Chapter XXII: Act V (1)

_Enter +All Ladies+, +Nurses+, +Pinguister+, and
+Lean-man+, as in the vault; +Philidor+ as a Crier._

+Phil.+ _O yes, O yes, O yes! did any man hear tale_
Or tidings of three nurses, called Three Flanders
Mares, with three sucking colts?--

+All Nurses.+ Hark, we are cried
In the streets.

+Phil.+ And also six maiden ladies, that should
Have been married to a certain
Promising gentleman?--

+All Ladies.+ Devil! we are
Cried too.

+Phil.+ Also a very lean gentleman,
That must be fatter before he's married?--

+Lean-man.+ Hark, that is I?

+Phil.+ And the hugest loss of
All is one Master Pinguister, a lovely
Fat gentleman, whom all that knew him, doubt him
To be dead upon some privy-house; because
He purged every day for love, by reason
Mistress Mirida would not marry him till
A certain measure that she[75] has will come
About his waist--

_Enter +Mirida+._

+Ping.+ Crier, I am here, I am here.

+Phil.+ If any can bring news of the six aforesaid
Virgin ladies, or of the three Flanders nurses
And colts, to one Master Philidor, a very
Conscientious young man--

+Omnes.+ A pox take him!

+Phil.+ They shall be extremely paid for their pains.
Again, if any can bring tidings of this
Master Pinguister to Mistress Mirida,
She will be very bountiful in her
Reward: the poor soul weeps most bitterly
For him.

+Ping.+ Does she so, poor wretch? [_Cries aloud._] Prythee, good
Crier, go tell her I am not dead, though
I have been buried a great while in the
Vault.
Mercy of my bum-gut, my purge again?

+Omnes.+ You nasty rogue, turn your breech out of the
Gate then.

[_Goes to do so, +Philidor+ kicks him down, he
roars out._

+Mir.+ Philidor, I have broke a vein
With laughing, to hear thy rogueries. I'll call
To Pinguister. Master Pinguister? My
Love, my dear, sure, I hear thy voice?

+Ping.+ Who's that,
My dear female?

+Mir.+ The same, fat love.

+Ping.+ O, prythee raise me from the dead.

+Phil.+ Well, ladies and gentlewomen, how d'ye
Like your crier now?

+Omnes.+ The devil take thee, was it you?

+Phil.+ The very same.

+2d Lady.+ Well, won't you let us out? pray howsoever,
Take away this fat gentleman from us;
For he has such a coming looseness, and
'Tis so dark here, that he has
Shit upon every one of us.

+Omnes.+ Well, but won't you let us out?

+Phil.+ Yes, if you ladies would set your hands
To this paper, to quit me as to all promises,
I will; and also, my reverend nurses,
You must set your hands to this discharge,
To quit me from all arrears of nursing:
Else farewell t'ye--

+Omnes.+ Well, well, stay; we will. [_Set their hands._

+Phil.+ So, now you may go take the air
Again; there's the key to let yourselves out.

+Omnes.+ A cheating rogue!

+Phil.+ Come, Mirida, let's run away, for if
They catch us, murder is the best we can
Hope for. [_Exit, with +Mirida+._

+1st Nurse.+ They went this way; let's run after
Them, some one way and some t'other. [_Exeunt +Women+._

+Ping.+ So you may, but if I run away, then
Hang me; I am glad of my resurrection
Howsoever. On my conscience, no green
Carcase ever stunk as I did; to my best
Remembrance I went to stool some
Threescore times in the vault, _ergo_
I was beaten threescore times; the
Unmerciful nurses, with their huge
Palm'd hands, every time I went to't,
Play'd at hot-cockles[76] all the while upon
My buttocks. Well, I hope I shall ne'er be
Buried again whilst I live, and so with
That prayer I'll go to bed.

_Enter +Mirida+._

+Mir.+ My dear fat love, little dost thou think how many
Tears I have shed for all thy sufferings; that rogue
Philidor put a trick upon us all.

+Ping.+ Well, and has physic, heats, burial,
Nor resurrection, made me yet lean
Enough to be thy husband? why, I have
Lost as much grease as would furnish
A whole city with candles for a twelvemonth
And all for the love of thee, sweet Mirida. [_Cries and sobs._

+Mir.+ Dear love, come sit thee in my lap,
And let me try if I can enclose thy world
Of fat and love within these arms:
See, I cannot nigh encompass my
Desires by a mile.

+Ping.+ How is my fat a rival to my joys! [_Cries._
Sure, I shall weep it all away.

+Mir.+ Lie still, my babe, lie still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to see thee weep:
Wer't thou but leaner, I were glad;
Thy fatness makes thy dear love sad.
What a lump of love have I in my arms!

+Ping.+ Nay, if I had not taken all these courses
To dissolve myself into thy embraces,
One would think my looking on thee
Were enough; for I never see thee but
I am like a fat piece of beef roasting
At the fire, continually drop, drop, drop.
There's ne'er a feature in thy face, or
Part about thee, but has cost me many
A pint of fat, with thinking on thee;
And yet not to be lean enough for
Thy husband--O fate! O fate!
O fat! [_She lets him fall._

+Mir.+ O Lord, sir, I have let you fall,
How shall I do to get you up again!

+Ping.+ Nay, that is more than all the world can tell.

+Mir.+ I'll e'en lie down by thee then.

+Ping.+ Nay,
But prythee lie near me; thou hadst
As good lie a league off, as that distance.

+Mir.+ Were I thy wife, fat love, I would.

_+She+ sings._

_My lodging upon the cold floor is,
And wonderful hard is my fare,
But that which troubles me more, is
The fatness of my dear.
Yet still I do cry, O, melt, love,
And I prythee now melt apace;
For thou art the man I should long for,
If 'twere not for thy grease._

_+Pinguister+ sings._

_Then prythee don't burden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan;
Since I do endure the smart still,
And for my fat do groan;
Then prythee now turn, my dear love,
And I prythee now turn to me;
For, alas! I am too fat still
To roll so far to thee._

+Mir.+ That were not modesty in me to turn
To you; but if you can roll to me within
This hour, I'll marry you in spite of all
Your fat.

+Ping.+ Agreed, then I shall gain thee yet;
You must lie still then.

+Mir.+ Yes, yes.

+Ping.+ Sure, I am
Sysiphus's stone, for as fast as I turn
Over, I think I turn back again, else I
Must needs have been come to my journey's end
[_He rolls to her, and she rolls from him._
By this time; for I am of such a breadth,
That every roll I give I pass over
An acre at least. Thou liest still, my love,
Dost thou not?

+Mir.+ Yes, I long to have thee here.

+Ping.+ I doubt I shan't be with thee, though,
This two hours.

+Mir.+ Then my heart will break.

+Ping.+ I'm sure mine will before I get to thee.
O woman, O woman, O woman!
They talk of woman in travail, I'm
Sure I know a man in travail at
This time, in more pain by half. [_She rises and laughs at him._

+Mir.+ Why, my most extreme fat ass, dost
Thou not find that I have fool'd thee
All this while?

+Ping.+ Why, hast thou?

+Mir.+ Yes, indeed have I.

+Ping.+ O thou woman! may'st thou grow
Fat, that thy breast and belly may
Meet together, so that all the fat
Hostesses in Christendom may appear
But eels to thee.

+Mir.+ Farewell, my lowly love.

+Ping.+ Why, wilt thou not help me up, before
You go?

+Mir.+ What to do? to run heats again for love?

+Ping.+ No, to fight with thee.

+Mir.+ Fight with me? by this light, would we
Had two swords. I'd have one pass
At all thy tripes.

_Enter +Cutler+ with two swords._

Faith, and yonder's a fellow with two swords:
Friend, lend me but thy swords one minute.

+Cut.+ I am going to carry them to two gentlemen.

+Mir.+ O, this will not hinder thee; thou shalt
See rare sport. Go, help that gentleman
Up that lies yonder, and give that sword
Into his hand. Come, are ye ready, sir?

+Ping.+ Why, you dare fight then, it seems?
Though thou art so ungodly a chit, as
To say no prayers, before thou beginn'st,
I will, I assure thee.
Good--I pray and desire ye, if I
Do miscarry in this duel, that I may
Meet with no woman in the other
World. Now, thou worst of females,
Have at thee.

+Mir.+ Come, I'll let out all your fat and love at
One thrust. [_Fight, and she disarms him._
Now ask thy life, and confess thou art an ass.

+Ping.+ I am an ass, and ask my life.

+Mir.+ Then I, thy conquering Cæsar, take my leave
With this conclusion: _veni, vidi, vici._
And so farewell. O fate, O love, O fat! [_Exit._

+Ping.+ After all my miseries, would I were
Up again, else the next man that comes
Will make a roller of me, for to roll
Bowling-greens.
[_Makes several attempts to rise, and at last gets up._
So, now I have a mile home at least,
And every toilsome step I take, I will
Curse women. [_Exit._

_Enter +Zoranzo+ and +Amphelia+ lying upon straw
together._

+Zor.+ Most bless'd of women, I must tell you truth;
And yet I fear that truth will----

+Amph.+ Will what? I doubt he loves me-- [_Aside._
Speak it, sir, nothing from you can
Be unwelcome.

+Zor.+ O yes, it will.

+Amph.+ I'll warrant you; out with it, sir.

+Zor.+ Then know, I----'Twill come no farther.

+Amph.+ Unhappy man! 'tis so, he loves me. [_Aside._
O sir, I have sadder truth to tell to you
Than yours can be to me----I dare not
Speak it.

+Zor.+ My fears are true; she loves me. [_Aside._
Pray tell me, what it is?

+Amph.+ Tell yours first, sir.

+Zor.+ Alas! you saw I tried, but could not get
It past my lips.

+Amph.+ If I should try, mine would not come so far.

+Zor.+ Would I knew yours, I could tell it for you.

+Amph.+ So could I yours, [and] yet I can't my own.

+Zor.+ Alas! she loves me. [_Aside._

+Amph.+ Poor Zoranzo! I see he loves me. [_Aside._
But, sir, consider we are going to die;
Let us die undeceiv'd in one another.

+Zor.+ O, that some one that knows each of our hearts,
Would hearken to our griefs, and bid
An angel come and speak for both!

_Enter +Jailor+._

+Jailor.+ Come, have you done your discourse? you must go
To execution.

+Zor.+ A little patience, jailor: [_To her_] see, we are
Called unto our deaths, pray tell me, what
You mean.

+Amph.+ I cannot; first do you begin.

+Zor.+ Nor I.

+Amph.+ Let us tell both together then, that one
May not blame the other.

+Zor.+ Agreed: are you ready now to speak!

+Amph.+ Yes--O no, I am not--well, now I am--
Are you?

+Zor.+ Yes, I am; begin--O, stay, I cannot yet.

+Jailor.+ Come, come, I can give you no longer time.

+Amph.+ Nay, then we must tell.

+Zor.+ Poor Amphelia! 'tis Amarissa that
I love.

+Amph.+ O Zoranzo, I love the duke!

+Zor.+ Then I am joy'd, I was afraid 'twas me
You lov'd.

+Amph.+ And so was I that you lov'd me.
Now we shall both die happy, never was
Two such friends as you and I.

+Jailor.+ Come, come.

+Amph.+ Good jailor, we go most willingly now. [_Exeunt._

_Enter as on a scaffold, +Duke+, +Amarissa+, +Ortellus+,
+Zoranzo+, +Amphelia+, +Jailor+, and +Executioner+._

+Ama.+ Jailor, why didst thou let them stay so long?

+Jailor.+ They had so much to say to one another,
That still they begged one minute, and then
Another.

+Ama.+ D'ye hear, sir? pray let the jailor
Be turn'd out of his place, for letting them speak to
One another.

+Amph.+ See, Zoranzo, where they sit
In triumph o'er our deaths.

+Ama.+ S'life, sir, they are
Whispering, d'ye see
Yonder? Executioner, why don't you
Strike off their heads, and let them whisper then.
Sir, you're melancholy.

+Duke.+ I am indeed.

+Zor.+ Now, Amphelia, to heaven and you I truly
Vow, my love is still the same to cruel Amarissa.

+Amph.+ Heaven and you witness the same for me:
My heart is still that undeserving duke's.

+Exec.+ Come, which of you will die first?

+Zor.+ Hast thou not
Skill enough to strike our heads off together?

+Ama.+ Executioner, let them not have that
Satisfaction; pray, sir, let that woman
Die first, that damned Zoranzo may have
Two deaths; it will be one to him to see
Her die; shall it be so, sir?

+Duke.+ What you please.

+Exec.+ Come, lady, you must lay down your head
First, the duke says.

+Amph.+ That word's the sharpest axe
That I shall feel.

+Exec.+ Have you said all? [_Both kneel as at prayers._

+Amph.+ To earth I have,
But not to heaven.
Farewell, dear friend, for one short minute.

+Zor.+ My soul
Shall hasten after yours.

+Ama.+ S'life! jailor, will you
Let them speak to one another again?

+Amph.+ Executioner, now I am ready.

+Duke.+ Hold,
The prisoner shall die first.

+Zor.+ With all my
Heart, I am ready.

+Duke.+ Nay, it is not you
I mean, sir; rise; 'tis I that am the prisoner,
I will make you a present, take your life,
Your love; nay, and my dukedom too: and to
Oblige you most of all, executioner,
Strike off my head, for I am weary of it.

+Amph.+ Not for ten thousand worlds, sir,
Whate'er you mean.

+Duke.+ Know then, I have lov'd you
All this while, but seeing your hate so great to me,
I have dissembled scorn to you. [_She swoons._
Why dost thou swoon, Amphelia?

+Amph.+ Did not I hear some voice just now,
That said the duke does love me still?

+Duke.+ Thou didst; 'twas he himself that said so.

+Amph.+ If 'twere from heaven, good heaven, say it again!

+Duke.+ 'Twas I myself, I tell thee--and I will
Ne'er speak another word, if that displease thee.

+Amph.+ O, I am in heaven then, it seems, and 'tis
Some god that is telling me how the duke
Loved me still.

+Duke.+ Dear Amphelia, 'tis I
That loves thee, tells thee so.

+Amph.+ Hark, now there is a god that says he loves
Me too; blest god, I'm sorry if you do.
Since I have heard the duke does love me still,
He must be your rival, indeed I cannot
Help it. O, let me fly down to the earth
Again, only to hear him say he loves me.
I cannot promise when I shall return:
That very word from him would keep me there.

+Duke.+ I must answer her no more: they say
'Twill keep 'em longer in a trance. [_He rubs her._

+Ort.+ I am but in a scurvy condition now, if
She comes to life again, for they will
Examine one another, how the mistake
Came between them, and then I am
Sure it must come to light. [_Aside._

+Amph.+ Who's that,--duke Archimedes?

+Duke.+ The same, sweet angel.

+Amph.+ O sir, I am come from heaven to see you,
Since there I heard you love me still.

+Duke.+ Dear Amphelia, thou hast dream'd all this while;
Heaven, 'tis true, is where thou art, but 'twas
My voice that said I love thee.

+Amph.+ Was not my head struck off just now?

+Duke.+ Canst thou ask that, while I have
A head and heart?

+Amph.+ Why, have you lov'd me still?

+Duke.+ With as much truth as ever lover did.

+Amph.+ So have I you with equal constancy.

+Ama.+ Well, sir, now you are satisfied, pray let
Me be so too, and let Zoranzo's head
Be struck off quickly,
I see he's mean as well as false, to quit
Me for a woman that does not love him.

+Amph.+ Hold, Amarissa, hear me speak, before
Zoranzo dies; and be assur'd he loves
You still.

+Ama.+ Would you deceive me too?

+Amph.+ Indeed I don't; when we were going to die,
You may remember that we whispered,
Then we called heaven and ourselves to witness,
That both our loves were true,
Mine to Archimedes, and his to you.

+Ama.+ You can forgive me, sir? [_Kneels._

+Zor.+ I cannot answer yet;
Thy civility has took away my speech.

+Duke.+ Dear Amphelia, how came this sad mistake
'Twixt you and I?

+Amph.+ I'll tell you, sir, in part;
When you were in this last war, my woman
Receiv'd a letter from one of the gentlemen
Of your chamber, wherein he did assure
Her that you had a new mistress in that
Country, and therefore bid her tell me
Of it, that I might by degrees wean my
Affections from so false a man as you.

+Duke.+ Here has been some foul play; for this very man
You spoke of, receiv'd a letter from your woman,
Wherein she bid him assure me, that you
Were prov'd false in my absence, and lov'd my
Cousin Ortellus. Guard, go fetch them both
Hither immediately; they shall die
Without mercy.

+Ort.+ Nay, then, I had as good
Discover, 'twill fall th' heavier on me else.
Sir, let the guard stay,
And I will tell you all.
'Tis I have sow'd the seeds of this mistake.
I long have lov'd Amphelia, for which cause
I tried this way to draw her heart from you.
I knew this gentleman of your bed-chamber
Was in love with Amphelia's woman,
Therefore I brib'd her to write to him,
To assure the duke that Amphelia lov'd me,
And that she should also charge him, to write
Another letter to her, wherein he
Should complain of the duke's falling in love
With another woman in that country.
I knew your spirits both to be so great that
Neither of you would stoop to one another,
When you were both possess'd of either's falseness:
And so it prov'd.
For when the duke heard you lov'd me, he brought
A fair new mistress over with him, to
Let you see he did contemn you; and so
Amphelia, sir, when she heard you lov'd
Another, assur'd me then that she lov'd me,
Which now I see was only to make you
Think how much she scorn'd you, though still her heart
Was true, and so was yours. Now, sir,
I humbly beg your pardon.

+Duke.+ 'Twill be in vain, my lord; I cannot grant it.
O Amphelia, how many hours of joy
We two have lost!

+Amph.+ Base lord!

_Enter +Artabella+._

+Art.+ O sir, I heard that people were to die
To-day; let me be one, I pray.

+Amph.+ Not for
The world, sweet innocent.

+Art.+ O madam, you are she
The duke loves. Pray spare your pity, sir; can
You have the heart to let me live, and see
You married to another?

+Amph.+ Have patience,
Sweet young maid, I will not marry him; you won't
Blame me, if I love him, though?

+Art.+ No;
For then I should condemn my fault in you.

+Duke.+ But sure, Amphelia, you did but jest,
In telling her you would not marry me?

+Amph.+ Indeed, sir, I am in earnest; consider
It is but justice; she loves you as well
As I: her heart was quiet till you troubled
It.

+Duke.+ All this is true; but how will your
Love show, if you refuse to marry me?

+Amph.+ Not less at all, but make my pity more.

+Duke.+ If I would marry her, I can't believe,
That she would be thus kind to you.

+Amph.+ Yes, I dare say she would; ask her and try.

+Duke.+ Well, Artabella, will you marry me?

+Art.+ You never hated me till now; can you
Believe I'd wrong so blest a woman as
Amphelia?

+Amph.+ See, sir, would it be justice now in me?
She will not wound my heart; should I kill hers?

+Duke.+ But consider, 'tis you I love, not her.

+Amph.+ That's her misfortune, sir, yet she deserves.
As much as I: I can but love you, so
Does she.

+Duke.+ Dear Amphelia, marry me.

+Amph.+ I cannot
Out of pity, sir.

+Duke.+ Talk not of pity, if
Thou wilt show me none.

+Amph.+ My pity is her due:
My love is yours.

+Duke.+ O Amphelia, this was
A cruel way to make me happy. Thou'st
Better still have kept my joys unknown, than let
The knowing of it be my death. Once more,
My dear Amphelia, marry me.

+Amph.+ Do not
Petition her; you may command in any
Thing but this.

+Duke.+ Monster of villains, thou hast caus'd
All this! Executioner, immediately strike
Off his head.

+Ort.+ I'm sure you will not let me die.

+Duke.+ Impudent villain, dispatch him straight.

+Ort.+ Hold, sir, 'tis only I can make you
Three happy, which if you do not confess,
When you have heard me speak, then let me die.

+Duke.+ Well, let's hear it.

+Ort.+ Promise me my life
First, if I do.

+Duke.+ Well, you shall have it.

+Ort.+ Then know, the lady Artabella is
Your sister.

+Duke.+ Ha!

+Ort.+ I say, your sister;
You do remember that you had one once?

+Duke.+ Yes, I do, but she was lost at three years old.

+Ort.+ 'Tis true it was thought so; but thus it is:--
When 'twas reported you were slain in th' battle,
I straight convey'd away this lady, then
A child, because she should not stand 'twixt me
And the dukedom. I being then acquainted
With the mother to Arbatus, I brought
This lady, and gave her a sum of money,
T' adopt her for her child. With willingness
My offer she embrac'd, the more, because
Her son Arbatus had been lost about
Seven years, thought to have been cast away
At sea, though afterwards returned home:
I had enjoin'd her secrecy, which she
Kept, therefore she told Arbatus 'twas his
Sister.

_Enter +Arbatus+._

+Duke.+ And is she then my sister? O
Arbatus, welcome, welcome! I've a crowd
Of joys about my heart to tell thee.

+Arb.+ What! that you have broken my sister's heart?

+Duke.+ Thou hast no sister; 'tis I [that] possess that
Blessing; Artabella is my sister.
How blest a sound is _sister_ to my ears!
I'll give command no other word but _sister_
Shall be spoke throughout my dukedom; I'll have it
Taught to infants; so that when nature lends
Their sucking tongues a means to speak one word,
They shall all babble _sister_, 'stead of _nurse._
I'll have the name engrav'd in gold [up]on
Every post and pillar in the streets, and passers-
By shall worship it.

+Arb.+ I am amazed.

_Enter +Philidor+ and +Mirida+._

+Duke.+ Welcome, Philidor.

+Phil.+ I am glad
To see joy in your looks again, sir;
The time is long since I have seen you smile.

+Duke.+ Philidor, all that is joy I have within
This breast; it overflows
And runs into my eyes. This is my sister!
(O, what a word is sister!) and this my dear
And true Amphelia.
Come, Mirida shall be thine to-day too. [_To +Philidor+._

+Mir.+ Hold, sir, I forbid that banns.

+Phil.+ Troth, so do I too; you always
Take the words out of my mouth.
You and I marry, quotha!

+Mir.+ No, faith, we'll be hang'd first. I'd
Rather hear a long sermon, than
Hear a parson ask me: _Mirida,
Will you have this man for your
Wedded husband, to have and to hold,
From this day forward_, and so forth.

+Phil.+ Right, _for better for worse, in
Sickness or in health._

+Mir.+ Ay, and perhaps after we have been
Married half a year, one's
Husband falls into a deep consumption,
And will not do one the favour to
Die neither, then we must be
Ever feeding him with caudles.
O, from a husband in a consumption
Deliver me!

+Phil.+ And think how weary I should be
Of thee, Mirida, when once we were
Chain'd together: the very name of
Wife would be a vomit to me: then
Nothing but, _where's my wife? call
My wife to dinner, call my wife to supper_;
And then at night, _come, wife, will you
Go to bed_?

+Mir.+ Ay, and that would be so troublesome
To be call'd by one's husband every night
To go to bed. O, that dull, dull
Name of husband!

+Duke.+ Indeed you two are well met,
The world has not two more such,
I am confident.

+Mir.+ The more the pity, sir.

+Phil.+ No, sir, if you please, never propose
Marrying to us, till both of us have
Committed such faults as are death
By the law; then instead of
Hanging us, marry us.

+Mir.+ And then you shall hear how
Earnestly we shall petition your
Highness to be hang'd rather than
Married.

+Duke.+ No man can judge which is the
Wildest of these two.
Now, brave Arbatus, in all my dukedom
There is but one gift worthy thy
Receiving, and that's my sister;
Here, sir, take her as freely as heaven
Gave her me.

+Arb.+ D'ye forgive me, sir?

+Duke.+ Or not myself, Arbatus.
This day Hymen shall light his torch for all.

+Phil.+ With your pardon, sir, not for me
And my female?

+Mir.+ No, faith, I'll blow it out,
If he does.

+Art.+ Sir, though in my own desires
I should have chose the man that you have given me,
Yet I beg we may not marry yet; we have
Call'd brother and sister so long, that yet
We needs must think we are so still.

+Arb.+ Pray, madam,
Let's think so as little a while as we can,
That fancy may not keep my joy in prison.

+Duke.+ Let's to the temple now, and there thank
Heaven for these unexpected joys.
Each day the gods shall lend me in this life,
I'll thank them for a sister and a wife. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[75] [Old copy, _he_.]

[76] [See Thoms' "Anecdotes and Traditions," 1839, p. 95.]

HISTORIA HISTRIONICA.

_EDITION._

_Historia Histrionica. An Historical Account of the
English-Stage; showing the Ancient Uses, Improvement, and
Perfection of Dramatic Representations, in this Nation. In
a Dialogue, of Plays and Players._--Olim meminisse juvabit.
_London. Printed by G. Croom, for William Haws, at the Rose
in Ludgate-Street._ 1699. 8º.

This tract is said to have been the production of James Wright of New Inn, afterwards of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law, who was the son of Abraham Wright, a well-known miscellaneous writer (1645-70). The former was the author of "The Antiquities of Rutlandshire," and some poems; particularly (1) "An Essay on the Present Ruins of St Paul's Cathedral." To which is annexed, "The Misfortunes of St Paul's Cathedral," in heroic verse, 4º. 1668; reprinted with two other poems under the title of (2) "Three poems of St Paul's Cathedral; viz., The Ruins, The Rebuilding, The Choire,[77] Fo. 1697," and (3) "Phœnix Paulina, a Poem on St Paul's Cathedral, 4º. 1709."[78] He was alive in 1710, being mentioned by Mr Hearne in his preface to Leland's "Itinerary," in this manner; "I could have supply'd more Lacunæ, and in all likelyhood have render'd this performance more perfect, if I had had the use of a very good transcript of Mr Leland's 'Itinerary,' taken about the time of Queen Elizabeth (before the originals took wet, as is suppos'd) and was formerly in possession of James Wright, of the Middle Temple, Esq., the worthy author of the 'Antiquities of Rutlandshire;' but this, with a multitude of other valuable curiosities, was unhappily burned in the fire at the Middle Temple, in the year 1698, as Mr Wright has been pleased to inform me." Anthony Wood says, he wrote an elegy on the death of Mr John Goad, Master of Merchant Taylor's School, who died 1689. (See Wood's "Athenæ," vol. i. p. 839.)

FOOTNOTES:

[77] British Topography, vol. 1. p. 610.

[78] Catalogue of pamphlets in the Harleian Library, p. 140.

THE PREFACE.[79]

Much has been writ of late _pro_ and _con_ about the stage, yet the subject admits of more, and that which has not been hitherto touched upon; not only what that is, but what it was, about which some people have made such a bustle. What it is we see, and I think it has been sufficiently displayed in Mr Collier's book; what it was in former ages, and how used in this kingdom, so far back as one may collect any memorials, is the subject of the following dialogue. Old plays will be always read by the curious, if it were only to discover the manners and behaviour of several ages, and how they altered. For plays are exactly like portraits, drawn in the garb and fashion of the time when painted. You see one habit in the time of Charles I., another quite different from that, both for men and women, in Queen Elizabeth's time; another under Henry VIII. different from both; and so backward, all various. And in the several fashions of behaviour and conversation there is as much mutability as in that of clothes. Religion and religious matters were once as much the mode in public entertainments as the contrary has been in some times since. This appears in the different plays of several ages: and to evince this the following sheets are an essay or specimen.

Some may think the subject of this discourse trivial, and the persons herein mentioned not worth remembering. But besides that I could name some things contested of late with great heat, of as little or less consequence, the reader may know that the profession of players is not so totally scandalous, nor all of them so reprobate, but that there has been found under that name a canonised saint in the primitive church, as may be seen in the "Roman Martyrology" on the 29th March: his name _Masculas_, a master of interludes (the Latin is _Archimimus_, and the French translation _un Maître comedien_) who, under the persecution of the Vandals in Africa by Geisericus the Aryan king, having endured many and grievous torments and reproaches for the confession of the truth, finished the course of this glorious combat, saith the said "Martyrology."

It appears from this and some further instances in the following discourse, that there have been players of worthy principles as to religion, loyalty, and other virtues; and if the major part of them fall under a different character, it is the general unhappiness of mankind, that the _most_ are the _worst._

FOOTNOTES:

[79] This preface was omitted by Mr Reed, probably because his copy was not perfect. It is reprinted from the first edition in 1699, which the former editor had not been able to procure.--_Collier._

A DIALOGUE, &c.

+Lovewit+, +Trueman+.

+Love.+ Honest old cavalier, well met! faith, I'm glad to see
thee.

+True.+ Have a care what you call me: old is a word of disgrace
among the ladies; to be honest is to be poor and foolish (as
some think); and cavalier is a word as much out of fashion as
any of 'em.

+Love.+ The more's the pity. But what said the fortune-teller
in Ben Jonson's "Masque of Gipsies," to the then Lord Privy
Seal?--

_Honest and old!
In those the good part of a fortune is told._

+True.+ Ben Jonson! how dare you name Ben Jonson in these
times, when we have such a crowd of poets of a quite different
genius, the least of which thinks himself as well able to
correct Ben Jonson as he could a country schoolmistress that
taught to spell!

+Love.+ We have, indeed, poets of a different genius, so are
the plays; but, in my opinion, they are all of 'em (some few
excepted) as much inferior to those of former times, as the
actors now in being (generally speaking) are, compared to
Hart, Mohun, Burt, Lacy, Clun, and Shatterel; for I can reach
no farther backward.

+True.+ I can, and dare assure you, if my fancy and memory are
not partial (for men of my age are apt to be over-indulgent to
the thoughts of their youthful days), I say the actors that I
have seen before the wars--Lowin, Taylor, Pollard, and some
others--were almost as far beyond Hart and his company as those
were beyond these now in being.

+Love.+ I am willing to believe it, but cannot readily; because
I have been told that those whom I mentioned were bred up under
the others of your acquaintance, and followed their manner of
action, which is now lost: so far that, when the question has
been asked why these players do not revive the "Silent Woman"
and some other of Jonson's plays (once of highest esteem),
they have answered, "Truly, because there are none now living
who can rightly humour those parts; for all who related to the
Blackfriars (where they were acted in perfection) are now dead
and almost forgotten."

+True.+ 'Tis very true, Hart and Clun were bred up boys at
the Blackfriars, and acted women's parts. Hart was Robinson's
boy or apprentice; he acted the Duchess in the tragedy of the
"Cardinal," which was the first part that gave him reputation.
Cartwright and Wintershal belonged to the Private House in
Salisbury Court; Burt was a boy, first under Shank at the
Blackfriars, then under Beeston at the Cockpit; and Mohun and
Shatterel were in the same condition with him at the last
place. There Burt used to play the principal women's parts,
in particular Clariana, in "Love's Cruelty;" and at the same
time Mohun acted Bellamente, which part he retained after the
Restoration.

+Love.+ That I have seen, and can well remember. I wish they
had printed in the last age (so I call the times before the
Rebellion) the actors' names over against the parts they acted,
as they have done since the Restoration, and thus one might
have guessed at the action of the men by the parts which we now
read in the old plays.

+True.+ It was not the custom and usage of those days, as it
hath been since. Yet some few old plays there are that have the
names set against the parts, as "The Duchess of Malfy," "The
Picture," "The Roman Actor," "The Deserving Favourite," "The
Wild-Goose Chase" (at the Blackfriars), "The Wedding," "The
Renegado," "The Fair Maid of the West," "Hannibal and Scipio,"
"King John and Matilda" (at the Cockpit), and "Holland's
Leaguer" (at Salisbury Court).

+Love.+ These are but few indeed. But pray, sir, what
master-parts can you remember the old Blackfriar's men to act
in Jonson, Shakespeare, and Fletcher's plays?

+True.+ What I can at present recollect, I'll tell you.
Shakespeare (who, as I have heard, was a much better poet than
player), Burbage, Hemmings, and others of the older sort,
were dead before I knew the town; but in my time, before
the wars, Lowin used to act with mighty applause Falstaff,
Morose, Volpone, and Mammon in the "Alchymist," Melantius
in the "Maid's Tragedy;" and at the same time Amyntor was
played by Stephen Hammerton (who was at first a most noted
and beautiful woman-actor, but afterwards he acted with equal
grace and applause a young lover's part); Taylor acted Hamlet
incomparably well; Jago, Truewit in the "Silent Woman," and
Face in the "Alchymist." Swanston used to play Othello. Pollard
and Robinson were comedians; so was Shank, who used to act Sir
Roger in the "Scornful Lady:" these were of Blackfriars. Those
of principal note at the Cockpit were Perkins, Michael Bowyer,
Sumner, William Allan, and Bird, eminent actors, and Robins, a
comedian. Of the other companies I took little notice.

+Love.+ Were there so many companies?

+True.+ Before the wars there were in being all these
play-houses at the same time. The Blackfriars and Globe on the
Bank-side, a winter and summer house, belonging to the same
company, called the King's Servants; the Cockpit or Phœnix, in
Drury Lane, called the Queen's Servants; the Private House, in
Salisbury Court, called the Prince's Servants; the Fortune,
near Whitecross Street;[80] and the Red Bull, at the upper end
of St John's Street: the two last were mostly frequented by
citizens and the meaner sort of people. All these companies
got money, and lived in reputation, especially those of the
Blackfriars, who were men of grave and sober behaviour.

+Love.+ Which I admire at; that the town, much less than at
present, could then maintain five companies, and yet now two
can hardly subsist.

+True.+ Do not wonder, but consider that, though the town was
then, perhaps, not much more than half so populous as now, yet
then the prices were small (there being no scenes), and better
order kept among the company that came; which made very good
people think a play an innocent diversion for an idle hour
or two, the plays themselves being then, for the most part,
more instructive and moral. Whereas, of late, the play-houses
are so extremely pestered with vizard-masks and their trade
(occasioning continual quarrels and abuses), that many of the
more civilised part of the town are uneasy in the company, and
shun the theatre as they would a house of scandal. It is an
argument of the worth of the plays and actors of the last age,
and easily inferred, that they were much beyond ours in this,
to consider that they could support themselves merely from
their own merit, the weight of the matter, and goodness of the
action, without scenes and machines; whereas the present plays,
with all that show, can hardly draw an audience, unless there
be the additional invitation of a Signer Fedeli, a Monsieur
l'Abbé, or some such foreign regale expressed in the bottom of
the bill.

+Love.+ To waive this digression, I have read of one Edward
Alleyn, a man so famed for excellent action, that among
Ben Jonson's epigrams I find one directed to him, full of
encomium, and concluding thus--

_Wear this renown; 'tis just that who did give
So many poets life, by one should live._

Was he one of the Blackfriars?

+True.+ Never as I have heard (for he was dead before my time).
He was master of a company of his own, for whom he built
the Fortune Playhouse from the ground, a large round brick
building. This is he that grew so rich, that he purchased a
great estate in Surrey and elsewhere; and having no issue, he
built and largely endowed Dulwich College in the year 1619[81],
for a master, a warden, four fellows, twelve aged poor people,
and twelve poor boys, &c. A noble charity!

+Love.+ What kind of play-houses had they before the wars?

+True.+ The Blackfriars, Cockpit, and Salisbury Court were
called private houses, and were very small to what we see now.
The Cockpit was standing since the Restoration, and Rhodes's
company acted there for some time.

+Love.+ I have seen that.

+True.+ Then you have seen the other two in effect, for they
were all three built almost exactly alike for form and bigness.
Here they had pits for the gentry, and acted by candlelight.
The Globe, Fortune, and Bull were large houses, and lay partly
open to the weather, and there they always acted by daylight.

+Love.+ But prythee, Trueman, what became of these players when
the stage was put down, and the Rebellion raised?

+True.+ Most of them, except Lowin, Taylor, and Pollard (who
were superannuated) went into the king's army, and, like good
men and true, served their old master, though in a different,
yet more honourable capacity. Robinson was killed at the taking
of a place (I think Basing House) by Harrison, he that was
after hanged at Charing Cross, who refused him quarter, and
shot him in the head when he had laid down his arms; abusing
Scripture at the same time in saying, _Cursed is he that doth
the work of the Lord negligently_. Mohun was a captain, and
(after the wars were ended here) served in Flanders, where he
received pay as a major. Hart was a lieutenant of horse under
Sir Thomas Dallison, in Prince Rupert's regiment; Burt was
cornet in the same troop, and Shatterel quartermaster. Allen of
the Cockpit was a major, and quartermaster-general at Oxford.
I have not heard of one of these players; of any note that
sided with the other party, but only Swanston; and he professed
himself a Presbyterian, took up the trade of a jeweller, and
lived in Aldermanbury, within the territory of Father Calamy.
The rest either lost or exposed their lives for their king.
When the wars were over, and the Royalists totally subdued,
most of 'em who were left alive gathered to London, and for a
subsistence endeavoured to revive their old trade privately.
They made up one company out of all the scattered members of
several; and in the winter before the king's murder, 1648, they
ventured to act some plays, with as much caution and privacy as
could be, at the Cockpit. They continued undisturbed for three
or four days; but at last, as they were presenting the tragedy
of the "Bloody Brother" (in which Lowin acted Aubery: Taylor,
Rollo; Pollard, the Cook; Burt, Latorch; and, I think, Hart,
Otto), a party of foot-soldiers beset the house, surprised 'em
about the middle of the play,[82] and carried 'em away in their
habits, not admitting them to shift, to Hatton House, then a
prison, where, having detained them some time, they plundered
them of their clothes, and let 'em loose again. Afterwards,
in Oliver's time, they used to act privately, three or four
miles, or more, out of town, now here, now there: sometimes in
noblemen's houses, in particular, Holland House at Kensington,
where the nobility and gentry who met (but in no great numbers)
used to make a sum for them, each giving a broad piece, or the
like. And Alexander Goffe, the woman-actor at Blackfriars (who
had made himself known to persons of quality), used to be the
jackal, and give notice of time and place. At Christmas and
Bartholomew Fair, they used to bribe the officer who commanded
the guard at Whitehall, and were thereupon connived at to
act for a few days at the Red Bull,[83] but were sometimes,
notwithstanding, disturbed by soldiers. Some picked up a
little money by publishing the copies of plays never before
printed, but kept up in manuscript. For instance, in the year
1652, Beaumont and Fletcher's "Wild-Goose Chase" was printed
in folio, for the public use of all the ingenious, as the
title-page says, and private benefit of John Lowin and Joseph
Taylor, servants to his late majesty; and by them dedicated
to the honoured few lovers of dramatic poesy, wherein they
modestly intimate their wants, and that with sufficient cause;
for whatever they were before the wars, they were after reduced
to a necessitous condition. Lowin, in his latter days, kept an
inn, the Three Pigeons at Brentford, where he died very old,
for he was an actor of eminent note in the reign of King James
I.; and his poverty was as great as his age. Taylor died at
Richmond, and was there buried. Pollard, who lived single, and
had a competent estate, retired to some relations he had in the
country, and there ended his life. Perkins and Sumner of the
Cockpit kept house together at Clerkenwell, and were there
buried. These all died some years before the Restoration; what
followed after, I need not tell you; you can easily remember.

+Love.+ Yes; presently after the Restoration, the king's
players acted publicly at the Red Bull for some time, and
then removed to a new-built play-house in Vere Street, by
Clare Market. There they continued for a year or two, and
then removed to the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, where they
first made use of scenes, which had been a little before
introduced upon the public stage by Sir William Davenant, at
the Duke's Old Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, but afterwards
very much improved, with the addition of curious machines,
by Mr Betterton, at the New Theatre in Dorset Garden, to the
great expense and continual charge of the players. This much
impaired their profit o'er what it was before; for I have been
informed by one of 'em, that for several years next after the
Restoration every whole sharer in Mr Hart's company got £1000
_per ann._ About the same time that scenes first entered upon
the stage at London, women were taught to act their own parts;
since when we have seen at both houses several actresses,
justly famed, as well for beauty as perfect good action.
And some plays, in particular the "Parson's Wedding," have
been presented all by women, as formerly all by men. Thus it
continued for about twenty years, when Mr Hart, and some of the
old men, began to grow weary, and were minded to leave off.
Then the two companies thought fit to unite; but of late, you
see, they have thought it no less fit to divide again, though
both companies keep the same name of His Majesty's Servants.
All this while the play-house music improved yearly, and is now
arrived to greater perfection than ever I knew it. Yet for
all these advantages, the reputation of the stage and people's
affection to it are much decayed. Some were lately severe
against it, and would hardly allow stage-plays fit to be longer
permitted. Have you seen Mr Collier's book?

+True.+ Yes, and his opposers'.

+Love.+ And what think you?

+True.+ In my mind, Mr Collier's reflections are pertinent,
and true in the main; the book ingeniously wrote, and well
intended; but he has overshot himself in some places, and his
respondents perhaps in more. My affection inclines me not to
engage on either side, but rather mediate. If there be abuses
relating to the stage--which, I think, is too apparent--let
the abuse be reformed, and not the use, for that reason only,
abolished. 'Twas an old saying, when I was a boy--

_Absit abusus, non desit totaliter usus._

I shall not run through Mr Collier's book; I will only touch a
little on two or three general notions, in which, I think, he
may be mistaken. What he urges out of the primitive councils
and fathers of the Church seems to me to be directed against
the heathen plays, which were a sort of religious worship
with them, to the honour of Ceres, Flora, or some of their
false deities. They had always a little altar on their stages,
as appears plain enough from some places in Plautus. And Mr
Collier himself, p. 235, tells us out of Livy that plays were
brought in, upon the score of religion, to pacify the gods.
No wonder, then, they forbid Christians to be present at
them, for it was almost the same as to be present at their
sacrifices. We must also observe that this was in the infancy
of Christianity, when the Church was under severe and almost
continual persecutions, and when all its true members were
of most strict and exemplary lives, not knowing when they
should be called to the stake, or thrown to wild beasts.
They communicated daily, and expected death hourly; as their
thoughts were intent upon the next world, they abstained almost
wholly from all diversions and pleasures (though lawful and
innocent) in this. Afterwards, when persecution ceased, and
the Church flourished, Christians, being then freed from their
former terrors, allowed themselves, at proper times, the lawful
recreations of conversations, and among other, no doubt, this
of shows and representations. After this time, the censures of
the Church indeed might be continued or revived upon occasion
against plays and players; though, in my opinion, it cannot
be understood generally, but only against such players who
were of vicious and licentious lives, and represented profane
subjects, inconsistent with the morals and probity of manners
requisite to Christians, and frequented chiefly by such loose
and debauched people as were much more apt to corrupt than
divert those who associated with them. I say, I cannot think
the canons and censures of the fathers can be applied to
all players, _quatenus_ players; for if so, how could plays
be continued among the Christians, as they were, of divine
subjects and scriptural stories? A late French author, speaking
of the Hotel de Bourgogne, a play-house in Paris, says that
the ancient dukes of that name gave it to the Brotherhood of
the Passion, established in the church of Trinity Hospital,
in the Rue St Denis, on condition that they should represent
here interludes of devotion; and adds, that there have been
public shows in this place six hundred years ago. The Spanish
and Portuguese continue still to have, for the most part, such
ecclesiastical stories for the subject of their plays; and if
we may believe Gage, they are acted in their churches in Mexico
and the Spanish West Indies.

+Love.+ That's a great way off, Trueman; I had rather you would
come nearer home, and confine your discourse to Old England.

+True.+ So I intend. The same has been done here in England;
for otherwise, how comes it to be prohibited in the 88th Canon,
among those passed in convocation, 1603? Certain it is that our
ancient plays were of religious subjects, and had for their
actors, if not priests, yet men relating to the Church.

+Love.+ How does that appear?

+True.+ Nothing clearer. Stow, in his "Survey of London,"
has one chapter _Of the Sports and Pastimes of old time used
in this City_; and there he tells us, that in the year 1391,
which was 15 Richard II., a stage-play was played by the parish
clerks of London, at the Skinner's Well beside Smithfield,
which play continued three days together, the king, queen, and
nobles of the realm being present. And another was played in
the year 1409, 11 Henry IV., which lasted eight days, and was
of matter from the creation of the world, whereat were present
most part of the nobility and gentry of England. Sir William
Dugdale, in his "Antiquities of Warwickshire," p. 116, speaking
of the Grayfriars or Franciscans at Coventry, says: "Before the
suppression of the monasteries, this city was very famous for
the pageants that were played therein upon Corpus-Christi Day;
which pageants, being acted with mighty state and reverence by
the friars of this house, had theatres for the several scenes
very large and high, placed upon wheels, and drawn to all
the eminent parts of the city, for the better advantage of
the spectators, and contained the story of the New Testament,
composed in old English rhyme." An ancient manuscript of the
same is now to be seen in the Cottonian Library, _Sub Effig.
Vesp. D. 8_. Since the Reformation, in Queen Elizabeth's time,
plays were frequently acted by quiristers and singing-boys; and
several of our old comedies have printed in the title-page,
"acted by the children of Paul's" (not the school, but the
church); others, "by the children of her majesty's chapel:" in
particular, "Cynthia's Revels" and "The Poetaster" were played
by them, who were at that time famous for good action. Among
Ben Jonson's epigrams you may find an epitaph on S. P. (_Sal.
Pavy_), one of the children of Queen Elizabeth's chapel, part
of which runs thus--

_Years he counted scarce thirteen,
When fates turn'd cruel,
Yet three fill'd zodiacs he had been
The stage's jewel;
And did act (what now we moan)
Old men so duly,
As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,
He play'd so truly._

Some of these chapel-boys, when they grew men, became actors
at the Blackfriars; such were Nathan. Field[84] and John
Underwood. Now I can hardly imagine that such plays and
players as these are included in the severe censure of the
councils and fathers; but such only who are truly within the
character given by Didacus de Tapia, cited by Mr Collier, p.
276, viz., _The infamous playhouse; a place of contradiction
to the strictness and sobriety of religion; a place hated by
God, and haunted by the devil_. And for such I have as great an
abhorrence as any man.

+Love.+ Can you guess of what antiquity the representing of
religious matters on the stage hath been in England?