Chapter IX: Prologue

This our device we do not call a play,
Because we break the stage’s laws to-day
Of acts and scenes: sometimes a comic strain
Hath hit delight home in the master-vein,
Thalia’s prize; Melpomene’s sad style
Hath shook the tragic hand another while;
The Muse of History hath caught your eyes,
And she [that] chaunts the pastoral psalteries:
We now lay claim to none, yet all present,
Seeking out pleasure to find your content.
You shall perceive, by what comes first in sight,
It was intended for a royal night:
There’s one hour’s words, the rest in songs and dances;
Lauds no man’s own, no man himself advances,
No man is lifted but by other hands;
Say he could leap, he lights but where he stands:
Such is our fate; if good, much good may’t do you!
If not, sorry we’ll lose our labours wi’ you.

THE FIGURES AND PERSONS

PROPERLY RAISED FOR EMPLOYMENT THROUGH THE
WHOLE MASQUE.

_First, three ancient and princely Receptacles_,
RICHMOND, ST. JAMES’S, _and_ DENMARK-HOUSE.

_A Scholar._ │ PALLAS.
_A Soldier._ │ JUPITER.
_The Nine Worthies_ [_the Nine Muses_.]

_The first Song and first Dance._

TIME, _a plaintiff, but his grievances delivered
courteously.
The five Starches, White, Blue, Yellow, Green, and Red._

_The second Dance._

SIMPLICITY. │ _The Intermeddler._
DECEIT. │ _The Disguiser._

_The second Song._

_A King._ │ _A Sea-Captain._
_A Land-Captain._ │ _Mariners._

_The third Song and third Dance._

_The Flamen._ │ _The Lawyer._

_The fourth and last Dance, the Devil an intermixer._

THE

WORLD TOST AT TENNIS.

_An_ INDUCTION _to the Masque prepared for his Majesty’s
Entertainment at Denmark-House_.

_Enter_ RICHMOND _and_ ST. JAMES’S.

ST. JAM. Why, Richmond, Richmond, why art so
heavy?
RICH. I have reason enough for that, good,
sainted sister; am I not built with stone—fair,
large, and free stone—some part covered with lead
too?
ST. JAM. All this is but a light-headed understanding
now; I mean, why so melancholy? thou
lookest mustily, methinks.
RICH. Do I so? and yet I dwell in sweeter air
than you, sweet St. James: how three days warming
has spirited you! you have sometimes your vacations
as other of your friends have, if you call
yourself to mind.
ST. JAM. Thou never sawest my new gallery and
my tennis-court, Richmond.
RICH. No, but I heard of it, and from whence it
came too.
ST. JAM. Why, from whence came it?
RICH. Nay, lawfully derived, from the brick-kilns,
as thou didst thyself.
ST. JAM. Thou breedest crickets, I think, and that
will serve for the anagram to a critic. Come, I know thy
grief;
Thou fear’st that our late rival, Denmark-House,
Will take from our regard, and we shall want
The noble presence of our princely master
In his so frequent visitation,
Which we were wont so fully to enjoy.
RICH. And is not that a cause of sorrow then?
ST. JAM. Rather a cause of joy, that we enjoy
So fair a fellowship. Denmark! why, she’s
A stately palace and majestical,
Ever of courtly breeding, but of late
Built up unto a royal height of state,
Rounded with noble prospects; by her side
The silver-footed Thamesis doth slide,
As, though more faintly, Richmond, does by thee,
Which I, denied to touch, can only see.

_Enter_ DENMARK-HOUSE.

RICH. Who’s this?
ST. JAM. ’Tis she herself, i’faith; comes with
A courteous brow.
DEN.-H. Ye’re welcome, most nobly welcome!
ST. JAM. Hark you now, Richmond; did not I tell thee
’twas
A royal house?
DEN.-H. Why, was there any doubt
Of our kind gratulation? I am proud
Only to be in fellowship with you,
Co-mate and servant to so great a master.
ST. JAM. That’s Richmond’s fear thou’lt rob us
both, thou hast such an enticing face of thine own.
DEN.-H. O let not that be any difference!
When we do serve, let us be ready for’t,
And call’d at his great pleasure; the round year
In her circumferent arms will fold us all,
And give us all employment seasonable.
I am for colder hours, when the bleak air
Bites with an icy tooth: when summer has sear’d,
And autumn all discolour’d, laid all fallow,
Pleasure taken house and dwells within doors,
Then shall my towers smoke and comely shew:
But when again the fresher morn appears,
And the soft spring renews her velvet head,
St. James’s take my blest inhabitants,
For she can better entertain them then,
In larger grounds,[218] in park, sports, and delights:
Yet a third season,[219] with the western oars,
Calls up to Richmond, when the high-heated year
Is in her solsticy; then she affords
More sweeter-breathing air, more bounds, more pleasures;
The hounds’ loud music to the flying stag,
The feather’d talenter[220] to the falling bird,
The bowman’s twelve-score prick[221] even at the door,
And to these I could add a hundred more.
Then let not us strive which shall be his homes,
But strive to give him welcome when he comes.
RICH. By my troth, he shall be welcome to Richmond
whensoever he comes.
ST. JAM. And to St. James’s, i’faith, at midnight.
DEN.-H. Meantime ’tis fit I give him welcome hither;—
But first to you, my royal, royal’st guest,[222]
And I could wish your banquet were a feast;
Howe’er, your welcome is most bounteous,
Which, I beseech you, take as gracious.—
To you, my owner, master, and my lord,
Let me the second unto you afford,
And then from you to all; for it is you
That gives indeed what I but seem to do.
I was from ruin rais’d by a fair hand,
A royal hand; in that state let me stand
For ever now: to bounty I was bred,
My cups full-brimm’d and my free tables spread
To hundreds daily, even without my door;
I had an open hand unto the poor,
I know I shall so still; then shall their prayers
Pass by the porter’s keys, climb up each stairs,
And knit and joint my new re-edified frames,
That I shall able be to keep your names
Unto eternity: Denmark-House shall keep
Her high name now till Time doth fall asleep
And be no more. Meantime, welcome, welcome,
Heartily welcome! but chiefly you, great sir;
Whate’er lies in my power, command me all,
As freely as you were at your Whitehall. [_Exeunt._

A COURTLY MASQUE, &c.

----------

_Enter a Soldier and a Scholar._
SCHO. Soldier, ta-ra-ra-ra-ra! how is’t? thou lookest as
if thou hadst lost a field to-day.
SOL. No, but I have lost a day i’ the field: if you take
me a maunding[223] but where I am commanding, let ’em
shew me the House of Correction.
SCHO. Why, thou wert not maunding, wert thou? there’s
martial danger in that, believe it.
SOL. No, sir; but I was bold to shew myself to some of
my old and familiar acquaintance, but being disguised
with my wants, there’s nobody knew me.
SCHO. Faith, and that’s the worst disguise a man can
walk in; thou wert better have appeared drunk in good
clothes, much better: there’s no superfluities shame a
man,—as to be over-brave,[224] over-bold, over-swearing,
over-lying, over-whoring; these add still to his repute:
’tis the poor indigence, the want, the lank deficiency,—
as when a man cannot be brave, dares not be bold, is
afraid to swear, wants maintenance for a lie, and money
to give a whore a supper; this is _pauper cujus modicum
non satis est_: nay, he shall never be rich with begging
neither, which is another wonder, because many beggars
are rich.
SOL. O _canina facundia_! this dog-eloquence of thine
will make thee somewhat one day, scholar: couldst thou
turn but this prose into rhyme, there were a pitiful
living to be picked out of it.
SCHO. I could make ballads for a need.
SOL. Very well, sir, and I’ll warrant thee thou shalt
never want subject to write of: one hangs himself
to-day, another drowns himself to-morrow, a sergeant
stabbed next day; here a pettifogger a’ the pillory, a
bawd in the cart’s nose, and a pander in the tail; _hic
mulier_, _hæc vir_, fashions, fictions, felonies,
fooleries;—a hundred havens has the balladmonger to
traffic at, and new ones still daily discovered.
SCHO. Prithee, soldier, no further this way; I
participate more of Heraclitus than Democritus; I could
rather weep the sins of the people than sing ’em.
SOL. Shall I set thee down a course to live?
SCHO. Faith, a coarse living, I think, must serve my
turn; but why hast thou not found out thine own yet?
SOL. Tush, that’s resolv’d on, beg; when there’s use
for me
I shall be brave again, hugg’d and belov’d:
We are like winter-garments, in the height
And [the] hot blood of summer, put off, thrown by
For moths’ meat, never so much as thought on;
Till the drum strikes up storms again, and then,
Come, my well-linèd soldier, (with valour,
Not valure,)[225] keep me warm; O, I love thee!
We shall be trimm’d and very well brush’d then;
If we be fac’d with fur ’tis tolerable,
For we may pillage then and steal our prey,
And not be hang’d for’t; when the least fingering
In peaceful summer chokes us. A soldier,
At the best, is even but the forlorn hope
Unto his country, sent desperately out,
And never more expected; if he come,
Peace’s war, perhaps, the law, providently
Has provided for him some house or lands,
May be suspens’d in wrangling controversy,
And he be hir’d to keep possession,
For there may be swords drawn; he may become
The abject second to some stinking baily:
O, let him serve the pox first, and die a gentleman!
Come, I know my ends, but would fain provide for thee;
Canst thou make——
SCHO. What? I have no handicraft, man.
SOL. Cuckolds, make cuckolds; ’tis a pretty trade
In a peaceful city; ’tis women’s work, man,
And they’re good paymasters.
SCHO. I dare not; ’tis a work
Of supererogation, and the church
Forbids it.
SOL. Prithee, what is Latin for
A cuckold, scholar? I could never learn yet.
SCHO. Faith, the Latins have no proper word for it
That ever I read; _homo_, I take it, is the best,
Because it is a common name to all men.
SOL. You’re mad fellows you scholars; I’m persuaded,
Were I a scholar now, I could not want.
SCHO. Every man’s most capable of his own grief:
A scholar said you? why, there are none now-a-days;
Were you a scholar, you’d be a singular fellow.
SOL. How, no scholars? what’s become of ’em all?
SCHO. I’ll make it proof from your experience:
A commander’s a commander, captain captain;
But having no soldiers, where’s the command?
Such are we, all doctors, no disciples now;
Every man’s his own teacher, none learns of others.
You have not heard of our mechanic rabbies,
That shall dispute in their own tongues backward and
forward
With all the learnèd fathers of the Jews?
SOL. Mechanic rabbies? what might those be?
SCHO. I’ll shew you, sir—
And they are men are daily to be seen—
There’s rabbi Job a venerable silk-weaver,
Jehu a throwster[226] dwelling i’ the Spitalfields,
There’s rabbi Abimelech a learnèd cobbler,
Rabbi Lazarus a superstichious[227] tailor;
These shall hold up their shuttles, needles, awls,
Against the gravest Levite of the land,
And give no ground neither.
SOL. That I believe;
They have no ground for any thing they do.
SCHO. You understand right; and these men, by
practique,
Have got the theory of all the arts
At their fingers’ ends, and in that they’ll live;
Howe’er they’ll die I know not, for they change daily.
SOL. This is strange; how come they to attain this
knowledge?
SCHO. As boys learn arithmetic,—practice with
counters,
To reckon sums of silver; so, with their tools,
They come to grammar, logic, rhetoric,
And all the sciences; as, for example,
The devout weaver sits within his loom,
And thus he makes a learnèd syllogism,—
His woof the major and his warp the minor,
His shuttle then the brain and firm conclusion,
Makes him a piece of stuff that Aristotle,
Ramus, nor all the logicians can take a’ pieces.
SOL. This has some likelihood.
SCHO. So likewise, by
His deep instructive and his mystic tools,
The tailor comes to be rhetorical:
First, on the spread velvet, satin, stuff, or cloth,
He chalks out a circumferent periphrase,[228]
That goes about the bush where the thief stands;
Then comes his shears in shape of an eclipsis,
And takes away the other’s[229] too long tail;
By his needle he understands ironia,
That with one eye looks two ways at once;
Metonymia ever at his fingers’ ends;
Some call his pickadill[230] synecdoche,
But I think rather that should be his yard,
Being but _pars pro toto_; and by metaphor
All know the cellaridge under the shop-board
He calls his hell, not that it is a place
Of spirits’ abode, but that from that abyss
Is no recovery or redemption
To any owner’s hand, whatever falls.
I could run further, were’t not tedious,
And place the stiff-toed cobbler in his form:
But let them mend themselves, for yet all’s naught,
They now learn only never to be taught.
SOL. Let them alone; how shall we learn to live?
SCHO. Without book is most perfect, for with ’em
We shall hardly: thou may’st keep a fence-school,
’Tis a noble science.
SOL. I had rather be i’ the crown-office:
Thou mayest keep school too, and do good service,
To bring up children for the next age better.
SCHO. ’Tis a poor living that’s pick’d out of boys’
buttocks.
SOL. ’Tis somewhat better than the night-farmer yet.
[_Music._
Hark, what sounds are these?

PALLAS _descends_.

SCHO. Ha! there’s somewhat more;
There is in sight a presence glorious,[231]
A presence more than human.
SOL. An amazing one!
Scholar, if ever thou couldst conjure, speak now.
SCHO. In name of all the deities, what art thou?
Thy shine is more than sub-celestial,
’Tis at the least heavenly-angelical.
PAL. A patroness unto ye both, ye ignorant
And undeserving favourites of my fame.—
You are a soldier?
SOL. Since these arms could wield arms,
I have profess’d it, brightest deity.
PAL. To thee I am Bellona.—You are a scholar?
SCHO. In that poor pilgrimage, since I could go,
I hitherto have walk’d.
PAL. To thee I am Minerva;
Pallas to both, goddess of arts and arms,
Of arms and arts, for neither have precedence,
For he’s the complete man partakes of both,
The soul of arts join’d with the flesh of valour,
And he alone participates with me:
Thou art no soldier unless a scholar,
Nor thou a scholar unless a soldier.
Ye’ve noble breedings both, worthy foundations,
And will ye build up rotten battlements
On such fair groundsels? that will ruin all.
Lay wisdom on thy valour, on thy wisdom valour,
For these are mutual co-incidents.—
What seeks the soldier?
SOL. My maintenance.
PAL. Lay by thine arms and take the city then,
There’s the full cup and cap of maintenance.—
And your grief is want too?
SCHO. I want all but grief.
PAL. No, you want most what most you do profess:
Where read you to be rich was happiest?
He had no bay from Phœbus, nor from me,
That ever wrote so, no Minerva in him;
My priests have taught that poverty is safe,
Sweet and secure, for nature gives man nothing
At his birth; when life and earth are wedded,
There’s neither basin held nor dowry given;
At parting nor is any garner stor’d,
Wardrobe or warehouse kept, for their return:
Wherefore shall, then, man count his myriads
Of gold and silver idols, since thrifty nature
Will nothing lend but she will have’t again,
And life and labour for her interest?
My priests do teach,—seek thou thyself within,
Make thy mind wealthy, thy conscience knowing,[232]
And those shall keep thee company from hence.
Or would you wish to emulate the gods,
Live, as you may imagine, careless and free,
With joys and pleasures crown’d, and those eternal?
This were to far exceed ’em; for while earth lasts,
The deities themselves abate their fulness,
Troubled with cries of ne’er-contented man;
Man then to seek and find it; all that hope
Fled when Pandora’s fatal box flew ope.
SOL. Lady divine,[233] there’s yet a competence
Which we come short of.
PAL. That may as well be caus’d
From your own negligence as our slow blessings;
But I’ll prefer you to a greater power,
Even Jupiter himself,[234] father and king of gods,
With whom I may well join in just complaint.
These latter ages have despoil’d my fame;
Minerva’s altars are all ruin’d now:
I had a long-ador’d Palladium,
Offerings and incense fuming on my shrine;
Rome held me dear, and old Troy gave me worship,
All Greece renown’d me, till the Ida-prize
Join’d me with wrathful Juno to destroy ’em,
For we are better ruin’d than profan’d:
Now let the latter ages count the gains
They got by wanton Venus’ sacrifice;
But I’ll invoke great Jupiter.
SCHO. Do, goddess,
And re-erect the ruins of thy fame,
For poesy can do it.
PAL. Altitonant,[235]
Imperial-crown’d, and thunder-armèd Jove,
Unfold thy fiery veil, the flaming robe
And superficies of thy better brightness;
Descend from thine orbicular chariot,
Listen the plaints of thy poor votaries!
’Tis Pallas calls, thy daughter, Jupiter,
Ta’en from thee by the Lemnian Mulciber,
A midwife-god to the delivery
Of thy most sacred, fertile, teeming brain.—[_Music._
Hark!
These sounds proclaim his willing sweet descent;
If not full blessings, expect some content.

JUPITER _descends_.

JUP. What would our daughter?
PAL. Just-judging Jove,
Y-meditate[236] the suit of humble mortals,
By whose large sceptre all their fates are sway’d,
Adverse or auspicious.
JUP. ’Tis more than Jupiter
Can do to please ’em: unsatisfied man
Has in his ends no end; not hell’s abyss
Is deeper-gulf’d than greedy avarice;
Ambition finds no mountain high enough
For his aspiring foot to stand upon:
One drinks out all his blessings into surfeits,
Another throws ’em out as all were his,
And the gods bound for prodigal supply:
What is he lives content in any kind?
That long-incensèd nature is now ready
To turn all back into the fruitless chaos.
PAL. These are two noble virtues, my dread sire,
Both arts and arms, well-wishers unto Pallas.
JUP. How can it be but they have both abus’d,
And would, for their ills, make our justice guilty?
Shew them their shames, Minerva; what the young world,
In her unstable youth, did then produce;
She should grow graver now, more sage, more wise,
Know concord and the harmony of goodness;
But if her old age strike with harsher notes,
We may then think she is too old, and dotes.
Strike, by white art, a theomantic power,
Magic divine—not the devil’s horror,
But the delicious music of the spheres—
The thrice-three Worthies summon back to life;
There let ’em see what arts and arms commixt—
For they had both—did in the world’s broad face;
Those that did propagate and beget their fames,
And for posterity left lasting names.
PAL. I shall, great Jupiter.

[_Music, and this Song as an invocation to the Nine
Muses, who, in the time, are discovered, with the
Nine Worthies, on the upper-stage:[237] toward the
conclusion they descend, each Worthy led by a
Muse, the most proper and pertinent to the person
of the Worthy, as_ TERPSICHORE _with_ DAVID,
URANIA _with_ JOSHUA, _&c._

_The First Song._

_Muses, usher in those states,[238]
And amongst ’em choose your mates;
There wants not one, nor one to spare,
For thrice three both your numbers are:
Learning’s mistress fair Calliope,
Loud Euterpe, sweet Terpsichore,
Soft Thalia, sad Melpomene,
Pleasant Clio, large Erato,
High aspiring-ey’d Urania,
Honey-lingued[239] Polyhymnia,
Leave awhile your Thespian springs,
And usher in those more than kings;
We call them Worthies, ’tis their due,
Though long time dead, still live by you._

[_Enter at the three several doors the Nine Worthies,
three after three, whom, as they enter_, PALLAS
_describes_.

PAL. These three were Hebrews;
This noble duke[240] was he at whose command
Hyperion rein’d his fiery coursers in,
And fixèd stood over Mount Gilboa;
This Mattathias’ son,[241] the Maccabee,
Under whose arm no less than worthies fell;
This the most sweet and sacred psalmograph:[242]
These, of another sort, of much less knowledge,
Little less valour, a Macedonian born,[243]
Whom afterwards the world could scarcely bear
For his great weight in conquest; this Troy’s best
soldier,[244]
This Rome’s first Cæsar: these three, of latter times,
And to the present more familiar,
Great Charles of France[245] and the brave Bulloin
duke;[246]
And this is Britain’s glory,[247] king’d thirteen
times.—
Ye’ve fair aspècts: more to express Jove’s power,
Shew you have motion for a jovial hour.
[_The Nine Worthies dance,[248] and then exeunt._
JUP. Were not these precedents for all future ages?
SCHO. But none attains their glories, king of stars;
These are the fames are follow’d and pursu’d,
But never overtaken.
JUP. The fate’s below,
The god’s arms are not shorten’d, nor do we shine
With fainter influence: who conquers now
Makes it his tyrant’s prize, and not his honour’s,
Abusing all the blessings of the gods;
Learnings and arts are theories, no practiques,
To understand is all they study to;
Men strive to know too much, too little do.
SOL. Plaints are not ours alone, great Jupiter;

_Enter_ TIME.

See, Time himself comes weeping.
TIME. Who has more cause?
Who more wrong’d than Time? Time passes all men
With a regardless eye at best; the worst
Expect him with a greedy appetite;
The landed lord looks for his quarter-day,
The big-bellied usurer for his teeming gold,
That brings him forth the child of interest,
He that, beyond the bounds of heaven’s large blessing,
Hath made a fruitless creature to increase,
Dull earthen minerals to propagate;
These only do expect and entertain me,
But being come, they bend their plodding heads,
And while they count their bags they let me pass,
Yet instant wish me come about again:
Would Time deserve their thanks, or Jove their praise,
He must turn time only to quarter-days.
O, but my wrongs they are innumerable!
The lawyer drives me off from term to term,
Bids me—and I do’t—bring forth my Alethe,
My poor child Truth, he sees and will not see her;
What I could manifest in one clear day,
He still delays a cloudy jubilee:
The prodigal wastes and makes me sick with surfeits;
The drunkard, strong in wine, trips up my heels,
And sets me topsy-turvy on my head,
Waking my silent passage in the night
With revels, noise, and thunder-clapping oaths,
And snorting on my bright meridian;
And when they think I pass too slowly by,
They have a new-found vapour to expel me,
They smoke me out: ask ’em but why they do’t,
And he that worst can speak yet this can say,
I take this whiff to drive the time away.
O, but the worst of all, women do hate me!
I cannot set impression on their cheeks
With all my circular hours, days, months, and years,
But ’tis wip’d off with gloss and pencilry;
Nothing so hateful as gray hairs and time,
Rather no hair at all. ’Tis sin’s autumn now
For those fair trees that were more fairer cropt,
Or they fall of themselves, or will be lopt:
Even Time itself, to number all his griefs,
Would waste himself unto his ending date.
How many would eternity wish here,
And that the sun, and time, and age, might stand,
And leave their annual distinction,—
That nature were bed-rid, all motion sleep!
Time having then such foes, has cause to weep.—
Redress it, Jupiter. [_Exit._
JUP. I tell thee, glorious daughter, and you, things
Shut up in wretchedness, the world knew once
His age of happiness, blessèd times own’d him,
Till those two ugly ills, Deceit and Pride,
Made it a perish’d substance. Pride brought in
Forgetfulness of goodness, merit, virtue,
And plac’d ridiculous officers in life,
Vain-glory, fashion, humour, and such toys,
That shame to be produc’d;
The frenzy of apparel, that’s run mad,
And knows not where to settle: masculine painting,
And the five Starches, mocking the five senses,
All in their different and ridiculous colours;
Which, for their apish and fantastic follies,
I summon to make odious, and will fit ’em
With flames of their own colours.
[_Music striking up a light fantastic air, the Five
Starches, White, Blue, Yellow, Green, and Red, all
properly habited to express their affected
colours,[249] come dancing in; and after a
ridiculous strain, White Starch challenging
precedency, standing upon her right by antiquity,
out of her just anger presents their pride to
them._
WHITE S. What, no respect amongst you? must I wake you
In your forgetful duties? jet[250] before me!
Take place of me?—You, rude, presumptuous gossip,
Pray, who am I! not I the primitive Starch?
You, blue-ey’d frokin,[251] looks like fire and
brimstone;—
You, caudle-colour, much of the complexion
Of high Shrove-Tuesday batter,[252] yellow-hammer;—
And you, my tanzy-face, that shews like pride
Serv’d up in sorrel-sops, green-sickness baggage;—
And last, thou Red Starch, that wear’st all thy blushes
Under thy cheeks, looks like a strangled moon-calf,
With all thy blood settled about thy neck,
The ensign of thy shame, if thou hadst any,—
Know I’m Starch Protestant, thou Starch Puritan
With the blue nostril, whose tongue lies i’ thy nose.
BLUE S. Wicked interpretation!
YEL. S. I ha’ known
A white-fac’d hypocrite, lady sanctity—
A yellow ne’er came near her—and sh’as been
A citizen’s wife too, starch’d like innocence,
But the devil’s pranks not uglier; in her mind
Wears yellow, hugs it, if her husband’s trade
Could bear it, there’s the spite; but since she cannot
Wear her own linen yellow, yet she shews
Her love to’t, and makes him wear yellow hose.[253]
I am as stiff i’ my opinion
As any Starch amongst you.
GREEN S. I as you.
RED S. And I as any.
BLUE S. I scorn to come behind.
YEL. S. Then conclude thus:
When all men’s several censures, all the arguments
The world can bring upon us, are applied,
The sin’s not i’ the colour, but the pride.
THE OTHER STARCHES. Oracle Yellow!
[_The Starches dance, and exeunt._
JUP. These are the youngest daughters of Deceit,
With which the precious time of life’s beguil’d,
Fool’d, and abus’d; I’ll shew you straight their father,
His shapes, his labours, that has vex’d the world
From age to age,
And tost it from his first and simple state
To the foul centre where it now abides:
Look back but into times, here shall be shewn
How many strange removes the world has known.

[_Loud music sounding_, JUPITER _leaves his state;[254]
and to shew the strange removes of the world,
places the orb whose figure it bears in the midst
of the stage; to which_ SIMPLICITY, _by order of
time having first access, enters_.
PAL. Who’s this, great Jupiter?
JUP. Simplicity,
He that had first possession; one that stumbled
Upon the world and never minded it.
SIM. Hah, hah! I’ll go see how the world looks
since I stept aside from’t; there’s such heaving and
shoving about it, such toiling and moiling;—now I
stumbled upon’t when I least thought on’t. [_Takes
up the orb._] Uds me! ’tis altered of one side since
I left it: hah, there’s a milkmaid got with child
since, methinks; what, and a shepherd forsworn
himself? here’s a foul corner: by this light, Subtlety
has laid an egg too, and will go nigh to hatch a
lawyer; this was well foreseen, I’ll mar the fashion
on’t; so, the egg’s broke, and ’t has a yolk as black
as buckram. What’s here a’ this side? O, a dainty
world! here’s one a-sealing with his tooth, and,
poor man, he has but one in all; I was afraid he
would have left it upon the paper, he was so
honestly earnest. Here are the reapers singing,
I’ll lay mine ear to ’em.

_Enter_ DECEIT, _like a ranger_.

DECEIT. Yonder’s Simplicity, whom I hate deadly,
Has held the world too long; he’s but a fool,
A toy will cozen him: if I once fasten on’t,
I’ll make it such a nursery for hell,
Planting black souls in’t, it shall ne’er be fit
For Honesty to set her simples in. [_Aside._
SIM. Whoop, here’s the cozening’st rascal in a
kingdom!
The master-villain; has the thunder’s property,
For if he come but near the harvest-folks,
His breath’s so strong that he sours all their bottles.
If he should but blow upon the world now, the
stain would never get out again; I warrant, if he
were ript, one might find a swarm of usurers in his
liver, a cluster of scriveners in his kidneys, and his
very puddings stuft with bailiffs. [_Aside._
DEC. I must speak fair to the fool. [_Aside._
SIM. He makes more near me. [_Aside._
DEC. ’Las, who has put that load, that carriage,
On poor Simplicity? had they no mercy?
Pretty, kind, loving worm; come, let me help it.
SIM. Keep off, and leave your cogging.[255]—Foh,
how abominably he smells of controversies, schisms,
and factions! methinks I smell forty religions together
in him, and ne’er a good one; his eyes look
like false lights, cozening trap-windows. [_Aside._
DEC. The world, sweetheart, is full of cares and
troubles,
No match for thee; thou art a tender thing,
A harmless, quiet thing, a gentle fool,
Fit for the fellowship of ewes and rams;
Go, take thine ease and pipe; give me the burden,
The clog, the torment, the heart-break, the world:
Here’s for thee, lamb, a dainty oaten pipe.
[_Offers a pipe._
SIM. Pox a’ your pipe! if I should dance after
your pipe, I should soon dance to the devil.
DEC. I think some serpent, sure, has lick’d him over,
And given him only craft enough to keep,
And go no farther with him; all the rest
Is innocence about him, truth and bluntness.
I must seek other course; for I have learn’d
Of my infernal sire not to be lazy,
Faint, or discourag’d, at the tenth repulse:
Methinks that world Simplicity now hugs fast,
Does look as if’t should be Deceit’s at last.
[_Aside, and exit._
SIM. So, so, I’m glad he’s vanished: methought
I had much ado to keep myself from a smatch of
knavery, as long as he stood by me; for certainly
villany is infectious, and in the greater person the
greater poison; as, for example, he that takes but
the tick of a citizen may take the scab of a courtier.
Hark, the reapers begin to sing! they’re come
nearer, methinks, too.

_The Second Song._

_Happy times we live to see,
Whose master is Simplicity;
This is the age where blessings flow,
In joy we reap, in peace we sow;
We do good deeds without delay,
We promise and we keep our day;
We love for virtue, not for wealth,
We drink no healths, but all for health;
We sing, we dance, we pipe, we play,
Our work’s continual holyday;
We live in poor contented sort,
Yet neither beg nor come at court._
SIM. These reapers have the merriest lives! they have
music to all they do; they’ll sow with a tabor, and get
children with a pipe.

_Enter a_ KING _with_ DECEIT.

DEC. Sir, he’s a fool, the world belongs to you;
You’re mighty in your worth and your command,
You know to govern, form, make laws, and take
Their sweet and precious penalty; it befits
A mightiness like yours: the world was made
For such a lord as you, so absolute
A majesty in all princely nobleness,
As yourself is: but to lie useless now,
Rusty or lazy, in a fool’s pre-eminence,
It is not for a glorious worth to suffer.
KING. Thou’st said enough.
DEC. Now my hope ripens fairly. [_Aside._
SIM. Here’s a brave glistering thing looks me i’ the
face,
I know not what to say to’t. [_Aside._
KING. What’s thy name?
SIM. You may read it in my looks, Simplicity.
KING. What mak’st thou with so great a charge about
thee?
Resign it up to me, and be my fool.
SIM. Troth, that’s the way to be your fool indeed;
But shall I have the privilege to fool freely?
KING. As ever folly had.
[SIMPLICITY _gives the orb to King_.
SIM. I’m glad I’m rid on’t.
DEC. Pray, let me ease your majesty.
KING. Thou? hence,
Base sycophant, insinuating hell-hound!
Lay not a finger on it, as thou lov’st
The state of thy whole body: all thy filthy
And rotten flatteries stink i’ my remembrance,
And nothing is so loathsome as thy presence.
SIM. Sure this will prove a good prince! [_Aside._
DEC. Still repuls’d?
I must find ground to thrive on. [_Aside, and exit._
SIM. Pray, remember now
You had the world from me clean as a pick,
Only a little smutted a’ one side
With a bastard got against it, or such a toy;
No great corruption nor oppression in’t,
No knavery, tricks, nor cozenage.
KING. Thou say’st true, fool; the world has a clear
water.
SIM. Make as few laws as you can then to trouble it,
The fewer the better; for always the more laws you make,
The more knaves thrive by’t, mark it when you will.
KING. Thou’st counsel i’ thee too!
SIM. A little, ’gainst knavery; I’m such an enemy
to’t,
That it comes naturally from me to confound it.
KING. Look, what are those?
SIM. Tents, tents; that part o’ the world
Shews like a fair; but, pray, take notice on’t,
There’s not a bawdy booth amongst ’em all;
You have ’em white and honest as I had ’em,
Look that your laundresses pollute ’em not.
KING. How pleasantly the countries lie about,
Of which we are sole lord! What’s that i’ the middle?
SIMP. Looks like a point, you mean, a very prick?
KING. Ay, that, that.
SIM. ’Tis the beginning of Amsterdam: they say the first
brick there was laid with fresh cheese and cream,
because mortar made of lime and hair was wicked and
committed fornication.
KING. Peace; who are these approaching?
SIM. Blustering fellows:
The first’s a soldier, he looks just like March.

_Enter a Land-Captain, with_ DECEIT _as a soldier._

DEC. Captain, ’tis you that have the bloody sweats,
You venture life and limbs; ’tis you that taste
The stings of thirst and hunger.
L.-CAP. There thou hast nam’d
Afflictions sharper than the enemy’s swords.
DEC. Yet lets another carry away the world,
Of which by right you are the only master;
Stand curtsying for your pay at your return—
Perhaps with wooden legs—to every groom,
That dares not look full right upon a sword,
Nor upon any wound or slit of honour.
L.-CAP. No more; I’ll be myself: I that uphold
Countries and kingdoms, must I halt downright,
And be propt up with part of mine own strength,
The least part too? why, have not I the power
To make myself stand absolute of myself,
That keep up others?
KING. How cheers our noble captain?
L.-CAP. Our own captain,
No more a hireling: your great foe’s at hand,
Seek your defence elsewhere, for mine shall fail you;
I’ll not be fellow-yok’d with death and danger
All my life-time, and have the world kept from me;
March in the heat of summer in a bath,
A furnace girt about me, and in that agony,
With so much fire within me, forc’d to wade
Through a cool river, practising in life
The very pains of hell, now scorch’d, now shivering,
To call diseases early into my bones,
Before I’ve age enough to entertain ’em:
No, he that has desire to keep the world,
Let him e’en take the sour pains to defend it.
KING. Stay, man of merit, it belongs to thee,
[_Gives the orb to Land-Captain._

I cheerfully resign it; all my ambition
Is but the quiet calm of peaceful days,
And that fair good I know thy arm will raise.
L.-CAP. Though now an absolute master, yet to thee
Ever a faithful servant. [_Exit King._
DEC. Give’t me, sir, to lay up; I am your treasurer
In a poor kind.
L.-CAP. In a false kind, I grant thee:
How many vild[256] complaints, from time to time,
Have[257] been put up against thee? they have wearied me
More than a battle sixteen hours a-fighting;
I’ve heard the ragged regiment so curse thee,
I look’d next day for leprosy upon thee,
Or puffs of pestilence as big as wens,
When thou wouldst drop asunder like a thing
Inwardly eaten, thy skin only whole:
Avaunt, defrauder of poor soldiers’ rights,
Camp-caterpillar, hence! or I will send thee
To make their rage a breakfast.
DEC. Is it possible?
Can I yet set no footing in the world?
I’m angry, but not weary: I’ll hunt out still;
For, being Deceit, I bear the devil’s name,
And he’s known seldom to give o’er his game.
[_Aside, and exit._
SIM. Troth, now the world begins to be in hucksters’
handling: by this light, the booths are full of cutlers!
and yonder’s two or three queans going to victual the
camp: hah! would I were whipt, if yonder be not a
parson’s daughter with a soldier between her legs, bag
and baggage!
SOL. Now ’tis the soldier’s time; great Jupiter,
Now give me leave to enter on my fortunes,
The world’s our own.
JUP. Stay, beguil’d thing: this time
Is many ages discrepant from thine;
This was the season when desert was stoopt to,
By greatness stoopt to, and acknowledg’d greatest;
But in thy time now desert stoops itself
To every baseness, and makes saints of shadows:
Be patient, and observe how times are wrought,
Till it comes down to thine, that rewards nought.
[_Chambers[258] shot off within._
L.-CAP. } Hah! what’s the news?
SIM., _&c._ }

_Enter a Sea-Captain, with_ DECEIT _as a purser._

S.-CAP. Be ready, if I call, to give fire to the
ordnance.
SIM. Bless us all! here’s one spits fire as he comes; he
will go nigh to mull the world with looking on it: how
his eyes sparkle!
DEC. Shall the Land-Captain, sir, usurp your right?
Yours, that try thousand dangers to his one,
Rocks, shelves, gulfs, quicksands, hundred, hundred
horrors,
That make[259] the landmen tremble when they’re told,
Besides the enemy’s encounter?
S.-CAP. Peace,
Purser, no more; I’m vex’d, I’m kindled.—You,
Land-Captain, quick deliver.
L.-CAP. Proud salt-rover,
Thou hast the salutation of a thief.
S.-CAP. Deliver, or I’ll thunder thee a-pieces,
Make night within this hour, e’en at high noon,
Belch’d from the cannon: dar’st expostulate
With me? my fury? what’s thy merit, land-worm,
That mine not centuples?
Thy lazy marches and safe-footed battles
Are but like dangerous dreams to my encounters;
Why, every minute the deep gapes for me,
Beside the fiery throats of the loud fight;
When we go to’t and our fell ordnance play,
’Tis like the figure of a latter day:
Let me but give the word, night begins now,
Thy breath and prize both beaten from thy body:
How dar’st thou be so slow? not yet? then——
L.-CAP. Hold! [_Gives the orb to Sea-Captain._
DEC. I knew ’twould come at last. [_Aside._
S.-CAP. For this resign,
Part thou shalt have still, but the greatest mine;
Only to us belongs the golden sway;
Th’ Indies load us, thou liv’st but by thy pay.
DEC. And shall your purser help you?
S.-CAP. No, in sooth, sir:
Coward and cozener, how many sea-battles
Hast thou compounded to be cabled up?
Yet, when the fights were ended, who so ready
To cast sick soldiers and dismember’d wretches
Over-board instantly, crying, Away
With things without arms! ’tis an ugly sight;
When, troth, thine own should have been off by right;
But thou lay’st safe within a wall of hemp,
Telling the guns, and numbering ’em with farting.
Leave me, and speedily; I’ll have thee ramm’d
Into a culverin else, and thy rear[260] flesh
Shot all into poach’d eggs.
DEC. I will not leave yet:
Destruction plays in me such pleasant strains,
That I would purchase it with any pains.
[_Aside, and exit._
S.-CAP. The motion’s worthy: I will join with thee,
Both to defend and enrich majesty.
SIM. Hoyday! I can see nothing now for ships;
Hark a’ the mariners!

_The Third Song._

_Hey, the world’s ours, we have got the time by chance;
Let us then carouse and sing, for the very house doth
skip and dance
That we do now live in:
We have the merriest lives,
We have the fruitfull’st wives
Of all men;
We never yet came home,
But the first hour we come
We find them all with child agen.[261]_

[_A shout within: enter two Mariners with pipe and can,
dancing severally by turns for joy the world is
come into their hands; then exeunt._
SIM. What a crew of mad rascals are these! they’re ready
at every can to fall into the haddocks’ mouths: the
world begins to love lap now.

_Enter a Flamen, with_ DECEIT _like a_ ——.[262]

FLAM. Peace and the brightness of a holy love
Reflect their beauties on you!
S.-CAP. Who is this?
L.-CAP. A reverend shape!
S.-CAP. Some scholar.
L.-CAP. A divine one!
S.-CAP. He may be what he will for me, fellow-captain,
For I’ve seen no church these five-and-twenty years,—
I mean, as people ought to see it, inwardly.
FLAM. I have a virtuous sorrow for you, sir,
And ’tis my special duty to weep for you;
For to enjoy one world as you do there,
And be forgetful of another, sir—
O, of a better millions of degrees!—
It is a frailty and infirmity
That many tears must go for,—all too little.
What is’t to be the lord of many battles,
And suffer to be overrun within you?
Abroad to conquer, and be slaves at home?
Remember there’s a battle to be fought,
Which will undo you if it be not thought;
And you must leave that world, leave it betimes,
That reformation may weep off the crimes:
There’s no indulgent hand the world should hold,
But a strict grasp, for making sin so bold;
We should be careless of it, and not fond;
Of things so held there is the best command.
S.-CAP. Grave sir, I give thy words their deserv’d
honour,
And to thy sacred charge freely resign
All that my fortune and the age made mine.
[_Gives the orb to Flamen._
SIM. If the world be not good now, ’twill ne’er be
good,
There’s no hope on’t.
DEC. I have my wishes here. [Aside.]—My sanctified
patron,
I’ll first fill all the chests i’ the vestry; then
There is a secret vault for great men’s legacies.
FLAM. Art not confounded yet, struck blind or
crippled,
For thy abusive thought, thou horrid hypocrite?
Are these the fruits of thy long orisons,
Three hours together; of thy nine lectures weekly,
Thy swooning at the hearing of an oath,
Scarce to be fetch’d again? Away, depart,
Thou white-fac’d devil, author of heresy,
Schisms, factions, controversies! now I know thee
To be Deceit itself, wrought in by simony,
To blow corruption upon sacred virtue.
DEC. I made myself sure here: church fail me too!
I thought it mere impossible, by all reason,
Since there’s so large a bridge to walk upon
’Twixt negligence and superstition:
Where could one better piece up a full vice?
One service lazy, t’other over-nice;
There had been ’twixt [’em] room enough for me;
I will take root, or run through each degree.
[_Aside, and exit._
SIM. Whoop, here’s an alteration! by this hand, the
ships are all turned to steeples, and the bells ring for
joy, as if they would shake down the pinnacles. How? the
masons are at work yonder, the freemasons; I swear it’s
a free time for them: hah! there’s one building of a
chapel of ease; O, he’s loath to take the pains to go to
church: why, will he have it in’s house, when the
proverb says, The devil’s at home? These great rich men
must take their ease i’ their inn:[263] they’ll walk you
a long mile or two to get a stomach for their victuals,
but not a piece of a furlong to get an appetite to their
prayers. [_Flourish._

_Re-enter King with a Lawyer, and_ DECEIT _as a
pettifogger_.

LAW. No more, the case is clear.
SIM. ’Slid, who have we here?
LAW. He that pleads for the world must fall to his
business
Roundly.—Most gracious and illustrious prince,
Thus stands the case,—the world in Greek is _cosmos_,
In Latin _mundus_, in law-French _la monde_;
We leave the Greek, and come to the law-French,
Or glide upon the Latin; all’s one business:
Then _unde mundus_? shall we come to that?
_Nonne derivatur a munditia_?
The word cleanness, _mundus quasi mundus_, clean;
And what can cleanse or mundify the world
Better than law, the clearer of all cases,
The sovereign pill, or potion, that expels
All poisonous, rotten, and infectious wrongs
From the vex’d bosom of the commonwealth?
There’s a familiar phrase implies thus much—
I’ll put you to your purgation,—that is,
The law shall cleanse you. Can the sick world then,
Tost up and down from time to time, repose itself
In a physician’s hand better improv’d?
Upon my life and reputation,
In all the courts I come at, be assur’d
I’ll make it clean.
SIM. Yes, clean away, I warrant you;
We shall ne’er see’t again.
LAW. I grant my pills are bitter, ay, and costly,
But their effects are rare, divine, and wholesome;
There’s an _Excommunicato capiendo_,
_Capias post K_, and an _Ne exeat regno_:
I grant there’s bitter egrimony[264] in ’em,
And antimony—I put money in all still,
And it works preciously: who ejects injuries,
Makes ’em belch forth in vomit, but the law?
Who clears the widow’s case, and after gets her,
If she be wealthy, but the advocate?
Then, to conclude,
If you’ll have _mundus a mundo_ clean, firm,
Give him to me, I’ll scour him every term.
FLAM. I part with’t gladly, take’t into thy trust,
[_Gives the orb to Lawyer._
So will it thrive as thy intent is just.
DEC. Pity your trampler,[265] sir, your poor
solicitor.
LAW. Thee? infamy to our profession,
Which, without wrong to truth, next the divine one,
Is the most grave and honourable function
That gives a kingdom blest: but thou, the poison,
Disease that grows close to the heart of law,
And mak’st rash censurers think the sound part perish’d;
Thou foul eclipse, that, interposing equity,
As the dark earth the moon, mak’st the world judge
That blackness and corruption have possess’d
The silver shine of justice, when ’tis only
The smoke ascending from thy poisonous ways,
Cozenage, demurs, and fifteen-term delays:
Yet hold thee, take the muck on’t, that’s thine own,
The devil and all; but the fair fame and honour
Of righteous actions, good men’s prayers and wishes,
Which is that glorious portion of the world
The noble lawyer strives for,—that thy bribery,
Thy double-handed gripe, shall never reach to:
With fat and filthy gain thy lust may feast,
But poor men’s curses beat thee from the rest.
DEC. I’ll feed upon the muck on’t, that awhile
Shall satisfy my longings; wealth is known
The absolute step to all promotion.
KING. Let this be call’d the sphere of harmony,
In which, being met, let’s all move mutually.
LAW. } Fair love is i’ the motion, kingly love!
FLAM., _&c._ }

[_In this last dance, as an ease to memory, all the
former removes come close together; the_ DEVIL
_entering, aims with_ DECEIT _at the world; but the
world remaining now in the Lawyer’s possession, he,
expressing his reverend and noble acknowledgment to
the absolute power of majesty, resigns it loyally to
its royal government; Majesty to Valour, Valour to
Law again, Law to Religion, Religion to Sovereignty,
where it firmly and fairly settles, the Law
confounding_ DECEIT, _and the Church the_ DEVIL.
FLAM. Times suffer changes, and the world has been
Vex’d with removes; but when his glorious peace
Firmly and fairly settles, here’s his place,
Truth his defence, and majesty his grace.—
We all acknowledge it belongs to you.
LAW. } Only to you, sir.
S.-CAP., _&c._ }
[_They all deliver the orb up to the King._
FLAM. _Regis ad exemplum totus componitur orbis_,
Which shews,
That if the world form itself by the king,
’Tis fit the former should command the thing.
DEC. This is no place for us.
DEVIL. Depart, away!
I thought all these had been corrupted evils,
No court of virtues, but a guard of devils.
[_Exeunt_ DECEIT _and the_ DEVIL.
KING. How blest am I in subjects! here are those
That make all kingdoms happy,—worthy Soldier,
Fair Churchman, and thou, uncorrupted Lawyer,
Virtue’s great miracle, that hast redeem’d
All justice from her ignominious name.
SIM. You forget me, sir.
KING. What, Simplicity!
Who thinks of virtue cannot forget thee.
SIM. Ay, marry, my masters, now it looks like a brave
world indeed: how civilly[266] those fair ladies go
yonder! by this hand, they are neither trimmed, nor
trussed, nor poniarded;[267] wonderment! O, yonder’s a
knot of fine, sharp-needle-bearded gallants,[268] but
that they wear stammel[269] cloaks, methinks, instead of
scarlet: ’slid, what’s he that carries out two custards
now under the porter’s long nose? O, he leaves a bottle
of wine i’ the lodge, and all’s pacified; cry mercy.
KING. Continue but thus watchful o’er yourselves,
That the great cunning enemies, Deceit,
And his too-mighty lord, beguile you not,
And ye’re the precious ornaments of state,
The glories of the world, fellows to virtues,
Masters of honest and well-purchas’d fortunes,
And I am fortunate in your partnership;
But if you ever make your hearts the houses
Of falsehood and corruption, ugliness itself
Will be a beauty to you, and less pointed at:
Spots in deformèd faces are scarce noted,
Fair cheeks are stain’d if ne’er so little blotted.
LAW. } Ever the constant servants to great virtue!
FLAM., _&c._ }
KING. Her love inhabit you!
[_Exeunt all except_ JUPITER, PALLAS, _Soldier,
and Scholar._
JUP. Now, sons of vexation,
Envy, and discontent, what blame lay you
Upon these times now? which does merit most
To be condemn’d, your dulness or the age?
If now you thrive not, Mercury shall proclaim
You’re undeservers, and cry down your fame.
Be poor still, scholar, and thou, wretch despis’d,
If in this glorious time thou canst not prosper,
Upon whose breast noble employments sit,
By honour’s hand in golden letters writ;
Nay, where the prince[270] of nobleness himself
Proves our Minerva’s valiant’st, hopefull’st son,
And early in his spring puts armour on,
Unite your worths, and make of two one brother,
And be each one perfection to the other;
Scholar and soldier must both shut in one,
That makes the absolute and complete man:
So, now into the world; which, if hereafter
You ever tax of foul, ingrateful crimes,
Your dulness I must punish, not the times.
SOL. } Honour to mighty Jupiter!
SCHO. }
[JUPITER _and_ PALLAS _ascend_.
SOL. The world
Is in a good hand now, if it hold, brother.
SCHO. I hope, for many ages.
SOL. Fare thee well, then;
I’ll over yonder[271] to the most glorious wars
That e’er fam’d Christian kingdom.
SCHO. And I’ll settle
Here, in a land of a most glorious peace
That ever made joy fruitful, where the head
Of him that rules, to learning’s fair renown,
Is doubly deckt with laurel[272] and a crown,
And both most worthily.
SOL. Give me thy hand,
Prosperity keep with thee!
SCHO. And the glory
Of noble actions bring white hairs upon thee!
Present our wish with reverence to this place,
For here’t must be confirm’d, or ’t has no grace.
[_Exeunt severally._