Appendix

Appendix

The song at the beginning of the second act exists in an older and better version, which was printed by Dyce (from a Ms. in his own possession) in his edition of Skelton's Works, Vol. I, p. vii. It is not likely that the date of the composition is much older than the middle of the sixteenth century, and it may possibly be later. The following copy is taken from Dyce, but the punctuation and the capitals have been adjusted in accordance with the rules elsewhere adopted in the present work.

Backe and syde goo bare, goo bare; Bothe hande and fote goo colde; But, belly, God sende the good ale inoughe, Whether hyt be newe or olde.

But yf that I maye have, trwly, Goode ale my belly full, I shall looke lyke one (by swete sainte Johnn) Were shoron agaynste the woole. Thowthe I goo bare, take ye no care, I am nothynge colde. I stuffe my skynne so full within Of joly good ale and olde.

I cannot eate but lytyll meate; My stomacke ys not goode; But sure I thyncke that I cowde dryncke With hym that werythe an hoode. Dryncke ys my lyfe; although my wyfe Some tyme do chyde and scolde, Yete spare I not to plye the potte Of joly goode ale and olde. Backe and syde, etc.

I love no roste but a browne toste, Or a crabbe in the fyer; A lytyll breade shall do me steade, Mooche breade I never desyer. Nor froste, nor snowe, nor wynde, I trow, Canne hurte me yf hyt wolde; I am so wrapped within, and lapped With joly goode ale and olde. Backe and syde, etc.

I care ryte noughte, I take no thowte For clothes to kepe me warme; Have I goode dryncke, I surely thyncke Nothyng can do me harme. For trwly than I feare no man, Be he never so bolde, When I am armed, and throwly warmed With joly good ale and olde. Backe and syde, etc.

But nowe and than I curse and banne; They make ther ale so small! God geve them care, and evill to fare! They strye the malte and all. Soche pevisshe pewe, I tell yowe trwe, Not for a crowne of golde There commethe one syppe within my lyppe, Whether hyt be newe or olde. Backe and syde, etc.

Good ale and stronge makethe me amonge Full joconde and full lyte, That ofte I slepe, and take no kepe From mornynge untyll nyte. Then starte I uppe, and fle to the cuppe; The ryte waye on I holde. My thurste to staunche I fyll my paunche With joly goode ale and olde. Backe and syde, etc.

And Kytte, my wyfe, that as her lyfe Lovethe well good ale to seke, Full ofte drynkythe she that ye maye se The teares ronne downe her cheke. Then dothe she troule to me the bolle As a goode malte-worme sholde, And say, "Swete harte, I have take my parte Of joly goode ale and olde." Backe and syde, etc.

They that do dryncke tylle they nodde and wyncke, Even as good fellowes shulde do, They shall notte mysse to have the blysse That good ale hathe browghte them to. And all poore soules that skoure blacke bolles, And them hath lustely trowlde, God save the lyves of them and ther wyves, Wether they be yonge or olde! Backe and syde, etc.

John Lyly

ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE

Edited with Critical Essay and Notes by George P. Baker, A.B., Asst. Professor in Harvard University

CRITICAL ESSAY

=Life.=--John Lyly was born in Kent between October 8, 1553, and January, 1554. He entered Magdalen College, Oxford, 1569, but was almost immediately rusticated. Returning in October, 1571, he was graduated B.A. April 27, 1573. In May, 1574, he wrote unsuccessfully to Lord Burleigh, begging for a fellowship at Magdalen. He proceeded M.A. June 1, 1575, and lived mainly at the Universities till 1579. Euphues, the Anatomie of Wit, appeared between December, 1578, and spring, 1579. Another edition was printed in 1579; twelve others before 1637. In An Address to the Gentlemen Scholars of Oxford, prefixed to the second, the 1579, edition, he answered a charge of having unfairly criticised Oxford in the Anatomie of Wit. A sequel, Euphues and his England, was licensed July 24, 1579, but did not appear for months. Probably Lyly shared in the disfavour which, from late July, 1579, to July, 1580, the Queen showed the party of Robert Dudley because of his secret marriage with the Countess of Essex. Endimion, probably the first of Lyly's extant comedies, was presented between late July and early November, 1579, as an allegorical treatment of this quarrel. In or near July, 1580, Lyly was "entertained as servant" by the Queen, and was advised to aim at the Mastership of the Revels. By July, 1582, he is to be found in the household of Lord Burleigh. A letter of his was prefixed to Watson's Passionate Centurie of Love, published 1582. By 1589, possibly earlier, he had become vice-master of St. Paul's choir school. Before 1584 the Chapel Children and the Paul's Boys, for whom he had written, ceased to act. During 1584 his Sapho and Phao, written not long after February 6, 1582, and his Alexander and Campaspe were printed. Tityrus and Gallathea, licensed in 1584, was not printed till 1592. Probably the main plot was written before 1584, and the sub-plot for a revision of the play in or near 1588. From 1585 Lyly wrote for the Paul's Boys till in or near 1591, when the company was again silent. The Chapel Children were not acting publicly between November, 1584, and 1597. His Mydas was acted between August, 1588, and November, 1589, and printed in 1592. In August or September, 1589, a pamphlet entitled Pappe-with-an-Hatchet, written by him for the High Church party in the Marprelate controversy, made its appearance. His Mother Bombie was acted in 1589 or 1590, and printed in 1594. Alexander and Campaspe and Sapho and Phao were reprinted in 1591, and in the same year Endimion was printed. Gallathea appeared in 1592. Lyly wrote, in 1590 or 1591, an apparently unsuccessful begging letter to the Queen, and another in 1593 or 1594. He was married by 1589, and he had two sons and one daughter. He was member of Parliament for Hindon in 1589; for Aylesbury in 1593 and 1601; and for Appleby in 1597. The Woman in the Moone was licensed in 1595, printed in 1597. The quality of the blank verse in this play and the absence of marked Euphuism favour a date of composition in or near 1590. Lillie's Light was licensed June 3, 1596. If printed, it is non-extant. He wrote prefatory Latin lines for Henry Lock's Ecclesiastes, otherwise called The Preacher, in 1597. In 1597-1600 the Chapel Children revived his plays. The Maid's Metamorphosis, incorrectly attributed to Lyly, was printed in 1600. His Love's Metamorphosis was printed in 1601: it had been written about the time of the Gallathea,--before 1584, or between 1588 and 1591. The Protea-Petulius part is probably from a different play, or is a survival in a revision. Lyly died November 30, 1606, and was buried at St. Bartholomew's.[751]

=The Place of Euphues in English Literature.=--John Lyly was poet, pamphleteer, novelist, and dramatist. As a pamphleteer he is unimportant. As a poet he can best be studied in his plays. It is, then, as novelist and dramatist that he is important. The material of the two parts of the Euphues makes it decidedly significant in its own time. It is not, like most of the stories of Greene and Lodge, mere romance, nor, like Nash's Jack Wilton, a tale of adventure phrased with reportorial recklessness. It is a love story in which romance is subordinated to the inculcation of ideas of high living and thinking, and the demands of an involved style. It dimly foreshadows two literary products which reach a development only long after the days of Elizabeth--the novel with a purpose, and the stylistic novel. The appearance of the book was epochal. Young writers of the day--Munday, Greene, Nash, and Lodge--copied its style. Courtiers patterned their speech upon it. Yet Gabriel Harvey was probably right when he ill-naturedly wrote: "Young Euphues but hatched the egges that his elder freendes laide." The Anatomie, at least, is such a book as a recent university graduate of the present day, well read in some of the classics, and especially susceptible to new literary influences and cults, might compile. In the division Euphues and His Ephœbus Lyly uses, with a few omissions and additions, Plutarch on Education; in the letter to Botonio he translates Plutarch on Exile. In the part Euphues and Atheos he is indebted to chapters 9, 10, 11, and 12 of the Dial of Princes (1529) by Antonio de Guevara, Bishop of Guadix and Mendoza. Euphues and Lucilla debate "dubii," or artificial discussions of set questions, such as one finds in Hortensio Lando or Castiglione. There is, too, almost constant use of the unnatural natural history of Pliny. All this material is bound together by a style which, though it may ultimately be traced to the rounded periods of Cicero, had developed slowly in writers of the Renaissance and the years just before Euphues appeared. George Pettie, for instance, in his Pettie Palace of Pettie His Pleasure, published in 1576, has all the stylistic characteristics of the Euphues except the fabulous natural history. It is, however, to Guevara in the Dial of Princes that Lyly is thought to be particularly indebted for his style. This man used "lavishly the well-known figures of pointed antithesis and parisonic balanced clauses, in connection with a general climactic structure of the sentence or period, the emphatic or antithetic words being marked by rhyme or assonance." Lyly substitutes for rhyme alliteration, and adds persistent play on words. The book is genuinely Renaissance, then, for, looking to classic literature for much of its substance, it expresses itself in a style that typifies an intellectual mood of the hour.

=Lyly's Plays: their Subdivision.=--Just before 1580 the acting of choir boys was in great favour with the Queen and, as a consequence, with the public. The boys of Westminster, Windsor, the Chapel Royal, and St. Paul's were often summoned to court. For the last two companies, with whom acting became a profession, Lyly wrote his plays. These divide into four classes. The allegorical comedies, in which what is alluded to is as important as what is said, are Endimion, Sapho and Phao, and Mydas. Endimion, perhaps the most complete example of Lyly's allegorical comedy, presents the apology of Leicester to the Queen for his secret marriage with Lettice, Countess of Essex. Sapho and Phao is full of allusions to the coquetting of the Queen with the Duc d'Alençon and his wrathful departure from England in February, 1582. Mydas allegorises--though with less detail than the others--as to the designs of Philip II. on the English throne, and the Spanish Armada. Gallathea, Love's Metamorphosis, and The Woman in the Moone form a second class--pastoral comedies. They are allegorical only when some figure is given qualities which the Queen was fond of hearing praised as hers. Mother Bombie, standing alone as a comedy on the model of Plautus, has a much more involved plot than any of the other plays. Finally, also in a class by itself, is Alexander and Campaspe.

In this, as in all the comedies except Mother Bombie and Love's Metamorphosis, Lyly used classic myth for his chief material. Yet he but followed a custom of the day, for most of the plays given at court between 1570 and 1590 by the children's companies were based on such material: for instance, Iphigenia, Narcissus, Alcmæon, Quintus Fabius, and Scipio Africanus. These subjects seem to have been treated as pastorals, histories, and possibly allegories. Lyly rejected in Alexander and Campaspe the allegorical and the pastoral form, and told rather naïvely, except in style, the story of the love of Alexander and Apelles for Campaspe, repeating in his sub-plot many historic retorts of Diogenes. In details of method Lyly seems to have had a precursor. Richard Edwardes (born 1523, died 1566) in his Damon and Pythias, printed in 1582, but usually assigned to 1564, wrote in a way very suggestive of Lyly in Alexander and Campaspe. He disclaimed in his prologue intention of referring to any court except that of Dionysius at Syracuse; introduced lyrics; gave Aristippus the philosopher an important place; inveighed against flattery at the court; brought in the comic episode of Grim the collier without connection with the main plot, just as Lyly often introduces his comic material; and derived the fun of this scene mainly from two impudent pages. Certainly it would have been natural for Lyly, early in his career, to look to the plays of a former prominent master of the Chapel Children.

=Alexander and Campaspe: Date, Sources.=--The exact date of Alexander and Campaspe it seems impossible to determine. It was written before April, 1584, for it was licensed for printing in that month. The facts that similes and references in Euphues are found in it, and that the work--here of a kind which Lyly never exactly repeats--resembles the early Damon and Pythias suggest that Alexander and Campaspe belongs early in his dramatic career. It has been held that it should precede Endimion, but the allegory in that play; the fact that Blount, who places Sapho and Phao, Gallathea, Mydas, and Mother Bombie in the order approved by the most recent criticism, puts it second; and the better characterization, more natural dialogue, and slightly closer binding together of the main and the sub-plot, argue for the second place.

The play, like the Anatomie of Wit, is a composite. The main plot--the story of Apelles and Campaspe--Lyly found in Book 35 of Pliny's History of the World. His setting he took from Plutarch's Life of Alexander. That, too, gave him the siege of Thebes, Timoclea, some of the philosophers' names, most of their speeches, the generals, and Hephestion, and probably suggested the possibilities of Diogenes as a comic figure. The material for the scenes of the Cynic, and the name Manes, he found in the Lives of the Philosophers by Diogenes Laertius.

=Literary Estimate.=--In the extant plays from 1550 to 1580 love has but a subordinate part. In Alexander and Campaspe, however, as in all the Lyly comedies, the central idea is that of nearly all the great plays of the Elizabethan drama--the love of man for woman. Doubtless the subject appealed to Lyly especially because in the self-abnegation of Alexander the Queen might choose to see a compliment to her final position toward Leicester and the Countess of Essex. Diogenes he used in order to get comic relief. That Lyly's comedies are comparatively free from vulgarity is probably because they were given by children before the Queen and her ladies. Possibly the youth of the actors is the reason for the absence of strong emotional expression, but it is more probable that the temperament of the author is responsible. It is hard to believe that a dramatist who felt keenly emotional possibilities in his material could have passed by Timoclea so rapidly, for in Plutarch she has all the requisites of the heroine in a Beaumont and Fletcher play. Nor would such a dramatist have made so little of the struggle of Alexander between infatuation and the desire to regain his accustomed self-command. Lyly's position toward his work is like that of the early writers of chronicle-history plays. He does not depend on selecting the most characteristic situations and speeches, on supplying missing motives, on unification of material which history has passed down in somewhat disordered fashion, but on repeating as many as possible of the situations and speeches associated with the names. Like those writers, too, he makes no attempt to get behind his material, to see its interrelations and its dramatic significance as a whole.

Some allowance, however, must be made for faults in this play, for the Prologue states that it was hastily written. The comedy itself shows that Lyly planned as he wrote. The opening scene of the play leaves one to suppose that Timoclea, who, rather than Campaspe, is the chief female speaker, is to play an important part. She never appears again, and is mentioned but once. Later parts of the play call for some manifestation, in this first scene, of Campaspe's intense fascination for Alexander, but there is nothing of the kind. Nor does the action in any later scene really prepare for Alexander's self-reproaches for his mad infatuation. Until late in the play, when Lyly speaks of Campaspe as Alexander's concubine, a reader is not even entirely clear as to their relations. Perhaps some of this lack of clearness and sequence may result because the Timoclea part, at least, of the first scene is a survival from an older play. In the Accounts of the Revels at Court, under an entry for expenditures between January and February, 1573(4), "One Playe showen at Hampton Coorte before her Maᵗⁱᵉ by Mr. Munkester's Children" (Mulcaster's of the Merchant Taylors' School) is mentioned. Interlined are the words: "Timoclia at the Sege of Thebes by Alexander."

The movement of the comedy is episodic. The clever little pages bind the scenes together; Alexander connects the incidents of the main story; but too often, especially in the sub-plot, the action is not prepared for, and does not lead to anything. Nor does Lyly care much for climax. The Diogenes sub-plot does not end; it is dropped just before the main story closes. The great dramatic possibilities of the final scene are practically thrown away. It is significant that they could be developed only by a hand which could paint vividly the contest of a soul, the gradual reascendency of old motives, and manly renunciation.

Growth in character Lyly does not understand. As a rule his figures are types rather than many-sided human beings. Nor are the types always self-consistent. All the nobility of Alexander's renunciation disappears when he says: "Go, Apelles, take with you your Campaspe; Alexander is cloyed with looking on that which thou wond'rest at." In general, Lyly is too ready to depend on the way in which his figures speak rather than on truth to life in what they speak. In the retorts of Apelles as he talks with Alexander of his work, there is, of course, something of the real artist's pride in his art and irritation at royal omniscience. There is characterization, too, in many of the speeches of Diogenes, but in both of these instances Lyly is either quoting or paraphrasing. Campaspe, it is true, is almost a character, and slightly anticipates the arch heroines of Shakespeare. Hers are coquettishness, womanly charm. In her scene with Apelles in the studio (Act IV. scene 2), the underlying passion of both almost breaks through the frigid medium of expression. The pages may doubtless be traced back to the witty, graceless slaves of Latin comedy, and more immediately to precursors in the work of Edwardes, but Lyly adds so much individuality and humour that they are a real accession in the history of the drama. Moreover, many of his figures often comment incisively on customs and follies of the time, preparing for the later comedy of manners.

No preceding play is so full of charming and lasting lyrics. In all his comedies except The Woman in the Moone, Lyly writes neither in the usual jingling rhymes nor the infrequently used blank verse, but in prose. He shows the men of his day new possibilities in dialogue; for though his artificial style prevents easy characterisation, it does not keep him from effective repartee and a closer representation of the give and take of real conversation than was possible with the rhyming lines, or with blank verse as it was handled in his day. Probably, however, the greatest importance of this play for the student of Elizabethan drama is the way it shows interest in a romantic story breaking through classic material and Renaissance expression, thus anticipating the romantic drama of 1587. Clearly, then, the merits of Alexander and Campaspe are literary and historical, not dramatic.

=Lyly's Development as a Dramatist.=--That Lyly worked, however, steadily toward more genuine drama becomes clear if one reads his plays in order. In all he shows classical influence by his choice of subject, or by constant allusion, but he is not a scholar in the sense of Jonson or Chapman. He is well read in certain authors--Ovid, particularly the Metamorphoses, Plutarch, Pliny, perhaps Lucian; he has at his tongue's end many stock Latin quotations, and delights in misquoting or paraphrasing for the sake of a pun, sure that the quick-witted courtiers will recognize the originals. Classical in construction he certainly is not. His interest is to find a pretty love story which gives opportunities for dramatic surprises and complications, effective groupings, graceful dances, and dainty lyrics. He is fertile in finding interesting figures to bring upon the stage--the fairies of Endimion, the fiddlers of Mother Bombie, the shepherds of Love's Metamorphosis. If one examines the only two plays of his which lack the contrasting comic under-plot,--Love's Metamorphosis, and The Woman in the Moone,--it becomes clear that they are pastorals or masques. Even the other plays owe to their sub-plots the right to be called comedies. By choice of topics and by temperament, then, Lyly is a writer of masques.

At first he developed his two plots side by side, as in Endimion. One is used simply to relieve the other, or to fill time-spaces necessary between incidents of the main plot. Later, he joins the two slightly by letting figures in the sub-plot refer to incidents of the main story. In Mother Bombie he brings the groups together formally two or three times, and closes the play with nearly all the characters on the stage. In his last comedy, The Woman in the Moone, he discards contrasted plots, and tries to get his effects from one large group of figures. Even if his success in meeting his problem is not great, the mere recognition of it is significant. Yet it cannot be said that he ever becomes a good plotter, for he is always willing to bring in anywhere new people, new interests, or even, as in Mydas, to shift to a new plot midway. In Mother Bombie, when the climax of complication is reached in the meeting of the disguised Accius and Silena and their fathers, Lyly is unable to master the difficulties of the situation. He lets the two reveal themselves tamely, confusingly, before he has had anything like the potential fun out of the scene. Usually the plays ramble gently on till Lyly thinks the audience must have enough; then the deus ex machina appears, and all ends. Climax in closing he seems not to try for, but is content to end with a telling phrase.

In characterization his work varies. In the allegories he wishes merely to suggest well-known figures; distinct, final characterization would be out of place, even dangerous. In the pastoral-masques, the land of fantasy, the lines of characterization need not be sharply drawn. But even if one looks at Mother Bombie and the sub-plots of the plays, one sees that though there is perhaps a slight gain in portraying the figures, the people are too often significant for the way in which they talk rather than for action or characterizing speech. When Lyly attempts strong presentation of crucial moments or pathos, he stammers, or is particularly conventional.

As he develops, he modifies the eccentricities of his style. Nor is it probable that the passing of the popular enthusiasm for Euphuism is wholly responsible for this. He had the good sense to see the superiority of prose to verse as the expression of comedy, and he must have felt how much his rigidly artificial style cramped him. In Mother Bombie, 1589-91, Euphuism is well-nigh gone. In its place we have a style in which characterized dialogue is more possible and more evident. In The Woman in the Moone the exigencies of verse are too much for Euphuism, and it practically disappears.

Very slowly, then, Lyly was working toward a drama of simple characterizing dialogue, more unified, and at the same time more complex. Even as he worked, however, Kyd, Greene, and Marlowe swept by to accomplishment impossible for him under any conditions.

=His Place in English Comedy.=--John Lyly is not merely, then, as has been too often suggested, a scholar "picking fancies out of books (with) little else to marvel at." He was keenly alive to foreign and domestic influences at work about him. His use of what other men offer foreshadows the marvellous assimilative power of Shakespeare. He seems to retain and apply with freedom all the similes and illustrations that come in his way; many are not to be hunted down except in out-of-the-way corners of the books best known to him. Only a man of poetic feeling would have cared to work in these allegories and pastorals. Humorous he is in the scenes of the pages. Here and there, as in some of the replies of Apelles to Alexander, and in the words of Parmenio on the rising sun (Act I, scene 1), there is caustic irony. Lyly is a thinker, too, and a critic, as his frequent satire of existing social customs or follies shows. Now and then he is fearless; for instance, in his portrayal before the Queen of the artist's contempt for royal assumption of knowledge (Act III, scene 4), and in his comment on the impossibility of happy love between a subject and a monarch (Act IV, scene 4). His allegories show best his ingenuity and inventiveness. His mastery of involved phrasing is indubitable.

Without doubt, however, his attitude toward his work is more that of the scholar than the poet or dramatist. His work is imitation of others who seem to him models, with the main attention on style. He has the inventiveness of the dramatist, but not his instinct for technique or recognition of the possibilities of a story and care in working them out. He never says a thing for himself if he can find it anywhere in a recognized author. In this, however, he shared in the mood of Spenser and his group. Indeed, a little comparison of Lyly with Spenser will show that, though in accomplishment he is far below the poet, he expresses in his comedies the historical influences, the existing intellectual conditions, and the literary aspirations which Spenser phrases in his early work. It is in poetic power, in imaginative sweep, that the two separate widely.

Yet Lyly, drawing on what preceded and what surrounded him, did more than express the literary mood and desires of his day. Through him the lyric in the drama came to Dekker, Jonson, and Shakespeare, more dainty and more varied. He broke the way for later men to use prose as the means of expression for comedy. He gave them suggestions for clever dialogue. At a time of loose and hurried dramatic writing he showed that literary finish might well accompany such composition. His pages are the prototypes of the boys and servants in Peele, Chapman, Jonson, and Shakespeare. In a small way he foreshadowed the comedy of manners. For as close a relationship between the drama and politics as we find in his allegories, we must look to the declining days of the Jacobean drama--to Middleton's Game of Chess. The romantic spirit found expression in him, not in a drama of blood, but in pastorals and masques which look forward to the masques of Jonson, to Love's Labour's Lost, Midsummer Night's Dream, and As You Like It. His influence on the highly sensitized mind of Shakespeare may be traced in many lines and scenes.

His vogue as a dramatist was short. By 1590 the boisterous, romantic drama, the often inchoate chronicle history, both frequently accompanied by scenes of would-be comic horse-play, engrossed public attention. The great period of experimentation with both old and crude forms was beginning. It is not surprising that when Lyly's plays were revived by the Chapel Children in 1597-1600, they could not stand comparison with the work of Jonson, Dekker, Heywood, and other dramatists of the day, but were called "musty fopperies of antiquity." Their work, in bridging from the classic to romantic comedy, as the Drama of Blood bridged from Seneca to real tragedy, was done. Thereafter their main interest must be historical.

=Previous Editions and the Present Text.=--The title of the first quarto (1584) is, "A moste excellent Comedie of Alexander, Campaspe, and Diogenes, played before the Queene's Maiestie on twelfe day at night, by her Maiestie's Children, and the Children of Paules. Imprinted at London, for Thomas Cadman, 1584." In the second edition, issued the same year by the same publisher, the title is changed to Campaspe, and the play is said to have been given "on new yeares day at night." The title, Campaspe, was retained in the third quarto, 1591, for William Broome, and in Edward Blount's duodecimo collective edition, 1632. (Manly.) Both, too, state that the play was given "on twelfe-day at night." The headlines of all the quartos read Alexander and Campaspe; of Blount, A tragicall Comedie of Alexander and Campaspe. Besides the quartos and Blount's Sixe Court Comedies there are these reprints: in Vol. II., Dodsley's Select Collection of Old Plays, 1825; in Vol. I., John Lilly's Dramatic Works, F. W. Fairholt, 1858; in Vol. II., Specimens of the Pre-Shaksperean Drama, J. M. Manly, 1897. In the footnotes of the present edition the quartos are indicated by A. B. and C., the other editions by Bl. Do. F. and M. respectively. Blount's text, mainly, is followed. The variant readings of the quartos are given on the authority of Fairholt.

GEORGE P. BAKER.

FOOTNOTES:

[751] The Introduction to Endimion, Holt & Co., carefully considers the evidence for all these statements.

CAMPASPE

_Played before the Queenes Maiestie_ on Twelfe day at Night:

By her MAIESTIES Children, and the Children of Paules.

_Vignette with motto:

Mollia cum duris_

LONDON,

Printed by William Stansby, for Edward Blount.

1632.

The Persons of the Play[752]

ALEXANDER, King of Macedon. HEPHESTION, his General. CLYTUS, } PARMENIO, } MILECTUS, } Warriors. PHRYGIUS, } MELIPPUS, Chamberlain to Alexander. ARISTOTLE, } DIOGENES, } CRISIPPUS, } CRATES, } Philosophers. CLEANTHES, } ANAXARCHUS, } CRYSUS, } APELLES, a Painter. SOLINUS, } SYLVIUS, } Citizens of Athens. PERIM, } MILO, } Sons of Sylvius. TRICO, } GRANICUS, Servant to Plato. MANES, Servant to Diogenes. PSYLLUS, Servant to Appelles. Page to Alexander. Citizens of Athens. Soldiers. CAMPASPE, } Theban Captives. TIMOCLEA, } LAIS, a Courtezan.

SCENE: ATHENS]

FOOTNOTES:

[752] Do. first gives the list. The two companies were probably united for the Court performance. Thus the doubling of parts, common in the days of Elizabeth, was avoided.

THE PROLOGUE AT the blacke Friers[753]

THEY that feare the stinging of waspes make fannes of peacocks tailes, whose spots are like eyes; and Lepidus, which could not sleepe for the chattering of birds, set up a beast whose head was like a dragon;[754] and wee, which stand in awe of report, are compelled to set before our owle Pallas shield,[755] thinking by her vertue to cover the others deformity. It was a signe of 5 famine to Ægypt when Nylus flowed lesse than twelve cubites or more than eighteene: and it may threaten despaire unto us if wee be lesse courteous than you looke for or more cumbersome. But, as Theseus, being promised to be brought to an eagles nest, and, travailing all the day, found but a wren in a hedge, yet said, 10 "This is a bird," so, we hope, if the shower[756] of our swelling mountaine seeme[757] to bring forth some elephant, performe but a mouse, you will gently say, "This is a beast." Basill softly touched yieldeth a sweete sent, but chafed in the hand, a ranke savour: we feare, even so, that our labours slily[758] glanced 15 on will breed some content, but examined to the proofe, small commendation. The haste in performing shall be our excuse. There went two nights to the begetting of Hercules; feathers appeare not on the Phœnix under seven moneths; and the mulberie is twelve in budding: but our travailes are like the hares, who at one time 20 bringeth forth, nourisheth, and engendreth againe,[759] or like the brood of Trochilus,[760] whose egges in the same moment that they are laid become birds. But, howsoever we finish our worke, we crave pardon if we offend in matter, and patience if wee transgresse in manners. Wee have mixed mirth with councell, and discipline 25 with delight, thinking it not amisse in the same garden to sow pot-hearbes that wee set flowers. But wee hope, as harts that cast their hornes, snakes their skins, eagles their bils, become more fresh for any other labour, so, our charge being shaken off, we shall be fit for greater matters. But least, like the Myndians, 30 wee make our gates greater than our towne,[761] and that our play runs out at the preface, we here conclude,--wishing that although there be in your precise judgements an universall mislike, yet we may enjoy by your wonted courtesies a generall silence.

FOOTNOTES:

[753] Before 1584 the Chapel Children acted publicly in a Blackfriars' inn-yard. See pp. cxi-cxxxv, Lyly's Endimion, Holt & Co.

[754] "It hapned during the time of his Triumvirat (Lepidus's), that in a certain place where he was, the magistrates attended him to his lodging environed as it were with woods on everie side: the next morrow Lepidus ... in bitter tearmes and minatorie words chid them for that they had laid him where he could not sleep a wink all night long, for the noise and singing that the birds made about him. They being thus checked and rebuked, devised against the next night to paint in a piece of parchment of great length a long Dragon or serpent, wherewith they compassed the place where Lepidus should take his repose; the sight of which serpent thus painted so terrified the birds, that they ... were altogether silent."--Pliny, Hist. of World, Holland, 1635, xxxv. 11.

[755] The favor of the Queen. Elizabeth, like Minerva, was called Pallas because of her celibacy. These words, with ll. 12, 13, p. 331, show that the Court performance came first.

[756] The author, who presents the play.

[757] 'Seeming'?

[758] 'Slightly'? M.

[759] Holland, IX. 55; Topsell, Hist. of Four-footed Beasts, 1607, p. 267.

[760] A small, plover-like Nile bird.

[761] "Coming once to Myndos (Dorian colony on Carian coast), and seeing their Gates very large, and their City but small, [Diogenes] said, 'You Men of Myndos, I advise you to shut up your Gates for fear your town should run out.'"--Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Philosophers, 1606, VI. 425.

The Prologue at the Court.

WE are ashamed that our bird, which fluttereth by twilight, seeming a swan, should[762] bee proved a bat, set against the sun. But, as Jupiter placed Silenus asse among the starres, and Alcibiades covered his pictures, being owles and apes, with a curtaine imbroidered with lions and eagles, so are we enforced upon a rough discourse to draw on a smooth excuse, resembling lapidaries who 5 thinke to hide the cracke in a stone by setting it deepe in gold. The gods supped once with poore Baucis;[763] the Persian kings sometimes shaved stickes; our hope is Your Highnesse wil at this time lend an eare to an idle pastime. Appion, raising Homer from hell, demanded only who was his father;[764] and we, calling 10 Alexander from his grave, seeke only who was his love. Whatsoever wee present, we wish it may be thought the dancing of Agrippa[765] his shadowes, who, in the moment they were seene, were of any shape one would conceive; or Lynces,[766] who, having a quicke sight to discerne, have a short memory to forget. With us it is like to 15 fare as with these torches, which giving light to others consume themselves; and we shewing delight to others shame ourselves.

FOOTNOTES:

[762] 'Which, fluttering by twilight, seemeth a swan, should'?

[763] Ovid, Meta. III. 631.

[764] Holland, XXX. 2.

[765] Henry Cornelius Agrippa (von Nettesheim), knight, doctor, and, by common reputation, magician. Died 1535. On request he raised spirits--of the dead, Tully delivering his oration on Roscius; of the living, Henry VIII. and his lords hunting.--Godwin, Lives of Necromancers, 1834, 324-25.

[766] Lynxes. "It is thought that of all beastes they seeme most brightly, for the poets faine that their eie-sight pierceth through every solid body, although it be as thicke as a wall.... Although they be long afflicted with hunger, yet when they eate their meate, if they heare any noise, or any other chaunce cause them to turne aboute from their meate, oute of the sight of it, they forgette their prey, notwithstanding their hunger, and go to seeke another booty."--Topsell, 489-492.

[Alexander and Campaspe]

Actus primus. Scæna prima[767]

Enter CLITUS and PARMENIO[768]

CLYTUS. Parmenio, I cannot tell whether I should more commend in Alexanders victories courage, or courtesie, in the one being a resolution without feare, in the other a liberalitie above custome. Thebes is razed, the people not racked; towers throwne downe, bodies not thrust aside; a conquest without conflict, and a 5 cruell warre in a milde peace.[769]

Par. Clytus, it becommeth the sonne of Philip to bee none other than Alexander is; therefore, seeing in the father a full perfection, who could have doubted in the sonne an excellency? For, as the moone can borrow nothing else of the sunne but light,[770] so of a sire in whom nothing but vertue was what could the 10 childe receive but singular?[771] It is for turkies to staine each other, not for diamonds; in the one to bee made a difference in goodnesse, in the other no comparison.[772]

Clytus. You mistake mee, Parmenio, if, whilest I commend Alexander, you imagine I call Philip into question; unlesse, 15 happily, you conjecture (which none of judgement will conceive) that because I like the fruit, therefore I heave at the tree, or, coveting to kisse the childe, I therefore goe about to poyson the teat.

Par. I, but, Clytus, I perceive you are borne in the east, and 20 never laugh but at the sunne rising;[773] which argueth, though a dutie where you ought, yet no great devotion where you might.

Clytus. We will make no controversie of that [of][774] which there ought to be no question; onely this shall be the opinion of us both, that none was worthy to be the father of Alexander but Philip, nor 25 any meete to be the sonne of Philip but Alexander.

[Enter Soldiers with TIMOCLEA, CAMPASPE, other captives, and spoils.]

Par. Soft, Clytus, behold the spoiles and prisoners! A pleasant sight to us, because profit is joyned with honour; not much painfull to them, because their captivitie is eased by mercie.

Timo. [aside]. Fortune, thou didst never yet deceive vertue, 30 because vertue never yet did trust fortune! Sword and fire will never get spoyle where wisdome and fortitude beares sway. O Thebes, thy wals were raised by the sweetnesse of the harpe,[775] but rased by the shrilnes of the trumpet! Alexander had never come so neer the wals, had Epaminondas walkt about the wals; and yet might 35 the Thebanes have beene merry in their streets, if hee had beene to watch their towers. But destinie is seldome forseene, never prevented. We are here now captives, whose neckes are voaked by force, but whose hearts cannot yeeld by death.--Come Campaspe and the rest, let us not be ashamed to cast our eyes on him on whom 40 we feared not to cast our darts.

Par. Madame, you need not doubt;[776] it is Alexander that is the conquerour.

Timo. Alexander hath overcome, not conquered.

Par. To bring all under his subjection is to conquer. 45

Timo. He cannot subdue that which is divine.

Par. Thebes was not.

Timo. Vertue is.

Clytus. Alexander, as hee tendreth[777] vertue, so hee will you. Hee drinketh not bloud, but thirsteth after honour; hee is greedie of victorie, but never satisfied with mercie; in fight terrible, 50 as becommeth a captaine; in conquest milde, as beseemeth a king; in all things[778] than which nothing can be greater, hee is Alexander.

Camp. Then, if it be such a thing to be Alexander, I hope it shall be no miserable thing to be a virgin. For, if hee save our 55 honours, it is more than to restore our goods; and rather doe I wish he preserve our fame than our lives: which if he doe, we will confesse there can be no greater thing than to be Alexander.

[Enter ALEXANDER and HEPHESTION.[779]]

Alex. Clytus, are these prisoners? Of whence these spoiles?

Clytus. Like your Majestie,[780] they are prisoners, and of Thebes. 60

Alex. Of what calling or reputation?

Clytus. I know not, but they seeme to be ladies of honour.

Alex. I will know. Madam, of whence you are I know, but who, I cannot tell.

Timo. Alexander, I am the sister of Theagines, who fought a 65 battell with thy father, before the citie of Chieronie,[781] where he died, I say--which none can gainsay--valiantly.[782]

Alex. Lady, there seeme in your words sparkes of your brothers deedes, but worser fortune in your life than his death; but feare not, for you shall live without violence, enemies, or necessitie. But what are you, faire ladie, another sister to Theagines? 70

Camp. No sister to Theagines, but an humble hand-maid to Alexander, born of a meane parentage, but to extreme[783] fortune.

Alex. Well, ladies, for so your vertues shew you, whatsoever your births be, you shall be honorably entreated. Athens shall be 75 your Thebes; and you shall not be as abjects of warre, but as subjects to Alexander. Parmenio, conduct these honourable ladies into the citie; charge the souldiers not so much as in words to offer them any offence; and let all wants bee supplied so farre forth as shall be necessarie for such persons and my prisoners. 80

Exeunt PARME.[NIO] & captivi.

Hephestion,[784] it resteth now that wee have as great care to governe in peace as conquer in warre, that, whilest armes cease, arts may flourish, and, joyning letters with launces, wee endevour to bee as good philosophers as souldiers, knowing it no lesse prayse to bee wise than commendable to be valiant. 85

Hep. Your Majestie therein sheweth that you have as great desire to rule as to subdue: and needs must that commonwealth be fortunate whose captaine is a philosopher, and whose philosopher a captaine. Exeunt.

Actus primus. Scæna secunda[785]

[Enter] MANES,[786] GRANICHUS, PSYLLUS

Manes. I serve in stead of a master a mouse,[787] whose house is a tub, whose dinner is a crust, and whose bed is a boord.

Psyllus. Then art thou in a state of life which philosophers commend: a crum for thy supper, an hand for thy cup, and thy clothes for thy sheets; for Natura paucis contenta. 5

Gran. Manes, it is pitie so proper a man should be cast away upon a philosopher; but that Diogenes, that dogge,[788] should have Manes, that dog-bolt,[789] it grieveth nature and spiteth art: the one having found thee so dissolute--absolute[790] I would say--in bodie, the other so single--singular--in minde. 10

Manes. Are you merry? It is a signe by the trip of your tongue and the toyes[791] of your head that you have done that to day which I have not done these three dayes.

Psyllus. Whats that?

Manes. Dined. 15

Gran. I thinke Diogenes keepes but cold cheare.

Manes. I would it were so; but hee keepeth neither hot nor cold.

Gran. What then, luke warme? That made Manes runne from his master the last day.[792] 20

Psyllus. Manes had reason, for his name foretold as much.

Manes. My name? How so, sir boy?

Psyllus. You know that it is called mons a movendo, because it stands still.

Manes. Good. 25

Psyllus. And thou art named Manes a manendo, because thou runnest away.

Manes. Passing[793] reasons! I did not run away, but retire.

Psyllus. To a prison, because thou wouldst have leisure to contemplate. 30

Manes. I will prove that my bodie was immortall because it was in prison.

Gran. As how?

Manes. Did your masters never teach you that the soule is immortall? 35

Gran. Yes.

Manes. And the bodie is the prison of the soule.

Gran. True.

Manes. Why then, thus[794] to make my body immortall, I put it in prison.[795] 40

Gran. Oh, bad!

Psyllus. Excellent ill!

Manes. You may see how dull a fasting wit is: therefore, Psyllus, let us goe to supper with Granichus. Plato is the best fellow of all philosophers: give me him that reades[796] in the morning in the 45 schoole, and at noone in the kitchen.

Psyllus. And me!

Gran. Ah, sirs, my master is a king in his parlour for the body, and a god in his studie for the soule. Among all his men he commendeth one that is an excellent musition; then stand I by and clap another on the shoulder and say, "This is a passing good 50 cooke."

Manes. It is well done Granichus; for give mee pleasure that goes in at the mouth, not the eare,--I had rather fill my guts than my braines.

Psyllus. I serve Apelles, who feedeth mee as Diogenes doth 55 Manes; for at dinner the one preacheth abstinence, the other commendeth counterfaiting[797]: when I would eate meate, he paints a[798] spit; and when I thirst, "O," saith he, "is not this a faire pot?" and pointes to a table[799] which containes the Banquet of the Gods, where are many dishes to feed the eye, but not to fill the gut. 60

Gran. What doest thou then?

Psyllus. This doth hee then: bring in many examples that some have lived by savours; and proveth that much easier it is to fat by colours; and telles of birdes that have been fatted by painted grapes in winter, and how many have so fed their eyes with their mistresse picture that they never desired to take food, being 65 glutted with the delight in their favours.[800] Then doth he shew me counterfeites,--such as have surfeited, with their filthy and lothsome vomites; and the riotous[801] Bacchanalls of the god Bacchus and his disorderly crew; which are painted all to the life in his shop. To conclude, I fare hardly, though I goe richly, 70 which maketh me when I should begin to shadow a ladies face, to draw a lambs head, and sometime to set to the body of a maid a shoulder of mutton, for Semper animus meus est in patinis.[802]

Manes. Thou art a god to mee; for, could I see but a cookes 75 shop painted, I would make mine eyes fatte as butter, for I have nought but sentences to fill my maw: as, Plures occidit crapula quam gladius; Musa jejunantibus amica; Repletion killeth delicatly; and an old saw of abstinence by[803] Socrates,--The belly is the heads grave. Thus with sayings, not with meate, he maketh a gallimafray.[804] 80

Gran. But how doest thou then live?

Manes. With fine jests, sweet ayre, and the dogs[805] almes.

Gran. Well, for this time I will stanch thy gut, and among pots and platters thou shall see what it is to serve Plato.

Psyllus. For joy of it, Granichus, lets sing. 85

Manes. My voice is as cleare in the evening as in the morning.[806]

Gran. An other commoditie of emptines!

SONG[807]

Gran. O for a bowle of fatt canary, Rich Palermo, sparkling sherry, Some nectar else[808] from Juno's daiery: 90 O these draughts would make us merry!

Psil. O for a wench! (I deale in faces, And in other dayntier things,) Tickled am I with her embraces,-- Fine dancing in such fairy ringes. 95

Ma. O for a plump fat leg of mutton, Veale, lambe, capon, pigge, and conney![809] None is happy but a glutton; None an asse but who wants money.

Ch. Wines, indeed, and girls are good, 100 But brave victuals feast the bloud: For wenches, wine, and lusty cheere, Jove would leape down to surfet heere. [Exeunt.]

Actus primus. Scæna tertia[810]

[Enter] MELIPPUS[811]

Melip. I had never such adoe to warne schollers to come before a king! First I came to Crisippus, a tall, leane old mad man, willing him presently to appeare before Alexander. Hee stood staring on my face, neither moving his eyes nor his body. I urging him to give some answer, hee tooke up a booke, sate downe, and saide nothing. 5 Melissa, his maide, told mee it was his manner, and that oftentimes shee was fain to thrust meat into his mouth, for that he would rather sterve than cease studie. Well, thought I, seeing bookish men are so blockish and great clearkes such simple courtiers, I will neither be partaker of their commons nor their commendations. From thence I came to Plato and to Aristotle[812] and to divers 10 other; none refusing to come, saving an olde, obscure fellow, who, sitting in a tub turned towardes the sunne, read Greeke to a young boy. Him when I willed to appeare before Alexander, he answered, "If Alexander would faine see mee, let him come to mee; if learne of me, let him come to mee; whatsoever it be, let him 15 come to me." "Why," said I, "he is a king." He answered, "Why, I am a philosopher." "Why, but he is Alexander." "I, but I am Diogenes." I was halfe angry to see one so crooked in his shape to bee so crabbed in his sayings; so, going my way, I said, "Thou 20 shalt repent it, if thou comest not to Alexander." "Nay," smiling answered hee, "Alexander may repent it if hee come not to Diogenes: vertue must bee sought, not offered." And so, turning himselfe to his cell, hee grunted I know not what, like a pig under a tub. But I must bee gone, the philosophers are comming. Exit. 25

[Enter PLATO, ARISTOTLE, CRYSIPPUS, CRATES, CLEANTHES, and ANAXARCHUS[813]]

Plato. It is a difficult controversie, Aristotle, and rather to be wondred at than beleeved, how natural causes should worke supernaturall effects.

Aris. I do not so much stand upon the apparition is seene in the 30 moone,[814] neither the Demonium of Socrates, as that I cannot by naturall reason give any reason of the ebbing and flowing of the sea; which makes me in the depth of my studies to crie out, O ens entium, miserere mei.

Plato. Cleanthes and you attribute so much to nature by searching for things which are not to be found, that, whilest you studie a cause of your owne,[815] you omitt the occasion it selfe. There 35 is no man so savage in whom resteth not this divine particle: that there is an omnipotent, eternall, and divine mover, which may be called God.

Cleant. I am of this minde: that that first mover, which you 40 terme God, is the instrument of all the movings which we attribute to nature.[816] The earth, which is masse, swimmeth[817] on the sea, seasons divided in themselves, fruits growing in themselves, the majestie of the skie, the whole firmament of the world, and whatsoever else appeareth miraculous,--what man almost of meane capacitie but 45 can prove it natural?

Anax. These causes shall be debated at our philosophers feast, in which controversie I will take part with Aristotle that there is Natura naturans,[818] and yet not God.

Cra. And I with Plato that there is Deus optimus maximus, and 50 not nature.

[Enter ALEXANDER, attended by HEPHESTION, PARMENIO, and CLYTUS]

Aris. Here commeth Alexander.

Alex. I see, Hephestion, that these philosophers are here attending for us.

Hep. They are not philosophers if they know[819] not their duties. 55

Alex. But I much mervaile Diogenes should bee so dogged.

Hep. I doe not thinke but his excuse will be better than Melippus message.

Alex. I will goe see him, Hephestion, because I long to see him that would command Alexander to come, to whom all the world is 60 like to come.--Aristotle and the rest, sithence my comming from Thebes to Athens, from a place of conquest to a pallace of[820] quiet, I have resolved with my selfe in my court to have as many philosophers as I had in my camp souldiers. My court shal be a schoole wherein I wil have used as great doctrine[821] in peace as I did in warre discipline. 65

Aris. We are all here ready to be commanded, and glad we are that we are commanded, for that nothing better becommeth kings than literature, which maketh them come as neare to the gods in wisdome as they doe in dignitie. 70

Alex. It is so, Aristotle, but yet there is among you, yea and of your bringing up, that sought to destroy Alexander,--Calistenes,[822] Aristotle, whose treasons against his prince shall not be borne out with the reasons of his philosophie.

Aris. If ever mischief entred into the heart of Calistenes, let 75 Calistenes suffer for it; but that Aristotle ever imagined any such thing of Calistenes, Aristotle doth denie.

Alex. Well, Aristotle, kindred may blinde thee, and affection me; but in kings causes I will not stand to schollers arguments. This meeting shal be for a commandement that you all frequent my 80 court, instruct the young with rules,[823] confirme the olde with reasons: let your lives bee answerable to your learnings, least my proceedings be contrary to my promises.

Hep. You said you would aske every one of them a question which yesternight none of us could answere.[824] 85

Alex. I will. Plato, of all beasts which is the subtilest?

Plato. That which man hitherto never knew.

Alex. Aristotle, how should a man be thought a god?

Aris. In doing a thing unpossible for a man.

Alex. Crisippus, which was first, the day or the night? 90

Aris. The day, by a day.

Alex. Indeede, strange questions must have strange answers. Cleanthes, what say you, is life or death the stronger?

Cle. Life, that suffereth so many troubles.

Alex. Crates, how long should a man live? 95

Crates. Till hee thinke it better to die than to live.

Alex. Anaxarchus, whether doth the sea or the earth bring forth most creatures?

Anax. The earth, for the sea is but a part of the earth.

Alex. Hephestion, me thinkes they have answered all well, and 100 in such questions I meane often to trie them.

Hep. It is better to have in your court a wise man than in your ground a golden mine. Therefore would I leave war, to study wisdom, were I Alexander.

Alex. So would I, were I Hephestion.[825] But come, let us goe 105 and give release, as I promised, to our Theban thralls.[826] Exeunt [Alexander, Hephestion, Parmenio, and Clytus.]

Plato. Thou art fortunate, Aristotle, that Alexander is thy scholler.

Aris. And all you happy that he is your soveraigne.

Crisip. I could like the man well, if he could be contented to 110 bee but a man.

Aris. He seeketh to draw neere to the gods in knowledge, not to be a god. [Enter DIOGENES.[827]]

Plato. Let us question a little with Diogenes why he went not with us to Alexander. Diogenes, thou didst forget thy duety, that 115 thou wentst not with us to the king.

Diog. And you your profession that went to the king.

Plato. Thou takest as great pride to be peevish as others do glory to be vertuous.

Diog. And thou as great honour, being a philosopher, to be 120 thought court-like, as others shame, that be courtiers, to be accounted philosophers.

Aris. These austere manners set aside, it is well knowne that thou didst counterfeite money.[828]

Diog. And thou thy manners, in that thou didst not counterfeite 125 money.[829]

Aris. Thou hast reason to contemne the court, being both in bodie and minde too crooked for a courtier.

Diog. As good be crooked and indevour to make my selfe straight, from the court, as bee straight and learne to be crooked at the court. 130

Cris. Thou thinkest it a grace to be opposite against Alexander.

Diog. And thou to be jump with Alexander.

Anax. Let us goe, for in contemning him we shal better please him than in wondering at him.

Aris. Plato, what doest thou thinke of Diogenes? 135

Plato. To be Socrates furious.[830] Let us go. Exeunt Philosophi.

[Diogenes moves about with a lantern as if seeking something.]

[Enter] PSYLLUS, MANES, [and] GRANICHUS.[831]

Psyllus. Behold, Manes, where thy master is, seeking either for bones for his dinner or pinnes for his sleeves. I will goe salute him.

Manes. Doe so; but mum, not a word that you saw Manes! 140

Gran. Then stay thou behinde, and I will goe with Psyllus.

[Manes stands apart.]

Psyllus. All hayle, Diogenes, to your proper person.

Diog. All hate to thy peevish conditions.

Gran. O dogge!

Psyllus. What doest thou seeke for here? 145

Diog. For a man and a beast.

Gran. That is easie without thy light to bee found: be not all these men?[832]

Diog. Called men.

Gran. What beast is it thou lookest for? 150

Diog. The beast my man Manes.

Psyllus. Hee is a beast indeed that will serve thee.

Diog. So is he that begat thee.

Gran. What wouldest thou do, if thou shouldst find Manes?

Diog. Give him leave to doe as hee hath done before. 155

Gran. What's that?

Diog. To run away.

Psyllus. Why, hast thou no neede of Manes?

Diog. It were a shame for Diogenes to have neede of Manes and for Manes to have no neede of Diogenes.[833] 160

Gran. But put the case he were gone, wouldst thou entertaine any of us two?

Diog. Upon condition.

Psyllus. What?

Diog. That you should tell me wherefore any of you both were 165 good.

Gran. Why, I am a scholler and well seene in philosophy.

Psyllus. And I a prentice and well seene in painting.

Diog. Well then, Granichus, be thou a painter to amend thine ill face; and thou, Psyllus, a philosopher to correct thine evill 170 manners. But who is that? Manes?

Manes [coming forward slowly]. I care not who I were, so I were not Manes.

Gran. You are taken tardie.

Psyllus. Let us slip aside, Granichus, to see the salutation 175 betweene Manes and his master. [They draw back.]

Diog. Manes, thou knowest the last day[834] I threw away my dish, to drinke in my hand, because it was superfluous;[835] now I am determined to put away my man and serve my selfe, quia non egeo tui vel te. 180

Manes. Master, you know a while agoe I ran away; so doe I meane to doe againe, quia scio tibi non esse argentum.

Diog. I know I have no money, neither will I[836] have ever a man, for I was resolved long sithence to put away both my slaves,--money and Manes. 185

Manes. So was I determined to shake off[837] both my dogges,--hunger and Diogenes.

Psyllus. O sweet consent[838] betweene a crowde[839] and a Jewes harpe!

Gran. Come, let us reconcile them.

Psyllus. It shall not neede, for this is their use: now doe they 190 dine one upon another. Exit Diogenes.

Gran. [coming forward with Psyllus]. How now, Manes, art thou gone from thy master?

Manes. No, I did but now binde my selfe to him.

Psyllus. Why, you were at mortall jarres! 195

Manes. In faith, no; we brake a bitter jest one upon another.

Gran. Why, thou art as dogged as he.

Psyllus. My father knew them both little whelps.

Manes. Well, I will hie me after my master.

Gran. Why, is it supper time with Diogenes? 200

Manes. I, with him at all time when he hath meate.

Psyllus. Why then, every man to his home; and let us steale out againe anone.

Gran. Where shall we meete?

Psyllus. Why at _Alae[840] vendibili suspensa hædera non est opus_. 205

Manes. O Psyllus, habeo te loco parentis; thou blessest me. Exeunt.

Actus secundus.[841] Scæna prima.[842]

ALEXANDER, HEPHESTION, [and] PAGE.[843]

Alex. Stand aside, sir boy, till you be called. [The Page stands aside.] Hephestion, how doe you like the sweet face of Campaspe?

Hep. I cannot but commende the stout courage of Timoclea.

Alex. Without doubt Campaspe had some great man to her father. 5

Hep. You know Timoclea had Theagines to her brother.

Alex. Timoclea still in thy mouth! Art thou not in love?

Hep. Not I.

Alex. Not with Timoclea, you meane. Wherein you resemble the lapwing, who crieth most where her nest is not.[844] And so 10 you lead me from espying your love with Campaspe,--you crie Timoclea.

Hep. Could I as well subdue kingdomes as I can my thoughts, or were I as farre from ambition as I am from love, all the world would account mee as valiant in armes as I know my selfe moderate in affection. 15

Alex. Is love a vice?

Hep. It is no vertue.

Alex. Well, now shalt thou see what small difference I make between Alexander and Hephestion. And, sith thou hast been 20 alwaies partaker of my triumphes, thou shalt bee partaker of my torments. I love, Hephestion, I love! I love Campaspe,--a thing farre unfit for a Macedonian, for a king, for Alexander. Why hangest thou downe thy head, Hephestion, blushing to heare that which I am not ashamed to tell? 25

Hep. Might my words crave pardon and my counsell credit, I would both discharge the duetie of a subject, for so I am, and the office of a friend, for so I will.

Alex. Speake Hephestion; for, whatsoever is spoken, Hephestion speaketh to Alexander. 30

Hep. I cannot tell, Alexander, whether the report be more shamefull to be heard or the cause sorrowful to be beleeved? What, is the son of Philip, king of Macedon, become the subject of Campaspe, the captive of Thebes? Is that minde whose greatnes the world could not containe drawn within the compasse of an idle, 35 alluring eie? Wil you handle the spindle with Hercules[845] when you should shake the speare with Achilles? Is the warlike sound of drum and trump turned to the soft noise of lyre and lute, the neighing of barbed[846] steeds, whose lowdnes filled the aire with terrour and whose breathes dimmed the sun with smoake, converted to delicate tunes and amorous glances?[847] O Alexander, that soft 40 and yeelding minde should not bee in him whose hard and unconquerd heart hath made so many yeeld. But you love! Ah griefe! But whom? Campaspe. Ah shame! A maide, forsooth, unknowne, unnoble,--and who can tell whether immodest?--whose eyes are framed by art 45 to enamour, and whose heart was made by nature to enchant. I, but shee is beautifull. Yea, but not therefore chaste. I, but she is comely in all parts of the bodie. But shee may bee crooked in some part of the minde. I, but shee is wise. Yea, but she is a woman. Beautie is like the blackberry, which seemeth red when 50 it is not ripe,--resembling precious stones that are polished with honie,[848] which the smoother they looke, the sooner they breake. It is thought wonderfull among the sea-men, that mugill,[849] of all fishes the swiftest, is found in the belly of the bret,[850] of all the slowest: and shall it not seeme monstrous to wise men that the heart of the greatest conquerour of the world should 55 be found in the hands of the weakest creature of nature,--of a woman, of a captive? Hermyns have faire skins, but foule livers; sepulchres fresh colours, but rotten bones; women faire faces, but false hearts. Remember, Alexander, thou hast a campe to governe, not a chamber. Fall not from the armour of Mars to the armes of 60 Venus, from the fierie assaults of warre to the maidenly skirmishes of love, from displaying the eagle in thine ensigne to set downe the sparrow. I sigh, Alexander, that, where fortune could not conquer, folly should overcome. But behold all the perfection that may bee in Campaspe: a haire curling by nature, not art; 65 sweete alluring eyes; a faire face made in despite of Venus; and a stately port in disdaine of Juno; a wit apt to conceive and quicke to answere; a skinne as soft as silke and as smooth as jet; a long white hand; a fine little foot,--to conclude, all parts answerable to the best part. What of this? Though she have heavenly gifts, 70 vertue and beautie, is shee not of earthly metall, flesh and bloud? You, Alexander, that would be a god, shew your selfe in this worse than a man, so soone to be both overseene and over-taken[851] in a woman, whose false teares know their true times, whose smooth words wound deeper than sharpe swords. There is no surfet so dangerous 75 as that of honie, nor any poyson so deadly as that of love: in the one physicke cannot prevaile, nor in the other counsell.

Alex. My case were light, Hephestion, and not worthy to be called love, if reason were a remedie, or sentences could salve that 80 sense cannot conceive. Little do you know and therefore sleightly doe you regard the dead embers in a private person or live coales in a great prince, whose passions and thoughts doe as farre exceed others in extremitie as their callings doe in majestie. An eclipse in the sunne is more than the falling of a starre: none can conceive the torments of a king, unlesse he be a king, whose 85 desires are not inferiour to their dignities. And then judge, Hephestion, if the agonies of love be dangerous in a subject, whether they be not more than deadly unto Alexander, whose deepe and not to bee conceived sighes cleave the heart in shivers, whose wounded thoughts can neither be expressed nor endured. Cease 90 then, Hephestion, with arguments to seeke to refell[852] that which with their deitie the gods cannot resist; and let this suffice to answere thee,--that it is a king that loveth, and Alexander, whose affections are not to bee measured by reason, being immortall, nor, I feare me, to be borne, being intolerable. 95

Hep. I must needs yeeld, when neither reason nor counsell can bee heard.

Alex. Yeeld, Hephestion, for Alexander doth love, and therefore must obtaine. 100

Hep. Suppose shee loves not you? Affection commeth not by appointment or birth; and then as good hated as enforced.

Alex. I am a king, and will command.

Hep. You may, to yeeld to lust by force, but to consent to love by feare, you cannot. 105

Alex. Why? What is that which Alexander may not conquer as he list?

Hep. Why, that which you say the gods cannot resist,--love.

Alex. I am a conquerour, shee a captive; I as fortunate as shee 110 faire: my greatnesse may answere her wants, and the gifts of my minde the modestie of hers. Is it not likely, then, that she should love? Is it not reasonable?

Hep. You say that in love there is no reason; and, therefore, there can be no likelyhood. 115

Alex. No more, Hephestion! In this case I will use mine own counsell, and in all other thine advice: thou mayst be a good souldier, but never good lover. Call my page. [The Page comes forward.] Sirrah, goe presently to Apelles and will him to come to me without either delay or excuse. 120

Page. I goe. [Exit.]

Alex. In the meane season, to recreate my spirits, being so neere, wee will goe see Diogenes. And see where his tub is.[853] [Crosses stage.] Diogenes!

Diog. Who calleth? 125

Alex. Alexander. How happened it that you would not come out of your tub to my palace?[854]

Diog. Because it was as farre from my tub to your palace as from your palace to my tub.

Alex. Why then, doest thou owe no reverence to kings? 130

Diog. No.

Alex. Why so?

Diog. Because they be no gods.

Alex. They be gods of the earth.

Diog. Yea, gods of earth. 135

Alex. Plato is not of thy minde.

Diog. I am glad of it.

Alex. Why?

Diog. Because I would have none of Diogenes minde but Diogenes. 140

Alex. If Alexander have any thing that may pleasure Diogenes, let me know, and take it.

Diog. Then take not from mee that you cannot give mee,--the light of the world.

Alex. What doest thou want? 145

Diog. Nothing that you have.

Alex. I have the world at command.

Diog. And I in contempt.

Alex. Thou shalt live no longer than I will.

Diog. But I shall die whether you will or no. 150

Alex. How should one learne to bee content?

Diog. Unlearne to covet.

Alex. Hephestion, were I not Alexander, I would wish to bee Diogenes!

Hep. He is dogged, but discreet; I cannot tell how sharpe, 155 with a kind of sweetnes; full of wit, yet too-too wayward.

Alex. Diogenes, when I come this way againe, I will both see thee and confer with thee.

Diog. Doe.[855] [Enter APELLES.]

Alex. But here commeth Apelles. How now, Apelles, is Venus 160 face yet finished?

Apel. Not yet; beautie is not so soone shadowed whose perfection commeth not within the compasse either of cunning or of colour.

Alex. Well, let it rest unperfect; and come you with mee where 165 I will shew you that finished by nature that you have beene trifling about by art. [Exeunt Alexander, Hephestion, and Apelles.

Actus tertius. Scæna prima.[856]

[Enter] APELLES, CAMPASPE [and a little behind them, PSYLLUS.]

Apel. Ladie, I doubt whether there bee any colour so fresh that may shadow a countenance so faire.

Camp. Sir, I had thought you had bin commanded to paint with your hand, not to glose[857] with your tongue; but as I have heard, it is the hardest thing in painting to set downe a hard favour,[858] which maketh you to despaire of my face; and then[859] shall you 5 have as great thankes to spare your labour as to discredit your art.

Apel. Mistris, you neither differ from your selfe nor your sexe; for, knowing your owne perfection, you seeme to disprayse that which men most commend, drawing them by that meane into an admiration 10 where, feeding themselves, they fall into an extasie; your modestie being the cause of the one, and of the other your affections.

Camp. I am too young to understand your speech, though old enough to withstand your devise. You have bin so long used to colours you can doe nothing but colour.[860] 15

Apel Indeed the colours I see, I feare will alter the colour I have.[861] But come, madam, will you draw neere?--for Alexander will be here anon. Psyllus, stay you here at the window. If any enquire for mee, answere, Non lubet esse domi. Exeunt [Apelles and Campaspe.[862]]

Psyllus. It is alwayes my masters fashion when any faire gentle-woman is to be drawne within to make me to stay without. 20 But if hee should paint Jupiter like a bull, like a swanne, like an eagle, then must Psyllus with one hand grind colours and with the other hold the candle. But let him alone! The better hee shadowes her face, the more will he burne his owne heart. And now if any 25 man could meet with Manes, who, I dare say, lookes as leane as if Diogenes dropped out of his nose.[863] [Enter MANES.]

Manes. And here comes Manes, who hath as much meate in his maw as thou hast honestie in thy head.

Psyllus. Then I hope thou art very hungry. 30

Manes. They that know thee know that.

Psyllus. But doest thou not remember that wee have certaine liquor to conferre withall.

Manes. I, but I have businesse; I must goe cry a thing.

Psyllus. Why, what hast thou lost? 35

Manes. That which I never had,--my dinner!

Psyllus. Foule lubber, wilt thou crie for thy dinner?

Manes. I meane I must crie,--not as one would say "crie," but "crie,"[864] that is, make a noyse.

Psyllus. Why foole, that is all one; for, if thou crie, thou must 40 needs make a noyse.

Manes. Boy, thou art deceived: crie hath divers significations, and may be alluded to many things; knave but one,[865] and can be applyed but to thee.

Psyllus. Profound Manes! 45

Manes. Wee Cynickes are mad fellowes. Didst thou not finde I did quip thee?

Psyllus. No, verily! Why, what's a quip?

Manes. Wee great girders call it a short saying of a sharpe wit, with a bitter sense in a sweet word. 50

Psyllus. How canst thou thus divine, divide, define, dispute, and all on the sodaine?

Manes. Wit will have his swing! I am bewitcht, inspired, inflamed, infected.

Psyllus. Well then will I not tempt thy gybing spirit. 55

Manes. Doe not, Psyllus, for thy dull head will bee but a grind-stone for my quicke wit, which if thou whet with overthwarts,[866] periisti, actum est de te! I have drawne bloud at ones braines with a bitter bob.

Psyllus. Let me crosse my selfe; for I die if I crosse thee. 60

Manes. Let me doe my businesse. I my selfe am afraid lest my wit should waxe warme, and then must it needs consume some hard head with fine and prettie jests. I am sometimes in such a vaine that, for want of some dull pate to worke on, I begin to gird my selfe. 65

Psyllus. The gods shield me from such a fine fellow, whose words melt wits like waxe.

Manes. Well then, let us to the matter. In faith, my master meaneth to morrow to flie.

Psyllus. It is a jest. 70

Manes. Is it a jest to flie? Shouldest thou flie so soone, thou shouldest repent it in earnest.

Psyllus. Well, I will be the cryer.

Manes and Psyllus (one after another). O ys! O ys! O ys![867] All manner of men, women, or children, that will come to morrow into 75 the market place betweene the houres of nine and ten shall see Diogenes the Cynicke--flie.[868]

Psyllus. I doe not thinke he will flie.

Manes. Tush, say "flie!"

Psyllus. Flie. 80

Manes. Now let us goe; for I will not see him againe till midnight,--I have a backe way into his tub.

Psyllus. Which way callest thou the backe way, when every way is open?

Manes. I meane to come in at his backe. 85

Psyllus. Well, let us goe away, that we may returne speedily. Exeunt.

Actus tertius. Scæna secunda.[869]

[Enter] APELLES, CAMPASPE.

Apel. I shall never draw your eyes well, because they blinde mine.[870]

Camp. Why then, paint mee without eyes, for I am blind.[871]

Apel. Were you ever shadowed before of any?

Camp. No; and would you could so now shadow me that I 5 might not be perceived of any.[872]

Apel. It were pitie but that so absolute[873] a face should furnish Venus temple amongst these pictures.

Camp. What are these pictures?

Apel. This is Læda, whom Jove deceived in likenesse of a swan. 10

Camp. A faire woman, but a foule deceit.

Apel. This is Alcmena, unto whom Jupiter came in shape of Amphitrion, her husband, and begate Hercules.

Camp. A famous sonne, but an infamous fact.

Apel. Hee might doe it, because hee was a god. 15

Camp. Nay, therefore it was evill done because he was a god.

Apel. This is Danae, into whose prison Jupiter drizled a golden showre, and obtained his desire.

Camp. What gold can make one yeeld to desire?

Apel. This is Europa, whom Jupiter ravished; this, Antiopa.[874] 20

Camp. Were all the gods like this Jupiter?

Apel. There were many gods in this like Jupiter.

Camp. I thinke in those dayes love was well ratified among men on earth when lust was so full authorised by the gods in Heaven.

Apel. Nay, you may imagine there were women passing amiable 25 when there were gods exceeding amorous.

Camp. Were women never so faire, men would be false.

Apel. Were women never so false, men would be fond.

Camp. What counterfeit is this, Apelles?

Apel. This is Venus, the goddesse of love. 30

Camp. What, bee there also loving goddesses?

Apel. This is shee that hath power to command the very affections of the heart.

Camp. How is she hired,--by prayer, by sacrifice, or bribes?

Apel. By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes. 35

Camp. What prayer?

Apel. Vowes irrevocable.

Camp. What sacrifice?

Apel. Hearts ever sighing, never dissembling.

Camp. What bribes? 40

Apel. Roses and kisses. But were you never in love?

Camp. No; nor love in me.

Apel. Then have you injuried many.

Camp. How so?

Apel. Because you have been loved of many. 45

Camp. Flattered, perchance, of some.

Apel. It is not possible that a face so faire and a wit so sharpe, both without comparison, should not be apt to love.

Camp. If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray dip your pensill in colours and fall to that you must doe, not that you 50 would doe.

Actus tertius. Scæna tertia.[875]

[Enter] CLYTUS [and] PARMENIO.

Clytus. Parmenio, I cannot tell how it commeth to passe that in Alexander now a dayes there groweth an unpatient kind of life: in the morning he is melancholy, at noone solemne, at all times either more sowre or severe than hee was accustomed.

Par. In kings causes I rather love to doubt[876] than conjecture, 5 and thinke it better to bee ignorant than inquisitive: they have long eares and stretched armes;[877] in whose heads suspition is a proofe, and to be accused is to be condemned.

Clytus. Yet betweene us there can bee no danger to find out the cause, for that there is no malice to withstand it. It may be an unquenchable thirst of conquering maketh him unquiet; it is not 10 unlikely his long ease hath altered his humour; that he should be in love, it is not[878] impossible.

Par. In love, Clytus? No, no; it is as farre from his thought as treason in ours. He, whose ever-waking eye, whose never-tired 15 heart, whose body patient of labour, whose mind unsatiable of victorie, hath alwayes beene noted, cannot so soone be melted into the weake conceits of love. Aristotle told him there were many worlds; and that he hath not conquered one that gapeth for all galleth Alexander. But here he cometh. 20

[Enter ALEXANDER and HEPHESTION.]

Alex. Parmenio and Clytus, I would have you both readie to goe into Persia about an ambassage no lesse profitable to me than to your selves honourable.

Clytus. Wee are readie at all commands, wishing nothing else but continually to be commanded. 25

Alex. Well then, withdraw yourselves till I have further considered of this matter. Exeunt Clytus and Parmenio.

Now wee will see how Apelles goeth forward. I doubt mee that nature hath overcome art, and her countenance his cunning.

Hep. You love, and therefore think any thing. 30

Alex. But not so farre in love with Campaspe as with Bucephalus,[879] if occasion serve either of conflict or[880] conquest.

Hep. Occasion cannot want if will doe not. Behold all Persia swelling in the pride of their owne power, the Scythians carelesse what courage or fortune can do, the Egyptians dreaming in the 35 southsayings of their augures and gaping over the smoake of their beasts intralls. All these, Alexander, are to be subdued, if that world be not slipped out of your head which you have sworne to conquer with that hand.

Alex. I confesse the labour's fit for Alexander, and yet recreation necessarie among so many assaults, bloudie wounds, 40 intolerable troubles. Give me leave a little, if not to sit, yet to breath. And doubt not but Alexander can, when hee will, throw affections as farre from him as he can cowardise. But behold Diogenes talking with one at his tub.[881] 45

Crysus. One penny, Diogenes; I am a Cynicke.

Diog. Hee made thee a begger that first gave thee any thing.

Crysus. Why, if thou wilt give nothing, no bodie will give thee.

Diog. I want nothing till the springs drie and the earth perish.

Crysus. I gather for the gods. 50

Diog. And I care not for those gods which want money.

Crysus. Thou art not a right[882] Cynick, that wilt give nothing.

Diog. Thou art not, that wilt begge any thing.

Crysus [crossing to Alexander]. Alexander! King Alexander! Give a poore Cynick a groat.[883] 55

Alex. It is not for a king to give a groat.

Crysus. Then give me a talent.[884]

Alex. It is not for a begger to aske a talent. Away! [Exit Crysus. Alexander crosses to the part of the stage opposite the tub of Diogenes where Apelles and Campaspe are.] 60 Apelles![885]

Apel. Here.

Alex. Now, gentlewoman, doth not your beautie put the painter to his trumpe?

Camp. Yes, my lord, seeing so disordered a countenance, hee feareth hee shall shadow a deformed counterfeite. 65

Alex. Would he could colour the life with the feature! And mee thinketh, Apelles, were you as cunning as report saith you are, you may paint flowres as well with sweet smels as fresh colours, observing in your mixture such things as should draw neere to their savours. 70

Apel. Your Majestie must know, it is no lesse hard to paint savours than vertues; colours can neither speake nor thinke.

Alex. Where doe you first begin when you draw any picture?

Apel. The proportion of the face in just compasse as I can.

Alex. I would begin with the eye, as a light to all the rest. 75

Apel. If you will paint, as you are a king, Your Majestie may beginne where you please; but as you would bee a painter, you must begin with the face.

Alex. Aurelius[886] would in one houre colour foure faces.

Apel. I marvaile in halfe an houre hee did not foure. 80

Alex. Why, is it so easie?

Apel. No; but he doth it so homely.

Alex. When will you finish Campaspe?

Apel. Never finish; for alwayes in absolute beauty there is somewhat above art. 85

Alex. Why should not I by labour be as cunning as Apelles?

Apel. God shield you should have cause to be so cunning[887] as Apelles!

Alex. Me thinketh foure colours are sufficient to shadow any countenance; and so it was in the time of Phydias.[888] 90

Apel. Then had men fewer fancies and women not so many favours.[889] For now, if the haire of her eyebrowes be blacke, yet must the haire of her head be yellow;[890] the attire of her head must bee different from the habit of her bodie, else would the picture seeme like the blazon of ancient armory,[891] not like the sweet delight of new-found amiablenesse.[892] For, as in garden 95 knots[893] diversitie of odours make a more sweete savour, or as in musique divers strings cause a more delicate consent,[894] so, in painting, the more colours, the better counterfeit,--observing black for a ground, and the rest for grace. 100

Alex. Lend me thy pensill, Apelles; I will paint, and thou shalt judge.

Apel. Here.

Alex. The coale[895] breakes.

Apel. You leane too hard. 105

Alex. Now it blackes not.

Apel. You leane too soft.

Alex. This is awrie.

Apel. Your eye goeth not with your hand.

Alex. Now it is worse. 110

Apel. Your hand goeth not with your minde.

Alex. Nay, if all be too hard or soft,--so many rules and regards that ones hand, ones eye, ones minde must all draw together,--I had rather bee setting of a battell than blotting of a boord.[896] But how have I done here? 115

Apel. Like a king.

Alex. I thinke so; but nothing more unlike a painter.[897] Well, Apelles, Campaspe is finished as I wish. Dismisse her, and bring presently her counterfeit after me.

Apel. I will. 120

Alex. [as he crosses the stage.] Now, Hephestion, doth not this matter cotton as I would?[898] Campaspe looketh pleasantly; libertie will encrease her beautie, and my love shall advance her honour.

Hep. I will not contrarie your Majestie; for time must weare out that love hath wrought, and reason weane what appetite nursed. 125 [Campaspe passes on her way to the farther door.]

Alex. How stately shee passeth by, yet how soberly, a sweete consent in her countenance, with a chaste disdaine, desire mingled with coynesse, and--I cannot tell how to terme it--a curst, yeelding modesty![899]

Hep. Let her passe. 130

Alex. So shee shall for the fairest on the earth!

Exeunt [Alexander and Hephestion at one side of the stage, Apelles at the other.]

Actus tertius. Scæna quarta.[900]

[Enter] PSYLLUS [and] MANES.

Psyllus. I shall be hanged for tarrying so long.

Manes. I pray God my master be not flowne before I come! [Enter Apelles.]

Psyllus. Away, Manes, my master doth come. [Exit Manes.]

Apel. Where have you beene all this while?

Psyllus. Nowhere but here. 5

Apel. Who was here sithens my comming?

Psyllus. Nobodie.

Apel. Ungracious wag, I perceive you have beene a loytering! Was Alexander nobodie?

Psyllus. He was a king, I meant no mean bodie. 10

Apel. I will cudgell your bodie for it, and then will I say it was no bodie, because it was no honest bodie. Away, in! Exit Psyllus. Unfortunate Apelles, and therefore unfortunate because Apelles! Hast thou by drawing her beautie brought to passe that thou canst scarce draw thine owne breath? And by so much the more hast thou increased thy care by how much the more hast 15 thou[901] shewed thy cunning? Was it not sufficient to behold the fire and warme thee, but with Satyrus thou must kisse the fire and burne thee? O Campaspe, Campaspe! Art must yeeld to nature, reason to appetite, wisdome to affection! Could Pigmalion entreate by prayer to have his ivory turned into flesh, and cannot 20 Apelles obtaine by plaints to have the picture of his love changed to life? Is painting so farre inferiour to carving? Or dost thou, Venus, more delight to bee hewed with chizels then shadowed with colours? What Pigmalion, or what Pyrgoteles, or what Lysippus is hee,[902] that ever made thy face so faire or spread thy fame 25 so farre as I? Unlesse, Venus, in this thou enviest mine art, that in colouring my sweet Campaspe I have left no place by cunning to make thee so amiable.[903] But, alas, shee is the paramour to a prince! Alexander, the monarch of the earth, hath both her body and affection. For what is it that kings cannot obtaine by prayers, 30 threats, and promises? Will not shee thinke it better to sit under a cloth of estate[904] like a queene than in a poore shop like a huswife, and esteeme it sweeter to be the concubine of the lord of the world than spouse to a painter in Athens? Yes, yes, Apelles, thou maist swimme against the streame with the crab, and feede 35 against the winde with the deere, and peck against the steele with the cockatrice:[905] starres are to be looked at, not reached at; princes to be yeelded unto, not contended with; Campaspe to be honoured, not obtained; to be painted, not possessed of thee. O faire face! O unhappy hand! And why didst thou drawe it--so 40 faire a face? O beautifull countenance, the expres image of Venus, but somwhat fresher, the only patterne of that eternitie which Jupiter dreaming, asleepe, could not conceive againe waking! Blush, Venus, for I am ashamed to ende thee! Now must I paint things unpossible for mine art but agreeable with my affections,--deepe 45 and hollow sighes, sad and melancholie thoughtes, woundes and slaughters of conceits, a life posting to death, a death galloping from life, a wavering constancie, an unsetled resolution, and what not, Apelles? And what but Apelles?[906] But as they that are shaken with a feaver are to be warmed with cloathes, not 50 groanes, and as he that melteth in a consumption is to be recured by colices,[907] not conceits, so the feeding canker of my care, the never-dying worme of my heart, is to be killed by counsell, not cries, by applying of remedies, not by replying of reasons. And sith in cases desperate there must be used medicines that are extreame, I will hazard that little life that is left, to 55 restore the greater part that is lost; and this shall be my first practise,--for wit must worke where authoritie is not,--as soone as Alexander hath viewed this portraiture, I will by devise give it a blemish, that by that meanes she may come againe to my shop; and then as good it were to utter my love and die with deniall as 60 conceale it and live in dispaire.

SONG BY APELLES.

Cupid and my Campaspe playd At cardes for kisses; Cupid payd. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 65 His mothers doves, and teeme of sparows; Looses them, too. Then, downe he throwes The corrall of his lippe, the rose Growing on's cheek,--but none knows how,-- With these, the cristall of his brow, 70 And then the dimple of his chinne; All these did my Campaspe winne. At last, hee set her both his eyes; Shee won, and Cupid blind did rise. O love! has shee done this to thee? 75 What shall, alas, become of mee? [Exit Apelles.]

Actus quartus. Scæna prima.[908]

[Enter] SOLINUS, PSYLLUS, [and] GRANICHUS.[909]

Sol. This is the place, the day, the time, that Diogenes hath appointed to flie.

Psyllus. I will not loose the flight of so faire a foule as Diogenes is though my master cudgell my no body as he threatned.

Gran. What, Psyllus, will the beast wag his wings to day? 5 [Enter Manes.]

Psyllus. Wee shall heare; for here commeth Manes. Manes, will it be?

Manes. Be? He were best be as cunning as a bee, or else shortly he will not bee at all.

Gran. How is hee furnished to flie? Hath he feathers? 10

Manes. Thou art an asse! Capons, geese, and owles, have feathers. He hath found Dedalus old waxen wings,[910] and hath beene peecing them this moneth, he is so broad in the shoulders. O, you shall see him cut the ayre even like a tortoys!

Sol. Me thinkes so wise a man should not bee so mad; his body 15 must needs be too heavie.

Manes. Why, hee hath eaten nothing this seven night but corke and feathers.

Psyllus [aside]. Touch him,[911] Manes.

Manes. Hee is so light that hee can scarce keepe him from flying 20 at midnight. Populus intrat.

Manes. See they begin to flocke, and, behold, my master bustels himselfe to flie. [They draw nearer the tub.]

Diog.[912] You wicked and bewitched Athenians, whose bodies make the earth to groane, and whose breathes infect the ayre with stench, come ye to see Diogenes flie? Diogenes commeth 25 to see you sinke. Yea,[913] call me dogge! So I am, for I long to gnaw the bons in your skins. Yee tearme me an hater of men! No, I am a hater of your manners. Your lives, dissolute, not fearing death, will prove your deaths desperat, not hoping for life. What do you else in Athens but sleepe in the day and 30 surfeit in the night,--backe-gods in the morning with pride, in the evening belly-gods with gluttony! You flatter kings, and call them gods. Speak truth of your selves and confesse you are divels! From the bee you have taken, not the honey, but the wax, to make your religion, framing it to the time, not to the truth. Your 35 filthy lust you colour under a courtly colour of love, injuries abroad under the title of policies at home; and secret malice creepeth under the name of publike justice. You have caused Alexander to drie up springs and plant vines, to sow rocket and weed endiff,[914] to sheare sheepe, and shrine[915] foxes. All conscience is sealed[916] at Athens: swearing commeth of a 40 hot mettle; lying of a quick wit; flattery of a flowing tongue; undecent talke of a merry disposition. All things are lawfull at Athens: either you think there are no gods, or I must think ye are no men. You build as though you should live for ever and surfeit as though you should die to morrowe. None teacheth true philosophie 45 but Aristotle, because hee was the kings schoole-master! O times! O men! O corruption in manners! Remember that greene grasse must turne to drie hay. When you sleepe, you are not sure to wake; and when you rise, not certaine to lie downe. Looke you never so 50 high, your heads must lie level with your feet. Thus have I flowne over[917] your disordered lives; and if you will not amend your manners, I will studie to flie further from you, that I may bee neerer to honestie.[918]

Sol. Thou ravest, Diogenes, for thy life is different from thy 55 words. Did not I see thee come out of a brothell house? Was it not a shame?

Diog. It was no shame to goe out, but a shame to goe in.

Gran. It were a good deede, Manes, to beate thy master.

Manes. You were as good eate my master. 60

One of the People. Hast thou made us all fooles, and wilt thou not flie?

Diog. I tell thee, unlesse thou be honest, I will flie.[919]

People. Dog, dog, take a bone!

Diog. Thy father need feare no dogs, but dogs thy father.[920] 65

People. We will tell Alexander that thou reprovest him behinde his back.

Diog. And I will tell him that you flatter him before his face.

People. Wee will cause all the boyes in the streete to hisse at thee.

Diog. Indeede, I thinke the Athenians have their children readie 70 for any vice, because they bee Athenians. [Exeunt Populus and Solinus.]

Manes. Why, master, meane you not to flie?

Diog. No, Manes, not without wings.

Manes. Everybody will account you a lyar.

Diog. No, I warrant you, for I will alwayes say the Athenians 75 are mischevous.

Psyllus. I care not; it was sport enough for mee to see these old huddles[921] hit home.

Gran. Nor I.

Psyllus. Come, let us goe; and hereafter when I meane to rayle 80 upon any body openly, it shall bee given out, I will flie. Exeunt.

Actus quartus. Scæna secunda.[922]

[Enter] CAMPASPE.[923]

Camp. sola. Campaspe, it is hard to judge whether thy choyce be more unwise or thy chance unfortunate. Doest thou preferre--but stay, utter not that in wordes which maketh thine eares to glow with thoughts. Tush, better thy tongue wagge than thy heart breake! Hath a painter crept further into thy minde than a 5 prince;--Apelles, than Alexander? Fond wench, the basenes of thy minde bewraies the meannesse of thy birth. But, alas, affection is a fire which kindleth as well[924] in the bramble as in the oake, and catcheth hold where it first lighteth, not where it may best burne. Larkes, that mount aloft in the ayre, build their neasts 10 below in the earth; and women that cast their eyes upon kings may place their hearts upon vassals. A needle will become thy fingers better than a lute, and a distaffe is fitter for thy hand than a scepter. Antes live safely till they have gotten wings, and juniper is not blowne up till it hath gotten an high top: the meane estate is without care as long as it continueth without pride. [Enter 15 Apelles.] But here commeth Apelles, in whom I would there were the like affection.

Apel. Gentlewoman, the misfortune I had with your picture will put you to some paines to sit againe to be painted. 20

Camp. It is small paines for mee to sit still, but infinite for you to draw still.

Apel. No, madame; to painte Venus was a pleasure, but to shadow the sweete face of Campaspe, it is a heaven!

Camp. If your tongue were made of the same flesh that your 25 heart is, your words would bee as your thoughts are; but, such a common thing it is amongst you to commend that oftentimes for fashion sake you call them beautifull whom you know blacke.

Apel. What might men doe to be beleeved?

Camp. Whet their tongue on their hearts. 30

Apel. So they doe, and speake as they thinke.

Camp. I would they did!

Apel. I would they did not!

Camp. Why, would you have them dissemble?

Apel. Not in love, but their love.[925] But will you give mee 35 leave to aske you a question without offence?

Camp. So that you will answere mee another without excuse.

Apel. Whom doe you love best in the world?

Camp. He that made me last in the world.

Apel. That was a god. 40

Camp. I had thought it had beene a man. But whom doe you honour most, Apelles?

Apel. The thing that is likest you, Campaspe.

Camp. My picture?

Apel. I dare not venture upon your person. But come, let us 45 go in: for Alexander will thinke it long till we returne. Exeunt.

Actus quartus. Scæna tertia.[926]

[Enter] CLYTUS [and] PARMENIO.

Clytus. We heare nothing of our embassage,--a colour[927] belike to bleare our eyes or tickle our eares or inflame our hearts. But what doth Alexander in the meane season but use for tantara,--sol, fa, la;[928] for his hard couch, downe beds; for his handfull of water, his standing-cup of wine?[929] 5

Par. Clytus, I mislike this new delicacie and pleasing peace, for what else do we see now than a kind of softnes in every mans minde: bees to make their hives in souldiers helmets;[930] our steeds furnished with footclothes of gold, insteede of sadles of steele; more time to be required to scowre the rust of our weapons than there 10 was wont to be in subduing the countries of our enemies. Sithence Alexander fell from his hard armour to his soft robes, behold the face of his court: youths that were wont to carry devises of victory in their shields engrave now posies of love in their ringes; they that were accustomed on trotting horses to charge the enemie with 15 a launce, now in easie coches ride up and down to court ladies; in steade of sword and target to hazard their lives, use pen and paper to paint their loves; yea, such a feare and faintnesse is growne in court that they wish rather to heare the blowing of a horne to hunt than the sound of a trumpet to fight. O Philip, wert thou alive to see this 20 alteration,--thy men turned to women, thy souldiers to lovers, gloves worne in velvet caps,[931] in stead of plumes in graven helmets,--thou wouldest either dye among them for sorrow or counfound[932] them for anger.

Clytus. Cease, Parmenio, least in speaking what becommeth thee 25 not, thou feele what liketh thee not: truth is never with out a scracht face; whose tongue although it cannot be cut out, yet must it be tied up.

Par. It grieveth me not a little for Hephestion, who thirsteth for honour, not ease; but such is his fortune and neernesse in 30 friendship to Alexander that hee must lay a pillow under his head when hee would put a target in his hand. But let us draw in, to see how well it becomes them to tread the measures in a daunce[933] that were wont to set the order for a march. Exeunt.

Actus quartus. Scæna quarta.[934]

[Enter] APELLES [and] CAMPASPE.

Apel. I have now, Campaspe, almost made an ende.

Camp. You told mee, Apelles, you would never end.

Apel. Never end my love, for it shal be[935] eternall.

Camp. That is, neither to have beginning nor ending.

Apel. You are disposed to mistake; I hope you do not mistrust. 5

Camp. What will you say, if Alexander perceive your love?

Apel. I will say it is no treason to love.

Camp. But how if hee will not suffer thee to see my person?

Apel. Then will I gaze continually on thy picture.

Camp. That will not feede thy heart. 10

Apel. Yet shall it fill mine eye. Besides, the sweet thoughts, the sure hopes, thy protested faith, wil cause me to embrace thy shadow continually in mine armes, of the which by strong imagination I will make a substance.

Camp. Wel, I must be gone. But this assure your selfe, that I had rather be in thy shop grinding colours than in Alexander's 15 court following higher fortunes. [As she crosses the stage[936]] Foolish wench, what hast thou done? That, alas, which cannot be undone; and therefore I feare me undone. But content is such a life; I care not for aboundance. O Apelles, thy love commeth from the heart but Alexander's from the mouth! The love of kings is 20 like the blowing of winds, which whistle sometimes gently among the leaves and straight waies turne the trees up by the rootes; or fire, which warmeth afarre off, and burneth neere hand; or the sea, which maketh men hoise their sailes in a flattering calme, and to cut their mastes in a rough storme. They place affection 25 by times, by policy, by appoyntment. If they frowne, who dares call them unconstant; if bewray secrets, who will tearme them untrue; if fall to other loves, who trembles not, if hee call them unfaithfull? In kings there can bee no love but to queenes; for as neere must they meete in majestie as they doe in affection. It 30 is requisite to stand aloofe from kings love, Jove, and lightening. Exit.

Apel.[937] Now, Apelles, gather thy wits together. Campaspe is no lesse wise then faire; thy selfe must be no lesse cunning then faithfull.[938] It is no small matter to be rivall with Alexander. 35

[Enter PAGE of ALEXANDER.]

Page. Apelles, you must come away quickly with the picture the king thinketh that now you have painted it, you play with it.

Apel. If I would play with pictures, I have enough at home.

Page. None, perhaps, you like so well.

Apel. It may be I have painted none so well. 40

Page. I have knowen many fairer faces.

Apel. And I many better boyes. Exeunt.

Actus quintus. Scæna prima.[939]

[Enter] SYLVIUS, PERIM, MILO, TRICO, [and] MANES. [DIOGENES in his tub.][940]

Syl. I have brought my sons, Diogenes, to be taught of thee.

Diog. What can thy sonnes do?

Syl. You shall see their qualities. Dance, sirha! Then Perim danceth. How like you this? Doth he well?

Diog. The better, the worser.[941] 5

Syl. The musicke very good.

Diog. The musitions very bad, who onely study to have their strings in tune, never framing their manners to order.

Syl. Now shall you see the other. Tumble, sirha! Milo tumbleth. How like you this? Why do you laugh? 10

Diog. To see a wagge that was borne to breake his neck by destinie to practise it by art.

Milo. This dogge will bite me; I will not be with him.

Diog. Feare not boy; dogges eate no thistles.

Perim. I marvell what dogge thou art, if thou be a dogge. 15

Diog. When I am hungry, a mastife; and when my belly is full, a spannell.

Syl. Dost thou beleeve[942] that there are any gods, that thou art so dogged?

Diog. I must needs beleeve there are gods, for I thinke thee an 20 enemie to them.

Syl. Why so?

Diog. Because thou hast taught one of thy sonnes to rule his legges and not to follow learning, the other to bend his bodie every way and his minde no way. 25

Perim. Thou doest nothing but snarle and barke, like a dogge.

Diog. It is the next[943] way to drive away a theefe.

Syl. Now shall you heare the third, who sings like a nightingale.

Diog. I care not; for I have a nightingale to sing[944] her selfe.

Syl. Sing, sirha! 30

TRYCO singeth.

SONG.[945]

What[946] bird so sings yet so dos wayle? O 'tis the ravish'd[947] nightingale. "Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," shee cryes; And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick song,[948] who is't now we heare? 35 None but the larke so shrill and cleare. How at heavens gats[949] she claps her wings, The morne not waking till shee sings! Heark, heark, with what a pretty throat Poore Robin Red-breast tunes his note! 40 Heark how the jolly cuckoes sing "Cuckoe," to welcome in the spring; "Cuckoe," to welcome in the spring.

Syl. Loe, Diogenes! I am sure thou canst not doe so much.

Diog. But there is never a thrush but can. 45

Syl. What hast thou taught Manes, thy man?

Diog. To be as unlike as may be thy sons.

Manes. He hath taught me to fast, lie hard, and run away.

Syl. How sayest thou, Perim, wilt thou bee with him?

Perim. I, so he will teach me first to runne away. 50

Diog. Thou needest not be taught, thy legges are so nimble.

Syl. How sayest thou, Milo, wilt thou be with him?

Diog. Nay, hold your peace; hee shall not.

Syl. Why?

Diog. There is not roome enough for him and me to tumble both in 55 one tub.

Syl. Well, Diogenes, I perceive my sonnes brooke not thy manners.

Diog. I thought no lesse, when they knew my vertues.

Syl. Farewell, Diogenes; thou neededst not have scraped rootes, 60 if thou wouldst have followed Alexander.

Diog. Nor thou have followed Alexander, if thou hadst scraped rootes.[950] Exeunt [all except Diogenes.]

Actus quintus. Scæna secunda.[951]

[Enter APELLES.[952]]

Apel. I feare mee, Apelles, that thine eyes have blabbed that which thy tongue durst not! What little regard hadst thou! Whilest Alexander viewed the counterfeit of Campaspe, thou stoodest gazing on her countenance. If he espie or but suspect, thou must needs twice perish,--with his hate and thine owne love. Thy pale lookes 5 when he blushed, thy sad countenance when he smiled, thy sighes when he questioned, may breed in him a jelousie, perchance a frenzie. O love! I never before knew what thou wert, and now hast thou made me that I know not what my selfe am! Onely this I know, that I must endure intolerable passions for unknowne pleasures. 10 Dispute not the cause, wretch, but yeeld to it; for better it is to melt with desire than wrastle with love. Cast thy selfe on thy carefull bed; be content to live unknown, and die unfound.[953] O Campaspe, I have painted thee in my heart! Painted? Nay, contrary to mine arte, imprinted; and that in such deepe characters that 15 nothing can rase it out, unlesse it rubbe my[954] heart out. Exit.

Actus quintus. Scæna tertia.[955]

[Enter] MILECTUS, PHRYGIUS, [and] LAIS.[956] [DIOGENES is in his tub.]

Mil. It shall goe hard but this peace shall bring us some pleasure.

Phry. Downe with armes, and up with legges! This is a world for the nonce![957]

Lais. Sweet youths, if you knew[958] what it were to save your sweet blood, you would not so foolishly go about to spend it. 5 What delight can there be in gashing, to make foule scarres in faire faces, and crooked maimes in streight legges, as though men, being borne goodly by nature, would of purpose become deformed by folly,--and all, forsooth for a new-found tearme, called valiant, a word which breedeth more quarrels than the sense can commendation? 10

Mil. It is true, Lais, a feather-bed hath no fellow. Good drinke makes good blood, and shall pelting[959] words spill it?

Phry. I meane to enjoy the world, and to draw out my life at the wire-drawers; not to curtall it off at the cutlers. 15

Lais. You may talke of warre, speake bigge, conquer worlds with great words; but stay at home, where in steade of alarums you shall have dances, for hot battailes with fierce men, gentle skirmishes with faire women. These pewter coates[960] can never sit so well as satten doublets. Beleeve me, you cannot conceive the 20 pleasure of peace unlesse you despise the rudenes of warre.

Mil. It is so. But see Diogenes prying over his tub! Diogenes what sayest thou to such a morsell? [Pointing to Lais.]

Diog. I say I would spit it out of my mouth, because it should not poyson my stomacke. 25

Phry. Thou speakest as thou art; it is noe meate for dogges.

Diog. I am a dogge, and philosophy rates[961] me from carrion.

Lais. Uncivil wretch, whose manners are answerable to thy calling, the time was thou wouldest have had my company, had it not beene, as thou saidst, too deare. 30

Diog. I remember there was a thing that I repented mee of, and now thou hast tolde it. Indeed, it was too deare of nothing,[962] and thou deare to no bodie.

Lais. Downe, villaine, or I will have thy head broken!

Mil. Will you couch?[963] 35

Phry. Avant, curre! Come, sweet Lays, let us goe to some place and possesse peace. But first let us sing; there is more pleasure in tuning of a voyce, than in a volly of shot. [A Song.]

Mil. Now let us make hast, least Alexander finde us here! Exeunt [all except Diogenes.]

Actus quintus. Scæna quarta.[964]

[Enter] ALEXANDER, HEPHESTION, [and] PAGE.[965] [DIOGENES is in his tub.]

Alex. Methinketh, Hephestion, you are more melancholy than you were accustomed; but I perceive it is all for Alexander. You can neither brooke this peace nor my pleasure. Bee of good cheare; though I winke, I sleepe not.

Hep. Melancholy I am not, nor well content; for, I know not how, 5 there is such a rust crept into my bones with this long ease that I feare I shall not scowre it out with infinite labours.

Alex. Yes, yes, if all the travailes of conquering the world will set either thy bodie or mine in tune, we will undertake them. But what thinke you of Apelles? Did yee ever see any so perplexed? He neither answered directly to any question, nor looked 10 stedfastly upon any thing. I hold my life the painter is in love.

Hep. It may be; for commonly we see it incident in artificers to be enamoured of their owne workes, as Archidamus of his wooden dove, Pygmalion of his ivorie image,[966] Arachne of her woven 15 swanne,[967]--especially painters, who playing with their owne conceits, now coveting[968] to draw a glancing eie, then a rolling, now a winking, still mending it, never ending it, till they be caught with it, and then, poore soules, they kisse the colours with their lips, with which before they were loth to taint their fingers. 20

Alex. I will find it out. Page, goe speedily for Apelles. Will him to come hither; and when you see us earnestly in talke, sodainly crie out, "Apelles shop is on fire!"

Page. It shall be done.

Alex. Forget not your lesson. [Exit Page.] 25

Hep. I marvell what your devise shal be.

Alex. The event shall prove.

Hep. I pittie the poore painter if he be in love.

Alex. Pitie him not, I pray thee. That severe gravity set aside, what doe you thinke of love? 30

Hep. As the Macedonians doe of their hearbe beet,--which looking yellow in the ground and blacke in the hand,--thinke it better seene than toucht.

Alex. But what doe you imagine it to be?

Hep. A word, by superstition thought a god, by use turned to an 35 humour, by selfe-will made a flattering madnesse.

Alex. You are too hard-hearted to thinke so of love. Let us goe to Diogenes. [They cross the stage.] Diogenes, thou mayst thinke it somewhat that Alexander commeth to thee againe so soone.

Diog. If you come to learne, you could not come soone enough; if 40 to laugh, you be come too soone.

Hep. It would better become thee to be more courteous and frame thy self to please.

Diog. And you better to bee lesse, if you durst displease.

Alex. What doest thou thinke of the time we have here? 45

Diog. That we have little and lose much.

Alex. If one be sicke, what wouldst thou have him doe?

Diog. Bee sure that hee make not his physician his heire.

Alex. If thou mightest have thy will, how much ground would content thee? 50

Diog. As much as you in the end must be contented withall.

Alex. What, a world?

Diog. No, the length of my bodie.

Alex. [aside]. Hephestion, shall I bee a little pleasant with him?

Hep. [aside]. You may; but hee will be very perverse with you. 55

Alex. [aside]. It skils not;[969] I cannot be angry with him. Diogenes, I pray thee what doest thou thinke of love?

Diog. A little worser than I can of hate.

Alex. And why?

Diog. Because it is better to hate the things which make to love 60 than to love the things which give occasion of hate.

Alex. Why, bee not women the best creatures in the world?

Diog. Next men and bees.

Alex. What doest thou dislike chiefly in a woman?

Diog. One thing. 65

Alex. What?

Diog. That she is a woman.

Alex. In mine opinion thou wert never borne of a woman, that thou thinkest so hardly of women. [Enter Apelles.] But now commeth Apelles, who I am sure is as farre from thy thoughts as thou 70 art from his cunning. Diogenes, I will have thy cabin[970] removed neerer to my court, because I will be a philosopher.

Diog. And when you have done so, I pray you remove your court further from my cabin, because I will not be a courtier.

Alex. But here commeth Apelles. Apelles, what peece of work 75 have you now in hand?

Apel. None in hand, if it like your Majestie; but I am devising a platforme[971] in my head.

Alex. I thinke your hand put it in your head. Is it nothing about Venus? 80

Apel. No, but something above[972] Venus. [The Page runs in.]

Page. Apelles, Apelles, looke aboute[972] you! Your shop is on fire!

Apel. [starting off]. Aye mee, if the picture of Campaspe be burnt, I am undone! 85

Alex. Stay, Apelles; no haste. It is your heart is on fire, not your shop; and if Campaspe hang there, I would shee were burnt. But have you the picture of Campaspe? Belike you love her well, that you care not though all be lost, so she be safe.

Apel. Not love her! But your Majestie knowes that painters in 90 their last workes are said to excell themselves; and in this I have so much pleased my selfe, that the shadow as much delighteth mee, being an artificer, as the substance doth others, that are amorous.

Alex. You lay your colours grosly.[973] Though I could not paint in your shop, I can spie into your excuse. Be not ashamed, Apelles; it is a gentlemans sport to be in love. [To the Page.] Call 95 hither Campaspe. [Exit Page.] Methinkes[974] I might have beene made privie to your affection: though my counsell had not bin necessary, yet my countenance might have beene thought requisite. But Apelles, forsooth, loveth under hand; yea, and under Alexanders nose, and--but I say no more! 100

Apel. Apelles loveth not so; but hee liveth to doe as Alexander will. [Re-enter Page with Campaspe.]

Alex. Campaspe, here is newes. Apelles is in love with you.

Camp. It pleaseth your Majestie to say so. 105

Alex. [aside]. Hephestion, I will trie her too.--Campaspe, for the good qualities I know in Apelles and the vertue I see in you, I am determined you shall enjoy one another. How say you, Campaspe, would you say, "I?"

Camp. Your hand-maid must obey if you command. 110

Alex. [aside]. Thinke you not, Hephestion, that she would faine be commanded.

Hep. [aside]. I am no thought-catcher, but I ghesse unhappily.[975]

Alex. I will not enforce marriage where I cannot compell love.

Camp. But your Majestie may move a question where you be 115 willing to have a match.

Alex. [aside]. Beleeve me, Hephestion, these parties are agreed; they would have mee both priest and witnesse.--Apelles, take Campaspe! Why move yee not? Campaspe, take Apelles! Will it not be? If you be ashamed one of the other, by my consent you 120 shall never come together. But dissemble not, Campaspe. Doe you love Apelles?

Camp. Pardon, my lord; I love Apelles.

Alex. Apelles, it were a shame for you, being loved so openly of so faire a virgin, to say the contrairie. Do you love Campaspe? 125

Apel. Onely Campaspe!

Alex. Two loving wormes, Hephestion! I perceive Alexander cannot subdue the affections of men, though he[976] conquer their countries. Love falleth, like a dew, as well upon the low grasse as upon the high cedar.[977] Sparkes have their heate, ants their gall, flies their spleene. Well, enjoy one another. I give her 130 thee frankly, Apelles. Thou shalt see that Alexander maketh but a toy of love and leadeth affection in fetters, using fancie as a foole to make him sport or a minstrell to make him merry. It is not the amorous glance of an eye can settle an idle thought in the heart. No, no, it is childrens game, a life for seamsters and 135 schollers; the one, pricking in clouts,[978] have nothing else to think on; the other, picking fancies out of books, have little else to marvaile at. Go, Apelles, take with you your Campaspe; Alexander is cloyed with looking on that which thou wondrest at.[979] 140

Apel. Thankes to your Majestie on bended knee: you have honoured Apelles.

Camp. Thankes with bowed heart: you have blessed Campaspe. Exeunt [Apelles and Campaspe].

Alex. Page, goe warne Clytus and Parmenio and the other lords to be in a readinesse; let the trumpet sound; strike up the drumme; and I will presently into Persia. How now, Hephestion, is 145 Alexander able to resist love as he list?

Hep. The conquering of Thebes was not so honourable as the subduing of these thoughts.

Alex. It were a shame Alexander should desire to command the 150 world, if he could not command himselfe. But come, let us goe. I will trie whether I can better beare my hand with my heart[980] than I could with mine eye. And, good Hephestion, when all the world is wonne and every country is thine and mine, either find me out another to subdue, or, of[981] my word I will fall in love. Exeunt. 155

FINIS

FOOTNOTES:

[767] Manly, the only editor of preceding texts, who attempts to place the scenes, prints here: "The audience-chamber of the palace. Clitus and Parmenio near the door. Timoclea and Campaspe are brought in later as prisoners. Alexander on the throne, attended by Hephestion." Do not lines 77-78 suggest that the scene takes place just outside the city walls, as Alexander returns from conquest; and that the characters enter one after another?

[768] Plutarch (Alexander) says Clitus was of "a churlish nature, prowde and arrogant." See IV. 315, 357-59. Plutarch mentions Parmenio (Alexander), IV. 354-56.

[769] Lyly softens Plutarch. See IV. 309-10.

[770] "Likewise that shee loseth her light (as the rest of the planets) by the brightnes of the Sun, when she approcheth neere. For borrowing wholly of him her light she doth shine." Holland, II. 9.

[771] Old French singulier, excellent. F.

[772] 'Staine' for excel. The sense is, "It is for turquoises to excel one another, not for diamonds, for among the latter there can be no comparison, since all are perfect."

[773] Lyly refers both to the Persian sun-worshippers and the saying of Pompey, "More worship the rising than the setting sun."

[774] All preceding texts read 'that which.'

[775] Odyssey, 11.

[776] Fear.

[777] Esteems.

[778] In all things he is that than.

[779] Mentioned in North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV. 345, 353, 380.

[780] If it like. See p. 327.

[781] Sic A. and B.; Bl. 'Chyeronte.'

[782] For the dramatic story of Timoclea and the original of this speech see North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV. 310-11.

[783] Worst possible.

[784] Bl. prints this as the name of the speaker.

[785] The market-place. M.

[786] Diogenes brought to Athens an attendant of this name, and dismissed him for the reasons given p. 296.

[787] Lyly refers blindly to the following: "Seeing a mouse running over a Room and considering with himself that it neither sought for a Bed, nor was affraid to be alone in the dark, nor desired any of our esteemed Dainties, he contrived a way to relieve his own Exigencies; being the first, as some think, that folded in the Mantle, because his necessity obliged him to sleep in it." Lives of Philosophers, VI., 402.

[788] The constant application of the epithet "Dog," to Diogenes is historically correct. When Alexander first went to see the philosopher, he introduced himself thus: "I am Alexander, surnamed the Great." To this Diogenes replied: "And I am Diogenes, surnamed the Dog." The Athenians raised a pillar of Parian marble, surmounted with a dog, to his memory.

[789] Currish fellow.

[790] Perfect.

[791] Conceits.

[792] Yesterday.

[793] Pun: surpassing, running by.

[794] Bl. prints Why then, this; F. thus.

[795] This Socratic method foreshadows Shakespeare's clowns and pages.

[796] 'Redes,' teaches.

[797] Pun: painting, substituting false for real.

[798] Bl. omits a.

[799] Picture.

[800] Countenances.

[801] Preceding texts read: And with the riotous; with printer's repetition.

[802] Terence, Eunuchus, 816.

[803] "All the old editions omit by; it appears in Dodsley, and a sixteenth-century hand inserted it in ink in a copy of the third edition, now in the Garrick collection." M.

[804] Hash.

[805] Diogenes.

[806] Referring to the bad effect on the voice of eating just before singing.

[807] Bl. first gave the songs. In Bl. 'Granicus' is below 'Song.'

[808] Besides.

[809] Rabbit.

[810] Alexander's Palace. M. The first part might be there, but the portion with Diogenes belongs in some public place through which the philosophers pass, returning from the palace.

[811] Bl. adds here the names of all who enter during the scene.

[812] From Plutarch's account of Aristotle (Alexander, IV., 304-306, 363), Lyly borrows only the idea that Alexander, suspecting Aristotle of treasonable designs, withdrew some of his friendliness.

[813] For his relations with Alexander and Clitus, see North's Plutarch, IV., 359-360.

[814] See Prologue, Endimion.

[815] A theoretical cause.

[816] The preceding seven lines roughly sum up the contrasting opinions of Plato and Aristotle on physical matters.

[817] 'The earth which as a masse swimmeth,' or 'The earth, which is a masse, swimming'?

[818] Nature that is a creative energy.

[819] C. knewe.

[820] Bl. omits of.

[821] Instruction.

[822] Alexander "plainly shewed the ill will he bare unto Aristotle, for that Callisthenes had bene brought up with him, being his kinsman, and the son of Hero, Aristotle's neece." For the charges against the philosopher Callisthenes, see North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV., 359-363.

[823] Bl. rulers, the quartos 'rules.'

[824] The following six questions and answers Lyly selects from nine in an interview of Alexander with ten wise men of India. North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV., 372-373.

[825] Alexander really spoke thus to Parmenio, but under very different circumstances. North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV., 332-333.

[826] Bl. thrall.

[827] Neither the quartos nor Bl. mark this entrance. In the Garrick copy of C. a contemporary of Lyly, W. Neile, noted it in ink. If Diogenes enters here, he goes to the farther side of the stage. The philosophers at once cross to him. Possibly he comes on at any time during the preceding dialogue, and going quietly to his part of the stage, waits till the philosophers see him and cross.

[828] See Lives of Philosophers, 1696, 401.

[829] "You pretend to be better than you are, for you do not at heart object to counterfeiting," or, possibly, "Since you do not gain money by counterfeiting, you live falsely, for you have no adequate means of support."

[830] Mad.

[831] Editors, following Bl., have made the second act begin here, but would Diogenes go out only to come on at once? Bl. printed 'Diogenes, Psyllus,' etc. To the stage direction M. adds 'And Citizens.'

[832] This line is Lyly's rather vague reference to the search of Diogenes for an honest man.

[833] Almost the words of Diogenes. See Lives of Philosophers, VI., 423.

[834] Yesterday.

[835] "Seeing once a little Boy drinking Water out of the Hollow of his Hand, he took his little Dish out of his Scrip, and threw it away, saying: This little boy hath out-done me in frugality."--Lives of Philosophers, VI., 412.

[836] Bl. omits I. The quartos give it.

[837] Preceding editions of.

[838] "In old musical treatises harmony is frequently termed a consent of instruments." F.

[839] Fiddle.

[840] Bl. ala. M. corrects.

[841] The Market-place. M.

[842] Preceding editions, Scæna Secunda.

[843] Bl. added 'Diogenes, Apelles.'

[844] See Epistle Dedicatorie, Euphues and his England.

[845] Ovid, Fasti, II. 305.

[846] Horses covered with defensive armor.

[847] Did this suggest:--

"Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now,--instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,-- He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute!"--Rich. III. I. 1. Do.

[848] "All precious stones in general are improved in brilliancy by being boiled in honey, Corsican honey more particularly."--Hist. of World, XXXVII. 74. Bohn.

[849] Mullet.

[850] Cornish for brill and turbot.

[851] "Deceived and intoxicated with unreasoning affection." F.

[852] Refute.

[853] During the preceding dialogue Diogenes has probably come in with his tub. Going to a remote part of the stage, he has put it down and crawled into it.

[854] For the original of this scene and for some of the speeches, see North's Plutarch, IV. 311-312, Nutt; see also Lives of Philosophers, VI. 413.

[855] Does Diogenes go out here, or crawl into his tub, to emerge when Crysus speaks to him, III. iii?

[856] The house of Apelles: first inside, then in front.

[857] Flatter.

[858] Homely face.

[859] If you give up in despair.

[860] Flatter.

[861] Longing, caused by her beauty, will take the color from his face.

[862] Bl. and later editors mark a new scene here. Stage direction in Bl. 'Psyllus, Manes.'

[863] As lean as Diogenes himself? Query: 'Dropped him'? The phrase suggests, "As like as if he had been spit out of his mouth" for "exact image." Kittredge.

[864] Manes mimics each sound.

[865] F. inserts to before one.

[866] Impudent replies.

[867] Oyez.

[868] Psyllus, when he comes to "flie," breaks off incredulous. Manes gives the word.

[869] Preceding editions, tertia. The Studio of Apelles.

[870]

"But her eyes! How could he see to do them?" M. of V. III. ii.

[871] Does Campaspe playfully close her eyes here?

[872] Pun: to paint and to hide. Campaspe is posing nude.

[873] Perfect.

[874] Lyly is thinking of the work of Arachne, who challenged Minerva to a trial of skill with the needle, and represented the amours of Jupiter named. Ovid., Meta. VI. 1.

[875] Preceding editions quarta. As M. notes, Apelles and Campaspe busy themselves with the picture at one side of the stage. A new scene is hardly necessary. Bl. 'Clytus, Parmenio, Alexander, Hephestion, Crysus, Diogenes, Apelles, Campaspe.'

[876] Remain undecided.

[877] The modern "long arm of the Law."

[878] Bl. omits not; A. gives it.

[879] North's Plutarch, Nutt, IV. 303-304, 351, 369-370.

[880] Bl. of; F. or of. M. corrects as in text.

[881] Diogenes enters before Crysus; or, more probably, has been on the stage in his tub since II. 1. See p. 301.

[882] In this and the next line, the speakers refer to the popular idea that true Cynics despised money.

[883] Fourpence. Often used for a very small sum.

[884] In Attica about $1000.

[885] As Alexander calls, he is supposed to enter the house of Apelles. See p. 306, note 875.

[886] Arellius? Mentioned, Holland, XXXV. 10. No painter Aurelius is known.

[887] Pun: technical knowledge and manual skill, and guileful. Apelles thinks of his need to conceal his passion.

[888] For the original of this see Holland, XXXV. 7.

[889] Looks, with something of the sense of attractions.

[890] At this time it was fashionable to dye the hair yellow in compliment to the natural color of the Queen's hair. F.

[891] A description simple because ancient armour lacked the varied markings of Elizabethan coats-of-arms.

[892] Loveliness.

[893] Ornamental arrangements of flower-beds.

[894] Harmony.

[895] The charcoal with which Alexander is drawing.

[896] The old pictures were painted on wooden panels.

[897] For the suggestion for this scene, see Holland, XXXV. 10.

[898] Go as I wish.

[899] "Modesty tempered in yielding by a contrasting emotion." F.

[900] Preceding editions quinta. Before the house of Apelles. Is a division needed? Apelles might remain when Alexander and Hephestion leave, and just before Psyllus cries "Away, Manes," see his page and move toward him. Bl. 'Psyllus, Manes, Apelles.'

[901] Bl. Hast thou hast. F. and M. strike out the first hast. Is it not more likely that the second is the mistake?

[902] "Alexander streightly forbad by express edict, that no man should draw his portrait in colours but Apelles the painter: that none should engrave his personage but Pyrgoteles, the graver: and last of all, that no workman should cast his image in brasse but Lysippus a founder," Holland, VII. 1.

[903] Apelles addresses here and in l. 44 a picture of Venus, which he really left unfinished. Holland, XXXV. 11.

[904] Canopy

[905] Basilisk, Holland, VIII. 21.

[906] "Do I say paint what not (what is not) Apelles? What are all these--sighs, wounds, etc., but Apelles himself?"

[907] Cullises, strengthening jellies.

[908] The market-place. M.

[909] Bl. adds 'Manes, Diogenes, Populus.'

[910] Ovid, Meta. VIII.

[911] Guy him.

[912] Diogenes has probably been in his tub since his dialogue with Crysus, p. 308.

[913] M. suggests 'Yee.' See next line.

[914] Sow the inedible and weed out the edible.

[915] Shut up as if precious.

[916] "In falconry sealed means blinded." Do.

[917] Railed at.

[918] For conduct of Diogenes similar to this scene see Lives of Philosophers, VI. 405.

[919] Diogenes refers to ll. 50-54, p. 315. Throughout Diogenes is very like a Cynic as described in Lucian's "Sale of the Philosophers."

[920] Diogenes, thinking of himself as older than most of the crowd and wiser than any, names himself, apparently, in 'thy father.' "Diogenes need fear no curs like you, but you need fear a rating from me."

[921] Decrepit persons.

[922] A room in the palace. M. Why not the house of Apelles, into which the painter and Campaspe go after the last lines of the scene?

[923] Bl. 'Campaspe, Apelles.'

[924] Bl., 'aswell.'

[925] "Apelles would have no dissembling in real love, but only in the simulated love he despises." F.

[926] The palace. M.

[927] Pretext.

[928] "For the sound of the war trumpet, the voice of the singer." F.

[929] A large and usually ornamental drinking cup, made especially for the dresser or sideboard. The chief guest at an entertainment or the presiding dignitary was served from it.

[930] An engraving in Alciati's Emblems, representing bees swarming into the face-guard of a helmet probably provided this simile. F.

[931] Gloves were worn in the hat for three purposes,--as the favor of a mistress, the memorial of a friend, and as a mark to challenge an enemy.

[932] Destroy.

[933] To dance in a slow and stately fashion.

[934] Studio of Apelles.

[935] Bl., one word.

[936] Preceding editions, following Bl., read 'Campaspe alone.' It is much more natural to suppose that while she is crossing the stage, Apelles lingers on one side, watching her. When she goes out, he speaks.

[937] Preceding editions, Actus quartus. Scæna quinta; Bl. 'Apelles, Page.'

[938] See note 61, p. 309.

[939] The market-place. M.

[940] Bl. puts 'Diogenes' before 'Sylvius.'

[941] For the originals of this and the first, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth of Diogenes's speeches which follow see Lives of Philosophers, VI. 406, 415, 417, 418, 424, 428, 431.

[942] Dost thou not?

[943] Readiest.

[944] Bl. omits to. F. and M. insert it. Query, 'sings'?

[945] Of course the Song falls into three stanzas, with divisions at ll. 35, 39.--Gen. Ed.

[946] These lines illustrate well how the memory of Shakespeare caught and held the best in the lines of others. Here, scattered through several lines, is the first line of the well-known song in Cymbeline:--

3 4 "None but the larke so shrill and cleare. 5 6 7 How at heavens gats she claps her wings, 8 The morne not waking till she sings! 1 2 Heark, heark, with what a pretty throat Poore Robin Red-breast tunes his note!"

[947] Not only enraptured, but with reference to the story of Philomela, Ovid, Meta. VI.

[948] Warbler.

[949]'Gate' as in Shakespeare? The 's' from 'she'?

[950] For the original of this see Lives of Philosophers, VI. 426.

[951] Studio of Apelles.

[952] Bl. and later editors, Apelles alone.

[953] "Be content to live with thy love unexpressed, and to die with it undiscovered."

[954] Quartos and Bl. thy. Corrected by Do.

[955] The market-place. M.

[956] Bl. adds 'Diogenes.'

[957] For the purpose.

[958] Bl. know.

[959] Contemptible.

[960] Steel cuirasses.

[961] In Kent rate is used for call away, off. F.

[962] If nothing were paid.

[963] Milectus threatens to strike Diogenes.

[964] The market-place. M.

[965] Bl. adds 'Diogenes, Apelles, Campaspe.'

[966] Ovid, Meta. X. 9.

[967] Earlier editions, his wooden swanne, borrowing the first two words from the line above. See note, p. 305.

[968] M. suggests 'covet.'

[969] A. 'skilleth.'

[970] In Lyly's time 'cabin' seems to have been used vaguely for any rude dwelling.

[971] A sketch for a picture, or the plan for a building. F.

[972] M., phrasing as in the text, says: "In Bl. these two words (each standing at the end of a line) are interchanged. F. prints as I do, but, as he has no note, I do not know whether he followed one of the older editions, or corrects by conjecture."

[973] Frame your excuses clumsily.

[974] Bl., two words.

[975] "But my surmise is mischievous."

[976] Bl. though conquer. F. added the 'he.'

[977] See Euphues and his England, Arber, 256.

[978] Patching.

[979] "What good reckoning Alexander made of him, he shewed by one notable argument; for having among his courtesans one named Campaspe, whom he fancied especially in regard as well of that affection of his as her incomparable beauty, he gave commandement to Apelles to draw her picture all naked; but perceiving Apelles at the same time to be wounded with the like dart of love as well as himself, he bestowed her on him most frankly. Some are of opinion that by the patterne of this Campaspe, Apelles made the picture of Venus Anadyomene." Holland, XXXV. 10. The name really was Pancaste.

[980] Alexander refers to the unfavorable comment of Apelles on his drawing, p. 310, l. 109.

[981] F. on.

THE EPILOGUE AT THE BLACKE FRIERS

WHERE the rain bow toucheth the tree, no caterpillars will hang on the leaves; where the gloworme creepeth in the night, no adder will goe in the day: wee hope in the eares where our travailes be lodged, no carping shall harbour in those tongues. Our exercises must be as your judgment is, resembling water, which is alwayes of 5 the same colour into what it runneth. In the Troyan horse lay couched souldiers with children;[982] and in heapes of many words we feare divers unfit among some allowable. But, as Demosthenes with often breathing up the hill, amended his stammering, so wee hope with sundrie labours against the haire[983] to correct our studies. If the tree be blasted that blossomes, the fault is in 10 the winde and not in the root; and if our pastimes bee misliked that have beene allowed, you must impute it to the malice of others and not our endevour. And so we rest in good case, if you rest well content.

FOOTNOTES:

[982] Knights.

[983] Against the grain. F.

The Epilogue at the Court

WE cannot tell whether wee are fallen among Diomedes[984] birdes or his horses,--the one received some men with sweet notes,[985] the other bit all men with sharpe teeth. But, as Homer's gods conveyed them into cloudes whom they would have kept from curses, and, as Venus, least Adonis should be pricked with the stings of 5 adders, covered his face with the wings of swans, so wee hope, being shielded with your Highnesse countenance, wee shall, though heare[986] the neighing, yet not feele the kicking of those jades, and receive, though no prayse--which we cannot deserve--yet a pardon, which in all humilitie we desire. As yet we cannot tell what we should tearme our labours, iron or bullion; only it 10 belongeth to your Majestie to make them fit either for the forge or the mynt, currant by the stampe or counterfeit by the anvill. For, as nothing is to be called white unlesse it had beene named white by the first creator,[987] so can there be nothing thought good in the opinion of others unlesse it be christened good by the 15 judgement of your selfe. For our selves, againe, we are like these torches of waxe, of which, being in your Highnesse hands, you may make doves or vultures, roses or nettles, laurell for a garland or ealder for a disgrace.[988]

FOOTNOTES:

[984] A king of Thrace who fed his horses with human flesh.

[985] "Birds called Diomedæ. Toothed they are, and they have eies as red and bright as the fire: otherwise their feathers be all white. Found they be in one place, innobled for the tombe and Temple of Diomedes, on the coast of Apulia. Their manner is to cry with open mouth uncessantly at any strangers that come aland, save only Grecians, upon whom they wil seem to fawne and make signs of love ... as descended from the race of Diomedes." Holland, X. 44.

[986] F. following Do. unnecessarily prints 'wee heare.'

[987] Bl. creature. F. first printed 'creator.'

[988] Disgrace attached to the elder because it was the tree on which Judas hanged himself. F.

George Peele

THE OLD WIVES' TALE

Edited with Critical Essay and Notes by F. B. Gummere, Ph.D., Professor in Haverford College.

CRITICAL ESSAY

=Life.=--George Peele, probably sprung from a Devonshire family, and the son of James Peele, clerk of Christ's Hospital, is known to have been in 1565 a free scholar of the grammar school connected with that foundation. He went to Oxford in 1571; studied at Broadgates Hall, now Pembroke College, and at Christ Church; took his B.A. in 1577, his M.A. in 1579, and went up to London about 1580. At Oxford he already had the name of poet, scholar, and dramatist. He was married, it would seem, as early as 1583, to a wife who brought him some property; this, however, soon vanished, and left the poet dependent upon his wits. Although the stories in the Jests are musty old tales, fastened upon Peele, it is unlikely that they settled on his name without a sense of fitness on the part of a public that had known his ways,--his hopeless lack of pence, his good nature and popularity, his shifts to beg, borrow, and cozen. With Greene, Nashe, Marlowe, and a few lesser lights, he belonged to that group of scholars who wrote plays, translations, occasional poems, pageants, and whatever else would find a market. Now and then, it is almost certain, he appeared as an actor. Of his dissolute course of life, its misery and squalour, there can be no doubt whatever; "driven as myself," says Greene, "to extreme shifts." As early as 1579 Peele had made trouble for his father; he lived in poverty; and the curtain falls upon an ignoble end. Dying before 1598, the poet barely saw his fortieth year.

=Plays assigned to Peele.=--The best plays of Peele are The Arraignment of Paris, published in 1584, and, in Fleay's opinion, played as early as 1581,--a "first encrease," Nashe calls it, written in smooth metres which doubtless had influence on Marlowe's own verse; The Old Wives' Tale, published 1595; and the saccharine David and Bethsabe, beloved of German critics. Edward I., with wofully corrupt text, is good only in parts; The Battle of Alcazar, published anonymously in 1594, is almost certainly Peele's, but does not help his reputation; while Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes is quite certainly not Peele's in any way. Fleay, Biographical Chronicle of the English Drama, II. 296, assigns it, along with Common Conditions and Appius and Virginia, to R. B. (Richard Bower?), whose initials appear on the title-page of the last-named play. Professor Kittredge, however, Journal of Germanic Philology, II. 8, suggests, as author of Sir Clyomon, Thomas Preston of Cambyses fame. By way of compensation for this loss, Fleay (work quoted, II. 155) attributes to Peele The Wisdome of Doctor Doddipoll, published in 1600; there is dialect in the play, but overdone, good blank verse, and an indifferent plot. The song, What Thing is Love, hardly makes foundation enough for the assumption that Peele wrote the play, even with the aid of an enchanter among the characters, and a metre like that of David and Bethsabe. Further, Fleay presents our author with Wily Beguiled, possibly, he thinks, a university play; but his proof is not convincing. Kirkman, in a catalogue of plays added to his edition of Tom Tiler and his Wife, 1661, credits George Peele not only with David and Bethsabe, but with Alphonsus, Emperor of Germany, while Will Shakespeare has the Arraignment of Paris. The Old Wives' Tale is set down as anonymous.

In regard to Peele's miscellaneous and occasional poetry there need be noted here only his clever use of blank verse in shorter poems, his charming lyrics, and those noble lines at the end of the Polyhymnia, beginning--

"His golden locks time hath to silver turn'd."

=Peele's Place in the Development of English Drama.=--Although we had a text of absolute authority and a minutely accurate life of the author, we should gain with all this lore no real stay for a study, a critical understanding of The Old Wives' Tale, regarded as an element in the making of English comedy. Peele and his play, along with any hints of sources and models that are to be heeded, and with whatever help may come from study of his other works, must be fused into a single fact and compared with those "environmental conditions" which influence all literary production. This will determine the equation between art and nature, between the centrifugal forces, which are always expressing themselves in terms of what is called genius or originality, and the centripetal forces of a great literary and popular development. It will determine the relation of Peele's comedy to the line of English comedies.

Such a critical process leaves one with two qualities in mind that seem to have had an initial force. They belong to Peele on contemporary testimony confirmed by a study of his works. Tom Nashe, more in eulogy than in discrimination, yet surely not without a dash of critical discernment, calls Peele "the chief supporter of pleasance now living, the atlas of poetry, and primus verborum artifex...."[989]

Nashe undoubtedly flatters, but another of the "college," Greene, in that death-bed appeal to his brother playwrights, was in no mood for flattery; and it is probably sincere, even if mistaken, praise when he calls Peele "in some things rarer, in nothing inferior," to Marlowe, and to that "young juvenall" who may be Nashe or Lodge. In what things Peele was "rarer," Greene fails to say, but a study of The Arraignment of Paris, of David and Bethsabe, even of portions of Edward I., and of the Battle of Alcazar, supports the reputation of Peele as an artist in words, and in prose as "well-languaged"; while in The Old Wives' Tale there greets the critic, not too openly, it is true, but unmistakably, the quality of humour. Moreover, there are the Jests which, apocryphal as they doubtless are, and sorry stuff by any reckoning, nevertheless show that to people of his day Peele was counted a merry fellow, a humourist in our sense of the word.[990] Perhaps Shakespeare's jests would seem as stale and flat if we had the anecdotes that passed current among his successors at the playhouse. In any case, George had a sense of humour which found utterance in this Old Wives' Tale; it is not the classical humour of Roister Doister, not the hearty but clumsy mirth of Gammer Gurton, but rather a hint of the extravagant and romantic which turns upon itself with audible merriment at its own pretences, a hint, not of farce or of wit merely, but of genuine humour, something not to be found in Greene's lighter work,[991] or in Lyly's Mother Bombie, or in any of those earlier plays that did fealty to the comic muse. Such, then, is the contemporary formula for Peele as a power in the making of English drama: "primus verborum artifex," and "chief supporter of pleasance." He was an artist in words, and he had the gift of humour.

As regards this artistry in words, it is well known that the conditions of English life, the vigour of speech as quickened by intercourse in the street, the market-place, the exchange, where a spoken word even in traffic and commerce still counted better than a written word, dialogue and conversation better than oratory, and the conditions of the stage itself, with its slender resources of scenery and its confident appeal to the imagination, all helped to push this pomp and mastery of phrase into the forefront of an Elizabethan playwright's qualifications. Probably the spectator at a play felt something of the interest which was then so rife in the world of books and learning,--the interest in words as words, in the course of a sentence as indicating more or less triumph over a still untrained tongue. Nietzsche is extravagant but suggestive in certain remarks that bear upon this verbal artistry in the drama. Speaking of Nature and Art,[992] he insists that the Greeks taught men to like pompous dramatic verse and an unnatural eloquence in those tragic situations where mere nature is either stammering or silent. The Italians went further and taught us to endure, in the opera, something still more artificial and unnatural--a passion which not only declaims, but sings. Tragic eloquence, sundered from nature, feeds that pride which "loves art as the expression of a high heroic unnaturalness and conventionality." "The Athenian," Nietzsche goes on to say with cheerful heresy, "went into the theatre not to be roused by pity and terror, but to listen to fine speeches." One is inclined to think that this desire for fine speeches had a large share in the motive which sent an Elizabethan to the play. Certainly the drama responded to this demand more quickly than to any demand for coherence of plot and delicacy of characterization. Who led in this movement? Most critics brush aside all rivals from the path of Marlowe and credit him alone with the "mighty line," the pomp of diction, the sweep of word and figure, which brought the drama from those puerilities of phrase and manner up to its noble estate. This is true in the sense that Marlowe was infinitely greater as a poet and a tragedian than either Greene or Peele. But as verborum artifex it is probable that Marlowe has had considerable credit which belongs to the others, particularly Peele; and the testimony of Nashe and Greene, who knew the craft, must not be rejected so utterly. Campbell, it is true, praised Peele as "the oldest genuine dramatic poet of our language"; but Symonds, and with him are such scholars as Mr. A. W. Ward, asserts that Peele "discovered no new vein." Symonds is inclined to look on Greene as herald[993] and Marlowe as founder; Peele is a pleasant but unimportant maker of plays and verse. Greene, he thinks, began the school of gentleman and scholars who wrote for the stage at a time when rhyming plays were in vogue; but none of those which Greene wrote has come down to our day. Marlowe now comes imperiously upon the scene, forces his blank verse into favour, and is at last reluctantly admitted by Greene and the others into their "college." So runs the theory of Symonds. Quite opposed to this view of the case is Mr. Fleay, who declares that Marlowe followed George Peele in the article of "flowing blank verse."[994] There can be no question, moreover, that certain critics have exalted Greene too high and put Peele too low. Peele had quite as much as Greene to do with the refining and energizing of English dramatic diction, a process aptly described by Thomas Heywood in his Apology for Actors:[995] "Our English tongue ... is now by this secondary meanes of playing continually refined, every writer striving in himselfe to adde a new florish unto it." Plots remained clumsy, crude; but what change in the diction of plays! In Appius and Virginia there is still puerile diction and jog-trot metre,--

"They framèd also after this, out of his tender side, A piece of much formosity, with him for to abide."

From this to blank verse and compressed or energetic diction, as (Jeronimo),--

"My knee sings thanks unto your Highness bounty,"--

is a progress involving vast reformings, and some deformings,[996] in diction and in metre, of such sweep that Elizabethans put these qualities first when they went about to judge a play. "Your nine comœdies," writes Harvey to Spenser, come nearer to Ariosto's, "eyther for the finenesse of plausible Elocution, or the rareness of Poetical Invention," than the Faery Queene to the Orlando Furioso. In this ennobling of diction, Peele may not have led the column of playwrights, but he was certainly in the van. His achievement must not be dashed by a comparison with Shakespeare, who covered up absurdities of plot--as in the Merchant of Venice--by brilliant characterization, where this earlier group depended upon the art of words.[997] For the related art of brave metres, of a "flowing blank verse" in plays, we have no space to argue upon the claims of leadership. Enough is done for the matter if one remembers that Peele, who wrote admirable blank verse before Marlowe was out of his teens, had nothing to learn from the greater poet about the management of this metre in and for itself.[998] Certainly he got more music out of the pentameter than any earlier dramatist had done; witness such a movement as,--

"What sign is rainy and what star is fair,"

or,--

"And water running from the silver spring."

=The Old Wives' Tale, an Innovation in Comedy.=--It may be conceded that Peele "discovered no new vein" in diction and in metre, although his work in each was of a high order, not far removed from leadership. Different is the case when one considers his claims for innovation in comedy. He was the first to blend romantic drama with a realism which turns romance back upon itself, and produces the comedy of subconscious humour. The tragedies, and even the miracle plays, while extravagant in form, had not been altogether unnatural in action. The supernatural in that age was not unnatural. The unnatural was mainly confined to the diction. Gradually, as every one knows, the romantic element, in a wide sense, got upper hand and ruled the English drama. In The Old Wives' Tale this romantic spirit comes in, not as a new element, but as a new kind of "art" grafted upon the "nature" of the rough and comic stock; and to the reader's surprise draws away all unnaturalness from the dialogue, which is now plain, natural, commonplace.[999] Realism in diction was no new thing; romance in plot was not an innovation; it was the clash, the interplay, the subjective element, the appeal to something more than a literal understanding of what is said and done, a new appeal to a deeper sense of humour--here lay the new vein discovered by George Peele. The romantic drama, we repeat, was known; witness that little group of "folk-lore romances," as Mr. Fleay calls them, Common Conditions, Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes, and Appius and Virginia; the two former are full of adventures, of amorous knights and wandering ladies, a Forest of Strange Marvels, an Isle of Strange Marshes, what not. In all of them, however, the romance is presented in unnatural diction, to suit such unnatural doings, and justifies those bitter words of the Second and Third Blast of Retrait from Plaies and Theaters,[1000] that "the notablest lier is become the best Poet ... for the strangest Comedie brings greatest delectation ... faining countries neuer heard of, monsters and prodigious creatures that are not...." A milder romantic drama, but without the humour which we mean, is Greene's Orlando Furioso. The other plays, however, have no humour at all except the traditional humour of the Vice; and of the three representatives, Conditions, who finally turns pirate, is certainly a far merrier person than Haphazard in Appius or Subtle Shift in Sir Clyomon. There is realistic setting in Common Conditions, with some lively dialogue, and a distinctly catching song and chorus[1001] of tinkers, at the opening of the play. It is "business" here, however, not that dramatic irony, springing from contrast of romantic plot and realistic diction, which makes a sufficiently timid beginning in The Old Wives' Tale, and grows so insistent in The Knight of the Burning Pestle. Moreover, Peele's realistic work shows the control and consciousness of a higher art. There are no peasants like Hodge in Gammer Gurton, Corin in Sir Clyomon, and Hob and Lob in Cambyses.[1002] There is an outburst or two of yokel wit in Peele's play; but there is no breaking of heads, no chance for the clown to sing a song while drunk, as Hance does in the interlude of Like Wil to Like. These signs of a subtler conception of his art should be placed to Peele's credit; for while an obvious dialect marks Hodge and Corin and the rest, Clunch and Madge speak a plain English, reminding one irresistibly of the milk-woman's talk with Piscator: it smacks of cottage and field and hedge-rows and, as Nashe would say, has "old King Harrie sinceritie." There is a difference as between the exaggerated "hayseed" of a comic paper and the finer drawing in one of Hardy's peasants. Exaggeration would spoil the sense of contrast between honest Madge and the high pretences of the plot. In Huanebango there is girding not only at Harvey, but at the romance hero in general; this big-mouthed, impossible fellow, with Corebus as a foil, foreshadows, however dimly, the far more clever presentation of an English Don Quixote in the person of Ralph.

A second element of humour in this realistic treatment of romance is the use of an induction, or rather of a combination of the induction and the play within the play, as a means of expressing dramatic irony. Although the induction springs from the prologue, and although the opening of The Old Wives' Tale is technically an induction, like many another of the time, it has to our thinking a distinctly new vein. What Schwab[1003] calls the first example of the use of an induction--in The Rare Triumphs of Love and Fortune--makes both induction and play connected parts of a whole. It is a dramatic device, wholly objective in character, external, with no demand upon the sense of contrast. Different, but hardly a new idea,[1004] is the induction as employed by Greene in Alphonsus and James IV.; here is a return to the old notion of the prologue, a justifying of the playwright's way. Will Summer, the pet jester,[1005] who ushers in Nashe's play, calls himself outright a kind of chorus. In the old Taming of a Shrew, printed in 1594, Sly, while only a casual commentator upon the play, is entirely outside of the main action, which, as Schwab points out, thus becomes an actual play within the play. Still, even in these cases, the contrast is objective and direct. The induction is a clever device to heighten interest in the play. Before, it had served the playwright as an expression of his purpose in the main drama; later, as with Ben Jonson, it voiced his critical opinions. Whether objective or subjective, however, the contrast between play and induction is direct. Quite different is that induction, which Schwab rightly calls remarkable, in The Knight of the Burning Pestle; and different, too, is that earlier attempt, which Schwab unaccountably fails to mention, in The Old Wives' Tale. These both appeal to a sense of humour awakened by the interplay of theme and treatment, of character and situation. In Peele's play this involution of epic, drama, and comment--a seeming confusion which has distressed many of the critics--really heightens the dramatic power of the piece. The induction is double. First come a bit of romance, with the lost wanderers in the wood, and a realistic foil in their own dialogue--by no means the "heavy prose" of Collier's censure. Secondly comes outright realism with Clunch, Madge, the bread and cheese, and the old joke about bedfellows, cleverly followed by Madge's abrupt raid upon romantic ground. She is well started, but stumbling, when the other actors break in; and the inner play, not without some confusion and mystification, runs its course. Perhaps the sense of huddling, abruptness, confusion, is intentional as part of an old wives' tale indeed; perhaps, again, this must be laid to the charge of Peele's carelessness in "plotting plaies." Be that as it may be, the interplay of these elements makes a new kind of comedy; and the humour of this play, crude and tentative as it seems when compared with the humour of Uncle Toby[1006] and of those lesser lights that revolve in the orbit of the Quixotic contrast, differs from earlier essays of the sort in that it is not a separate element of fun, but rather something which exists in solution with the comedy itself. The Old Wives' Tale lies midway between the utter lack of coherence in Nashe's play and the subtlety of Beaumont and Fletcher. Will Summer is often irrelevant and tiresome; the main action, on which he comments, is now pathetic, now farcical, now merely spectacular; but in our play the thread of romance runs throughout unbroken and keeps the piece in a sort of unity, while the comment, whether direct or hinted, has a vastly finer vein of irony. The romantic side of folk-lore has its due withal, as in the test of fidelity at the end between Eumenides and Jack, with the proposed division of Delia--a casus always acceptable to such an audience, and here of acute though subordinate interest. Moreover, Peele has a kind of reticence and control in his art; he suggests in a whisper what Will Summer would have roared into commonplace and horse-play.

=The Background of Folk-Lore.=--Finally, the very Old Wives' Tale itself, with its background of folk-lore, that tryst of ancient splendour with modern poverty and ignorance on the territory of a forgotten faith, is a thing of quietly humorous contrasts. Several elements are to be considered in the charming little medley which Peele has made from the folk-lore of his day--"that curious mélange of nursery tales," as Mr. Joseph Jacobs calls it. The enchanter and his spells, the stolen daughter and her brothers' quest, make a familiar central group. Perhaps Madge set out to tell the story of Childe Rowland, familiar to Elizabethans,[1007] although Jack the Giant Killer has his claims. The fee-fa-fum, as every one knows, occurs also in Shakespeare's Lear. The help of the White Bear--a transformation, like the saws and prophecies, sufficiently familiar in these tales--is similar to that of Merlin in Childe Rowland; but the ghost of Jack reminds one of the other story. Mr. Jacobs quotes Kennedy that in a parallel Irish tale "Jack the servant is the spirit of the buried man." One has only to make this substitution, and the vicarious gratitude of the Giant Killer[1008] is better explained. Perhaps, too, Peele has borrowed some of his thunder and lightning, as well as Huanebango's fee-fa-fum, from the giants; and the disenchantment at the hands of an invisible hero may belong, in part, to this tale. Two other folk-tales may be named--The Well of the World's End, mentioned, if a slight emendation be allowed, in The Complaynt of Scotland, and The Three Heads of the Well--as known, in some form, to Peele, and used directly in the story of the two daughters. The familiar theme of the so-called "death index"[1009] is touched but slightly; and perhaps it is unnecessary to go to the Red Ettin for a parallel to Huanebango and Corebus, who respectively refuse and give a piece of cake to the helpful old man. The theme is common in folk-lore. It is interesting to note that Beaumont and Fletcher show a liking for folk-tales, as well as for traditional songs and ballads, in that play, which by its induction and general spirit most closely resembles this Old Wives' Tale. More dignified sources were long ago pointed out by Warton, who remarked that "the names of some of the characters ... are taken from the Orlando Furioso." Meroe, in Apuleius, was invoked. But it seems clear enough that English folk-lore must be the mainstay of critics who think all is done for a work of literature when they have found out every possible and impossible source for plot, sideplot, and allusion.

=Literary Estimate.=--The marvel, after all, is not that these materials are huddled and confused in the combination; the confusion is part of the artistic process, and if the figures move across the stage without firm connection one with the other, that, too, is done after the manner of the old tale. We are on romantic ground, and are to see by glimpses. Here is no comedy of incident, in the usual meaning of the term, no comedy of intrigue or of manners. It is rather a comedy of comedies, a saucy challenge of romance, where art turns, however timidly, upon itself. Perhaps Peele wrote this play, as Dryden wrote All for Love, to please himself. Unquestionably, until Mr. Bullen made a plea for mercy, The Old Wives' Tale had been shamefully treated. Collier[1010] calls it "nothing but a beldam's story, with little to recommend it but heavy prose and not much lighter blank verse," a most inadequate summary from any point of view. The play, he thinks, has "a disgusting quantity of trash and absurdity." Dyce, while regarding Peele's "superiority to Greene" as "unquestionable," is not enthusiastic about The Old Wives' Tale. Mr. Ward speaks[1011] of "the labyrinthine intricacy of the main scenes," knows not whether to call it farce or interlude, and would pass it by save for the suggestion of Comus. But Mr. Bullen very properly objects to this unfair comparison. Symonds, to be sure, uses it even more unfairly. The Old Wives' Tale, he makes bold to say, is the sow's ear to Milton's silk purse.[1012] With an unusual blindness to literary perspective, Symonds goes on to judge this flickering little candle of romance, folk-lore, and half-roguish, half-ironical suggestion, by the sun-blaze of Milton's high seriousness and full poetic splendours. Peele, it seems, does not "lift his subject into the heavens of poetry.... The wizard is a common conjurer. The spirit is a vulgar village ghost." Why not, pray? What should they be for the purposes of this old wives' tale? What would be left, say, of Chaucer's charming little story, that "folye, as of a fox, or of a cok and hen," if one were to pulverize it with such critical tools? Peele is not trying to raise comedy into the heavens; he left that for his betters; and the ineffectual Delia is a long remove from Hermia and Helena in the "wood near Athens." What Peele, George Peele of the dingy jests, probably tried to do, and what he surely succeeded in doing, was to bring a new and more subtle strain of humour into the drama. Itur in antiquam silvam. Realism left shabby and squalid things, alehouse wit, and laid hold of a sweeter life. Reckless, good-natured scholar, George fairly followed the call which haunted so many academic outcasts, the call which Marlowe and Greene and Dekker answered with those sweet songs of country life, and which led Peele to the making of this play. He wove romance and realism into a fabric that may well show a coarse pattern and often very clumsy workmanship, but, on the whole, it is a pleasing pattern and a new. Moreover, it is all made of sound English stuff. The tales he used for his main drama were familiar to English ears; the persons of his framework play were kindly folk of any English village, and the air of it all is as fresh and wholesome as an English summer morning.

=Sources, Title, Text.=--The sources of the play, so far as one may speak of sources, are indicated in general above, and in particular by notes to the following text. The plural form of the title ought probably to be singular, in spite of common usage, the gloss ealdra cwéna spel (Wright, Voc.), and 1 Timothy iv, 7; Mr. Fleay, perhaps as a concession to Madge, prints Old Wifes' Tale (Biog. Chron. Eng. Drama, II. 154).[1013] He puts the date of composition "clearly 1590," on the theory that Harvey--Huanebango--is here satirized by Peele as a consequence of Harvey's attack upon Lyly in 1589,--circulated then in manuscript though not printed until 1593. Lämmerhirt[1014] argues, but not conclusively, that the play was written before 1588,--partly because of the allusions to Harvey, and partly because style and form point to an early period in the author's development. Until a surer date can be established, however, 1590 will serve as the time of composition for this play. The Old Wives' Tale, says Dyce, "had sunk into complete oblivion, till Steevens ... communicated to Reed the account of it which appeared in the Biographia Dramatica." In 1783 Steevens writes to Warton: "All I have learned in relation to the original from which the idea of Milton's Comus might be borrowed, I communicated to Mr. Reed.... Only a single copy of his [sic] Old Wives' Tale has hitherto appeared, and even that is at present out of my reach...."[1015] As to the rhythmic structure, E. Penner notes[1016] that of 964 lines of this play 192 are five-stress or ordinary heroic verse, 7 are hexameters, and 100 short verses. The rest is prose.

The best edition is, of course, that of Bullen, in 3 vols., 1888-[B]; but there were excellent editions by Dyce, one in 1828 ff., and another in 1861-[Dy.]. The present text of The Old Wives' Tale is from the 1595 quarto in the British Museum; the title-page is, with the exception of the vignettes, a fair representation of the original.

F. B. GUMMERE.

FOOTNOTES:

[989] "To the Gentlemen Students of both Universities," prefixed to Greene's Menaphon, a well-known passage. Little, if anything, can be made of Meres when (Haslewood, II., 153) he couples Peele now with Ariosto, now, as tragical poet, with Apollodorus Tarsensis. He does not name Peele among the writers of comedy. Later, in Have with You to Saffron Walden (Grosart, III. 196), Nashe, with no mention of Peele, concedes to Greene mastery, above all the craft, in "plotting of plaies." This dramatic art of words, by the way, must not be confused with Euphuistic feats. Greene, Nashe, even Harvey, turned with Sidney against mere "playing with words and idle similies," and Peele is anything but a follower of Guevara.

[990] Merrie conceited Jests of George Peele, Gentleman, sometimes a Student in Oxford Wherein is shewed the course of his life, how he lived: a man very well knowne in the Citie of London and elsewhere.... There was an edition in 1607, hardly ten years after Peele's death.

[991] The Looking Glasse for London and England has some boisterous comedy, but no humour. In George-a-Greene, good play that it is, the ballad material is taken quite seriously. In Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay there is exquisite idyllic work, a dash of passable, though quite traditional, comedy, but no trace of the peculiar element, presently to be described as the dominant note of treatment in The Old Wives' Tale.

[992] Fröhliche Wissenschaft, p. 109 f. So in his Geburt der Tragödie, p. 89, speaking of the prologue as used by Euripides, which told in advance the action of the play, Nietzsche asserts that the Athenians were less interested in the plot than in the pathos of situations and the rhetoric of the players.

[993] "The romantic play, the English Farsa, may be called in a great measure his discovery." Shakespeare's Predecessors, p. 580.

[994] "A matter in which he certainly anticipated Marlowe," Biog. Chron. II. 151.

[995] Ed. Shakespeare Society, 1841, p. 52.

[996] Peele is not of the extreme group whose feats in diction remind one of what Dr. Johnson said about the metaphysical poets, that "their wish was only to say what they hoped had never been said before."

[997] Gosson, in a well-known passage, puts brave language first among dramatic attractions: "sweetness of words, fitness of epithets, with metaphors, allegories...."

[998] Lämmerhirt counts nearly 84 per cent of the verses in the Arraignment of Paris as rhymed; David and Bethsabe has less than 7 per cent, and The Battle of Alcazar barely 3 per cent.

[999] The diction of The Old Wives' Tale differs from Lyly's comic prose much as Nashe's style in his pamphlets differs from the periods of Lyly's Euphues.

[1000] Ed. W. C. Hazlitt, Roxburgh Library, 1869, p. 145.

[1001] See the song in Appius, "Hope so and hap so."--In Misogonus, the Vice appears as a domestic fool.

[1002] Compare the French and broken English in Three Lords and Three Ladies of London, the dialect of Boban the Scot in Greene's James IV., and the inevitable Welshman.

[1003] Das Schauspiel im Schauspiel, Wien and Leipzig, 1896.

[1004] "A new motiv," says Schwab. Fleay (work quoted, I. 266) thinks The Old Wives' Tale fairly parodies the induction in James IV.

[1005] See a similar bit of horse-play in Wily Beguiled.

[1006] The delicate irony of later triflings with romance--as in Wieland's Oberon--is, of course, quite out of the question.

[1007] See English Fairy Tales, J. Jacobs, edition of 1898, pp. 243, 245. A monograph could be written on the folk-lore of this play, where, it is to be conjectured, Peele has followed no single tale, but has combined parts of separate stories, and flung in bits of rhyme and fragments of superstition, as fancy bade him.

[1008] English Fairy Tales, p. 104. This theme of the Thankful Dead is extremely common. It is found in an old English romance, Sir Amadace, and has been treated by Max Hippe, in Herrig's Archiv, Vol. LXXXI, p. 141.

[1009] Jacobs, English Fairy Tales, Notes, p. 252. See also Frazer's Golden Bough.

[1010] Annals of Stage, etc., III. 197.

[1011] Eng. Dram. Lit. I. 372.

[1012] Shakespeare's Predecessors, p. 563 ff. Mr. Jacobs thinks that both poets went to folk-lore for their materials. Childe Rowland is the probable source.

[1013] It is entered on the Stationers' Registers to Raphe Hancock, April 16, 1595, the owlde wifes tale. Cf. "an olde wives tale," Greene, Groatsw. (Grosart XII. 119).--Gen. Ed.

[1014] G. P. Untersuchungen, etc., Rostock, 1862, pp. 62 ff.

[1015] Biogr. Mem. of the late Jos. Warton, DD., London, 1806, p. 398.

[1016] Metrische Untersuchungen zu George Peele, in the Archiv fur das Studium d. neueren Spracben, etc. (1890), LXXXV. 279.

[Decoration]

THE

Old Wiues Tale.

A pleasant conceited Comedie played by the Queenes Maiesties players

Written by G. P.

VIGNETTE

Printed at London by Iohn Danter, and are to be sold by Raph Hancocke, and _Iohn Hardie_, 1595.

[The Persons of the Play[1017]

SACRAPANT. First Brother, named CALYPHA. Second Brother, named THELEA. EUMENIDES. ERESTUS. LAMPRISCUS. HUANEBANGO. COREBUS. WIGGEN. Churchwarden. Sexton. Ghost of JACK. Friar, Harvest-men, Furies, Fiddlers, etc. DELIA, sister to CALYPHA and THELEA. VENELIA, betrothed to ERESTUS. ZANTIPPA, } daughters to LAMPRISCUS. CELANTA, } Hostess. ANTIC. FROLIC. FANTASTIC. CLUNCH, a smith. MADGE, his wife.]

FOOTNOTES:

[1017] Not in Q.; inserted by Dy. On the history of the characters see Appendix A.

The Old Wives Tale.

Enter ANTICKE, FROLICKE, and FANTASTICKE.

ANTICKE.

HOW nowe fellowe Franticke,[1018] what, all a mort?[1019] Doth this sadnes become thy madnes? What though wee have lost our way in the woodes, yet never hang the head, as though thou hadst no hope to live till to morrow: for Fantasticke and I will warrant thy life to night for twenty in the hundred. 5

Frolicke. Anticke and Fantasticke, as I am frollicke franion,[1020] never in all my life was I so dead slaine. What? to loose our way in the woode, without either fire or candle so uncomfortable? O caelum! O terra! O maria! O Neptune![1021] 10

Fantas. Why makes thou it so strange, seeing Cupid hath led our yong master to the faire Lady and she is the only saint that he hath sworne to serve?

Frollicke. What resteth then but wee commit him to his wench, and each of us take his stand up in a tree, and sing out our ill 15 fortune to the tune of O man in desperation.[1022]

Ant. Desperately spoken, fellow Frollicke in the darke: but seeing it falles out thus, let us rehearse the old proverb.[1023]

_Three merrie men, and three merrie men, And three merrie men be wee. 20 I in the wood, and thou on the ground. And Jacke sleepes in the tree._

Fan. Hush! a dogge in the wood, or a wooden dogge.[1024] O comfortable hearing! I had even as live the chamberlaine of the White Horse had called me up to bed. 25

Frol. Eyther hath this trotting cur gone out of his cyrcuit, or els are we nere some village, which should not be farre off, for I

Enter a SMITH with a lanthorne & candle.

perceive the glymring of a gloworme, a candle, or a cats eye, my life for a halfe pennie. In the name of my own father, be thou oxe or asse that appearest, tell us what thou art. 30

Smith. What am I? Why I am Clunch the Smith; what are you, what make you in my territories at this time of the night?

Ant. What doe we make, dost thou aske? Why we make faces for feare: such as if thy mortall eyes could behold, would make thee water the long seames of thy side slops,[1025] Smith. 35

Frol. And in faith, sir, unlesse your hospitalitie doe releeve us, wee are like to wander with a sorrowfull hey ho, among the owlets, & hobgoblins of the forrest: good Vulcan, for Cupids sake that hath cousned us all, befriend us as thou maiest, and commaund us howsoever, wheresoever, whensoever, in whatsoever, for ever and ever.[1026] 40

Smith. Well, masters, it seemes to mee you have lost your waie in the wood: in consideration whereof, if you will goe with Clunch[1027] to his cottage, you shall have house roome, and a good fire to sit by, althogh we have no bedding to put you in.

All. O blessed Smith, O bountifull Clunch. 45

Smith. For your further intertainment, it shall be as it may be, so and so.

Heare a dogge barke.

Hearke![1028] this is Ball my dogge that bids you all welcome in his own language; come, take heed for[1029] stumbling on the threshold. Open dore, Madge, take in guests. Enter old woman. 50

Cl. Welcome Clunch & good fellowes al that come with my good man; for my good mans sake come on, sit downe; here is a peece of cheese & a pudding of my owne making.

Anticke. Thanks, Gammer; a good example for the wives of our towne. 55

Frolicke. Gammer, thou and thy good man sit lovingly together; we come to chat and not to eate.

Smith. Well, masters, if you will eate nothing, take away. Come, what doo we to passe away the time? Lay a crab[1030] in the fire to rost for lambes-wooll. What, shall wee have a game at trumpe or 60 ruffe[1031] to drive away the time, how say you?

Fantasticke. This Smith leads a life as merrie as a king[1032] with Madge his wife. Syrrha Frolicke, I am sure thou art not without some round or other; no doubt but Clunch can beare his part.

Frolicke. Els thinke you mee ill brought up;[1033] so set to it 65 when you will. They sing.

SONG.

When as the Rie reach to the chin, And chopcherrie,[1034] chopcherrie ripe within, Strawberries swimming in the creame, And schoole boyes playing in the streame: 70 Then O, then O, then O my true love said, Till that time come againe, Shee could not live a maid.

Ant. This sport dooes well: but me thinkes, Gammer, a merry winters tale would drive away the time trimly. Come, I am sure 75 you are not without a score.

Fantast. I faith, Gammer, a tale of an howre long were as good as an howres sleepe.

Frol. Looke you, Gammer, of the Gyant and the Kings Daughter,[1035] and I know not what. I have seene the day when I was a little one, 80 you might have drawne mee a mile after you with such a discourse.

Old woman. Well, since you be so importunate, my good man shall fill the pot and get him to bed; they that ply their worke must keepe good howres. One of you goe lye with him; he is a cleane skind man, I tell you, without either spavin or windgall; so I am 85 content to drive away the time with an old wives winters tale.

Fantast. No better hay in Devonshire,[1036] a my word, Gammer, Ile be one of your audience.

Frolicke. And I another: thats flat.

Anticke. Then must I to bed with the good man. Bona nox Gammer; 90 God night, Frolicke.

Smith. Come on, my lad, thou shalt take thy unnaturall[1037] rest with me.

Exeunt ANTICKE and the SMITH.

Frollicke. Yet this vantage shall we have of them in the morning, to bee ready at the sight thereof extempore.[1038] 95

Old wom. Nowe this bargaine, my masters, must I make with you, that you will say hum & ha to my tale, so shall I know you are awake.

Both. Content, Gammer, that will we doo.

Old wom. Once uppon a time there was a King or a Lord, or a Duke, that had a faire daughter, the fairest that ever was; as 100 white as snowe, and as redd as bloud: and once uppon a time his daughter was stollen away, and hee sent all his men to seeke out his daughter, and hee sent so long, that he sent all his men out of his land.

Frol. Who drest his dinner then?

Old woman. Nay, either heare my tale, or kisse my taile. 105

Fan. Well sed, on with your tale, Gammer.

Old woman. O Lord, I quite forgot, there was a Conjurer, and this Conjurer could doo any thing, and hee turned himselfe into a great Dragon, and carried the Kinges Daughter away in his mouth to a Castle that hee made of stone, and there he kept hir I know not how long, till at last all the Kinges men went out so long, that 110 hir two Brothers went to seeke hir.[1039] O, I forget: she (he I would say) turned a proper[1040] yong man to a Beare in the night, and a man in the day, and keeps[1041] by a crosse that parts three severall waies, & he[1042] made his Lady run mad ... Gods me bones, who comes here? 115 Enter the two Brothers.

Frol. Soft, Gammer, here some come to tell your tale for you.[1043]

Fant. Let them alone, let us heare what they will say.

1 Brother. Upon these chalkie cliffs of Albion[1044] We are arived now with tedious toile, 120 And compassing the wide world round about To seeke our sister, to[1045] seeke faire Delya forth, Yet cannot we so much as heare of hir.

2 Brother. O fortune cruell, cruell & unkind, Unkind in that we cannot find our sister; 125 Our sister haples in hir cruell chance! Soft, who have we here?

Enter SENEX at the Crosse, stooping to gather.

1 Brother. Now, father, God be your speed, What doo you gather there?

Old man. Hips and hawes, and stickes and straws, and thinges 130 that I gather on the ground, my sonne.[1046]

1 Brother. Hips and hawes, and stickes and strawes! Why, is that all your foode, father?

Old man. Yea, sonne.

2 Brother. Father, here is an almes pennie for mee, and if I speede in that I goe for, I will give thee as good a gowne of gray[1047] 135 as ever thou diddest weare.

1 Brother. And, father, here is another almes pennie for me, and if I speede in my journey, I will give thee a palmers staffe of yvorie, and a scallop shell of beaten gold.[1048] 140

Old man. Was shee fayre?[1049]

2 Brother. I, the fairest for white, and the purest for redd, as the blood of the deare, or the driven snow.

Old m. Then harke well and marke well, my old spell: Be not afraid of every stranger, 145 Start not aside at every danger: Things that seeme are not the same, Blow a blast at every flame: For when one flame of fire goes out, Then comes your wishes well about: 150 If any aske who told you this good, Say the White Beare of Englands wood.

1 Brother. Brother, heard you not what the old man said? Be not afraid of every stranger, Start not aside for every danger: 155 Things that seeme are not the same, Blow a blast at every flame: If any aske who told you this good, Say the White Beare of Englands wood.[1050]

2 Brother. Well, if this doo us any good, 160 Wel fare the White Bear of Englands wood. Ex.

Old man. Now sit thee here & tel a heavy tale. Sad in thy moode, and sober in thy cheere, Here sit thee now and to thy selfe relate, The hard mishap of thy most wretched state. 165 In Thessalie I liv'd in sweete content, Untill that Fortune wrought my overthrow; For there I wedded was unto a dame, That liv'd in honor, vertue, love, and fame: But Sacrapant, that cursed sorcerer, 170 Being besotted with my beauteous love, My deerest love, my true betrothed wife, Did seeke the meanes to rid me of my life. But worse than this, he with his chanting[1051] spels, Did turne me straight unto an ugly Beare; 175 And when the sunne doth settle in the west, Then I begin to don my ugly hide: And all the day I sit, as now you see, And speake in riddles all inspirde with rage, Seeming an olde and miserable man: 180 And yet I am in Aprill of my age.

Enter VENELIA his Lady mad; and goes in againe.

See where Venelya, my betrothed love, Runs madding all inrag'd about the woods, All by his curssed and inchanting spels.

Enter LAMPRISCUS with a pot of honny.

But here comes Lampriscus, my discontented neighbour. How now, 185 neighbour, you looke towarde the ground as well as I; you muse on something.

Lamp. Neighbour on nothing, but on the matter I so often mooved to you: if you do any thing for charity, helpe me; if for neighborhood or brotherhood, helpe me: never was one so combered as is poore 190 Lampryscus: and to begin, I pray receive this potte of honny to mend[1052] your fare.

Old man. Thankes, neighbor, set it downe; Honny is alwaies welcome to the Beare. And now, neighbour, let me heere the cause of your comming. 195

Lampriscus. I am (as you knowe, neighbour) a man unmaried, and lived so unquietly with my two wives, that I keepe every yeare holy the day wherein I buried the_m_ both: the first was on Saint Andrewes day, the other on Saint Lukes.[1053]

Old man. And now, neighbour, you of this country say, your 200 custome is out: but on with your tale, neighbour.

Lamp. By my first wife, whose tongue wearied me alive, and sounded in my eares like the clapper of a great bell, whose talke was a continuall torment to all that dwelt by her, or lived nigh her, you have heard me say I had a handsome daughter. 205

Old man. True, neighbour.

Lampr. Shee it is that afflictes me with her continuall clamoures, and hangs on me like a burre: poore shee is, and proude shee is; as poore as a sheepe new shorne, and as proude of her hopes, as a peacock of her taile well growne. 210

Old man. Well said, Lampryscus, you speake it like an Englishman.

Lampr. As curst as a waspe, and as frowarde as a childe new taken from the mothers teate; shee is to my age, as smoake to the eyes, or as vinegar to the teeth. 215

Old man. Holily praised, neighbour, as much for the next.

Lampr. By my other wife I had a daughter, so hard favoured, so foule and ill faced, that I thinke a grove full of golden trees, and the leaves of rubies and dyamonds, would not bee a dowrie annswerable to her deformitie. 220

Old man. Well, neighbour, nowe you have spoke, heere me speake; send them to the well for the water of life:[1054] there shall they finde their fortunes unlooked for. Neighbour, farewell. Exit.

Lampr. Farewell and a thousand;[1055] and now goeth poore Lampryscus to put in execution this excellent counsell. Exeunt. 225

Frol. Why this goes rounde without a fidling stick. But doo you heare, Gammer, was this the man that was a beare in the night, and a man in the day?

Old woman. I, this is hee; and this man that came to him was a beggar, and dwelt uppon a greene. But soft, who comes here? O 230 these are the harvest men; ten to one they sing a song of mowing.

Enter the harvest men a singing, with this SONG double repeated.[1056]

All yee that lovely lovers be, pray you for me. Loe here we come a sowing, a sowing, And sowe sweete fruites of love: In your sweete hearts well may it proove. Exeunt. 235

Enter HUANEBANGO[1057] with his two hand sword, and BOOBY[1058] the Clowne.

Fant. Gammer, what is he?

Old woman. O this is one that is going to the Conjurer; let him alone; here what he sayes.

Huan. Now by Mars and Mercury, Jupiter and Janus, Sol and Saturnus, Venus and Vesta, Pallas and Proserpina, and by the honor of my house Polimackeroeplacydus,[1059] it is a wonder to see 240 what this love will make silly fellowes adventure, even in the wane of their wits and infansie of their discretion. Alas, my friend, what fortune calles thee foorth to seeke thy fortune among brasen gates, inchanted towers, fire and brimstone, thunder and lightning? Beautie, I tell thee, is peerelesse, and she precious whom thou 245 affectest: do off these desires, good countriman, good friend, runne away from thy selfe, and so soone as thou canst, forget her; whom none must inherit but he that can monsters tame, laboures atchive, riddles absolve, loose inchantments, murther magicke, and kill conjuring: and that is the great and mighty Huanebango. 250

Booby. Harke you sir, harke you. First know I have here the flurting feather, and have given the parish the start for the long stocke.[1060] Nowe sir, if it bee no more but running through a little lightning and thunder, and riddle me, riddle me, what's this,[1061] Ile have the wench from the Conjurer if he were ten 255 Conjurers.

Huan. I have abandoned the court and honourable company, to doo my devoyre against this sore sorcerer and mighty magitian: if this Ladie be so faire as she is said to bee, she is mine, she is mine. Meus, mea, meum, in contemptum omnium grammaticorum. 260

Booby. O falsum Latinum! the faire maide is minum, cum apurtinantibus gibletes and all.

Huan. If shee bee mine, as I assure my selfe the heavens will doo somewhat to reward my worthines, shee shall bee allied to none of the meanest gods, but bee invested in the most famous 265 stocke of Huanebango Polimackeroeplacidus, my grandfather, my father Pergopolyneo, my mother Dyonora de Sardynya, famouslie descended.

Booby. Doo you heare, sir, had not you a cosen, that was called Gustecerydis? 270

Huan. Indeede I had a cosen, that sometime followed the court infortunately, and his name Bustegustecerydis.

Booby. O Lord I know him well; hee is the[1062] knight of the neates feete.

Huan. O he lov'd no capon better. He hath oftentimes deceived 275 his boy of his dinner; that was his fault, good Bustegustecerydis.

Booby. Come, shall we goe along?[1063] Soft, here is an olde man at the Crosse; let us aske him the way thither. Ho, you Gaffer, I pray you tell where the wise man the Conjurer dwells.

Huan. Where that earthly Goddesse keepeth hir abode, the 280 commander of my thougts, and faire Mistres of my heart.

Old man. Faire inough, and farre inough from thy fingering, sonne.

Huan. I will followe my fortune after mine owne fancie, and doo according to mine owne discretion. 285

Old man. Yet give some thing to an old man before you goe.

Huan. Father, mee thinkes a peece of this cake might serve your turne.

Old man. Yea, sonne.

Huan. Huanebango giveth no cakes for almes; aske of them 290 that give giftes for poore beggars. Faire Lady, if thou wert once shrined in this bosome, I would buckler thee hara-tantara. Exit.

Booby. Father, doo you see this man? You litle thinke heele run a mile or two for such a cake, or passe for[1064] a pudding. I tell you, Father, hee has kept such a begging of mee for a peece of 295 this cake! Whoo, he comes uppon me with a superfantiall substance, and the foyson[1065] of the earth, that I know not what he meanes. Iff hee came to me thus, and said, 'my friend Booby,' or so, why I could spare him a peece with all my heart; but when he tells me how God hath enriched mee above other fellowes with a cake, why hee 300 makes me blinde and deafe at once. Yet, father, heere is a peece of cake for you,[1066] as harde as the world goes.[1067]

Old man. Thanks, sonne, but list to mee: He shall be deafe when thou shalt not see. Farewell, my sonne; things may so hit, 305 Thou maist have wealth to mend thy wit.

Booby. Farewell, father, farewell; for I must make hast after my two-hand sword that is gone before. Exeunt omnes.

Enter SACRAPANT in his studie.

Sacrapant. The day is cleare, the welkin bright and gray, The larke is merrie, and records[1068] hir notes; 310 Each thing rejoyseth underneath the skie, But onely I whom heaven hath in hate, Wretched and miserable Sacrapant. In Thessalie was I borne and brought up.[1069] My mother Meroe hight, a famous witch, 315 And by hir cunning I of hir did learne, To change and alter shapes of mortall men. There did I turne my selfe into a dragon, And stole away the daughter to the king, Faire Delya, the mistres of my heart, 320 And brought hir hither to revive the man That seemeth yong and pleasant to behold, And yet is aged, crooked, weake and numbe. Thus by inchaunting spells I doo deceive Those that behold and looke upon my face; 325 But well may I bid youthfull yeares adue.

Enter DELYA with a pot in hir hand.

See where she coms from whence my sorrows grow. How now, faire Delya, where have you bin?

Delya. At the foote of the rocke for running water, and gathering rootes for your dinner, sir. 330

Sacr. Ah, Delya, fairer art thou than the running water, yet harder farre than steele or adamant.

Delya. Will it please you to sit downe, sir?

Sacr. I, Delya, sit & aske me what thou wilt; thou shalt have it brought into thy lappe. 335

Delya. Then I pray you, sir, let mee have the best meate from the king of Englands table, and the best wine in all France, brought in by the veriest knave in all Spaine.[1070]

Sacr. Delya, I am glad to see you so pleasant. Well, sit thee downe. 340 Spred, table, spred; meat, drinke & bred; Ever may I have what I ever crave, When I am spred, for[1071] meate for my black cock, And meate for my red.

Enter a FRIER with a chine of beefe and a pot of wine.

Sacr. Heere, Delya, will yee fall to? 345

Del. Is this the best meate in England?

Sacr. Yea.

Del. What is it?

Sacr. A chine of English beefe, meate for a king And a king's followers. 350

Del. Is this the best wine in France?

Sacr. Yea.

Del. What wine is it?

Sacr. A cup of neate wine of Orleance, That never came neer the brewers in England.[1072] 355

Del. Is this the veriest knave in all Spaine?

Sacr. Yea.

Del. What, is he a fryer?

Sacr. Yea, a frier indefinit, & a knave infinit.

Del. Then I pray ye, sir Frier, tell me before you goe, which is 360 the most greediest Englishman?

Fryer. The miserable and most covetous usurer.

Sacr. Holde thee there, Friar. Exit Friar. But soft, who have we heere? Delia, away, begon.[1073]

Enter the two Brothers.

Delya, away, for beset are we; 365 But heaven or hell shall rescue her for me.[1074]

1. Br. Brother, was not that Delya did appeare? Or was it but her shadow that was here?

2. Bro. Sister, where art thou? Delya, come again; He calles, that of thy absence doth complaine. 370 Call out, Calypha, that she may heare, And crie aloud, for Delya is neere.

Eccho. Neere.[1075]

1. Br. Neere? O where, hast thou any tidings?

Eccho. Tidings. 375

2. Br. Which way is Delya then,--or that, or this?

Eccho. This.

1. Br. And may we safely come where Delia is?

Eccho. Yes.

2. Bro. Brother, remember you the white 380 Beare of Englands wood: Start not aside for every danger; Be not afeard of every stranger; Things that seeme, are not the same.

1. Br. Brother, why do we not the_n_ coragiously enter? 385

2. Br. Then, brother, draw thy sword & follow me.

Enter the Conjurer; it lightens & thunders; the 2. Brother falls downe.

1. Br. What, brother, doost thou fall?

Sacr. I, and thou to, Calypha.

Fall 1. Brother. Enter two Furies.

Adeste Dæmones: away with them; Go cary them straight to Sacrapantos cell, 390 There in despaire and torture for to dwell. These are Thenores sonnes of Thessaly, That come to seeke Delya their sister forth; But with a potion, I to her have given, My arts hath made her to forget her selfe. 395

He remooves a turfe, and shewes a light in a glasse.[1076]

See heere the thing which doth prolong my life; With this inchantment I do any thing. And till this fade, my skill shall still endure, And never none shall breake this little glasse, But she that's neither wife, widow, nor maide. 400 Then cheere thy selfe; this is thy destinie, Never to die, but by a dead mans hand. Exeunt.

Enter EUMENIDES the wandering knight, and the Old Man[1077] at the Crosse.

Eum. Tell me, Time, tell me, just Time, When shall I Delia see? When shall I see the loadstar of my life? 405 When shall my wandring course end with her sight, Or I but view my hope, my hearts delight! Father, God speede; if you tell fortunes, I pray, good father, tell me mine.

Old man. Sonne, I do see in thy face, 410 Thy blessed fortune worke apace; I do perceive that thou hast wit, Beg of thy fate to governe it; For wisdome govern'd by advise Makes many fortunate and wise. 415 Bestowe thy almes, give more than all, Till dead men's bones come at thy call. Farewell, my sonne, dreame of no rest, Til thou repent that thou didst best. Exit Old M.

Eum. This man hath left me in a laborinth: 420 He biddeth me give more than all, Till dead mens bones come at thy call: He biddeth me dreame of no rest, Till I repent that I do best.

Enter WIGGEN, COROBUS,[1078] CHURCHWARDEN and SEXTEN.

Wiggen. You may be ashamed, you whorson scald Sexton and 425 Churchwarden, if you had any shame in those shamelesse faces of yours, to let a poore man lie so long above ground unburied. A rot on you all, that have no more compassion of a good fellow when he is gone.

Simon. What, would you have us to burie him, and to aunswere 430 it our selves to the parrishe?

Sexton. Parish me no parishes; pay me my fees, and let the rest runne on in the quarters accounts, and put it downe for one of your good deedes a Gods name; for I am not one that curiously stands upon merits. 435

Corobus. You whoreson, sodden-headed sheepes-face, shall a good fellow do lesse service and more honestie to the parish, & will you not, when he is dead, let him have Christmas[1079] buriall?

Wiggen. Peace Corebus, as sure[1080] as Jack was Jack, the frollickst frannion[1081] amongst you, and I Wiggen his sweete sworne brother,[1082] Jack shall have his funerals, or some of 440 them shall lie on Gods deare earth for it, thats once.[1083]

Churchwa. Wiggen, I hope thou wilt do no more then thou darst aunswer.

Wig. Sir, sir, dare or dare not, more or lesse, aunswer or not 445 aunswer, do this, or have this.

Sex. Helpe, helpe, helpe![1084] Wiggen sets upon the parish with a pike staffe.

EUMENIDES awakes and comes to them.

Eum. Hould thy hands, good fellow.

Core. Can you blame him, sir, if he take Jacks part against this 450 shake-rotten parish that will not burie Jack.

Eum. Why, what was that Jack?

Coreb. Who Jack, sir, who our Jack, sir? as good a fellow as ever troade uppon neats leather.

Wiggen. Looke you, sir, he gave foure score and nineteene 455 mourning gownes to the parish when he died, and because he would not make them up a full hundred, they would not bury him; was not this good dealing?

Churchwar. Oh Lord, sir, how he lies; he was not worth a halfe-penny, and drunke out every penny: and nowe his fellowes, his drunken companions, would have us to burie him at the[1085] 460 charge of the parish. And we make many such matches, we may pull downe the steeple, sell the belles, and thatche the chauncell. He shall lie above ground till he daunce a galliard about the churchyard for Steeven Loache. 465

Wiggen. Sic argumentaris, domine Loache;--and we make many such matches, we may pull downe the steeple, sell the belles, and thatche the chauncell: in good time, sir, and hang your selves in the bell ropes when you have done. Domine oponens, præpono tibi hanc questionem, whether you will have the ground broken, or your pates broken first? For one of them shall be done presently, 470 and to begin mine[1086] Ile seale it upon your cockescome.

Eum. Hould thy hands, I pray thee, good fellow; be not too hastie.

Coreb. You capons face, we shall have you turnd out of the 475 parish one of these dayes, with never a tatter to your arse; then you are in worse taking then Jack.

Eumen. Faith and he is bad enough. This fellow does but the part of a friend, to seeke to burie his friend; how much will burie him?

Wiggen. Faith, about some fifteene or sixteene shillings will 480 bestow him honestly.

Sexton. I, even there abouts, sir.

Eumen. Heere, hould it then, and I have left me but one poore three halfe pence; now do I remember the wordes the old man spake at the crosse: 'bestowe all thou hast,'--and this is all,--'till dead 485 mens bones comes at thy call.' Heare, holde it,[1087] and so farewell.

Wig. God, and all good, bee with you sir; naie, you cormorants, Ile bestowe one peale of[1088] Jack at mine owne proper costs and charges.

Coreb. You may thanke God the long staffe and the bilbowe 490 blade crost not your cockescombe. Well, weele to the church stile,[1090] and have a pot, and so tryll lyll.

Both. Come, lets go. Exeunt.

Fant. But harke you, gammer, me thinkes this Jack bore a great sway in the parish. 495

Old woman. O this Jack was a marvelous fellow; he was but a poore man, but very well beloved: you shall see anon what this Jack will come to.

Enter the harvest men singing, with women in their hands.

Frol. Soft, who have wee heere? our amorous harvest starres.[1089]

Fant. I, I, let us sit still and let them alone. 500

Heere they begin to sing, the song doubled.[1090]

Soe heere we come a reaping, a reaping, To reape our harvest fruite, And thus we passe the yeare so long, And never be we mute. Exit the harvest men.[1091]

Enter HUANEBANGO and COREBUS the clowne.[1092]

Frol. Soft, who have we here? 505

Old w. O this is a cholerick gentleman; all you that love your lives, keepe out of the smell of his two-hand sworde: nowe goes he to the conjurer.

Fant. Me thinkes the Conjurer should put the foole into a jugling boxe. 510

Huan. Fee, fa, fum,[1093] here is the Englishman, Conquer him that can, came for his lady bright, To proove himselfe a knight, And win her love in fight.

Cor. Who-hawe, maister Bango, are you here? heare you, you 515 had best sit downe heere, and beg an almes with me.

Huan. Hence, base cullion, heere is he that commaundeth ingresse and egresse with his weapon, and will enter at his voluntary, whosover saith no.

A voice and flame of fire: HUANEBANGO falleth downe.

Voice. No. 520

Old w. So with that, they kist, and spoiled the edge of as good a two hand sword, as ever God put life in; now goes Corebus in, spight of the conjurer.

Enter the Conjurer, & strike COREBUS blinde.[1094]

Sacr. Away with him into the open fields, To be a ravening pray to crowes and kites:[1095] 525 And for this villain, let him wander up & downe In nought but darkenes and eternall night.[1096]

Cor. Heer hast thou slain Huan, a slashing knight, And robbed poore Corebus of his sight. Exit.

Sacr. Hence, villaine, hence. 530 Now I have unto Delya given a potion of forgetfulnes, That when shee comes, shee shall not know hir brothers. Lo where they labour, like to country slaves, With spade and mattocke on this inchaunted ground! Now will I call hir by another name, 535 For never shall she know hir selfe againe, Untill that Sacrapant hath breathd his last. See where she comes. Enter Delya. Come hither, Delya, take this gode.[1097] Here, hard[1098] at hand, two slaves do worke and dig for gold; 540 Gore them with this & thou shalt have inough.

He gives hir a gode.

Del. Good sir, I know not what you meane.

Sacra. She hath forgotten to be Delya, But not forgot the same[1099] she should forget: But I will change hir name. 545 Faire Berecynthia, so this country calls you, Goe ply these strangers, wench, they dig for gold. Exit Sacrapant.

Delya. O heavens! how am I beholding to[1100] this faire yong man. But I must ply these strangers to their worke. See where they come. 550

Enter the two Brothers in their shirts, with spades, digging.

1. Brother. O Brother, see where Delya is!

2. Brother. O Delya, happy are we to see thee here.

Delya. What tell you mee of Delya, prating swaines? I know no Delya nor know I what you meane; Ply you your work, or else you are like to smart. 555

1. Brother. Why, Delya, knowst thou not thy brothers here? We come from Thessalie to seeke thee forth, And thou deceivest thy selfe, for thou art Delya.

Delya. Yet more of Delya? then take this and smart: What, faine you shifts for to defer your labor? 560 Worke, villaines, worke, it is for gold you digg.

2. Br. Peace, brother, peace, this vild inchanter Hath ravisht Delya of hir sences cleane, And she forgets that she is Delya.

1. Br. Leave, cruell thou, to hurt the miserable; 565 Digg, brother, digg, for she is hard as steele.

Here they dig & descry the light under a little hill.

2. Br. Stay, brother, what hast thou descride?

Del. Away & touch it not; it is some thing that my lord hath hidden there. She covers it agen.

Enter SACRAPANT.

Sacr. Well sed,[1101] thou plyest these pyoners well. Goe, get 570 you in, you labouring slaves. Come, Berecynthia, let us in likewise, And heare the nightingale record hir notes. Exeunt omnes.

Enter ZANTYPPA, the curst daughter, to the Well,[1102] with a pot in hir hand.

Zant. Now for a husband, house and home; God send a good one or none, I pray God. My father hath sent me to the well for the water of life, and tells mee, if I give faire wordes, I shall have a 575 husband.

Enter the fowle wench to the Well for water, with a pot in hir hand.

But heere comes Celanta, my sweete sister; Ile stand by and heare what she saies.

Celant. My father hath sent mee to the well for water, and he 580 tells me if I speake faire, I shall have a husband, and none of the worst. Well, though I am blacke,[1103] I am sure all the world will not forsake mee; and as the olde proverbe is, though I am blacke, I am not the divell.

Zant. Marrie gup with a murren, I knowe wherefore thou speakest 585 that; but goe thy waies home as wise as thou camst, or Ile set thee home with a wanion.

Here she strikes hir pitcher against hir sisters, and breakes them both and goes hir way.

Celant. I thinke this be the curstest queane in the world. You see what she is, a little faire, but as prowd as the divell, and the veriest vixen that lives upon Gods earth. Well, Ile let hir alone, and goe home and get another pitcher, and for all this get me to the 590 well for water. Exit.

Enter two Furies out of the Conjurers cell and laies HUANEBANGO by the Well of Life.

Enter ZANTIPPA with a pitcher to the Well.

Zant. Once againe for a husband, & in faith, Celanta, I have got the start of you. Belike husbands growe by the Well side. Now my father sayes I must rule my tongue: why, alas, what am I then? A woman 595 without a tongue is as a souldier without his weapon; but Ile have my water and be gon.

Heere she offers to dip her pitcher in, and a head speakes in the Well.

Head. Gently dip, but not too deepe,[1104] For feare you make the golden birde[1105] to weepe, Faire maiden, white and red, 600 Stroke me smoothe, and combe my head, And thou shalt have some cockell bread.

Zant. What is this,--Faire maiden white & red, Combe me smooth, and stroke my head, And thou shall have some cockell bread.[1106] 605 Cockell callst thou it, boy?--faith, Ile give you cockell bread.

Shee breakes hir pitcher uppon his heade, then it thunders and lightens,[1107] and HUANEBANGO rises up: HUANEBANGO is deafe and cannot heare.[1108]

Huan. Phylyda phylerydos, Pamphylyda floryda flortos, Dub dub a dub, bounce quoth the guns, with a sulpherous huffe snuffe.[1109] Wakte with a wench, pretty peat, pretty love and my sweet prettie 610 pigsnie; Just by thy side shall sit surnamed great Huanebango Safe in my armes will I keepe thee, threat Mars or thunder Olympus.

Zant. Foe, what greasie groome have wee here? Hee looks as 615 though hee crept out of the backeside of the Well; and speakes like a drum perisht at the west end.

Huan. O that I might, but I may not, woe to my destenie therefore,[1110] Kisse that I claspe,--but I cannot; tell mee my destenie 620 where-fore?

Zant. Whoope nowe I have my dreame, did you never heare so great a wonder as this? Three blue beanes in a blue bladder, rattle, bladder, rattle.[1111]

Huan. Ile nowe set my countenance and to hir in prose; it may 625 be this rim ram ruffe[1112] is too rude an incounter.

Let me, faire Ladie, if you be at leisure, revell with your sweetnes, and raile uppon that cowardly Conjurer, that hath cast me or congealed mee rather into an unkinde sleepe and polluted my carcasse.

Zantyppa. Laugh, laugh, Zantyppa, thou hast thy fortune, a foole 630 and a husbande under one.

Huan. Truely, sweete heart, as I seeme, about some twenty yeares, the very Aprill of mine age.

Zantyppa. Why, what a prating asse is this?

Huanebango. Hir corall lippes, hir crimson chinne, 635 Hir silver teeth so white within: Hir golden locks, hir rowling eye, Hir pretty parts, let them goe by: Hey ho, hath wounded me, That I must die this day to see. 640

Za. By gogs bones, thou art a flouting knave. "Hir corall lippes, hir crimson chinne," ka, "wilshaw."[1113]

Huan. True, my owne, and my owne because mine, & mine because mine, ha ha! Above a thousand pounds in possibilitie, and things fitting thy desire in possession. 645

Zan. The sott thinkes I aske of his landes. Lobb[1114] be your comfort, and cuckold bee your destenie. Heare you, sir; and if you will have us, you had best say so betime.

Huan. True, sweete heart, and will royallize thy progeny with my petigree. Exeunt omnes. 650

Enter EUMENIDES the wandring knight.

Eu. Wretched Eumenides, still unfortunate, Envied by fortune, and forlorne by fate; Here pine and die, wretched Eumenides. Die in the spring, the Aprill of my[1115] age? Here sit thee down, repent what thou hast don: 655 I would to God that it were nere begon.

Enter JACKE.[1116]

Jacke. You are well overtaken, sir.

Eum. Who's that?

Jacke. You are heartily well met, sir.

Eum. Forbeare, I say, who is that which pincheth mee? 660

Jacke. Trusting in God, good Master Eumenides, that you are in so good health as all your friends were at the making hereof, God give you God morrowe, sir, lacke you not a neate, handsome and cleanly yong lad, about the age of fifteene or sixteene yeares, that can runne[1117] by your horse,[1118] and for a neede make your 665 master-shippes shooes as blacke as incke,--howe say you sir?

Eum. Alasse, pretty lad, I know not how to keepe my selfe, and much lesse a servant, my pretty boy, my state is so bad.

Jacke. Content your selfe, you shall not bee so ill a master but ile bee as bad a servant. Tut, sir, I know you, though you know not me. Are not you the man, sir, denie it if you can, 670 sir,[1119] that came from a strange place in the land of Catita, where Jacke-a-napes flies with his taile in his mouth, to seeke out a Ladie as white as snowe, and as redd as blood; ha, ha, have I toucht you now?

Eum. I thinke this boy be a spirit. 675 How knowst thou all this?

Jacke. Tut, are not you the man, sir, denie it if you can, sir, that gave all the money you had to the burying of a poore man, and but one three-halfe-pence left in your pursse? Content you, sir, Ile serve you, that is flat. 680

Eum. Well, my lad, since thou art so impornate, I am content to entertaine thee, not as a servant, but a copartner in my journey. But whither shall we goe? for I have not any money more than one bare three halfe-pence.

Jacke. Well, master content your selfe, for if my divination bee 685 not out, that shall bee spent at the next inne or alehouse we come too; for maister, I knowe you are passing hungrie; therefore Ile goe before and provide dinner untill that you come; no doubt but youle come faire and softly after.

Eum. I, go before, Ile follow thee. 690

Jack. But doo you heare, maister, doo you know my name?

Eum. No, I promise thee, not yet.

Jack. Why, I am Jack. Exeunt Jack.

Eum. Jack, why be it so, then.

Enter the Hostes and JACK, setting meate on the table, and Fidlers came[1120] to playi, EUMENIDES walketh up and downe, and will eate no meate.

Host. How say you, sir, doo you please to sit downe? 695

Eum. Hostes, I thanke you, I have no great stomack.

Host. Pray, sir, what is the reason your maister is so strange? Doth not this meate please him?

Jack. Yes, hostes, but it is my maisters fashion to pay before hee eates, therefore a reckoning, good hostesse. 700

Host. Marry shall you, sir, presently. Exit.

Eum. Why, Jack, what doost thou meane, thou knowest I have not any money: therefore, sweete Jack, tell me what shall I doo.

Jack. Well, maister, looke in your pursse.[1121]

Eum. Why, faith, it is a follie, for I have no money. 705

Jack. Why, looke you, maister, doo so much for me.

Eum. Alas, Jack, my pursse is full of money.

Jack. 'Alas,' maister,--does that worde belong to this accident? Why, me thinkes I should have seene you cast away your cloake, and in a bravado daunced a galliard round about the chamber; why, 710 maister, your man can teach you more wit than this; come, hostis cheere up my maister.

Hostis. You are heartily welcome: and if it please you to eate of a fat capon, a fairer birde, a finer birde, a sweeter birde, a crisper birde, a neater birde, your worship never eate off. 715

Eum. Thankes, my fine eloquent hostesse.

Jack. But heare you, maister, one worde by the way; are you content I shall be halfes in all you get in your journey?

Eum. I am, Jack, here is my hand.

Jack. Enough, maister, I aske no more. 720

Eum. Come, hostesse, receive your money, and I thanke you for my good entertainment.

Host. You are heartily welcome, sir.

Eum. Come, Jack, whether go we now?

Jack. Mary, maister, to the conjurers presently. 725

Eu. Content, Jack: Hostis, farewell. Exe. om.

Enter COREBUS and ZELANTO[1122] the foule wench, to the Well for water.

Coreb. Come, my ducke, come. I have now got a wife; thou art faire, art thou not?[1123]

Zelan. My Corebus, the fairest alive, make no doubt of that.

Cor. Come, wench, are we almost at the wel? 730

Zela. I, Corebus, we are almost at the Well now; Ile go fetch some water: sit downe while I dip my pitcher in.

Voyce. Gently dip: but not too deepe; For feare you make the goulde_n_ beard to weepe.

A head comes up with eares of corne, and she combes them in her lap.

Faire maiden, white and red, 735 Combe me smoothe, and stroke my head, And thou shall have some cockell bread. Gently dippe, but not too deepe, For feare thou make the goulden beard to weep. Faire maide, white and redde, 740 Combe me smooth, and stroke my head; And every haire a sheave shall be, And every sheave a goulden tree.

A head[1124] comes up full of golde, she combes it into her lap.

Zelan. Oh see, Corebus, I have combd a great deale of golde into my lap, and a great deale of corne. 745

Coreb. Well said, wench; now we shall have just[1125] enough. God send us coiners to coine our golde. But come, shall we go home, sweet heart?

Zelan. Nay, come, Corebus, I will lead you.

Coreb. So, Corebus, things have well hit, 750 Thou hast gotten wealth to mend thy wit. Exit.

Enter JACK and the wandring knight.

Jack. Come away, maister, come.

Eum. Go along, Jack, Ile follow thee. Jack, they say it is good to go crosse-legged, and say his prayers backward:[1126] how saiest thou? 755

Jack. Tut, never feare, maister; let me alone, heere sit you still, speake not a word. And because you shall not be intised with his inchanting speeches, with this same wooll Ile stop your eares: and so, maister, sit still, for I must to the Conjurer. Exit Jack.

Enter the Conjurer to the wandring knight.

Sa. How now, what man art thou that sits so sad? 760 Why dost thou gaze upon these stately trees, Without the leave and will of Sacrapant? What, not a word but mum? Then, Sacrapant, thou art betraide.

Enter JACK invisible, and taketh off SACRAPANTS wreath from his head, and his sword out of his hand.

Sac. What hand invades the head of Sacrapant? 765 What hatefull fury doth envy my happy state? Then, Sacrapant, these are thy latest dayes. Alas, my vaines are numd, my sinews shrinke, My bloud is pearst,[1127] my breath fleeting away, And now my timelesse date is come to end: 770 He in whose life his actions[1128] hath beene so foule, Now in his death to hell descends his soule.

He dyeth.

Jack. Oh, sir, are you gon? Now I hope we shall have some other coile. Now, maister, how like you this? the Conjurer hee is dead, and vowes never to trouble us more. Now get you to your 775 faire Lady, and see what you can doo with her. Alas, he heareth me not all this while; but I will helpe that.

He pulles the wooll out of his eares.

Eum. How now, Jack, what news?

Jack. Heere, maister, take this sword and dig with it, at the foote of this hill. 780

He digs and spies a light.

Eum. How now, Jack, what is this?

Jack. Maister, without this the Conjurer could do nothing, and so long as this light lasts, so long doth his arte indure, and this being out, then doth his arte decay.

Eum. Why then, Jack, I will soone put out this light. 785

Jack. I, maister, how?

Eum. Why with a stone Ile breake the glasse, and then blowe it out.

Jack. No, maister, you may as soone breake the smiths anfill, as this little vyoll; nor the biggest blast that ever Boreas blew, cannot blowe out this little light; but she that is neither 790 maide,[1129] wife, nor widowe. Maister, winde this horne; and see what will happen.

He windes the horne.

Heere enters VENELIA and breakes the glasse, and blowes out the light, and goeth in againe.

Jack. So, maister, how like you this? This is she that ranne madding in the woods, his betrothed love that keepes the crosse; and nowe, 795 this light being out, all are restored to their former libertie. And now, maister, to the Lady that you have so long looked for.

He draweth a curten, and there DELIA sitteth a sleepe.

Eum. God speed, faire maide sitting alone: there is once. God speed, faire maide; there is twise: 800 God speed, faire maide, that is thrise.

Delia. Not so, good sir, for you are by.

Jack. Enough, maister, she hath spoke; now I will leave her with you.

Eum. Thou fairest flower of these westerne parts, 805 Whose beautie so reflecteth in my sight, As doth a christall mirror in the sonne: For thy sweet sake I have crost the frosen Rhine,[1130] Leaving faire Po, I saild up Danuby, As farre as Saba, whose inhansing streames 810 Cuts twixt the Tartars and the Russians,-- These have I crost for thee, faire Delia: Then grant me that which I have sude for long.

Del. Thou gentle knight, whose fortune is so good, To finde me out, and set my brothers free, 815 My faith, my heart, my hand, I give to thee.

Eum. Thankes, gentle madame: but heere comes Jack; thanke him, for he is the best friend that we have.

Enter JACK with a head in his hand.

Eum. How now, Jack, what hast thou there?

Jack. Mary, maister, the head of the conjurer. 820

Eum. Why, Jack, that is impossible; he was a young man.

Jack. Ah, maister, so he deceived them that beheld him: but hee was a miserable, old, and crooked man; though to each mans eye h[e see]med young and fresh. For, maister, this Conjurer tooke the shape of the olde man that kept the crosse: and that olde man was in the 825 likenesse of the Conjurer.[1131] But nowe, maister, winde your horne. He windes his horne.

Enter VENELIA, the two Brothers, and he that was at the Crosse.

Eu. Welcome, Erestus, welcome, faire Venelia,[1132] Welcome, Thelea, and Kalepha[1133] both! Now have I her that I so long have sought, 830 So saith faire Delia, if we have your consent.

1. Bro. Valiant Eumenides, thou well deservest To have our favours: so let us rejoyce, That by thy meanes we are at libertie. Heere may we joy each in others sight, 835 And this faire Lady have her wandring knight.

Jack. So, maister, nowe yee thinke you have done: but I must have a saying to you. You know you and I were partners, I to have halfe in all you got.

Eum. Why, so thou shalt, Jack. 840

Jack. Why, then, maister draw your sworde, part your Lady, let mee have halfe of her presently.

Eumenid. Why, I hope, Jack, thou doost but jest; I promist thee halfe I got, but not halfe my Lady.

Jack. But what else, maister? have you not gotten her? Therefore 845 devide her straight, for I will have halfe; there is no remedie.

Eumen. Well, ere I will falsifie my worde unto my friend, take her all; heere Jack, Ile give her thee.

Jacke. Nay, neither more nor lesse, maister, but even just halfe.

Eum. Before I will falsifie my faith unto my friend, I will 850 divide hir; Jacke, thou shalt have halfe.

1. Brother. Bee not so cruell unto our sister, gentle knight.

2. Brother. O spare faire Delia; shee deserves no death.

Eum. Content your selves; my word is past to him; therefore prepare thy selfe, Delya, for thou must die. 855

Delya. Then, farewell, worlde; adew Eumenides.

He offers to strike and JACKE staies him.

Jacke. Stay, master; it is sufficient I have tride your constancie. Do you now remember since you paid for the burying of a poore fellow?

Eum. I, very well, Jacke. 860

Jacke. Then, master, thanke that good deed for this good turne, and so God be with you all.

JACKE leapes downe in the ground.

Eum. Jacke, what, art thou gone? Then farewell, Jacke. Come, brothers and my beauteous Delya, 865 Erestus, and thy deare Venelia: We will to Thessalie with joyfull hearts.

All. Agreed, we follow thee and Delya.

Exeunt omnes.[1134]

Fant. What, Gammer, a sleepe?

Old wom. By the Mas, sonne, tis almost day, and my windowes 870 shut[1135] at the cocks crow.

Frol. Doo you heare, Gammer, mee thinkes this Jacke bore a great sway amongst them.

Old wom. O, man, this was the ghost of the poore man, that they kept such a coyle to burie, & that makes him to help the wandring 875 knight so much. But come, let us in: we will have a cup of ale and a tost this morning and so depart.[1136]

Fant. Then you have made an end of your tale, Gammer?

Old wom. Yes, faith. When this was done, I tooke a peece of bread and cheese, and came my way, and so shall you have, too, 880 before you goe, to your breakefast.

FINIS.

Printed at London by John Danter, for _Raph Hancocke_, and John Hardie, and are to be solde at the shop over against Saint Giles his Church without Criplegate. 1595.

FOOTNOTES:

[1018] A mistake for Frolic.

[1019] Alamort, mortally sick; and then, dispirited.

[1020] "A gay, reckless fellow."

[1021] Below 'Neptune,' Sig. A iii.

[1022] B. refers to Ebbsworth, Roxburghe Ballads, IV. 365, 468. See also Nash, Four Letters Confuted (Grosart, II. 190), who says of Harvey's "barefoote rimes" that "they would have trowld off bravely to the tune of O man in desperation, and, like Marenzos Madrigals, the mourneful note naturally have affected the miserable Dittie."

[1023] Chappell gives the song in Popular Music of the Olden Time, p. 216. Three Merry Men is quoted in Westward Hoe, and in Barry's Ram Alley (sung by Smallshanks: see note, Hazlitt-Dodsley, X. 298), as well as in Twelfth Night; and it is parodied by the musical cook in The Bloody Brother. Chappell is somewhat daring when he takes these words from the Old Wives' Tale as the original; lines 3 and 4 look like a parody.

[1024] Dy. points out the pun in 'wooden' (= mad).

[1025] Long wide breeches or trousers; Dy. See Looking-Glass for London and England, near end: "This right slop is my pantry, behold a manchet [Draws it out]" ...

[1026] A bit of nonsense like the talk of Macbeth's porter. The speech is a sort of parody on the appeal of wandering knights or travellers in romances, and Clunch, with his 'territories,' may take the place of enchanter, giant, or the like.

[1027] This use of the third person is common in dramas of the time. See Ward, Old English Drama, Select Plays, etc., Introd., p. xi., notes. So in Greene: "Which Brandamart (i.e. I)" ...; "For Sacripant must have Angelica." It served to identify the actor.

[1028] They are now supposed to be at the cottage.

[1029] For fear of ...

[1030] A crab-apple. The pulp was mixed with ale, 'lamb's wool.'

[1031] Collier gave Dyce the following quotation from Martin's Month's Minde: "leaving the ancient game of England (Trumpe), where every coate and sute are sorted in their degree, are running to Ruffe, where the greatest sorte of the sute carrieth away the game."

[1032] The familiar motif of the contented peasant as entertainer of royalty or what not.

[1033] According to the Jests (Bullen, II. 314), George Peele had no skill in music, and must have been a conspicuous exception; witness the well-known statement of Chappell, Popular Music, p. 98. The barber kept "lute or cittern" in his shop for the amusement of waiting customers; and England had been a land of song from Cædmon's time down. The "man in the street" was expected to know how to join in a part song. The rural song, such as they sing here, was a great favorite with the dramatists.

[1034] Chopcherry: "a game in which one tries to catch a suspended cherry with the teeth; bob-cherry." ... New Engl. Dict.

[1035] A version of Childe Rowland?

[1036] Peele was probably of a Devonshire family.

[1037] A Dogberrian touch, evidently beloved by the pit, and a fine makeweight to those pompous experiments with word and phrase which delighted the serious playgoer.

[1038] Below 'extempore,' Sig. B.

[1039] See Critical Essay for the folk-tales in question.

[1040] handsome.

[1041] 'he' keeps (frequents, lives), i.e. the young man. Omission of subject is common in the ballads.

[1042] The conjurer.

[1043] See the Critical Essay for this "play within the play."

[1044] The princes, of course, talk in metre when the "high style" is needed, but in familiar prose with Erestus (= "Senex"). The repetitions in this blank-verse are characteristic.

[1045] B. omits. Dy. proposes to omit 'faire.' Neither omission is necessary.

[1046] Reminds one of nursery tales with bits of rhyme,--the cante-fable of folk-lore.

[1047] So Milton's famous "grey hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed" ...

[1048] Below 'gold,' Sig. B ii.

[1049] Dy. assumes that "something ... has dropt out"; but this is not necessary. Erestus, who says below that he 'speaks in riddles,' knows the errand of the brothers, and asks the question abruptly. He plays the part of Merlin in Childe Rowland.

[1050] The spell is important, solemn, and is therefore repeated. No particular tale of The White Bear of England's Wood is known, but similar cases of transformation are plentiful.

[1051] Dy. prints ''chanting'; needlessly.

[1052] Below 'mend,' Sig. B iii.

[1053] B. notes that "St. Luke's Day (18th October) was the day of Horn Fair; and St. Luke was jocularly regarded as the patron saint of cuckolds. St. Andrew was supposed to bring good luck to lovers." ...

[1054] The reference is to the tale preserved in several versions, and known as "The Three Heads of the Well," Jacobs, English Fairy Tales, p. 222. "The Well of the World's End," p. 215, however, has the incident of filling a sieve.

[1055] So "God ye good night, and twenty, sir!" In Middleton's Trick to Catch the Old One--"A thousand farewells." Compare the well-known forms of greeting, as "Grüss' mir mein Liebchen zehntausend mal!" or the elaborate message at the opening of the ballad Childe Maurice.

[1056] See Appendix B on this Song.

[1057] See Appendix A.

[1058] The 'Booby' is later called 'Corebus' or 'Chorebus.' See Harvey, The Trimming of Thomas Nashe, Grosart, III. 29: "Thou mayest be cald the very Chorœbus of our time, of whom the proverbe was sayde, more foole than Chorœbus: who was a seely ideot, but yet had the name of a wise man." ...

[1059] Mr. Fleay thinks this is a pun upon that eternal theme of satire for Harvey's enemies, the rope-maker's trade of his father. "The name," Mr. Fleay says, "for the stock of Huanebango are adapted from Plautus, Polymachæroplacidus (from Pseudulus), Pyrgopolinices (from Miles Gloriosus), in shapes which inevitably suggest English puns indicating Harvey's rope-making extraction, Polly-make-a-rope-lass, and Perg-up-a-line-O...." Mr. Fleay is bold.

[1060] A difficult passage. Dy. thinks the stock is a sword,--Corebus "has run away from the Parish, and become a sort of knight-errant." Dr. Nicholson: "He has started and they may catch" (if they can) and as a vagabond put him in the stocks. B. makes the clown plume himself on his finery. He points with pride to his feather; and he is equally proud of his fashionable "long stock" (i.e. the stocking fastened high above the knee). This gives better sense than the second explanation; Corebus asserts a sort of equality with Huanebango.

[1061] The successful guessing of riddles wins a bride, fortune, liberty, what not, in many a folk-tale.

[1062] Below 'the,' Sig. C.

[1063] Enter Erestus.

[1064] care for.

[1065] plenty. Corebus quotes the stilted talk of Huanebango.

[1066] This gift of the cake reminds one of a similar motif in the tale of The Red Ettin, Jacobs, p. 135.

[1067] though times are hard.

[1068] sings.

[1069] Below 'up,' Sig. C ii.

[1070] These tricks of magic are the staple of tales and chapbooks about conjurers, and make a braver showing in plays like Doctor Faustus and Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay. See the latter play in this volume, and Mr. Ward's introduction to his edition of the two dramas.

[1071] Later editions omit. The formula is less uncanny than usual; but the two cocks have grim associations. The dark-red cock of Scandinavian myth belonged to the underworld. See The Wife of Usher's Well, and R. Köhler in the Germania, XI. 85 ff.

[1072] The local hits are to be noted: praise for roast beef of England, wine of France, and girding at Spain, at brewers,--one thinks of Falstaff's complaint about the lime in his sack,--friars, and usurers.

[1073] Below 'begon,' Sig. C iii.

[1074] B. prints: 'heaven [n]or hell shall rescue her from me.'

[1075] Did this Echo suggest the song in Comus?

[1076] The "Life-Index," so called, of popular tales, connected with the equally popular motif of the "Thankful Dead."

[1077] Erestus.

[1078] Misprint for 'Corebus.'

[1079] Dogberry's distortion of words is about as old as English comedy.

[1080] Q. assure.

[1081] As above:--a gay, reckless fellow.

[1082] According to Sir Walter Scott "the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood in arms" is in the ballad of Bewick and Grahame, "sworn brethren" as they are, each "faith and troth" to the other.

[1083] That's settled once for all.--Bullen.

[1084] Recent editions make the Sexton's speech end here, and put the rest in the stage directions.

[1085] Below 'the,' Sig. D.

[1086] Open the argument from my side (with the aid of the pike-staff).--Bullen.

[1087] Recent eds. [Gives money].

[1088] on.

[1089] harvesters.

[1090] See Appendix B.

[1091] Below 'men,' Sig. D ii.

[1092] B. points out that Corebus enters a moment later.

[1093] "The 'fee-fi-fo-fum' formula is common to all English stories of giants and ogres; it also occurs in Peele's play and in King Lear.... Messrs. Jones and Krorf have some remarks on it in their 'Magyar Tales,' pp. 340-341; so has Mr. Lang in his 'Perrault,' p. lxiii, where he traces it to the furies in Æschylus' Eumenides."--Jacobs, Eng. Fairy Tales, p. 243.

[1094] Recent eds.--Enter Sacrapant the Conjurer and Two Furies.

[1095] Recent eds.--Huanebango is carried out by the Two Furies.

[1096] Recent eds.--Strikes Corebus blind.

[1097] goad.

[1098] In this and like cases the editors restore a tolerable metre by different printing. Thus 'Here hard' may be taken as part of the preceding line.

[1099] Dr. Nicholson would read 'name' to no advantage. Sacrapant says she has forgotten her name, but has not forgotten as much as she ought to forget. The phrase is awkward, but is perhaps more "intelligible" than Mr. Bullen allows.

[1100] Below 'to,' Sig. D iii.

[1101] Dy. prints 'Well done!'

[1102] To the popular tale, here plainly drawn upon, Peele has added an amusing feature which seems to be his own invention. He provides the deaf Huanebango with a scolding wife, while the blind Corebus takes her ugly sister.

[1103] As much as "uncomely," "ugly," as shown by the countless passages in Elizabethan literature, and the connotation of the opposite, "fair." Dyce quotes the same phrase,--"though I am blacke, I am not the Divell ..." from Greene's, Quip for an Upstart Courtier.

[1104] In The Three Heads of the Well, "a golden head came up singing:--

"'Wash me and comb me, And lay me down softly. And lay me on a bank to dry, That I may look pretty When somebody passes by.'"

[1105] Sc. beard.

[1106] The upshot of much investigation seems to be that the phrase to have cockell-bread means to get a lover or a husband.

[1107] So in Hartmann's Iwein, a knight pours water from a certain well upon a stone near by; a terrible thunderstorm is the immediate result. A similar act may bring the milder rain for one's crops (Grimm, Mythologie, p. 494).

[1108] Harvey had an indifferent ear for verse, and here, perhaps,--since the hexameters follow so hard upon,--is a neat way of stating the fact.

[1109] Both Stanyhurst and Harvey were favorites for this sort of ridicule. The hexameters of the former are described admirably by Nash, and, of course, are parodied here. Huff, Ruff, and Snuff were characters in the play of King Cambyses. Cf. too Harvey in "Green's Memoriall or certain funerall sonnets" (Son. vi):--

"I wott not what these cutting Huffe-snuffes meane, Of alehouse daggers I have little skill...."

[1110] Dy. points out that this is an actual line in Harvey's Encomium Lauri.

[1111] Below 'rattle,' Sig. E.

[1112] Used by Chaucer to describe the "hunting of the letter," in his day still a normal rule of verse, particularly in the north of England (Prologue to the "Persone's Tale"):--

"But trusteth wel, I am a suthern man, I can not geste rum, ram, ruf, by letter...."

Professor Skeat (Notes to C.T., p. 446) thinks Peele has Chaucer in mind, and shows that the latter probably borrowed the words "from some French source."

[1113] 'Ka'=quoth he.--'Wilshaw'? [Qy.: Will ich ha(ve)? Cf. l. 648. Gen. Ed.]

[1114] Lob's pound, is B. notes, was a phrase of the day for "the thraldom of the hen-pecked married man."

[1115] It is hardly necessary to correct this into 'thy.'

[1116] As a ghost, of course.

[1117] Below 'runne,' Sig. E ii.

[1118] The "foot-page" of the ballads.

[1119] These rhyming scraps remind one constantly of the cante-fable, of the formula-jingles in popular tales.

[1120] Probably a misprint for 'come.'

[1121] Below 'pursse,' Sig. E iii.

[1122] Celanto.

[1123] He is blind.

[1124] In the tale there are three heads.

[1125] Dyce's copy read 'tost.' Mr. P. A. Daniel: "Qy.: 'Toast'?"

[1126] Milton, Comus, 817: "backward mutters of dissevering power."

[1127] Mr. P. A. Daniel would read 'iced.'

[1128] Dy., 'Acts.'

[1129] Below 'maide,' Sig. F.

[1130] Dy. notes that this and the three following lines are taken almost verbatim from Greene's Orlando Furioso.

[1131] It is not necessary to adopt Mr. Daniel's emendation.

[1132] Below 'Venelia,' Sig. F ii.

[1133] Calypha.

[1134] That is, all the actors of the play within the play. Below 'Omnes,' Sig. F iii.

[1135] Q., shuts.

[1136] Part.

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