Chapter XXVI: Prologue (2)

But couldst thou, Albert, come so near my door,
And not vouchsafe the comfort of thy presence?
Hath my good fortune caus'd thee to repine?
And, seeing my state so full replete with good,
Canst thou withdraw thy love to lessen it?
What could so move thee? was't because I married?
Didst thou imagine I infring'd my faith,
For that a woman did participate
In equal share with thee? cannot my friendship
Be firm to thee because 'tis dear to her?
Yet no more dear to her than firm to thee.
Believe me, Albert, thou dost little think
How much thy absence gives cause of discontent.
But I'll impute it only to neglect:
It is neglect indeed when friends neglect
The sight of friends, and say 'tis troublesome:
Only ask how they do, and so farewell,
Showing an outward kind of seeming duty,
Which in the rules of manhood is observ'd,
And think full well they have perform'd their task,
When of their friend's health they do only ask;
Not caring how they are, or how distress'd--
It is enough they have their loves express'd
In bare inquiry; and, in these times, too,
Friendship's so cold, that few so much will do.
And am not I beholden then to Albert?
He, after knowledge of our being well,
Said he was truly glad on't: O rare friend!
If he be unkind, how many more may mend?
But whither am I carried by unkindness?
Why should not I as well set light by friendship,
Since I have seen a man, whom I late thought
Had been compos'd of nothing but of faith,
Prove so regardless of his friend's content?

_Enter_ MARIA.

MARIA. Come, Carracus, I have sought you all about:
Your servant told me you were much disquieted
Prythee, love, be not so; come, [come,] walk in;
I'll charm thee with my lute from forth disturbance.

CAR. I am not angry, sweet; though, if I were,
Thy bright aspect would soon allay my rage.
But, my Maria, it doth something move me
That our friend Albert so forgets himself.

MARIA. It may be, 'tis nothing else; and there's no doubt
He'll soon remember his accustom'd friendship.
He thinks as yet, peradventure, that his presence
Will but offend, for that our marriage rites
Are but so newly pass'd.

CAR. I will surmise so too, and only think
Some serious business hinders Albert's presence.
But what ring's that, Maria, on your finger?

MARIA. 'Tis one you lost, love, when I did bestow
A jewel of far greater worth on you.

CAR. At what time, fairest?

MARIA. As if you knew not! why d'ye make't so strange?

CAR. You are dispos'd to riddle; pray, let's see't.
I partly know it: where was't you found it?

MARIA. Why, in my chamber, that most gladsome night,
When you enrich'd your love by my escape.

CAR. How! in your chamber?

MARIA. Sure, Carracus, I will be angry with you,
If you seem so forgetful. I took it up,
Then when you left my lodge, and went away,
Glad of your conquest, for to seek your friend,
Why stand you so amaz'd, sir? I hope that kindness,
Which then you reap'd, doth not prevail
So in your thoughts, as that you think me light.

CAR. O, think thyself, Maria, what thou art!
This is the ring of Albert, treacherous man!
He that enjoy'd thy virgin chastity.
I never did ascend into thy chamber.
But all that cold night, through the frozen field,
Went seeking of that wretch, who ne'er sought me;
But found what his lust sought for, dearest thee.

MARIA. I have heard enough, my Carracus, to bereave
Me of this little breath. [_She swoons._

CAR. All breath be first
Extinguished. Within there, ho!

_Enter_ NURSE _and_ SERVANTS.

O nurse! see here, Maria says she'll die.

NURSE. Marry, God forbid! O mistress, mistress, mistress! she has breath yet; she's but in a trance: good sir, take comfort, she'll recover by and by.

CAR. No, no, she'll die, nurse, for she said she would, an' she had not said so, 't had been another matter; but you know, nurse, she ne'er told a lie: I will believe her, for she speaks all truth.

NURSE. His memory begin's to fail him. Come, let's bear
This heavy spectacle from forth his presence;
The heavens will lend a hand, I hope, of comfort. [_Exeunt._

CARRACUS _manet_.

CAR. See, how they steal away my fair Maria!
But I will follow after her, as far
As Orpheus did to gain his soul's delight;
And Pluto's self shall know, although I am not
Skilful in music, yet I can be mad,
And force my love's enjoyment, in despite
Of hell's black fury. But stay, stay, Carracus.
Where is thy knowledge and that rational sense,
Which heaven's great architect endued thee with?
All sunk beneath the weight of lumpish nature?
Are our diviner parts no noblier free,
Than to be tortur'd by the weak assailments
Of earthsprung griefs? Why is man, then, accounted
The head commander of this universe,
Next the Creator, when a little storm
Of nature's fury straight o'erwhelms his judgment?
But mine's no little storm, it is a tempest
So full of raging, self-consuming woe,
That nought but ruin follows expectation.
O my Maria, what unheard-of sin
Have any of thine ancestors enacted,
That all their shame should be pour'd thus on thee?
Or what incestuous spirit, cruel Albert,
Left hell's vast womb for to enter thee,
And do a mischief of such treachery?

_Enter_ NURSE, _weeping_.

O nurse, how is it with Maria?
If e'er thy tongue did utter pleasing words,
Let it now do so, or hereafter e'er
Be dumb in sorrow.

NURSE. Good sir, take comfort; I am forced to speak
What will not please: your chaste wife, sir, is dead.

CAR. 'Tis dead, indeed! how did you know 'twas so, nurse?

NURSE. What, sir?

CAR. That my heart was dead: sure, thou hast serv'd
Dame Nature's self, and know'st the inward secrets
Of all our hidden powers: I'll love thee for't;
And, if thou wilt teach me that unknown skill,
Shalt see what wonders Carracus will do:
I'll dive into the breast of hateful Albert,
And see how his black soul is round encompass'd
By fearful fiends. O, I would do strange things!
I'd know to whose cause lawyers will incline
When they have[383] fees on both sides; view the thoughts
Of forlorn widows, when their knights have left them;
Search through the guts of greatness, and behold
What several sin best pleased them: thence I'd descend
Into the bowels of some pocky sir,
And tell to lechers all the pains he felt,
That they thereby might warned be from lust.
Troth, 'twill be rare! I'll study it presently.

NURSE. Alas! he is distracted! what a sin
Am I partaker of, by telling him
So curs'd an untruth? But 'twas my mistress' will.
Who is recovered; though her griefs never
Can be recover'd. She hath vow'd with tears
Her own perpetual banishment; therefore to him
Death were not more displeasing than if I
Had told her lasting absence.

CAR. I find my brain's too shallow far for study.
What need I care for being a 'rithmetician?
Let citizens' sons stand, an' they will, for cyphers:
Why should I teach them, and go beat my brains
To instruct unapt and unconceiving dolts;
And, when all's done, my art, that should be fam'd,
Will by gross imitation be but sham'd?
Your judgment, madam?

NURSE. Good sir, walk in; we'll send for learned men,
That can allay your frenzy.

CAR. But can Maria so forget herself,
As to debar us thus of her attendance?

NURSE. She's within, sir, pray you, will you walk to her?

CAR. O, is she so! Come, then, let's softly steal
Into her chamber; if she be asleep,
I'll laugh, shalt see, enough, and thou shalt weep.
Softly, good long-coat, softly. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MARIA _in page's apparel_.

MAR. Cease now thy steps, Maria, and look back
Upon that place where distress'd Carracus
Hath his sad being; from whose virtuous bosom
Shame hath constrained me fly, ne'er to return.
I will go seek some unfrequented path
Either in desert woods or wilderness,
There to bewail my innocent mishaps,
Which heaven hath justly poured down on me,
In punishing my disobediency.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

O, see my brother! [_Exit_ MARIA.

Y. LORD W. Ho, you three-foot-and-a-half! Why, page, I say! 'Sfoot, he is vanished as suddenly as a dumb show.[384] If a lord had lost his way now, so he had been served. But let me see: as I take it, this is the house of Carracus. A very fair building, but it looks as if 'twere dead; I can see no breath come out of the chimneys. But I shall know the state on't by and by, by the looks of some servingman. What ho, within here! [_Beats at the door._

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. Good sir, you have your arms at liberty.
Wilt please you to withdraw your action of battery?

Y. LORD W. Yes, indeed, now you have made your appearance. Is thy living-giver within, sir?

SER. You mean my master, sir?

Y. LORD W. You have hit it, sir, praised be your understanding. I am to have conference with him; would you admit my presence?

SER. Indeed, sir, he is at this time not in health, and may not be disturbed.

Y. LORD W. Sir, if he were in the pangs of childbed, I'd speak with him.

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. Upon what cause, gay man?

Y. LORD W. 'Sfoot, I think he be disturbed indeed; he speaks more commanding than a constable at midnight. Sir, my lord and father, by me (a lord) hath sent these lines enclosed, which show his whole intent.

CAR. Let me peruse them; if they do portend
To the state's good, your answer shall be sudden,
Your entertainment friendly; but if otherwise,
Our meanest subject shall divide thy greatness.
You'd best look to't, ambassador.

Y. LORD W. Is your master a statesman, friend?

SER. Alas! no, sir; he understands not what he speaks.

Y. LORD W. Ay, but when my father dies, I am to be called in for one myself, and I hope to bear the place as gravely as my successors have done before me.

CAR. Ambassador, I find your master's will
Treats to the good of somewhat, what it is--
You have your answer, and may now depart.

Y. LORD W. I will relate as much, sir; fare ye well.

CAR. But stay, I had forgotten quite our chief'st affairs:
Your master father writes, some three lines lower,
Of one Maria, that is wife to me:
That she and I should travel now with you
Unto his presence.

Y. LORD W. Why, now I understand you, sir: that Maria is my sister, by whose conjunction you are created brother to me a lord.

CAR. But, brother lord, we cannot go this journey.

Y. LORD W. Alas! no, sir? We mean to do it.
My sister shall ride upon my nag.

CAR. Come, then, we'll in and strive to woo your sister.
I have not seen her, sir, at least these three days.
They keep her in a chamber, and tell me
She's fast asleep still: you and I'll go see.

Y. LORD W. Content, sir.

SER. Madmen and fools agree. [_Aside Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT _and_ REBECCA.

REB. When you have got this prize, you mean to lose me.

HAD. Nay, prythee, do not think so. If I do not marry thee this instant night, may I never enjoy breath a minute after! By heaven, I respect not his pelf thus much, but only that I may have wherewith to maintain thee.

REB. O, but to rob my father, though he be bad, the world will think ill of me.

HAD. Think ill of thee! Can the world pity him that ne'er pitied any? besides, since there is no end of his goods nor beginning of his goodness, had not we as good share his dross in his lifetime, as let controversy and lawyers devour it at his death?

REB. You have prevailed. At what hour is't you intend to have entrance into his chamber?

HAD. Why, just at midnight; for then our apparition will seem most fearful. You'll make a way that we may ascend up like spirits?

REB. I will; but how many have you made instruments herein?

HAD. Faith, none but my cousin Lightfoot and a player.

REB. But may you trust the player?

HAD. O, exceeding well. We'll give him a speech he understands not. But, now I think on't, what's to be done with your father's man Peter?

REB. Why, the least quantity of drink will lay him dead asleep. But hark, I hear my father coming. Soon in the evening I'll convey you in.

HAD. Till when, let this outward ceremony be a true pledge of our inward affections. [_Kisses her. Exit_ REBECCA.] Lo, this goes better forward than the plantation in Virginia: but see, here comes half the West Indies, whose rich mines this night I mean to be ransacking.

_Enter_ HOG, LIGHTFOOT, _and_ PETER.

HOG. Then you'll seal for this small lordship, you say? To-morrow your money shall be rightly told up for you to a penny.

LIGHT. I pray, let it, and that your man may set contents upon every bag.

HAD. Indeed, by that we may know what we steal, without labour for the telling on't over. [_Aside._] How now, gentlemen, are ye agreed upon the price of this earth and clay?

HOG. Yes, faith, Master Haddit, the gentleman your friend here makes me pay sweetly for't; but let it go, I hope to inherit heaven, if it be but for doing gentlemen pleasure.

HOG. Peter!

P. SER. Anon, sir.

HOG. I wonder how Haddit came by that gay suit of clothes; all his means were consumed long since.

P. SER. Why, sir, being undone himself, he lives by the undoing, or (by Lady!) it may be by the doing, of others--or peradventure both. A decayed gallant may live by anything, if he keep one thing safe.

HOG. Gentlemen, I'll to the scrivener's, to cause these writings to be drawn.

LIGHT. Pray do, sir; we'll now leave you till the morning.

HOG. Nay, you shall stay dinner; I'll return presently. Peter, some beer here for these worshipful gentlemen.

[_Exeunt_ HOG _and_ PETER.

HAD. We shall be bold, no doubt; and that, old penny-father, you'll confess by to-morrow morning.

LIGHT. Then his daughter is certainly thine, and condescends to all thy wishes?

HAD. And yet you would not once believe it; as if a female's favour could not be obtained by any but he that wears the cap of maintenance;

When 'tis nothing but acquaintance and a bold spirit,
That may the chiefest prize 'mongst all of them inherit.

LIGHT. Well, thou hast got one deserves the bringing home with trumpets, and falls to thee as miraculously as the £1000 did to the tailor. Thank your good fortune. But must Hog's man be made drunk?

HAD. By all means; and thus it shall be effected: when he comes in with beer, do you upon some slight occasion fall out with him, and if you give him a cuff or two, it will give him cause to know you are the more angry, then will I slip in and take up the matter, and, striving to make you two friends, we'll make him drunk.

LIGHT. It's done in conceit already. See where he comes.

_Enter_ PETER.

P. SER. Wilt please you to taste a cup of September beer, gentlemen?

LIGHT. Pray, begin: we'll pledge you, sir.

P. SER. It's out, sir.

LIGHT. Then my hand is in, sir. [LIGHTFOOT _cuffs him_.] Why goodman Hobby-horse, if we out of our gentility offered you to begin, must you out of your rascality needs take it?

HAD. Why, how now, sirs, what's the matter?

P. SER. The gentleman here falls out with me upon nothing in the world but mere courtesy.

HAD. By this light, but he shall not; why, cousin Lightfoot!

P. SER. Is his name Lightfoot? a plague on him, he has a heavy hand.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

Y. LORD W. Peace be here; for I came late enough from a madman.

HAD. My young lord, God save you.

Y. LORD W. And you also: I could speak it in Latin, but the phrase is common.[385]

HAD. True, my lord, and what's common ought not much to be dealt withal; but I must desire your help, my lord, to end a controversy here between this gentleman my friend and honest Peter who, [_Aside_] I dare be sworn, is as ignorant as your lordship.

Y. LORD W. That I will; but, my masters, this much I'll say unto you--if so be this quarrel may be taken up peaceably without the endangering of my own person, well and good: otherwise I will not meddle therewith, for I have been vexed late enough already.

HAD. Why then, my lord, if it please you, let me, being your inferior, decree the cause between them.

Y. LORD W. I do give leave or permit.

HAD. Then thus I will propound a reasonable motion; how many cuffs, Peter, did this gentleman out of his fury make thee partaker of.

P. SER. Three, at the least, sir.

HAD. All which were bestowed upon you for beginning first, Peter.

P. SER. Yes, indeed, sir.

HAD. Why then, hear the sentence of your suffering. You shall both down into Master Hog's cellar, Peter; and whereas you began first to him, so shall he there to you; and as he gave you three cuffs, so shall you retort off, in defiance of him, three black-jacks, which if he deny to pledge, then the glory is thine, and he accounted by the wise discretion of my lord here a flincher.

OMNES. A reasonable motion.

Y. LORD W. Why so; this is better than being among madmen yet.

HAD. Were you so lately with any, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Yes, faith; I'll tell you all in the cellar, how I was taken for an ambassador; and being no sooner in the house, but the madman carries me up into the garret for a spy, and very roundly bad me untruss; and, had not a courteous servingman conveyed me away whilst he went to fetch whips, I think in my conscience, not respecting my honour, he would have breech'd me.[386]

HAD. By Lady, and 'twas to be fear'd; but come, my lord, we'll hear the rest in the cellar.

And honest Peter, thou that hast been griev'd,
My lord and I will see thee well-reliev'd. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[383] Old copy, _had_.

[384] _i.e._, One of those _inexplicable dumb shows_ ridiculed by
"Hamlet." See edition of Shakespeare 1778, x.p. 284.--_Steevens._

[385] Alluding to the use of it in Cooke's "City Gallant," commonly
called "Green's Tu quoque," printed in the present volume.

[386] _i.e._, Whipped me.

ACTUS QUARTUS.

_Enter_ ALBERT _in the woods_.

How full of sweet content had this life been,
If it had been embraced but before
My burthenous conscience was so fraught with sin!
But now my griefs o'ersway that happiness.
O, that some lecher or accurs'd betrayer
Of sacred friendship might but here arrive,
And read the lines repentant on each tree
That I have carv'd t' express my misery!
My admonitions now would sure convert
The sinful'st creature; I could tell them now,
How idly vain those humans spend their lives
That daily grieve, not for offences pass'd,
But to enjoy some wanton's company;
Which when obtain'd, what is it but a blot,
Which their whole life's repentance scarce can clear?
I could now tell to friend-betraying man,
How black a sin is hateful treachery,
How heavy on their wretched souls 'twill sit,
When fearful death will plant his siege but near them,
How heavy and affrighted will their end
Seem to approach them, as if then they knew
The full beginning of their endless woe
Were then appointed; which astonishment,
O blest repentance, keep me Albert from!
And suffer not despair to overwhelm,
And make a shipwreck of my heavy soul.

_Enter_ MARIA, _like a page_.

Who's here? a page? what black disastrous fate
Can be so cruel to his pleasing youth?

MARIA. So now, Maria, here thou must forego
What nature lent thee to repay to death!
Famine, I thank thee, I have found thee kindest;
Thou sett'st a period to my misery. [_Faints._

ALB. It is Maria, that fair innocent,
Whom my abhorred lust hath brought to this;
I'll go for sustenance: and, O ye powers!
If ever true repentance wan acceptance,
O, show it Albert now, and let him save
This[387] wronged beauty from untimely grave. [_Exit_ ALBERT.

MARIA. Sure, something spake, or else my feebled sense
Hath lost the use of its due property;
Which is more likely, than that in this place
The voice of human creature should be heard.
This is far distant from the paths of men:
Nothing breathes here but wild and ravening beasts,
With airy monsters, whose shadowing wings do seem
To cast a veil of death on wicked livers;[388]
Which I live dreadless of, and every hour
Strive to meet death, who still unkind avoids me:
But that now gentle famine doth begin
For to give end to my calamities.
See, here is carv'd upon this tree's smooth bark
Lines knit in verse, a chance far unexpected!
Assist me, breath, a little to unfold
What they include.

_The Writing._

_I that have writ these lines am one, whose sin
Is more than grievous; for know, that I have been
A breaker of my faith with one, whose breast
Was all compos'd of truth: but I digress'd,
And fled th' embrace[389] of his dear friendship's love,
Clasping to falsehood, did a villain prove;
As thus shall be express'd. My worthy friend
Lov'd a fair beauty, who did condescend
In dearest affection to his virtuous will;
He then a night appointed to fulfil
Hymen's bless'd rites, and to convey away
His love's fair person, to which peerless prey
I was acquainted made, and when the hour
Of her escape drew on, then lust did pour
Enraged appetite through all my veins,
And base desires in me let loose the reins
To my licentious will: and that black night,
When my friend should have had his chaste delight,
I feign'd his presence, and (by her thought him),
Robb'd that fair virgin of her honour's gem:
For which most heinous crime upon each tree
I write this story, that men's eyes may see
None but a damn'd one would have done like me._
Is Albert then become so penitent,
As in these deserts to deplore his facts,
Which his unfeign'd repentance seems to clear?
How good man is when he laments his ill!
Who would not pardon now that man's misdeeds,
Whose griefs bewail them thus? could I now live,
I would remit thy fault with Carracus:
But death no longer will afford reprieve
Of my abundant woes: wrong'd Carracus, farewell;
Live, and forgive thy wrongs, for the repentance
Of him that caused them so deserves from thee;
And since my eyes do witness Albert's grief,
I pardon Albert, in my wrongs the chief.

_Enter_ ALBERT, _like a hermit_.

ALB. How! pardon me? O sound angelical!
But see, she faints. O heavens! now show your power,
That these distilled waters, made in grief,
May add some comfort to affliction:
Look up, fair youth, and see a remedy.

MAR. O, who disturbs me? I was hand in hand,
Walking with death unto the house of rest.

ALB. Let death walk by himself; if he want company,
There's many thousands, boy, whose aged years
Have ta'en a surfeit of earth's vanities;
They will go with him when he please to call.
Do drink, my boy; thy pleasing, tender youth
Cannot deserve to die; no, it is for us,
Whose years are laden by our often sins,
Singing the last part of our bless'd repentance,
Are fit for death; and none but such as we
Death ought to claim; for when a' snatcheth youth,
It shows him but a tyrant; but when age,
Then is he just, and not compos'd of rage.
How fares my lad?

MAR. Like one embracing death with all his parts,
Reaching at life but with one little finger;
His mind so firmly knit unto the first,
That unto him the latter seems to be,
What may be pointed at, but not possess'd.

ALB. O, but thou shalt possess it.
If thou didst fear thy death but as I do,
Thou wouldst take pity: though not of thyself,
Yet of my aged years. Trust me, my boy,
Thou'st struck such deep compassion in my breast,
That all the moisture which prolongs my life
Will from my eyes gush forth, if now thou leav'st me.

MAR. But can we live here in this desert wood?
If not, I'll die, for other places seem
Like tortures to my griefs. May I live here?

ALB. Ay, thou shalt live with me, and I will tell thee
Such strange occurrents of my fore-pass'd life,
That all thy young-sprung griefs shall seem but sparks
To the great fire of my calamities.

MAR. Then I'll live only with you for to hear,
If any human woes can be like mine.
Yet, since my being in this darksome desert,
I have read on trees most lamentable stories.[390]

ALB. 'Tis true indeed, there's one within these woods
Whose name is Albert; a man so full of sorrow,
That on each tree he passes by he carves
Such doleful lines for his rash follies pass'd,
That whoso reads them, and not drown'd in tears,
Must have a heart fram'd forth of adamant.

MAR. And can you help me to the sight of him?

ALB. Ay, when thou wilt; he'll often come to me,
And at my cave sit a whole winter's night,
Recounting of his stories. I tell thee, boy,
Had he offended more than did that man,
Who stole the fire from heaven, his contrition
Would appease all the gods, and quite revert
Their wrath to mercy. But come, my pretty boy,
We'll to my cave, and after some repose
Relate the sequel of each other's woes. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. What a way have I come, yet I know not
Whither: the air's so cold this winter season,
I'm sure a fool--would any but an ass
Leave a warm-matted chamber and a bed,
To run thus in the cold? and (which is more)
To seek a woman--a slight thing call'd woman?
Creatures, which curious nature fram'd, as I suppose,
For rent-receivers to her treasury.
And why I think so now, I'll give you instance;
Most men do know that nature's self hath made them
Most profitable members; then if so,
By often trading in the commonwealth
They needs must be enrich'd; why, very good!
To whom ought beauty then repay this gain,
Which she by nature's gift hath profited,
But unto nature? why, all this I grant.
Why then they shall no more be called women,
For I will style them thus, scorning their leave,
Those that for nature do much rent receive.
This is a wood, sure; and, as I have read,
In woods are echoes which will answer men
To every question which they do propound. Echo.[391]

ECHO. _Echo._

CAR. O, are you there? have at ye then, i' faith.
Echo, canst tell me whether men or women
Are for the most part damn'd?

ECHO. _Most part damn'd._

CAR. O,[392] both indeed; how true this echo speaks!
Echo, now tell me, if amongst a thousand women
There be one chaste or none?

ECHO. _None._

CAR. Why, so I think; better and better still.
Now farther: Echo, in the world of men,
Is there one faithful to his friend, or no?

ECHO. _No._

CAR. Thou speak'st most true, for I have found it so.
Who said thou wast a woman, Echo, lies;
Thou couldst not then answer so much of truth.
Once more, good Echo;
Was my Maria false by her own desire,
Or was't against her will?

ECHO. _Against her will._

CAR. Troth, it may be so; but canst thou tell,
Whether she be dead or not?

ECHO. _Not._

CAR. Not dead!

ECHO. _Not dead._

CAR. Then without question she doth surely live.
But I do trouble thee too much; therefore,
Good speak-truth, farewell.

ECHO. _Farewell._

CAR. How quick it answers! O, that councillors
Would thus resolve men's doubts without a fee!
How many country clients then might rest
Free from undoing! no plodding pleader then
Would purchase great possessions with his tongue.
Were I some demigod, or had that power,
I would straight make this echo here a judge:
He'd spend his judgment in the open court,
As now to me, without being once solicited
In his private chamber; 'tis not bribes could win
Him to o'ersway men's right, nor could he be
Led to damnation for a little pelf;
He would not harbour malice in his heart,
Or envious hatred, base despite, or grudge,
But be an upright, just, and equal judge.
But now imagine that I should confront
Treacherous Albert, who hath rais'd my front!
But I fear this idle prate hath made me
Quite forget my _cinque pace_.[393] [_He danceth._

_Enter_ ALBERT.

ALB. I heard the echo answer unto one,
That by his speech cannot be far remote
From off this ground; and see, I have descri'd him:
O heavens! it's Carracus, whose reason's seat
Is now usurp'd by madness and distraction;
Which I, the author of confusion,
Have planted here by my accursed deeds.

CAR. O, are you come, sir! I was sending
The tavern-boy for you; I have been practising
Here, and can do none of my lofty tricks.

ALB. Good sir, if any spark do yet remain
Of your consumed reason, let me strive----

CAR. To blow it out? troth, I most kindly thank you,
Here's friendship to the life. But, Father Wheybeard,
Why should you think me void of reason's fire,
My youthful days being in the height of knowledge?
I must confess your old years gain experience;
But that so much o'errul'd by dotage,
That what you think experience shall effect,
Short memory destroys. What say you now, sir?
Am I mad now, that can answer thus
To all interrogatories?

ALB. But though your words do savour, sir, of judgment,
Yet when they derogate from the due observance
Of fitting times, they ought to be respected
No more than if a man should tell a tale
Of feigned mirth in midst of extreme sorrows.

CAR. How did you know
My sorrows, sir? what though I have lost a wife,
Must I be therefore griev'd? am I not happy
To be so freed of a continual trouble?
Had many a man such fortune as I,
In what a heaven would they think themselves,
Being releas'd of all those threat'ning clouds,
Which in the angry skies call'd women's brows
Sit, ever menacing tempestuous storms?
But yet I needs must tell you, old December,
My wife was clear of this; within her brow
She had not a wrinkle nor a storming frown:
But, like a smooth well-polish'd ivory,
It seem'd so pleasant to the looker-on:
She was so kind, of nature so gentle,
That if she'd done a fault, she'd straight go die for't:
Was not she then a rare one?
What, weep'st thou, aged Nestor?
Take comfort, man! Troy was ordain'd by fate
To yield to us, which we will ruinate.

ALB. Good sir, walk with me but where you [may] see
The shadowing elms, within whose circling round
There is a holy spring about encompass'd
By dandling sycamores and violets,
Whose waters cure all human maladies.
Few drops thereof, being sprinkl'd on your temples,
Revives your fading memory, and restores
Your senses lost unto their perfect being.

CAR. Is it clear water, sir, and very fresh?
For I am thirsty, [which] gives it a better relish
Than a cup of dead wine with flies in't?

ALB. Most pleasant to the taste; pray, will you go?

CAR. Faster than you, I believe, sir. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MARIA.

MAR. I am walk'd forth from my preserver's cave,
To search about these woods, only to see
The penitent Albert, whose repentant mind
Each tree expresseth. O, that some power divine
Would hither send my virtuous Carracus!
Not for my own content, but that he might
See how his distress'd friend repents the wrong,
Which his rash folly, most unfortunate,
Acted 'gainst him and me; which I forgive
A hundred times a day, for that more often
My eyes are witness to his sad complaints.
How the good hermit seems to share his moans,
Which in the daytime he deplores 'mongst trees,
And in the night his cave is fill'd with sighs;
No other bed doth his weak limbs support
Than the cold earth; no other harmony
To rock his cares asleep but blustering winds,
Or some swift current, headlong rushing down
From a high mountain's top, pouring his force
Into the ocean's gulf, where being swallow'd,
Seems to bewail his fall with hideous words:
No other sustentation to suffice,
What nature claims, but raw, unsavoury roots
With troubled waters, where untamed beasts
Do bathe themselves.

_Enter Satyrs, dance, et exeunt._

Ah me! what things are these?
What pretty harmless things they seem to be!
As if delight had nowhere made abode,
But in their nimble sport.

_Enter_ ALBERT [_and_ CARRACUS.]

Yonder's the courteous hermit, and with him
Albert, it seems. O, see, 'tis Carracus!
Joy, do not now confound me!

CAR. Thanks unto heavens and thee, thou holy man,
I have attain'd what doth adorn man's being,
That precious gem of reason, by which solely
We are discern'd from rude and brutish beasts,
No other difference being 'twixt us and them.
How to repay this more than earthly kindness
Lies not within my power, but in his,
That hath indu'd thee with celestial gifts,
To whom I'll pray, he may bestow on thee
What thou deserv'st, bless'd immortality.

ALB. Which unto you befall, thereof most worthy.
But, virtuous sir, what I will now request
From your true generous nature is, that you would
Be pleas'd to pardon that repentant wight,
Whose sinful story upon yon tree's bark
Yourself did read, for that you say, to you
Those wrongs were done.

CAR. Indeed they were, and to a dear wife lost;
Yet I forgive him, as I wish the heavens
May pardon me.

MAR. So doth Maria too. [_She discovers herself._

CAR. Lives my Maria, then? what gracious planet
Gave thee safe conduct to these desert woods?

MAR. My late mishap (repented now by all,
And therefore pardon'd) compell'd me to fly,
Where I had perished for want of food,
Had not this courteous man awak'd my sense,
In which death's self had partly interest.

CAR. Alas, Maria! I am so far indebted
To him already for the late recovery of
My own weakness, that 'tis impossible
For us to attribute sufficient thanks
For such abundant good.

ALB. I rather ought to thank the heaven's Creator
That he vouchsaf'd me such especial grace,
In doing so small a good; which could I hourly
Bestow on all, yet could I not assuage
The swelling rancour of my fore-pass'd crimes.

CAR. O sir, despair not; for your course of life
(Were your sins far more odious than they be)
Doth move compassion and pure clemency
In the all-ruling judge, whose powerful mercy
O'ersways his justice, and extends itself
To all repentant minds. He's happier far
That sins, and can repent him of his sin,
Than the self-justifier, who doth surmise
By his own works to gain salvation;
Seeming to reach at heaven, he clasps damnation.
You then are happy, and our penitent friend,
To whose wish'd presence please you now to bring us,
That in our gladsome arms we may enfold
His much-esteemed person, and forgive
The injuries of his rash follies pass'd.

ALB. Then see false Albert prostrate at your feet,
[_He discovers himself._
Desiring justice for his heinous ill.

CAR. Is it you? Albert's self that hath preserv'd us?
O bless'd bewailer of thy misery!

MARIA. And wofull'st liver in calamity!

CAR. From which, right worthy friend, 'tis now high time
You be releas'd; come then, you shall with us.
Our first and chiefest welcome, my Maria,
We shall receive at your good father's house;
Who, as I do remember, in my frenzy
Sent a kind letter, which desir'd our presence.

ALB. So please you, virtuous pair, Albert will stay,
And spend the remnant of this wearisome life
In these dark woods.

CAR. Then you neglect the comforts heav'n doth send
To your abode on earth. If you stay here,
Your life may end in torture by the cruelty
Of some wild ravenous beasts; but if 'mongst men,
When you depart, the faithful prayers of many
Will much avail to crown your soul with bliss.

ALB. Lov'd Carracus, I have found in thy converse
Comfort so bless'd, that nothing now but death
Shall cause a separation in our being.

MARIA. Which heaven confirm!

CAR. Thus by the breach of faith our friendship's knit
In stronger bonds of love.

ALB. Heaven so continue it! [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[387] The 4º reads _His_.

[388] The 4º has it literally thus--

"To _taste_ a _vale_ of death _in_ wicked livers,"

which Mr Reed altered to _cast a veil_, &c; but ought we not rather to
read--

"To _cast_ a _veil_ of death _on_ wicked livers."

--_Collier._

[389] [Old copy, _them brats_.]

[390] These four lines, which decidedly belong to Maria, in the old
copy are assigned to Albert, and form a part of what he says
before.--_Collier._

[391: The idea of these answers from an echo seems to have been taken
from Lord Stirling's "Aurora," 4º, 1604, sig. K 4. One of the
triumvirate, Pope, Gay, or Arbuthnot, but which of them is not known,
in a piece printed in Swift's "Miscellanies," may have been indebted
for the same thought to either Lord Stirling or the present writer.

Since this note was written, I find nothing was more common than these
answers of echoes in the works of contemporary and earlier writers.
Many instances might be produced. Amongst others, those who can be
pleased with such kind of performances may be referred to Sir P.
Sidney's "Arcadia," or Lodge's "Wounds of Civil War," 1594, act iii.
The folly of them is admirably ridiculed by the author of
"Hudibras."--_Reed._

[392] [Edit., _Of_.]

[393] A dance.

ACTUS QUINTUS.

_Enter_ HOG _in his chamber, with_ REBECCA _laying down his bed, and, seeming to put the keys under his bolster, conveyeth them into her pocket_.

HOG. So, have you laid the keys of the outward doors
Under my bolster?

REB. Yes, forsooth.

HOG. Go your way to bed then. [_Exit_ REBECCA.
I wonder who did at the first invent
These beds, the breeders of disease and sloth:
He was no soldier, sure, nor no scholar,
And yet he might be very well a courtier;
For no good husband would have been so idle,
No usurer neither: yet here the bed affords
[_Discovers his gold._
Store of sweet golden slumbers unto him.
Here sleeps command in war; Cæsar by this
Obtain'd his triumphs; this will fight man's cause,
When fathers, brethren, and the near'st of friends
Leave to assist him; all content to this
Is merely vain; the lovers, whose affections
Do sympathise together in full pleasure,
Debarr'd of this, their summer sudden ends;
And care, the winter to their former joys,
Breathes such a cold blast on their turtles' bills:
Having not this, to shroud them[394] forth his storms,
They straight are forc'd to make a separation,
And so live under those that rule o'er this.
The gallant, whose illustrious outside draws
The eyes of wantons to behold with wonder
His rare-shap'd parts, for so he thinks they be,
Deck'd in the robes of glistering gallantry;
Having not this attendant on his person,
Walks with a cloudy brow, and seems to all
A great contemner of society;
Not for the hate he bears to company,
But for the want of this ability.
O silver! thou that art the basest captive
Kept in this prison, how many pale offenders
For thee have suffer'd ruin? But, O my gold!
Thy sight's more pleasing than the seemly locks
Of yellow-hair'd Apollo; and thy touch
More smooth and dainty than the down-soft white
Of lady's tempting breast: thy bright aspect
Dims the great'st lustre of heaven's waggoner.
But why go I about to extol thy worth,
Knowing that poets cannot compass it?
But now give place, my gold; for here's a power
Of greater glory and supremacy
Obscures thy being; here sits enthronis'd
The sparkling diamond, whose bright reflection
Casts such a splendour on these other gems,
'Mongst which he so majestical appears,
As if---- Now my good angels guard me!
[_A flash of fire, and_ LIGHTFOOT _ascends like a spirit_.

LIGHT. _Melior vigilantia somno_.
Stand not amaz'd, good man, for what appears
Shall add to thy content; be void of fears:
I am the shadow of rich kingly Croesus,
Sent by his greatness from the lower world
To make thee mighty, and to sway on earth
By thy abundant store, as he himself doth
In Elysium; how he reigneth there,
His shadow will unfold; give thou then ear.
In under-air, where fair Elysium stands,
Beyond the river styled Acheron,
He hath a castle built of adamant;
Not fram'd by vain enchantment, but there fix'd
By the all-burning hands of warlike spirits:
Whose windows are compos'd of purest crystal,
And deck'd within with oriental pearls:
There the great spirit of Croesus' royal self
Keeps his abode in joyous happiness.
He is not tortur'd there, as poets feign,
With molten gold and sulphury flames of fire,
Or any such molesting perturbation;
But there reputed as a demigod,
Feasting with Pluto and his Proserpine,
Night after night with all delicious cates,
With greater glory than seven kingdoms' states.
Now farther know the cause of my appearance--
The kingly Croesus having by fame's trump
Heard that thy lov'd desires stand affected
To the obtaining of abundant wealth,
Sends me, his shade, thus much to signify,
That if thou wilt become famous on earth,
He'll give to thee even more than infinite;
And after death with him thou shalt partake
The rare delights beyond the Stygian lake.

HOG. Great Croesus' shadow may dispose of me
To what he pleaseth.

LIGHT. So speaks obediency.
For which I'll raise thy lowly thoughts as high,
As Croesus's were in his mortality.
Stand then undaunted, whilst I raise those spirits,
By whose laborious task and industry
Thy treasure shall abound and multiply.
_Ascend, Ascarion, thou that art
A powerful spirit, and dost convert
Silver to gold; I say, ascend
And on me, Croesus' shade, attend,
To work the pleasure of his will._

_The_ PLAYER _appears_.

PLAYER. What, would then Croesus list to fill
Some mortal's coffers up with gold,
Changing the silver it doth hold?
By that pure metal, if't be so,
By the infernal gates I swear,
Where Rhadamanth doth domineer;
By Croesus' name and by his castle,
Where winter nights he keepeth wassail;[395]
By Demogorgon and the fates,
And by all these low-country states;
That after knowledge of thy mind,
Ascarion, like the swift-pac'd wind,
Will fly to finish thy command.

LIGHT. Take, then, this silver out of hand,
And bear it to the river Tagus,
Beyond th' abode of Archi-Magus;
Whose golden sands upon it cast,
Transform it into gold at last:
Which being effected straight return,
And sudden, too, or I will spurn
This trunk of thine into the pit,
Where all the hellish furies sit,
Scratching their eyes out. Quick, begone!

PLAYER. Swifter in course than doth the sun. [_Exit_ PLAYER.

LIGHT. How far'st thou, mortal? be not terrifi'd
At these infernal motions; know that shortly
Great Croesus' ghost shall, in the love he bears thee,
Give thee sufficient power by thy own worth
To raise such spirits.

HOG. Croesus is much too liberal in his favour
To one so far desertless as poor Hog.

LIGHT. Poor Hog! O, speak not that word poor again,
Lest the whole apple-tree of Croesus' bounty,
Crack'd into shivers, overthrow thy fortunes!
For he abhors the name of poverty,
And will grow sick to hear it spoke by those
Whom he intends to raise. But see, the twilight,
Posting before the chariot of the sun,
Brings word of his approach:
We must be sudden, and with speed raise up
The spirit Bazan, that can straight transform
Gold into pearl; be still and circumspect.
_Bazan, ascend up from the treasure
Of Pluto, where thou dost[396] at pleasure
Metamorphose all his gold
Into pearl, which 'bove a thousand-fold
Exceeds the value: quickly rise
To Croesus' shade, who hath a prize
To be performed by thy strength._

[BAZAN _or_] HADDIT _ascends_.

HAD. I am no fencer, yet at length
From Pluto's presence and the hall,
Where Proserpine keeps festival,
I'm hither come; and now I see,
To what intent I'm rais'd by thee;
It is to make that mortal rich,
That at his fame men's ears may itch,
When they do hear but of his store.
He hath one daughter and no more,
Which all the lower powers decree,
She to one Wealthy wedded be;
By which conjunction there shall spring
Young heirs to Hog, whereon to fling
His mass of treasure when he dies;
Thus Bazan truly prophesies.
But come, my task! I long to rear
His fame above the hemisphere.

LIGHT. Take then the gold which here doth lie,
And quick return it by and by
All in choice pearl. Whither to go,
I need not tell you, for you know.

HAD. Indeed I do, and Hog shall find it so. [_Exit_ HADDIT.

LIGHT. Now, mortal, there is nothing doth remain
'Twixt thee and thine abundance, only this:
Turn thy eyes eastward, for from thence appears
Ascarion with thy gold, which having brought
And at thy foot surrender'd, make obeisance;
Then turn about, and fix thy tapers westward,
From whence great Bazan brings thy orient pearl;
Who'll lay it at thy feet much like the former.

HOG. Then I must make to him obeisance thus?

LIGHT. Why, so; in meantime, Croesus' shade will rest
Upon thy bed: but above all, take heed
You suffer not your eyes to stray aside
From the direct point I have set thee at:
For though the spirit do delay the time,
And not return your treasure speedily----

HOG. Let the loss light on me, if I neglect
Or overslip what Croesus' shade commands.[397]

LIGHT. [_Aside._] So, now practise standing, though it be nothing agreeable to your Hog's age. Let me see, among these writings is my nephew Haddit's mortgage; but in taking that it may breed suspect on us; wherefore this box of jewels will stand far better, and let that alone. It is now break of day, and near by this the marriage is confirmed betwixt my cousin and great Croesus's friend's daughter here, whom I will now leave to his most weighty cogitations.

So, gentle sir, adieu; time not permits
To hear those passions and those frantic fits
You're subject to, when you shall find how true
Great Croesus' shade hath made an ass of you. [_Exit._

HOG. Let me now ruminate to myself why Croesus should be so great a favourer to me. And yet to what end should I desire to know? I think it is sufficient it is so. And I would he had been so sooner, for he and his spirits would have saved me much labour in the purchasing of wealth; but then indeed it would have been the confusion of two or three scriveners which, by my means, have been properly raised. But now imagine this only a trick, whereby I may be gulled! But how can that be? Are not my doors locked? Have I not seen with my own eyes the ascending of the spirits? Have I not heard with my own ears the invocation wherewith they were raised? Could any but spirits appear through so firm a floor as this is? 'Tis impossible. But hark! I hear the spirit Ascarion coming with my gold. O bountiful Croesus! I'll build a temple to thy mightiness!

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY _and_ PETER SERVITUDE.

Y. LORD W. O Peter, how long have we slept upon the hogshead?

P. SER. I think a dozen hours, my lord, and 'tis nothing. I'll undertake to sleep sixteen, upon the receipt of two cups of muskadine.[398]

Y. LORD W. I marvel what's become of Haddit and Lightfoot!

P. SER. Hang 'em, flinchers; they slunk away as soon as they had drank as much as they were able to carry, which no generous spirit would ha' done, indeed.

Y. LORD W. Yet I believe Haddit had his part, for, to my thinking, the cellar went round with him when he left us. But are we come to a bed yet? I must needs sleep.

P. SER. Come softly by any means, for we are now upon the threshold of my master's chamber, through which I'll bring you to Mistress Rebecca's lodging. Give me your hand, and come very nicely.

[PETER _falls into the hole_.

Y. LORD W. Where art, Peter?

P. SER. O, O!

Y. LORD W. Where's this noise, Peter? canst tell?

HOG. I hear the voice of my adopted son-in-law.

Y. LORD W. Why, Peter, wilt not answer me?

P. SER. O, my Lord above, stand still; I'm fallen down at least thirty fathom deep. If you stand not still till I recover, and have lighted a candle, you're but a dead man.

HOG. I am robb'd, I am undone, I am deluded! Who's in my chamber?

Y. LORD W. 'Tis I, the lord your son, that shall be; upon my honour, I came not to rob you.

HOG. I shall run mad! I shall run mad!

Y. LORD W. Why, then, 'tis my fortune to be terrified with madmen.

_Enter_ PETER SERVITUDE, _with a candle_.

P. SER. Where are you, my lord?

HOG. Here, my lady. Where are you, rogue, when thieves break into my house?

P. SER. Breaking my neck in your service--a plague on't!

Y. LORD W. But are you robbed, indeed, father Hog? Of how much, I pray?

HOG. Of all, of all! See here, they have left me nothing but two or three rolls of parchment; here they came up like spirits, and took my silver, gold, and jewels. Where's my daughter?

P. SER. She's not in the house, sir. The street-doors are wide open.

Y. LORD W. Nay, 'tis no matter where she is now. She'll scarce be worth a thousand pound, and that's but a tailor's prize.[399]

HOG. Then you'll not have her, sir?

Y. LORD W. No, as I hope to live in peace.

HOG. Why, be't so, be't so; confusion cannot come in a fitter time on all of us. O bountiful Croesus! how fine thy shadow hath devoured my substance!

P. SER. Good my lord, promise him to marry his daughter, or he will be mad presently, though you never intend to have her.

Y. LORD W. Well, father Hog, though you are undone, your daughter shall not be, so long as a lord can stand her in any stead. Come, you shall with me to my lord and father, whose warrants we will have for the apprehending of all suspicious livers; and, though the labour be infinite, you must consider your loss is so.

HOG. Come, I'll do anything to gain my gold.

P. SER. Till which be had, my fare will be but cold.
[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT, REBECCA, LIGHTFOOT, _and_ PRIEST.

HAD. Now, Master Parson, we will no further trouble you; and, for the tying of our true love-knot, here's a small amends.

PRIEST. 'Tis more than due, sir; yet I'll take it all.
Should kindness be despis'd, goodwill would fall
Unto a lower ebb, should we detest
The grateful giver's gift, _verissimo est_.

HAD. It's true, indeed; good morrow, honest parson.

PRIEST. Yet, if you please, sir John will back surrender
The overplus of what you now did tender.

HAD. O, by no means; I prythee, friend, good morrow.

LIGHT. Why. if you please, sir John, to me restore
The overplus: I'll give it to the poor.

PRIEST. O, pardon, sir, for, by your worship's leave,
We ought to give from whence we do receive.

HAD. Why, then, to me, sir John.

PRIEST. To all a kind good-morrow. [_Exit_ PRIEST.

HAD. A most fine vicar; there was no other means to be rid of him. But why are you so sad, Rebecca?

REB. To think in what estate my father is,
When he beholds that he is merely gull'd.

HAD. Nay, be not grieved for that which should rather give you cause of content; for 'twill be a means to make him abandon his avarice, and save a soul almost incurable. But now to our own affairs: this marriage of ours must not yet be known, lest it breed suspicion. We will bring you, Rebecca, unto Atlas's house, whilst we two go unto the old Lord Wealthy's, having some acquaintance with his son-in-law Carracus, who I understand is there; where no question but we shall find your father proclaiming his loss: thither you shall come somewhat after us, as it were to seek him; where I doubt not but so to order the matter, that I will receive you as my wife from his own hands.

REB. May it so happy prove!