an honest living may arise: Wherefore, gentle father, in this distress, Somewhat assuage mine heaviness.

FATHER. What should I do, I cannot tell, For now that thou hast taken a wife, With me thy father thou mayest not dwell, But always with her spend thy life. Thou mayest not again thy wife forsake, Which during life to thee thou didst take.

SON. Alas, I am not able thus to endure, Though thereunto I were never so willing; For my wife is of such a crooked nature, As no woman else in this day living, And if the very truth I shall confess, She is to me an evil that is endless.

FATHER. If that thou thinkest thyself alone Only to lead this irksome life, Thou may'st learn what grief, sorrow and moan, Socrates had with Xantippe his wife[373]; Her husband full oft she taunted and checked, And, as the book saith, unhonestly mocked.

SON. I cannot tell what was Socrates wife, But mine I do know, alas, too well; She is one that is evermore full of strife, And of all scolders beareth the bell. When she speaketh best, then brawleth her tongue; When she is still, she fighteth apace; She is an old witch, though she be young: No mirth with her, no joy or solace!

FATHER. I cannot, my son, thy state redress; Me thy father thou didst refuse; Wherefore now help thy own foolishness, And of thy wife no longer muse.

SON. My wife went forth into the country With certain gossips to make good cheer, And bad me at home still to be, That at her return she might find me there: And if that she do take me from home,[374] My bones, alas, she will make to crackle, And me her husband, as a stark mome,[375] With knocking and mocking she will handle; And, therefore, if I may not here remain, Yet, loving father, give me your reward, That I may with speed ride home again, That to my wife's words have some regard.

FATHER. If that at the first thou wouldest have been ordered, And done as thy father counselled thee, So wretched a life had never chanced, Whereof at this present thou complainest to me; But yet come on, to my house we will be going, And there thou shalt see what I will give:-- A little to help thy need living, Since that in such penury thou dost live; And that once done, thou must hence again, For I am not he that will thee retain.

[_Here the Rich Man and his Son go out, and in
cometh the Perorator_.[376]

THE PERORATOR.

This Interlude here, good gentle audience, Which presently before you we have played, Was set forth with such care and diligence, As by us truly might well be shewed. Short it is, I deny not, and full of brevity, But if ye mark thereof the matter, Then choose ye cannot but see plainly, How pain and pleasure be knit together. By this little play the father is taught After what manner his child to use, Lest that through cockering[377] at length he be brought His father's commandment to refuse; Here he may learn a witty[378] lesson Betimes to correct his son being tender, And not let him be lost and undone With wantonness, of mischief the mother; For as long as the twig is gentle and pliant (Every man knoweth this by experience), With small force and strength it may be bent, Putting thereto but little diligence; But after that it waxeth somewhat bigger, And to cast his branches largely beginneth, It is scant the might of all thy power, That one bough thereof easily bendeth: This twig to a child may well be applied, Which, in his childhood and age of infancy, With small correction may be amended, Embracing the school with heart and body, Who afterward, with overmuch liberty, And ranging abroad with the bridle of will, Despiseth all virtue, learning, and honesty, And also his father's mind to fulfil: Whereby at the length it so falleth out That this the young stripling, after that day Runs into confusion without any doubt, And like for evermore quite to decay. Wherefore take heed, all ye that be parents, And follow a part after my counsel; Instruct your children and make them students, That unto all goodness they do not rebel; Remember what writeth Solomon the wise: _Qui parcit virgae, odit filium_. Therefore for as much as ye can devise, Spare not the rod, but follow wisdom: Further, ye young men and children also, Listen to me and hearken a while, What in few words for you I will show Without any flattery, fraud, or guile. This rich man's son whom we did set forth Here evidently before our eyes, Was (as it chanced) nothing worth: Given to all noughtiness, vice, and lies. The cause whereof was this for a truth: His time full idly he did spend, And would not study in his youth, Which might have brought him to a good end; His father's commandment he would not obey, But wantonly followed his fantasy, For nothing that he could do or say Would bring this child to honesty. And at the last (as here ye might see) Upon a wife he fixed his mind, Thinking the same to be felicity, When indeed misery came behind; For by this wife he carefully[379] lived, Who under his father did want nothing, And in such sort was hereby tormented, That ever anon he went lamenting. His father did will him lightness[380] to leave, And only to give himself unto study, But yet unto virtue he would not cleave, Which is commodious for soul and body. You heard that by sentences ancient and old, He stirred his son as he best thought; But he, as an unthrift stout and bold, His wholesome counsel did set at nought; And since that he despised his father, God unto him did suddenly then send Such poverty with a wife and grief together, That shame and sorrow was his end. Wherefore to conclude, I warn you all By your loving parents always be ruled, Or else be well assured of such a fall, As unto this young man worthily chanced. Worship God daily, which is the chief thing, And his holy laws do not offend: Look that ye truly serve the king, And all your faults be glad to amend: Moreover, be true of hand and tongue, And learn to do all things that be honest, For no time so fit, as when ye be young, Because that age only is the aptest. I have no more to speak at this season, For very good will these things I did say, Because I do see that virtue is geason[381] With most men and children at this day.

[_Here the rest of the Players come in, and kneel down
all together, each of them saying one of these verses_:

And last of all to make an end, O God, to thee we most humbly pray, That to Queen Elizabeth thou do send Thy lively path and perfect way! Grant her in health to reign With us many years most prosperously, And after this life for to attain The eternal bliss, joy, and felicity! Our bishops, pastors, and ministers also, The true understanding of thy word, Both night and day, now mercifully show, That their life and preaching may godly accord. The lords of the council and the nobility, Most heavenly father, we thee desire With grace, wisdom, and godly policy Their hearts and minds always inspire. And that we thy people, duly considering The power of our queen and great auctority, May please thee and serve her without feigning, Living in peace, rest, and tranquillity.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

A SONG.

_Why doth the world study vain glory to attain,
The prosperity whereof is short and transitory,
Whose mighty power doth fall down again,
Like earthen pots, that breaketh suddenly?
Believe rather words that be written in ice,
Than the wretched world with his subtlety,
Deceitful in gifts, men only to entice,
Destitute of all sure credence and fidelity.
Give credit more to men of true judgments
Than to the worldly renown and joys,
Replenished with dreams and vain intents,
Abounding in wicked and naughty toys.
Where is now Salomon, in wisdom so excellent?
Where is now Samson, in battle so strong?
Where is now Absalom, in beauty resplendent?
Where is now good Jonathas, hid so long?
Where is now Caesar, in victory triumphing?
Where is now Dives, in dishes so dainty?
Where is now Tully, in eloquence exceeding?
Where is now Aristotle, learned so deeply?
What emperors, kings, and dukes in times past,
What earls and lords, and captains of war,
What popes and bishops, all at the last
In the twinkling of an eye are fled so far?
How short a feast is this worldly joying?
Even as a shadow it passeth away,
Depriving a man of gifts everlasting,
Leading to darkness and not to day!
O meat of worms, O heap of dust,
O like to dew, climb not too high!
To live to-morrow thou canst not trust,
Therefore now betime help the needy.
The fleshly beauty, whereat thou dost wonder,
In holy Scripture is likened to hay,
And as a leaf in a stormy weather,
So is man's life blowen clean away.
Call nothing thine that may be lost:
The world doth give and take again,
But set thy mind on the Holy Ghost;
Despite the world that is so vain!_

FINIS.

THE MARRIAGE OF WIT AND SCIENCE.

[The title of the old copy is: _A new and Pleasaunt_ enterlude intituled the mariage of Witte and Science. Imprinted at London in Flete Streete, neare vnto sainct Dunstones churche by Thomas Marshe. 4°, black letter.

There is no date, but the size is a small 4to, and it probably appeared in 1570, having been licensed in 1569-70 to Marsh. Some further particulars of the play, now first reprinted from the only known copy in the Malone collection at Oxford, may be found in Hazlitt's "Handbook," 1867, p. 465; Collier's "Extr. from the Stat. Reg.," i. 204; and Collier's "Hist. Engl. Dram. Poetry," ii. 341-7, where there is a somewhat long review of the piece, with extracts. Mr Collier, who bestows considerable praise on this interlude, observes: --"The moral play of 'The Marriage of Wit and Science' contains a remarkable external feature not belonging to any other piece of this class that I remember to have met with: it is regularly divided into five acts, and each of the scenes is also marked." The anonymous author appears to have borrowed to some extent from the older performance by John Redford, printed from a MS. by the Shakespeare Society in 1848; but the two productions must, nevertheless, be regarded as distinct and independent.]

THE PLAYERS' NAMES.

NATURE. WIT. WILL. STUDY. DILIGENCE, _with three other women singers_. SCIENCE. REASON. EXPERIENCE. RECREATION. SHAME. IDLENESS. IGNORANCE. TEDIOUSNESS. INSTRUCTION.

THE MARRIAGE OF WIT AND SCIENCE.

[ACT I.]

NATURE, WIT, _and_ WILL.

Grand lady, mother of every mortal thing: Nurse of the world, conservative of kind: Cause of increase, of life and soul the spring; At whose instinct the noble heaven doth wind, To whose award all creatures are assigned, I come in place to treat with this my son, For his avail how he the path may find, Whereby his race in honour he may run: Come, tender child, unripe and green for age, In whom the parent sets her chief delight, Wit is thy name, but far from wisdom sage, Till tract of time shall work and frame aright, This peerless brain, not yet in perfect plight: But when it shall be wrought, methinks I see, As in a glass beforehand with my sight, A certain perfect piece of work in thee, And now so far as I [can] guess by signs, Some great attempt is fixed in thy breast: Speak on, my son, whereto thy heart inclines, And let me deal to set thy heart at rest. He salves the sore, that knows the patient best: As I do thee, my son, my chiefest care, In whom my special praise and joy doth rest; To me therefore these thoughts of thine declare.

WIT. Nature, my sovereign queen and parent passing dear, Whose force I am enforced to know and 'knowledge everywhere, This care of mine, though it be bred within my breast, Yet it is not so ripe as yet to breed me great unrest, So run I to and fro with hap luck as I find, Now fast, now loose: now hot, now cold: inconstant as the wind, I feel myself in love, yet not inflamed so, But causes move me now and then to let such fancies go, Which causes prevailing sets each thing else in doubt Much like the nail, that last came in, and drives the former out. Wherefore my suit is this: that it would please your grace To settle this unsettled head in some assured place: To lead me through the thick, to guide me all the way, To point me where I may achieve my most desired pray, For now again of late I kindle in desire, And pleasure pricketh forth my youth to feel a greater fire. What though I be too young to show her sport in bed, Yet are there many in this land that at my years do wed, And though I wed not yet, yet am I old enou' To serve my lady to my power, and to begin to woo.

NATURE. What is that lady, son, which thus thy heart doth move?

WIT. A lady, whom it might beseem high Jove himself to love.

NATURE. Who taught thee her to love, or hast thou seen her face?

WIT. Nor this nor that, but I heard men talk of her apace.

NATURE. What is her name?

WIT. Reason is her sire, Experience her dame, The lady now is in her flower, and Science is her name. Lo, where she dwells; lo, where my heart is all possest; Lo, where my body would abide; lo, where my soul doth rest. Her have I borne good-will these many years tofore, But now she lodgeth in my thought a hundred parts the more, And since I do persuade myself that this is she, Which ought above all earthly wights to be most dear to me; And since I wot not how to compass my desire, And since for shame I cannot now nor mind not to retire, Help on, I you beseech, and bring this thing about Without your hurt to my great ease, and set all out of doubt.

NATURE. Thou askest more than is in me to give, More than thy cause, more than thy state, will bear, They are two things to able thee to live, And to live so, that none should be thy peer, The first from me proceedeth everywhere; But this by toil and practice of the mind, Is set full far, God wot, and bought full dear, By those that seek the fruit thereof to find, To match thee then with Science in degree, To knit that knot that few may reach unto, I tell thee plain, it lieth not in me. Why should I challenge that I cannot do? But thou must take another way to woo, And beat thy brain, and bend thy curious head, Both ride and run, and travel to and fro, If thou intend that famous dame to wed.

WIT. You name yourself the lady of this world.

NATURE. It is true.

WIT. And can there be within this world a thing too hard for you?

NATURE. My power it is not absolute in jurisdiction, For I cognise another lord above, That hath received unto his disposition The soul of man, which he of special love To gifts of grace and learning eke doth move. A work so far beyond my reach and call, That into part of praise with him myself to show Might soon procure my well-deserved fall: He makes the frame, and [I] receive it so, No jot therein altered for my head; And as I it receive, I let it go, Causing therein such sparkles to be bred, As he commits to me, by whom I must be led: Who guides me first, and in me guides the rest, All which in their due course and kind are spread Of gifts from me such as may serve them best, To thee, son Wit, he will'd me to inspire, The love of knowledge and certain seeds divine, Which ground might be a mean to bring thee here, If thereunto thyself thou wilt incline: The massy gold the cunning hand makes fine: Good grounds are till'd, as well as are the worst, The rankest flower will ask a springing time; So is man's wit unperfit at the first.

WIT. If cunning be the key and well of wordly[382] bliss Me-thinketh God might at the first as well endue all with this.

NATURE. As cunning is the key of bliss, so it is worthy praise: The worthiest things are won with pain in tract of time always.

WIT. And yet right worthy things there are, you will confess, I trow, Which notwithstanding at our birth God doth on us bestow.

NATURE. There are; but such as unto you, that have the great to name, I rather that bestow, than win thereby immortal fame.

WIT. Fain would I learn what harm or detriment ensued, If any man were at his birth with these good gifts endued.

NATURE. There should be nothing left, wherein men might excel, No blame for sin, no praise to them that had designed well: Virtue should lose her price, and learning would abound; And as man would admire the thing, that each-where might be found. The great [e]state, that have of me and fortune what they will, Should have no need to look to those, whose heads are fraught with skill. The meaner sort, that now excels in virtues of the mind, Should not be once accepted there, where now they succour find. For great men should be sped of all, and would have need of none, And he that were not born to land should lack to live upon. These and five thousand causes mo, which I forbear to tell, The noble virtue of the mind have caused there to dwell, Where none may have access, but such as can get in Through many double doors: through heat, through cold, through thick and thin.

WIT. Suppose I would address myself to seek her out, And to refuse no pain that lieth thereabout; Should I be sure to speed?

NATURE. Trust me, and have no doubt, Thou canst not choose but speed with travail and with time: These two are they that must direct thee how to climb.

WIT. With travail and with time? must they needs join in one?

NATURE. Nor that nor this can do thee good, if they be took alone.

WIT. Time worketh all with ease, and gives the greatest dint: In him soft water drops can hollow hardest flint. Again with labour by itself great matters compass'd be, Even at a gird, in very little time or none we see. Wherefore in my conceit good reason it is, Either this without that to look, or that without this.

NATURE. Set case thou didst attempt to climb Parnassus hill: Take time five hundred thousand years and longer, if thou will, Trowest thou to touch the top thereof by standing still? Again work out thy heart, and spend thyself with toil: Take time withal, or else I dare assure thee of the foil.

WIT. Madam, I trust I have your licence and your leave, With your good-will and so much help as you to me can give; With further aid also, when you shall spy your time, To make a proof to give attempt this famous hill to climb; And now I here request your blessing and your prayer; For sure, before I sleep, I will to yonder fort repair.

NATURE. I bless thee here with all such gifts as nature can bestow, And for thy sake I would they were as many hundred mo. Take there withal this child, to wait upon thee still: A bird of mine, some kin to thee: his name is Will.

WIT. Welcome to me, my Will, what service canst thou do?

WILL. All things forsooth, sir, when me list, and more too.

WIT. But whether[383] wilt thou list, when I shall list, I trow?

WILL. Trust not to that; peradventure yea, peradventure no.

WIT. When I have need of thee, thou wilt not serve me so.

WILL. If ye bid me run, perhaps I will go.

WIT. Cock's soul, this is a boy for the nonce amongst twenty mo!

WILL. I am plain, I tell you, at a word and a blow.

WIT. Then must I prick you, child, if you be drown'd in sloth.

NATURE. Agree, you twain, for I must leave you both; Farewell, my son: farewell, mine own good Will, Be ruled by Wit, and be obedient still; Force thee I cannot, but as far as lies in me, I will help thy master to make a good servant of thee. Farewell-- [_Exit_.

WIT. Adieu, lady mother, with thanks for all your pain; And now let me bethink myself again and eke again, To match with Science is the thing that I have took in hand: A matter of more weight, I see, than I did understand. Will must be won to this, or else it will be hard; Will must go break the matter first, or else my game[384] is marr'd, Sir boy, are you content to take such part for me, As God shall send, and help it forth as much as lies in thee?

WILL. Yea, master, by his wounds, or else cut off his head.

WIT. Come then, and let us two devise what trace were best to tread; Nature is on my side, and Will my boy is fast. There is no doubt I shall obtain my joys at last.

[_Exeunt_.