Chapter IV: Act II: Scene I

_A Room in_ DOROTHEA'_s House_.

_Enter_ DOROTHEA, _followed by_ ANGELO _with a book and taper_.

_Dor._ My book and taper.

_Ang._ Here, most holy mistress.

_Dor._ Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never
Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.
Were every servant in the world like thee,
So full of goodness, angels would come down
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,
And like that name thou art; get thee to rest,
Thy youth with too much watching is opprest.

_Ang._ No, my dear lady, I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,
By my late watching, but to wait on you.
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven,
So blest I hold me in your company:
Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence;
For then you break his heart.

_Dor._ Be nigh me still, then:
In golden letters down I'll set that day,
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself,
This little, pretty body; when I, coming
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy,
My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand!--
And, when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom,
Methought, was fill'd with no hot wanton fire,
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,
On wings of cherubins, than it did before.

_Ang._ Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.

_Dor._ I have offer'd
Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents.
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some,
To dwell with thy good father; for, the son
Bewitching me so deeply with his presence,
He that begot him must do 't ten times more.
I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents;
Be not ashamed.

_Ang._ I am not: I did never
Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace,
Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure you,
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,
My father is in heaven: and, pretty mistress,
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand,
No worse than yet it does; upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid you welcome.

_Dor._ A blessed day!
We all long to be there, but lose the way. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A Street, near_ DOROTHEA'_s House_.

_Enter_ MACRINUS, _met by_ THEOPHILUS _and_ HARPAX.

_Theoph._ The Sun, god of the day, guide thee, Macrinus!

_Mac._ And thee, Theophilus!

_Theoph._ Glad'st thou in such scorn[33]?
I call my wish back.

_Mac._ I'm in haste.

_Theoph._ One word,
Take the least hand[34] of time up:--stay.

_Mac._ Be brief.

_Theoph._ As thought: I prithee tell me, good Macrinus,
How health and our fair princess lay together
This night, for you can tell; courtiers have flies[35],
That buzz all news unto them.

_Mac._ She slept but ill.

_Theoph._ Double thy courtesy; how does Antoninus?

_Mac._ Ill, well, straight, crooked,--I know not how.

_Theoph._ Once more;
--Thy head is full of windmills:--when doth the princess
Bestow herself on noble Antoninus?

_Mac._ I know not.

_Theoph._ No! thou art the manuscript,
Where Antoninus writes down all his secrets:
Honest Macrinus, tell me.

_Mac._ Fare you well, sir. [_Exit._

_Harp._ Honesty is some fiend, and frights him hence;
A many courtiers love it not.

_Theoph._ What piece
Of this state-wheel, which winds up Antoninus,
Is broke, it runs so jarringly? the man
Is from himself divided: O thou, the eye,
By which I wonders see, tell me, my Harpax,
What gad-fly tickles this Macrinus so,
That, flinging up the tail, he breaks thus from me.

_Harp._ Oh, sir, his brain-pan is a bed of snakes,
Whose stings shoot through his eye-balls, whose poisonous spawn
Ingenders such a fry of speckled villanies,
That, unless charms more strong than adamant
Be used, the Roman angel's[36] wings shall melt,
And Cæsar's diadem be from his head
Spurn'd by base feet; the laurel which he wears,
Returning victor, be enforced to kiss
That which it hates, the fire. And can this ram,
This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready
To so much mischief, keep a steady motion?--
His eyes and feet, you see, give strange assaults.

_Theoph._ I'm turn'd a marble statue at thy language,
Which printed is in such crabb'd characters,
It puzzles all my reading: what, in the name
Of Pluto, now is hatching?

_Harp._ This Macrinus,
The line is[37], upon which love-errands run
'Twixt Antoninus and that ghost of women,
The bloodless Dorothea; who in prayer
And meditation, mocking all your gods,
Drinks up her ruby colour: yet Antoninus
Plays the Endymion to this pale-faced Moon,
Courts, seeks to catch her eyes--

_Theoph._ And what of this?

_Harp._ These are but creeping billows,
Not got to shore yet: but if Dorothea
Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love,
(Your coldest women do so),--had you ink
Brew'd from the infernal Styx, not all that blackness
Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours,
Disgraces, buffetings, and most base affronts
Upon the bright Artemia, star o' the court,
Great Cæsar's daughter.

_Theoph._ I now conster[38] thee.

_Harp._ Nay, more; a firmament of clouds, being fill'd
With Jove's artillery, shot down at once,
To pash[39] your gods in pieces, cannot give,
With all those thunderbolts, so deep a blow
To the religion there, and pagan lore,
As this; for Dorothea hates your gods,
And, if she once blast Antoninus' soul,
Making it foul like hers, Oh! the example--

_Theoph._ Eats through Cæsarea's heart like liquid poison.
Have I invented tortures to tear Christians,
To see but which, could all that feel hell's torments
Have leave to stand aloof here on earth's stage,
They would be mad till they again descended,
Holding the pains most horrid of such souls,
May-games to those of mine; has this my hand
Set down a Christian's execution
In such dire postures, that the very hangman
Fell at my foot dead, hearing but their figures;
And shall Macrinus and his fellow-masquer
Strangle me in a dance?

_Harp._ No:--on; I hug thee,
For drilling thy quick brains in this rich plot
Of tortures 'gainst these Christians: on; I hug thee!

_Theoph._ Both hug and holy me: to this Dorothea,
Fly thou and I in thunder.

_Harp._ Not for kingdoms
Piled upon kingdoms: there's a villain page
Waits on her, whom I would not for the world
Hold traffic with; I do so hate his sight,
That, should I look on him, I must sink down.

_Theoph._ I will not lose thee then, her to confound:
None but this head with glories shall be crown'd.

_Harp._ Oh! mine own as I would wish thee!
[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[33] _Theoph._ Glad'st _thou in such scorn_?] Theophilus, who is
represented as a furious zealot for paganism, is mortified at the
indifference with which Macrinus returns the happiness he had
wished him by his god. Mr. M. Mason reads, Gaddest _thou in such
scorn_? He may be right; for Macrinus is evidently anxious to pass
on: the reading of the text, however, is that of all the old
copies.--GIFFORD.

[34] _Hand_,] here used for _inch_, _moment_. We often meet the phrase
_of his hands_, for _of his inches_.

[35] ----_flies_.] This word is used by Ben Jonson, a close and
devoted imitator of the ancients, for _a domestic parasite_, _a
familiar_, &c. and from him, probably, Decker adopted it in the
present sense.--GIFFORD.

[36] _Roman angels_,] i. e. the _Roman eagle_, the well-known military
ensign. _Angel_ in the sense of _bird_ is frequently met with among
our old writers. Jonson beautifully calls the nightingale "The dear
good angel of the spring." And if this should be thought, as it
probably is, a Grecism; yet we have the same term in another
passage, which will admit of no dispute:

"Not an _angel_ of the air,
_Bird_ melodious, or _bird_ fair," &c.
_Two Noble Kinsmen._
GIFFORD.

[37] Harp. _This Macrinus,
The_ line _is_, &c] The allusion is to the rude fire-works of our
ancestors. So, in the _Fawne_, by Marston:

"_Page._ There be squibs, sir, running upon _lines_, like some of
our gawdy gallants," &c.--GIFFORD.

[38] _Conster_,] i. e. _understand_. This word (a corruption of
_construe_), so frequently heard among the common people, has not
found a place in any dictionary that I have met with.

[39] _Pash_,] i. e. _to strike a thing with such force as to dash it
to pieces_. The word is now obsolete; which is to be regretted, as
we have none that can adequately supply its place: it is used in
its proper sense by Dryden, which is the latest instance I
recollect:

"Thy cunning engines have with labour raised
My heavy anger, like a mighty weight,
To fall and _pash_ thee."
GIFFORD.

SCENE III.

_A Hall in_ DOROTHEA'_s House, with a gallery above_.

_Enter_ DOROTHEA, MACRINUS, _and_ ANGELO.

_Dor._ My trusty Angelo, with that curious eye
Of thine, which ever waits upon my business,
I prithee watch those my still-negligent servants,
That they perform my will, in what's enjoined them
To the good of others. Be careful, my dear boy.

_Ang._ Yes, my sweetest mistress. [_Exit._

_Dor._ Now, sir, you may go on.

_Mac._ I then must study
A new arithmetic, to sum up the virtues
Which Antoninus gracefully become.
There is in him so much man, so much goodness,
So much of honour, and of all things else,
Which make our being excellent, that from his store
He can enough lend others; yet, much ta'en from him,
The want shall be as little, as when seas
Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness
Of needy rivers.

_Dor._ Sir, he is more indebted
To you for praise, than you to him that owes[40] it.

_Mac._ If queens, viewing his presents paid to the whiteness
Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious
But to be parted[41] in their numerous shares;
This he counts nothing: could you see main armies
Make battles in the quarrel of his valour,
That 'tis the best, the truest; this were nothing:
The greatness of his state, his father's voice,
And arm, awing Cæsarea, he ne'er boasts of;
The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him
Shine there but as in water, and gild him
Not with one spot of pride: no, dearest beauty,
All these, heap'd up together in one scale,
Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you,
Being put into the other.

_Dor._ Could gold buy you
To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy
Of more than I will number; and this your language
Hath power to win upon another woman,
'Top of whose heart the feathers of this world
Are gaily stuck: but all which first you named,
And now this last, his love, to me are nothing.

_Mac._ You make me a sad messenger;--but himself

_Enter_ ANTONINUS.

Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you
Music more pleasing.

_Anton._ Has your ear, Macrinus,
Heard none, then?

_Mac._ None I like.

_Anton._ But can there be
In such a noble casket, wherein lie
Beauty and chastity in their full perfections,
A rocky heart, killing with cruelty
A life that's prostrated beneath your feet?

_Dor._ I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew,
Thus to hold parley with you;--pray, sir, pardon.
[_Going._

_Anton._ Good sweetness, you now have it, and shall go:
Be but so merciful, before your wounding me
With such a mortal weapon as Farewell,
To let me murmur to your virgin ear,
What I was loth to lay on any tongue
But this mine own.

_Dor._ If one immodest accent
Fly out, I hate you everlastingly.

_Anton._ My true love dares not do it.

_Mac._ Hermes inspire thee!

_Enter, in the gallery above_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, _and_ THEOPHILUS.

_Anton._ Come, let me tune you:--glaze not thus your eyes
With self-love of a vow'd virginity;
All men desire your sweet society,
But if you bar me from it, you do kill me,
And of my blood are guilty.

_Artem._ O base villain!

_Sap._ Bridle your rage, sweet princess.

_Anton._ Could not my fortunes,
Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you,
Methinks my dear affection makes you mine.

_Dor._ Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines of gold,
He that I love is richer; and for worth,
You are to him lower than any slave
Is to a monarch.

_Sap._ So insolent, base Christian!

_Dor._ Can I, with wearing out my knees before him,
Get you but be his servant, you shall boast
You're equal to a king.

_Sap._ Confusion on thee,
For playing thus the lying sorceress!

_Anton._ Your mocks are great ones; none beneath the sun
Will I be servant to.--On my knees I beg it,
Pity me, wondrous maid.

_Sap._ I curse thy baseness.

_Theoph._ Listen to more.

_Dor._ O kneel not, sir, to me.

_Anton._ This knee is emblem of an humbled heart:
That heart which tortured is with your disdain,
Justly for scorning others, even this heart,
To which for pity such a princess sues,
As in her hand offers me all the world,
Great Cæsar's daughter.

_Artem._ Slave, thou liest.

_Anton._ Yet this
Is adamant to her, that melts to you
In drops of blood.

_Theoph._ A very dog!

_Anton._ Perhaps
'Tis my religion makes you knit the brow;
Yet be you mine, and ever be your own:
I ne'er will screw your conscience from that Power,
On which you Christians lean.

_Sap._ I can no longer
Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain.
Sirrah! [_Aloud._
Would, ere thy birth, the mighty Thunderer's hand
Had struck thee in the womb!

_Mac._ We are betray'd.

_Artem._ Is that the idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st to,
Trampling upon my beauty?

_Theoph._ Sirrah, bandog[42]!
Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter
For her? our Mars for her? our Sol for her?

_Artem._ Threaten not, but strike: quick vengeance flies
Into my bosom; caitiff! here all love dies.
[_Exeunt above._

_Anton._ O! I am thunderstruck! We are both o'erwhelm'd----

_Mac._ With one high-raging billow.

_Dor._ You a soldier,
And sink beneath the violence of a woman!

_Anton._ A woman! a wrong'd princess. From such a star
Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for,
But tragical events? my life is now
The subject of her tyranny.

_Dor._ That fear is base,
Of death, when that death doth but life displace
Out of her house of earth; you only dread
The stroke, and not what follows when you're dead;
There's the great fear, indeed: come, let your eyes
Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies.

_Re-enter below_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, THEOPHILUS, _a guard_; ANGELO _comes and stands close by_ DOROTHEA.

_Artem._ My father's nerves put vigour in mine arm,
And I his strength must use. Because I once
Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the lion,
Play'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my heart,
I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey,
By lingering out thy terrors; but, with one frown,
Kill thee:--hence with them all to execution.
Seize him; but let even death itself be weary
In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to shrieks;
Give the fool what she's proud of, martyrdom:
In pieces rack that pander. [_Points to_ MACR.

_Sap._ Albeit the reverence
I owe our gods and you, are, in my bosom,
Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd
From saving this young man; yet, when I see
What face death gives him, and that a thing within me
Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man,
And grow fond of his life, which thus I beg.

_Artem._ And I deny.

_Anton._ Sir, you dishonour me,
To sue for that which I disclaim to have.
I shall more glory in my sufferings gain,
Than you in giving judgment, since I offer
My blood up to your anger; nor do I kneel
To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin:
Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is,
And Cæsar never went in greater triumph,
Than I shall to the scaffold.

_Artem._ Are you so brave, sir?
Set forward to his triumph, and let those two
Go cursing along with him.

_Dor._ No, but pitying,
For my part, I, that you lose ten times more
By torturing me, than I that dare your tortures:
Through all the army of my sins, I have even
Labour'd to break, and cope with death to the face.
The visage of a hangman frights not me;
The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires,
Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up
To an eternal habitation.

_Theoph._ Cæsar's imperial daughter, hear me speak.
Let not this Christian thing in this her pageantry
Of proud deriding both our gods and Cæsar,
Build to herself a kingdom in her death,
Going laughing from us: no; her bitterest torment
Shall be, to feel her constancy beaten down;
The bravery of her resolution lie
Batter'd, by argument, into such pieces,
That she again in penitence shall creep
To kiss the pavements of our paynim gods.

_Artem._ How to be done?

_Theoph._ I'll send my daughters to her,
And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax;
Else spit at me, let me be made your slave,
And meet no Roman's but a villain's grave.

_Artem._ Thy prisoner let her be, then; and, Sapritius,
Your son and that[43], be yours: death shall be sent
To him that suffers them, by voice or letters,
To greet each other. Rifle her estate;
Christians to beggary brought grow desperate.

_Dor._ Still on the bread of poverty let me feed.

_Ang._ O! my admired mistress, quench not out
The holy fires within you, though temptations
Shower down upon you: Clasp thine armour on,
Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars,
Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars.
[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[40] _Owes_,] i. e. _owns_.

[41] _Parted_,] i. e. _endowed with a part_.

[42] _Bandog!_] A _bandog_, as the name imports, was a dog so fierce,
as to require to be chained up. Bandogs are frequently mentioned by
our old writers (indeed the word occurs three times in this play)
and always with a reference to their savage nature. If the term was
appropriated to a species, it probably meant a large dog, of the
mastiff kind, which, though no longer met with here, is still
common in many parts of Germany: it was familiar to Snyders, and is
found in most of his hunting-pieces.

In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears: with the decline
of that sport, perhaps, the animal fell into disuse, as he was too
ferocious for any domestic purpose. Mr. Gilchrist has furnished me
with a curious passage from Laneham, which renders any further
details on the subject unnecessary. "On the syxth day of her
Majestyes cumming, a great sort of _bandogs_ whear thear tyed in
the utter coourt, and thyrteen bears in the inner. Whoosoever made
the pannel, thear wear enoow for a queast, and one for a challenge
and need wear. A wight of great wisdoom and gravitie seemed their
foreman to be, had it cum to a jury: but it fell oout that they
wear causd to appeer thear upon no such matter, but onlie too
onswear too an _auncient quarrele between them and the bandogs_,"
&c. _Queen Elizabeth's Entertainment at Killingwoorth Castle, in
1575_.--GIFFORD.

[43] _Your son and_ that.] Macrinus, whom before she had called a
pander. M. MASON.