Chapter XXV: Prologue (1)

Our long-time-rumour'd Hog, so often cross'd
By unexpected accidents, and toss'd
From one house to another: still deceiving
Many men's expectations, and bequeathing
To some lost labour: is at length got loose,
Leaving his servile yoke-stick to the goose;
Hath a knight's license, and may range at pleasure,
Spite of all those that envy our Hog's treasure.
And thus much let me tell you, that our swine
Is not, as divers critics did define,
Grunting at state-affairs, or invecting
Much at our city vices; no, nor detecting
The pride or fraud in it; but, were it now
He had his first birth, wit should teach him how
To tax these times' abuses, and tell some
How ill they did in running oft from home;
For to prevent (O men more hard than flint!)
A matter, that shall laugh at them in print.
Once to proceed in this play we were mindless,
Thinking we liv'd 'mongst Jews, that lov'd no swine's flesh:
But now that trouble's past, if it deserve a hiss
(As questionless it will through our amiss),
Let it be favour'd by your gentle sufferance:
Wise men are still indu'd with patience:
We are not half so skill'd as strolling players,
Who could not please here, as at country fairs:
We may be pelted off, for aught we know,
With apples, eggs, or stones, from thence below;
In which we'll crave your friendship, if we may,
And you shall have a dance worth all the play:
And if it prove so happy as to please,
We'll say 'tis fortunate, like Pericles.[363]

[363] _i.e._, The play of that name attributed to Shakespeare.
Perhaps a sneer was designed. To say that a dramatic piece was
_fortunate_, is not to say that it was _deserving;_ and why of all the
pieces supposed to be written by our great author was this
particularised?--_Steevens._

There is good reason to dispute this interpretation of the word
_fortunate_, but Mr Steevens seems to have discovered many sneers at
Shakespeare that were never intended. Mr Malone, quoting the two last
lines from the above prologue, observes: "By _fortunate_ I understand
_highly successful_," and he is warranted in this understanding by the
following passage directly in point, which he might have quoted from
lines prefixed by Richard Woolfall to Lewis Sharpe's "Noble Stranger,"
1640--

"Yet do not feare the danger
Of critick readers, since thy 'Noble Stranger,'
With pleasing strains has smooth'd the rugged fate
Of oft cram'd Theatres, and prov'd _fortunate_."

--_Collier._

Malone, after quoting a passage from "Pymlico or Runne Red-cap," 1609,
disputes the notion that a sneer at "Pericles" was intended by Tailor.
It appears that "Pericles" drew crowds, and that it was as successful
as a play called "Shore." See Malone's Shakespeare, xxi. p. 4, edit.
1821.--_Idem_ (_additional notes to Dodsley_).

THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL.

ACTUS PRIMI, SCENA PRIMA.

_Enter_ LIGHTFOOT, _a country gentleman, passing over the stage, and knocks at the other door_.

LIGHT. Ho! who's within here?

_Enter_ ATLAS, _a porter_.

ATLAS. Ha' ye any money to pay, you knock with such authority, sir?

LIGHT. What if I have not? may not a man knock without money, sir?

ATLAS. Seldom; women and servants will not put it up so, sir.

LIGHT. How say you by that, sir? but, I prythee, is not this one Atlas's house, a porter?

ATLAS. I am the rent-payer thereof.

LIGHT. In good time, sir.

ATLAS. Not in good time neither, sir, for I am behind with my landlord a year and three-quarters at least.

LIGHT. Now, if a man would give but observance to this fellow's prating, he would weary his ears sooner than a barber. Do y' hear, sir? lies there not one Haddit, a gentleman, at this house?

ATLAS. Here lies such a gentleman, sir, whose clothes (were they not greasy) would bespeak him so.

LIGHT. Then I pray, sir, when your leisure shall permit, that you would vouchsafe to help me to the speech of him.

ATLAS. We must first crave your oath, sir, that you come not with intent to molest, perturb, or endanger him; for he is a gentleman, whom it hath pleased fortune to make her tennis-ball of, and therefore subject to be struck by every fool into hazard.

LIGHT. In that I commend thy care of him, for which friendship here's a slight reward; tell him a countryman of his, one Lightfoot, is here, and[364] [he] will not any way despair of his safety.

ATLAS. With all respect, sir; pray, command my house. [_Exit_ ATLAS.

LIGHT. So now I shall have a sight of my cousin gallant: he that hath consumed £800 a year in as few years as he hath ears on his head: he that was wont never to be found without three or four pair of red breeches running before his horse or coach: he that at a meal hath had more several kinds than, I think, the ark contained: he that was admired by niters[365] for his robes of gallantry, and was indeed all that an elder brother might be--prodigal; yet he, whose unthriftiness kept many a house, is now glad to keep house in a house that keeps him, the poor tenant of a porter. And see his appearance! I'll seem strange to him.

_Enter_ HADDIT, _in poor array_.

HAD. Cousin Lightfoot, how dost? welcome to the city.

LIGHT. Who calls me cousin? where's my cousin Haddit? he's surely putting on some rich apparel for me to see him in. I ha' been thinking all the way I came up, how much his company will credit me.

HAD. My name is Haddit, sir, and your kinsman, if parents may be trusted; and therefore you may please to know me better when you see me next.

LIGHT. I prythee, fellow, stay: is it possible thou shouldst be he? why, he was the generous spark of men's admiration.

HAD. I am that spark, sir, though now raked up in ashes;
Yet when it pleaseth fortune's chaps to blow
Some gentler gale upon me, I may then
From forth of embers rise and shine again.

LIGHT. O, by your versifying I know you now, sir: how dost? I knew thee not at first, thou'rt very much altered.

HAD. Faith, and so I am, exceeding much since you saw me last--about £800 a year; but let it pass, for passage[366] carried away the most part of it: a plague of fortune.

LIGHT. Thou'st more need to pray to Fortune than curse her: she may be kind to thee when thou art penitent: but that, I fear, will be never.

HAD. O, no, if she be a woman, she'll ever love those that hate her. But, cousin, thou art thy father's firstborn; help me but to some means, and I'll redeem my mortgag'd lands, with a wench to boot.

LIGHT. As how, I pray thee?

HAD. Marry thus: Hog the usurer hath one only daughter.

LIGHT. Is his name Hog? It fits him exceeding well; for as a hog in his lifetime is always devouring, and never commodious in aught till his death; even so is he, whose goods at that time may be put to many good uses.

HAD. And so I hope they shall before his death. This daughter of his did, and I think doth, love me; but I, then thinking myself worthy of an empress, gave but slight respect unto her favour, for that her parentage seemed not to equal my high thoughts, puffed up----

LIGHT. With tobacco, surely.

HAD. No; but with as bad a weed--vainglory.

LIGHT. And you could now be content to put your lofty spirits into the lowest pit of her favour. Why, what means will serve, man? 'Sfoot, if all I have will repair thy fortune, it shall fly at thy command.

HAD. Thanks, good coz, the means shall not be great, only that I may first be clad in a generous outside, for that is the chief attraction that draws female affection. Good parts, without habiliments of gallantry, are no more set by in these times than a good leg in a woollen stocking. No, 'tis a glistering presence and audacity brings women into fool's felicity.

LIGHT. You've a good confidence, coz; but what do ye think your brave outside shall effect?

HAD. That being had, we'll to the usurer, where you shall offer some slight piece of land to mortgage, and if you do it to bring ourselves into cash, it shall be ne'er the farther from you, for here's a project will not be frustrate of this purpose.

LIGHT. That shall be shortly tried. I'll instantly go seek for a habit for thee, and that of the richest too; that which shall not be subject to the scoff of any gallant, though to the accomplishing thereof all my means go. Alas! what's a man unless he wear good clothes?

[_Exit_ LIGHTFOOT.

HAD. Good speed attend my suit! Here's a never-seen nephew kind in distress; this gives me more cause of admiration than the loss of thirty-five settings together at passage. Ay, when 'tis performed--but words and deeds are now more different than puritans and players.

_Enter_ ATLAS.

ATLAS. Here's the player would speak with you.

HAD. About the jig I promised him. My pen and ink! I prythee, let him in, there may be some cash rhymed out of him.

_Enter_ PLAYER.

PLAYER. The Muses assist you, sir: what, at your study so early?

HAD. O, chiefly now, sir: for _Aurora Musis amica_.

PLAYER. Indeed, I understand not Latin, sir.

HAD. You must then pardon me, good Master Change-coat; for I protest unto you, it is so much my often converse that, if there be none but women in my company, yet cannot I forbear it.

PLAYER. That shows your more learning, sir; but, I pray you, is that small matter done I entreated for?

HAD. A small matter! you'll find it worth Meg of Westminster,[367] although it be but a bare jig.

PLAYER. O Lord, sir, I would it had but half the taste of garlic.[368]

HAD. Garlic stinks to this; if it prove that you have not more whores than e'er garlic had, say I am a boaster of my own works, disgrace me on the open stage, and bob me off with ne'er a penny.

PLAYER. O Lord, sir, far be it from us to debar any worthy writer of his merit; but I pray you, sir, what is the title you bestow upon it?

HAD. Marry, that which is full as forcible as garlic: the name of it is, _Who buys my four ropes of hard onions?_ by which four ropes is meant, four several kind of livers; by the onions, hangers-on--as at some convenient time I will more particularly inform you in so rare a hidden and obscure mystery.

PLAYER. I pray, let me see the beginning of it. I hope you have made no dark sentence in't; for, I'll assure you, our audience commonly are very simple, idle-headed[369] people, and if they should hear what they understand not, they would quite forsake our house.

HAD. O, ne'er fear it; for what I have writ is both witty to the wise, and pleasing to the ignorant: for you shall have those laugh at it far more heartily that understand it not, than those that do.

PLAYER. Methinks the end of this stave is a foot too long.

HAD. O no, sing it but in tune, and I dare warrant you.

PLAYER. Why, hear ye. [_He sings._
_And you that delight in trulls and minions,
Come buy my four ropes of hard St Thomas's onions_.[370]

Look ye there, _St Thomas_ might very well have been left out; besides, _hard_ should have come next the _onions_.

HAD. Fie! no; the dismembering of a rhyme to bring in reason shows the more efficacy in the writer.

PLAYER. Well, as you please; I pray you, sir, what will the gratuity be? I would content you as near hand as I could.

HAD. So I believe. [_Aside._] Why, Master Change-coat, I do not suppose we shall differ many pounds; pray, make your offer: if you give me too much, I will, most doctor-of-physic-like, restore.

PLAYER. You say well; look you, sir, there's a brace of angels, besides much drink of free-cost, if it be liked.

HAD. How, Master Change-coat! a brace of angels, besides much drink of free-cost, if it be liked! I fear you have learned it by heart; if you have powdered up my plot in your sconce, you may home, sir, and instruct your poet over a pot of ale the whole method on't. But if you do so juggle, look to't. Shrove-Tuesday[371] is at hand, and I have some acquaintance with bricklayers and plasterers.

PLAYER. Nay, I pray, sir, be not angry; for as I am a true stage-trotter, I mean honestly; and look ye, more for your love than otherwise, I give you a brace more.

HAD. Well, good words do much; I cannot now be angry with you, but see henceforward you do like him that would please a new-married wife, show your most at first, lest some other come between you and your desires; for I protest, had you not suddenly shown your good-nature, another should have had it, though it had been for nothing.

PLAYER. Troth, I'm sorry I gave you such cause of impatiency; but you shall see hereafter, if your invention take, I will not stand off for a brace more or less, desiring I may see your works before another.

HAD. Nay, before all others; and shortly expect a notable piece of matter, such a jig whose tune, with the natural whistle of a carman, shall be more ravishing to the ears of shopkeepers than a whole consort of barbers at midnight.

PLAYER. I am your man for't; I pray you, command all the kindness belongs to my function, as a box for your friend at a new play, although I procure the hate of all my company.

HAD. No, I'll pay for it rather; that may breed a mutiny in your whole house.

PLAYER. I care not, I ha' played a king's part any time these ten years; and if I cannot command such a matter, 'twere poor, faith.

HAD. Well, Master Change-coat, you shall now leave me, for I'll to my study; the morning hours are precious, and my Muse meditates most upon an empty stomach.

PLAYER. I pray, sir, when this new invention is produced, let me not be forgotten.

HAD. I'll sooner forget to be a jig-maker. [_Exit_ PLAYER.] So, here's four angels I little dreamt of. Nay, and there be money to be gotten by foolery, I hope fortune will not see me want. Atlas, Atlas!

_Enter_ ATLAS.

What, was my country coz here since?

ATLAS. Why, did he promise to come again, seeing how the case stood wi' ye?

HAD. Yea, and to advance my downfallen fortunes, Atlas.

ATLAS. But ye are not sure he meant it ye, when he spake it.

HAD. No, nor is it in man to conjecture rightly the thought by the tongue.

ATLAS. Why, then, I'll believe it when I see it. If you had been in prosperity when he had promised you this kindness----

HAD. I had not needed it.

ATLAS. But being now you do, I fear you must go without it.

HAD. If I do, Atlas, be it so: I'll e'en go write this rhyme over my bed's head--

_Undone by folly; fortune, lend me more.
Canst thou, and wilt not? pox on such a whore!_

and so I'll set up my rest. But see, Atlas, here's a little of that that damns lawyers; take it in part of a further recompense.

ATLAS. No, pray keep it; I am conceited of your better fortunes, and therefore will stay out that expectation.

HAD. Why, if you will, you may; but the surmounting of my fortunes is as much to be doubted as he whose estate lies in the lottery--desperate.

ATLAS. But ne'er despair. 'Sfoot, why should not you live as well as a thousand others that wear change of taffata, whose means were never anything?

HAD. Yes, cheating, theft and panderising, or, maybe, flattery: I have maintained some of them myself. But come, hast aught to breakfast?

ATLAS. Yes, there's the fag-end of a leg of mutton.

HAD. There cannot be a sweeter dish; it has cost money the dressing.

ATLAS. At the barber's, you mean. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ ALBERT _solus_.

ALB. This is the green, and this the chamber-window:
And see, the appointed light stands in the casement,
The ladder of ropes set orderly; yet he
That should ascend, slow in his haste, is not
As yet come hither.
Were't any friend that lives but Carracus,
I'd try the bliss which this fine time presents.
Appoint to carry hence so rare an heir,
And be so slack! 'sfoot, it doth move my patience.
Would any man, that is not void of sense,
Not have watch'd night by night for such a prize?
Her beauty's so attractive that, by heav'n,
My heart half grants to do my friend a wrong.
Forego these thoughts; for,[372] Albert, be not slave
To thy affection; do not falsify
Thy faith to him, whose only friendship's worth
A world of women. He is such a one,
Thou canst not live without his good:
A' is and was ever as thine own heart's blood.
[MARIA _beckons him in the window_.
'Sfoot, see, she beckons me for Carracus:
Shall my base purity cause me neglect
This present happiness? I will obtain it,
Spite of my timorous conscience. I am in person,
Habit, and all so like to Carracus,
It may be acted, and ne'er call'd in question.

MARIA _calls_. Hist! Carracus, ascend:
All is as clear as in our hearts we wish'd.

ALB. Nay, if I go not now, I might be gelded, i' faith!
[ALBERT _ascends; and, being on the top of the ladder,
puts out the candle_.

MAR. O love, why do you so?

ALB. I heard the steps of some coming this way.
Did you not hear Albert pass by as yet?

MAR. [No;] nor any creature pass this way this hour.

ALB. Then he intends, just at the break of day,
To lend his trusty help to our departure.
'Tis yet two hours' time thither, till when, let's rest.
For that our speedy flight will not yield any.

MAR. But I fear,
We, possessing of each other's presence,
Shall overslip the time. Will your friend call?

ALB. Just at the instant: fear not of his care.

MAR. Come then, dear Carracus, thou now shalt rest
Upon that bed, where fancy oft hath thought thee;
Which kindness until now I ne'er did grant thee,
Nor would I now, but that thy loyal faith
I have so often tried; even now
Seeing thee come to that most honour'd end,
Through all the dangers which black night presents,
For to convey me hence and marry me.

ALB. If I do not do so, then hate me ever.

MAR. I do believe thee, and will hate thee never. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

How pleasing are the steps we lovers make,
When in the paths of our content we pace,
To meet our longings! What happiness it is
For man to love! But O, what greater bliss
To love and be belov'd! O, what one virtue
E'er reign'd in me, that I should be enrich'd
With all earth's good at once! I have a friend,
Selected by the heavens as a gift
To make me happy, whilst I live on earth:
A man so rare of goodness, firm of faith,
That earth's content must vanish in his death.
Then for my love and mistress of my soul,
A maid of rich endowments, beautifi'd[373]
With all the virtues nature could bestow
Upon mortality, who this happy night
Will make me gainer of her heav'nly self.
And see, how suddenly I have attain'd
To the abode of my desired wishes!
This is the green; how dark the night appears!
I cannot hear the tread of my true friend.
Albert! hist, Albert!--he's not come as yet,
Nor is th' appointed light set in the window.
What, if I call Maria? it may be
She fear'd to set a light, and only hark'neth
To hear my steps; and yet I dare not call,
Lest I betray myself, and that my voice,
Thinking to enter in the ears of her,
Be of some other heard: no, I will stay,
Until the coming of my dear friend Albert.
But now think, Carracus, what the end will be
Of this thou dost determine: thou art come
Hither to rob a father of that wealth,
That solely lengthens his now drooping years,
His virtuous daughter, and all of that sex left,
To make him happy in his aged days:
The loss of her may cause him to despair,
Transport his near-decaying sense to frenzy,
Or to some such abhorred inconveniency,
Whereto frail age is subject. I do too ill in this,
And must not think, but that a father's plaint
Will move the heavens to pour forth misery
Upon the head of disobediency.
Yet reason tells us, parents are o'erseen,
When with too strict a rein they do hold in
Their child's affections, and control that love,
Which the high pow'rs divine inspire them with,
When in their shallowest judgments they may know,
Affection cross'd brings misery and woe.
But whilst I run contemplating on this,
I softly pace to my desired bliss.
I'll go into the next field, where my friend
Told me the horses were in readiness. [_Exit._

ALBERT _descending from_ MARIA.

MARIA. But do not stay. What, if you find not Albert?

ALB. I'll then return alone to fetch you hence.

MARIA. If you should now deceive me, having gain'd
What you men seek for----

ALB. Sooner I'll deceive
My soul--and so, I fear, I have. [_Aside._

MARIA. At your first call, I will descend.

ALB. Till when this touch of lips be the true pledge
Of Carracus' constant true devoted love.

MARIA. Be sure you stay not long; farewell;
I cannot lend an ear to hear you part. [_Exit_ MARIA.

ALB. But you did lend a hand unto my entrance. [_He descends._
How have I wrong'd my friend, my faithful friend!
Robb'd him of what's more precious than his blood,
His earthly heaven, the unspotted honour
Of his soul-joying mistress! the fruition of whose bed
I yet am warm of; whilst dear Carracus
Wanders this cold night through th' unshelt'ring field,
Seeking me, treacherous man; yet no man neither,
Though in an outward show of such appearance,
But am a devil indeed; for so this deed
Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me.
I may compare my friend to one that's sick,
Who, lying on his deathbed, calls to him
His dearest-thought friend, and bids him go
To some rare-gifted man, that can restore
His former health: this his friend sadly hears,
And vows with protestations to fulfil
His wish'd desires with his best performance;
But then, no sooner seeing that the death
Of his sick friend would add to him some gain,
Goes not to seek a remedy to save,
But, like a wretch, hies[374] him to dig his grave;
As I have done for virtuous Carracus.
Yet, Albert, be not reasonless, to endanger
What thou may'st yet secure; who can detect
The crime of thy licentious appetite?--
I hear one's pace! 'tis surely Carracus.

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. Not find my friend! sure, some malignant planet
Rules o'er this night, and, envying the content
Which I in thought possess, debars me thus
From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence
Of a dear friend and love.

ALB. 'Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness:
I have no power now to reveal myself.

CAR. The horses stand at the appointed place,
And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety.
My friend is surely fall'n into a slumber
On some bank hereabouts; I will call him.
Friend Albert, Albert!

ALB. Whate'er you are that call, you know my name.

CAR. Ay, and thy heart, dear friend.

ALB. O Carracus, you are a slow-pac'd lover!
Your credit had been touch'd, had I not been.

CAR. As how, I prythee, Albert?

ALB. Why, I excus'd you to the fair Maria;
Who would have thought you else a slack performer.
For coming first under her chamber-window,
She heard me tread, and call'd upon your name;
To which I answer'd with a tongue like yours,
And told her I would go to seek for Albert,
And straight return.

CAR. Whom I have found; thanks to thy faith and heav'n.
But had not she a light when you came first?

ALB. Yes, but hearing of some company,
She at my warning was forc'd to put it out.
And had I been so too, you and I too
Had still been happy. [_Aside._

CAR. See, we are now come to the chamber-window.

ALB. Then you must call, for so I said I would.

CAR. Maria.

MARIA. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd?
I see you'll keep your promise.

CAR. Who would not do so, having pass'd it thee,
Cannot be fram'd of aught but treachery:
Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing
We may make firm the bliss of our content.

MARIA. Is your friend Albert with you?

ALB. Yes, and your servant, honoured lady.

MARIA. Hold me from falling, Carracus. [_She descends._

CAR. I will do now so, but not at other times.

MARIA. You are merry, sir:
But what d' y' intend with this your scaling-ladder,
To leave it thus, or put it forth of sight?

CAR. Faith, 'tis no great matter which:
Yet we will take it hence, that it may breed
Many confus'd opinions in the house
Of your escape. Here, Albert, you shall bear it;
It may be you may chance to practise that way;
Which when you do, may your attempts so prove,
As mine have done--most fortunate in love.

ALB. May you continue ever so!
But it's time now to make some haste to horse;
Night soon will vanish. O, that it had power
For ever to exclude day from our eyes,
For my looks, then, will show my villany. [_Aside._

CAR. Come, fair Maria, the troubles of this night
Are as forerunners to ensuing pleasures.
And, noble friend, although now Carracus
Seems, in the gaining of this beauteous prize,
To keep from you so much of his lov'd treasure,
Which ought not to be mixed; yet this heart
Shall so far strive in your wish'd happiness,
That if the loss and ruin of itself
Can but avail your good----

ALB. O friend! no more; come, you are slow in haste;
Friendship ought never be discuss'd in words,
Till all her deeds be finish'd. Who, looking in a book,
And reads but some part only, cannot judge
What praise the whole deserves, because his knowledge
Is grounded but on part. As thine, friend, is
Ignorant of that black mischief I have done thee. [_Aside._

MAR. Carracus, I am weary; are the horses far?

CAR. No, fairest, we are now even at them:
Come, do you follow, Albert?

ALB. Yes, I do follow; would I had done so ever,
And ne'er had gone before. [_Aside. Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[364] The pronoun _he_ seems wanting here, but the old 4º omits
it.--_Collier._

[365] If this be not a corrupted, it must be an affected, word, coined
from the Latin word _niteo_, to shine or be splendid. He was admired
by those who _shone_ most in the article of dress.--_Steevens._

So in Marston's "Satires," printed with "Pygmalion," 1598--

"O dapper, rare, compleat, sweet _nittie_ youth!
Jesu Maria! how his clothes appeare
Crost and re-crost with lace," &c.

_Niters_, however, may be a corruption of _niflers_. Chaucer uses
_nifles_ for _trifles_. See "Sompnour's Tale," Tyrwhitt's edit. v.
7342--

"He served him with _nifles_ and with fables."

[_Knights_ would be a bold emendation, and perhaps not very
successful.]

[366] "Passage is a game at dice to be played at but by two, and it is
performed with three dice. The caster throws continually till he hath
thrown dubblets under ten, and then he is out and loseth; or dubblets
above ten, and then he _passeth_ and wins."--_Compleat Gamester_,
1680, p. 119.

[367] A play called "Long Meg of Westminster," according to Henslowe,
was performed at Newington by the Lord Admiral's and Lord
Chamberlain's men, the 14th February 1594; and a ballad on the same
subject was entered on the Stationers' books in the same year. Meg of
Westminster is mentioned in "The Roaring Girl."--_Gilchrist._

The play of "Long Meg" is mentioned in Field's "Amends for Ladies,"
1618, with another called "The Ship," as being played at the Fortune
theatre. Feesimple says, "Faith, I have a great mind to see 'Long Meg'
and 'The Ship' at the Fortune," which would seem to show in opposition
to Mr Malone's opinion (see Malone's Shakespeare by Boswell, iii.
304), that more than one piece was played on the same occasion. Long
Meg of Westminster's "pranks" were detailed in a tract published in
[1582], and reprinted in the "Miscellanea Antiqua Anglicana." The
introduction contains some further notices of this conspicuous
damsel.--_Collier._

[368] Perhaps this was the title of some play or ballad that was very
successful, though it is not easy to explain the allusion. Dekker, in
his "If it be not good, the Devil is in it," seems to refer to the
same piece to nearly the same purpose. Scumbroth observes, "No, no, if
fortune favoured me, I should be full; but fortune favours nobody but
garlick, nor garlick neither now, yet she hath strong reason to love
it; for though garlick made her smell abominably in the nostrils of
the gallants, yet she had smelt and stunk worse but for garlick." It
may be, that such a play was produced at the Fortune theatre, and met
with general approbation.

This conjecture is supported by the following passage from "The
World's Folly; or, A Warning-Peece Discharged upon the Wickedness
thereof," by I.H., 1615: "I will not particularize those _blitea
dramata_, (as Laberius tearmes another sort), those _Fortune_-fatted
fooles and Times Ideots, whose garbe is the Tootheache of witte, the
Plague-sore of Judgement, the Common-sewer of Obscoenities, and the
very Traine-powder that dischargeth the roaring _Meg_ (not _Mol_) of
all scurrile villainies upon the Cities face; who are faine to produce
blinde * _Impudence_ ['Garlicke' inserted in the margin, against the
asterisk] to personate himselfe upon their stage, behung with chaynes
of garlicke, as an antidote against their owne infectious breaths,
lest it should kill their Oyster-crying Audience."--_Collier._

[369] [So in old copy, but query, _addle-headed_.]

[370] This was one of the cries of London at the time: "_Buy my rope
of onions--white Sir Thomas's onions_." It was also liable to the
hypercriticism of the player. What St Thomas had to do with onions
does not appear; but the saint here meant was perhaps St Thomas of
Trunnions--

"Nay, softe, my maisters, by _Saincte Thomas of Trunions_,
I am not disposed to buy of your _onions_."

--"Apius and Virginia," 1575, sig. E 2. These lines are spoken by
Haphazard, the Vice, and are used as if the expression were
proverbial.

[371] Shrove-Tuesday was a holiday for apprentices and working people,
as appears by several contemporary writers. So in Dekker's "Seven
Deadly Sinnes of London," 1606, p. 35: "They presently (like prentises
upon _Shrove-Tuesday_) take the lawe into their owne handes, and doe
what they list."

[372] The omission of the preposition by Mr Reed spoiled the metre of
the line.--_Collier._

[373] So in "Hamlet," act ii. sc. 2: "To the celestial, and my soul's
idol, the most _beautified_ Ophelia." See the notes of Mr Theobald, Dr
Johnson, and Mr Steevens, thereon. [See also Dyce's "Shakespeare
Glossary," 1868, _in voce_.]

[374] [Old copy, _hides_.]

ACTUS SECUNDUS.

_Enter_ HOG _the usurer; with_ PETER SERVITUDE, _trussing his points_.

HOG. What, hath not my young Lord Wealthy been here this morning?

P. SER. No, in very deed, sir; he is a towardly young gentleman; shall he have my young mistress, your daughter, I pray you, sir?

HOG. Ay, that he shall, Peter; she cannot be matched to greater honour and riches in all this country: yet the peevish girl makes coy of it, she had rather affect a prodigal; as there was Haddit, one that by this time cannot be otherwise than hanged, or in some worse estate; yet she would have had him: but I praise my stars she went without him, though I did not without his lands. 'Twas a rare mortgage, Peter.

P. SER. As e'er came in parchment: but see, here comes my young lord.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

Y. LORD W. Morrow, father Hog; I come to tell you strange news; my sister is stol'n away to-night, 'tis thought by necromancy. What necromancy is, I leave to the readers of the "Seven Champions of Christendom."[375]

HOG. But is it possible your sister should be stolen? sure, some of the household servants were confederates in't.

Y. LORD W. Faith, I think they would have confessed, then; for I am sure my lord and father hath put them all to the bastinado twice this morning already: not a waiting-woman, but has been stowed, i' faith.

P. SER. Trust me, he says well for the most part.

HOG. Then, my lord, your father is far impatient.

Y. LORD W. Impatient! I ha' seen the picture of Hector[376] in a haberdasher's shop not look half so furious; he appears more terrible than wildfire at a play. But, father Hog, when is the time your daughter and I shall to this wedlock-drudgery?

HOG. Troth, my lord, when you please; she's at your disposure, and I rest much thankful that your lordship will so highly honour me. She shall have a good portion, my lord, though nothing in respect of your large revenues. Call her in, Peter; tell her my most respected Lord Wealthy is here, to whose presence I will now commit her [_Exit_ PETER]; and I pray you, my lord, prosecute the gain of her affection with the best affecting words you may, and so I bid good morrow to your lordship.

[_Exit_ HOG.

Y. LORD W. Morrow,[377] father Hog. To prosecute the gain of her affection with the best affecting words; as I am a lord, a most rare phrase! well, I perceive age is not altogether ignorant, though many an old justice is so.

_Enter_ PETER SERVITUDE.

How now, Peter, is thy young mistress up yet?

P. SER. Yes, indeed, she's an early stirrer; and I doubt not hereafter but that your lordship may say, she's abroad before you can rise.

Y. LORD W. Faith, and so she may, for 'tis long ere I can get up, when I go foxed to bed. But, Peter, has she no other suitors besides myself?

P. SER. No, and it like your lordship; nor is it fit she should.

Y. LORD W. Not fit she should? I tell thee, Peter, I would give away as much as some knights are worth, and that's not much, only to wipe the noses of some dozen or two of gallants, and to see how pitifully those parcels of men's flesh would look, when I had caught the bird which they had beaten the bush for.

P. SER. Indeed, your lordship's conquest would have seemed the greater.

Y. LORD W. Foot, as I am a lord, it angers me to the guts, that nobody hath been about her.

P. SER. For anything I know, your lordship may go without her.

Y. LORD W. An' I could have enjoyed her to some pale-faced lover's distraction, or been envied for my happiness, it had been somewhat.

_Enter_ REBECCA, HOG'S _daughter_.

But see where she comes! I knew she had not power enough to stay another sending for. O lords! what are we? our names enforce beauty to fly, being sent for. [_Aside._] Morrow, pretty Beck: how dost?

REB. I rather should enquire your lordship's health, seeing you up at such an early hour. Was it the toothache, or else fleas disturbed you?

Y. LORD W. Do you think I am subject to such common infirmities? Nay, were I diseased, I'd scorn but to be diseased like a lord, i' faith. But I can tell you news, your fellow virgin-hole player,[378] my sister, is stolen away to-night.

REB. In truth. I am glad on't; she is now free from the jealous eye of a father. Do not ye suspect, my lord, who it should be that has carried her away?

Y. LORD W. No, nor care not; as she brews, so let her bake; so said the ancient proverb. But, lady, mine that shall be, your father hath wished[379] me to appoint the day with you.

REB. What day, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Why, of marriage; or as the learned historiographer[380] writes, Hymen's holidays, or nuptial ceremonious rites.

REB. Why, when would you appoint that, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Why, let me see, I think the tailor may despatch all our vestures in a week: therefore, it shall be directly this day se'ennight.

P. SER. God give you joy!

REB. Of what, I pray, you impudence? This fellow will go near to take his oath that he hath seen us plight faiths together; my father keeps him for no other cause than to outswear the truth. My lord, not to hold you any longer in a fool's paradise, nor to blind you with the hopes I never intend to accomplish, know, I neither do, can, or will love you.

Y. LORD W. How! not love a lord? O indiscreet young woman! Indeed, your father told me how unripe I should find you: but all's one, unripe fruit will ask more shaking before they fall than those that are; and my conquest will seem the greater still. [_Aside._]

P. SER. Afore God, he is a most unanswerable lord, and holds her to't, i' faith.

Y. LORD W. Nay, you could not have pleased me better, than seeing you so invincible, and of such difficult attaining to. I would not give a pin for the society of a female that should seem willing; but give me a wench that hath disdainful looks;

For 'tis denial whets an appetite,
When proffer'd service doth allay delight.

REB. The fool's well-read in vice. [_Aside._] My lord, I hope you hereafter will no farther insinuate in the course of your affections; and, for the better withdrawing from them, you may please to know, I have irrevocably decreed never to marry.

Y. LORD W. Never to marry! Peter, I pray bear witness of her words that, when I have attained her, it may add to my fame and conquest.

REB. Yes, indeed, an't like your lordship.

Y. LORD W. Nay, ye must think, Beck, I know how to woo; ye shall find no bashful university-man of me.

REB. Indeed, I think y' had ne'er that bringing up. Did you ever study, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Yes, faith, that I have, and, the last week too, three days and a night together.

REB. About what, I pray?

Y. LORD W. Only to find out why a woman, going on the right side of her husband in the daytime, should lie on his left side at night; and, as I am a lord, I never knew the meaning on't till yesterday. Malapert, my father's butler, being a witty jackanapes, told me why it was.

REB. By'r Lady, my lord, 'twas a shrewd study, and I fear hath altered the property of your good parts; for, I'll assure you, I loved you a fortnight ago far better.

Y. LORD W. Nay, 'tis all one, whether you do or no: 'tis but a little more trouble to bring ye about again; and no question, but a man may do't, I am he. 'Tis true, as your father said, the black ox hath not trod upon that foot of yours.

REB. No, but the white calf hath; and so I leave your lordship.

[_Exit_ REBECCA.

Y. LORD W. Well, go thy ways, th' art as witty a marmalade-eater as ever I conversed with. Now, as I am a lord, I love her better and better; I'll home and poetise upon her good parts presently. Peter, here's a preparative to my farther applications; and, Peter, be circumspect in giving me diligent notice what suitors seem to be peeping.

P. SER. I'll warrant you, my lord, she's your own; for I'll give out to all that come near her that she is betrothed to you; and if the worst come to the worst, I'll swear it.

Y. LORD W. Why, godamercy;
And if ever I do gain my request,
Thou shalt in braver clothes be shortly dress'd. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ OLD LORD WEALTHY, _solus_.

Have the fates then conspir'd, and quite bereft
My drooping years of all the bless'd content
That age partakes of, by the sweet aspect
Of their well-nurtur'd issue; whose obedience,
Discreet and duteous 'haviour, only lengthens
The thread of age; when on the contrary,
By rude demeanour and their headstrong wills,
That thread's soon ravell'd out. O, why, Maria,
Couldst thou abandon me now at this time,
When my grey head's declining to the grave?
Could any masculine flatterer on earth
So far bewitch thee to forget thyself,
As now to leave me? did nature solely give thee me,
As my chief, inestimable treasure,
Whereby my age might pass in quiet to rest;
And art thou prov'd to be the only curse,
Which heav'n could throw upon mortality?
Yet I'll not curse thee, though I fear the fates
Will on thy head inflict some punishment,
Which I will daily pray they may withhold.
Although thy disobediency deserves
Extremest rigour, yet I wish to thee
Content in love, full of tranquillity.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

But see where stands my shame, whose indiscretion
Doth seem to bury all the living honours
Of all our ancestors; but 'tis the fates' decree,
That men might know their weak mortality.

Y. LORD W. Sir, I cannot find my sister.

O. LORD W. I know thou canst not: 'twere too rare to see
Wisdom found out by ignorance.

Y. LORD W. How, father! is it not possible that wisdom should be found out by ignorance? I pray, then, how do many magnificoes come by it?

O. LORD W. They buy it, son, as you had need to do.
Yet wealth without that may live more content
Than wit's enjoyers can, debarr'd of wealth.
All pray for wealth, but I never heard yet
Of any but one that e'er pray'd for wit.
He's counted wise enough in these vain times,
That hath but means enough to wear gay clothes,
And be an outside of humanity. What matters it a pin,
How indiscreet soe'er a natural be,
So that his wealth be great? that's it doth cause
Wisdom in these days to give fools applause.
And when gay folly speaks, how vain soe'er,
Wisdom must silent sit, and speech forbear.

Y. LORD W. Then wisdom must sit as mute as learning among many courtiers. But, father, I partly suspect that Carracus hath got my sister.

O. LORD W. With child, I fear, ere this.

Y. LORD W. By'r Lady, and that may be true. But, whether he has or no, it's all one: if you please, I'll take her from under his nose, in spite on's teeth, and ask him no leave.

O. LORD W. That were too headstrong, son;
We'll rather leave them to the will of heaven,
To fall or prosper; and though young Carracus
Be but a gentleman of small revenues,
Yet he deserves my daughter for his virtues:
And, had I thought she could not be withdrawn
From th' affecting of him, I had, ere this,
Made them both happy by my free consent;
Which now I wish I had granted, and still pray,
If any have her, it may be Carracus.

Y. LORD W. Troth, and I wish so too; for, in my mind, he's a gentleman of a good house, and speaks true Latin.

O. LORD W. To-morrow, son, you shall ride to his house,
And there inquire of your sister's being.
But, as you tender me and your own good,
Use no rough language savouring of distaste,
Or any uncivil terms.

Y. LORD W. Why, do you take me for a midwife?

O. LORD W. But tell young Carracus these words from me,
That if he hath, with safeguard of her honour,
Espons'd my daughter, that I then forgive
His rash offence, and will accept of him
In all the fatherly love I owe a child.

Y. LORD W. I am sure my sister will be glad to hear it, and I cannot blame her; for she'll then enjoy that with quietness which many a wench in these days does scratch for.

O. LORD W. Come, son, I'll write
To Carracus, that my own hand may witness,
How much I stand affected to his worth. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT, _in his gay apparel, making him ready, and with him_ LIGHTFOOT.

HAD. By this light, coz, this suit does rarely! The tailor that made it may hap to be saved, an't be but for his good works: I think I shall be proud of 'em, and so I was never yet of any clothes.

LIGHT. How! not of your clothes? why then you were never proud of anything, for therein chiefly consisteth pride; for you never saw pride pictured but in gay attire.

HAD. True; but, in my opinion, pride might as well be portrayed in any other shape, as to seem to be an affecter of gallantry, being the causes thereof are so several and divers. As, some are proud of their strength, although that pride cost them the loss of a limb or two by over-daring; likewise, some are proud of their humour, although in that humour they be often knocked for being so; some are proud of their drink, although that liquid operation cause them to wear a nightcap three weeks after; some are proud of their good parts, although they never put them to better uses than the enjoying of a common strumpet's company, and are only made proud by the favour of a waiting-woman; others are proud----

LIGHT. Nay, I prythee, coz, enough of pride; but when do you intend to go yonder to Covetousness the usurer, that we may see how near your plot will take for the releasing of your mortgaged lands?

HAD. Why, now presently; and, if I do not accomplish my projects to a wished end, I wish my fortunes may be like some scraping tradesman, that never embraceth true pleasure till he be threescore and ten.

LIGHT. But say Hog's daughter, on whom all your hopes depend, by this be betrothed to some other.

HAD. Why, say she were; nay more, married to another, I would be ne'er the farther from effecting my intents. No, coz, I partly know her inward disposition; and, did I but only know her to be womankind, I think it were sufficient.

LIGHT. Sufficient for what?

HAD. Why, to obtain a grant of the best thing she had, chastity. Man, 'tis not here as 'tis with you in the country, not to be had without father's and mother's goodwill; no, the city is a place of more traffic, where each one learns by example of their elders to make the most of their own, either for profit or pleasure.

LIGHT. 'Tis but your misbelieving thoughts make you surmise so: if women were so kind, how haps you had not by their favours kept yourself out of the claws of poverty?

HAD. O, but, coz, can a ship sail without water? had I had but such a suit as this to set myself afloat, I would not have feared sinking. But come, no more of need; now to the usurer: and though

All hopes do fail, a man can want no living,
So long as sweet desire reigns in women.

LIGHT. But then yourself must able be in giving. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ ALBERT, _solus_.

Conscience, thou horror unto wicked men,
When wilt thou cease thy all-afflicting wrath,[381]
And set my soul free from the labyrinth
Of thy tormenting terror? O, but it fits not!
Should I desire redress, or wish for comfort,
That have committed an act so inhumane,
Able to fill shame's spacious chronicle?
Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?
Robb'd my dear friend, in a short moment's time,
Of his love's high-priz'd gem of chastity:
That which so many years himself hath stay'd for?
How often hath he, as he lay in bed,
Sweetly discours'd to me of his Maria?
And with what pleasing passions did he suffer
Love's gentle war-siege? Then he would relate,
How he first came unto her fair eyes' view;
How long it was ere she could brook affection;
And then how constant she did still abide.
I then, at this, would joy, as if my breast
Had sympathis'd in equal happiness
With my true friend: but now, when joy should be,
Who but a damn'd one would have done like me?
He hath been married now, at least, a month;
In all which time I have not once beheld him.
This is his house--
I'll call to know his health, but will not see him,
My looks would then betray me; for, should he ask
My cause of seeming sadness or the like,
I could not but reveal, and so pour'd on
Worse unto ill, which breeds confusion. [_He knocks._

_Enter_ SERVINGMAN.

SER. To what intent d'ye knock, sir?

ALB. Because I would be heard, sir: is the master of this house within?

SER. Yes, marry is he, sir: would you speak with him?

ALB. My business is not so troublesome:
Is he in health, with his late espoused wife?

SER. Both are exceeding well, sir.

ALB. I'm truly glad on't: farewell, good friend.

SER. I pray you, let's crave your name, sir; I may else have anger.

ALB. You may say one Albert, riding by this way, only inquired their health.

SER. I will acquaint so much. [_Exit_ SERVINGMAN.

ALB. How like a poisonous doctor have I come,
To inquire their welfare, knowing that myself
Have given the potion[382] of their ne'er recovery;
For which I will afflict myself with torture ever.
And, since the earth yields not a remedy
Able to salve the sores my lust hath made,
I'll now take farewell of society
And th' abode of men, to entertain a life
Fitting my fellowship in desert woods,
Where beasts like me consort; there may I live
Far off from wronging virtuous Carracus.
There's no Maria that shall satisfy
My hateful lust: the trees shall shelter
This wretched trunk of mine, upon whose barks
I will engrave the story of my sin.
And there this short breath of mortality
I'll finish up in that repentant state,
Where not th' allurements of earth's vanities
Can e'er o'ertake me: there's no baits for lust,
No friend to ruin; I shall then be free
From practising the art of treachery:
Thither then, steps, where such content abides,
Where penitency, not disturb'd, may grieve,
Where on each tree and springing plant I'll carve
This heavy motto of my misery,
_Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?_
Carracus, farewell, if e'er thou see'st me more,
Shalt find me curing of a soul-sick sore. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[375] A very popular book, which is still reprinted.

[376] Hector is one of the Seven Worthies. He appears as such in
"Love's Labour's Lost." Nothing was once more common than the
portraits of these heroes; and therefore they might have found their
way occasionally into shops which we know to have been anciently
decorated with pictures for the amusement of some customers whilst
others were served. Of the Seven Worthies, the Ten Sibyls, and the
Twelve Cæsars, I have seen many complete sets in old halls and on old
staircases.--_Steevens._

[377] The 4º reads _Moreover_. The alteration was made by Mr
Reed.--_Collier._

[378] A designed play on the word _virginal_, a spinnet.--_Steevens._

[379] Desired or recommended.

[380] This was Samuel Daniel, who was an historian as well as a poet.
The work above alluded to is probably "Hymen's Triumph," a pastoral
tragi-comedy, acted at the Queen's Court in the Strand, at the
nuptials of Lord Roxburgh.

[381] The 4º has it _all-afflicted wrath_.--_Collier._

[382] The old copy has it _portion_, which is most likely
wrong.--_Collier._

ACTUS TERTIUS.

_Enter_ CARRACUS, _driving his man before him_.

CAR. Why, thou base villain! was my dearest
Friend here, and couldst not make him stay?

SER. 'Sfoot, sir, I could not force him 'gainst his will:
An' he had been a woman----

CAR. Hence, thou untutor'd slave! [_Exit_ SERVANT.