Appendix

SOME ALLEGED IRREGULARITIES IN THE VERSIFICATION OF FRIAR BACON

If we take the first quarto of Friar Bacon as we find it, we shall see that some of the peculiarities in verse structure are mannerisms with which every student of contemporary drama is familiar, and that others may be justified as intended for rhythmical and dramatic expressiveness. These considerations convince me that it is best to leave the versification--and consequently most of the text--as it was in 1594.

=A. Accent.=--1. Greene makes frequent use of the stress-syllable opening.--Sometimes for emphasis as in

ii. 49. Bów to the fórce of his pentágerón; and in vi. 28, 35, 45, 58.

Sometimes for the tripping effect, as in many of the lines assigned to Margaret, e.g. iii. 10, 13, 15, 21, 30, 31; and in lines expressive of the blithe, or the beautiful, such as i. 14, 15, 56, 60, 75, 81. Such stress-syllable openings are frequently counterbalanced by an anapæstic second or third foot; occasionally by two anapæsts, as in

vi. 58. Lácie, love mákes no excéption of a friend; xii. 56. Híe thee to Frésingfield and bring hóme the lásse.

2. The stress syllable is used also to open the verse-section after the pause, e.g.:--

i. 78. She túrned her smócke | óver her lilly ármes; and in iii. 7.

But 'over,' 'safely,' might be read with the hovering accent. So xvi. 21 ('prìncès'). Methods (1) and (2) appear to be combined in

iii. 79. Máke but a stép | ínto the keépers lódge; and in iii. 81, iv. 5, vi. 138.

3. The extra syllable is adroitly used before the verse-section (the epic cæsura) as a compensation for the stress-syllable opening:--

ii. 156. Maíster Búrd_en_ | whèn shàll we sée you at Hénley? xiv. 47. (Pégg_ie_ | thy daúghter, etc.), and vi. 58 as above (Lác_ie_ | lòve màkes).

4. The hovering accent is evident in such lines as

viii. 149. I práy | Gòd Ì | like hèr | as I lóv|ed theé.

It emphasizes the reluctant utterance. Ignoring this, Dy. and G. change text and rhythm to:--

'Pray Gód | I like | her ás | I lóv|ed thee.

=B. Quantity.=--1. A syllable is broken into a dissyllable, or prolonged by way of emphasis, in such cases as i. 168 (your̈ heart's), ii. 18 (of āll ⋀ this), ii. 170 (Ā-men), ix. 116 (haile, or hāile), vi. 17, xii. 43 (fair̈e), xiii. 38 (hour̈e). In names like Marg(a)ret, Erm(e)sbie, diæresis or dialysis often occurs. For Elizabethan usage, see Schipper, Neuengl. Metrik, 1: § 53, and Knaut, Metrik R. Greene's (Halle, 1890).

2. In vi. 4, 171, vii. 25, etc., such words as devil, spirit, are contracted by synæresis or slurring. In x. 55, xiii. 3, xiii. 38 (while I've; he'd; thou'st), we find elision or apocope, as, also, in xiv. 79, vi. 162, xiii. 37 ('n if she bé; 'n if your hónour; there'll bé). In vig'r, El'nor, fri'r, pow'r, fi'ry, syncope. In vi. 135, ix 129 (To⌒avoid; no⌒unlesse), synalœpha. Evidently the dramatist has in mind the spoken sentence, in which slurring and rapid pronunciation are more likely to occur than omission of syllables.

=C. Lacking Syllables.=--1. Compensation for one syllable is made by a rhetorical pause, or by lengthening or emphasizing the next syllable, e.g.,

(a) In the first foot, for an absent thesis:--

vi. 17. ⋀ Thát this fai-r coúrteous coúntrie swaíne; vi. 130. ⋀ Made me thinke the shádows súbstàncès;

unless we read with hovering accent, sc. "Màde mè ⋀ thínke," which wouýld accumulate the emphasis upon 'thinke.' Do., Dy., W., gratuitously insert 'to' before 'thinke.'

vi. 161. ⋀ Whý stànds frìer Búngay só amázed?

Another acephalous line. The suppression of the light syllable accentuates the arsis 'Why.' For similar suppression in questions see i. 20, ii. 156.

xiv. 77. ⋀ Whý,--then Màrgret wíll be shórne a nún?

Accumulated emphasis of surprise. So, in iii. 4: (⋀ Thómas, maids when they cóme), etc.; and in

xiv. 34. ⋀ Lóve ... oh, Lóve!--and wíth fond Lóve, farewéll.

Dy., G., W., "Farewell, oh Love" for first two feet. But why should Margaret repeat a verb which she has used twice already in this speech? As for Greene, he was not writing a primer of prosody for school recitations. Margaret has said farewell to world, friends, father, and dainty robes, then with a sigh or sob, for which Greene allows by the lacuna, she bids adieu to the dearest--"⋀ Lóve ... oh Lóve." The pause before Love heightens the explosion. A similar effect is produced by the suppression at the beginning of

xiv. 20. ⋀ Pride, | flàttèr iè ànd | incónstant thoúghts or perhaps ⋀ Príde | ⋀ flát terie ánd.

Dy. says this line is mutilated, and G. inserts 'vanitie' after 'Pride.' But the line is all right. See also C, 2 b, below.

ix. 171. ⋀ Grátious ás the mórning stárre of heáven.

I prefer this to Ward's emendation (approved by Wagner) 'Gratious as is,' because the Q is less sibilant and, owing to the pause, more deliberate and forcible. Greene may have written 'As gracious'; for compare Looking-Glasse, l. 14, 'As glorious,' etc.

ix. 257. ⋀ Pérsia, dówne her Vòlga bý canóws.

The rhetorical emphasis on 'her' compensates (with the hovering accent) for the aposiopesis before 'Persia.' Greene's metrical effects don't always count upon the fingers, but they are often rhythmically delightful.

(b) For a lacking thesis in the second foot, a similar rhetorical pause, sometimes also an anapæstic third foot, may compensate, as in

i. 11. And nów ⋀ chángde to a mélanchólie dúmpe.

The 'a' is in Q 1. Wagner's emendation (Anglia, p. 523; 1879), "he's chang'd to melancholy dump," is futile.

ii. 62. Carved oút ⋀ like to the pórtall óf the súnne.

Pause for reflection. The ear is satisfied by the spondaic first foot and the anapæstic third. (With i. 11 and ii. 62 cf. A 2 above.)

vii. 3. For hé ⋀ troópt with áll the wésterne kíngs.

The rhythmical aposiopesis represents a rhetorical pause for which the strongly accented 'troopt' and 'all' compensate. Do., Dy., G., W., read 'troopèd,'--but I don't think Greene did.

x. 27. Contént ⋀ keéper; sénd her únto ús.

I have inserted a dash for the pause of decision after 'content': Lambert accepts the proposition and acts. No metrical stop-gap is necessary. Sometimes the arsis is lacking, and is supplied by a pause or gesture:--

xiii. 4. Ah, Búngay, ⊼ my Brazen-head is spoíled.

A second 'ah' suggests itself, and Dy. and W. print it. But I have no doubt Greene intended the speaker to draw breath for a sigh indicative of despair.

xiv. 111. Come, Sússex, ⊼ let's ín we sháll have móre.

The missing arsis is supplied by the pause that succeeds a command. With different punctuation we have '⋀ Cóme! | Sússex, let's ín,' which is as good. The editors keep Lacie talking.

ix. 229. And gíve us cátes ⋀ fit for coúntrey swáines.

If the emperor did not pause for language suitable to the emergency, it was because he pronounced 'cates' as a dissyllable. Cf. Marlowe's Faustus (Dyce ed. 1850, p. 211), "Pardon me sweet, ⋀ Í forgot myself."

ix. 144. How nów, ⋀ Vándermást! have you mét with your mátch?

Pause for surprise. If the pause should fall before 'have' it would indicate the transition to inquiry. In this and the next instance anapæstic compensation is prominent.

ix. 148. Why Vándermast, ⋀ árt thou óvercóme?

But it is rhetorically more natural to read: '⋀ Whý ⋀ Vándermást, art thou óvercóme?'

(d) In the fourth foot, lacking thesis:--

v. 62-64. Edw. To whóm speakest thóu? Bacon. To thée. Edw. ⋀ Whó art thóu?

Pause justified by change of speaker, and the indignant inquiry.

2. Two or more syllables lacking. To assume that omissions of this kind are due to carelessness on the part of author, scribe, or printer, is to beg the question. It is more reasonable to premise the genuineness of the lines and consider whether each in turn is not to be justified by its dramatic conditions. The following sixteen exhaust, I think, the more flagrant instances of lacuna in this play. In none would I alter the text of the first quarto.

(a) Edward's lines:--

vi. 47. Gogs wóunds ⋀ Bácon hére comes Lácie ⊼.

Abrupt outcry, in which the less and the more forcible exclamatory pauses are metrically provided for by the lacking thesis and arsis respectively. The lacking thesis allows also for the transition from surprise to affirmation. This line is paralleled by

vi. 127. Gogs wóunds ⋀ Bácon they kísse! Ile stáb them ⊼.

The former pause for breathless amazement; the latter for decision and a gesture. He raises his hand to deal the blow.

vi. 146. Helpe, Bácon ⊼! ⋀ stóp the márriage nów!

Dyce, "some word or words wanting." Others would supply "Helpe! and" and so reduce the line to mediocrity. The omission is intentional. The exclamatory pause after 'Bacon' is metrically equivalent to an accented syllable. The pause before 'stop' is for Edward's quandary--as if he should for a moment cast about for an appropriate request. The line might of course be interpreted so as to require one lacking thesis before 'Helpe' and one before 'Bacon.'

vi. 108. ⋀ Hów familiar they bé, Bacòn, ⋀ ⊼.

First pause, the gasp before an interrogatory exclamation. Second pause for Bacon's 'Sit still,' which as a convertible fo_o_t is the last of this line and the first of the next.

vi. 176. The foot pause before 'Flees' may allow for a burst of laughter. Wagner suggests 'very fear,' which no compatriot of Greene, if he read the line aloud, can tolerate. Until English is a dead language it will hardly be judicious to encourage foreign emendations of our masterpieces.

(b) Margaret's lines.

iii. 46. Suppression of the first two feet in rapid dialogue. The words 'sent this rich purse' might have been set down before 'To me?' but with what advantage save to fill the pentameter? For the clause has occurred once and the verb twice already in the last six lines. The suppression intensifies the dialogue, and accentuates the mingled surprise and impatience of the speaker.

viii. 132. A rhetorical pause occupies the first foot or the last. Like the preceding instance in so far as the aposiopesis indicates question and surprise. Dy., G., insert 'indeed' before 'mean': easy but needless.

x. 156. Dy. queries 'shall be' after 'wealth.' But the words 'shall be' are implied from the preceding line, and so intentionally omitted. An additional rhetorical emphasis falls upon trash:--

Wealth, ⊼ ⋀ träsh; love, háte; pleàsùre, dispaíre.

xiv. 20. Impassioned soliloquy within an address, like x. 158. The light syllables of the first and second feet are suppressed to increase the effect of the accented syllables: ⋀ Príde ⋀ flätterie and--.

ii. 157. The infuriate Burden occupies the first foot with a stifled 'Henly!' or something unreverend.

ix. 120. An interrogatory pause for the first foot or an exclamatory for the last; unless we combine the lines thus:--

Van. What art thóu that quéstionst thús? Bacon. Men cáll me Bácon.

ix. 162. Whý, ⋀ Bacon, whíther dost thóu send him.

As in vi. 161, and ix. 148, the lacunæ correspond with moments of breathless surprise; and emphasis is accumulated upon the syllables respectively succeeding. If we scan without pauses, the lacunæ will occupy the fifth foot which might naturally be reserved for Bacon's echo-question [send him?]. 'Whither,' probably contracted 'whe'r.'

x. 150. What ánswere shall Í retúrne to my lórd? [Marg. Retúrne?]

Another echo-foot. Unless we pronounce 'réturne' for which there is authority, as in iv. 56, 'prógress,' ix. 242, 'éxceed.' See Schipper, Neuengl. Metr., p. 153.

xiii. 72. My father slaine! ⋀⊼ Sèrlbỳ, ward thát.

The thesis of the third foot allows for the recoil of horror; the arsis for the transition to revenge--the drawing of the rapier.

xiv. 99. Echo of the previous idea, unuttered because dramatically understood; ['As glád] as if,' etc. Dy. suggests insertion ⋀ ⊼ 'As glad as if,' and G. adopts. No.

xvi. 69. Let's márch: ⋀ ⩡ the tábles áll are spréad.

The silent foot allows for the rhetorical pause between command and affirmation. Cf. vi. 146. Dy.'s 'Let us march hence,' and G.'s 'Let us march on,' will do well enough if we must keep somebody talking all the time.

=D. Additional Syllables.=--Like the foregoing apparently deficient lines it will be found that, properly read, most of the so-called hypermetric lines conform to the pentameter. The dozen or so that do not are warranted by historic, if not by rhetorical, conditions. At any rate they are much more likely to be the lines that Greene wrote than are the 'procrustitutes' which we might suggest.

1. Readers should allow for feminine endings, as

ix. 111. To thém of Síen, Flórence ánd Belógna;

or Bolónia, gliding ending.

ii. 156. ⋀ Maíster Búrden whèn shàll we sée you at Hénly?

Of feminine endings Knaut counts ten, and about four gliding.

2. They should allow also for the anapæst in itself (as ix. 231) or by way of compensation for a missing syllable in an adjoining foot. Two such give the appearance of a senarius. Occasionally, as in vi. 163 ('gay straightwáy,' or 'way from Frés--'), the foot is awkward. Even so, I do not think that the emendation 'straight' (Dy., W.) for this 'straightway' is necessary.

3. Senarii. (a) The following are such in appearance only. They should be read as pentameters in which the anapæst, slurring, or elision, is employed. In

i. 156. Send létters speéd'ly | to Óxford óf the néwes,

we have the epic cæsura. So also vi. 94, cæsura after 'Beckles'; and so

x. 77. Give mè ... but tén days' réspite | and Íle replý, and xvi. 30. Atténds on Él'nor | gramércies, lórd, for hér.

In ix. 191. ⋀ Mártiall Plantágenet | Hénries highmínded sónne,

we have the lyric cæsura; so also in

xiii. 67. Then this for her | Áh, well thrúst. But márke, the wárd.

Cf. Schipper Neuengl. Metr., p. 25 n.

In iii. 51. For we've líttle leísure tó debáte of thát,

vi. 131-132. 'Twere a lóng poinárd, my lórd, to reách betweéne ⋀ Óxford and Frésingfiéld, but sit stíll and see móre, vi. 162. I've stroók him dúm my lórd | 'n if your hónor pleáse, ix. 31. Of éleméntal éssence, térra's but thóught, ix. 45. Ànd òf the víg'r of the géomantic fiends, xiv. 79. We cánnot stáy my lórd | 'n if she bé so stríct,--

anapaestic readings with natural apocope or syncope preserve the pentameter. Dy's 'you' for 'your honor' in vi. 162, and omission of 'my lord' in xiv. 79, are therefore unnecessary.

xvi. 64 appears to have six feet; but if it is taken in sequence with the preceding line the effect is of two five-foot lines.

(b) The following senarii of Q 1 are real, and should be preserved, though Dyce and Ward generally place the first foot in a line by itself. The Marlowan reform had not yet completed the rout of the Alexandrine,--and even if it had Greene would have remained unrouted. He uses the Alexandrine, sometimes unconsciously, sometimes for variety. Perhaps a few of these senarii, i. 10, 83; ii. 112, 148; iii. 26; vi. 77; ix. 185; x. 149; xi. 7, 92; xii. 18; xiv. 78; xvi. 40, are accidental, but most of them are intended to be impressive, and the additional foot generally indicates the person most concerned.

=E. Other Debated Lines.=

iv. 11. Ward retains the senarius. Dyce thinks 'corrupted,' and queries, 'As Agenor's damsel did,' for 'through the deep' is almost a repetition of 'through the seas.'--Wagner: 'like Europa through the deep.'--Perhaps (says Palgrave acc. to Ward) the dramatist pronounced the name Ágenor. We might then scan:--

And vénture as Ágenor's dámsel thróugh the deép.

But it is quite as likely that Greene intended, or let slip, a senarius. ix. 112. The quartos are right, and we should scan thus:--

Reìmès, Lovaín, and faí-r Rótherdam.

For 'fayer,' etc., see B 1, above. By altering to 'Rheims,' Do., Dy., G., and W. miss the metre. G., for instance, reads 'Rheims [and]'; Elze (Notes on Elizab. Dramatists, Halle, 1886, cxcix): 'Of Rheíms, of Loúvain ánd fair Rótterdám'; Knaut: 'Rheims, Loúvain, Páris ánd.' But if we preserve the spelling of the quartos the scansion is simple.

=A Few Conclusions.=--Greene was sensitive to dramatic niceties of utterance. Hence most of the metrical idiosyncrasies which are improperly called irregularities. An induction from the instances cited under C above shows that the following were the conditions of utterance to which he accorded special elocutionary recognition: the pause before a question or a response and the increase of emphasis upon the syllable succeeding the silence; the pause for reflection, and the pause before deliberate utterance; decision attending a command; the pause of speechless anger; the stoppage due to sighing, sobbing, horror, or any recoil of emotion; the period of, or after, a gesture, an inarticulate cry, a burst of laughter, an exclamatory remark; the pause during the suppression of the self-explanatory. The examination of his practice in Friar Bacon shows that in order to represent these conditions in dramatic blank verse Greene availed himself of silent beats with a uniformity that might be called system, were it the outcome of anything less spontaneous than the rhetorical instinct and the feeling for rhythm. Subordinating these to his knowledge of stage 'business,' Greene seems, then, to have developed a metrical use of the lacuna somewhat like this:--

Before an important affirmation, the name of one addressed in exclamation, an inquiry, an imperative request, a command;

At the transition from one form of utterance to another, the suppression of word or words understood, the gulp of rage, the burst of laughter;

After an outcry.

These conclusions are confirmed by an examination of the other plays in which the text is fairly authentic. The dramatist naturally and, in that sense, intentionally suited his 'lines' to the histrionic emergency: an achievement not difficult for one of his rhetorical quality, who was also familiar with the practice of the stage. On similar grounds and with a regard likewise for the conditions of verse at the time, his senarii are to be retained and defended.

Most of the attempts to reduce his dramatic blank verse to anything like measured uniformity are, therefore, in my opinion academic and superfluous. They are indeed worse, for not only do they ignore the personal equation, they tend to pervert the data from which the history of English metres must be derived. There may, of course, be lines, like vi. 17 and ix. 47 of this play, where dramatist or intermediary has unwittingly omitted something, or actor wantonly added, but they are few; and unless the sense calls out for orthopædic assistance, no literary, historical, or philological interest is subserved by doctoring the text.

Henry Porter

THE PLEASANT HISTORY OF THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON

_Edited with Critical Essay and Notes by Charles Mills Gayley, LL. D., Professor in the University of California._

CRITICAL ESSAY

=The Facts of Porter's Life.=--The Two Angry Women of Abington is the only extant production of Henry Porter. In 1841 Mr. Collier, who was then editing Henslowe's Diary, supplied Mr. Dyce with what purported to be all the materials in that journal relative to this dramatist; and these, with the exception of one of August 23, 1597, connecting him with Nashe, which has been shown to be a forgery, are copied from Dyce's Percy Society edition of the Two Angrie Women by Mr. H. Ellis for the preface to the Mermaid edition of the play. The statement is there made that "the foregoing extracts--extending over the brief period of a single year ... contain all the definite information which has reached us concerning Henry Porter." An examination of Collier's Henslowe's Diary will show, however, that Mr. Ellis omits about a dozen entries[1580] affecting our poet which, though inaccessible to Dyce in 1841, have been available since 1845. A complete list of such notices in their chronological order has not been set before the public. I, therefore, subjoin the following, inserting an additional memorandum (No. 8) of January 17, 1598-9, from another source, and eliminating the suspicious Henslowe entries which Mr. George F. Warner[1581] has branded as Collier forgeries. The references are to the first volume of the Diary.

1. P. 77. Dd unto Mʳ Porter, the 16 of desembr 1596 vˡⁱ

2. P. 77. Lent unto Mʳ Porter, the 7 of march 1597 iiijˡⁱ

3. P. 124. Lent unto the Company, the 30 of maye 1598, to bye a boocke called love prevented, the some of fower powndes, dd to THOMAS DOWTON. Mʳ Porter[1582] iiijˡⁱ

4. P. 126. Lent unto Cheattell, the 26 of June 1598, in earnest of a boocke called the 2 pte of blacke Battman of the north; and Mʳ Harey Porter hath geven me his worde for the performance of the same, and allso for my money xxˢ

5. P. 131. Lent unto the company, the 18 of Aguste 1598, to bye a Boocke called hoote anger sone cowld of Mʳ Porter, Mʳ cheattell, and bengemen Johnson, in fulle payment, the some of vjˡⁱ

6. P. 141. Lent unto thomas Dowton, the 22 of desembr 1598, to bye a boocke of harey Poorter called the 2 pte of the 2 angrey wemen of abengton vˡⁱ

7. P. 144. Lent unto harey Porter, the 17 of Janewary, 1598[-9] at the request of Richard Alleyn and Wᵐ Birde the some of xxˢ

8. An acknowledgment of the transaction (No. 7) in the Bodleian. See note prefixed to Malone's copy (Malone, 184): as follows,

"An acknowledgement of a debt of 20 s. owing to Philip Henslowe, dated Jan. 17th, 1598[-9], and bearing the autograph signature of Henry Porter, formerly lying loose in this volume is now to be found in MS. Eng. Hist. C. 4, fol. 15. (Signed) W. H. A., June 8, 1885."

9. P. 143. Lent unto Thomas Dowton, the 31 of Janewary 1598[-9], to bye tafetie for ij womones gownes, for the ij angrey wemen of abengton, the some of ixˡⁱ

10. P. 145. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 12 of febreary 1598[-9], to paye Mʳ Poorter, in fulle payment for his boocke called the 2 pte of the angry wemen of abington, the some of ijˡⁱ

11. P. 145. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 12 of febreary 1598[-9], to bye divers thinges for the playe called the 2 pte of the angrey wemen of abington ijˡⁱ

12. P. 146. Lent unto harey porter, at the Requeste of the company, in earneste of his boocke called ij mery wemen of abenton the sume of forty shellings; and for the Resayte of that money he gave me his faythfull promysse that I shold have all the boockes which he writte, ether him selfe or with any other, which some was dd the 28 of febreary, 1598[-9]. I saye xxxxˢ THOMAS DOWNTON, ROBERT SHAWE[1583]

13. P. 146. Lent unto Harey Cheattell, the 4 of marche 1598[-9], in earneste of his boocke, which harey Porter and he is a writinge, the some of, called the Spencers xˢ

14. P. 146. Lent unto Robart Shawe, the 22 of marche 1598[-9], to paye unto Mʳ porter, in full paymente of his playe called the Spensers the some of vˡⁱ xˢ

15. P. 147. Lent unto Harey Porter, at the apoyntment of Thomas Downton, the 7 of aprell 1599, the some of xxˢ

16. P. 151. [A note for the same in Porter's handwriting]--Borrowed of phillip Henchlowe, xxˢ, the vijth of Aprill, anno. dom. 1599. (Signed) HENRY PORTER

17. P. 148. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 9 of Aprell 1599, to bye dyvers thinges, as 4 clothe clockes, and macke up a womones gowne, the some of--For the Spencers xˡⁱ

18. P. 94.[1584] Lent Harey Porter, the 11 of aprill 1599 the some of ijˢ vjᵈ

19. P. 148. Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 14 of Aprell 1599, to macke divers thinges for the playe of the Spencers, the some of xvˡⁱ

20. P. 148. Delyvered unto Thomas Downton boye, Thomas parsones, to bye divers thinges for the playe of the Spencers, the 16 of aprell 1599, the some of[1585] vˡⁱ

21. P. 94. Lent Harey Porter, the 16 of aprell, 1599, the some of xijᵈ

22. P. 261. Harey Porter tocke a somsete of me, Phillipe Henslowe, the 16 of Aprell 1599, upon this condition, that yf I would geve him xijᵈ at that instant, for that xijᵈ he bound hime seallfe unto me in xˡⁱ of corant Inglishe mony, for this cawse to paye unto me the next daye folowinge all the money which he oweth unto me, or els to ferfette for that xijᵈ tenn powndes; which deate wase unto me xxvˢ, which he hath not payd acordinge to his bonde, and so hath forfetted unto me: wittnes to this a sumsette, JOHN HASLETT, Va[ul]ter Mᴿ KYNGMAN, the Elder.

[This entry which seems to refer to No. 21, would naturally be made on the 18th of April, 1599, but in the Diary it occurs at the end of a confused sequence running March 25, 1598, November 16, 1599, August 9, 1598, September 18, 1602, September 19, 1602. Between it and the next entry, undated but probably of February, 1601-2, leaves are missing or mutilated. According to Dyce, whose information came from Collier, the entry on p. 94 "is struck through, the money having been repaid." But Collier does not record the payment of the xijᵈ in his edition of the Diary; nor, according to p. 261, was Porter released from the "deate of xxvˢ" or the "forfette of xˡⁱ."]

23. P. 94. Lent Harey Porter, the 5 of may 1599 the some of ijˢ 6ᵈ

24. P. 94. Lent Harey Porter, the 15 of maye 1599, the some of ijˢ 6ᵈ (Signed) HENRY PORTER

25. P. 94. Be it knowne unto all men, that I, Henry Porter, do owe unto Phillip Henchlowe the some of xˢ, of lawfull money of England, wcʰ I did borrowe of hym the 26 of maye, aº dom. 1599. HENRY PORTER[1586]

=Other Early Notices.=--Meres, in the Palladis Tamia, 1598, names our dramatist as one of the best for comedy among us, and places him in good company: Lyly, Lodge, Gascoigne, Greene, Shakespeare, Nashe, Thomas Heywood, Munday, Chapman, Wilson, Hathaway, and Chettle. It is perhaps worthy of remark that, beginning with Nashe, all these playwrights were at the time Porter's associates in the employ of Henslowe and the Admiral's company, and that in this list our poet rubs shoulders with Chapman and Wilson. Much less flattering are the references in Richard West's Court of Conscience or Dick Whipper's Sessions, 1607,[1587] to "ruffianly Dick Coomes" (Poem to Prophane Swearers) and "Nimble-tongued Nicholas as the Proverbe saith" (Address to Liers), which are undoubtedly allusions to our play[1588]: for although Porter's Nicholas is not a liar, his Coomes is, in the extreme, ruffianly and profane. The context of The Court of Conscience would indicate, however, that West was availing himself, to some extent, of nicknames proverbial among the vulgar, such as Suckblood, Tom Taylor, Money Monger, and Nicholas Newfangle. That Porter's play was still in circulation as late as 1661 is shown by its inclusion in Kirkman's Catalogue of that date.

=Conjectural Identity.=--Malone, Collier, and Dyce give no clue; in fact they do not exhaust the materials in Henslowe. Langbaine mentions only the printed play. Hunter, in his Chorus Vatum Anglicanorum[1589] says "it can hardly be doubted that this is the same Henry Porter of Christ Church who was made Bachelor of Music in July, 1600 (Alumn. Oxon. III. 1182). Wood says that he had seen some of his compositions, but thinks none were extant when he wrote. This Henry Porter was father of Walter Porter, Master of the Choristers at Westminster, who had friends in Sir Edward Spencer and Edward Laurence. He was related to Dr. John Wilson." Foster in the Alumni Oxonienses, tells us, in addition, that Walter became gentleman of the Chapel Royal of Charles I. This information is all traceable to Wood's Fasti,[1590] but Wood does not attempt to identify Henry Porter the dramatist with Henry Porter the musical composer. Of the latter we learn, from the Register of the University of Oxford,[1591] that he had studied music for twelve years and had "composed" before he took his degree, July 4, 1600. There is no record of a degree in arts, nor of matriculation, at Christ Church; this musical activity would seem, however, to have occupied the career of the future bachelor of music from a date eight years before Porter the dramatist appeared in Henslowe's employ to a date after our poet had borrowed his last half-crown from that employer. "The statutable conditions for the degree of Mus. Bac." at that time, say Boase and Clark,[1592] "were that the candidate should have been seven years in re musica, and that he should compose and cause to be sung in the university a canticum quinque partium, giving three days' notice of the performance of this exercise." That a student like Porter of Christ Church, who had proceeded leisurely through his course in music, taking twelve years instead of the seven prescribed, and who, meanwhile, was composing canticles on elevated and, probably, sacred themes, should be a man of maturity and acknowledged worth is only natural to suppose. And such was the esteem in which Porter of Christ Church was held by an Oxford undergraduate of that day, who addresses him in the following verses, published in 1599:[1593]--

"AD HENRICUM PORTER

Porter I durst not mell with sacred writ, Nor woe the mistris fore I win the maide; For my yong yeres are taskt; its yet unfitte, For youth as eld is never halfe so staid. Thy selfe which hath the summe of Art and Wit Thus much I know unto me would have said; Thy silver bell could not so sweetly sing If that too soone thou hadst begun her ring."

The Porter thus apostrophized by John Weever has set sacred writ to music, but only after careful discipline leading to the musical art; and his wisdom has been proved by the result: "Thy silver bell" of music, says his admirer, "could not so sweetly sing, If that too soon thou hadst begun her ring." Mr. Havelock Ellis,[1594] to whom these verses were communicated by Mr. Bullen, understands them to refer to Porter the dramatist, and concludes therefrom, that he was "at the period of his dramatic activity a man of mature age."

But there is nothing in Weever's verses applicable to the dramatist as we know that personage: his extant play is anything but sacred, it presents no particular evidence of mature authorship, betrays no interest in musical affairs, yields no bell-tones of style or verse. While Weever was writing his Epigrams, 1596 to 1599, the dramatist was pursuing anything but a staid and silvern course at the Rose Theatre on the Bankside. The slowly matured composer of canticles, on the other hand, was completing a leisurely discipline at Christ Church, and to such a student Weever's eulogy admirably applies.[1595] In all probability the composer stuck to his metier. He was of a musical family: his son obtained recognition from Court for his musical attainments; and a kinsman, Dr. John Wilson, "a very eminent musician of whom there is a long notice in Wood," was professor of music at Oxford in 1656.[1596]

The familiarity with Oxford and its surroundings displayed in the drama of the two angry women who meet in the neighboring village of Abington is, however, indicative of Oxonian authorship, and we are again driven to the registers of the university in search of some available Henry Porter. There is, I find, but one capable, in point of chronology, of fulfilling the conditions:

"Matriculations: 19 June, 1589, Brazenose, Porter, Henry; Lond., gen. f. 16."[1597]

Concerning the academic career of this Henry Porter there is no information to be gathered from the records of university or college--why he was not admitted B.A., or why or when he left his college. I am apprised, however, by Mr. C. B. Heberden, the Principal of Brasenose, who at my request kindly instituted the requisite search, that such absence of information is not unusual, for the College Register was very imperfectly kept in the sixteenth century. If this was our Henry Porter, the author of the Pleasant History of the Two Angry Women, he was born in 1573, the son of a gentleman of London, he kept an uneventful term or so at Brasenose, and was perhaps still there in 1592 when his future associate in Henslowe's employ, John Marston, was matriculated. After his return to London he must have taken speedily to play-writing, for he was not more than twenty-three years of age when we find him selling his dramas to the Admiral's company for distinctly reputable sums. A modest straw in favour of the supposition that this was our dramatist is the explicit statement in both editions of our play to the effect that its author was Henry Porter, Gent. We have no proof that the Porter of Christ Church, who took his only degree after our play was printed, had any right in 1599 to sign himself Gentleman.

=Dramatic Career.=--Although, as I have said, only one of Porter's plays is extant, the entries in Henslowe, and their context, enable us to form some conception of his relation to the contemporary drama. They indicate that between December 16, 1596, and May 26, 1599, he was associated as a writer of plays with the Admiral, the Earl of Nottingham's company of actors, and that after February 28, 1599, his services were pledged to that company alone. It is possible that he had also acquaintance among the Earl of Pembroke's men, who were acting at The Rose for a short time during October and November, 1597, in partnership with the Admiral's company; but of this we cannot be certain, for we have no record of Porter's actions between March 7, 1597, and May 30 of the ensuing year.

The payment of December 16, 1596, is not in loan nor "in earnest of a boocke," but delivered as for a play then completed; and the sum, even if it were not a final instalment, would in itself indicate a play of some promise, for £6 or £7 was as much as Henslowe usually gave for a production even by an author already distinguished. If the payment was for a completed "boocke," the play would, according to the procedure of the Admiral's men, have been ready for presentation within a period of ten days to six weeks after the date of purchase. The following were the new plays presented by this company during that period: That Will Be Shall Be, December 30, 1596; Alexander and Lodowick, January 14, and Woman Hard to Please, January 27, 1597. Of these Alexander was the most successful, and That Will Be next.[1598] It is possible that the third play was the work of Heywood who had been recently paid 30s.--for a "boocke."[1599] As to Alexander, it is mentioned two years later as the property of Martin Slater,[1600] and there is reason to conjecture that it was written by him. But, even if these attributions were conclusive, we should not be justified in assuming--that the book remaining unassigned, That Will Be Shall Be, was the property for which Porter was paid on December 16, 1596. It is not, however, impossible that his first production was one of the three most popular plays put upon the boards at The Rose that season. That Henslowe's loan to Porter on the following March 7 had any connection with a play of December 16, 1596, is most unlikely. Henslowe was not by way of disbursing £9 for one "boocke." The date is also too remote from May 30, 1598, to permit of our connecting this loan with the payment for Love Prevented, there mentioned, let alone the objection that if the entries of March 7, 1597, and May 30, 1598, refer to the same play, the author was paid the unusually high sum of £8. But though we cannot prove that Porter made much out of Henslowe and the Admiral's men, it would seem that they made a good deal out of him. For after certain purchases from Porter and during the period within which the first performances of his plays must naturally have occurred, the theatre receipts increased appreciably. The play of May 30, 1598, for instance, would, according to custom, have been presented some time between June 10 and June 30. The only other new play that could during those weeks have assisted to swell the profits of the theatre was the First Part of Blacke Battman of the North, by distinguished authors, to be sure, but not extant. Henslowe's weekly receipts from "my Lord Admerall's mean" during the month before June 10 had averaged £3 16_s._ 3_d._; during the period between June 10 and June 30 they rose to an average of £5 4_s._ 4_d._; the week after June 30 they fell again to £2 11_s._ 6_d._[1601] That Porter was at that time held in respect by Henslowe is shown by the transaction of June 26, when the crafty manager took his surety for the performance of a literary and pecuniary obligation by Chettle, than whom no one could have been habitually more in arrears. And that Porter's plays were worth having is proved by Henslowe's engaging, in February of the next year, everything that he might write, whether in partnership or alone. That this appreciation of his plays was shared also by the company appears from the unusual sums which they expended for the apparel and properties necessary to their presentation.[1602]

Of the playwrights at that time attached to the Admiral's company, the most intimately associated with Porter would appear to have been Chettle; and, through him, our poet must have been brought into close relations with Robert Wilson, who was Chettle's colleague in that Second Part of Blacke Battman, for the completion of which Porter went surety,--also with Dekker and Drayton, who had assisted in the writing of the First Part, and were, maybe, interested in the Second. In fact, Chettle, Dekker, Drayton, Wilson were boon companions in productivity and the 'marshallsey': to go bail for one of them was presumably to pay for all. With Ben Jonson, who was just then coming into notice as a dramatist, Henry Porter must have drained many a flagon. In August, 1598, these two have just finished writing a play in company with Chettle, Hot Anger Soon Cold, and are paid a fair price for it by Henslowe, who seems to regard Porter, however, as the principal author, for he enters his name first in the record. But if the returns from this play are included in Henslowe's receipts of the next two months, it cannot have been more than an ordinarily successful production.[1603]

During the latter part of 1598 our dramatist is engaged upon a play called by Henslowe the 2 Pte of the 2 angrey women of abengton. This was rehearsed during January and February, 1599, and by February 12, the day on which final payment was made to Porter, £11[1604] had been expended on properties for the performance. It was probably ready for presentation at that time, and its success may have assisted the sudden leap in Henslowe's share of the receipts from £7 10_s._, for the week ending February 18, to £15 3_s._, for the ten days ending February 29,[1605] 1599. This play paid Porter £7, a higher figure than Hot Anger had brought. Some two weeks later he is under contract to produce a sequel, the ij mery wemen of abenton, and only four days later still, March 11, he is engaged in a new partnership with Chettle to produce a play entitled The Spencers, or Despencers, a magnificent and tragic subject perhaps suggested by the reprinting of Marlowe's Edward II. during the preceding year.[1606] The Spencers was finished by the 22d of the same month. That it was looked upon as a play of great promise appears from the large amounts which, as already stated, were expended in its preparation for the stage. It was first acted some time after April 14. On the 16th Henslowe enters a final small disbursement for properties, of which perhaps the need was perceived during the first performance. His receipts for the week ending April 15 rise to £13 7_s._, four times as much as for the week before; while the entry, £13 16_s._, for the week next ensuing, during which the play was surely on the stage, is, with the exception of those of February 29, already mentioned, and of June 3,[1607] the largest that year. Perhaps by April 22 the novelty of The Spencers had begun to wear off, for there is again a drop in Henslowe's receipts, to £11 5_s._, the week ending April 29.[1608] This partnership with Chettle existed, by the way, in the year when Every Man in his Humour was in course of composition, and it ended just about a month before 'Bengemen' passed a rapier through Gabriel Spenser in Hoxton Fields.

Beside the playwrights already mentioned, Porter must have known in varying degrees of intimacy Heywood, Haughton, Day, Munday, Chapman, Hathaway, and, perhaps, Rankins, who were then writing for the company; also Samuel Rowley and Martin Slater, who appear to have been serving as actor-dramatists. With the players Downton, Richard Alleyn, Robert Shaw, and the polyonymous William Bird, Porter was associated in various business negotiations. Of course he knew the above-mentioned Gabriel Spenser, and Henslowe's son-in-law, Edward Alleyn, and the two Jeffes, and Towne and Singer, and the other active members of the company.

Most of the playwrights in Henslowe's pay lived in hand-to-mouth style; but in art of cozening groats from the manager who in turn squeezed angels from the dramatist, none excelled 'Harey' Chettle. It is instructive to note that, from the period of close intimacy with Chettle, Porter sinks ever deeper in Henslowe's debt. On January 17, 1599, he had borrowed a pound of Henslowe. He was then, still, in the heyday of his success; but only six weeks later, February 28, we find Henslowe, under cover of a further beggarly advance, acquiring a lien on all his productivity. A few days after that the two 'Hareys,' doubtless with a hope of release from the moneylender's grip, are sweating out The Spencers for him; and Chettle, with or without Porter's knowledge, is borrowing another half-sovereign in earnest of its completion. When, on March 22, the joint production is finished, the dramatists are paid less for it than The Second Part of the Two Angry Women had brought to Porter alone; and before it is acted Porter has given his note of hand to Henslowe for another pound; and so proceeds the declension of 'Harey' Porter. Between December 16, 1596, and June 26, 1598, he had been Henslowe's 'Mr. Porter'; as soon as he begins to borrow, January 17, 1599, he is 'Harey' with a rare reversion to the ancient style; after April 7 there is no reversion. The loans, too, which at first were of a dignified amount, suddenly fall to 2_s._ 6_d._ Familiarity has bred as usual; and, by April 16, 'Harey,' who at this time owes the manager 25_s._, is compelled in consideration of 1_s._ to clear his debt on the morrow or forfeit £10. Next day Shylock has him, but for some reason continues to dribble out the sixpences until May 26. Then 'Harey' signs the last I. O. U. of which we have record, and drops out of history and Henslowe with as little warning as he had entered.

=Date of the Extant Play.=--Porter wrote two plays and engaged to write a third on the Women of Abington. Of a First Part of the Two Angry Women, there is no record in Henslowe, at least under that name. But of the Second Part the entries of December 22, 1598, and February 12, 1599, make explicit mention; and an intervening note of January 31, 1599, which records an outlay for the play without specification of the part is by date and position evidently a reference to this same Second Part. According to the entries of February 12, the sum of £2 was on that day expended in a concluding purchase of properties for the performance, and an equal amount was given to Porter in final payment for the "boocke" entitled the 2 pte. of the angry wemen of abington. So closes all record of that second part. The payment of £2, two weeks later, February 28, is the usual advance "in earneste of" a "boocke" not yet finished; but the title of it was the ij mery women of abenton, and it was undoubtedly intended to be a continuation of the general theme. There is, however, no record of final payment (of £4 or £5) as in other cases, and no proof that the play was completed. I have no doubt that the play of which the text is here given, The Pleasant History of the Two Angry Women of Abington, is the unrecorded First Part, above mentioned. Our drama was twice printed in 1599 "as it was lately playde by ... the ... Admirall his servants," and it had, in all probability, been in the possession of the company for some time before publication; whereas the Second Part was only first acted in that year, and would not, with the consent of the company, have been turned over to printers. For it was to the player's interest to restrict his dramatic stock-in-trade, while it was novel, to the play-house. That the non-extant play of December 22, 1598-February 12, 1599, which is explicitly called the Second Part, was preceded by The Pleasant History is, moreover, confirmed by the title-page of The Pleasant History, which is unconscious of predecessor and sequel alike. By how long a period, then, did our play precede the missing Second Part? The words "as it was lately playde" on the title-pages of both editions may or may not be advertisement. But there is, at any rate, no likelihood that the first performance antedated May 14, 1594, when the Admiral's men began their long engagement with Henslowe; nor that it fell between that date and December 16, 1596, for it does not appear (nor any name that suggests it) in Henslowe's consecutive list of plays performed by the Admiral's men during that period. And since Henslowe observed his method of entry by days and plays until November 5, 1597, the Pleasant History would have been specified in that part of the diary[1609] if the first payment to Porter, December 16, 1596, or the loan of the succeeding March 7, had been for a play bearing that name. Since there is no mention of a Pleasant History of the Two Angry Women of Abington before the close of Henslowe's daily register, nor of a First Part of the Two Angry Women between that date and December 22, 1598, when negotiations are in progress for a Second Part, it would seem that, whether our play came into existence before or after November 5, 1597, it must have first passed under some other name.

In the former alternative not even the wildest conjecture can identify it with any title recorded by Henslowe before March 7, 1597, except Woman Hard to Please, and that is more suitable to the subject of Heywood's Challenge for Beauty than of our Pleasant History. It is not until two months after the loan of March 7--four pounds to Porter--that one comes upon the first performance of the only play of that period that can at all correspond with the Pleasant History. This is the successful but as yet unidentified Comodey of Umers, for the writing of which Henslowe records no payment, although he marks it "new" and makes entries which show that it was acted no less than twelve times at his "howsse" between May 11 and October 11 of that year, and that it supplanted Alexander and That Will Be in the favour of the public. It has been held, to be sure, that this anonymous Comodey was Every Man in his Humour; but that is impossible, for Ben Jonson himself states that Every Man was brought out during the next year, 1598, and not by the Admiral's, but by the Lord Chamberlain's servants,[1610] while Henslowe includes The (Comodey of) Umers even the year after it had been acted by the Admiral's company in his "Note of all such bookes as belong to the Stocke [of that same company], and such as I have bought since the 3d of Marche, 1598."[1611] Mr. Fleay thinks that the Comodey was Chapman's Humerous Dayes Mirth, and Dr. Ward inclines to accept the conjecture; but I think that Mr. Fleay's plea in favour of Chapman's play will apply as well to Porter's Pleasant History, the subtitle of which advertises "the humorous mirth of Dick Coomes and Nicholas Proverbes," while the scenes develop "humours," which are much more natural than those of Chapman's play, and fall but little short, indeed, of the quality that characterizes B. J.'s Every Man in his Humour. As far as plot goes I cannot for a moment believe that the ineptitudes of the Humerous Dayes Mirth can have commanded the popularity which was achieved by the Comodey of Umers.

If, however, according to the latter alternative, the Pleasant History came into existence between November 5, 1597, and December 22, 1598, the attempt to identify it with the Comodey of Umers falls to the ground. But another possibility at once presents itself: for the only mention by Henslowe of a play produced in the interim by Porter alone is of "a boocke called Love Prevented."[1612] For this a payment of £4 is made on May 30, 1598; and until Love Prevented turns up, and turns out to be other than our play, it will be open to conjecture whether under this title we have not the earliest record of the Pleasant History of the Two Angry Women. For not only is this the sole title assigned to Porter alone during the period under consideration, it is also a title fairly descriptive of the central movement of the Pleasant History.[1613] The date of payment, moreover, would accord with the assertion of recent performance which appears upon the title-page of our play as printed; it would also allow for a reasonable lapse of time before the publication, which was not by license and was probably of a printed copy. If this conjecture be correct, the date of our play is May 30, 1598; and we have an explanation, in part, of Henslowe's increased receipts during the month following. If, on the other hand, our play be the Comodey of Umers, the date of its first presentation is May 11, 1597. Whether these identifications be correct or not, the play may be dated between December 16, 1596, and December 22, 1598, and it was probably known to Meres when during the latter year he included Porter among the writers of comedy.[1614]

=Dramatic Qualities: Construction.=--Of the plot we may cry with Goursey, "Here's adoe about a thing of nothing." Not this, but occasional situations and the subconscious qualities of humour and verisimilitude lend distinction to the play. The Pleasant History has atmosphere and therefore entity. It is a creation. Its characters stand out. Porter knew their ways and words before he knew their history. He had met them out Cumnor way or Hinksey, by Bagley, Abington, and Milton on many a cross-country stroll. What basis there was for Mrs. Barnes's jealousy, whether Master Barnes had too often gone to Milton "a-hunting or such ordinary sports," and, once too often, "chatted with" Mrs. Goursey "all day till night," we are not explicitly informed. Nor is the dramatist. That Mrs. Goursey has given no cause for offence goes without saying. But there is trouble in the air. The wives are angered: after a dissension sufficiently prolonged to afford us an insight into them and their surroundings, their wrath shall be appeased. How, we know not; nor does the dramatist, but it seems to him natural, if not novel, that the son and daughter of these foes should with their marriage "bury their parents' strife." That end he pursues, carrying all with him except those whom he most would carry. When the hour is nigh and we are expectant, and the star-crossed lovers have made for Carfax to be wed, they lose each other and everybody else in a midsummer night's "cunny greene," where, whence, and whither, darkling, the dramatic persons play blindman's buff with the plot till, frustrate of discovery, they despair. Then in steps Sir Raph Smith, ex tenebris et machina, to find the heroine, and prophesy solution and "the lanthorne of the day" and lend our hopes a fillip, but straight to lose us worse than ever in the devious night. Beholders and beheld all now despair. And Porter might still be spasmodically rounding his rabbits into the "cunny greene" and out again, had not the quarrelsome wives happened each on other, and on them in turn their husbands happened, who simulating mortal combat succeed at last in terrifying their women into peace. Only after the characters most concerned have thus by chance taken the solution into their own hands and effected the reconciliation, does the peacemaker intended by the dramatist drop in with the lost sweetheart on his arm; and the union of the young lovers, which had been designed to promote the union of their mothers, proceeds on its own merits, superfluous, like the second tail on the proverbial toad. The plot, therefore, is not the "thing." Not only does it pursue half a dozen possibilities, each of which it drops halfway; it starts another half-dozen, which it never pursues. But the auditor, unforewarned, pricks to each wild-goose chase in turn. The complication of the angry women and the subplot of the lovers, with its pretence of a solution, move rapidly through the first, third, sixth, and eighth scenes; but in the second and fourth the farcical element retards the pace; in the seventh a new and futile start is made, and in the ninth the platt itself slides into a kind of commedia all' improviso. From this it is rescued at the beginning of Scene xii. by Master Barnes's "pollicie." But although his "drift device" is of the utmost importance to the audience, I have my doubts whether any hearer has caught the hint, and I am sure that to most readers the sham combat between the husbands in Scene xiv. comes as something impromptu and secondary. Consequently a luxury of anticipation has been forfeited. The "pollicie" is in itself a capital ruse for curing shrewishness, and it has been frequently used of later years, as, for instance, in Gillette's Because She Loved Him So; but in 1597 it had the additional charm of novelty, and deserved a better handling. The situation in Scene vi., where Mrs. Goursey snatches and restores her husband's letter, is, conversely, well prepared, but lacks all consequent. The marksman draws his bow to the top of its bent, then gradually relaxes the tension--because he has forgot his arrow. But, though Porter is guilty of imperfect devices, few English comedies before his time can boast of scenes more realistic and humorous than the game at tables, the burlesque wooing of Mall at her window, and the comic irony of the climax between the disputatious mothers under whose beaks the debated chickens are eloping. In fact, with all crudities, the plot develops an interesting individuality, for which the author does not seem to be at all responsible; none the less interesting if "a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet."

=Portrayal of Character.=--When we turn to the "persons" and their "humours" we realize the architectonics of the play. There is something at once natural and masterly in the ease with which Porter introduces the condition of "neighbour amitie," wherewith the masters delude themselves, while their spouses blow upon the coals of hatred: the hostess, teeming with innuendo,--"malice embowelled in her tongue,"--the lady of Milton read in Æsop's fables, quick to conjecture, and "every day as good as Barnes's wife," whether to divert a moral or direct a curse. And as the women promise they develop: Mrs. Barnes, a "jealous, slandering, spiteful queane"; Mrs. Goursey, subtler and fairer spoken, but incapable of backgammon "if slanders by doe talke,"--patently obedient, but impatient of rebuke, soothing her husband with soft words, but, inward, fuming at his "Peace, be quiet, wife"; easily his better, bidding him "grow to the housetop with your anger, Sir," and then humouring his pleasure, not because of his "incensement," but his "health." The opprobrious epithets of Barnes's wife Mistress Goursey returns into her teeth; damns her as "mankind"; takes up the quarrel last and is last to lay it down. In fact, as Mistress Goursey is the more independent of the twain, she is also historically the more original. Mrs. Barnes, on the other hand, is an amalgam of stock shrews, gossips, and jealous wives: a descendant of Tom Tyler's more strenuous half, a kinswoman of Dame Chat, a Kitely in petticoats, the remote grandmother of Colman's Mrs. Oakly.

Barnes and Goursey are henpecked husbands of the remordent variety. Barnes, the more experienced in domestic infelicity, is correspondingly the more given to moral tags and pregnant sentences. He sometimes rises almost to poetry, as when he tells his wife:--

"Rough, wrathful words Are bastards got by rashness in the thoughts;"

from bathos he is just saved by a sense of the incongruous: "O doe not" begs he of the virago whom he styles "sweete,"

"O, doe not set the organ of thy voice On such a grunting tone of discontent! Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue With such mishapen answeres."

It is appropriate that upon him who has given rise to the brief unpleasantness by inviting guests without his wife's consent, should rest the onus of devising the effective "pollicie" of reconciliation.

From him Goursey is well differenced. Possessed of a finer wife and a quicker temper, when the former, contrary to expectation, crosses the latter he well-nigh falls into an apoplexy. Oaths he abhors, but in the access of his rage swears horribly and apologizes to the Almighty between breaths.

That the morals of the sons reproduce those of the sires in their salad days, I reluctantly suspect. It is the recital of young Frank's licentiousness that convinces young Philip that here is just the husband for Sister Mall. And--considering that Mall is frankly and squarely what her mother calls her, a "lustie guts" and "vile girl," in fact her mother's daughter, fit to "floute the devill and make blush the boldest face of man that ere man saw" a swearing wench whose only claim to morals is unmorality--Philip's judgment is correct. There is, in my opinion, no coarser-minded girl in Elizabethan comedy; and at the same time there obtains no dramatic portrayal of the animal more observantly conceived or more faithfully executed. That she is, as Mr. Ellis says, less sophisticated than Congreve's Prue, is not exactly to her credit. Nor need I make her out "a wholesome, robust English girl ... with a brave openness, loving and sincere," in order to justify my appreciation of Porter's skill in creating her. She is, indeed, robust and Elizabethan, seventeen and upward; but within she is a mate for Caliban; no relation to Prue,--rather a link between Wapull's Wilful Wanton and Vanbrugh's Hoyden. It is hardly necessary to point out the literary and dramatic affinities of Sir Raph and his wife: the buck-hunting squire and the lady tender-hearted and "pitous."

The foregoing are characters of broad outline; but each has, as well, his quirk of conduct, manners, or of style. The jealous wife with her "stopt compares"; "Mistresse Would-Have," who has "let restrainèd fancy lose," and sworn to lead no apes in hell; her brother, a poet at second-hand, and "sick discourser" of his sister's wit; Nan Lawson's lover of "quick invention" and "pleasure-aiming mind,"--these and others of the major movement are as palpably in their "humours" as Mrs. Otter, Doll Common, Master Stephen, or Kitely, or Truewit. And when we turn to the secondary group we find the "humours" not only advertised upon the title-page but specified in the text. Dick Coomes is "humord bluntly" to brag and swear and drink and quarrel and talk bawdy. "I see, by this dearth of good swords, that dearth of sword-and-buckler fight begins to grow out; I am sorry for it," complains this swashbuckler serving-man. With "Sbloud!" he comes upon the stage, and there's little left of God unhallowed when Coomes subsides beneath his buckler in the dark. "Why, what a swearing keeps this drunken asse," exclaims Francis. "Peace, do not marre his humour," Phil replies. "Away, bawdie man," cries Hodge, and even the Boy must say, "Here him no more, maister; he doth bedawbe ye with his durty speche." He has a "merrie humour," too, this Coomes, of punning, and has brought "the apparell of his wit ... into fashion of an honor." A Thraso of the servants' hall, he'll outswear any 'Pharaoh's foot' of a tailor's shop. He can dispute precedence with Ancient Pistol as "the foul-mouthedst rogue in England"; and when he's in his "quarreling humour," not Pistol, nor Bobadil, nor the 'humorous' Nim could swagger to Dawson's close or out of a horse-pond with a more humorous grace. It is to be noted that, in his first lines, Coomes animadverts upon "the humour of those young springals," his masters, who "will spend all their fathers' good at gaming"; also that Philip's servingman has his humour both of manners and of style: "a spruce slave," cross-gartered like Malvolio, "a nosegay bound with laces in his hat," "all proverbes in his speech ... because he would speak truth," a dramatic Camden or Ray, who quotes Latin withal, and is as marked in his "humour" as Coomes and Franke's Boy, and Mall and Mrs. Barnes in theirs.

=Place in the History of Comedy.=--It would, therefore, be of no small importance to determine whether this Pleasant History is Henslowe's Comodey of Umers of May 11, 1597; for if it be, this play of characteristics precedes Every Man in his Humour, and disputes the "place peculiar to itself in our dramatic literature" which most critics have assigned to that masterpiece of Ben Jonson. But even if it be not the play of May 11, 1597, our drama was certainly written before December 22, 1598, probably by May 30 of that year; and consequently to Porter, as an influential associate of Chapman and Jonson, must be given something of the credit of blazing the path toward the comedy of characteristic. The fun of the play has at once a Chaucerian shrewdness and a something of the careless guffaw of W. Wager. Its realism throws back to Mak, and Johan, Tom Tyler and Gammer Gurton. As a comedy of unadulterated native flavour, breathing rural life and manners and the modern spirit, constructed with knowledge of the stage, and without affectation or constraint, it has no foregoing analogue except perhaps The Pinner of Wakefield. No play preceding or contemporary yields an easier conversational prose, not even the Merry Wives.

We must not close this study without remarking certain resemblances to Shakespeare. In the matter of situations and language traces of the Romeo and Juliet of 1592, and the Midsummer-Night's Dream of 1594-1595, appear. The fanciful reader might, indeed, suspect something like a good-natured burlesque of the balcony scene in the conversation between Frank and Mall "at her window"; perhaps even of the motif of Shakespeare's tragedy, in the loves of the children of the inimical wives of Abington: "How, sir? your wife!" says Mrs. Barnes to Francis:--

"Wouldst thou my daughter have? Ile rather have her married to her grave."

Even so had spoken Lady Capulet. And Romeo seems to be muttering in his sleep through Philip's soliloquy:--

"The skie ... Is in three houres become an Ethiope ... She will not have one of those pearlèd starres To blab her sable metamorphosis."

If anything further were needed to illustrate Philip's taste in plays, it would be furnished by the hazy reminiscence of "the imperial votaress" and "the nun, for aye ... in shady cloister mewed." Indeed, if Porter did not have in mind the quadrilateral wanderings of the Midsummer-Night's Dream when Frank and Mall missed the way to Carfax, I am much surprised. That Dick Coomes, when he stood between his mistress and the angel to be tempted, was not thinking of Gobbo, is, of course, possible, but it is not possible that Dick Coomes's creator was not familiar with the Merchant of Venice. There is also, as I have already implied, a quality in Dick's sword-and-buckler voice that rings contemporaneous with the Henry IV., Pts. I. and II. To trace a connection between the well-known lines of Hamlet in 1602 and Porter's

"How loathsome is this beast man's shape to me This mould of reason so unreasonable"

(1597-98), would, I fear, be fanciful. The resemblance, faint as it is, may be due to mere coincidence or to derivation from a common source.

=Previous Editions and the Present Text.=--Two editions of this play were published in 1599: one for Joseph Hunt and William Ferbrand; the other for Ferbrand alone (in same place of business). From the variations in spelling and text which characterize the Ferbrand quarto and are evidently intended for improvements, and from the fact that Ferbrand was still alone when, in 1600, he published another play, Look About You, I conclude that the edition printed during the period of partnership was the earlier of the two. It will be indicated in the notes to the present text as Q 1. Of Q 1 a copy is to be found in the British Museum (162. d. 55). Of Q 2, published by Ferbrand alone, there are two copies in the Bodleian, one formerly owned by Malone, the other by Douce. Q 2 furnishes the more careful text. That it was made, however, not from manuscript, but from Q 1, is evidenced by the retention of occasional printers' errors and oddities characteristic of the earlier edition. Dyce, in his edition (Dy.) for the Percy Society, 1841, followed Q 1, with occasional readings from Q 2 and silent emendations. This edition, with modernized spelling, is included in Hazlitt's Dodsley, Vol. VII. (H.). Mr. Havelock Ellis's edition of the play (E.), with acts, scenes, and modernized spelling, for the Mermaid Series (Nero and Other Plays, 1888), appears to be based upon H. The present text is that of Q 2 (Bodl. Malone 184), with such substitutes from Q 1 as are indicated in the footnotes.

CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY.

FOOTNOTES:

[1580] Nos. 1, 2, 4, 7, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 20, 22.

[1581] _Catalogue of the MSS. and Muniments of Alleyn's College of God's Gift at Dulwich_, Lond.: 1881, pp. 157-162. See also H. B. Wheatley, John Payne Collier; Lond.: 1884, p. 61.

[1582] Collier says this name was added "in a different hand to indicate" the author.

[1583] Witnesses.

[1584] Nos. 18, 21, 23, 24 are consecutive on p. 94, and in Henslowe's writing, but with Porter's signature after 24.

[1585] After this follows an item, p. 149, to the effect that the "boocke of the spencers" had helped Chettle to pay off "xˢ of a debt with the companye."

[1586] The whole of this acknowledgment is in Porter's handwriting.

[1587] British Museum, C. 39, b. 21.

[1588] Heber (Bibl. Heber), Pt. IV., No. 2872, in B. M.

[1589] British Museum: Add. MS., 24487-92, Vol. II. 302.

[1590] Fasti, I. 284.

[1591] Boase and Clark, Vol. II., Pt. 1, p. 147.

[1592] As above, p. 145.

[1593] Douce, in a note in the unique copy in the Bodleian, says that according to the date of the print by Cecill, Weever was twenty-three in 1599. The epigram in which Weever says that he is not yet twenty may therefore have been written as early as 1596.

[1594] Mermaid Series, Porter, p. 90.

[1595] With this opinion I find that Mr. Bayne agrees, D. N. B. Art., Porter.

[1596] Hunter, II, 300, and Hist. Reg. Univ. Oxford, 1888.

[1597] Boase and Clark, Vol. II., Pt. 2, p. 170.

[1598] Alex. was acted fifteen times during the next six months, That Will Be twelve times. The Woman ran for four months and was acted ten times. Alex. brought in almost as much as the others combined.

[1599] Henslowe, p. 78. Fleay conjecturally identifies it with the Challenge for Beauty.

[1600] Henslowe, pp. 123, 128; May 16, and July 18, 1598.

[1601] Henslowe, p. 101.

[1602] Two A. W. A., Pt. II., £18 5_s._; The Spencers, £30 10_s._ Properties rarely cost more than £15.

[1603] Henslowe, p. 129, August 26, October 28.

[1604] £18 5_s._, if we may assume (as Mr. Fleay does) that the entries, pp. 143-144, of January 26 and February 1, refer to this play.

[1605] Sic.: Henslowe, p. 130.

[1606] Not the other way around as Collier thinks (Henslowe, p. 146, n.) for Edw. II. had been in print since 1594.

[1607] Henslowe, pp. 130, 146. Cf. the advance from £10 8_s._ on May 27, 1599, to £16 12_s._ on June 3, the day after Dekker and Chettle's Agamemnon was licensed and probably first acted; and the advance from £3 14_s._ on October 27, 1599, to £8 16_s._, the week ending November 3 (Henslowe, p. 152), during which the successful Sʳ John Oldcastell had "ferste" been played.

[1608] But, of course, we cannot with certainty attribute the increase of April 16 to The Spencers alone. It may have proceeded, in part, from the revival of Alex. and Lodowick, for the properties required by which Henslowe had, on March 31, advanced £5 to Juby. Henslowe had, moreover, obtained license during March for the 4 Kynges, Brute Grensbillde, and "four other plays" (pp. 146, 147).

[1609] pp. 82-91.

[1610] Title-page of E. M. i. H., edited by B. J., 1616.

[1611] Diary, p. 276.

[1612] p. 124.

[1613] Notice the résumé of the action in the speeches of Goursey and Sir Raph, Sc. xiv., ll. 277-289, the "crossing of true love." I am pleased to find that in this conjecture, which I had imagined to be new, I have been anticipated by Mr. Fleay, Chron. Engl. Drama. 2, 163.

[1614] Halliwell-Phillips assigns Palladis Tamia to the early part of 1598, but there are no notes in the S. R. to aid us in the investigation. Mr. Fleay assigns it to November, 1598.

THE PLEASANT HISTORY OF the two angry women of Abington.

With the humorous mirth of Dicke Coomes and Nicholas Prouerbes, two Seruingmen.

As it was lately playde by the right Honorable the Earle of Nottingham, Lord high Admirall his seruants

By Henry Porter Gent.

[VIGNETTE]

Imprinted at London for William Ferbrand, and are to be solde at his shop at the corner of Colman streete neere Loathbury.

1599.

The Names of the Speakers[1615]

M. GOURSEY. MIST. GOURSEY. M. BARNES. MIST. BARNES. FRANKE GOURSEY. PHILLIP [BARNES]. BOY. MALL BARNES. DICK COOMES. HODGE. NICHOLAS PROVERBS. SIR RAPH SMITH. [LADY SMITH.] WILL, Sir Raphes man.

FOOTNOTES:

[1615] First in Q 2.

The Prologue

Gentlemen, I come to yee like one that lackes and would borrow, but was loath to aske least hee should be denied: I would aske, but I would aske to obtaine; O would I knewe that manner of asking! To beg were base, and to cooche low and to carry an humble shew of entreatie were too dog-like, that fawnes on his maister to get a bone from his trencher: out, curre! I cannot abide it to put on the shape and habit of this new worlds new found beggars, mistermed souldiers, as thus; 'Sweet gentlemen, let a poore scholler implore and exorate[1616] that you would make him rich in the possession of a mite of your favours, to keep him a true man in wit, and to pay for his lodging among the Muses! so God him helpe, he is driven to a most low estate: tis not unknowne what service of words he hath been at; hee lost his lims in a late conflict of floute; a brave repulse and a hot assault it was, he doth protest, as ever he saw since hee knewe what the report of a volley of jestes were; he shall therefore desire you'--A plague upon it, each beadle disdained would whip him from your companie. Well, gentlemen, I cannot tell howe to get your favours better then by desert: then the worse lucke, or the worse wit, or some what, for I shall not now deserve it. Welcome[1617] then, I commit my selfe to my fortunes, and your contents; contented to dye, if your severe judgements shall judge me to be stung to death with the adders hisse.

FOOTNOTES:

[1616] Qtos., exerate.

[1617] Q 1, 'Well.'

The pleasant Comedy of the two angry Women of Abington

[Scene First. Abington. Near Master Barneses House: The Orchard[1618]]

Enter MASTER GOURSEY and his wife, and MASTER BARNES and his wife, with their two sonnes, and their two servants.

Maister Goursey. Good maister Barnes, this entertaine of yours, So full of courtesie and rich delight, Makes me misdoubt my poore ability In quittance of this friendly courtesie.

M. Bar. O master Goursey, neighbour amitie 5 Is such a jewell of high reckoned worth, As for the attaine of it what would not I Disburse, it is so precious in my thoughts!

M. Gou. Kinde sir, neere dwelling amity indeed Offers the hearts enquiry better view 10 Then love thats seated in a farther soyle: As prospectives[1619] the[1620] neerer that they be Yeeld better judgement to the judging eye; Thinges seene farre off are lessened in the eye, When their true shape is seene being hard by. 15

M. Bar. True, sir, tis so; and truely I esteeme Meere[1621] amity, familiar neighbourhood, The cousen germaine unto wedded love.

M. Gou. I,[1622] sir, thers surely some aliance twixt them, For they have both the off-spring from the heart: 20 Within the hearts bloud ocean still are found Jewels of amity and jemmes of love.

M. Bar. I, master Goursey, I have in my time Seene many shipwracks of true honesty; But incident such dangers ever are 25 To them that without compass sayle so farre: Why, what need men to swim when they may wade? But leave this talke, enough of this is said: And, master Goursey, in good faith, sir, wellcome;-- And, mistresse Goursey, I am much in debt 30 Unto your kindnes that would visit me.

Mi. Gou. O master Barnes, you put me but in minde Of that which I should say; tis we that are Indebted to your kindness for this cheere: Which debt that we may repay, I pray lets have 35 Sometimes your company at our homely house.

Mi. Bar. That, mistresse Goursey, you shall surely have; Heele[1623] be a bolde guest I warrant ye, And boulder too with you then I would have him.

Mis. Gou. How doe ye meane he will be bolde with me? 40

Mi. Bar. Why, he will trouble you at home, forsooth, Often call in, and aske ye how ye doe; And sit and chat with you all day till night, And all night too, if he might have his will.

M. Bar. I, wife, indeed, I thanke her for her kindnes; 45 She hath made me much good cheere passing that way.

Mi. Bar. Passing well done of her; she is a kinde wench.-- I thanke ye, mistresse Goursey, for my husband; And if it hap your husband come our way A hunting or such ordinary sportes, 50 Ile do as much for yours as you for mine.

M. Gou. Pray doe, forsooth.--Gods Lord, what meanes the woman? She speakes it scornefully: i faith I care not; Things are well spoken, if they be well taken.-- [Aside.] What, mistresse Barnes, is it not time to part? 55

Mis. Bar. Whats a clocke, sirra?

Nicholas. Tis but new strucke one.

M. Gou. I have some busines in the towne by three.

M. Bar. Till then lets walke into the orchard, sir. What, can you play at tables?[1624] 60

M. Gou. Yes, I can.

M. Bar. What, shall we have a game?

M. Gou. And if you please.

M. Bar. I faith, content; weele spend an hower so.-- Sirra, fetch the tables.[1625] 65

Nic. I will, sir. Exit.

Phil. Sirra Franke, whilst they are playing heere, Weele to the greene to bowles.

Fra. Phillip, content.--Coomes, come hyther, sirra: When our fathers part, call us upon the greene.-- 70 Phillip, come, a rubber,[1626] and so leave.

Phil. Come on. Exeunt [PHILLIP and FRANCIS].

Coom. Sbloud, I doe not like the humour of these springals; theil spend all their fathers good at gamming. But let them trowle the bowles upon the greene; Ile trowle the bowles in the buttery by the leave of God and maister Barnes: and his men be good fellows, so it is; if they be not, let them goe snick up.[1627] Exit. 77

Enter NICHOLAS with the tables.

M. Bar. So, set them downe.-- Mistresse Goursey, how doe you like this game?

Mi. Gou. Well, sir. 80

M. Bar. Can ye play at it?

Mis. Gou. A little, sir.

M. Bar. Faith, so can my wife.

M. Gou. Why, then, master Barnes, and if you please, Our wives shall try the quarrell twixt us two, 85 And weele looke on.

M. Bar. I am content.--What, woman,[1628] will you play?

Mis. Gou. I care not greatly.

Mis. Bar. Nor I, but that I thinke sheele play me false.

M. Gou. Ile see she shall not. 90

Mis. Bar. Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see, You of all men shall not marke her hand; She hath such close conveyance in her play.

M. Gou. Is she so cunning growne? Come, come, lets see.

Mis. Gou. Yea, mistris Barnes, will ye not house your jests, 95 But let them rome abroad so carelesly? Faith, if your jealious tongue utter another, Ile crosse ye with a jest, and ye were my mother.-- [Aside.] Come, shall we play?

Mis. Bar. I, what shall we play a game? 100

Mis. Gou. A pound a game.

M. Gou. How, wife?

Mis. Gou. Faith, husband, not a farthing lesse.

M. Gou. It is too much; a shilling were good game.

M[is]. Gou. No, weell be ill huswives once; 105 You have oft been ill husbands: lets alone.

M. Bar. Wife, will you play so much?

Mis. Bar. I would be loath to be so franke a gaimster As mistresse Goursey is; and yet for once Ile play a pound a game aswell as she. 110

M. Bar. Go to, youle have your will. Offer to goe from them.

Mis. Bar. Come, ther's my stake.

Mis. Gou. And ther's mine.

Mis. Bar. Throw for the dice. Ill luck! they are yours.

M. Bar. Master Goursey, who sayes that gamings bad, 115 When such good angels[1629] walke twixt every cast?

M. Gou. This is not noble sport, but royall play.

M. Bar. It must be so where royals walke so fast.

Mis. Bar. Play right, I pray.

Mi. Gou. Why, so I doe. 120

Mis. Bar. Where stands your man?

Mis. Gou. In his right place.

Mis. Bar. Good faith, I thinke ye play me foule an ace.

M. Bar. No, wife, she playes ye true.

Mis. Bar. Peace, husband, peace; ile not be judged by you. 125

Mis. Gou. Husband, master Barnes, pray both goe walke; We cannot play, if standers by doe talke.

M. Gou. Well, to your game; we will not trouble ye.

[GOURSEY and BARNES] goe from them.

Mi. Gou. Where stands your man now?

Mi. Bar. Doth he not stand right? 130

Mi. Gou. It stands betweene the pointes.

Mi. Bar. And thats my spight. But yet me thinkes the dice runnes much uneven, That I throw but dewes ase and you eleven.

Mis. Gou. And yet you see that I cast downe the hill. 135

Mi. Bar. I, I beshrew ye, tis not with my will.

Mis. Gou. Do ye beshrew me?

Mi. Bar. No, I beshrew the dice, That turne you up more at once then me at twise.

Mi. Gou. Well, you shall see them turne for you anon. 140

Mi. Bar. But I care not for them when your game is done.

Mi. Gou. My game! what game?

Mi. Bar. Your game, your game at tables.

Mi. Gou. Well, mistresse, well, I have red Æsops fables, And know your morrals meaning well enough. 145

Mi. Bar. Loe, you'l be angry now! heres good stuffe.

[Re-enter GOURSEY and BARNES.]

M. Gour. How now, woman?[1630] who hath wonne the game?

Mi. Gou. No body yet.

M. Bar. Your wife's the fairest for't.[1631]

Mi. Bar. I, in your eye. 150

Mi. Gou. How do you meane?

Mi. Bar. He holds you fairer for't then I.

Mi. Gou. For what, forsooth?

Mi. Bar. Good gamster, for your game.

M. Bar. Well, try it out; t'is all but in the bearing.[1632] 155

Mi. Bar. Nay, if it come to bearing, shee'l be best.

Mi. Gou. Why you'r as good a bearer as the rest.

Mi. Bar. Nay, thats not so; you beare one man too many.

Mi. Gou. Better doe so then beare not any.

Mi. Ba. Beshrew me, but my wives jestes grow too bitter; 160 Plainer speeches for her were more [fit]ter:[1633] Malice lyes inbowelled in her tongue, And new hatcht hate makes every jest a wrong. [Aside.]

Mi. Go. Looke ye, mistresse, now I hit yee.

Mi. Bar. Why, I, you never use to misse a blot,[1632] 165 Especially when it stands so faire to hit.

Mi. Gou. How meane ye, mistresse Barnes?

Mi. Ba. That mistresse Gourse's in the hitting vaine.

Mi. Gou. I hot[1634] your man.

Mi. Bar. I, I, my man, my man; but, had I knowne, 170 I would have had my man stood neerer home.

Mi. Gou. Why, had ye kept your man in his right place, I should not then have hit him with an ase.

Mis. Bar. Right, by the Lord! a plague upon the bones!

Mi. Gou. And a hot mischiefe on the curser too! 175

M. Bar. How now, wife?

M. Gour. Why, whats the matter, woman?

Mi. Gou. It is no matter: I am----

Mis. Bar. I, you are----

Mi. Gou. What am I? 180

Mis. Bar. Why, thats as you will be ever.

Mis. Gou. That's every day as good as Barneses wife.

Mi. Bar. And better too: then what needs al this trouble? A single horse is worse then that beares double.

M. Bar. Wife, go to, have regard to that you say; 185 Let not your words passe foorth the vierge of reason, But keep within the bounds of modesty, For ill report doth like a bayliffe stand, To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue, And makes it forfeit into follies hands. 190 Well, wife, you know tis[1635] no honest part To entertaine such guests with jestes and wronges: What will the neighbring country vulgar say, When as they heare that you fell out at dinner? Forsooth,[1636] they'l call it a pot quarrell straight; 195 The best they'l name it, is a womans jangling. Go too, be rulde, be rulde.

Mi. Bar. Gods Lord, be rulde, be rulde! What, thinke ye I have such a babies wit, To have a rods correction for my tongue? 200 Schoole infancie; I am of age to speake, And I know when to speake: shall I be chid For such a[1637]----

Mi. Gou. What a? nay, mistresse, speake it out; I scorne your stopt compares: compare not me 205 To any but your equals, mistresse Barnes.

M. Gou. Peace, wife, be quiet.

M. Bar. O, perswade, perswade!-- Wife, mistresse Goursey, shall I winne your thoughts To composition of some kind effects? 210 Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife, And come shake hands with mistresse Goursey heere.

Mi. Ba. Shall I shake hands? let her go shake her heeles; She gets nor hands, nor friendship at my hands: And so, sir, while I live I will take heed, 215 What guests I bid againe unto my house.

M. Bar. Impatient woman, will you be so stiffe In this absurdnes?[1638]

Mi. Ba. I am impatient now I speake; But, sir, Ile tell you more another time: 220 Go too, I will not take it as I have done. Exit.

Mis. Gou. Nay, she might stay; I will not long be heere To trouble her. Well, maister Barnes, I am sorry that it was our happes to day, To have our pleasures parted with this fray: 225 I am sorrie too for all that is amisse, Especially that you are moov'de in this. But be not so, tis but a womans jarre, Their tongues are weapons, words there blowes of warre. 'Twas but a while we buffeted you saw, 230 And each of us was willing to withdraw; There was no harme nor bloudshed you did see: Tush, feare us not, for we shall well agree. I take my leave, sir.--Come, kinde harted man, That speakes his wife so faire, I, now and than; 235 I know you would not for an hundreth pound That I should heare your voyces churlish sound; I know you have a farre more milder tune Then 'Peace, be quiet, wife'; but I have done. Will ye go home? the doore directs the way; 240 But, if you will not, my dutie is to stay. [Exit.]

M. Bar. Ha, ha! why, heres a right woman, is there not? They both have din'de, yet see what stomacks they have!

M. Gou. Well, maister Barnes, we cannot do with all:[1639] Let us be friends still. 245

M. Bar. O, maister Goursey, the mettell of our minds, Having the temper of true reason in them, Affoordes[1640] a better edge of argument For the maintaine of our familiar loves Then the soft leaden wit of women can; 250 Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour love I impart[1641] my selfe to maister Goursey.

M. Gou. And with exchange of love I do receive it: Then here weel part, partners of two curst wives.

M. Ba. Oh, where shall wee find a man so blest that is not?[1642] But come; your businesse and my home affaires 256 Makes me deliver that unfriendly worde Mongst friends--farewell.[1643]

M. Gou. Twentie farewels, sir.

M. Bar. But harke ye, maister Goursey; 260 Looke ye perswade at home as I will do: What, man! we must not alwayes have them foes.

M. Go. If I can helpe it.

M. Bar. God helpe, God helpe! Women are even untoward creatures still. Exeunt. 265

[Scene Second. In front of Barneses House.]

Enter PHILIP, FRANCIS, and his BOY, from bowling.

Phil. Come on, Franke Goursey: you have good lucke to winne the game.

Fran. Why, tell me, ist not good, that never playd before upon your greene?

Phil. Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crownes; that makes it worse.[1644] 6

Fran. Let it not greeve thee, man; come ore to us; We will devise some game to make you win Your money backe againe, sweet Philip.

Phil. And that shall be ere long, and if I live: 10 But tell me, Francis, what good horses have yee, To hunt this sommer?

Fra. Two or three jades, or so.

Phil. Be they but jades?

Fran. No, faith; my wag string here 15 Did founder one the last time that he rid, The best gray nag that ever I laid my leg over.

Boy. You meane the flea bitten?

Fran. Good sir, the same.

Boy. And was the same the best that ere you rid on? 20

Fran. I, was it, sir.

Boy. I faith, it was not, sir.

Fran. No! where had I one so good?

Boy. One of my colour, and a better too.

Fran. One of your colour! I nere remember him; 25 One of that colour!

Boy. Or of that complexion.

Fran. Whats that ye call complexion in a horse?

Boy. The colour, sir.

Fran. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will-- 30

Boy. Nay, good sir, hold your hands!

Fran. What, shal we have it?

Boy. Why, sir, I cannot paint.

Fran. Well, then, I can;[1645] And I shall find a pensill for ye, sir. 35

Boy. Then I must finde the table, if you do.

Fran. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchen!

Boy. Looke how you chafe! you would be angry more, If I should tell it you.

Fran. Go to, Ile anger ye, and if you do not. 40

Boy. Why, sir, the horse that I do meane Hath a leg both straight and cleane, That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flawe, But is the best that ever ye saw; A pretie rising knee, O knee! 45 It is as round as round may be; The full flanke makes the buttock round: This palfray standeth on no ground When as my maister's on her backe, If that he once do say but, ticke;[1646] 50 And if he pricke her, you shall see Her gallop amaine, she is so free; And if he give her but a nod, She thinkes it is a riding rod; And if hee'l have her softly go, 55 Then she trips it like a doe; She comes so easie with the raine, A twine thred turnes her backe againe; And truly I did nere see yet A horse play proudlier on the bit: 60 My maister with good managing Brought her first unto the ring;[1647] He likewise taught her to corvet, To runne, and suddainlie to set; Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race, 65 Nay, shee's apt to every pace; And to proove her colour good, A flea, enamourd of her blood, Digd for chanels in her neck, And there made many a crimson speck: 70 I thinke theres none that use to ride But can her pleasant trot abide; She goes so even upon the way, She will not stumble in a day; And when my maister-- 75

Fra. What do I?

Boy. Nay, nothing, sir.

Phil. O, fie, Franke, fie! Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now, I must needs say; perswade him first to speake, 80 Then chide him for it!--Tell me, prettie wag, Where stands this prawncer, in what inne or stable? Or, hath thy maister put her out to runne, Then, in what field, what champion[1648] feeds this courser, This well paste, bonnie steed that thou so praisest? 85

Boy. Faith, sir, I thinke----

Fran. Villaine, what do yee thinke?

Bay. I thinke that you, sir, have bene askt by many, But yet I never heard that yee tolde any.

Phil. Well, boy, then I will adde one more to many, 90 And aske thy maister where this jennet feeds.-- Come, Franke, tell me, nay, prethie, tell me, Franke, My good horse-maister, tell me--by this light, I will not steale her from thee; if I do, Let me be held a felone to thy love. 95

Fran. No, Phillip, no.

Phil. What, wilt thou we[a]re a point[1649] but with one tag? Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.

Enter COMES.

Com. Swounds, where be these timber turners, these trowle the bowles, these greene men, these-- 100

Fran. What, what, sir?

Comes. These bowlers, sir.

Fra. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?

Coo. Why, I say they cannot be saved.

Fra. Your reason, sir? 105

Coo. Because they throw away their soules at every marke.

Fra. Their soules! how meane ye?

Phi. Sirra, he meanes the soule[1650] of our bowle.

Fra. Lord, how his wit holdes bias like a bowle!

Coo. Well, which is the bias? 110

Fra. This next to you.[1651]

Coo. Nay, turne it this way, then the bowle goes true.

Boy. Rub, rub!

Coo. Why rub?

Boy. Why, you overcast the marke, and misse the way. 115

Coo. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.

Phi. Dicke Coomes, me thinkes thou art[1652] very pleasant: When[1653] gotst thou this mirrie humor?

Coo. In your fathers seller, the merriest place in th' house.

Phi. Then you have bene carowsing hard? 120

Coo. Yes, faith, 'tis our custome when your fathers men and we meete.

Phi. Thou art very welcome thether, Dicke.

Coo. By God, I thanke ye, sir, I thanke ye, sir: by God, I have a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall not a servingman in Barkeshire fight better for ye then I will do, if you have any quarrell in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of my new sword; I paide a quarters wages for't, by Jesus. 128

Phi. Oh, this meate failer Dicke! How well t'as made the apparell of his wit, 130 And brought it into fashion of an honor!-- Prethe,[1654] Dicke Coomes, but tell me how thou doost?

Coo. Faith, sir, like a poore man at service.

Phi. Or servingman.

Coo. Indeede, so called by the vulgar. 135

Phi. Why, where the devill hadst thou that word?

Coo. Oh, sir, you have the most eloquenst ale in all the[1655] world; our blunt soyle affoordes none such.

Fra. Phillip, leave talking with this drunken foole.--Say, sirra, where's my father? 140

Coo. 'Marrie, I thanke ye for my verie good cheere.'--'O Lord, it is not so much worth.'--'You see I am bolde with ye.'--'Indeed, you are not so bolde as welcome; I pray yee, come oftner.'--'Truly, I shall trouble ye.'--All these ceremonies are dispatcht betweene them, and they are gone. 145

Fra. Are they so?

Coo. I, before God, are they.

Fra. And wherefore came not you to call me, then?

Coo. Because I was loth to change my game.

Fra. What game? 150

Coo. You were at one sort of bowles, as I was at another.

Phi. Sirra, he meanes the buttery bowles of beere.

Coo. By God, sir, we tickled it.

Fra. Why, what a swearing keepes this drunken asse!-- Canst thou not say but sweare at every word? 155

Phi. Peace, do not marre his humour, prethie, Franke.

Coo. Let him alone; hee's a springall, he knowes not what belongs to an oath.

Fra. Sirra, be quiet, or I doe protest--

Coo. Come, come, what doe you protest? 160

Fra. By heaven, to crack your crowne.

Coo. To crack my crowne! I lay ye a crowne of that, Lay it downe, and ye dare; Nay, sbloud, ile venter a quarters wages of that. Crack my crowne, quotha![1656] 165

Fra. Will[1657] ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me?

Coo. Urge yee, with a pox! who urges ye? You might have said so much to a clowne, Or one that had not been ore the sea to see fashions: I have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man. 170 Crack my crowne, and ye can.

Fra. And I can, ye rascall! [Offers to beat him.]

Phi. Hold, haire braine, holde! dost thou not see hees drunke?

Coo. Nay, let him come: Though he be my masters sonne, I am my masters man, 175 And a man is a man in any ground of England. Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death: I will not budge an inche, no, sbloud, will I[1658] not.

Fran. Will ye not?

Phi. Stay, prithie, Franke.--Coomes, dost thou heare? 180

Coo. Heare me no heares: Stand away, Ile trust none of you all. If I have my backe against a cart wheele, I would not care if the devill came.

Phi. Why, ye foole, I am your friend. 185

Coo. Foole on your face! I have a wife.

Fra. Shees a whore, then.

Coo. Shees as honest as Nan Lawson.

Phi. What she?

Coo. One of his whores. 190

Phi. Why, hath he so many?

Coo. I, as many as there be churches in London.

Phil. Why, thats a hundred and nine.

Boy. Faith, he lyes a hundred.

Phi. Then thou art a witnes to nine. 195

Boy. No, by God, Ile be witnes to none.

Coo. Now doe I stand like the George[1659] at Colbrooke.

Boy. No, thou standst like the Bull[1659] at S. Albones.

Coo. Boy, ye lye the hornes.[1660]

Boy. The bul's bitten; see how he buts! 200

Phil. Comes, Comes, put up,[1661] my friend and thou art friends.

Coo. Ile heare him say so first.

Phil. Franke, prethie doe; be friends, and tell him so.

Fra. Goe to, I am.

Boy. Put up, sir, and ye be a man, put up. 205

Coom. I am easily perswaded, boye.

Phil. Ah, ye mad slave!

Coomes. Come, come, a couple of whore-masters I found yee, and so I leave yee. Exit.

Phil. Loe, Franke, doost thou not see hees drunke, 210 That twits thee[1662] with thy disposition?

Fra. What disposition?

Phil. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson.

Fran. Nay, then--

Phil. Goe to, ye wag, tis well: 215 If ever yee get a wife, i faith Ile tell. Sirra, at home we have a servingman; Hees[1663] not humord bluntly as Coomes is, Yet his condition[1664] makes me often merrie: Ile tell thee, sirra, hees a fine neate fellow, 220 A spruce slave; I warrant ye, heele[1665] have His cruell[1666] garters crosse about the knee, His woollen hose as white as the driven snowe, His shooes dry leather neat, and tyed with red ribbins, A nose-gay bound with laces in his hat, 225 Bridelaces, sir, in's hat--an all greene hat,[1667] Greene coverlet for such a grasse greene wit. 'The goose that graseth on the greene,' quoth he, 'May I eate on when you shall buried be!' All proverbes is his speech, hee's proverbs all. 230

Fra. Why speakes he proverbs?

Phi. Because he would speake truth, And proverbes, youle confesse, are olde said sooth.

Fra. I like this well, and one day Ile see him: But shall we part? 235

Phil. Not yet, Ile bring you somewhat on your way, And as we goe, betweene your boy and you Ile know where that [brave][1668] praunser stands at levery.

Fra. Come, come, you shall not.

Phil. I faith, I wil. Exeunt. 240

[Scene Third.[1669] Barneses Garden.]

Enter MASTER BARNES and his WIFE.

M. Bar. Wife, in my minde to day you were too blame, Although my patience did not blame ye for it: Me thought the rules of love and neighbourhood Did not direct your thoughts; all indirect[1670] Were your proceedings in the entertaine 5 Of them that I invited to my house. Nay, stay, I doe not chide, but counsell, wife, And in the mildest manner that I may: You neede not viewe me with a servants eye, Whose vassaile[1671] sences tremble at the looke 10 Of his displeased master. O my wife, You are my selfe! when selfe sees fault in selfe, Selfe is sinne obstinate, if selfe amend not: Indeede, I sawe a fault in thee my selfe, And it hath set a foyle upon thy fame, 15 Not as the foile doth grace the diamond.

Mi. Bar. What fault, sir, did you see in me to day?

M. Bar. O, doe not set the organ of thy voice On such a grunting key of discontent! Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue 20 With such mishapen answeres. Rough wrathfull words Are bastards got by rashnes in the thoughts: Faire demeanors are vertues nuptiall babes, The off-spring of the well instructed soule; O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife! 25 So seeme not barren of good courtesie.

Mi. Bar. So; have ye done?

M. Bar. I, and I had done well, If you would do what I advise for well.

Mi. Bar. Whats that? 30

M. Bar. Which is, that you would be good friendes With mistresse Goursey.[1672]

Mi. Bar. With mistresse Goursey!

M. Bar. I, sweet wife.

Mis. Bar. Not so, sweet husband. 35

M. Bar. Could you but shew me any grounded cause.

Mis. Bar. The grounded cause I ground because I wil not.

M. Bar. Your will hath little reason, then, I thinke.

Mi. Bar. Yes, sir, my[1673] reason equalleth my will.

M. Bar. Lets heare your reason, for your will is great. 40

Mi. Bar. Why, for I will not.

M. Bar. Is all your reason 'for I will not,' wife? Now, by my soule, I held yee for more wise, Discreete, and of more temperature in sence, Then in a sullen humour to affect[1674] 45 That womans[1675] will borne, common, scholler phrase: Oft have I heard a timely married girle, That newly left to call her mother mam, Her father dad, but yesterday come from 'Thats my good girle, God send thee a good husband!' 50 And now being taught to speake the name of husband, Will, when she would be wanton in her will, If her husband aske her why, say 'for I will.' Have I chid men for[1676] unmanly choyse, That would not fit their yeares? have I seene thee 55 Pupell[1677] such greene yong things, and with thy counsell Tutor their wits? and art thou now infected With this disease of imperfection? I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame.

Mi. Bar. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so! 60

M. Bar. O black mouth'd rage, thy breath is boysterous, And thou makst vertue shake at this high storme! Shees[1678] of good report; I know thou knowst it.

Mi. Bar. She is not, nor I know not, but I know That thou dost love her, therefore thinkst her so; 65 Thou bearst with her, because she beares with thee. Thou mayst be ashamed to stand in her defence: She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man To stand in her defence against thy wife. If I catch her in my walke, now, by Cockes[1679] bones, 70 Ile scratch out both her eyes.

M. Bar. O God!

Mi. Bar. Nay, never say 'O God' for the matter: Thou art the cause; thou badst her to my house, Onely to bleare the eyes of Goursey, didst not? 75 But I wil send him word, I warrant thee, And ere I sleepe to[o]; trust upon it, sir. Exit.

M. Bar. Me thinkes this is a mighty fault in her; I could be angry with her: O, if I be so, I shall but put a linke unto a torche, 80 And so give greater light to see her fault. Ile rather smother it in melancholly: Nay, wisedome bids me shunne that passion; Then I will studie for a remedy. I have a daughter,--now, heaven invocate, 85 She be not of like spirit as her mother! If so, sheel be a plague unto her husband, If that he be not patient and discreet, For that I hold the ease of all such trouble. Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband, 90 For I would see how she could demeane her selfe In that estate; it may be, ill enough,-- And, so God shall help me, well remembred now! Franke Goursey is his fathers sonne and heyre, A youth that in my heart I have good hope on; 95 My sences say a match, my soule applaudes The motion: O, but his lands are great, Hee will looke high; why, I will straine my selfe To make her dowry equall with his land. Good faith, and twere a match, twould be a meanes 100 To make their mothers friends. Ile call my daughter, To see how shees disposde to marriage.-- Mall, where are yee?

Enter MALL.

Mall. Father, heere I am.

M. Bar. Where is your mother? 105

Mal. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she Went walking both together to the garden.

M. Ba. Dost thou heare me, girle? I must dispute with thee.

Mal. Father, the question, then, must not be hard, For I am very weake in argument. 110

M. Bar. Well, this it is; I say tis good to marry.

Mal. And this say I, tis not good to marry.

M. Bar. Were it not good, then all men would not marry; But now they doe.

Mal. Marry, not all; but it is good to marry. 115

M. Bar. Is it both good and bad? how can this be?

Mal. Why, it is good to them that marry well; To them that marry ill, no greater hell.

M. Bar. If thou mightst marry well, wouldst thou agree?

Mall. I cannot tell; heaven must appoint for me. 120

M. Bar. Wench, I am studying for thy good, indeed.

Mall. My hopes and dutie wish your thoughts good speed.

M. Bar. But tell me, wench, hast thou a minde to marry?

Mall. This question is too hard for bashfulnes; And, father, now ye pose my modestie. 125 I am a maide, and when ye aske me thus, I like a maide must blush, looke pale and wan, And then looke pale[1680] againe; for we change colour As our thoughts change. With true fac'd passion Of modest maidenhead I could adorne me, 130 And to your question make a sober cursie And with close clipt civilitie be silent; Or els say 'no, forsooth,' or 'I, forsooth.' If I said 'no, forsooth,' I lyed, forsooth: To lye upon my selfe were deadly sinne, 135 Therefore I will speake truth, and shame the divell. Father, when first I heard you name a husband, At that same very name my spirits quickned. Dispaire before had kild them, they were dead: Because it was my hap so long to tarry, 140 I was perswaded I should never marry; And, sitting sowing, thus upon the ground I fell in traunce of meditation; But comming to my selfe, 'O Lord,' said I, 'Shall it be so? must I unmarryed dye?' 145 And being angry, father, farther said, 'Now, by saint Anne, I will not dye a maide!' Good faith, before I came to this ripe groath, I did accuse the labouring time of sloath: Me thought the yeere did run but slow about, 150 For I thought each yeare ten I was without. Being foureteene and toward the other[1681] yeare, Good Lord, thought I, fifteene will nere be heere! For I have heard my mother say that then Prittie maides were fit for handsome men: 155 Fifteene past, sixeteene, and seventeene too, What, thought I, will not this husband do? Will no man marry me? have men forsworne Such beauty and such youth? shall youth be worne, As rich mens gownes, more with age then use? 160 Why, then I let restrained[1682] fansie loose, And bad it gaze for pleasure; then love swore me To doe what ere my mother did before me; Yet, in good faith, I was[1683] very loath, But now it lyes in you to save my oath: 165 If I shall have a husband, get him quickly, For maides that weares corke[1684] shooes may step awry.

M. Bar. Beleeve me, wench, I doe not repprehend[1685] thee, But for this pleasant answere do commend thee. I must confesse, love doth thee mighty wrong, 170 But I will see thee have thy right ere long; I know a young man, whom I holde most fit To have thee both for living and for wit: I will goe write about it presentle.

Mall. Good father, do. [Exit BARNES.] O God, me thinkes I should 175 Wife it as fine as any woman could! I could carry a porte to be obayde, Carry a maistering eye upon my maide, With 'Minion, do your businesse, or Ile make yee,' And to all house authoritie be take me. 180 O God, would I were married! be my troth, But if I be not, I sweare Ile keepe my oath.

Ent. MI. BA.

[Mi. Ba.] How now, minion, wher have you bin gadding?

Mall. Forsooth, my father called me forth to him.

Mi. Bar. Your father! and what said he too ye, I pray? 185

Mall. Nothing, forsooth.

Mi. Bar. Nothing! that cannot be; something he said.

Mall. I, somthing that as good as nothing was.

Mi. Bar. Come, let me heare that somthing nothing, then.

Mal. Nothing but of a husband for me, mother. 190

Mi. Bar. A husband! that was something: but what husband?

Mall. Nay, faith, I know not, mother: would I did!

Mis. Bar. I, 'would ye did'! i faith, are ye so hasty?

Mall. Hasty, mother! why, how olde am I?

Mis. Ba. To yong to marry.

Mal. Nay, by the masse, ye lie. 195 Mother, how olde were you when you did marry?

Mis. Ba. How olde so ere I was, yet you shall tarry.

Mall. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, harke! The priest forgets that ere he was a clarke: When you were at my yeeres, Ile holde my life, 200 Your minde was to change maidenhead for wife. Pardon me, mother, I am of your minde, And, by my troth, I take it but by kinde.[1686]

Mis. Bar. Do ye heare, daughter? you shal stay my leasure.

Mall. Do you heare, mother? would you stay fro pleasure 205 When ye have minde to it? Go to, there's no wrong Like this, to let maides lye alone so long: Lying alone they muse but in their beds How they might loose their long kept maiden heads. This is the cause there is so many scapes, 210 For women that are wise will not lead apes In hell:[1687] I tel yee, mother, I say true;-- Therefore, come, husband, maiden head, adew! Exit.

Mis. Bar. Well, lustie guts, I meane to make ye stay, And set some rubbes in your mindes smothest way.[1688] 215

Enter PHILIP.

Phi. Mother--

Mi. Ba. How now, sirra, where have ye bin walking?

Phil. Over the meades, halfe way to Milton,[1689] mother, To beare my friend Franke Goursey company.

Mi. Ba. Wher's your blew coat,[1690] your sword and buckler, sir? Get you such like habite for a servingman, 221 If you will waight upon the brat of Goursey.

Phil. Mother, that you are moov'd, this maks me wonder, When I departed I did leave yee friends: What undigested jarre hath since betided? 225

Mi. Bar. Such as almost doth choake thy mother, boy, And stifles her with the conceit of it; I am abusde, my sonne, by Gourseys wife.

Phil. By mistresse Goursey?

Mi. Bar. Mistresse flurt, yon[1691] foule strumpet, 230 Light a love, short heeles! Mistresse Goursey Call her againe, and thou wert better no.

Phil. O my deare mother,[1692] have some patience!

Mis. Bar. I, sir, have patience, and see your father To rifle up the treasure of my love, 235 And play the spend-thrift upon such an harlot! This same will make me have patience, will it not?

Phili. This same is womens most impatience: Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say That you have found my father temperate, 240 And ever free from such affections.

Mi. Bar. I, till[1693] my too much love did glut his thoughts, And make him seek for change.

Phi. O, change your minde! My father beares more cordiall love to you. 245

Mi. B. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Gourseys wife, Not me.

Phil. Now, I sweare, mother, you are much too blame; I durst be sworne he loves you as his soule.

Mi. Bar. Wilt thou be pampered by affection? 250 Will nature teach thee such vilde[1694] perjurie? Wilt thou be sworne, I, forsworne,[1695] carelesse boy? And if thou swearst, I say he loves me not.

Phil. He loves ye but too well, I sweare, Unlesse ye knew much better how to use him. 255

Mi. Bar. Doth he so, sir? thou unnaturall boy! 'Too well,' sayest thou? that word shall cost thee[1696] somwhat: O monstrous! have I brought thee up to this? 'Too well'! O unkinde, wicked, and degenerate, Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother? 260 Well, God will plague thee fort, I warrant thee: Out on thee, villaine, fie upon thee, wretch! Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say!

Phil. This ayre is pleasant, and doth please me well, And here I will stay. 265

Mi. Bar. Wilt thou, stubborne villaine?

Enter M. BAR.

M. Bar. How now, whats the matter?

Mi. Bar. Thou setst thy sonne to scoffe and mocke at me: Ist not sufficient I am wrongd of thee, But he must be an agent to abuse me? 270 Must I be subject to my cradle too? O God, O God amend it! [Exit.]

M. Ba. Why, how now, Phillip? is this true, my sonne?

Phil. Deare father, she is much impatient: Nere let that hand assist me in my need, 275 If I more said then that she thought amisse To thinke that you were so licentious given; And thus much more, when she inferd it more, I swore an oath you lov'd her but too well: In that as guiltie I do hold my selfe, 280 Now that I come to more considerate triall: I know my fault; I should have borne with her: Blame me for rashnesse, then, not for want of dutie.

M. Ba. I do absolve thee; and come hether, Phillip: I have writ a letter unto master Goursey, 285 And I will tell thee the contents thereof; But tell me first, thinkst thou Franke Goursey loves thee?

Phil. If that a man devoted to a man, Loyall, religious in loves hallowed vowes, If that a man that is soule laboursome 290 To worke his owne thoughts to his friends delight, May purchase good opinion with his friend, Then I may say, I have done this so well, That I may thinke Franke Goursey loves me well.

M. Ba. Tis well; and I am much deceived in him, 295 And if he be not sober, wise, and valliant.

Phi. I hope my father takes me for thus wise, I will not glew my selfe in love to one That hath not some desert of vertue in him: What ere you thinke of him, beleeve me, father, 300 He will be answerable to your thoughts In any quallity commendable.

M. Bar. Thou chearst my hopes in him; and, in good faith, Thoust[1697] made my love complete unto thy friend: Phillip, I love him, and I love him so. 305 I could affoorde him a good wife I know.

Phi. Father, a wife!

M. Bar. Phillip, a wife.

Phil. I lay my life, my sister.

M. Bar. I, in good faith. 310

Phil. Then, father, he shall have her; he shall, I sweare.

M. Bar. How canst thou say so, knowing not his minde?

Phi. All is one for that; I will goe to him straight. Father, if you would seeke this seaven yeares day, You could not[1698] finde a fitter match for her; 315 And he shall have her, I sweare he shall; He were as good be hang'd as once deny her. I faith, Ile to him.[1699]

M. Bar. Hairebraine, hairebraine, stay! As yet we do not know his fathers[1700] minde: 320 Why, what will master Goursey say, my sonne, If we should motion it without his knowledge? Go to, hees a wise and discreet gentleman, And that expects[1701] from me all honest parts; Nor shall he faile his expectation; 325 First I doe meane to make him privy to it: Phillip, this letter is to that effect.

Phil. Father, for Gods[1702] sake send it quickly, then: Ile call your man.--What, Hugh! wheres Hugh, there, ho?

M. Bar. Phillip, if this would proove a match, 330 It were the only meanes that could be found To make thy mother frends with Mist[resse] Gou[rsey].

Phil. How, a match! Ile warrant ye, a match. My sister's faire, Franke Goursie he is rich; Her[1703] dowrie too will be sufficient; 335 Franke's yong,[1704] and youth is apt to love; And, by my troth, my sisters maiden head Standes like a game at tennis,--if the ball Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all!

Ma. Bar. How now, where's Hugh? 340

[Enter NICHOLAS.]

Phil. Why, what doth this proverbial with us? Why, where's Hugh?

M. Bar. Peace, peace.

Phil. Where's Hugh, I say?

M. Bar. Be not so hasty, Phillip. 345

Phil. Father, let me alone, I doe it but to make my selfe some sport. This formall foole, your man, speakes naught but proverbs, And speake men what they can to him, hee'l answere With some rime,[1705] rotten sentence, or olde saying, 350 Such spokes[1706] as the ancient of the parish use, With, 'neighbour, tis an olde proverbe and a true, Goose giblets are good meate, old sacke better then new'; Then saies another, 'neighbour, that is true'; And when each man hath drunke his gallon round, 355 A penny pot, for thats the olde mans gallon, Then doth he licke his lips, and stroke his beard That's glewed together with his slavering droppes Of yesty ale, and when he scarce can trim His gouty fingers, thus hee'l phillip it, 360 And with a rotten hem say, 'hey, my hearts, Merry go sorrie! cocke and pye, my heartes!' But then their saving penny proverbe comes, And that is this, 'they that will to the wine, Berlady[1707] mistresse, shall lay theyr penny to mine.' 365 This was one of this penny-fathers[1708] bastards, For, on my lyfe, he was never begot Without the consent of some great proverb-monger.

M. Bar. O, ye are a wag.

Phil. Well, now unto my busines. 370 Swounds, will that mouth, thats made of olde sed sawes And nothing else, say nothing to us now?

Nich. O master Phillip, forbeare; you must not leape over the style before you come at it; haste makes waste; softe fire makes sweete malt; not too fast for falling; there's no hast to hang true men. 376

Phil. Father, we ha'te, ye see, we ha'te. Now will I see if my memorie will serve for some proverbs too. O,--a painted cloath were as wel worth a shilling as a theefe woorth a halter; well, after my heartie commendations, as I was at the making hereof; so it is, that I hope as you speed, so you're sure; a swift horse will tire, but he that trottes easilie will indure. You have most learnedly proverbde it, commending the vertue of patience or forbearance, but yet, you know, forbearance is no quittance.

Nich. I promise yee, maister Philip, you have spoken as true as steele. 386

Phil. Father, theres a proverbe well applied.

Nich. And it seemeth unto me, I, it seemes to me, that you, maister Phillip, mocke me: do you not know, qui mocat mocabitur? mocke age, and see how it will prosper. 390

Phil. Why, ye whoresen proverb-booke bound up in follio, Have yee no other sence to answer me But every worde a proverbe? no other English? Well, Ile fulfill a proverb on thee straight.

Nich. What is it, sir? 395

Phil. Ile fetch my fist from thine eare.

Nich. Beare witnesse he threatens me!

Phil. Father, that same is the cowards common proverbe.--But come, come, sirra, tell me where Hugh is. 399

Nich. I may, and I will; I need not except I list; you shall not commaund me, you give me neither meate, drinke, nor wages; I am your fathers man, and a man's a man, and a have but a hose on his head; do not misuse me so, do not; for though he that is bound must obay, yet he that will not tarrie, may[1709] runne away, so he may. 405

M. Bar. Peace, Nicke, Ile see he shall use thee well; Go to, peace, sirra: here, Nicke, take this letter, Carrie it to him to whom it is directed.

Nich. To whom is it?

M. Bar. Why, reade it: canst thou read? 410

Nich. Forsooth, though none of the best, yet meanly.

M. Bar. Why, dost thou not use it?

Nich. Forsooth, as use makes perfectnes, so seldome seene is soone forgotten.

M. Bar. Well said: but goe; it is to master Goursey. 415

Phil. Now, sir, what proverbe have ye to deliver a letter?

Nich. What need you to care? who speakes to you? you may speake when you are spoken to, and keep your winde to coole your pottage. Well, well, you are my maisters sonne, and you looke for his lande; but they that hope for dead mens shooes, may hap to go barefoote: take heed; as soone goes the yong sheep to the pot as the olde. I pray God save my maysters life, for sildome comes the better! 423

Phil. O, he hath given it me! Farewell, proverbes.

Nich. Farewell, frost.[1710] 425

Phil. Shal I fling an old shoe after ye?

Nich. No; you should say, God send faire weather after me!

Phil. I meane for good lucke.

Nich. A good lucke on ye! Exit.

M. Bar. Alas, poore foole, he uses all his wit! 430 Phillip, in faith[1711] this mirth hath cheered thought, And cussend it of his right play of passion. Goe after Nick, and, when thou thinkst hees there, Go in and urge to that which I have writ: Ile in these meddowes make a cerckling walke, 435 And in my meditation conjure so, As that same[1712] fend of thought, selfe-eating anger, Shall by my spels of reason[1713] vanish quite: Away, and let me heare from thee to night.

Phil. To night! yes, that you shall: but harke ye, father; 440 Looke that you my sister waking keepe, For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe. Exeunt.

[Scene Fourth. The Court-yard of Master Gourseys House at Milton.]

Enter FRANKE and BOY.

Frank. I am very dry with walking ore the greene.-- Butler, some beere!--Sirra, call the butler.

Bo. Nay, faith, sir, we must have some smith to give the butler a drench, or cut him in the forehead, for he hath got a horses desease, namely the staggers; to night hees a good huswife, he reeles al that he wrought to day; and he were good now to play at dice, for he castes[1714] excellent well. 7

Fran. How meanst thou? is he drunke?

Boy. I cannot tell; but I am sure hee hath more liquor in him then a whole dicker[1715] of hydes; hees sockt throughly, i faith. 10

Fran. Well, goe and call him; bid him bring me drinke.

Boy. I will, sir. Exit.

Fran. My mother powtes, and will looke merrily Neither upon my father nor on me: He saies she fell out with mistresse Barnes to day; 15 Then I am sure they'l not be quickly friends. Good Lord, what kinde of creatures women are! Their love is lightly wonne and lightly lost; And then their hate is deadly and extreame: He that doth take a wyfe betakes himselfe 20 To all the cares and troubles of the world. Now her disquietnes doth grieve my father, Greeves me, and troubles all the house besides.-- What, shall I have some drinke? [Horn sounded within]--How now? a horne! Belike the drunken slave[1716] is fallen asleepe, 25 And now the boy doth wake him with his horne.

[Enter BOY.]

How now, sirra, wheres the butler?

Boy. Mary, sir, where he was even now, a sleepe; but I wakt him, and when he wakt, he thought he was in mayster Barnses buttery, for he stretcht himselfe thus, and yauning said, 'Nicke, honest Nicke, fill a fresh bowle of ale; stand to it, Nicke, and thou beest a man of Gods making, stand to it'; and then I winded my horne, and hees horne-mad. 33

Enter HODGE.

Hodg. Boy, hey! ho, boy! and thou beest a man, draw.--O, heres a blessed mooneshine, God be thanked!--Boy, is not this goodly weather for barley? 36

Boy. Spoken like a right maulster, Hodge: but doost thou heare? thou art not drunke.

Hod. No, I scorne that, i faith.

Boy.[1717] But thy fellow Dicke Coomes is mightily drunke. 40

Hod. Drunke! a plague on it, when a man cannot carrie his drinke well! sbloud, Ile stand to it.

Boy. Hold, man; see and thou canst stand first.

Hodge. Drunke! hees a beast, and he be drunke; theres no man that is a sober man will be drunk; hees a boy, and he be drunke.

Boy. No, hees a man as thou art. 46

Hodge. Thus tis when a man will not be ruled by his friends: I bad him keepe under the lee, but he kept downe the weather two bowes; I tolde him hee would be taken with a plannet,[1718] but the wisest of us all may fall. 50

B. True, Hodge. Boy trip him.

Hod. Whope! lend me thy hand, Dicke, I am falne into a wel; lend me thy hand, I shall be drowned else.

Boy. Hold fast by the bucket, Hodge.

Hodg. A rope on it! 55

Boy. I, there is a rope on it; but where art thou, Hodge?

Hodge. In a well; I prethie, draw up.

Boy. Come, give up thy bodie; wind up, hoyst.

Hodg. I am over head and eares.

Boy. In all, Hodge, in all. 60

Fran. How loathsome is this beast mans shape to me, This mould of reason so unreasonable![1719] Sirra, why doost thou trip him downe, seeing hees drunke?

Boy. Because, sir, I would have drunkards cheape.[1720]

Fran. How meane ye? 65

Boy. Why, they say that, when any thing hath a fall it is cheape; and so of drunkards.

Fran. Go to, helpe him up [Knocking without]: but, harke, who knockes? [BOY goes to the gate, and returns.]

Bo. Sir heeres one of maister Barnsies men with a letter to my olde maister. 71

Fran. Which of them is it?

Boy. They call him Nicholas, sir.

Fran. Go, call him in. [Exit BOY.]

Enter COOMES.

Coom. By your leave, ho! How now, young maister, how ist?

Fran. Looke ye, sirra, where your fellow lies; 76 Hees in a fine taking, is he not?

Coom. Whope, Hodge! where art thou, man, where art thou?

Hodge. O, in a well.

Co. In a well, man! nay, then, thou art deepe in understanding.

Fran. I, once to day you were almost so, sir. 81

Coom. Who, I! go to, young maister, I do not like this humor in ye, I tell ye true; give every man his due, and give him no more: say I was in such a case! go to, tis the greatest indignation that can be offered to a man; and, but a mans more godlier given, you were able to make him sweare out his heart bloud. What though that honest Hodge have cut his finger heere? or, as some say, cut a feather? what thogh he be mump, misled, blind, or as it were? tis no consequent to me: you know I have drunke all the ale-houses in Abington drie, and laide the tappes on the tables when I had done: sbloud, Ile challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leape up to the chinne in a barrell of beere, and if I cannot drinke it down to my foote ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst of the house, and then turne a good turne on the toe on it, let me be counted nobodie, a pingler,[1721]--nay, let me be[1722] bound to drinke nothing but small beere seven yeares after; and I had as leefe be hanged. 97

Enter NICHOLAS.

Fran. Peace, sir, I must speake with one.--Nicholas, I think, your name is.

Nich. True as the skinne betweene your browes. 100

Fran. Well, how doth thy maister?

Nich. Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better.

Fran. Where is the letter he hath sent me?

Nich. Ecce signum! heere it is.

Fran. Tis right as Phillip said, tis a fine foole [Aside].-- 105 This letter is directed to my father; Ile carrie it to him.--Dick Coomes, make him drinke. Exit.

Coom. I, Ile make him drunke,[1723] and he will.

Nich. Not so, Richard; it is good to be merrie and wise. 109

Dick.[1724] Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome; but as thou art Nicholas and a boone companion, ten times welcome. Nicholas, give me thy hand: shall we be merrie? and wee shall, say but we shall, and let the first word stand.

Nich. Indeed, as long lives the merrie man as the sad; an ownce of debt will not pay a pound of care. 115

Coom. Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ownce of debt.

Nich. Well, tis a good horse never stumbles: but who lies here?

Coom. Tis our Hodge, and I thinke he lies asleep: you made him drunk at your house to day; but Ile pepper some of you fort.

Nic. I, Richard, I know youle put a man over the shooes, and if you can; but hees a foole wil take more then wil do him good.

Coom. Sbloud, ye shall take more then will doe yee good, or Ile make ye clap under the table. 123

Nich. Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbeare drinke, so have I patience to endure drinke: Ile do as company doth; for when a man doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done. 126

Coomes. Ha, my resolved Nicke, frolagozene![1725] Fill the potte, hostesse; swounes, you whore! Harry Hooke's a rascall. Helpe me but carry my fellow Hodge in, and weele crushe it, i faith. Exeunt.

[Scene Fifth. In front of Gourseys House.]

Enter PHILLIP.

Phil. By this, I thinke, the letter is delivered, And twill be shortly time that I step in, And wooe their favours for my sisters fortune: And yet I need not; she may doe as well, But yet not better, as the case doth stand 5 Betweene our mothers; it may make them friends; Nay, I would sweare that she would doe as well, Were she a stranger to one quality, But they are so acquainted, theil nere part. Why, she will floute the devill, and make blush 10 The boldest face of man that ever man saw; He that hath best opinion of his wit, And hath his braine pan fraught with bitter jestes Or of his owne, or stolne, or how so ever, Let him stand nere so high in his owne conceite, 15 Her wit's a sunne that melts him downe like butter, And makes him sit at table pancake wise, Flat, flat, [God knowes][1726] and nere a word to say; Yet sheele not leave him then, but like a tyrant Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man, 20 And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffes, When he is downe, most cowardly, good faith, As I have pittied the poore patient. There came a farmers sonne a wooing to her, A proper man, well landed too he was, 25 A man that for his wit need not to aske What time a yeere twere good to sow his oates Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reape, To plowe his fallowes, or to fell his trees, Well experienst thus each kinde of way; 30 After a two monthes labour at the most, And yet twas well he held it out so long, He left his love, she had so laste his lips He could say nothing to her but 'God be with yee'! Why, she, when men have din'd and call for cheese, 35 Will straight maintaine jests bitter to disgest; And then some one will fall to argument, Who, if he over master her with reason, Then sheele begin to buffet him with mockes. Well, I doe doubt Frances hath so much spleene, 40 Theil nere agree; but I will moderate. By this time tis time, I thinke, to enter: This is the house; shall I knocke? no; I will not Waite while[1727] one comes out to answere; Ile in, and let them be as bolde with us. Exit. 45

[Scene Sixth. A Room in Gourseys House.]

Enter MASTER GOURSEY, reading a letter.

M. Gour. _If that they like, her dowry shall be equall To your sonnes wealth or possibility: It is a meanes to make our wives good friendes, And to continue friendship twixt us two._[1728] Tis so, indeed: I like this motion, 5 And it hath my consent, because my wife[1729] Is sore infected and hart sick with hate; And I have sought the Galen of advice, Which oneley tels me this same potion To be most soveraigne for her sicknes cure. 10

Enter FRANKE and PHILLIP.

Heere comes my sonne, conferring with his friend.-- Fraunces, how do you like your friends discourse? I know he is persuading to this motion.

Fra. Father, as matter that befits a friend, But yet not me, that am too young to marry. 15

M. Gou. Nay, if thy minde be forward with thy yeares, The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy,[1729] This match is answerable to thy birth; Her bloud and portion give each other grace; These indented lines promise a sum, 20 And I do like the valew: if it hap Thy liking to accord to my consent, It is a match. Wilt thou goe see the maide?

Fra. Nere. Trust me, father, the shape[1730] of marriage, Which I doe see in others, seeme[s][1731] so severe, 25 I dare not put my youngling liberty Under the awe of that instruction; And yet I graunt the limmits of free youth Going astray are often restrainde by that. But mistresse wedlocke, to my scholler thoughts, 30 Will be too curst, I feare. O, should she snip My pleasure ayming minde, I shall be sad, And sweare, when I did marry, I was mad!

M. Gour. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this-- Yet, in good faith, thou speakst not much amisse;-- 35 When first thy mothers fame to me did come, Thy grandsire thus then came to me his sonne, And even my words to thee to me he said, And as to me thou saist to him I said, But in a greater huffe and hotter bloud,-- 40 I tell ye, on youthes tip-toes then I stood: Saies he (good faith, this was his very say), 'When I was yong, I was but reasons foole, And went to wedding as to wisdomes schoole; It taught me much, and much I did forget, 45 But, beaten much, by it I got some wit; Though I was shackled from an often scoute,[1732] Yet I would wanton it when I was out; Twas comfort, old acquaintance then to meete, Restrained liberty attainde is sweet.' 50 Thus said my father to thy father,[1733] sonne, And thou maist doe this too,[1734] as I have done.

Phi. In faith, good counsell, Franke: what saist thou to it?

Fra. Phillip, what should I say?

Phil. Why, eyther I or no. 55

Fra. O, but which rather?

Phil. Why, that which was persuaded by thy father.

Fra. Thats I, then,[1735] I: O, should it fall out ill! Then I, for I am guilty of that ill,-- Ile not be guilty, no. 60

Phi. What, backeward gone!

Fra. Phillip, no whit backward; that is, on.

Phi. On, then.

Fra. O, stay!

Phil. Tush, there is no good lucke in this delay: 65 Come, come, late commers, man, are shent.

Fra. Heigh ho, I feare I shall repent! Well, which waye, Phillip?[1736]

Phi. Why, this way.

Fra. Canst thou tell, And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell?-- 70 But which way, father?

M. Gour. That way.

Fran. I, you know; You found the way to sorrow long agoe. Father, God boye ye:[1737] you have sent your sonne To seeke on earth an earthly day of doome, 75 Where I shall be adjudged,[1738] alacke the ruthe, To penance for the follies of my youth! Well, I must goe, but, by my troth, my minde Is not love capable to[1739] that kinde. O, I have lookt upon this mould of men, 80 As I have done upon a lyons den! Praised I have the gallant beast I saw, Yet wisht me no acquaintance with his pawe: And must I now be grated with them? well, Yet I may hap to proove a Daniell; 85 And, if I doe, sure it would make me laugh, To be among wilde beastes and yet be safe. Is there a remedy to abate their rage? Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. I, but how catch them? marry, in your hand 90 Carrie me foorth a burning fire brand, For with his sparkling shine, olde rumor saies, A fire brand the swiftest runner fraies: This I may doe; but, if it proove not so, Then man goes out to seeke his adjunct woe. 95 Phillip, away! and, father, now adew! In quest of sorrow I am sent by you

M. Gou. Returne the messenger of joy, my sonne.

Fran. Sildome in this world such a worke is done.

Phi. Nay, nay, make hast, it will be quicklie night. 100

Fra. Why, is it not good to wooe by candle light?

Phil. But, if we make not haste theile be abed.

Fran. The better, candels out and curtans spred.

Exeunt [FRANCIS and PHILLIP].

M. Gour. I know, though that my sons years be not many, Yet he hath wit to wooe as well as any. 105 Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone

Enter MISTRESSE GOURSEY.

Ere she came hether.--How now, wife? how ist? What, are ye yet in charity and love With mistresse Barnes?

Mi. Gou. With mistris Barnes! why mistris[1740] Barnes, I pray?

M. Gou. Because she is your neighbour and---- 111

Mi. Gou. And what? And a jealous slandering spitefull queane she is, One that would blur my reputation With her approbrious mallice, if she could. 115 She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame: Tis knowne that I have lived in honest name All my life time, and bin your right true wife.

M. Gour. I entertaine no other thought, my wife, And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. 120

Mis. Gou. And my behaviour is as sound as it; But her ill speeches seekes to rot my credit, And eate it with the worme of hate and mallice.

M. Gou. Why, then, preserve it you by patience.

Mi. Gou. By patience! would ye have me shame my selfe, And cussen my selfe to beare her injuries? 126 Not while her eyes be open will I yeelde A word, a letter, a sillables valew, But equall and make even her wrongs to me To her againe. 130

M. Gou. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame.

Mi. Gou. Am I too blame, sir? pray, what letters this?

[Snatches the letter.]

M. Gou. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, Rudelie to snatch it from me. Give it me.

Mi. Gou. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. 135

M. Gou. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.

Mi. Gou. No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholler Good enough to read a letter, sir.

M. Gou. Gods passion, if she knew but the contents, Sheele seeke to crosse this match! she shall not read it.--[Aside.] Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me. 141

Mi. Gou. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it.

M. Gou. What, will you moove me to impatience, then?

Mi. Gou. Tut, tell not me of your impatience; But since you talke, sir, of impatience, 145 You shall not have the letter, by this light, Till I have read it; soule, ile burne it first!

M. Gou. Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter; In troth, I shall growe angry, if you doe not.

Mi. Gou. Grow to the house top with your anger, sir! 150 Nere tell me, I care not thus much for it.

M. Gour. Well, I can beare enough, but not too much. Come, give it me; twere best you be persuaded; By God--ye make me sweare--now God forgive me!-- Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; 155 Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart.

Mis. Gou. Hart me no hearts, you shall not have it, sir, No, you shall not; nere looke so big, I will not be affraide at your great lookes; You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it. 160

M. Gou. Shall I not have[1741] it? in troth, Ile try that: Minion, Ile hav'te; shall I not hav'te?--I am loath-- Go too, take pausment, be advisde-- In faith, I will; and stand not long upon it-- A woman of your yeares! I am ashamde 165 A couple of so long continuance Should thus--Gods foote--I crye God hartely mercy!-- Go to, ye vex me; and Ile vexe ye for it; Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad To tender it on your knees; heare ye, I will, I will. 170 What, worse and worse stomacke! true, i[1742] faith! Shall I be crost by you in my olde age? And where I should have greatest comfort to, A nursse of you?--nursse in the divels name!-- Go to, mistris; by Gods pretious deere, 175 If ye delaie--

Mi. Gou. Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit Are you in, husband! so inrag'd, so moov'd, And for so slight a cause, to read a letter! Did this letter, love, conteine my death, 180 Should you denie my sight of it, I would not Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger, But willinglie yeeld me a patient Unto the doome that your displeasure gave. Heere is the letter; not for that your incensment 185 [Gives back the letter.] Makes me make offer of it, but your health, Which anger, I doe feare, hath crasd, And viper like hath suckt away the bloud That wont was to be cheerefull in this cheeke: How pale yee looke! 190

M. Gou. Pale! can yee blame me for it? I tell you true, An easie matter could not thus have moov'd me. Well, this resignement, and so foorth--but, woman, This fortnight shall I not forget yee for it.-- Ha, ha, I see that roughnes can doe somewhat! 195 I did not thinke, good faith, I could have set So sower a face upon it, and to her, My bed embracer, my right bosome friend. I would not that she should have seene the letter, As poore a man as I am, by my troth, 200 For twenty pound: well, I am glad I have it.-- [Aside.] Ha, heres adoe about a thing of nothing! What, stomack, ha! tis happy you come downe. Exit.

Mi. Gou. Well, craftie[1743] fox, Ile hunt ye, by my troth: Deale ye so closely? Well, I see his drift: 205 He would not let me see the letter, least That I should crosse the match; and I will crosse it.--

Enter COMES.[1744]

Dicke Coomes?[1744]

Coom. Forsooth.

Mis. Gour. Come hether, Dicke; thou art a man I love, 210 And one whom I have much in my regarde.

Coo. I thanke ye for it, mistris, I thanke ye for it.

Mi. Gou. Nay, heers my hand, I will do very much For thee, if ere thou standst in need of me; Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, 215 Money, apparrell----

Coo. And sword and bucklers?

Mis. Gou. And sword and bucklers too, my gallant Dick, So thou wilt use but this in my defence. 219

Coom. This! no, faith, I have no minde to this; breake my head, if this breake not, if we come to any tough play. Nay, mistres, I had a sword, I, the flower of Smithfield for a sword, a right fox,[1745] i faith; with that, and a man had come over with a smooth and a sharpe stroke, it would have cried twang, and then, when I had doubled my point, traste my ground, and had carried my buckler before me like a garden but,[1746] and then come in with a crosse blowe, and over the picke[1747] of his buckler two elles long, it would have cryed twang, twang, mettle, mettle: but a dogge hath his day; tis gone, and there are few good ones made now. I see by this dearth of good swords that[1748] dearth of sword and buckler fight begins to grow ont:[1749] I am sorrye for it; I shall never see good manhood againe, if it be once gone; this poking fight of rapier and dagger will come up then; then a man, a tall[1750] man, and a good sword and buckler man, will be spitted like a cat or a cunney; then a boy will be as good as a man, unlesse the Lord shewe mercie unto us; well, I had as lieve bee hang'd as live to see that day. Wel, mistres, what shal I do? what shal I do? 237

Mis. Gour. Why, this, brave Dicke. Thou knowest that Barnses[1751] wife And I am foes: now, man me to her house; And though it be darke, Dicke, yet weelle have no light, 240 Least that thy maister should prevent our journey By seeing our depart. Then, when we come, And if that she and I do fall to words, Set in thy foote and quarrell with her men, Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, 245 And make as though thou struckst at a man, And hit her, and thou canst,--a plague upon her!-- She hath misusde me, Dicke: wilt thou do this?

Coom. Yes, mistresse, I will strike her men; but God forbid that ere Dicke Coomes should be seene to strike a woman! 250

Mi. Gour. Why, she is mankind,[1752] therefore thou maist strike her.

Coom. Mankinde! nay, and she have any part of a man, Ile strike her, I warrant.

Mi. Gour. Thats my good Dicke, thats my sweet Dicke! 254

Coom. Swones, who would not be a man of valour to have such words of a gentlewoman! one of their words are more to me then twentie of these russet coates cheese-cakes and butter makers. Well, I thanke God, I am none of these cowards; well, and a man have any vertue in him, I see he shall be regarded. [Aside.]

Mi. Gour. Art thou resolved, Dicke? wilt thou do this for me? And if thou wilt, here is an earnest penny 261 Of that rich guerdon I do meane to give thee. [Gives money.]

Coom. An angell, mistresse! let me see. Stand you on my left hand, and let the angell lye on my buckler on my right hand, for feare of losing. Now, heere stand I to be tempted.[1753] They say, every man hath two spirits attending on him, eyther good or bad; now, I say, a man hath no other spirits but eyther his wealth or his wife: now, which is the better of them? why, that is as they are used; for use neither of them well, and they are both nought. But this is a miracle to me, that golde that is heavie hath the upper, and a woman that is light doth soonest fall, considering that light things aspire, and heavie things soonest go downe: but leave these considerations to sir John,[1754] they become a blacke coate better than a blew. Well, mistresse, I had no minde to daye to quarrell; but a woman is made to bee a mans seducer; you say, quarrell. 275

Mi. Gou. I.

Coom. There speakes an angell: is it good?

Mis. Gou. I.

Coom. Then, I cannot doe amisse; the good angell goes with me.

Exeunt.

[Scene Seventh.[1755] The Forest near Sir Raphs House.]

Enter SIR RAPH SMITH, his LADY, and WILL [and ATTENDANTS].

S. Raph. Come on, my harts: i faith, it is ill lucke, To hunt all day, and not kill any thing. What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet?

La. I must not say so, sir.

Sir Ra. Although thou art. 5

Wil. And can you blame her, to be foorth so long, And see no better sport?

Ra. Good faith, twas very hard.

La. No, twas not ill, Because, you know, it is not good to kill. 10

Ra. Yes, venson, ladie.

La. No, indeed, nor them; Life is as deere in deare as tis in men.

Ra. But they are kild for sport.

Lad. But thats bad play, 15 When they are made to sport their lives away.

Ra. Tis fine to see them runne.

La. What, out of breath? They runne but ille that runne themselves to death.

Ra. They might make, then, lesse hast, and keep their winde.

La. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behinde. 21

Rap. Then, twere as good for them at first to stay, As to run long, and run their lives away.

La. I, but the stoutest of you all thats here Would run from death and nimbly scud for feare. 25 Now, by my troth, I pittie those poor elfes.[1756]

Ra. Well, they have made us but bad sport to day.

La. Yes, twas my sport to see them scape away.

Will. I wish that I had beene at one bucks fall.

La. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all. 30

Wil. A woodman,[1757] ladie, but no tyrant I.

La. Yes, tyrant-like thou lovest to see lives dye.

Ra. Lady, no more: I do not like this lucke, To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. Well, it is late; but yet I sweare I will 35 Stay heere all night but I a buck will kill.

La. All night! nay, good sir Raph Smith, do not so.

Ra. Content ye, ladie.--Will, go fetch my bow: A berrie[1758] of faire roes I saw to day Downe by the groves, and there Ile take my[1759] stand, 40 And shoote at one; God send a luckie hand!

La. Will ye not, then, sir Raph, go home with me?

Ra. No, but my men shall beare thee company.-- Sirs, man her home.--Will, bid the huntsmen couple, And bid them well reward their hounds to night.-- 45 Ladie, farewell.--Will, hast ye with the bow; Ile stay for thee heere by the grove below.

Wil. I will; but twill be darke, I shall not see: How shall I see ye, then?

Ra. Why, hollo to me, and I wil answer thee. 50

Wil. Enough, I wil.

Raph. Farewell. Exit.

La. How willingly doost thou consent to go To fetch thy maister that same killing bow!

Wil. Guiltie of death I willing am in this, 55 Because twas our ill haps to day to misse: To hunt, and not to kill, is hunters sorrow. Come, ladie, weell have venson ere to morrow. Exeunt.

[Scene Eighth. In front of Barneses House.]

Enter PHILIP and FRANK [and BOY].

Phil. Come, Franke, now we are hard by the[1760] house: But how now, sad?

Fran. No, to studie how to woe thy sister.

Phil. How, man? how to woe her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not be ashamed to woe. 5 Thy cheekes not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratorie can unfold Quicke invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beautie on thy tongue, 10 As it shall ravish every maiden sence; For, Franke, thou art not like the russet youth I tolde thee of, that went to woe a wench, And being full stuft up with fallow wit And meddow matter, askt the pretty maide 15 How they solde corne last market day with them, Saying, 'Indeed, twas very deare with them.' And, do ye heare, ye[1761] had not need be[1762] so, For she[1763] will, Francis, throwly[1764] trie your wit: Sirra, sheel bow the mettall of your wits, 20 And, if they cracke, she will not hold ye currant; Nay, she will way your wits as men way[1765] angels, And, if it[1766] lacke a graine, she will not change[1767] with ye. I cannot speake it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; 25 Aye me, how full of floutes and mockes she is!

Fran. Some aqua vitæ reason to recover This sicke discourser! Sound[1768] not, prethy, Philip. Tush, tush, I do not thinke her as thou saiest: Perhaps shees opinions darling, Phillip, 30 Wise in repute, the crowes bird. O my friend, Some judgements slave themselves to small desart,[1769] And wondernize the birth of common wit, When their owne[1770] straungenes do but make that strange, And their ill errors do but make that good: 35 And why should men debase to make that good? Perhaps such admiration winnes her wit.

Phil. Well, I am glad to heare this bold prepare For this encounter. Forward, hardy Franke! Yonders the window with the candle int; 40 Belike shees putting on her night attire: I told ye, Franke, twas late. Well, I will call her, Mary, softly, that my mother may not heare.-- Mall, sister Mall!

Enter MALL in the window.

Mal. How now, whose there? 45

Phil. Tis I.

Mal. Tis I! who I? I, quoth the dogge, or what? A Christ crosse rowe I?[1771]

Phi. No, sweete pinckanie.[1772]

Mal. O, ist you, wilde oates? 50

Phil. I, forsooth, wanton.

Mal. Well said, scape thrift.

Fran. Philip, be these your usuall best salutes?

Phi. This is the harmlesse chiding of that dove.

Fran. Dove! one of those that drawe the queene of love? 55

Mal. How now? whose that, brother? whose that with ye?

Phil. A gentleman, my friend.

Mal. Beladie, he hath a pure wit.

Fran. How meanes your holy judgement?

Mal. O, well put in, sir! 60

Fran. Up, you would say.

Mal. Well climde, gentleman! I pray, sir, tell me, do you carte the queene of love?

Fran. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, And a fit place for gentle love to lye. 65

Mal. I, but me thinkes you speake without the booke, To place a fower[1773] wheele waggon in my looke: Where will you have roome to have the coachman sit?

Fran. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit: His dutie is, before you bare to stand, 70 Having a lustie whipstocke in his hand.

Ma. The place is voide; will you provide me one?

Fra. And if you please, I will supply the roome.

Mal. But are ye cunning in the carmans lash? And can ye whistle well? 75

Fran. Yes, I can well direct the coache of love.

Mal. Ah cruell carter, would you whip a dove?

Phil. Harke ye, sister--

Mal. Nay, but harke ye, brother; Whose white[1774] boy is that same? know ye his mother? 80

Phil. He is a gentleman of a good house.

Mal. Why, is his house of gold? Is it not made of lyme and stone like this?

Phil. I meane, hees well descended.

Mal. God be thanked! 85 Did he descend some steeple or some ladder?

Phi. Well, you will still be crosse: I tell ye, sister, This gentleman by all your friends consent Must be your husband.

Mal. Nay, not all, some sing another note; 90 My mother will say no, I hold a groate. But I thought twas somewhat, he would be a carter; He hath beene whipping lately some blinde beare, And now he would ferke[1775] the blinde boy heere with us.

Phil. Well, do you heare, you, sister, mistresse Would-Have?[1776] You that do long for somewhat, I know what-- 96 My father tolde me--go to, Ile tell all If ye be crosse--do ye heare me? I have labourd A yeares worke in this afternoone for ye: Come from your cloyster, votarie, chas[t]e nun,[1777] 100 Come downe and kisse Franke Gourseys mothers sonne.

Mal. Kisse him, I pray?

Phi. Go to, stale maidenhead! come downe, I say, You seveneteene and upward, come, come downe; You'l stay till twentie else for your wedding gowne. 105

Mal. Nun, votarie, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward! Here be names! what, nothing else?

Fran. Yes, or a faire built steeple without bels.

Mal. Steeple! good people, nay, another cast.

Fran. I, or a well made ship without a mast. 110

Mal. Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of foure.

Fran. Why, then, ye are a boate without an oare.

Mal. O, well rode,[1778] wit! but whats your fare, I pray?

Fran. Your faire selfe must be my fairest pay.

Mal. Nay, and you be so deare, Ile chuse another. 115

Fran. Why, take your first man, wench, and go no further.

Phi. Peace, Francis.--Harke ye, sister, this I say:[1779] You know my mind; or answer, I or nay. Wit and judgement hath resolvde his mind, And he foresees what after he shall finde: 120 If such discretion, then, shall governe you, Vow love to him, heele do the like to you.

Mal. Vow love! who would not love such a comely feature, Nor high nor lowe, but of the middle stature? A middle man, thats the best syze indeed; 125 I like him well: love graunt us well to speed!

Fran. And let me see a woman of that tallnesse, So slender and of such a middle smalnesse, So olde enough, and in each part so fit, So faire, so kinde, endued with so much wit, 130 Of so much wit as it is held a wonder, Twere pittie to keepe love and her asunder; Therefore go up, my joy, call downe my blisse; Bid her come seale the bargaine with a kisse.

Mal. Franke, Franke, I come through dangers, death, and harmes, To make loves patent[1780] with my[1781] seale of armes. 136

Phi. But, sister, softly, least my mother heare.

Mal. Hush, then: mum, mouse in cheese,[1782] cat is neere.

Exit MAL.[1783]

Fran. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile, That I have woed and wonne in so small while. 140

Phi. Francis, indeed, my sister, I dare say, Was not determined to say thee nay; For this same tother thing, calde maiden-head, Hangs by so small a haire or spiders thred, And worne so too[1784] with time, it must needs fall, 145 And, like a well lur'de hawke, she knows her call.

[Enter MALL.]

Mal. Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread, And askt, Whose there? I would not answer her; She calde, A light! and up shees gone to seeke me: There when she findes me not, sheel hether come; 150 Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done. Francis, my loves lease I do let to thee, Date of my life and thine: what sayest thou to me? The entring, fine, or income thou must pay, Are kisses and embrases every day; 155 And quarterly I must receive my rent; You know my minde.

Fran. I gesse at thy intent: Thou shalt not misse a minute of thy time.

Mal. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am onely thine.-- 160 Brother, beare witnesse.

Phi. Do ye deliver this as your deed?

Mul. I do, I do.

Ph. God send ye both good speed! Gods Lord, my mother! Stand aside, and closely too, least that you be espied.[1785] 165

[Enter MISTRESSE BARNES.]

Mi. Ba. Whose there?

Phi. Mother, tis I.

Mis. Ba. You disobedient ruffen, carlesse wretch, That said your father lovde me but too well! Ile thinke on't when thou thinkst I have forgotten[1786] it: 170 Whose with thee else?--How now, minion? you! With whom? with him!--Why, what make you heere, sir, And thus late too? what, hath your mother sent ye To cut my throate, that heere you be in waite?-- Come from him, mistris, and let go his hand.-- 175 Will ye not, sir?

Fra. Stay, mistresse Barnes, or mother, what ye will; Shees[1787] my wife, and here she shall be still.

Mi. Ba. How, sir? your wife! wouldst thou my daughter have? Ile rather have her married to her grave.[1788] 180 Go to, be gone, and quickly, or I sweare Ile have my men beate ye for staying here.

Phi. Beate him, mother! as I am true man, They were better beate the divell and his dam.

Mi. Bar. What, wilt thou take his part? 185

Phil. To do him good, And twere to wade hetherto up in blood.

Fran. God a mercy, Phil![1789]--But, mother, heare me.

Mis. Bar. Calst thou me mother? no, thy mothers name Carryes about with it reproche and shame. 190 Give me my daughter: ere that she shall wed A strumpets sonne, and have her so mislead, Ile marry her to a carter; come, I say, Give me her from thee.

Fra. Mother,[1790] not to day, 195 Nor yet to morrow, till my lives last morrow Make me leave that which I with leave did borrow: Heere I have borrowed love, Ile not denaie[1791] it.-- Thy wedding night's my day, then Ile repay it.-- Till then sheel trust me.--Wench, ist[1792] not so? 200 And if it be, say I, if not, say no.

Mal. Mother, good mother, heare me! O good God, Now we are even, what, would you make us odde? Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ, To give me leave once to do what I list. 205 I am as you were when you were a maide; Gesse by your selfe how long you would have staide, Might you have had your will: as good begin At first as last, it saves us from much sinne; Lying alone, we muse on things and things, 210 And in our mindes one thought another brings: This maides life, mother, is an idle life. Therefore Ile be, I, I will be a wife; And, mother, doe not mistrust[1793] my age or power, I am sufficient, I lacke nere an houre; 215 I had both wit to graunt when he did woe me, And strength to beare what ere he can doe to me.

Mi. Bar.[1794] Well, bold-face, but I meane to make you stay. Goe to, come from him, or Ile make ye come: Will yee not come? 220

Phi. Mother, I pray forbeare; This match is for my sister.

Mi. Bar. Villaine, tis not; Nor she shall not be so matcht now.

Phi. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate 225 Shall not rule us; weele end all this debate By this begun devise.

Mi. Bar. I, end what you begun! Villaines, theeves, Give me my daughter! will ye rob me of her?-- Help, help! theil rob me heere, theil rob me heere! 230

Enter MASTER BARNES and his men.

M. Bar. How now? what outcry is here? why, how now, woman?

Mi. Ba. Why, Gourseys sonne, confederates[1795] with this boy, This wretch unnaturall and undutifull, Seekes hence to steale my daughter: will you suffer it? Shall he, thats sonne to my arche-enemy, 235 Enjoy her? have I brought her up to this? O God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not!

M. Bar. I am sorry she knowes it. [Aside].--Harke ye, wife, Let reason moderate your rage a little. If you examine but his birth and living, 240 His wit and good behaviour, you will say, Though that ill hate make your opinion bad, He dooth deserve as good a wife as she.

Enter MISTRIS GOURSEY and COOMES.[1796]

Mi. Bar. Why, will you give consent he shall enjoy her?

M. Bar. I, so that thy minde would agree with mine. 245

Mi. Bar. My minde shall nere agree to this agreement.

M. Ba. And yet it shall go forward:--but who's heere? What, mistris Goursey! how knew she of this?

Phi. Franke, thy mother.

Fra. Swones, where? a plague uppon it! 250 I thinke the devill is set to crosse this match.

Mi. Go. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonders light: Let us go neere. How now? me thinkes I see My sonne stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter.-- Why, how now, sirra? is this time of night 255 For you to be abroad? what have we heere? I hope that love hath not thus coupled you.

Fra. Love, by my troth, mother, love: she loves me, And I love her; then we must needs agree.

Mi. Bar. I, but Ile keep her sure enough from thee. 260

Mi. Go. It shall not need. Ile keep him safe enough; Be sure he shal not graft in such a stock.

Mi. Bar. What stock, forsooth? as good a stock as thine: I doe not meane that he shall graft in mine.

Mi. Gou. Nor shall he, mistris.--Harke, boy; th'art but mad To love the branch that hath a roote so bad. 266

Fra. Then, mother, Ile graft a pippin on a crab.

Mi. Gou. It will not proove well.

Fra. But Ile proove my skill.

Mi. Bar. Sir, but you shall not. 270

Fra. Mothers both, I will.

M. Bar. Harke, Phillip: send away thy sister straight; Let Francis meete her where thou shall appoint; Let them go severall to shun suspition, And bid them goe to Oxford both this night; 275 There to morrow say that we will meete them, And there determine of their marriage. [Aside.]

Phi. I will: though it be very late and darke, My sister will endure it for a husband. [Aside.] 279

M. Ba. Well, then, at[1797] Carfolkes,[1798] boy, I meane to meet them. [Aside.]

Phil. Enough. Exit [MASTER BARNES]. Would they would begin to chide! For I would have them brawling, that meane while They may steale hence, to meete where I appoint[1799] it. [Aside].-- What, mother, will you let this match go forward?-- Or, mistresse Goursey, will you first agree? 285

Mi. Gou. Shall I agree first?

Phi. I, why not? come, come.

Mi. Go. Come from her, sonne, and if thou lov'st thy mother.

Mi. Bar. With the like spell, daughter, I conjure thee.

Mi. G. Francis, by faire means let me win thee from her, 290 And I will gild my blessing, gentle sonne, With store of angels. I would not have thee Check thy good fortune by this cusning choise: O, doe not thrall thy happie libertie In such a bondage! if thou'lt be needs bound, 295 Be, then, to better worth; this worthlesse choise Is not fit for thee.

Mi. Bar. Ist not fit for him? wherefore ist not fit? Is he too brave[1800] a gentleman, I praie? No, tis not fit; she shall not fit his turne: 300 If she were wise, she would be fitter for Three times his better.--Minion, go in, or Ile make ye; Ile keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye.

Mi. Gou. Come, Francis, come from her.

Fra. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from love, 305 That like an ill companion would infect The infant minde of our affection[1801]: Within this cradle shall this minutes babe Be laide to rest; and thus Ile hug[1802] my joy.

Mi. Gou. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou selfe wilde[1803] boy? 310 Nay, then, perforce Ile parte ye, since ye will not.

Coom. Doe yee heare, mistresse? praie yee give me leave to talke two or three cold words with my yong master.--Harke ye, sir, yee are my masters sonne, and so foorth; and indeed I beare ye some good will, partlie for his sake, and partly for your own; and I do hope you do the like to me,--I should be sorry els. I must needs saie, ye are a yong man; and for mine owne part, I have seene the world, and I know what belongs to causes, and the experience that I have, I thanke God I have travelled for it.

Fra. Why, how far have yee travelled for it? 320

Boy. From my masters house to the ale-house.

Coo. How, sir?

Bo. So, sir.

Coo. Go to.--I praie, correct you boie; twas nere a good world, since a boie would face a man so. 325

Fra. Go to.--Forward, man.

Coom. Wel, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to marry without my mistres consent.

Fra. And why?

Coom. Nay, theres nere a why but there is a wherefore; I have known some have done the like, and they have daunst a galliard at Beggers bush[1804] for it. 332

Boy. At Beggers bush!--here him no more, maister; he doth bedawbe[1805] ye with his durty speech.--Doe ye heare, sir? how farre stands Beggers bushe from your fathers house, sir? How, thou whorson refuge[1806] of a tailor, that wert prentise to a tailor half an age, and because if thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst proove but a botcher, thou leapst from the shop board to a blew coate,[1807] doth it become thee to use thy tearmes so? wel, thou degree above a hackney, and ten degrees under a page, sow up your lubber lips, or tis not your sworde and buckler shall keep my poniard from your brest. 342

Coo. Do yee heare, sir? this is your boy.

Fran. How then?

Coom. You must breech him for it. 345

Fran. Must I? how, if I will not?

Coom. Why, then, tis a fine world when boies keep boies, and know not how to use them.

Fra. Boy, ye rascall!

Mi. Gour. Strike him, and thou darst. 350

Coom. Strike me! alas, he were better strike his father!-- Sownes, go to, put up your bodkin.[1808]

Fran. Mother, stand by; Ile teach that rascall--

Coom. Go to, give me good words, or, by Gods dines,[1809] Ile buckle ye for all your bird-spit. 355

Fran. Will ye so, sir?

Phi. Stay, Franke, this pitch of frensie will defile thee; Meddle not with it: thy unreprooved vallour Should be high minded; couch it not so low.-- Dost heare me? take occasion to slip hence, 360 But secretly, let not thy mother see thee: At the back side there is a cunny greene;[1810] Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. [Aside.]

Fra. Enough, I will. [Aside].--Mother, you doe me wrong To be so peremptory in your commaund, 365 And see that rascall to abuse me so.

Coom. Rascall! take that and take all! Do ye heare, sir? I doe not meane to pocket up this wrong.

Bo. I know why that is.

Coo. Why? 370

Bo. Because you have nere a pocket.

Co. A whip, sira, a whip!--But, sir, provide your tooles against to morrow morning; tis somewhat darke now, indeed: you know Dawsons close, betweene the hedge and the pond; tis good even ground; Ile meete you there; and I do not, call me cut,[1811] and you be a man, shew yourselfe a man; weele have a bout or two; and so weele part for that present. 377

Fran. Well, sir, well.

Nic. [approaching.] Boy, have they appointed to fight?

Boy. I, Nicholas; wilt not thou go see the fray? 380

Nich. No, indeed; even as they brewe, so let them bake. I wil not thrust my hand into the flame, and[1812] need not; tis not good to have an oare in another mans boate; little said is soone amended, and in little medling commeth great rest; tis good sleeping in a whole skin; so a man might come home by Weeping Crosse[1813]: no, by lady, a friend is not so soone gotten as lost; blessed are the peace-makers; they that strike with the sword, shall be beaten with the scabberd. 388

Phil. Well said, proverbs: nere another to that purpose?

Nic. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is a good reed.[1814] 391

Phil. Why to me, take heede?

Ni. For happy is he whom other mens harms do make to beware.

Phi. O, beware, Franke!--Slip away, Mall.--You know what I told ye. Ile hold our mothers both in talk meanwhile. [Aside.] --Mother, and mistris Barnes, me thinkes you should not stand in hatred so hard one with the[1815] other.

Mi. Bar. Should I not, sir? should I not hate a harlot, That robs me of my right, vilde boye? 400

Mi. Gou. That tytle I returne unto thy teeth, [Exeunt FRANCIS and MALL.] And spit the name of harlot in thy face.

Mi. Bar. Well, tis not time of night to hold out chat With such a scold as thou art; therefore now Thinke that I hate thee as I doe the devill. 405

Mi. Gou. The devill take thee, if thou dost not, wretch!

Mi. Bar. Out upon thee, strumpet!

Mi. Gou. Out upon thee, harlot!

Mis. Bar. Well, I will finde a time to be reveng'd: Meane time Ile keep my daughter from thy sonne.-- 410 Where are you, minion? how now, are yee gone?

Phi. She went in, mother.

Mi. Go. Francis where are ye?

Mi. Ba. He is not heere. O, then, they slipt away, And both together! 415

Phi. Ile assure ye, no; My sister she went in, into the house.

Mi. Ba. But, then, sheele out againe at the backe doore, And meete with him: but I will search about All these same fields and paths neere to my house; 420 They are not far I am sure, if I make haste. Exit.

Mi. Go. O God, how went he hence, I did not see him? It was when Barnses wife did scolde with me; A plague on[1816] her!--Dick, why didst not thou looke to him?

Coo. What should I looke for him? no, no, I looke not for him while[1817] to morrow morning. 426

Mi. Gou. Come, go with me to help to looke him out. Alas, I have nor light, nor linke, nor torche! Though it be darke, I will take any paines To crosse this match. I prethy, Dick, away. 430

Coo. Mistris, because I brought ye out, Ile bring ye home; but, if I should follow, so hee might have the law on his side.

Mi. Go. Come, tis no matter; prethee, goe with me.

Exeunt [MISTRESS GOURSEY and COOMES.]

M. Ba. Philip, thy mothers gone to seeke thy sister, And in a rage, i faith: but who comes heere? 435

Ph. Olde master Goursey, as I thinke, tis he.

M. Ba. Tis so, indeed.

[Enter MASTER GOURSEY.]

M. Gour. Whoes there?

M. Bar. A friend of yours.

M. Gou. What, master Barnes! did ye not see my wife? 440

M. Bar. Yes, sir, I saw her; she was heere even now.

M. Gou. I doubted that; that made me come unto you: But whether is she gone?

Phil. To seeke your sonne, who slipt away from her To meete with Mall my sister in a place 445 Where I appointed; and my mother too Seeke for my sister; so they both are gone: My mother hath a torch; mary, your wife Goes darkling up and downe, and Coomes before her.

M. Gou. I thought that knave was with her; but tis well: 450 I pray God, they may come by nere a light, But both be led a darke daunce in the night!

Ho. Why, is my fellow Dick in the dark with my mistres? I pray God, they be honest, for there may be much knaverie in the dark: faith, if I were there, I wold have some knavery with them. [Aside.]--Good maister, wil ye carry the torch yourself, and give me leave to play the blind man buffe with my mistris? 457

Phil. On that condition thou wilt do thy best To keep thy mistresse and thy fellow Dick Both from my sister and thy masters sonne, 460 I will entreate thy master let thee goe.

Hod. O, I, I warrant ye, Ile have fine tricks to cousen them.

M. Gou. Well, sir, then, go your waies; I give you leave.

Hod. O brave! but where about are they?

Phil. About our cunny green they surely are, 465 If thou canst find them.

Hod. O, let me alone to grope for cunnies.

[Gives PHIL. the torch, and] exit.

Phi. Well, now will I to Franke and to my sister. Stand you two harkning neere the cunny greene, But sure your light in you must not be seene; 470 Or els let Nicholas stand afarre off with it, [Gives Nich. the torch.] And as his life keep it from mistris Goursey. Shall this be done?

M. Bar. Phillip, it shall.

Phi. God be with ye! Ile be gone. Exit. 475

M. Bar. Come on, master Goursey: this same is a meanes To make our wives friends, if they resist not.

M. Go. Tut, sir, howsoever it shall go forward.

M. Bar. Come, then, lets do as Phillip hath advisd. Exeunt [toward the cunny greene.]

[Scene Ninth.[1818] The Cunny Greene.]

Enter MALL.

Mal. Heere is the place where Phillip bid me stay Till Francis came; but wherefore did my brother[1819] Appoint it heere? why in the cunny borough? He had some meaning in't, I warrant ye. Well, heere Ile set me downe under this tree, 5 And thinke upon the matter all alone. Good Lord, what pritty things these cunnies are! How finely they do feed till they be fat, And then what a sweet meate a cunny is! And what smooth skins they have, both black and gray! 10 They say they run more in the night then day: What is the reason? marke; why, in the light They see more passengers then in the night; For harmfull men many a haye[1820] do set, And laugh to see them tumble in the net; 15 And they put ferrets in the holes,--fie, fie!-- And they go up and downe where conniees lye; And they lye still, they have so little wit: I marvell the warriner will suffer it; Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves 20 Do give consent to catch these prettie elfes. How if the warriner should spie me here? He would take me for a conny I dare sweare. But when that Francis comes, what will he say? 'Looke, boy, there lyes a conney in my way!' 25 But, soft, a light! whose that? soule, my mother! Nay, then, all hid: i faith, she shall not see me; Ile play bo peepe with her behind this tree.

[Enter MISTRESSE BARNES, with a torch.]

Mis. Ba. I marvell where this wench doth[1821] hide her selfe So closely; I have searcht in many a bush. 30

Mal. Belike my mother tooke me for a thrush. [Aside.]--

Mis. Bar. Shees hid in this same warren, Ile lay money.

Mal. Close as a rabbet sucker[1822] from an olde conney. [Aside.]

Mi. Bar. O God, I would to God that I could find her! I would keepe her from her loves toyes yet. 35

Mal. I, so you might, if your daughter had no wit. [Aside.]

Mi. Ba. What a vilde girle tis, that would hav't so young!

Mal. A murren take that desembling tongue! Ere your calves teeth were out, you thought it long. [Aside.]

Mi. Bar. But, minion, yet Ile keepe you from the man. 40

Mall. To save a lye, mother, say, if you can. [Aside.]

Mi. Bar. Well, now to looke for her.

Mal. I, theres the spight: What trick shall I now have to scape her light? [Aside.]

Mi. Bar. Whose there? what, minion, is it you?-- 45 Beshrew her heart, what a fright she put me to! But I am glad I found her, though I was afraide. [Aside.] Come on your wayes; you are[1823] a handsome maide! Why [steal] you foorth a doores so late at night? Why, whether go ye? come, stand still, I say. 50

Mal. No, indeed, mother; this is my best way.

M. Ba. Tis not the best way; stand by me, I tell yee.

Mall. No; you would catch me, mother,--O, I smell ye!

Mi. Bar. Will ye not stand still?

Mal. No, by ladie, no. 55

Mis. Bar. But I will make ye.

Mal. Nay, then, trip and goe.

Mi. Bar. Mistresse, Ile make ye wearie ere I have done.

Mal. Faith, mother, then, Ile trie how you can runne.

Mis. Bar. Will ye? 60

Mal. Yes, faith. Exeunt.

Enter [FRANKE and BOY.]

Fran. Mal, sweet heart, Mall! what, not a word?

Boy. A little further; call againe.

Fran. Why, Mal! I prethie, speake; why, Mal, I say! I know thou art not farre, if thou wilt not[1824] speake; 65 Why, Mal!-- But now I see shees in her merry vaine, To make me call, and put me to more paine. Well, I must beare with her; sheel beare with me: But I will call, least that it be not so.-- 70 What, Mal! what, Mall, I say!--Boy, are we right? Have we not mist the way this same darke night?

Boy. Masse, it may be so: as I am true man, I have not seen a cunny since I came; Yet at the cunny-borow we should meete. 75 But, harke! I heare the trampling of some feete.

Fran. It may be so, then; therefore lets lye close.

[Enter MISTRESSE GOURSEY and COOMES.]

Mis. Gou. Where art thou, Dicke?

Coo. Where am I, quoth a! mary, I may be where any body will say I am; eyther in France, or at Rome, or at Jerusalem, they may say I am, for I am not able to disprove them, because I cannot tell where I am. 82

Mi. Gou. O, what a blindfold walke have we had, Dicke, To seeke my sonne! and yet I cannot finde him.

Coo. Why, then, mistresse, lets goe home. 85

Mi. Gou. Why, tis so darke we shall not finde the way.

Fran. I pray God, ye may not, mother, till it be day! [Aside.]

Coo. Sbloud, take heed, mistris, heres a tree.

Mis. Go. Lead thou the way, and let me hold by thee.

Bo. Dick Coome, what difference is there between a blind man and he that cannot see? 91

Fra. Peace, a poxe on thee!

Coo. Swounds, some body spake.

Mi. Gou. Dicke, looke about; It may be here we may finde them out. 95

Coo. I see the glimpse[1825] of some body heere.-- And ye be a sprite, Ile fraie the bug beare.-- There a goes, mistresse.

Mi. Gour. O sir, have I spide you?

Fr. A plague on the boy! twas he that descried[1826] me. Exeunt.

[Scene Tenth. A Grove in the Fields between the Cunny Greene and the Forest.]

[Enter PHILIP.]

Phi. How like a beauteous lady, maskt in blacke Lookes that same large circumference of heaven! The skie, that was so faire three houres agoe, Is in three houres become an Ethiope; And being angrie at her beauteous change, 5 She will not have one of those pearled starres To blab her sable metamorphesis:[1827] Tis very darke. I did appoint my sister To meete me at the cunny berrie below, And Francis too; but neither can I see. 10 Belike my mother hapned on that place, And fraide them from it, and they both are now Wandring about the[1828] fields: how shall I finde them? It is so darke, I scarce can see my hand: Why, then, Ile hollow for them--no, not so; 15 So will his voice betray him to our mothers And if he answere, and bring them where he is. What shall I, then, do? it must not be so-- Sbloud,[1829] it must be so; how else, I pray? Shall I stand gaping heere all night till day, 20 And then nere the neere?[1830]--So ho, so ho!

[Enter WILL.]

Wil. So ho! I come: where are ye? where art thou? here!

Phi. How now, Franke, where hast thou[1831] been?

Wil. Franke! what Franke? sbloud, is sir Raph mad? [Aside].-- Heeres the bow.[1832] 25

Phi. I have not been much private with that voice: Me thinke Franke Goursey talke and his doth tell me I am mistaken; especially by his bow; Franke had no bow. Well, I will leave this fellow, And hollow somewhat farther in the fields. [Aside].-- 30 Doost thou heare, fellow? I perceive by thee That we are both mistaken: I tooke thee For one thou art not; likewise thou tookst me For sir Raph Smith, but sure I am not he: And so, farewell; I must go seeke my friend.-- 35 So ho! [Exit.]

Wil. So ho, so ho! nay, then, sir Raph, so whoore! For a whore she was sure, if you had her here So late. Now, you are sir Raphe Smith; Well do ye counterfeit and change your voyce, 40 But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis? Belike that Francis cussend him of his wench, And he conceals himselfe to finde her out; Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go And helpe him ring his peale of so ho, so ho! [Exit.] 45

Enter FRANKE.[1833]

Fra. A plague on Coomes! a plague upon the boy! A plague too--not on my mother for an hundreth pound![1834] Twas time to runne; and yet I had not thought My mother could have followed me so close, Her legges with age I thought had foundered; 50 She made me quite runne through a quickset hedge, Or she had taken me. Well, I may say, I have runne through the briers for a wenche; And yet I have her not,--the woorse lucke mine. Me thought I heard one hollow here about; 55 I judge it Philip: O, the slave will laugh When as he heares how that my mother scarde me! Well, heere Ile stand untill I heare him hollow, And then Ile answere him; he is not farre.

[Enter SIR RAPH SMITH.]

Ra. My man is hollowing for me up and downe, 60 And yet I cannot meet with him.--So ho!

Frank. So ho!

Ra. Why, what, a poxe, wert thou so neere me, man, And wouldst[1835] not speake?

Fra. Sbloud, ye are very hot. 65

Rap. No, sir, I am colde enough with staying here For such a knave as you.

Fra. Knave! how now, Phillip? Art mad, art mad?

Ra. Why, art not thou my man 70 That went to fetch my bowe.[1836]

Fra. Indeed, a bowe Might shoote me ten bowes downe the weather so: I your man!

Ra. What art thou, then? 75

Fran. A man: but whats thy name?

Rap. Some call me Raph.

Franke. Then, honest Raph, farewell.[1837]

Ra. Well said, familiar Will! plaine Raph, i faith. [Hollow within PHILLIP and WILL.[1838]]

Fran. There calles my man. 80

Ra. But there goes mine away; And yet Ile heare what this next call will say, [Goes out toward the fields.] And here Ile tarrie till he call againe.

[Enter WILL.]

Wil. So ho!

Fran. So ho! where art thou, Phillip? 85

Wil. Sbloud,[1839] Philip! But now he calde[1840] me Francis: this is fine. [Aside.]

Fran. Why studiest thou? I prethy, tell me, Philip, Where the wench[1841] is.

Wil. Even now he askt me Francis for the wench, 90 And now he asks[1842] me Phillip for the wench. [Aside]-- Well, sir Raph, I must needes tell ye now, Tis not for your[1843] credit to be foorth So late a wenching in this order.

Fran. Whats this? so late a wenching, doth he say? [Aside].-- Indeed, tis true I am thus late a wenching, 96 But I am forc'st to wench without a wench.

Wil. Why, then, you might have tane your bow at first, And gone and kilde a bucke, and not have been So long a drabbing, and be nere the neere. 100

Fran. Swounds, what a pussell am I in this night! But yet Ile put this fellow farther [off][1844] [Aside].-- Doost thou heare, man? I am not sir Raph Smith, As thou doost thinke I am; but I did meete him, Even as thou saiest, in pursuite of a wench. 105 I met the wench to, and she[1845] askt for thee, Saying twas thou that wert her love, her deare, And that sir Raph was not an honest knight To traine her thether, and to use her so.

Wil. Sbloud, my wench! swounds, were he ten sir Raphs--

Fran. Nay, tis true, looke to it; and so, farewell. Exit. 111

Wil. Indeed, I do love Nan, our darie maide: And hath he traine[d] her forth to that intent, Or for another? I carrie his crossebow, And he doth crosse me, shooting in my bow. 115 What shall I do? [Exit.]

[Scene Eleventh. The Fields between the Grove and the Forest.]

Enter PHILLIP.[1846]

Phillip. So ho!

Raph. So ho!

Phil. Frances, art thou there?

Ra. No, heres no Francis. Art thou Will, my man?

Phil. Will foole your man, Will gose[1847] your man! 5 My backe, sir, scornes to weare your liverie.

Raph. Nay, sir, I moov'de but such a question to you, And[1848] it hath not disparegd you, I hope; Twas but mistaking; such a night as this May well deceive a man. God boye,[1849] sir. [Exit.] 10

Phil. Gods will, tis sir Raph Smith, a vertuous knight! How gently entertaines he my hard answer! Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly: I crie him mercie. Well, but all this while I cannot finde a Francis.--Francis, ho! 15

[Enter WILL.]

Wil. Francis, ho! O, you call Francis now! How have ye usde my Nan? come, tell me, how.

Phil. Thy Nan! what Nan?

Wil. I, what Nan, now! say, do you not seeke a wench?

Phi. Yes, I do. 20

Wil. Then, sir, that is she.

Phil. Art not thou [he] I met withall before?

Wil. Yes, sir; and you did counterfeit before, And said to me you were not sir Raph Smith.

Phil. No more I am not. I met sir Raph Smith; 25 Even now he askt me if I saw his man.

Wil. O, fine!

Phil. Why, sirra, thou art much deceived in me: Good faith, I am not he thou thinkst I am.

Wil. What are ye, then? 30

Phi. Why, one that seekes one Francis and a wench.

Wil. And Francis seekes one Phillip and a wench.

Phil. How canst thou tell?

Wil. I met him seeking Phillip and a wench, As I was seeking sir Raph and a wench. 35

Phil. Why, then, I know the matter: we met crosse, And so we mist; now here we finde our losse. Well, if thou wilt, we two will keepe togither, And so we shall meet right with one or other.

Wil. I am content: but, do you heare me, sir? 40 Did not sir Raph Smith aske yee for a wench?

Phi. No, I promise thee, nor did he looke For any but thy selfe, as I could gesse.

Wil. Why, this is strange: but, come, sir, lets away; I feare that we shall walke here till it be day. Exeunt. 45

Enter BOY.[1850]

[Boy.] O God, I have runne so far into the winde, that I have runne myselfe out of winde! They say a man is neere his end when he lackes breath; and I am at the end of my race, for I can run no farther: then here I be in my breath bed, not in my death bed. [Exit.] 50

Enter COOMES.

Coom. They say men moyle and toile for a poore living; so I moyle and toile, and am living, I thanke God; in good time be it spoken. It had been better for me my mistresse[1851] angell had beene light, for then perhaps it had not lead me into this darknesse. Well, the divell never blesses a man better, when he purses up angels by owlight: I ranne through a hedge to take the boy, but I stuck in the ditch, and lost the boy. [Falls.] Swounds, a plague on that clod, that mowlhil, that ditch, or what the devil so ere it were, for a man cannot see what it was! Well, I would not for the prize of my sword and buckler any body should see me in this taking, for it would make me but cut off their legges for laughing at me. Well, downe I am, and downe I meane to be, because I am wearie; but to tumble downe thus, it was no parte of my meaning: then, since I am downe, here Ile rest me, and no man shall remoove me. 65

Enter HODGE.

Hodg. O, I have sport in coney, i faith! I have almost burst myselfe with laughing at mistresse Barnes. She was following of her daughter; and I, hearing her, put on my fellow Dickes sword and buckler voyce and his swounds and sbloud words, and led her such a daunce in the darke as it passes. 'Heere she is,' quoth I. 'Where'? quoth she. 'Here,' quoth I. O, it hath been a brave here and there night! but, O, what a soft natured thing the durt is! how it would endure my hard treading, and kisse my feete for acquaintance! and how courteous and mannerly were the clods[1852] to make me stumble onelie of purpose to entreate me lie downe and rest me! But now, and I could find my fellow Dicke, I would play the knave with him honestly, i faith. Well, I will grope in the darke for him, or Ile poke with my staffe, like a blinde man, to prevent a ditch. He stumbles on DICK COOMES.[1853]

Coom. Whose that, with a poxe? 80

Hod. Who art thou, with a pestilence?

Coom. Why, I am Dicke Coomes.

Hodg. What, have I found thee, Dicke? nay, then, I am for yee, Dicke. [Aside.]--Where are ye, Dicke? [Assuming MISTRESSE GOURSEY'S voice.]

Coom. What can I tell where I am? 85

Hodg. Can yee not tell? come, come, ye waight on your mistresse well! come on your wayes; I have sought you till I am wearie, and calde ye till I am hoarse: good Lord, what a jaunt I have had this night, hey[1854] ho! 89

Coom. Ist you, mistresse, that came over me? sbloud, twere a good deed to come over you for this nights worke. I cannot affoord all this paines for an angell: I tell ye true; a kisse were not cast away upon a good fellow, that hath deserved more that way then a kisse, if your kindnesse would affoord it him: what, shall I have it, mistresse?

Hodg. Fie, fie, I must not kisse my man. 95

Coom. Nay, nay, nere stand; shall I, shall I? nobody sees: say but I shall, and Ile smacke yee[1855] soundly, i faith.

Hodg. Away, bawdie man! in trueth, Ile tell your maister.

Coom. My master! go to, neere tell me of my maister: he may pray for them that may, he is past it; and for mine own part, I can do somewhat that way, I thanke God; I am not now to learne, and tis your part to have your whole desire. 102

Hod. Fie, fie, I am ashamed of you: would you tempt your mistresse to lewdnesse?

Coom. To lewdnesse! no, by my troth, thers no such matter in't, it is for kindnesse; and, by my troth, if you like my gentle offer, you shall have what courteously I can affoord ye. 107

Hod. Shall I indeed, Dicke? I faith, if I thought nobody would see--

Coom. Tush, feare not that; swones, they must have cattes eyes, then. 111

Hod. Then, kisse me, Dick.

Coom. A kinde wenche, i faith! [Aside].--Where are yee, mistresse?

Hodge. Heere, Dick. O, I am in the darke! Dick, go about.

Coom. Nay, Ile grope[1856] sure: where are yee now?[1857] 116

Hodge. Heere.

Coom. A plague on this poast! I would the carpenter had bin hangd that set it up so.[1858]--Where are yee now?

Hod. Heere. Exit. 120

Coo. Here! O, I come. [Exit.] A plague on it, I am in a pond, mistres!

Hod. [re-entering.] Ha, ha! I have led him into a pond.--Where art thou, Dick?

Coomes. [within.] Up to the middle in a pond! 125

Hod. Make a boate of thy buckler, then, and swim out. Are yee so hot, with a pox? would you kisse my mistresse? coole ye there, then, good Dick Coomes. O, when he comes forth, the skirts of his blew coate will dropp like a paint-house![1859] O, that I could see, and not be seene, how he would spaniell it, and shake himselfe when he comes out of the pond! But Ile be gone; for now heele fight with a flye, if he but buz[1860] in his eare. Exit. 132

[Re]enter COOMES.

Coom. Heeres so hoing with a plague! so hang, and ye wil, for I have bin almost drownd. A pox of your lips,[1861] and ye call this kissing! Yee talke of a drownd rat, but twas time to swim like a dog; I had bin served like a drowned cat els. I would he had digd his grave that digd the pond! my feete were foule indeed, but a lesse pale then a pond would have served my turne to wash them. A man shall be served thus alwayes, when he followes any of these females; but tis my kinde heart that makes me thus forward in kindnes unto them: well, God amend them, and make them thankfull to them that would do them pleasure. I am not drunke, I would ye should[1862] know it; and yet I have drunke more then will do me good, for I might have had a pumpe set up with as[1863] good March beere as this was, and nere set up an alebush for the matter. Well, I am somewhat in wroth, I must needs say; and yet I am not more angrie then wise, nor more wise then angrie but Ile fight with the next man I meete, and it be but for luck sake; and if he love to see him selfe hurt, let him bring light with him; Ile do it by darkling els, by Gods dines. Well, heere will I walke, whoso ever sayes nay. 151

Enter NICHOLAS [with a torch].

Nic. He that worse may, must holde the candle; but my maister is not so wise as God might have made him. He is gone to seeke a hayre in a hennes nest, a needle in a bottle of haye, which is as sildome seene as a black swan: he is gone to seeke my yong mistresse; and I thinke she is better lost then found, for who so ever hath her, hath but a wet eele by the taile. But they may do as they list; the law is in their owne hands; but, and they would be ruld by me, they should set her on the leland,[1864] and bid the divell split her; beshrew her fingers, she hath made me watch past mine hower; but Ile watch her a good turne for it. 161

Coom. How, whose that? Nicholas!--So, first come, first servd; I am for him.--How now, proverbe, proverbe? sbloud, howe now, proverbe?

Ni. My name is Nicholas, Richard; and I knowe your meaning, and I hope ye meane no harme: I thanke ye, I am the better for your asking. 167

Coo. Where have you been a whoring thus late, ha?

Ni. Master Richard, the good wife would not seeke her daughter in the oven unlesse she had been there her selfe: but, good Lord, you are knuckle deep in durt!--I warrant, when he was in, he swore Walsingham,[1865] and chaft terrible for the time.--Looke, the water drops from you as fast as hops. 173

Coom. What needst thou to care, whipper-jenny,[1866] tripe-cheekes[1867]? out, you fat asse!

Ni. Good words cost nought, ill wordes corrupts good manners, Richard: for a hasty man never wants woe; and I had thought you had bin my friend; but I see al is not gold that glisters; ther's falshood in fellowship; amicus certus in re certa cernitur; time and truth tries all; and tis an olde proverbe, and not so old as true, bought wit is[1868] best; I can see day at a little hole; I know your minde as well as though I were within you; tis ill halting before a criple: go to, you seek to quarrel; but beware of had I wist[1869]; so long goes the pot to the water, at length it comes home broken[1870]; I know you are as good a man as ever drew sword, or as was ere girt in a girdle, or as ere went on neats leather, or as one shall see upon a summers day, or as ere lookt man in the face, or as ere trode on Gods earth, or as ere broke bread or drunk drinke; but he is proper that hath proper conditions; but be not you like the cowe, that gives a good sope of milke, and casts it downe with her[1871] heeles; I speake plainly, for plaine dealing is a jewel, and he that useth it shal dye a begger; well, that happens in an houre, that happens not in seaven yeeres; a man is not so soone whole as hurt; and you should kill a man, you would kisse his--well, I say little, but I thinke the more.--Yet Ile give him good words; tis good to hold a candle before the devell; yet, by Gods me,[1872] Ile take no wrong, if he had a head as big as Brasse,[1873] or lookt as high as Poules steeple. [Aside.] 197

Coo. Sirra, thou grashoper, that shalt skip from my sword as from a sith; Ile cut thee out in collops, and egs, in steekes, in sliste beefe, and frye thee with the fire I shall strike from the pike of thy buckler.

Nich. I, Brag's a good dog; threatned folkes live long. 201

Coo. What say ye, sir?

Nic. Why, I say not so much as How do ye?

Coo. Do ye not so, sir?

Nic. No, indeed, what so ere I thinke; and thought is free. 205

Coo. You whoreson wafer-cake, by Gods dines,[1874] Ile crush yee for this!

Ni. Give an inch, and youle take an elle; I wil not put my finger in a hole, I warrant ye: what, man! nere crow so fast, for a blinde man may kill a hare; I have knowne when a plaine fellow hath hurt a fencer, so I have: what! a man may be as slow as a snaile, but as fierce as a lyon and he be mooved; indeed, I am patient, I must needs say, for patience in adversity brings a man to the Three Cranes in the Ventree.[1875] 214

Coo. Do ye heare? set downe your torch; drawe, fight, I am for ye.

Ni. And I am for ye too, though it be from this midnight to the next morne.

Coo. Where be your tooles?

Nic. Within a mile of an oake, sir; hee's a proud horse will not carry his owne provender, I warrant ye. 221

Coo. Now am I in my quarrelling humor, and now can I say nothing but Sownes, draw! but Ile untrus, and then have to it. [Aside.]

Enter [severally] HODGE and BOY.

Hod. Whose there? boy! honest boy, well met: where hast thou bin? 225

Boy. O Hodge, Dicke Coomes hath been as good as a crye of hounds, to make a breathd[1876] hayre of me! but didst thou see my master?

Hod. I met him even now, and he askt me for thee, and he is gone up and downe, whoing like[1877] an owle for thee. 230

Boy. Owle, ye asse!

Hod. Asse! no, nor glasse, for then it had been Owleglasse[1878]: but whose that, boy?

Bo. By the masse, tis our Coomes and Nicolas; and it seemes they are providing to fight. 235

Hod. Then, we shall have fine sport, i faith. Sirra, lets stand close, and when they have fought a bout or two, weele run away with the torch, and leave them to fight darkling; shall we?

Boy. Content; Ile get the torch: stand close. 239

Coo. So, now my back hath roome to reach: I doe not love to be lac't[1879] in, when I goe to lace[1879] a rascall. I pray God, Nicholas proove not a fly:[1880] it would do me good to deale with a good man now, that we might have halfe a dozen good smart stroakes. Ha, I have seen the day I could have daunst in my fight, on, two, three, foure, and five, on the head of him; six, seaven, eight, nine, and ten, on the sides of him; and, if I went so far as fifteene, I warrant I shewed[1881] him a trick of one and twentie; but I have not fought this foure dayes, and I lacke a little practise of my warde; but I shall make a shift: ha, close [Aside].--Are ye disposed, sir? 249

Nic. Yes, indeed, I feare no colours:[1882] change sides, Richard.

Coo. Change the gallowes! Ile see thee hangd[1883] first.

Nich. Well, I see the foole will not leave his bable[1884] for the Tower of London.

Coo. Foole, ye roge! nay, then, fall to it.

Nic. Good goose, bite not. 255

Coo. Sbloud, how pursey I am! Well, I see exercise is all: I must practise my weapons oftner; I must have a goale or two at foote-ball before I come to my right kind [Aside].--Give me thy hand, Nicholas: thou art a better man then I took thee for, and yet thou art not so good a man as I. 260

Ni. You dwell by ill neighbours, Richard; that makes yee praise your selfe.

Coo. Why, I hope thou wilt say I am a man?

Ni. Yes, Ile say so, if I should see yee[1885] hangd. 264

Coo. Hangd, ye roge! nay, then, have at yee. [While they fight, exeunt HODGE, and BOY with the torch.] Swones,[1886] the light is gone!

Ni. O Lord, it is as darke as pitch!

Coo. Well, heere Ile lye, with my buckler thus, least striking up and downe at randall,[1887] the roge might hurt me, for I cannot see to save it, and Ile hold my peace, least my voyce should bring him where I am. [Lies down and covers himself with his buckler.] 271

Nic. Tis good to have a cloake for the raine; a bad shift is better than none at all; Ile sit heere, as if I were as dead as a doore naile.

[Scene Twelfth. The Grove.]

Enter M. BARNES and M. GOURSEY.[1888]

M. Gou. Harke! theres one holloes.

M. Bar. And theres another.

M. Gour. And every where we come, I heere some hollo, And yet it is our haps to meete with none.

M. Bar. I marvell where your Hodge is, and my man. 5

M. Gour. I, and our wives; we cannot meet with them, Nor with the boye, nor Mall, nor Franke, nor Phillip, Nor yet with Coomes, and yet we nere stood still. Well, I am very angry with my wife, And she shall finde I am not pleasd with her, 10 If we meete nere so soone: but tis my hope.[1889] She hath had as blind a journey ont[1890] as we; Pray God, she have, and worse, if worse may be!

M. Bar. This is but short liv'de envie,[1891] maister Goursey: But, come, what say yee to my pollicie?[1892] 15

M. Gou. I faith, tis good, and we will practise it; But, sir, it must be handeled cunningly, Or all is mard; our wives have subtill heads, And they will soone perceive a drift devise.

Enter SIR RAPHE SMITH.

Raph. So ho! 20

M. Gour. So ho!

Raph. Whose there?

M. Bar. Heers on[e] or two.

Raph. Is Will there?

M. Bar. No. Phillip? 25

M. Gour. Franke?

Raph. No, no.-- Was ever man deluded thus like me? I thinke some spirit leads me thus amisse, As I have often heard that some have bin 30 Thus in the nights. But yet this mases me; where ere I come, Some askes me still for Franke or Phillip, And none of them can tell me where Will is. [Aside.]

Wil. So ho! } 35 } Phil. So ho! } } They hollo within. Hodg. So ho! } } Boy. So ho! }

Rap. Sownes, now I heere foure hollo at the least! One had a little voice; then thats the wench 40 My man hath lost: well, I will answer all. [Aside.] So ho!

[Enter HODGE.]

Hodg. Whope, whope!

Raph. Whose there? Will? 44

Hod. No, sir; honest Hodge: but, I pray yee, sir, did yee not meete with a boye with a torche? he is runne away from me, a plague on him!

Raph. Hey day, from Franke and Phillip to a torche, And to a boye! nay, sownes, then, hap as twill. [Aside.] [Exeunt SIR RAPH and HODGE severally.]

M. Gour. Who goes there? 50

[Enter WILL.]

Wil. Gesse heere.

M. Bar. Phillip?

Wil. Phillip! no, faith; my names Will,--ill will, for I was never worse: I was even now with him, and might have been still, but that I fell into a ditch and lost him, and now I am going up and downe to seeke him. 56

M. Gor. What wouldst thou do with him?

Wil. Why, I would have him go with me to my maisters.

M. Gou. Whose thy maister?

Wil. Why, sir Raphe Smith; and thether he promist me he would come; if he keepe his worde, so tis. 61

M. Ba. What was he[1893] doing when thou first found[1894] him?

Wil. Why, he holloed for one Francis, and Francis hollod for him; I hallod for my maister, and my maister for me; but we mist still, meeting contrary, Phillip and Francis with me and my maister, and I and my maister with Philip and Franke. 66

M. Gou. Why, wherefore is sir Raphe so late abroade?

Wil. Why, he ment to kill a buck,--Ile say so to save his honestie, but my Nan was his marke [Aside]--and when[1895] he sent me for his bow, and when I came, I hollod for him; but I never saw such luck to misse him, it hath almost made me mad. 71

M. Bar. Well, stay with us; perhaps sir Raphe and he Will come anon: harke! I do heere one hollo.

Enter PHILLIP [from the fields.]

Phil. Is this broad waking in a winters night? I am broad walking in a winters night,-- 75 Broad indeed, because I am abroad,-- But these broad fields methinks are not so broad That they may keepe me foorth of narrow ditches. Heers a hard world! For I can hardly keep myself upright in it: 80 I am marvellous dutifull--but, so ho!

Wil. So ho!

Phil. Whose there?

Wil. Heeres Will.

Ph. What, Will! how scapst thou? 85

Wil. What, sir?

Ph. Nay, not hanging, but drowning: wert thou in a pond or a ditche?

Wil. A pestilence on it! ist you, Phillip? no, faith, I was but durty a little: but heeres one or two askt for yee. 90

Phil. Who be they, man?

M. Bar. Philip, tis I and maister Goursey.

Phi. Father, O father, I have heard them say The dayes of ignorance are past and done; But I am sure the nights of ignorance 95 Are not yet past, for this is one of them. But wheres my sister?

M. Bar. Why, we cannot tell.

Ph. Wheres Francis?

M. Gour. Neither saw we him. 100

Phi. Why, this is fine. What, neither he nor I, nor she nor you, Nor I nor she, nor you and I, till[1896] now, Can meet, could meet, or nere, I thinke, shall meete! Cal ye this woing? no, tis Christmas sport 105 Of Hob man blind:[1897] all blind, all seek to catch, All misse,--but who comes heere?[1898]

Enter FRANKE and his BOYE [with torch].

Fra. O, have I catcht yee, sir? it was your dooing That made me have this pretty daunce to night; Had not you spoake, my mother had not scard me: 110 But I will swinge ye for it.

Phil. Keepe the kings peace!

Fran. How! art thou become a constable? Why, Phillip, where hast thou bin all this while?

Ph. Why, where you were not: but, I pray, whers my sister?

Fran. Why, man, I saw her not; but I have sought her 116 As I should seeke seeke--

Phil. A needle, have yee not? Why, you, man, are the needle that she seekes To worke withall. Well, Francis, do you heere? 120 You must not answere so, that you have sought her; But have yee found her? faith, and if you have, God give yee joy of that ye found with her!

Fra.[1899] I saw her not: how could I finde her?

M. Gou. Why, could yee misse from maister Barnses house Unto his cunnyberry? 126

Fran. Whether I could or no, father, I did.

Phil. Father, I did! well, Franke, wilt thou beleeve me, Thou dost not know how much this same doth greeve me: Shall it be said thou mist so plaine a way, 130 When as so faire a wenche did for thee stay?

Fra. Sownes, man!

Phi. Sownes, man! and if thou hadst bin blinde, The cunny-borow thou needst must finde. I tell thee, Francis, had it bin my case, 135 And I had bin a woer in thy place, I would have laide my head unto the ground, And sented out my wenches way, like a hound; I would have crept upon my knees all night, And have made the flint stones linckes to give me light. 140 Nay, man, I would--

Fran. Good Lord, what you would doe! Well, we shall see one day how you can woe.

M. Gor. Come, come, we see that we have all bin crost; Therefore lets go, and seeke them we have lost. Exeunt.

[Scene Thirteenth. The Same.[1900]]

Enter MAL.

[Mal]. Am I alone? doth not my mother come? Her torch I see not, which I well might see, If any way she were comming toward me: Why, then, belike shees gone some other way; And may she go till I bid her turne! 5 Farre shall her way be then, and little faire, For she hath hindered me of my good turne; God send her wet and wearie ere she turne! I had beene at Oxenford, and to morrow Have beene releast from all my maidens sorrow, 10 And tasted joy, had not my mother bin; God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sinne! How many maides this night lyes in their beds, And dreame that they have lost their maidenheads! Such dreames, such slumbers I had to[o] enjoyde, 15 If waking mallice had not them destroide. A starved man with double death doth dye, To have the meate might save him in his eye, And may not have it: so am I tormented, To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented. 20 Well, Franke, although thou woedst and quickly wonne, Yet shall my love to thee be never done; Ile run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briers, To come to thee, sole lord of my desires: Short woing is the best, an houre, not yeares, 25 For long debating love is full of feares. But, hearke! I heare one tread. O, wert my brother, Or Franke, or any man, but not my mother!

[Enter SIR RAPH SMITH from the fields.]

S. Rap. O, when will this same yeare of night have end? Long lookt for daies sunne, when wilt thou ascend? 30 Let not this theefe friend, misty vale[1901] of night, Incroach on day, and shadow thy faire light, Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetes bed, Blushing foorth, golden haire and glorious red; O, stay not long, bright lanthorne of the day, 35 To light my mist way[1902] feete to my right way!

Mall. It is a man, his big voice tels me so, Much am I not acquainted with it tho; And yet mine eare, sounds true distinguisher, Boyes[1903] that I have been more familiar 40 With it then now I am: well, I doe judge, It is not envies fellon, not of grudge[1904]; Therefore Ile plead acquaintance, hyer his guiding, And buy of him some place of close abiding, Till that my mothers mallice be expired, 45 And we may joy in that is long desired [Aside].-- Whose there?

Ra. Are ye a maide?--No question this is she My man doth misse: faith, since she lights on me, I doe not meane till day to let her goe; 50 For what[1905] she is my mans love I will know [Aside].-- Harke ye, mayde, if mayde, are ye so light That you can see to wander in the night?

Mal. Harke ye, true man, if true, I tell you, no; I cannot see at all which way I goe. 55

Ra. Fayre mayde, ist so? say, had ye nere a fall?

Mal. Fayre man, not so; no, I had none at all.

Ra. Could you not stumble on one man, I pray?

Mal. No, no such blocke till now came in my way.

Ra. Am I that blocke, sweete tripe? then, fall and try. 60

Ma. The grounds too hard a feather-bed; not I.

Ra. Why, how and you had met with such a stumpe?

Mal. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to jumpe.

Ra. Are ye so nimble?

Mal. Nimble as a doe. 65

Ra. Backt in a pye.

Mal. Of ye.

Ra. Good meate ye know.

Mall. Ye hunt sometimes?

Ra. I do. 70

Mal. What take ye?

Ra. Deare.

Mall. You'l nere strike rascall[1906]?

Ra. Yes, when ye are there.

Mal. Will ye strike me? 75

Rap. Yes: will ye strike againe?[1907]

Mall. No, sir; it fits not maides to fight with men.

Ra. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know.

Mall. Why, you may finde it, sir, in the Christcrosse row.

Rap. Be my schoolemistresse, teach me how to spell it. 80

Mall. No, faith, I care not greatly if I tell it; My name is Marie Barnes.

Ra. How, wench? Mall Barnes!

Mal. The verie same.

Rap. Why, this is strange. 85

Mal. I pray, sir, whats your[1908] name?

Raph. Why, sir Raph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this; Why, whats the cause thou art abroad so late?

Mal. What, sir Raph Smith! nay, then, I will disclose All the hole cause to him, in him repose 90 My hopes, my love: God him, I hope, did send Our loves and both our mothers hates to end. [Aside].-- Gentle sir Raph, if you my blush might see, You then would say I am ashamed to be Found, like a wandring stray, by such a knight, 95 So farre from home at such a time of night: But my excuse is good; love first by fate Is crost, controulde,[1909] and sundered by fell hate. Franke Goursey is my love, and he loves me; But both our mothers hate and disagree; 100 Our fathers like the match and wish it don; And so it had, had not our mothers come; To Oxford we concluded both to go; Going to meete, they came; we parted so; My mother followed me, but I ran fast, 105 Thinking who went from hate had need make hast; Take me she cannot, though she still persue: But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you; Be you my orator and plead my right, And get me one good day for this bad night. 110

Ra. Alas, good heart, I pitty thy hard hap! And Ile employ all that I may for thee. Franke Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choyse: Now I remember I met one Francis, As I did seeke my man,--then, that was he,-- 115 And Philip too,--belike that was thy brother: Why, now I find how I did loose myself, And wander[1910] up and down, mistaking so. Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave Till I have made your mothers friends againe, 120 And purchast to ye both your hearts delight, And for this same one bad many a good night. Twill not be long ere that Aurora will, Deckt in the glory of a goldon sunne, Open the christall windowes of the east, 125 To make the earth enamourde of her[1911] face, When we shall have cleare light to see our way: Come; night being done, expect a happy day. Exeunt.

[Scene Fourteenth. A Hillside in the Fields.[1912]]

Enter MISTRESSE BARNES [with torch].

Mis. Ba. O, what a race this peevish girle hath led me! How fast I ran, and now how weary I am! I am so out of breath I scarce can speake,-- What shall I doe?--and cannot overtake her. It is[1913] late and darke, and I am far from home: 5 May there not theeves lye watching heere about, Intending mischiefe unto them they meete? There may; and I am much affrayde of them, Being alone without all company. I doe repent me of my coming foorth; 10 And yet I do not,--they had else beene married, And that I would not for ten times more labour. But what a winter of colde feare I thole,[1914] Freecing my heart, least danger should betide me! What shal I do to purchase company? 15 I heare some hollow here about the fields: Then here Ile set my torch upon this hill, Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it; They that have lost theyr way, seeing a light, For it may be seene farre off in the night, 20 Will come to it. Well, here Ile lye vnseene,[1915] And looke who comes, and chuse my company: Perhaps my daughter may first come to it. [Retires to one side.]

[Enter MISTRESSE GOURSEY.]

Mi. Gour. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now? Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. 25 I thinke I am going home: I may as well Be[1916] going from home; tis so very darke, I cannot see how to direct a step. I lost my man, pursuing of my sonne; My sonne escapt me too: now, all alone, 30 I am enforst[1917] to wander up and downe. Barnses wife's abroad: pray God, that she May have as good a daunce, nay, ten times worse! Oh, but I feare she hath not; she hath light To see her way. O, that some[1918] bridge would breake, 35 That she might fall into some deep digd ditch, And eyther breake her bones or drowne her selfe! I would these mischiefes I could wish to her Might light on her!--but, soft; I see a light: I will go neere; tis comfortable, 40 After this nights sad spirits dulling[1919] darknes. How now? what, is it set to keep it selfe?

Mis. Bar. A plague ont, is she there? [Aside.]

Mis. Gou. O, how it cheares and quickens up my thoughts!

Mis. Bar. O, that it were the besseliskies fell eye, 45 To poyson thee! [Aside.]

Mi. Gou. I care not if I take it,-- Sure none is here to hinder me,-- And light me home.

Mi. Bar. I had rather she were hangd 50 Then I should set it there to doe her good. [Aside.]

Mis. Go. I faith, I will.

Mi. Ba. I faith, you shall not, mistresse; Ile venter a burnt finger but Ile have it. [Aside.]

Mi. Gou. Yet Barnses wife would chafe, if that she knew 55 That I had this good lucke to get a light.

Mi. Ba. And so she doth; but praise your[1920] lucke at parting. [Aside.]

Mi. Go. O, that it were[1921] her light, good faith, that she Might darkling walke about as well as I!

Mi. Ba. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish! [Aside.]

Mi. Go. How I would laugh to see her trot about! 61

Mi. Bar. Oh, I could cry for anger and for rage! [Aside.]

Mi. Go. But who should set it here, I marvel, a Gods name.

Mi. Bar. One that will hav'te from you, in the devils name. [Aside.]

Mi. Go. Ile lay my life that it was Barnses sonne. 65

Mi. Ba. No, forsooth, it was Barnses wife. [Advancing to seize torch.]

Mi. Gou. A plague upon her, how she made me start! [Aside].-- Mistresse, let go the torch. [They struggle for it.]

Mis. Bar. No, but I will not.

Mh. Gou. Ile thrust it in thy face, then. 70

Mi. Bar. But you shall not.

Mi. Gou. Let go, I say.

Mi. Ba. Let you go, for tis mine.

Mis. Go. But my possession saies, it is none of thine.

Mi. Bar. Nay, I have holde too. 75

Mi. Gou. Well, let go thy hold,[1922] or I will spurn thee.

Mi. Bar. Do; I can spurne thee too.

Mi. Go. Canst thou?

Mi. Ba. I, that I can.

Enter MASTER GOURSEY and BARNES.

M. Gou. Why, how now, woman?[1923] how unlike to women 80 Are ye both now! come, part, come, part, I say.

M. Ba. Why, what immodesty is[1924] this in you! Come, part, I say; fie, fie.

Mi. Ba. Fie, fie! I say, she shall not have my torch.-- Give me thy torch, boy:--I will run a tilt, 85 And burne out both her eyes in my encounter.

Mi. Go. Give roome, and lets have this hot cariere.[1925]

M. Go. I say, ye shall not: wife, go to, tame your thoughts That are so mad with fury.

M. Ba. And, sweet wife, 90 Temper your rage with patience; do not be Subject so much to such misgovernment.

Mi. Bar. Shal I not, sir, when such a strumpet wrongs me?

Mi. Go. How, strumpet, mistris Barnes! nay, I pray, harke ye: I oft indeed have heard you call her so, 95 And I have thought upon it, why ye should Twit her with name of strumpet; do you know Any hurt by her, that you terme her so?

M. Ba. No, on my life; rage onely makes her say so.

M. Go. [with pretended suspicion]. But I would know whence this same rage should come; 100 Whers smoke, theres fire; and my heart misgives My wives intemperance hath got that name;-- And, mistresse Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly[1926] doubt, And some great cause begets this doubt in me, Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both. 105

M Ba. [with assumed indignation]. How! thinke ye so? nay, master Goursey, then, You run in debt to my opinion, Because you pay not such advised wisedome As I thinke due unto my good conceit.

M. Go. [angrily]. Then still I feare I shall your debter proove.

[M. Bar.].[1927] Then I arrest you in the name of love; Not bale, but present answere to my plea; 112 And in the court of reason we will try If that good thoughts should beleeve jelousie. [They make as if they were fighting.]

[Enter PHILLIP, FRANK, COOMES, &c.]

Phil. Why, looke you, mother, this is long of you.-- 115 For Gods sake, father, harke! why, these effects Come still from womens malice: part, I pray.-- Comes, Wil, and Hodge, come all, and helpe us part them!-- [They try to part the combatants. Father, but heare me speake one word, no more.

Franke. Father, but heare me[1928] speake, then use your will. 120

Phil. Crie peace betweene ye for a little while.

Mi. Gou. [pulling her husband off]. Good husband, heare him speake.

Mis. Bar. [pulling at hers]. Good husband, heare him.

Coom. [pulling at GOURSEY]. Maister, heare him speake; hees a good wise young stripling for his yeeres, I tell ye, and perhaps may speake wiser then an elder body; therefore heare him. 126

Hod. Master, heare, and make an end; you may kil one another in jest, and be hanged in earnest. [He parts them.]

M. Go. Come, let us heare him.--Then, speake quickly, Phillip. 129

M. Ba. Thou shouldst have done ere this; speak, Phil, speak.

Mis. Bar. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt your selves!-- Good Phillip, use some good perswasions To make them friends.

Phi. Yes, Ile doe what I can.-- Father, and master Goursey, both attend. 135 It is presumption in so young a man To teach where he might learne, or [to][1929] derect Where he hath had direction; but in duety He may perswade as long as his perswase Is backt with reason and a rightfull sute. 140 Phisickes first rule is this, as I have learned, Kill the effect by cutting of the cause:[1930] The same effects of ruffin outrages Comes by the cause of mallice in your wives; Had not they two bin foes, you had bin friends, 145 And we had bin at home, and this same war In peacefull sleep had nere bin dreamt upon.-- Mother, and mistresse Goursey, to make them friends, Is to be friends your selves: you are the cause, And these effects proceed, you know, from you; 150 Your hates give life unto these killing strifes, But dye and if that envy dye in you.-- [The fathers make as if to renew the combat.] Fathers, yet stay.--O, speake!--O, stay a while!--[They desist.] Francis, perswade thy mother.--Maister Goursey, If that my mother will resolve[1931] your minde[1932] 155 That tis but meere suspect, not common proofe, And if my father sweares hees innocent, As I durst pawne my soule with him he is, And if your wife vow truth and constancy, Will you be then perswaded? 160

M. Gou. Phillip, if thy father will remit The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions May be performde, I bannish all my wrath.

M. Bar. And if thy mother will but cleere me, Phillip, As I am ready to protest I am, 165 Then master Goursey is my friend againe.

Phi. Harke, mother; now you heare that your desires May be accomplished; they will both be friends, If you'l performe these easie[1933] articles.

Mi. Ba. Shall I be friends with such an enemy? 170

Phil. What say you unto my perswase?

Mi. Ba. I say shees my deadly enemie.

Phil. I, but she will be your friend, if you revolt.[1934]

Mi. Ba. The words I said! what, shall I eate a truth?

Phi. Why, harke ye, mother. 175

Fra. Mother, what say you?

Mis. Go. Why, this I say, she slaundered my good name.

Fra. But if she now denie it, tis no defame.

Mi. Go. What, shall I thinke her hate will yeeld so much?

Fra. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such. 180

M. Go. [Impatient for the reconciliation.] Why, will it be?

Phi. Yet stay, I have some hope. Mother, why, mother, why, heare ye.[1935] Give me your hand; it is no more but thus; Tis easie labour to shake hands with her: 185 A[1936] little breath is spent in speaking of faire words, When wrath hath violent deliveries.[1937]

M. Bar. What, shall we be resolved? [As if to renew the fray.]

Mi. Bar. O husband, stay!-- [Stepping between them.] Stay, maister Goursey: though your wife doth hate me, 190 And beares unto me mallice infinite And endlesse, yet I will respect your safeties; I would not have you perish by our meanes: I must confesse that onely suspect, And no proofe els, hath fed my hate to her. 195

Mi. Gour. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth That her suspect is causles and unjust, And that I nere had such a vilde intent; Harme she imaginde, where as none was ment.

Phil. Loe, sir, what would yee more? 200

M. Bar. Yes, Phillip, this; That I confirme him in my innocence By this large universe.

M. Gour. [with show of continued impatience.] By that I sweare, Ile credit none of you, until I heere 205 Friendship concluded straight betweene them two: If I see that they willingly will doe, Then Ile imagine all suspition ends; I may be then assured, they being friends.

Phil. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so. 210

Mi. Bar. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe?

Phil. No: if she yeeld, will you?

Mi. Ba. It may be, I.

Phil. Why, this is well. The other I will trie.-- Come, mistresse Goursey, do you first agree. 215

Mi. Gour. What, shall I yeeld unto mine enemie?

Phil. Why, if she will, will you?

Mi. Gou. Perhaps I will.

Phil. Nay, then, I finde this goes well forward still. Mother, give me your hand,--give me yours to[o]; 220 Be not so loath; some good thing I must do; But lay your torches by, I like not them; Come, come, deliver them unto your men: Give me your hands.--So, now, sir, heere I stand, Holding two angrie women in my hand: 225 And I must please them both; I could please tone,[1938] But it is hard when there is two to one, Especially of women; but tis so, They shall be pleasd whether they will or no.-- Which will come first? what, both give back! ha, neither! 230 Why, then, yond may helpe that come both together.[1939] So, stand still, stand[1940] but a little while, And see how I your angers will beguile. Well, yet there is no hurt; why, then, let me Joyne these two hands, and see how theil agree: [They kiss.] 235 Peace, peace! they crie; looke how they friendly kisse! Well, all this while there is no harme in this: Are not these two twins? twins should be both alike, If tone speakes faire, the tother should not strike: Jesus, these warriours will not offer blowes! 240 Why, then, tis strange that you two should be foes. O, yes, youle say, your weapons are your tongues; Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs: Go to, imbrace, and say, if you be friends, That heere the angrie womens quarrels ends. [They embrace.] 245

Mi. Gou. Then heere it ends, if mistres Barnes say so.

Mi. Bar. If you say, I, I list not to say, no.

M. Gou. If they be friends, by promise we agree.

M. Bar. And may this league of friendship ever be!

Phil. What saist thou, Franke? doth not this fall out well? 250

Fran. Yes, if my Mall were heere, then all were well.

Enter SIR RAPHE SMITH with MALL [who stands aside].

Raph. Yonder they be, Mall: stay, stand close, and stur not, Untill I call.--God save yee, gentlemen!

M. Bar. What, sir Raph Smith! you are a welcome man: We wondred when we heard you were abroad. 255

Raph. Why, sir, how heard yee that I was abroad?

M. Bar. By your man.

Raph. My man! where is he?

Will. Heere.

Raph. O, yee are a trustie squire! 260

Nic. It had bin better, and he had said, a sure carde.

Phil. Why, sir?

Nic. Because it is the proverbe.

Phil. Away, yee asse!

Nic. An asse goes a foure legs; I go of two, Christ crosse. 265

Phi. Hold your tongue.

Nic. And make no more adoe.

M. Gou. Go to, no more adoe.--Gentle sir Raphe, Your man is not in fault for missing you, For he mistooke by us, and we by him. 270

Raph. And I by you; which now I well perceive. But tell me, gentlemen, what made yee all Be from your beds this night, and why thus late Are your wives walking heere about the fields:[1941] Tis strange to see such women of accoumpt 275 Heere; but I gesse some great occasion.

M. Gour. Faith, this occasion, sir: women will jarre; And jarre they did to day, and so they parted; We knowing womens mallice let alone Will, canker like, eate farther in their hearts, 280 Did seeke a sodaine cure, and thus it was,-- A match betweene his daughter and my sonne: No sooner motioned but twas agreed, And they no sooner saw but wooed and likte: They have it sought to crosse, and crosse it thus. 285

Rap. Fye, mistresse Barnes, and mistresse Goursey both; The greatest sinne wherein your soules may sinne, I thinke, is this, in crossing of true love: Let me perswade yee.

Mi. Bar. Sir, we are perswaded, 290 And I and mistresse Goursey are both friends; And, if my daughter were but found againe, Who now is missing, she had my consent To be disposd off to her owne content.

Raph. I do rejoyce that what I thought to doe, 295 Ere I begin, I finde already done: Why, this will please your friends at Abington.-- Franke, if thou seekst that way, there thou shalt finde Her, whom I holde the comfort of thy minde.

Mall. [coming forward]. He shall not seeke me; I will seeke him out, 300 Since of my mothers graunt I need not doubt.

Mi. Bar. Thy mother graunts, my girle, and she doth pray To send unto you both a joyfull day!

Hodg. Nay, mistresse Barnes, I wish her better; that those joyfull dayes may be turned to joyfull nights. 305

Coom. Faith, tis a pretty wench, and tis pitty but she should have him.

Nich. And, mistresse Mary, when yee go to bed, God send you good rest, and a peck a fleas in your nest, every one as big as Francis! 310

Phil. Well said, wisdome: God send thee wise children!

Nich. And you more money.

Phil. I, so wish I.

Nich. Twill be a good while ere you wish your skin full of ilet holes.

Phil. Franke, harke ye: brother, now your woings doone, 315 The next thing now you do is for a sonne; I prithe, for, i faith, I should be glad To have myselfe cald nunckle, and thou dad.-- Well, sister, if that Francis play the man, My mother must be grandam, and you mam.-- 320 To it, Francis,--to it, sister!--God send yee joy! Tis fine to sing, "dansey, my owne sweete boye!"

Fra. Well, sir, jest on.

Phil. Nay, sir,[1942] do you jest on.

M. Bar. Well, may she proove a happy wife to him! 325

M. Gou. And may he proove as happy unto her!

Raph. Well, gentlemen, good hap betide them both! Since twas my hap thus happily to meete, To be a witnesse of this sweete contract, I doe rejoyce; wherefore, to have this joye 330 Longer present with me, I do request That all of you will be my promist guests: This long nights labour dooth desire some rest, Besides this wished end; therefore, I pray, Let me deteine yee but a dinner time: 335 Tell me, I pray, shall I obtaine so much?

M. Bar. Gentle sir Raphe, your courtesie is such As may impose commaund unto us all; We will be thankfull bolde at your request.

Phil. I pray, sir Raph, what cheere shall we have? 340

S. Raph. I faith, countrie fare, mutton and veale, Perchance a ducke or goose.

Mal. Oh, I am sick!

All. How now, Mall? whats the matter?

Mal. Father and mother, if you needs would know, 345 He nam'd a goose, which is my stomacks foe.

Phil. Come, come, she is with childe of some od jest, And now shees sicke till that she bring[1943] it foorth.

Mal. A jest, quoth you! well, brother, if it be, I feare twill proove an earnest unto me.-- 350 Goose, said ye, sir? Oh, that same very name Hath in it much variety of shame! Of all the birds that ever yet was seene, I would not have them graze upon this greene; I hope they will not, for this crop is poore, 355 And they may pasture upon greater store: But yet tis pittie that they let them passe, And like a common bite the Muses grasse. Yet this I feare; if Franke and I should kisse, Some creeking goose would chide us with a hisse: 360 I meane not that goose that sings it knowes not what;[1944] Tis not that hisse when one saies, 'hist, come hither'; Nor that same hisse that setteth dogges together; Nor that same hisse that by a fire doth stand, And hisseth T. or F.[1945] upon the hand; 365 But tis a hisse, and Ile unlace my cote, For I should sound[1946] sure, if I heard that note, And then 'greene ginger for the greene goose' cries, Serves not the turne,--I turn'd the white of eyes. The rosa-solis[1947] yet that makes me live 370 Is favour[1948] that these gentlemen may give; But if they be displeased, then pleasde am I, To yeeld my selfe a hissing death to dye: Yet I hope heeres none consents to kill, But kindly take the favour of good will. 375 If any thing be in the pen to blame, Then here stand I to blush the writers shame: If this be bad, he promises a better; Trust him, and he will proove a right true debter. [Exeunt.]

FOOTNOTES:

[1618] E., Act I. Sc. 1. No division into acts and scenes in Qtos.

[1619] Prospects, views. Dyce.

[1620] Q 1, be.

[1621] Absolute, perfect. Dyce.

[1622] Ay; so also in l. 23 et passim.

[1623] Dyce suggests for the metre, 'He will.' But more probably 'Heele' was a monosyllable, and 'bolde' (Q 1, 'bould') a dissyllable. According to the editor of the Oxford Glossary "bold" is so pronounced at the present day.

[1624] Backgammon; cf. Shakesp. L. L. L. V., ii. 326.

[1625] The audience were to suppose that the stage now represented an orchard; for be it remembered that there was no movable painted scenery in the theatres at the time when this play was produced. Dyce.

[1626] Q 1, 'rubbers,' as frequently used.

[1627] Q 1, 'sneik up'--be hanged.

[1628] Q 1, 'women;' but Barnes is addressing his wife. Dy. refers to l. 147; and to l. 177, where both Qtos. have 'woman.'

[1629] The angel-noble was a gold coin worth from a third to half a sovereign; the royal or rose-noble, 10_s._

[1630] Q 1, 'women.'

[1631] Q 2, far't.

[1632] A term of the game.

[1633] So Dy. Qtos. better.

[1634] hit.

[1635] Dyce reads, 'it is'; but probably in prov. pron. 'know' was then, as frequently now, a dissyllable.

[1636] Q 2, Forsoorh.

[1637] Q 2, 'for such a' appended to line 202.

[1638] Q 2, 'in this absurdnes' appended to line 217.

[1639] cannot help it withal.

[1640] Q 1, 'Affoorde.'

[1641] So Qtos. Dy. suggests 'do impart'; cf. next line.

[1642] Note the anapæstic swing.

[1643] Qtos. append l. 258 to l. 257.

[1644] Dyce cuts lines 1-6 into a kind of blank verse.

[1645] Qtos., ll. 33 and 34 as one.

[1646] Dy., qy. 'tacke'? But, of course, the boy uttered the 'tchick' with which one urges a horse.

[1647] Taught her to tread the ring,--to perform various movements in different directions within a ring marked out on a piece of ground. Dyce.

[1648] champaign.

[1649] A tagged lace used to attach the hose or breeches to the doublet. Dyce.

[1650] sole, or oblate surface.

[1651] Qtos., ll 110 and 111 as one.

[1652] Q 1, 'th'art.'

[1653] Dy., qy. 'Wher.'

[1654] Q 2, phethe.

[1655] Q 1, 'in the.'

[1656] ll. 162-165, 167-171, 174-176, 181-184, printed as verse in the originals.

[1657] Q 2, Wirl.

[1658] Not in Q 1.

[1659] Names of taverns. Ellis.

[1660] H. and E., "yee lye--the Hornes," as if a tavern name. But Qtos., as above,--"You are lying about the horns, I have none."

[1661] your sword.

[1662] So Dyce. Qtos., me,--my.

[1663] Dy. suggests 'He is'; but qy. 'Coo-ums'?

[1664] quality, humour.

[1665] Dy. suggests 'he will.'

[1666] crewel.

[1667] The originals run, "Bridelaces sir his hat, and all greene hat"; so Dyce. Ellis, silently, "Bridelaces, sir--and his hat all green." It may have been written, "Bridelaces, sir. His hat'--an all," etc. Coomes parades his wedding trophies.

[1668] So Dy. from Q 1; but not in Q 2.

[1669] E., Act II. Sc. 1.

[1670] H. and E., 'indiscreet.'

[1671] So Dy.; Qtos., 'vassailes.'

[1672] ll. 31 and 32 as one in Qtos.

[1673] Q 2, me.

[1674] Q 2, effect.

[1675] Q 1, 'womens.'

[1676] Qy. 'for an.' Dyce.

[1677] discipline.

[1678] Read, for the metre, 'She is.' Dyce.

[1679] God's.

[1680] Dy. suggests 'red'; H. and E. adopt.

[1681] Q 1, 'tother yeere.'

[1682] Q 2, restained.

[1683] Dy., H., E. 'have beene.'

[1684] See p. 464 n (F. B., vii. 74).

[1685] Qtos., apprehend,--but certainly Mall had spoken with sufficient plainness. Dyce.

[1686] nature.

[1687] The fate of old maids; cf. Shakesp. T. of S. II. 1.

[1688] Q 1, nay.

[1689] Little Milton is about eight miles northeast of Abingdon, across the fields. Great Milton is about a mile farther north.

[1690] The common dress of a servingman. Dyce.

[1691] Qtos., 'you,'--which, perhaps, is the right reading, some word having dropt out after it. Qy. thus;--

"Mis. Bar. Mistresse flurt, you mean, Foule strumpet, light a loue, short heeles! Mistresse Goursey Call her," etc. Dyce. H. and E., 'yea.'

[1692] Q 2, more.

[1693] Q 1, tell.

[1694] vile.

[1695] Qtos., forlorne.

[1696] Q 1, the.

[1697] Q 1, Thaust.

[1698] Q 2, no.

[1699] Q 2 appends this to the preceding line.

[1700] Q 2, father.

[1701] Q 2, repeats.

[1702] Q 1, 'Gads.'

[1703] Qtos., His.

[1704] Qy., "Franke he is young"? compare the preceding line but one. Dyce.

[1705] Qtos., no comma. Qy., 'rime-rotten.'

[1706] sprüche: rare.

[1707] By our lady.

[1708] miser.

[1709] Q 1, ma.

[1710] As who should say, "Your company is indifferent to me." So in Mother Bombie, "Farewell frost, my fortune naught me cost," and Ray's Proverbs: "F.f., Nothing got nor nothing lost."

[1711] Q 1, faith in.

[1712] Qtos., some.

[1713] Qtos., treason.

[1714] vomits.

[1715] A quantity of ten: one-twentieth of a last.

[1716] So Q 2. Dy., etc., 'knave.'

[1717] Qtos., But.

[1718] Struck by a tramp vessel?

[1719] Cf. Haml. I. ii., "A beast that wants discourse of reason," and III. i., "the mould of form."

[1720] Q 1, cehape.

[1721] Perhaps the word squints at two contemporary significations: cart-horse: squeamish eater.

[1722] Not in Q 1.

[1723] Q 1, 'drinke.'

[1724] Q 1, Nich.

[1725] Cf. Du., vrolijk zijn, 'to be jolly,' and Heywood and Brome, Lanc. Witches, "what, all lustick, all froligozene." New Eng. Dic. Q 2 reads 'Nicke Frolagozene' sc. 'Nick Jovial.'

[1726] Omitted in Q 2.

[1727] until.--Ought not the passage to stand as follows?--

"no, I will not; Nor waite while one comes out to answere me," Dyce.

[1728] Q 2, to.

[1729] ll. 6-10, printed as prose, Q 2. So also ll. 17-22, save that the initial letter of each line, except 22, is capitalized.

[1730] H. and E, gratuitously, 'shackles.'

[1731] Qtos., seeme.

[1732] excess; cf. Scotch 'scouth'; free swing.

[1733] Q 1, fathers.

[1734] Qtos., to.

[1735] Q 1, than.

[1736] Qtos., Franke.

[1737] be wi' ye.

[1738] Q 2, 'judged.'

[1739] Dy.; qy., 'unto.'

[1740] Q 1, maister.

[1741] Q 2, baun.

[1742] Q 2, ye.

[1743] Q 1, craft.

[1744] So Q 2; but Dy., H., E., transpose these lines.

[1745] broadsword.

[1746] H., 'garden-butt.'

[1747] the sharp point in the centre. Dyce.

[1748] Q 1, and.

[1749] Qtos., out.

[1750] brave.

[1751] Q 2, Gourseys.

[1752] manlike.

[1753] Cf. M. of V., II. ii., dialogue between Gobbo's conscience and the fiend.

[1754] the parson.

[1755] E., Act III. Sc. 1.

[1756] A line missing, to rhyme with 'elfes.' Hazlitt.

[1757] forester.

[1758] A barrow; also a burrow when of rabbits, as in Sc. X, l. 9. Here it is probably a misprint for bevvie = bevy. So E.

[1759] Q 1, me.

[1760] Q 1, 'th.'

[1761] Qtos., he.

[1762] Q 2, 'doe.'

[1763] Q 1, thee.

[1764] Q 1, 'thorowly.'

[1765] Q 2, 'may.'

[1766] Q 2, I.

[1767] Q 2, chanke.

[1768] Q 1, sound, i.e. swoon.

[1769] bow down before intellects of small merit.

[1770] Qtos., wone.

[1771] An I of the Christ-cross row or alphabet.

[1772] pigsney. Cent. Dict. But Dyce: a term of endearment, formed, perhaps, from pink, to wink, to contract the eyelids.

[1773] Qtos., sower.

[1774] dear.

[1775] beat, urge.

[1776] Q 2, 'would have.'

[1777] Cf. M.N.D., I. i. 70-72; II. ii. 162-163

[1778] rowed.

[1779] Q 2 prints ll. 117-120 as prose, but with initial capitals.

[1780] Qtos. patient.

[1781] So H. and E.; but Qtos. 'thy.'

[1782] Q 1, cheesse.

[1783] Q 2, After previous line.

[1784] Q 1, to.

[1785] Some word, or words, have dropt out here. The lines ought to be arranged thus:--

"God send ye both good speed!-- Gods Lord, my mother!--Quickly stand aside, And closely too, least that you be espied." Dyce.

The missing foot before 'stand' may indicate the dramatic pause for surprise. See my Appendix to Greene (Metres).

[1786] Dy., H., E., 'forgot.'

[1787] Read, for the metre, "Shee is." Dyce.

[1788] Cf. Romeo and Juliet, Act III. v. 141.

[1789] Eds. 'Philip.'

[1790] Q 2, Mather.

[1791] Q 2, 'deny.'

[1792] Read, for the metre, "is it." Dyce.

[1793] Q 1, mistrurst.

[1794] Q. 2, Mi Gou.

[1795] So Qtos. Eds., 'confederate.' But the plural is idiomatic: as 'he has gone partners with Philip.'

[1796] Occurs here in Qtos. (to warn the actors to be in readiness for coming on the stage). Dyce.

[1797] Q 2, 'to.'

[1798] Carfax (quadrifurcus), the centre of Oxford, at the junction of Cornmarket, St. Aldate's, Queen St., and the High.

[1799] Q 2, Oppoint.

[1800] fine.

[1801] Q 2, offection.

[1802] Q 2, huge.

[1803] Sc., self-willed.

[1804] A common proverbial expression: "Beggars bush," says Ray, "being a tree notoriously known, on the left hand of the London road from Huntington to Caxton." Proverbs, p. 244, ed. 1768. Dyce.

[1805] Q 2, be dawbe.

[1806] refuse.

[1807] livery.

[1808] Common term for a small dagger, but, like 'bird-spit' in the next speech of Coomes, here used in contempt. Dyce.

[1809] The origin of this corrupted oath is unknown; Dy., H., and E. N.E.D. queries dignesse = Goddes dignity. But the poet seems to be thinking of 'dine' = 'dinner'; hence Lord's meal, Lord's Supper. Cf. "God's board" for communion-table (Bk. Com. Prayer, 1549), and "God's bread" for the wafer, G.G.N., p. 219. That Coomes adopts this popular etymology is confirmed by the collocation of 'God's dines' with 'wafer-cake' (for the Eucharist) in Sc. xi. l. 206 of this play.

[1810] rabbit-warren.

[1811] horse.

[1812] 'an I.'

[1813] repent of his behaviour. Cf. Heywood, If you know not, etc., ed. 1874, I. 267 (Century). Dyce has "Nares (Gloss, in v.) mentions three places which still retain the name,--one between Oxford and Banbury, another close to Stafford, the third near Shrewsbury."

[1814] advice

[1815] So Q 2. Eds., 'an.'

[1816] Q 1, 'vpon.'

[1817] till.

[1818] E., Act IV. Sc. 1.

[1819] Q 2, bother.

[1820] A kind of net for catching rabbits,--usually stretched before their holes. Dyce.

[1821] Q 1, 'do.'

[1822] a young rabbit.

[1823] Q 1, 'you'r.'

[1824] Q 1, omits 'not'; but Q 2 is right: "Even if you won't speak I know you are lying in wait for me."

[1825] Qtos., glimpes.

[1826] exposed.

[1827] Q 1, metamorphesie. For the figure cf. R. and J., I. v., "Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear," etc.

[1828] Q 1, 'these.'

[1829] Q 1, sbloud.

[1830] nearer.

[1831] Not in Q 1.

[1832] The scene is therefore the grove where Sir Raph had engaged to await Will's return, Sc. vii.; not the warren, as E. has it.

[1833] E. mistakenly makes this 'Act IV. Sc. ii., Another Part of the Warren'; but Frank has run from the warren to the grove where Sir Raph is waiting for his bow.

[1834] Q 2, bound.

[1835] Q 2, wouldn.

[1836] So Q 2. Line wanting in Q 1.

[1837] Q 2 omits this line.

[1838] This stage-direction occurs after l. 75 in Qtos.

[1839] Qtos., Sblould.

[1840] Q 2, clade.

[1841] Q 1, whench.

[1842] Q 1, asks; Q 2, aske.

[1843] Q 1 omits.

[1844] Eds. substitute 'question,' evidently without sufficient reason.

[1845] Q 2 omits.

[1846] E. makes no new scene; but see Sc. X. l. 30.

[1847] goose. Q 1, asgoe.

[1848] Q 2, Had.

[1849] be wi're.

[1850] E. makes this 'Act IV., Sc. iii., The Open Fields'; but the present scene began with Philip's entry, forty-five lines earlier.

[1851] Of course 'mistress.'

[1852] Q 1, clowdes.

[1853] Not in Q 1.

[1854] Q 1, 'ho.'

[1855] Q 1, 'it.'

[1856] Q 1, throwe.

[1857] So Q 2. Eds. omit.

[1858] So Q 2. Q 1, 'for me.'

[1859] pent-house.

[1860] Q 1, buze.

[1861] Q 1, 'stones.'

[1862] Q 1, 'should well.'

[1863] Q 1, "I haue had a Pumpe set vp, as good."

[1864] H. and E., 'lee-land.' But the context indicates 'lealand,' the open fields.

[1865] Perhaps he swore by our Lady of Walsingham,--in Norfolk. Dyce.

[1866] Whip-her-jenny: a game of cards. H.

[1867] Q 1, 'tripe-cheeke.'

[1868] Q 1, 'is the best.'

[1869] "If I had only known in time!" Cf. Secunda Pastorum (Towneley), l. 93.

[1870] Cf. Secunda Pastorum, l. 318.

[1871] Q 1, his.

[1872] So Qtos. H. and E. read 'dines.'

[1873] Qy. a proverbial allusion to the famous Brazen-head? Dyce.

[1874] See note, Sc. viii. l. 354.

[1875] H., 'Vintry.'

[1876] Q 1, breath.

[1877] Q 1 omits.

[1878] The hero of the popular German jest-book (Eulenspiegel), which was translated into English at a very early period; see Gifford's note on Jonson's Works, IV. 60, and Nare's Gloss. in V. Dyce.

[1879] Q 1, 'last': and 'lase.'

[1880] Q 1, 'silly.'

[1881] Q 1, 'shew.'

[1882] Q 2, couriers.

[1883] Q 2, bandg.

[1884] By idiom 'bauble'; by sense 'babble.'

[1885] Q 2, yon.

[1886] Q 2, swoses.

[1887] random.

[1888] From the 'cunny greene' (see Sc. viii., end) having lost Nicholas and the torch en route. E. mistakenly includes this in the previous scene.

[1889] Qtos, hap.

[1890] Q 2, 'out.'

[1891] spite.

[1892] The sham quarrel of Sc. xiv. l. 115.

[1893] So Q 2. Q 1 'a.'

[1894] Eds., 'foundst.'

[1895] Eds. omit.

[1896] Q 1, tell.

[1897] Blind-man's-buff.

[1898] Q 2 prints l. 105 as of fourteen syllables ending with "Hob man blind," and line 106 as of twelve syllables ending with "heere."

[1899] So Q 2. Q 1 omits.

[1900] E. makes this 'Act v., Sc. 1, In the Fields'; but Sir Raph frequents the grove, and Mall takes it in her flight across the fields from the cunny greene.

[1901] veil.

[1902] missed-way.

[1903] (I suppose) Buoys. Dyce.

[1904] So Qtos. Dy.: qy. 'fellow?' H. followed by E., "It is no envious fellow, out of grudge."

[1905] So Qtos. = 'why.' H. and E. read 'whe'er,' unnecessarily.

[1906] a deer lean and out of season. Dyce.

[1907] It has not seemed necessary to indicate that ll. 64, 65, 66-68, etc., constitute verses; so in nearly every scene.

[1908] Q 2, oyure.

[1909] See note on F. B., i. 142.

[1910] Q 1, wandring.

[1911] So Dy. and other eds. Qtos., 'thy.'

[1912] E includes with preceding scene.

[1913] Dy., ''Tis.'

[1914] So Dy., etc., i.e. suffer. Qtos, stole.

[1915] The order of ll. 20-21 is reversed in Q 2.

[1916] Q 1, Being.

[1917] Q 1, enforc'st.

[1918] Q 1, same.

[1919] spirit-dulling.

[1920] So Q 1. Q 2, you.

[1921] Q 1, weere.

[1922] Eds. divide line here.

[1923] So Q 2. Eds., 'women.'

[1924] Q 2, it.

[1925] Qtos., carerie.

[1926] Q 1, 'shrowdly.'

[1927] So Dyce. Qtos. assign to Goursey. Perhaps Barnes lays his hand on Goursey who shakes it off. A scuffle appears to ensue: cf. ll. 161-163.

[1928] So Q 2. But Q 1, 'him,' which Dy., etc., for no sufficient reason prefer.

[1929] So Dy. Qtos., be.

[1930] Cf. F.B., viii. 75.

[1931] convince.

[1932] So Dy. Qtos., mindes.

[1933] So Q 1. Q 2 omits.

[1934] Qy., revoke. Cf. F. B., viii. 144, n.

[1935] Dyce thinks something has dropt out here.

[1936] Ought probably to be omitted. Dyce.

[1937] So Q 2; which is just as intelligible as the 'deliverie' of Q 1 and Eds.

[1938] the one.

[1939] H. and E. change, unnecessarily, to "yond help that both may come together."

[1940] Qy., stand still? Dyce.

[1941] Q 1, fileds.

[1942] Q 2, fie.

[1943] Q 1, 'brings.'

[1944] A line, which rhymed with this one, has dropt out. Dyce. But H. begins a new line with 'Sings.'

[1945] Traitor or Felon. Dyce.

[1946] Swoon.

[1947] a cordial.

[1948] Q 2, 'favours.'

William Shakespeare

AS A COMIC DRAMATIST

A Monograph by Edward Dowden, LL. D., Professor in Trinity College, Dublin.

SHAKESPEARE AS A COMIC DRAMATIST

=The Essentials of Shakespearian Comedy.=--The Comedies of Shakespeare, which form more than a third part of his dramatic work, belong to every period of his career as a writer, except one. During a few years, soon after the opening of the seventeenth century, he turned away from comedy, or rather he was drawn by some irresistible attraction to explore the tragic depths of life, and for a time its bright or variegated surface was lost to view. The results of his passionate inquisition of evil entered into the spirit of his latest plays, which we might name "romances" rather than "comedies," and hence the study of Shakespeare's lighter and brighter work cannot be wholly dissociated from the study of that in which terror and pity are the presiding powers.

To conceive Shakespearian comedy aright we must disconnect the word "comedy" from the associations derived from its adjectives "comic" and "comical"; we must recognize the fact that, though laughter is one of its incidents, laughter is not its end. Our chief living master of the carte and tierce of wit, Mr. George Meredith, describes folly as the natural prey of the comic spirit, "known to it in all her transformations, in every disguise; and it is with the springing delight of hawk over heron, hound after fox, that it gives her chase, never fretting, never tiring, sure of having her, allowing her no rest." Shakespeare's comedy includes the intellectual delight of chasing down folly and being in at the death, but this is not its main purpose. Nor is he eager to assume the part of the indignant moral satirist. It is not he but Ben Jonson, in the person of Asper, who announces that "with an armèd and resolvèd hand" he will

"Strip the ragged follies of their time Naked as at their birth ... ... and with a whip of steel Print wounding lashes in their iron ribs."

Shakespeare on occasions can wield the whip of steel, but it is when for a time he parts company with the spirit of comedy. Moral truth radiates through all the world of his creation, but he does not suppose that morality is served by being outrageously moral; in writing comedy he has more faith in sunshine as a sanative agent than in lightning and tempest. If he is ever contemptuous, it is because the pitifulness of such a baffled pretender as Parolles, or of such lean-witted conspirators as Antonio and Sebastian, admits of no other feeling. From personal satire he, unlike several of his contemporaries, wholly abstained, unless, indeed, the theory holds good, which finds in Troilus and Cressida that purge given by the player Shakespeare--so Kempe tells Burbage in The Return from Parnassus--to the pestilent fellow, Ben Jonson.

Perhaps it is impossible to include under any single general conception works which differ from each other as widely as The Comedy of Errors, Measure for Measure, and The Tempest; but if we cannot seize it as a whole, we may see from a little distance this side and that of comedy as understood by Shakespeare. Its vital centre is not an idea, an abstraction, a doctrine, a moral thesis, but something concrete--persons involved in an action. When philosophical critics assure us that the theme of The Merchant of Venice is expressed by the words Summum jus, summa injuria, or that it exhibits "man in relation to money," we admire the motto they discovered in their nut, and prefer the kernel in our own. The persons and the action are placed in some region, which is neither wholly one of fantasy nor yet one encumbered with the dross of actuality. Aery spirits, an earth-born Caliban, Robingoodfellow, the king and queen of Faery, may make their incursion into it, yet it is in the truest sense the haunt and home of "human mortals." The finer spirit of the poet's own age is forever present, but he makes no laborious effort to imitate life in the lower sense of reproducing contemporary manners. He turns away from his own country. Once--by command--Sir John Falstaff makes love to the laughing bourgeois wives of Windsor; but to comply with the necessity Shakespeare's comedy descends from verse to prose. Ben Jonson's invention is at home in Cob's Court and Picthatch, in the aisle of Paul's, or among the booths of Bartholomew Fair; having disguised the characters of his first important play under Italian names, he rightly christened them anew as Londoners. Shakespeare's imagination, throwing off the burden of the actual, desported itself in the Athenian moonlit wood and on the yellow sands of the enchanted island, under green boughs in Arden, in the garden at Belmont, in the palace of Illyria, at the shepherd's festival in Bohemia.

The action corresponds with the environment. In the great tragedies Shakespeare may on rare occasions demand certain postulates at the outset. These having been granted, the plot evolves itself within the bounds of the credible. In King Lear the opening scene puts some strain upon our imaginative belief, but Shakespeare received the legend as it had been handed down to him, and all that follows the opening scene--though the action is vast and monstrous--obeys an order and logic which compel our acquiescence. It is not always so, if we refuse its claims to fancy, in Shakespearian comedy. In a region which borders on the realm of fantasy we must be prepared to accept many happy surprises. Our desire for happiness inclines our hearts to a pleasant credulity; if chance at the right moment intervenes, it comes as our own embodied hope. When all and every one in Arden wood, save Jaques, are on their way to wedlock, like couples coming to the ark, we are not disposed to question the reality of that old religious man upon the borders of the forest who suddenly converts the usurping Duke, and turns back the mighty power which he had set on foot. We are grateful for such hermits and such convertites.

The characters again correspond in comedy with the environment and with the action. In tragedy character is either from the first fully formed and four-square, or, if it is developed by events, it develops in accordance with an internal law. Passion runs its inevitable course, like a great wave driven of the wind, and breaks with thunder upon the shoal of death. The human actors disappear; only the general order of the world and the eternal moral law endure. But in comedy the individual must be preserved, and must at the close enter into possession of happy days; if he has erred through folly or vice, his error has not been mortal; he may in the last scene of the fifth act swiftly change his moral disposition as he would change his outward garb. The traitor Proteus is suddenly restored to his better mind, and Valentine is generous enough to resign to the repentant traitor all his rights in Silvia. Bertram, who almost to the last entangles himself in a network of dastardly lies, is rescued from his dishonesty and foolish pride by a successful trick, and becomes the loyal husband of Helena. The Duke Orsino transfers his amorous homage from his "fancy's queen" Olivia to his "fancy's queen" Viola with a most convenient facility. Angelo discovers his own baseness in the moment when he perceives it is discovered by the world, and is straightway virtuous enough to bring the happiness required by a fifth act to the wronged Mariana. Even Iachimo--the Iago of a comedy--makes sorrowful confession of his villany, and restores the purloined bracelet and the ill-won ring. Such transformations as these indicate that even as regards character the law of comedy is a law of liberty. When it suits Shakespeare's purpose, the study of character can be profound and veracious; when occasion requires it, incident becomes all-important, and character yields to the requirements of the situation.

In truth, while it may be said that in Shakespearian tragedy character is fate, in Shakespearian comedy, among the contrasts and surprises which form so abundant a source of its vivacity, not the least effective contrast is that of character set over, as it were, against itself, not the least effective surprise is that of character entering upon new phases under the play of circumstance. The unity and logic of character may not in reality be impaired, but the unity is realized in and through diversity. In punning, a word is made to play a double part; it jostles its other self, and laughter ensues. What is so single and indivisible as personality? But if John is mistaken for Thomas, accident seems to triumph over law, and the incongruity arises of a doubled personal identity--the apparent and the real. Antipholus, of Syracuse, like the little woman of the nursery rhyme, whose sense of personality was dependent on the length of her petticoats, is almost persuaded that he is other than himself. If Viola disguises in doublet and hose, she secures by anticipation the victory of Sebastian over Olivia's heart, while in her own heart she endures a woman's hidden love for the Duke. One man in his brief time on Shakespeare's comic stage may play many parts. The ascetic scholars of Navarre are transformed into the most gallant of lovers and the most ingenious of sonneteers. Katherine the curst becomes more resolute in her wifely submission than she had been in her virgin sauvagerie. Signior Benedick, who challenged Cupid at the flight, in due time alters to Benedick, the married man; my dear Lady Disdain, in pity for him, and a little in pity for herself, has yielded upon great persuasion. If, as Montaigne teaches us, man is the most variable of animals, perhaps we learn as important a truth about human nature from Shakespeare's comedies as from his more profound study of the fatality of character and passion in the tragedies.

The essentials of Shakespearian comedy at its best are, after all, simple and obvious enough--a delightful story, conducted, in some romantic region, by gracious and gallant persons, thwarted or aided by the mirthful god, Circumstance, and arriving at a fortunate issue. Such would not serve as a description of the comedies of Ben Jonson. He is pleased to keep us during the greater part of five laborious acts in the company of knaves and gulls, and at the close, poetic justice is satisfied with the detection of folly and a general retribution descending on evil-doers. Shakespeare, in comedy, is no such remorseless justicer. Don John, the bastard, is reserved for punishment, but it shall be upon the morrow, and the punishment shall be such as the mirthful Benedick may devise. Parolles escapes lightly with the laughter of Lafeu, and mockery, qualified by a supper, will not afflict him beyond endurance. Lucio is condemned to marry the mother of his child, which is so dire an evil that all other forfeits are remitted. Sir John Falstaff will join the rest by Mistress Page's country fire in jesting at his own discomfiture. Even Shylock is not wholly overwhelmed; he shall have godfathers and a godmother at his baptism, and remain in possession of half his worldly goods. Sebastian may live and discover that he is morally superior to Caliban, the thief, and Stephano, the drunkard. Iachimo kneels and receives the free forgiveness of Posthumus.

But if Shakespeare, in comedy, is niggard of punishment, he is liberal in rewards. And since almost all the stories he chooses for his comic stage are stories of love and lovers, what grand reward can be reserved for the fifth act so fitting as the reward of love? In the seventeenth century masque amid all its mythological, fantastic, or humorous diversities, one point, or pivot, of the action remained fixed--the incidents must give occasion to a dance of the masquers. So in Shakespearian comedy we may, with almost equal certainty, reckon upon a marriage, or more marriages than one, in act, or in immediate prospect, before the curtain closes. Or, if not a marriage, for the lovers may be wedded lovers at the opening, then, after division, or separation of husband and wife, what we may call a remarriage, with misunderstandings cleared up and faults forgiven. When Shakespeare wrote his earlier plays he was himself young, and his gaze was fixed upon the future; exultant lovers begin their new life, and the song of joy is an epithalamium. When he wrote his latest plays, he was no longer young, and he thought of the blessedness of recovering the happy past, of knitting anew the strained or broken bonds of life, of connecting the former and the latter days in natural piety. Youth still must have its rapture; Florizel must win his royal shepherdess, queen of curds and cream; the nuptials of Ferdinand and Miranda, "these, our dear-beloved," must be duly solemnized at Naples; but Shakespeare's temper is no longer the temper of youth; he is of the company of Hermione and Prospero, and the music of the close is a grave and spiritual harmony.

Between the first scene and the last the path in comedy is beset with obstacles and dangers, past which love must find a way--"the course of true love never did run smooth." These may be either internal--some difficulty arising from character, or external--difference of blood or of rank, the choice of friends, slanderous tongues, rival passions, the spite of fortune. The resolution of the difficulty must be of a corresponding kind; temper, or rash determination, must yield to the predominance of love, or the external obstacles must be removed by well-directed effort, or by a happy turn of events. The young king of Navarre and his fellow-students are immured by their ascetic vow of culture; Isabella is all but ceremonially pledged to the life of religion; Olivia is secluded by her luxury of sentimental sorrow; Beatrice, born to be a lover, is at odds with love through her pride of independence and wilful mirth; Bertram has the young colt's pleasure in freedom, refuses to be ranged, and suffers from the haughty blindness of youth, which cannot recognize its own chief need and highest gain. All such rebels against love will be subdued in good time. On the other hand, it is her father who has decreed that Hermia shall be parted from Lysander; both father and mother have rival designs for marring the destiny of sweet Nan Page; a false friend and fickle lover separates Valentine and Silvia; a malignant plotter, who would avenge on all happy creatures the wrong of his own base birth, strikes down Hero with the blow of slander as she stands before the altar. But love has on its side gallantry and resource, loyalty and valour, the good powers of nature and the magic of the moonlit faery wood; and so, over the mountains and over the waves, love at last finds out a way.

Love being the central theme of Shakespearian comedy, laughter cannot be its principal end, and cruel or harsh laughter is almost necessarily excluded. But the laughter of joy rings out in the earlier and middle comedies, and a smile, beautiful in its wisdom and serenity, illuminates the comedies of his closing period. If satire is present, it is only on rare occasions a satire of manners; it deals rather with something universal, a satire of the fatuity of self-lovers, of the power which the human heart has of self-deception, or it is a genial mockery of the ineptitude of brainless self-importance, or the little languid lover's amorous endeavours, or the lumbering pace of heavy-witted ignorance, which cannot catch a common meaning, even by the tail; at its average rate of progress the idea whisks too swiftly from the view of such slow gazers.

The dramatis personæ form a large and varied population, ranging in social rank from the king to the tinker and the bellows-mender. Princes, dukes, courtiers, pages, dissolute gallants, soldiers, sailors, shepherds, clowns, city mechanicals, the country justice, the constable and head-borough, the schoolmaster, the parson, the faithful old servant, the lively waiting-maid, roysterers, humourists, light-fingered rogues, foreign fantasticoes, middle-class English husbands and wives, Welshman, Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian, Jew, noble and gracious ladies, country wenches, courtesans, childhood, youth, manhood, old age, the maiden, the wife, the widow--all sorts and conditions of human mortals occupy the scene, while on this side enters Caliban, bearing his burden of pine-logs, and Ariel flies overhead upon the bat's back, on the other, the offended king of faery frowns upon Titania, and claims his pretty Eastern minion.

The characters are ordinarily ranged, with an excellent effect on dramatic perspective, in three groups or divisions. The lovers and their immediate friends or rivals occupy the middle plane. Above them are persons of influence or authority by virtue of age or rank, on whom in some measure the fortunes of the lovers depend. Below them are the humbler aiders and abettors of their designs, or subordinate figures lightly attached to the central action, yet sometimes playing into the hands of benevolent Chance, and always ready to diversify the scene, to enliven the stage, to afford a breathing-space between passages of high-wrought emotion, to fill an interval with glittering word-play or unconscious humour, to save romance from shrill intensity or too aerial ascension by the contact of reality. Shakespeare in comedy was hardly quite happy until he had found his Duke and his clown; then he had the space in which he could move at ease; love remains his central theme, but it is love which rises out of life; his principal figures are rendered more distinct, are seen more in the round, because they stand out from a rich and various background.

=Intrigue; and the Treatment of Materials.=--The intrigue of Shakespeare's comedies is seldom of his own creation. He understood by "invention" something finer or rarer than the construction of a plot. The greatest workers in literature--we must perhaps except Dante--have been the trouvères, the finders. To form a being out of the clay, and to breathe into its nostrils the breath of life is an act of creation in the finest sense of the word. What is material and mechanical Shakespeare willingly accepts from others; his range of invention is almost without limit, but it is invention in the spiritual world. No sufficient sources have been found for his earliest comedy--Love's Labour's Lost--and for what was perhaps his latest--The Tempest; it does not follow, however, that in these instances he varied from his customary practice. When Shakespeare dealt with the substantial matter of history, he remained upon his native soil, until through Plutarch he discovered Rome. No dramatist of his age is more truly an English patriot; no other evocation of the past in poem or play is so truly alive or so truly national as that effected in Shakespeare's series of chronicle histories; and with his English history he has connected his robustest piece of comedy--no romance of love, but a comedy of character, essentially national in its humour, its exultant mirth, its pathos, the chronicle history of King Falstaff on his tavern throne. But breathing the air of the English Renaissance, he turned away in his romantic comedies from his own country to Italy, the land of romance. Once--in Cymbeline--he is a debtor to Holinshed, but Holinshed has here to summon Boccaccio to his aid. Even The Merry Wives of Windsor, as far as we can trace its sources, is indebted for some of its laughable adventures to the Italian novelle. Twice Shakespeare borrowed the plots of comedies from tales by contemporary writers of England,--As You Like It is founded upon Lodge's Rosalynde; The Winter's Tale, upon Greene's Pandosto. But although Lodge's story was in part derived from a poem of rough and humble incidents, characteristically English, it was transformed in his hands into a much-embroidered amorous pastoral of the Renaissance, and Greene's Pandosto is equally a product of exotic southern culture.

Boccaccio, Bandello, Cinthio, elder English dramas derived from Italian sources, Spanish pastoral romance--these furnished the booty on which Shakespeare laid hands with the right of a conqueror. He selected, omitted, altered, added, moulding the mass of material with plastic hands, which are gentle because they are strong. Frequently he complicates the intrigue; sometimes he entangles a secondary plot with the primary; sometimes he emends the ethics, or purifies the atmosphere, or saves some cherished character from dishonour; in many instances he creates new personages, who are the interpreters of his own wisdom or humour or gracious temper. Thus in As You Like It, though the loves of Orlando and Rosalind are transposed from the languid artificial pastoral of Lodge into the spirited wood-notes of Shakespeare, we look in vain through Lodge's romance for the sentimental-cynical Jaques, dilettante collector of curious experiences, for Touchstone, the courtier-clown, with his logic of nice distinctions, for Audrey, no Dresden-china shepherdess, but fascinating to her ingenious suitor by virtue of her robust charms and her flattering inferiority of brain. Again, in Twelfth Night the character of Malvolio and of the whole group of his tormentors--Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Fabian, Feste, Maria--are added to his originals by Shakespeare. The languorous love-in-idleness of the Duke Orsino, and Olivia's sadness prepense demanded a contrast, and in Shakespeare's imagination sprang up this crew of toper and droll and slender-witted gentlemen, and mischief-loving maid, who seem to take hands and dance around the solemn figure of that deluded magnifico of domestics. To cite but one other example, how would Much Ado about Nothing dwindle if Beatrice and Benedick, its brain of wit and pulse of gallantry, were to disappear from the scene! But these, and with them the office-bearing majesty of Dogberry, prince of constables, and the astute intelligence of goodman Verges ("an old man, sir; but honest as the skin between his brows") are engrafted by Shakespeare on the original of Bandello.

=Relation to Predecessors and Contemporaries.=--From his predecessors and early contemporaries Shakespeare doubtless learnt whatever it was in their power to teach; at the same time he started forth on ways of his own. In Lyly he saw how something of the ideality of the masque could be transferred to comedy; how comedy could escape from the grosser world of the actual to a realm of courtly classical fantasy; how action could be suspended to give scope for the play of sparkling or ingenious dialogue in prose; how dainty song could come to the aid of speech which threatened to grow tedious; how disguises of sex could lead to delicate and diverting confusions. But Shakespeare must have perceived the lack of human interest in Lyly's plays; the deficiency of action, which often causes the progress of the piece to languish or to cease; the slight or colourless characterization; the mechanical artificiality, and monotonous balance of certain elements in Euphuistic prose. What was sprightly and ingenious in Lyly's dialogue he preserved; but of Euphuism in the strict sense we find nothing in Shakespeare's plays, except a passage of mockery, appropriately introduced where Falstaff in the tavern discourses as a moralizing father to that well-bred youth, Prince Hal,--"For though the camomile the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth the more it is wasted the sooner it wears." Nor, unless it be the passage describing Oberon's vision of Cupid aiming his shaft at the fair vestal throned in the West, does he follow Lyly in mythological allegory, which conceals and betrays contemporary persons and events.

In the comedies of Robert Greene examples already existed of the romantic tale of love and lovers handled in dramatic fashion. Amid the vulgar surroundings of his sorry London life, Greene preserved a certain purity of idyllic imagination. His comely maidens and loyal wives, tried and true, had shown how important and how attractive a part may be borne by women upon the comic stage. He had exhibited with some skill the art of connecting two intrigues--the primary and the subordinate. He had placed comic matter side by side with matter which approximated to tragic. He could pass from verse to prose, and could mingle with blank verse, sometimes brocaded with ornament but often fresh and sweet, easy rhymed couplets and such other arrangements of rhyme as Shakespeare practised in his early plays. But he often erred through an attempt at Marlowesque magnificence and through the pride and pomp of pseudo-classical decoration. He lacked that humour of good sense, directed upon oneself, which warns a writer when he is in danger of falling into absurdity. His ludicrous scenes do not always assist the more serious or romantic matter of the play; they are too much of the nature of an interlude or divertissement. His feeling for what is laughable was somewhat primitive and crude; a vigorous bout at quarter-staves, a lusty drubbing, the extravagant pranks of a mediæval devil, were simple and unfailing receipts to shake the ribs of the groundlings. If Shakespeare was a pupil of Greene's in comedy, he was an intelligent pupil, who knew what to remember and what to forget.

Except as regards the form of his verse and prose it cannot be said that Shakespeare, as a writer of comedy, was ever in a true sense in discipleship to any master. He found suggestions, and used them, but he took his own way. The history of his development consists in great measure in the gradual coalescing of the various faculties from which poetry may be derived. In his latest comedies intellect and emotion are fused together; wit has been taken up into moral wisdom; imagination in its highest reach is united with the simple, primary feelings of our humanity; gaiety and seriousness interpenetrate each other; tenderness and pity are alive in the breast of the comic Muse; the laughter is often the laughter of human sympathy and of a pathetic joy; if we smile at the quaint forms of the hieroglyph of life, we know that it has a deep and sacred meaning. From the outset Shakespeare thought of comedy as a mirror of human life, which should reflect things sad and serious as well as mirthful, and which by its magic power should convert pain into pleasure; but the two elements of Shakespearian comedy exist side by side in the earliest plays; they are not yet fused into one. In the main, Shakespeare at first relied upon his nimble brain, and aimed at exciting laughter by comic surprises, contrasts, and incongruities which lie upon the surface of things and are the offspring of accident rather than of character. His delight in wit-combats and word-play is a transference to language of the same feeling which made him delight in the errors and disguisings of his persons. There is a laughter which arises from no profounder cause than titillation; the harlequinade of words, leaping one over the other, parrying, riposting, and suddenly disappearing under a mask of invisibility, yet still striking, as it were, out of the shadow, serves as a titillation of the brain.

=Shakespeare's Development as a Comic Dramatist.=--In his earliest group of comedies, Love's Labour's Lost, The Comedy of Errors, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, A Midsummer Night's Dream, dating perhaps from about 1590 to about 1594, Shakespeare experimented in various directions. We might name the group that of his transformation plays. The comic surprise, the comic incongruity is that of man suddenly converted from his true to a false self or from a false self to a true. Human will is here the sport of nature or the sport of accident. Nothing is but what is not. The vowed students of Navarre are betrayed into the very opposite of their assumed selves by the power of nature and of love. Proteus, the servant of Julia, the comrade of Valentine, forsakes his mistress and his friend, and is as suddenly reconverted. The brothers Antipholus and the brothers Dromio are so shuffled together by the juggler Chance, that we question if any personal identity will survive and reëmerge at the close. Whether Lysander and Demetrius will awake the rival lovers of Helena or the rival lovers of Hermia, or whether Lysander will love Hermia and Demetrius Helena, depends on the merest luck of fairy-land. But nature and luck are on the side of love; all will be set right before the end. And because women lie closer to nature than men, and their affections hold the bent with the directness and certainty of nature, they are true and constant to themselves, neither deluding their hearts with pseudo-ideals, nor changed by the play of circumstances from what they are, but using their woman's wit and woman's will to attain their proper ends.

Love's Labour's Lost has the air of a young writer's effort to be original, and to dazzle by unflagging cleverness; whence at times a tedium of wit. Shakespeare seems to have resolved to owe his plot to no man, with the result that it is somewhat too much a prepared vehicle for the exposition of an idea. The little cloister of culture, where education is to be a fine art removed from nature, is invaded by woman, and with the entrance of woman enters nature, which has more of wisdom to impart than all the academies or schools. The denouement must be as original as the general design; death arrives in the midst of mirth; there shall be no weddings in the fifth act; love's labour is lost; or, if not lost, its reward is deferred a twelvemonth; the scholars turned lovers are still infected with something of unreality and affectation, exhaling their sentiment in Petrarchan ingenuities, and one of them, Biron, with his mocking humour, takes life too proudly and wilfully; the mad girls of France are at heart serious, and they will test their lovers by a year of genuine probation, then, and not till then, the marriage bells shall ring. The Spanish fantastico, Don Adriano, towering in stature, though not in wit, above his minion page, and the learned schoolmaster Holofernes, much admired of his companion pedant, the curate, resemble stock figures of Italian comedy. Affectations of language--the decorated dialect of fashion, the pedantries of scholarship not too profound--are also departures from nature, and must submit to the laughter of good sense. Nature may, indeed, be mended by art, for nature in its first rudiments, as seen in honest Costard and goodman Dull, is not wholly a thing of beauty and of joy, but the art which mends nature must be, as the wise Polixenes afterwards declared, an art that nature makes. Love's Labour's Lost--the Precieuses ridicules of Shakespeare, but with men for the presenters of preciosity and women as the exponents of good sense--is a comedy of dialogue rather than of incident. The stage is kept alive with much tossing about of brains in wit-encounters, with maskings and disguisings, and with that marred show of the Nine Worthies, a heroi-comic forerunner of the tedious, brief scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisbe, in which the hard-handed men of Athens appear before Duke Theseus.

The Comedy of Errors is a comedy of incident. Here Shakespeare accepts his plot, his chief characters, and their adventures from Plautus. But the adventures are complicated by his addition of the two Dromios, which more than doubles the possibilities of ludicrous confusion. The fun cannot be too fast or furious; the unexpected always happens; the discovery is staved off to the fifth act with infinite skill; the nearer each brother approaches his fellow, the more impossible it becomes for them to meet. Nowhere has Shakespeare ravelled and unravelled the threads of an intrigue with such incomparable dexterity as in this early play. But Shakespeare's imagination could not rest satisfied with a farce, however laughable or however skilfully conducted. His vein of lyrical poetry breaks forth in the love-episode, for the sake of which he created Luciana. And he has set the entire comic business in a romantic and pathetic framework--the story of the afflicted old Ægeon and the Ephesian abbess, in whom he discovers his lost wife. The play opens with grief and the doom of death impending over an innocent life; it closes, after a cry of true pathos, with reconciling joy, and the interval is filled with laughter that peals to a climax. This is not the manner of Plautus; but laughter with Shakespeare would seem hard and barren--the crackling of thorns under a pot,--if it were wholly isolated from grief and love and joy.

Shakespeare did not again attempt the comedy of mere incident. In The Two Gentlemen of Verona he struck into his favourite tune--the comedy of romance. Among its sources is the Spanish pastoral of Jorge de Montemayor, but the scene is Italy, the woman-country wooed in this play before it was wed by the imagination of its poet in The Merchant of Venice. The theme is love, its fidelity and its infidelity--love with its incalculable surprises, love with its unalterable constancy. The characters are lightly yet gracefully outlined; there are the grave and reverend seniors; the contrasted pairs of lovers; the waiting-woman; and the clownish men-servants, to whom the business of laughter is intrusted. The persons are somewhat mechanically set over, one against the other,--Valentine the loyal against the fickle Proteus, Silvia the sprightly against the tender Julia, Speed the professional wit against Launce the unconscious humourist, whose filial affections and amorous desires for the milkmaid, who has more qualities than a water-spaniel, are only secondary to his devotion to the cur Crab, a dog, indeed, to whose share some canine errors fall, but endowed with more qualities than a wilderness of milkmaids. The disguising of Julia in masculine attire anticipates many such disguisings in later comedies. It is no frolic masking like that of the girls of France, but part of the serious-playful romance of a woman's brave and gentle heart. The blank verse is sweet and regular rather than swift or powerful in dramatic movement; rhyme is less frequently used than heretofore; the prose of Launce's soliloquies has a homely directness and vigour.

In A Midsummer Night's Dream comedy becomes lyrical. Character is subordinate to incident, but incident here has a dreamlike quality, which unites itself with the poetry of a fantastic world. It is a comedy of errors,--the errors of a night,--but the confusions are not external and material as in the adventures of the brothers Antipholus; they are inward and psychological; the bewilderment is one of passions, not of persons. The triumph of the poet lies before all else in the power which he shows of harmonizing materials seemingly the most incongruous. The magnificence of Theseus and his Amazonian bride,--power in the full tide of prosperity,--the crossed and wayward loves of youths and maidens, the minikin-mighty strifes of fairy-land and its roguish sports, the artistic pains and illustrious ineptitude of the crew of hempen homespuns--all these are wrought together in a dream which we accept with a tranquil and delighted wonder.

The power of the human will is, as it were, suspended in this play of elfland magic. Before The Merchant of Venice was written, Shakespeare's feeling for dramatic action and passion had been deepened and invigorated by his progress in dealing with English history and probably by the creation of a great tragedy, Romeo and Juliet, the tragedy of love and youth and death. The Merchant of Venice is Shakespeare's first, and perhaps his most remarkable, example of the comedy of character. Here we pass from the realm of caprice to that of human volition. A passive object, the merchant, is placed in the midst as a prize to be contended for by forces naturally adverse--the passion of concentrated revenge and the spirit of charity, armed with the brightest weapons of intelligence. The masculine and the feminine powers enter upon a single combat, and victory remains with mercy and love, the "Ewigweibliche." No such figure as that of Shylock had previously appeared upon the English stage. In his person Shakespeare not only lays bare the nerve and muscle of a wrestler in the game of life, but studies the darker and sadder features of a race. He is no incredible monster like the Barabas of Marlowe, but a man, whose origins and environment have made him what he is; whom, therefore, we understand and whom in his very pitilessness we are constrained to pity. Nor had the English stage hitherto seen any woman so complex in her various powers of intellect, emotions, will, so single in their harmonious coöperance, as the noble lady of Belmont. The same energy of resolve which makes her the armed champion of Antonio had lain hidden in her loyalty to the arduous conditions of her father's will. The dramatist in this play postulates our acceptance of certain external improbabilities; these concessions made, all things are wrought out in accordance with the laws of life. The spirit of tragedy here is neighbour to the comic spirit, yet observes the finest decorum. Two actions--that of the caskets and that of the pound of flesh--work into each other without a jar and become one. The characters are grouped with perfect freedom and with an exact, though unobtruded, ordonnance, for Shakespeare's art had now learnt to conceal itself. The fifth act of the play is a kind of lovely epilogue, where, after the strained anxiety of the trial-scene, joy is preserved from its own excess by the instinct of self-mockery.

It may be that the humbler humorous scenes of the English historical plays on which he was now engaged drew down the imagination of Shakespeare as a writer of comedy from romance to realism, and made him content to work for a little while in rougher material. The Taming of the Shrew, whatever its chronological place may be, is only a spirited adaptation of an older play, and is chiefly interesting as an example of Shakespeare's art in transposing, developing, enriching with detail, the ideas of a predecessor, and as a demonstration of the temper with which he could kindle a predecessor's allegro into an allegro con brio. With old Sly's son of Burton heath, the village sot, he was upon his native soil, and he could heighten his original with low-life reminiscences of Warwickshire taverns. The Merry Wives of Windsor is a direct offshoot from the greater comedy of Falstaff which is incorporated in the historical plays. The tradition that it was hastily written by command of Queen Elizabeth, who desired to see "Falstaff in love," relieves us from the necessity of supposing that Shakespeare voluntarily degraded his indomitable jester into the flouting-stock of a bourgeois fabliau, "Well I am your theme: you have the start of me; I am dejected; ... ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me; use me as you will." That Shakespeare should throw himself with spirit into his task was a crime for which he earns our forgiveness by its successful issue. The merry wives are honest buxom dames, without a grain of real malice in them. The French physician and the Welsh parson murder the Queen's English with as happy a valiance as that of Fluellen and the Princess Katharine in King Henry V. Slender is the most delightfully incompetent of wooers--a Romeo manqué of Windsor, whose amorous passion waits upon his cousin Shallow's promptings and whose wit is mislaid with his Book of Riddles. The buck-basket and the old woman of Brentford are very palpable jokes, which the crassest gentleman-usher or emptiest-headed maid-in-waiting could not miss. There are the proper topical allusions to call forth an interchange of smiling mutual intelligence. Altogether The Merry Wives was a comedy delicate enough for a queen. For such a play the proper medium was prose; verse is reserved for the slender love-episode of Fenton and Anne Page, and for the scenes connected with the fairy disguising.

As the pressure of the English historical plays lightened, Shakespeare could turn again to Italy and to romance. In The Merry Wives he had grouped his characters in a circle around a gross old self-lover, whom it was their business to delude and mock. Perhaps the same device could be refined upon and turned to romantic uses. Falstaff had professed love and had been convicted of sordid self-interest. What it a pair of high-spirited persons, touched with the egotism of self-sufficingness and wilful wit, and professing a superiority to the toys of lovers, could be ensnared into that deep mutual passion which was in truth written for them in the book of fate? But there must be something deeper here than a jest; such brave union of hearts must be cemented by a common effort to confront the sorrow of the world. At this time, perhaps, Shakespeare was concerned with his revision of Love's Labour's Lost. Might not Biron and Rosaline be reincarnated, and in place of that crude test of a twelve months' visitation of the speechless sick decreed for Biron, might not an immediate test of valiant manhood be discovered, and the newer Biron come to the happy ending of love's labour's won? In Beatrice and Benedick a brilliant centre was found for the play of Much Ado about Nothing. The high spirits, which gave life to The Shrew and The Merry Wives are here refined by gallantry and beauty, wit and grace, and by the presence of injury and pain. The other dramatis personæ gather around the hero and heroine to beguile them into love; the passion begotten of a jest is brought forth in sorrow, and sorrow at the close is converted into joy. With so much of quick and lambent dialogue as Beatrice and Benedick have to utter, we want no outstanding jester here; his speech would be an impertinence; but we need a counterfoil to wit in the unconscious humour of a Dogberry and a Verges; and these worthies assist effectively in the action of the play; Fate, the sphinx, assumes an ironic smile; the dulness of a blundering watchman unties a knot which has foiled the dexterity of the wise.

The comedy which followed Much Ado about Nothing is one of sunshine and dappled shadow under the greenwood of Arden. Landseer's companion pictures, "War" and "Peace," find a parallel in Shakespeare's King Henry V. and As You Like It, which probably belong to the same year; and the scene of both the history and the comedy is laid in France. He would have left untouched a favourite theme of the Renaissance if he had wholly neglected the pastoral; but Shakespeare felt that the conventional pastoral alone, with its cruel shepherdess and sighing swain, however suitable for a piece of poetical tapestry, could not furnish the life and body and movement demanded by the stage. His Silvius and Phœbe, Arcadians of the mode and rhetoricians in verse, are presented with a certain reserved irony; the veritable rustics are William, whose pretty wit chiefly manifests itself in monosyllabic answers, and the wench Audrey, whom the gods did not make poetical. Touchstone, a clown among courtiers, is a courtier among clowns. The other persons of the comedy are of the high-bred class, in the midst of which the dramatist's imagination moved with most pleasure, but here they are transported into a delightful open-air environment, which breathes a freshness and sweetness into their spirits. "Sweet are the uses of adversity," and especially of such adversity as that of Rosalind, which enables her, in her disguise as Ganymede, to assist in her own wooing and to play the part of a benevolent goddess of destiny for several pairs of lovers including Orlando and herself. We learn from a play of Ben Jonson's of the same date that melancholy was a genteel fashion of the day. Shakespeare, on the suggestion of a current affectation, created in Jaques a character which was wholly original. Humourist, sentimentalist, critic, and cynic, he is the self-conscious seeker for new experiences, the dilettante collector of curiosities to be labelled in his museum as states of a human soul.

The midsummer of Shakespeare's comedy is reached in Twelfth Night. Was it his effort to resist the invasion of sadder thought which raised its mirth to the reeling heights of Sir Toby's Illyrian bacchanals? We dare not venture such a surmise, for the light and warmth are at flood-tide. The voluptuous love-languors of the Duke and Olivia's luxury of grief fatten the idle soil for the blossoming of the rose. The disease of overmuch prosperity in the palaces of Illyria seems set over against the sanity of adversity in the forest of Arden. Viola, in her disguises as Cesario, has a harder task than the banished Rosalind; for instead of assisting at her own wooing, she is required to plead as an envoy of love against herself. In place of the dilettante egotist Jaques, who would range through all experiences, we have here the solemn self-lover, Malvolio, pinnacled in his own sense of importance and his code of formal propriety, yet toppling from his heights to so grotesque a fall. Had Shakespeare encountered some starched Elizabethan Puritan, who looked sourly on the theatre, and thought that because he was virtuous there should be no more cakes and ale, and did the dramatist read a humorous lesson to his time on an error more deep-seated in the human heart than the excesses of a joyous temper? Was the comic spirit here a swordsman armed with the blade of reason and good sense? If such was the case, Shakespeare was assuredly no partisan, and Sir Toby Belch is hardly his ideal representative of a liberal humanism.

After the play of Twelfth Night we become aware of the first ebb of summer. It has been suggested that the events shadowed forth in the Sonnets took some of the joy out of Shakespeare's heart. It has been suggested that the fall of Essex, involving the disgrace of the poet's patron Southampton, tended to embitter his spirit. These are conjectures that cannot be verified. What is certain is, that he turned toward tragedy, and that his temper in comedy indicates a gathering of the clouds. The spirit of All's Well that Ends Well is as courageous as is the title of the play; and there is a need for courage, not of the gay and sportive kind, but serious and steadfast. The hero is no gallant Orlando or high-spirited Benedick. He has in him, we must suppose, the possibilities of noble manhood, but these are obscured by the errors and the vices of youth. The heroine is no glad-hearted girl like Rosalind, no scatterer of coruscating jests like Beatrice, but a woman, clear-sighted, strong-willed, and bent on achieving her purpose. She, the poor daughter of a physician, is a healer in a world that stands in need of healing. The bright-winged Cupid of nods and becks and wreathed smiles has been transformed into Love, the physician. Helena, honoured and cherished by all who know her aright, is rejected by the one man on whom her heart is fixed, and whom she rescues from his baser self with something of that maternal protectiveness, which in certain instances constitutes the nucleus of wifely love. The Countess is Shakespeare's creation, and nowhere has he made age more beautiful. The comic business lies chiefly in the unmasking of the pretender, Parolles. It is required both by the action and the ethics of the play, but there is little to afford us pleasure in the humiliation of so paltry a miles gloriosus.

The atmosphere darkens in Measure for Measure. In the city of Vienna corruption boils and bubbles. From the Duke's deputy to the lowest drudge of vice, society is infected with the festering evil. To deal with the subtleties of sin, virtue itself must learn crafty ways; mines must be opposed by countermines. In Claudio the passions of youth, snatching too eagerly at unlicensed satisfaction, are brought into the presence of death; and to life, tender and florid, the vast regions of the grave are full of obscurity and uncertain horror. It is hardly a scene for the joy of love, though to two strong hearts love may come in the end as the sequel of a common struggle for justice and moral reformation. Rather is it a place for the trials and the victory of virgin chastity. The Duke moves through subterranean passages, guided by the dark lantern of moral prudence. Isabella illuminates the gloom with the light of an indignant saintliness. Here it is no pompous formalist who is humiliated; no common pretender who is detected and delivered over to laughter; the deadliest ambushes of evil are attacked; the heart, "deceitful above all things and desperately wicked," is laid bare. Angelo, the self-deceiver, is exposed not merely to others, but to himself; he gazes down appalled into the abyss discovered in his own soul. We have travelled far from the fresh wild-wood paths of Arden and from the glowing gardens of Illyria.

No problems connected with the plays of Shakespeare are more difficult of solution than those offered by the satiric drama, in which matter from the story of Troy is handled in so enigmatic a fashion. Shall we place Troilus and Cressida hard by Measure for Measure, or date it some six years later, regarding it as a successor in comedy to the tragic study of the misanthrope in Timon of Athens? The evidence inclines in favour of the earlier date. Is some of the wood, hay, and stubble of the lost Troilus and Cressida of Dekker and Chettle imbedded in Shakespeare's play? Is it a satire of humanity or of contemporary individuals? Was this the "purge" which Shakespeare administered to Ben Jonson, and, with Jonson disguised as Ajax, and Marston as Thersites, was the play one of those alarums and excursions connected with the war of the theatres, in which Marston, Dekker, and Jonson were the principal combatants?[1949] Is Cressida a malicious portrait of the deceitful enchantress of the Sonnets, and was a satirical presentment of the heroes of Homer a retort upon the rival poet, conjectured to be Chapman, the translator of Homer, who had stolen away the favour of Shakespeare's young friend and patron. These questions remain unanswered. We can only say that the spirit of this comedy of disillusion is alien to that of genuine comedy as conceived by Shakespeare in his happier days. The young love of Troilus is betrayed by the courtesan born. Achilles is a dull-brained fellow, barren of wit, who sulks or wantons in his tent; Ajax is a clumsy elephant; Thersites lives on garbage, and spews his filth; Pandar is a lecher, incapable except by proxy; to fight on account of Helen is to set the world at odds for an harlot, yet on her behalf it is that Hector, knowing the folly of it, dies. Troilus is indeed a gallant youth, but his passion is a greenhorn's infatuation: let him be cured of it by surgical incision, however cruel! Shall we say that Troilus and Cressida and Measure for Measure are connected by a certain contrast and resemblance? In each the world is bubbling with corruption. The mighty persons of the earth in the one play are as ignoble as the mean persons of the other; the confraternity of Mistress Overdone includes the champions of the world and their renowned lady-loves; the worldly wisdom of the Duke is lowered and broadened into the all-embracing but wholly mundane experience of Ulysses; and in this sorry society it is from worldly wisdom alone that we can hope for any rescue or deliverance, for here we find no saintly Isabella, but a Cressida, offering her lips to every solicitor of the Grecian tents.

The spirit of mirth withdrew itself for a time from Shakespeare's art. He could still write comic scenes, but they were used to deepen the effects of tragedy. The grave-diggers of Hamlet, the porter turning the key of hell-gate on the night of murder in Macbeth, Lear's poor fool jesting across the storm upon the heath, the clown whose basket of figs conceals the worm of Nilus--these are humorous figures created in the service of pity and terror. Shakespeare did not return to comedy until his perception of the world and human life had been purified by the tragic katharsis. With every faculty of his mind labouring at its highest, he had pursued a long dramatic inquisition of the evil that is in the world and in the heart of man. He had not retreated into any facile creed of pleasant optimism, but boldly explored the face of night, and night had brought out the stars. Such love as that of Cordelia, such loyalty as that of Kent, could be fully revealed only in and through the darkness. Man pleased Shakespeare and woman also, when he wrote his tragedies, else the players would have had lenten entertainment; for a drama founded upon misanthropy would have been unendurable. In Timon of Athens the poet exhibits misanthropy as the evasion of weakness from the ruins of a self-indulgent optimism, and we may say that in Timon of Athens he bade farewell to gloom.

Shakespeare's latest comedies--Pericles(as far as it is his), Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale, The Tempest--form a group, which is distinguished by a special character. The atmosphere is light and pellucid, like that which follows a thunder-storm. There is a great and wide serenity abroad; the heavens seem more spacious, and they bend down to embrace the margins of the land. The healing influences of nature are felt in the country lanes where Autolycus sings his tirra-lirra, and the meadows where Perdita follows her sheep, on the seacoast of Tarsus where Marina bears her basket of flowers, among the wild Welsh mountains with the gallant sons of Cymbeline, on the enchanted island full of "sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not." The life of cities and courts had lost much of its attraction for one who perhaps was now finding repose and restoration among the Warwickshire fields. But Shakespeare did not plead, in the manner of Rousseau, for a reversion to the primitive conditions of humanity; he could smile at Gonzalo's imaginary commonwealth, where property has no existence; he saw in Caliban the rudimentary man not half informed with soul; he had faith in an art which mends nature, while yet it is an art which nature makes. And nature itself, with all of human life, seems to hang, dreamlike and yet real, in the encompassing power of something that is above nature and that means well, however little we can trace its ways. Dian appears to Pericles in a vision, guiding him to her temple where joy awaits him; the innocence of Hermione is vindicated by the oracle of Apollo; Posthumus in prison is visited by Jupiter, giving him assurance of divine succour--"whom best I love I cross"; Prospero is aided in his beneficent designs by ministering elemental spirits. The growing resources of the Jacobean stage assisted the dramatist in scenic effects, to which he imparted a beautiful significance. The temper of these latest plays is a temper of reconciliation; the wrongs of life are present, but for those who can transcend the baser passions they work for good. Injuries are felt but are forgiven; broken bonds of affection are reunited; the lost are restored to hearts that have loved and suffered. "The oldest hath borne most," says Albany in the closing lines of King Lear. The old are seen in these last romances of Shakespeare as experienced in suffering, caused by the offence of others or by the errors of their own hearts; but they have learnt through suffering a certain detachment from the greed of personal gain, and they lean over the joy of young hearts, still immersed in the innocent egoism of youth, with a fond protectiveness. Cymbeline and his recovered sons, Pericles and Marina, Hermione and Perdita, Prospero and Miranda--it is the same sentiment, varied and repeated, in each of its exemplars. Certain indications that Shakespeare was loosening his connection with the theatre are present in these plays. He could, as in the instance of Pericles and perhaps in those of King Henry VIII. and The Two Noble Kinsmen contribute fragments to a drama in which, as a whole, he took little interest. In plays of which he is the sole author, his dramatic energy flags at times, to be renewed where the subject moved his feelings or charmed his imagination. The versification is breeze-like in its freedom, but sometimes the breeze falls away and sometimes it wanders with too vague an aim. The treatment of time passes from the extreme of romantic license, as in The Winter's Tale, to the strictest observation of the rule of unity in The Tempest. In Pericles, the earliest of these romances, Shakespeare cared only for certain scenes and situations. In Cymbeline, wherever Imogen, the loveliest figure in his gallery of portraits of women appears, we are certain to receive his finest workmanship. Hermione and Perdita wholly possessed his imagination, while a crude sketch sufficed for the jealousy of Leontes. The Tempest, if we set aside the laborious jesting of Antonio and Sebastian (designed to express the barren brain that often accompanies a callous heart), is wrought with equal power from the first scene to the last.

Perhaps the conjecture is well founded that The Tempest, with its masque of wedding blessings, was written for the marriage of Princess Elizabeth to Frederick, Elector Palatine, in February, 1613. Perhaps it was Shakespeare's latest play. And it may not be altogether an idle notion of the poet Campbell, that in Prospero's breaking his magic staff and dismissing his airy spirits we have the farewell to the stage of the great enchanter who had summoned Prospero into being.

Shakespeare found poetic comedy in its rudiments; he left it fully formed. He brought together its various elements and organized them to fulfil the functions of a single living spirit. He made laughter wise, and taught seriousness how to be winning and gracious. Through no ascetic doctrine but by virtue of the spirit of life and beauty he purified the drama from the dulness of what is gross, and kept its temper above the seductions of sentimental morals and a nerveless lubricity. Wit, fancy, grace, constructive dexterity, are found among his successors. Shakespeare's sane outlook upon life as a whole, his gentleness of strength in dealing with the passions, his reserve of power, his moral wisdom, were lost to English comedy when Prospero abjured his magic and retired to the duties of his Stratford lordship of the soil.

EDWARD DOWDEN.

FOOTNOTES:

[1949] On this subject, see The War of the Theatres, by Mr. J. H. Penniman, 1897, and The Stage-Quarrel between Ben Jonson and the so-called Poetasters by R. A. Small (Breslau, 1899).

INDEX OF HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL MATERIALS

ABERDEEN, Records of, xxxviii.

Acolastus, the, by Gnapheus (W. Fullonius), transl. by Palsgrave, lxx, lxxi, lxxxi.

Acting and actors: in churches, xiii, xv, xix, xxi; in schools, xiv, lxix; in churchyards, xii; by crafts, xviii, xx, xxxiii; the councils against mimi, xix, xl; actors of Wakefield, xxv; mummers, xl; English actors in Germany, xlv; acting at Cambridge, lxxi, 197; Udall and school actors, 98; Lyly and boy actors, 265–268, 270, 279; Greene and the companies, 399, 403, 408, 411, 418; Porter and the companies, 515, 516, 519–522, 524, 526–527.

Admiral's men, the, (i.e. under patronage of Lord Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham, 1585–1603) and Greene, 403, 408, 410; and Porter, 515–517, 520–528, et passim.

Agamemnon, Dekker and Chettle's, 523.

Agrippa, Henry Cornelius (von Nettesheim), 281.

Alberti, his Philodoxeos, lxvii.

Albyon Knight, lxxxvi.

Alcmæon, the play of, 268.

Alda, Latin play by William of Blois, xvii.

Aldrich, Robert, and Udall, 92.

Alençon, the duc d', and Endymion, 268.

Alexander, the Life of by Plutarch, 269, 283, et seq.

Alexander and Campaspe, by Lyly, edition of, with essay, by Professor Baker, 263–333; dates, sources, literary estimate, etc., 268–276.

Alexander and Lodowick, by Martin Slater, 523, 526.

Alexandrine, the Middle English, 189.

Allegory, and the drama, xxxvii, xl, lxxxi, xcii, 267.

Alleyn, Edward, and Greene's plays, 408, 410; catalogue of his MSS. at Dulwich, 515; acquaintance with Porter, 524.

Alleyn, Richard, an actor in the Admiral's company, 524.

All for Money, Lupton's, xlviii, li, lxxxvi.

Allott, his England's Parnassus, 421.

All's Well that Ends Well, Shakespeare's, 191, 656.

Alphonsus, Emperor of Germany, by Chapman, attributed to Peele, 336.

Alphonsus, King of Arragon, Comicall Historie of, by Greene, 389, 403–405, 407, 410, 411, 421.

Andria, of Terence, the English translation of, lxviii, lxxi, 107.

Antichrist legend, Protestant version of the, lxxv.

Apius and Virginia, The tragical comedy of, by R. B., lxxxvi, 141, 336, 341.

Apollodorus Tarsensis, compared with Peele, 337.

Apuleius, Adlington's translation of his Metamorphoses of the Golden Ass, a possible source of Peele's 'Meroe,' 346, 383.

Arber, Professor E., his English Garner, 89; his reprint of Roister Doister, 90, 104, 194; his Transcripts of the Stationers' Registers, 97, 197, 347, et passim.

Archæologia, on Udall, 93.

Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen, on Peele, 348.

Aretino, his Poliscene, lxvii.

Ariosto, his I Suppositi, lxviii; Gascoigne's translation of, lxxv, lxxxiv; compared with Peele, 337; his Orlando Furioso, 389.

Argumentative plays, debats, and controversial morals, lxv, lxvi, lxxv, xci; Heywood's, 10.

Arraignment of Paris, The, by Peele, 336, 341.

Ascension, The, Wakefield play of, xxvi, xxvii.

Ascham, Roger, referred to, 135.

Asotus, the, by Macropedius, lxx.

Ass, Feast of the, xx, xxi.

As You Like It, by Shakespeare, lxv, 275, 645, 654, 655.

BABIO, a Latin elegiac comedy, xviii.

Baker, D. E. (with Reed and Jones), his Biographia Dramatica, 200, 348.

Baker, Professor G. P., Critical Essay on Lyly, his life and place in comedy, with special reference to Alexander and Campaspe, 263–277; edition of A. and C., with notes, 278–333.

Bale, Bishop, his Catalogus, xviii, 89, 93; translation of Pammachius, lxx, lxxi; his Kyng Johan, lxxii, lxxv.

Ballad plays, xli.

Bandello, 645.

Barclay, Alexander, and fool-literature, lii, liii.

Bardani, xli.

Barry, Lodowick, the song of "Three merrie men" in his Ram Alley, 352.

Bartholomew Fayre, by Ben Jonson, Induction to, 410.

Basoche, clercs de la, lxvi.

Battle of Alcazar, The, by Peele, 335, 337, 341.

Baucis, a Latin elegiac comedy, xviii.

Bayne, on Henry Porter in Dict. Nat. Biog., 519.

Beaumont and Fletcher, and the play within a play, 343.

Beaux Stratagem, The, by Farquhar, referred to, 429.

Bernhardi, his R. Greene's Leben u. Schritten, 397, 411.

Bewick and Grahame, the ballad, referred to, 366.

Bibbiena, Cardinal de, bis Calandria, lxviii.

Biblical miracles, xiii–xxxvii; genre drama, idyllic or heroic miracle, lxxvi.

Bien-Avisé et Mal-Avisé, a French moralité, liii, lxxii.

Birde, William, and Henry Porter, 516.

Blacke Battman of the North, Porter's relation to the play, 515, 521, 522.

Blank Verse, Peele's, 339, 340; Greene's, 404, 407, 414, 417; on the rhetorical quality of dramatic; examination of Greene's practice, and a few general conclusions, 503–513.

Bloody Brother, The, by Fletcher, Jonson, et al., parodies "Three merry men," 352.

Blount, Edward, publisher of Lyly's plays, 269, 276.

Blyssyd Sacrament, The, Croxton play of, xxxix.

Boase and Clark, Register of Univ. Oxford, and the two Henry Porters, 518.

Boccaccio, G., 645.

Bodel, Jean, his play of St. Nicholas, xvi.

Bojardo, his Timone, lxviii.

Bower, his Scotichronicon, on Robin Hood, xli.

Bower, the R. B. of Apius and Virginia (Fleay's conjecture), lxxxvi, 336.

Boy Bishop, the election of the, xx, xxi.

Bradley, Henry, mentioned, lxxii; his Critical Essay on Gammer Gurton's Nedle, 197–204; date of Gammer Gurton's Nedle, and its authorship, by Wm. Stevenson, 197; place of G. G. N. in the history of comedy, 202; dialect, 203; previous editions and the present text, 204; edition of G. G. N., 205–257; appendix, 259.

Brand, the Rev. John, his Popular Antiquities, 127, 192.

Brandl, Professor A., his Quellen u. Forschungen d. weltlichen Dramas in England, referred to, lx, lxxiii, lxxiv, lxxx, lxxxii, lxxxvii.

Brandt, Sebastian, his Narrenschiff, lii, liii.

Brasenose, the College Register of, and Henry Porter, 520.

Bridges, Dr. John, and Gammer Gurton's Nedle, 199; his Defence of the Government of the Church, 200.

Briggs, the Rev. Thomas, his copy of Roister Doister, 97.

Broome, William, and Alex. and Camp., 276.

Brotherhood in Arms, Scott on the institution, 366.

Brown, Professor J. M., on Greene (An Early Rival of Shakespeare, Auckland, 1877), 402, 405, 410, 415, 417.

Brute Grenshillde, and Henslowe, 523.

Bücher, K., Arbeit u. Rhythmus, referred to, on songs of labour, 384.

Buffeting, The, Wakefield play of, xxvii, xxviii.

Bugbears, The, a comedy of intrigue, lxxxviii.

Bulæus, on the Ludus de S. Katharina, xiv.

Bullen, Mr. A. H., his edition of Peele, 346, 348; see, also, notes to Gummere's edition of O. W. T.; on Henry Porter, 519.

Burby, Cuthbert, publisher, and Greene's plays, 418, etc.

Burlesque in church and festival plays, xix–xxi; in miracle cycles, xxiv, xxix, xxxvi; in farces, lxv, lxvi; in school plays, lxxi–lxxii, lxxv.

CADMAN, Thos., and Lyly's plays, 276.

Cain, the York play of, xxv.

Calandria, the, by Bibbiena, lxviii.

Calisto and Melibœa, by Cota and de Rojas, lxviii; the English play, lxxii.

Cambyses, King of Percia, etc., by Thomas Preston, lii, liii, lxxxvi, 342.

Camden's Proverbs, 108, 194, et passim.

Campaspe, by Lyly, 263–333.

Cante-fable, reminiscences of the, 356, 375.

Carde of Fancie, The, by Greene, the Dedication to, 403.

Carle off Carlile, the poem, 127.

Carmina Burana, referred to, 191.

Carpenter, Professor F. I., his edition of Wager's Marie Magdalene (University of Chicago Press), xciv.

Castell of Perseverance, The, play of, xlvii, xlviii, l, li, lviii.

Caxton, William, his translation of the Legenda Aurea, xxxi, xliv; his Prol. Eneydos, 115.

Chaderton, William, his play and Gammer Gurton, 198.

Challenge for Beauty, A, by T. Heywood, 521.

Chalmers, Alexander, his English Poets, 191.

Chapman, George, lxxxviii; and Lyly, 275; and Porter, 517, 524, 533; his Humerous Dayes Mirth, 527; and Shakespeare, 658.

Chappell's Popular Music of the Olden Time and the song of "Three merrie men," 352.

Character, portrayal of in miracles, xxxi, xxxiii; in marvels, etc., xxxix, xli; in morals, lii–liv, lxii–lxiii; in other plays, lxix, lxxxvii, xcii; and see under Authors and Comedies.

Chaucer, xix; the episode after his style, lxv, lxvi; and Heywood, 10–13; referred to, 127, 398, 426; and see notes to R. D.; on "hunting the letter," 374.

Chester Cycle, The, of miracle plays, xxiii, xxiv, xxix.

Chettle, Henry, his relations with Greene: his Kind Hart's Dreame, 419; his Robert Greene to Pierce Pennilesse, 422; and the 'Groatsworth Group,' 423, 424; his relations with Porter, 515–517, 522, 524; his Troilus and Cressida, 657.

Child, Professor, on Robin Hood plays, xl; on St. George plays, xliii, 176.

Childe Maurice, reference to, 359.

Childe Rowland, a possible reference to, in O. W. T., 345, 354, 356.

Children as players, 14, 98, 266, 267, 270, 275, 276.

Christ led up to Calvary, the York miracle of, xxvii.

Chronicle play, The English, lxxvi, Lyly and, 270.

Cicero, Lyly's indebtedness to, 267.

Cinthio, Giraldi, Shakespeare's indebtedness to, 645.

Clergy, the, and miracle plays, xiii, xviii–xx.

Clown, the, xlvii, xlviii, li, lii, liv, 388, 430, 644–646, 649, 651, 655.

Coliphizatio, one of the Wakefield plays, see Buffeting.

Collier, J. Payne, references to his History of Dramatic Poetry and Annals of the English Stage, Illustrations of Old English Literature, Henslowe's Diary, Memoirs of Alleyn, etc., xiv, xx, xl, xlii, xlix, lvi, lviii, lxxiv, lxxvii, lxxix, lxxxvii, lxxxviii, lxxxix, 97, 346, 409, 417, 515, 517, 518, 523, et passim; his Old Ballads, 167.

Colman, George, the elder, his Jealous Wife, 530.

Colwell, Thomas, publisher of Gammer Gurton, 197, 199, 201, and of the Disobedient Child.

Comedy in England, Beginnings of, by C. M. Gayley, xiii–xcii; liturgical fragments, early saints' plays and parodies, xiii; comedy of ridicule, xx; the miracle cycles in their relation to comedy, xxi; dramatic value of the English miracle plays, xxxi; the contribution of later "marvels" and early secular plays, xxxvii–xxxviii; the Devil and the Vice, xlvi; the indebtedness of comedy to the Vice, liii–liv; the relation between miracle, moral, and interlude, liv; the older morals in their relation to comedy, lvii; the dramatic contribution of the older morals, lxii; period of transition, farce and romantic interlude, lxiv; period of transition, school of interlude and controversial moral, 'Christian Terence' and comedia sacra, lxix; polytypic, or fusion, plays, lxxvii; survivals of the moral interlude, lxxxv; the movement toward romantic comedy, lxxxvii; conclusion regarding the requisites of comedy, xci; comedy compared with tragedy, xxxi, xxxvii–xxxviii, lxi–lxiv, 639; elements, kinds, and relation to society, xci, 635, 648; pastoral, 4, 268; in miniature, 10; emancipation from miracle and moral, 15; Commedia dell' arte, lxviii; see also under Allegory, Romantic, Manners, Humours, Latin, Woman, Prose, Plot, Character.

Comedy of Errors, The, by Shakespeare, 648, 650.

Common Conditions, the play of, lxxxiii, lxxxviii, 336, 341, 342.

Comodey of Umers, The, 526, 528, 533.

Complaynt of Scotland, The, folk-tale in, 345.

Comus, The, of Milton, and Old Wives' Tale, 348, 364, 378.

Conflict of Conscience, The, by Nathaniel Woodes, xlix, li, lxxxvi, 426.

Congreve, William, the character of 'Prue' in his Love for Love, 536.

Conny-Catching, Greene's pamphlets on, 398, 418; The Defence of, 408.

Conscious Lovers, The, by Steele, 'Lucinda' in, 429.

Conspiracy, The, York and Wakefield, plays of, xxv, xxvi, xlvi.

Contes, the French, xvii, lxv.

Conversion of St. Paul, The, Digby play of, xxx, l, lxxxi.

Cooper, W. D., his Extracts from the Corpus Christi Register, 89; his edition of Roister Doister, 104, 191, 194, and frequently in notes to R. D.

Copland, publisher of Robin Hood plays, xl.

Cornish Plays, The, xxiii, xxiv, xlvii.

Corpus Christi, Feast of, xiv, xx.

Cotgrave's Dictionary, 108, 194, et passim.

Council of the Jews, The, Coventry play of, l.

Council of Treves, The, xi.

Courthope, Mr. W. J., his History of English Poetry, xxxvii, lxiii, lxiv.

Courtney, Bishop, vs. Feast of Fools, xxi.

Coventry Gild Plays, The, xxiii; and see under N-town.

Coventry, The Old Leet Book of, xlvi.

Coventry Plays, The, so-called, of Corpus Christi, xxiii, xxiv, xxix, xlviii, lviii, lxxvii.

Crafts, in the religious drama, xviii, xxxi, etc.

Cranmer, Archbishop, on prayers for the dead, 193.

Creede, Thomas, publisher of some of Greene's plays, 403–405, 415, 420.

Creizenach, Professor Wilhelm, his Geschichte d. neueren Dramas, Bae. I, II, mentioned, xvi, xviii, xix, xxi, xxxvi, xlv, lxx, lxxiv.

Crocus, his play of Joseph, lxx.

Croxton Play, The, of the Sacrament, xxxix.

Crucifixion, The, play of, xxii, xxvii.

Cushman, Professor L. W., his Devil and Vice in English Dram. Lit., xlvii–xlix, liii.

Cycles, the English miracle, xviii, xxi, xxxi, etc.

Cymbeline, Shakespeare's, 645, 659, 660; the song, "Hark, hark, the Lark" suggested by one of Lyly's, 322.

DAMON AND PITHIAS, by Richard Edwardes, lxxviii, lxxxiv, lxxxvii, xcii, 268, 269.

Daniel, The History of, by Hilarius, xv.

Daryus, King, xlix, lxxvi, lxxxvi.

David and Bethsabe (The Love of King David, etc.), by Peele, 335, 336, 341.

Davidson, Professor Charles, his English Mystery Plays, xxxviii.

Day, John, his intimacy with Porter, 524.

Débats, Dramatic, lxv.

Dekker, Thomas, lxxiii; his Satiro-Mastix, 191; and Lyly, 274; "Three merrie men" in Westward Hoe, 352; his Knight's Conjuring and the 'Groatsworth' group of poets, 423; relations with Porter and Drayton, 522; with Chettle, 523; and the 'war of the theatres,' 657, 658.

Descensus Astrææ, by Peele, 416.

Despencers, The, by Porter and Chettle, 523

'Devil,' The, and the 'Vice,' xlvi–liv, lvi, lxxiii, 499.

Devil is an Ass, The, by Ben Jonson, xlviii, li, liii.

Devil is in It, The, (If this be not a Good Play, etc.), by Dekker, xlviii.

Dido, The, by the Master of St. Paul's, lxxi.

Digby Plays, The, edited by Dr. Furnivall, xv; references to, xxix, xxx, xxxi, xlvii, xlviii, l, lv.

Diogenes Laertius, his Lives of the Philosophers, 269, 280; and elsewhere in notes to Campaspe.

Disguisings, xl.

Disobedient Child, The, by Thomas Ingeland, xlvii, li, liii, lv, lxxxii, lxxv.

Disputations, lxv.

Doctor Faustus, by Marlowe, the relation of Friar Bacon to it, 389, 413, 414.

Dodsley, Robert, his collection of Old English Plays, reëdited by W. Carew Hazlitt, xx, 194, 430, et passim.

Don Quixote, an English:--'Ralph' of the Burning Pestle; foreshadowed by 'Huanebango,' 343.

Douce, Francis, his Illustrations of Shakespeare, xxi, xlix, lii, 128; on Porter, 518, 534.

Dowden, Professor, A Monograph on William Shakespeare as a Comic Dramatist, 635–661.

Downton [Dowton, Dunton, or Dutton], Thomas, an actor in the Admiral's Company in Porter's time, 515, 516, 517, 524.

Drayton, Michael, relations with Porter, Dekker, etc., 522.

Dream of Pilate's Wife, the York play of The, xxv.

Dublin, the History of the City of, by Whitelaw and Walsh, xxxviii.

Du Méril, E., Poés. Pop. lat. antiq. 191.

Dunbar, William, his Will of Maister Andrew Kennedy, 192.

Durandus, Rationale, 192.

Dyce, Alexander, his edition of Skelton, 259; of Peele, 346, 348, and see notes to Gummere's edition of O. W. T., et passim; of Greene, 402, 415, 420, 430, and notes to Friar Bacon; of Porter's 2 A. W. A., 515, 517, 518, 535, 544, and frequently in notes to the present edition.

EBBSWORTH, Roxburghe Ballads, and "O man in desperation," 351.

Ebert, Professor Adolf, his article on Die englischen Mysterien in the Jahrbuch für romanische und englische Literatur, xxxii; on the "ambiguous letter," 150.

Edward I, by Peele, 335, 337, 383.

Edward III, anonymous, and Greene's Orlando and Never Too Late, 410.

Edward VI, Injunctions under, on prayers for the dead, 193; Statute of 1547 on vagrancy, 193.

Edwardes, Richard, and Godly Queen Hester, lxxxiii; his Damon and Pithias, lxxxiv; and Lyly, 271.

Elizabeth, and Edwardes' Palamon and Arcite, lxxxiv; prayers for the dead, under, and her relation to the later edition of Roister Doister, 193; and Lyly, 266, 269; and Greene, 408, 409, 416, 502.

Ellis, Mr. Havelock, his edition of Porter's 2 A. W. A., 515, 519, 531, 535, 554, and frequently in the notes to the present edition.

Ellis, his Original Letters of Eminent Literary Men, 89, 91.

Elze, Dr. Karl, on a verse in Friar Bacon, 510.

Encomium Lauri, by Gabriel Harvey, a line in, ridiculed by Peele, 373.

Endimion, by Lyly (edited by Professor Baker), 265, 267, 269, 272, 291.

Enfants de Maintenant, Les, a French moralité, lxxxii.

Enfants sans souci, their sotties, lxvi.

Englands Mourninge Gowne and Mourning Garment, 412.

England's Parnassus, by Allott, 420.

Eton, Udall at, 90.

Euphues and Euphuism, 265, 267, 297, 337, 646.

Eusebius, xxxviii.

Everyman, the Moralle Play of, l, liii, lv, lvi, lviii.

Every Man in his Humour, by Ben Jonson, its relation to Porter's work, 524, 530, 533.

Ezekias, by Udall, 93.

FABLIAUX, xvii, lxv.

Faire Em and Greene's Friar Bacon, 411, 412, 418, 427.

Fairholt, F. W., his edition of Lyly's dramatic works, 276; see also notes to Alexander and Campaspe.

Farce, and farce interlude, xviii, xxxvii, lxiv, lxvii; French, lxv, 15.

Farewell to Follie, one of Greene's pamphlets, 398, 411, 412.

Farewell to the Famous and Fortunate Generals, poem by Peele, 403.

Ferbrand, William, publisher of Porter's 2 A. W. A., 534.

Festival Plays, etc., xxxvii–xlvi.

Fflagellacio, The, Wakefield miracle of, xxvi–xxviii.

Fidei Defensor, use of the title, 184.

Fitzstephen, William, on saints' plays, xiv, xv.

Fleay, Mr. F. G., his _Chronicle History of the English Stage, Biographical Chronicle of the English Drama_, and _Life of Shakespeare_, lxxxii, lxxxiii, lxxxvi, lxxxviii, lxxxix, xci, 336, 339, 347, 360, 383, 399, 403, 404, 406, 410, 412, 415, 418, 421, 424, 426, 521, 523, 527, 528, and other references.

Fletcher, John, his Bloody Brother, 352; and Shakespeare, 660.

Fleury Plays, the, of St. Nicholas, xvi.

Floegel, Geschichte d. grotesk-komischen, neuarbeitet von Ebeling, xlv.

Flügel, Professor Ewald, Critical Essay on Udall, 89–104; edition of Roister Doister, 105–189; appendix to R. D., 189–194; also lxxviii; his Lesebuch, 69, 91, 194.

Folk-lore, the background of, in O. W. T., 345–346.

Folk Lore Journal, specimens from, xliii.

Fool, literature of the, lii; relation to the Vice, xlvii–liv, lxxxii; in Roister Doister, 100, 101; in Greene, 393, 430; in Shakespeare, 644–646, etc.

Fools, The Feast of, xx, lxvi.

Four Elements, The, interlude by John Rastell, lxi, lxxi–lxxiv; referred to, 109.

Four Kynges, 523.

Foure P.P., the play called The, by John Heywood, 9, 10.

Foster's Alumni Oxonienses, 518.

Frazer, J. G., The Golden Bough, on the "death-index," cf. _O. W. T._, 345.

Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (The Famous Historie of Frier Bacon) by R. Greene, edition of, with essay and notes, by C. M. Gayley, 433–503; appendix on the versification of, 503; mention of, xlviii, li, liv, 338, 389, 410, 413, 426.

"Friar Rush," 231.

Fulk Fitz Warine, The Story of, 127.

Fuller's Worthies, cited, 65.

Furnivall, Dr., his edition of the Digby Plays, xxiii, xxx, xlvii, lv; his Polit. Rel. and Love Songs, 191.

Furnivall Miscellany, The, xix.

GALLATHEA, by John Lyly, 268.

Gammer Gurton's Nedle, by William Stevenson, edition of, with essay on the authorship, date and qualities of the play, by Mr. Henry Bradley, 195–259; other mention of, lxxiii, lxxviii, lxx–lxxii, xcii, 99, 121, 338, 342, 533.

Gayley, Professor C. M., Preface to this volume, iii; An Historical View of the Beginnings of English Comedy, xiii–xcii; regarding Roister Doister, 97, 104; regarding Gammer Gurton, 198; on the title of Old Wives' Tale, 347; Critical Essay on Greene's Life and the Order of his Works, 397–431; edition of Frier Bacon, 433–502; appendix on Greene's versification, 503–511: Critical Essay on Henry Porter's Life and his Place in English Drama, 513–536; edition of Two Angry Women, 537–633.

Gascoigne, George, his Supposes, lxxviii, lxxxiv, 517; his Glasse of Government, lxxiv.

Gentylnes and Nobylyte, the dialogue of, 8.

Geoffrey, Abbot of St. Alban's, and the Ludus de S. Katharina, xiv, xvi.

George-a-Greene, the Pinner of Wakefield, 338, 392, 401, 533; date and authorship, 418–420.

Germanic Philology, Journal of, 336.

Giant and the King's Daughter, the tale of the, in O. W. T. 354.

Gillette's Because She Loved Him So, mentioned, 529.

Giraldus Cambrensis, referred to, 426.

Glasse of Government, The, by Gascoigne, lxxiv.

Gnapheus (W. Fullonius), his Acolastus, lxx, lxxi, lxxxi.

Godly Queene Hester, a moral play, xxxiv, lxxvi, lxxviii, lxxxiii.

Godwin's Lives of the Necromancers, 281.

Golden Legend, The, of the Lives of the Saints, translated by Caxton, a source for plays, xv, xxxi, xxxvii, xliv.

Gosche's Jahrbuch, names of the Devil, 190.

Gosson, his Ephemerides of Phialo, 249; on dramatic attractions, 341.

Gower, John, and 'Titivillus,' 190, and physique, 398.

Graf, Herman, Der Miles Gloriosus im englischen Drama, 190.

Greban, A., his play of the Passion, xxxvi.

Greene, Robert, Monograph on his place in English Comedy, by Professor Woodberry, 387–394; Critical Essay on his life and the order of his plays, with edition of his Frier Bacon, and appendix on his versification, by Professor Gayley, 395–511; life, 397; authorities on, 397; misapprehensions concerning his career, 398; development as dramatist and order of plays, 402; plays conjecturally assigned to him, 418; 'Young juvenall' and the comedie 'lastly writ,' 422; Frier Bacon, composition, 411; stage history and materials, 425; dramatic construction, 427; previous editions and the present text, 430; Other mention, lxxxii, lxxxv, lxxxvii, xc; and Lyly, 266; and Peele, 338–339; and Porter, 517; and Shakespeare, 645, 647; his Menaphon, 337; dates of his Perimedes, Pandosto, Menaphon, Ciceronis Amor, Philomela, 398; Arbasto, Morando, Planetomachia, printed, 400.

Greene's Vision, 400.

Gregory IX, against clerical participation in miracle plays, xix.

Grim, the Collier of Croydon, xlviii.

Grimm, J., Mythologie, cited, 373.

Grindal, Archbishop, 192, 400.

Gringoire, his l'Homme Obstiné, xlix.

Griselda, play of, mentioned, lxxi.

'Groatsworth' group of poets, the, 422–423.

Groatsworth of Wit, A, by Greene, 397, 398, 400, 402.

Grosart, Dr. A. B., his edition of Nashe's works, 337, 351; of Harvey's, 359; of Greene's works, 387, 397, 403, 410, 415, 416, 430; article in Englische Studien, 418; his edition of Selimus, 420; on the authorship of A Knack, 424.

Guevara, Antonia de, his Dial of Princes, used by Lyly, 267, 337.

Gummere, Professor F. B., edition of Peele's Old Wives' Tale with Critical Essay on the author and the play, notes and appendix, 333–384.

Guy of Warwick, cited, 115.

HACKETT, Thomas, licensed to print Roister Doister, 97.

Hales, Professor J. W., on the date of Roister Doister, Englische Studien, 95.

Halle, Adam de la, his opera of Robin et Marion, xli.

Halliwell (and Wright), collection of Reliquiæ Antiquæ, 191.

Halliwell-Phillipps, Mr. J. O., xli–xliii, xlv, liii, 171, 194, 528.

Hamlet, the early play attributed to Thomas Kyd, 427; Shakespeare's, 534, 658.

Harrison's Description of England, 117, 167.

Hartmann's Iwein, a similarity in, to O. W. T., 373.

Harvester's song, the, in O. W. T., proposed restoration of, 383.

Harvey, Gabriel, and Lyly, 266, 348; and Peele, 337, 340, 343; and Nashe, in the Trimming of Thomas Nashe, 359; and 'Huanebango,' 343, 345, 358–359, 373, 383; and Greene, 398, 402, 423.

Haslewood, Joseph, his Ancient Critical Essays upon English Poets and Poesy, 337.

Hathaway, R., and Porter, 517.

Haughton, W., and Porter, 524.

Hawkins, Thomas, his Origin of the English Drama, lxxvi, 24.

Hazlitt, W. C., his edition of Dodsley's Old Plays, 104, 194, 204, 535, et passim.

Heber, Richard (Bibliotheca Heberiana in British Museum), on Porter, 517.

Henno, a play by Reuchlin, lxix.

Henry IV., Parts I and II, Shakespeare's, lxxxix, 534, 646.

Henry V., Shakespeare's, 653.

Henry VI., Parts I and II, 418, 427.

Henry VIII., Shakespeare's, 660.

Henry VIII., the usury statutes under, 95–97; his song of "Pastime," 132.

Henslowe, Philip, his Diary, and Greene, 405, 408, 411, 415, 418; and Porter, 515, 517, 518, 520, 522, 526–528.

Herford, Professor C. H., his Literary Relations of England and Germany, lxx, lxxiv, lxxvi, lxxxii, lxxxv, 90.

Herod, the Wakefield play of, xxvii.

Heywood, John, Critical Essay on his life and place in English comedy, with editions of his Play of the Wether, and his Johan, by Mr. A. W. Pollard, 19–85; life, 3; Heywood and Sir Thomas More, 5; dramatic development and literary estimate, 6–12; his Foure PP., Wether, Wit and Folly, Love, 6–11; Pardoner and Johan, 6, assigned to him, 11; Wether, early editions and the present text, 16; his two achievements, 16; Johan, previous editions and the present text, 61; Other mention of H., xvii, xlix, lvi, lix, lxi, lxvl–xviii, lxxviii, lxxxii, 89, 95, 96; his Proverbes, 110, 191, 194, 275.

Heywood, Thomas, and Henry Porter, 517, 521, 524, 526.

Hilarius, his plays, xiv–xvi.

Hippe, Max, on the "Thankful Dead" theme, in Herrig's Archiv, 345.

Historia Histrionica, lxxxi.

Histrio-Mastix (attributed to Marston), xlviii.

Hohlfeld, Professor, Die altenglischen Kollectivmisterien, in Anglia, Bd. XIX, xxv.

Hoker's Piscator, lxxi.

Holinshed, R., Chronicles, on the dearth of corn in 1523, 40, 117.

Holland's Translation of Pliny, 279 et seq.

Homme Obstiné, l', xlix.

Homme Pécheur, l', xlix, lxxii.

Hone, William, his Ancient Mysteries, xxi, xxxviii.

Horestes, by John Pikerynge, xlix, lii, lxxxvii, 204.

Host, the miracle of the, xxxix.

Hot Anger Soon Cold, by Porter (with Chettle and Ben Jonson), 522, 523.

Hox Tuesday play, the, mentioned, xxxvii, xli.

Hrosvitha, mentioned, xvii.

'Huanebango' in O. W. T., and Gabriel Harvey, 343, 345, 359, 383.

Humanists, their drama, etc., lxxiii, lxxvi, lxxxii, 98.

Humours, the comedy of, anticipations of, lii, liv, lxiii, lxxxvi, 532, et passim.

Hunt, Joseph, published Porter's 2 A. W. A., 534.

Hunter, Joseph, his Chorus Vatum Anglicanorum (in the British Museum), 518.

Hunting of Cupid, The, by Peele, 415.

Hyckescorner, a moral interlude, lx, lxxi, lxxiv; referred to, 133.

IDEAL, the, in comedy, xv, xxi, xxx, xxxi, xxxviii, lviii, lxi, lxii, lxix, lxxviii, lxxxii, lxxxv, lxxxvii, xcii; in Udall's, 99; in Greene's, 390, 392, 394, 419, 428, 429; in Shakespeare's, 637–643, 647, 648, 651, 654–661.

Induction, the use of, in Old Wives' Tale, 343; in plays by Greene, Shakespeare, Nashe, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher; Schwab's thesis on, 343–344.

Ingeland, Thomas, his interlude of The Disobedient Child, lxxv.

Innocent III, against acting, xix.

Interludes: Interludium de Clerico et Puella, xvii, xxxvii, lxvi; interludes in churches, xx; moral, xl; relation of miracle, moral, and interlude, lv; various kinds of interlude, lvi; causes of improvement in, lvii; farce and romantic interlude, lxiv; school and controversial, lxxii; Italian models, lxxxviii; See also under John Heywood.

Intrigue and passion, plot of, xcii.

Iphigenia, a children's play, 268.

JACKE JUGELER, play of, xlix, li, lxxii, lxxviii, lxxix, 103, 107.

Jack the Giant-Killer, the story of, in connection with Old Wives' Tale, 345.

Jack Wilton, by Nashe, 266.

Jacob and Esau, The Historie of, a play, lxxiv, lxxvii, lxxx, lxxxii.

Jacobs, J., English Fairy Tales, 345, 359, 362.

James IV, The Scottish Historie of, by Greene, lxxxiii, 389, 392, 404, 415, 418, 420, 427.

Jeffes, Anthony, and Humphrey, actors in the Admiral's company in Porter's time, 524.

Jew, the, in early comedy, xc (Jew of Malta, etc.).

Jobe, A History of, attributed to Greene, 418.

Johan Johan, Tyb, etc., A mery play betwene, assigned to John Heywood, an edition with critical essay and notes, by Mr. A. W. Pollard, 1–19, 59–87; Other mention, xvii, lxix, lxxxi, 533.

Johan, Kyng, by Bishop Bale, xlix, lxxii, lxxv–lxxvii.

John, King of England, The Troublesome Raigne of, attributed to Greene, 418.

Jonson, Ben, liii, lxxiii, lxxv, lxxxviii; his New Inn referred to, 109; and Lyly, 274, 275; his use of the induction, 343; and Henry Porter, 515, 522, 533; on the purpose of comedy, 637, 645; in Troilus and Cressida, 638, 657, 658.

Joseph and Mary Plays, the, of York, Wakefield, and Coventry, chivalrous and romantic quality of, xxix.

Juby, Ed., the actor, and Greene, 401.

Judicium, the Wakefield play of The, xxvii, xxix, xlvi, xlviii, lxxxi.

Judith, by Macropedius, lxx.

Jusserand, M. J. J., on Heywood's interludes, lxvi.

KILLING OF THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL, the Digby play of the, xxiii, xxx.

Kind Hart's Dreams, by Chettle, 419, 422.

Kirchmayer (Naogeorgos), his Pammachius, lxv, lxx.

Kirkman, Francis, his catalogue of plays; Peele, 336; Greene, 419; Porter, 518.

Kittredge, Professor G. L., on Sir Clyomon, 336; on a phrase in Alexander and Campaspe, 303.

Klein, Professor G. L., his Geschichte d. englischen Dramas, xviii, xxi, xxxvi, lii, lxviii, lxx.

Knack to Know a Knave, A, 'the comedie last writ' (?), compared with Friar Bacon, and with the Looking-Glasse, 418, 424, 425 and note, 427, 429, 457, 499; mentioned, xlviii, xc.

Knight of the Burning Pestle, The, by Beaumont and Fletcher, 342, 343.

Koch, Englische Studien, note in, 190.

Kyd, Thomas, lxxxviii; and Lyly, 273; and Greene, 410.

LACUNA, the metrical use of in dramatic blank verse, 510.

Lämmerhirt, G. P., Untersuchungen, u. s. w., concerning Peele, 341, 348.

Langbaine, G., his Account of the English Dramatick Poets, 518.

Langland, xix; his Piers Plowman, xl, 108, 109, 191, etc.

Latimer, Bishop, his Sermons (on exorcising the devil), 192, 193.

Latin,--tropes, xiii; saints' plays, xiv–xvi; cultivation of Plautus and Terence in the Middle Ages and their impress on elegiac comedy, xvii; history of the later comedy, lxv, lxvii.

Leach, A. F., Some English Plays and Players (in the Furnivall Miscellany), xix.

Lear, King, Shakespeare's, 418, 639, 660.

Lee, Mr. Sidney, his Life of Shakespeare, 406, 408.

Leicester, the Earl of, his relation to Endimion, 267; to Alexander and Campaspe, 269; his players, 399.

Legenda Aurea, by Jacobus Voragine, xliv; see also under Caxton.

Legends, xviii, lxxxviii.

Leland, John, his relations with Udall, 89–92; his Collectanea, 89, etc.

Leo X, and Heywood, 11.

Life-Index, the, instance of in O. W. T., 365.

Like wil to Like, quod the Devel to the Colier, by Ulpian Fulwel, xlvii, xlviii, li, lii, lxxxiv, lxxxvi, 108, 110, 342, 499.

Lillie's Light, 266.

Liturgical drama, the, xiii, xx.

Locher's translation of the Narrenschiff, lx.

Lock, Henry, his Ecclesiastes, 266.

Lodge, Thomas, and Lyly, 266; and Peele, 337; and Greene; the Looking-Glasse, and their respective contributions to it, 405–407; Lodge's Civil Wars, 405, 407, 409, 415, 418, 420–422; and Porter, 517; and Shakespeare, 645.

Longer thou Livest, etc., by W. Wager, lxxxvi.

Look About You, published by Ferbrand, 534.

Looking-Glasse for London and England, A, by Greene and Lodge, 338, 352, 404; the parts written by Lodge, 405; characteristics of his verse, 407, 414, 415, 422, 425.

Lorenz, A.O.F., on the Miles Gloriosus and his Parasite, 190.

Loseley Mss., The, edited by A. J. Kempe, 90, 93, 94.

Love, The Play of, by John Heywood, xlix, liii, lxvii, lxix, 8–12.

Love's Labour's Lost, Shakespeare's, xli, 275, 427, 644, 648, 649, 650, 654.

Love's Metamorphosis, by Lyly, 266, 268.

Love Prevented, by Porter, 521, 527.

Löwen, his Prinz Pickelhering, xlv.

Ludi Sanctiores, mentioned by Fitzstephen, xv.

Ludi Beatæ Christinæ, xxxviii.

Ludus Coventriæ (seu Ludus Corporis Christi), the N-Town plays, commonly assigned to Coventry, which see.

Ludus de S. Katharina, by Geoffrey, xiv, xvi.

Ludus ludentem Luderum ludens, lxxi.

Ludus super Iconia S. Nicolai, by Hilarius, xiv, xvi.

Lusty Juventus, by R. Wever, xlvii, li, lxxii, lxxvi.

Lydgate, John, lii.

Lyly, John, Critical Essay on his life and place in English comedy, by Professor Baker, 263–276; life of Lyly, 265; place of Euphues in English literature, 266; Lyly's plays, subdivision of them, 267; date and sources of Alexander and Campaspe, 268; literary estimate of A. and C., 269; Lyly's development as a dramatist, 272; place in English Comedy, 273; previous editions of A. and C., and the present text, 275; Professor Baker's edition of A. and C., 277–333; Other mention, lxxxvii, xc, 348, 517, 646.

Lyndsay, Sir David, his Thrie Estatis, lxxv.

Lyric, the, in the plays of Lyly, 274; of Greene, 391.

MACBETH, Shakespeare's, 658.

Machiavelli, N., his Discourses, 200.

Macropedius, his Asotus and other plays, lxx; his Rebelles, lxxiv.

Mactacio Abel, the Wakefield play of, xxviii.

Magdalene, The Life of the, in Caxton's Golden Legend, xxx.

Magnyfycence, a moral play by Skelton, lviii, 168.

Maid's Metamorphosis, The, not by Lyly, 266.

Malone, Edmund, li, 430, 516, 518, 534.

Mamillia, by Greene, 397.

Mankynd, a moral play, xlvii, l, li, lvi, lviii, lix, lx, lxxi, lxxiv, lxxvi, lxxvii.

Manly, Professor J. M., his Specimens of the Pre-Shakespearean Drama, xiii, xliii, 104, 204, 239, 276, 283; and in notes to Roister, Gammer Gurton, and Campaspe.

Manners, of contemporary life as an element in drama, xvi, xvii, xx, xxi, xxviii, xxix, xxxv, xxxvi, xxxix, xli, xlvi, xlix–liv, lviii–lxii, lxiii, lxv, lxvii–lxix, lxxii, lxxviii et seq., xci; in Heywood, 4, 11; in Udall, 99, 103; in Stevenson, 202–204; in Lyly, 271, 275; in Peele, 341–344, 347; in Greene, 391–394, 428–430; in Porter, 528, 530–533; in Shakespeare, 639, 641–644, 648–661, passim.

Manuale ... ad usum insignis Ecclesiæ Eboracensis, 192.

Marie Magdalene, The Life and Repentaunce of, by Lewis Wager, xxxi, lxxxvi. Edited by Professor F. I. Carpenter (Univ. Chicago Press).

Marlowe, Christopher, lviii, xc; and Peele, 337, 339; and Greene, 388, 389, 403–405, 414, 423; and Porter, 523; and Shakespeare, 652.

Marprelate Controversy, the, Lyly's part in, 265.

Marriage of Witte and Science, The, see under Wit Plays.

Marston, John, and Henry Porter, 520.

Martin Marprelate, the Epistle and Epitome assign G. G. N. to Bridges, 200.

Martine Marsixtus, by R. W., and Greene, 401, 404.

Martin's Month's Minde (Nashe ?), cited, 353.

Marvels, or miracles of the saints, xiv, xv, xvi, xviii, xx, xxx, xxxvii–xlvi, lxii, lxix, lxxxvi.

Mary Magdalene, the Digby play of, and the importance of the character in romantic comedy, xxx, xxxi, xxxvii, xlviii, l, li, lviii.

Mary, the Virgin, her importance as a romantic character, xxix, xxx.

Maskell, Monumenta Ritualia, 144, 192.

Masques, xl, lxxxix; by Udall, 93, 94; by Lyly, 267, 272; by Shakespeare, 650, 651, 660, 661.

Measure for Measure, Shakespeare's, 657.

Medwall, H., his Goodly Interlude of Nature, lx.

Menaphon, by Greene; his letter prefixed; and Nashe's Preface, 337, 389, 411, 412, 423, 424.

Merchant of Venice, The, Shakespeare's, xc, 305, 534, 583, 651, 652.

Meredith, Mr. George, on woman in comedy, lxi; on the comic spirit, 637.

Meres, Francis, his Palladis Tamia, on Peele, 337; on Greene and Nashe, 422; on Porter, 517, 528.

Merlin, similarities to the character of, in Old Wives' Tale, 345, 356.

Merrie conceited Jests of George Peele, 337.

Merry Wives of Windsor, The, Shakespeare's, 533, 645, 652, 654.

Meyer, E., Geschichte d. hamburgischen Schul-und-Unterrichtswesens im Mittelalter, xxi.

Middleton, Thomas, his Game of Chess, 275; his _Trick to Catch the Old One_, cited, 359.

Midsummer Night's Dream, A, Shakespeare's, 275, 389, 415, 427, 533, 534, 648, 651.

'Miles Gloriosus,' the, of Plautus, in English literature, lxxiv, 98, 189, 190.

Milton, John, his Comus compared with the Old Wives' Tale, 347.

Miracle plays, Biblical and legendary, xiv–xvi, xviii–xx; the cycles in their relation to English comedy, xxi–xxxi; historical order of comic passages in the cycles, sequence of æsthetic values, xxiv et seq.; dramatic value of, xxxi–xxxvii; relation to the stage, and the theory of the English miracles, xxxii, xxxiv; national note in, xxxvi; how they fall short of artistic comedy, xxxvii; nature of legendary, xxxviii; relation to moral and interlude, lv.

Mirth plays, lxxi, lxxii.

Misogonus, by Thomas Richardes(?), lxxviii, lxxxi–lxxxiii, 191.

Missa Gulæ, in Halliwell and Wright's Reliquiæ Antiquiæ, 191.

Mock Requiem, the, in Roister Doister, sources, etc., 191–192.

Monachopornomachia, lxxi.

Mone, F. J., Shauspiele des Mittelalters, 190.

Monox, Will, and Greene, 423.

Montemayor, Jorge de, his pastoral of Diana Enamorada and Two Gentlemen of Verona, 650.

Moral, the, or moral play, not properly called morality, lv, note 61; collective, of the fourteenth century, xxxiv; nature of the moral, xlix; the vice in, xlvi, xlviii–liv; relation of moral, miracle, and interlude, liv–lvii; the older morals in their relation to comedy, lvii–lxii; their dramatic contribution, lxii–lxiv; school interlude and controversial moral, lxix–lxxvii; French moralities, lxxii; fusion plays, lxxvii, lxxviii; moral interlude, lxxx; survival of rudimentary, decadent, functionless, lxxxv, lxxxvi; variations of, and moral tragedies, lxxxvi; pleasant and stately, lxxxviii; other mention, 4, 5, 99, 103, 267, 407.

Morando, Greene's, 397.

More, Sir Thomas, lxi, lxxvii; and Heywood, 5, 89.

Morley, Professor Henry, his English Writers, lii.

Morris-dance, xl.

Mortificacio, The, York play of, xxv.

Morton, Cardinal, 5.

Mother Bombie, by Lyly, 266, 268, 272, 273, 338.

Mourning Garment, The, by Greene, 398, 406, 412, 416.

Movement, the, in comedy, compared with that of tragedy, lxiii.

Mucedorus, by Lodge (?), 420, 499.

Much Ado about Nothing, Shakespeare's, 646, 654.

Mummings, xl.

Munday, Anthony, his Two Italian Gentlemen, lxxxviii; and Lyly, 266; and Porter, 518, 524.

Mundus et Infans, lviii.

Mydas, by Lyly, 265, 267, 268, 272.

Myroure of oure Ladye, definition of 'Tytyvyllus,' 190.

Mysteries, Dodsley's imported name for miracles, xxii; Corpus of French, xxxiv.

Myth, classical, as material for plays, lxxxiv, lxxxvii, lxxxviii, lxxxix, xcvi, 268, 657, 658, 660.

NAOGEORGOS (Kirchmayer), his Pammachius, lxx.

Narcissus, a play, 268.

Narrenschiff, Locher's translation, lx.

Nash's History of Worcestershire, 65.

Nashe, Thomas, on Gascoigne, lxxxv; his Jack Wilton, 266; his Four Letters Confuted, 351; on Peele in his letter prefixed to Greene's Menaphon, 337; on Kyd, 410; on Greene in Have with You to Saffron Walden, 337, 419; on the Harveys in Strange Newes, 423; also, 373; that he was "young Juvenal," 422; his relations with Greene proved by reference to Meres, Chettle, Dekker, his own Strange Newes, Anatomie of Absurditie, Astrological Prognostication, Summer's Last Will, 217, 422–424; his Christe's Teares, 424; his relations with the 'Groatsworth' group of poets, 403, 424; with Porter (?), 515, 517.

Nativity, plays of the, xxii, xxxiv.

Nature, The Goodly Interlude of, by Medwall, xlviii, l, lvi, lix–lx, lxxi, lxxvi.

Never too Late, by Greene, 397, 398, 410.

New English Dictionary, The, by Dr. Murray, Mr. Bradley et al., frequent references in notes to plays here presented.

Newcastle Plays, the sensational in The, xxiii, xxix.

Newe Custome, a controversial moral, lxxxvi.

Nice Wanton, the interlude of, lxxii, lxxiv.

Nicholas, his Proceedings and Ordinances of the Privy Council, 91.

Nichols, John, The Progresses and Public Processions of Queen Elizabeth, 93.

Nicholson, Dr. Brinsley, on Old Wives' Tale, 360, 370.

Nietzsche, F., his Geburt d. Tragödie, and Fröhliche Wissenschaft, 338.

Nigromansir, The, by Skelton, xlvii, xlix, li, lviii, lix.

Noah, the York Play of, xxv, lxxxi; the Wakefield play of, xxvii, xxviii.

North, Sir Thomas, his translation of Plutarch's Lives, 285, 290, 291, 292 et seq.

Notes and Queries, xliii.

Novelle, adaptation of them to drama, ix, lvii.

N-town, The, or so-called Coventry or Hegge Plays, xxiii, xxiv, xxix, xxxiv, xxxvii, xlviii, l, lviii.

OFFICIUM LUSORUM, 191.

Old Wives' Tale, The, by George Peele, edited with critical essay and notes by Professor Gummere, 333–382; also Appendix on Sources of Characters, and the Harvesters' Song, by the same, 382–384; Other mention, 409, 427.

Orlando Furioso, The, by Ariosto, 346; used by Peele in O. W. T., 383; by Greene, 409.

Orlando Furioso, The Historie of, by Greene, 342, 383, 389, 408–411, 414, 415, 417, 418.

Osborn, in Teufelslitteratur, names of the Devil, 190.

Ovid, Lyly's indebtedness to, 272, 281, 298, etc.

'Owleglasse,' mentioned in Two Angry Women, 613.

PALAMON AND ARCITE, by Richard Edwardes, lxxxiv.

Palladis Tamia, 528, and see under Meres.

Palsgrave, John, his edition of the Acolastus, lxx, lxxii, lxxxii; Lesclarcissement de la Langue Francoyse, 109, 194, and frequently in notes to Roister.

Pammachius, by Naogeorgos, translated by Bale, lxx, lxxv.

Pamphilus, the comedy of, xvii.

'Pancaste,' the real name of 'Campaspe,' 329.

Parasite, the domestic, xvii, lxxxii; in ancient and modern comedy, 100, 101.

Pardoner, The, and the Frere, interlude assigned to Heywood, lxvii, lxix, lxxxi, 10, 15.

Pardonneur, etc., Farce nouvelle d'un, 15.

Paris, Matthew of, his Lives of the Abbots of St. Albans, xiv.

Parker, Archbishop, on Still, 201.

Parker Society Publications, on exorcism, 193.

Parodies, religious, xiv–xx; of church services, 191, 192.

Parsones, Thomas, and Porter, 516.

Passion, mystery play by A. Greban, xxxvi.

Pastoral scenes and masques, 272, 391.

Paternoster Play, The, xxxiv, l.

'Pathelin,' lxvi.

Patient Grissel, 191.

Paul, St., The Conversion of, in the Digby collection, xxx, xxxvii.

Peele, George, and Lyly, lxxxvii, xc, 275; Critical Essay on, with edition of his Old Wives' Tale, by Professor Gummere, 333–384; Peele's life, 335; plays assigned to him, 335; his place in the development of English drama, 336; the O. W. T. an innovation, 341; the background of folk lore in O. W. T., 345; literary estimate of, 346; sources, title, text of, 347, 382; the Harvesters' song in, 383; his Hunting of Cupid, 423.

Peile, Dr., and Gammer Gurtons Nedle, 198.

Pembroke, the Earl of, his players, and Porter, 520.

Penner, E., his Metrische Untersuchungen zu Peele, 348.

Percy, Dr., on Hyckescorner, lx.

Pericles, probably Shakespeare's, 191, 659, 660.

Pernet qui va au vin, tresbonne et fort ioyeuse, Farse nouuelle de, lxv, lxvi, 12, 15.

Perymedes, by Greene, 403, 406, 409.

Petit de Julleville, La Comédie en France au moven âge, xxi, lxvi.

Petrarch, his Philologia, lxvii.

Pettie, George, his Petite Pallace of Pettie His Pleasure, 267.

Philip II, and Mydas, 268.

Phillips, Edward, his Theatrum Poetarum on Faire Emm, 418.

Philogenia, an Italian play, lxix.

Piccolomini, his Crisis, lxvii.

'Pickelhering,' xlv.

Piers Plowman, xl, 108, 109, 191, etc.

Pikerynge, John, his Interlude of Vice concerning Horestes, lxxv, lxxxiii, lxxxvii.

Pilkington, Exposition upon Aggeus, 191.

Pinner of Wakefield, The, see George-a-Greene.

Planetomachia, by Greene, 397, 398.

Plautus, xvi, lxv, lxvii, lxviii, lxxii, lxxix, lxxxii, lxxxvi; Udall and, 99; Lyly and, 268; Shakespeare and, 650; also frequent references in notes to Roister Doister.

Play of Love, The, see John Heywood.

Play of the Sacrament, The, xxxix.

Play of the Wether, see John Heywood.

Play within the play, the, in Peele, etc., 343; in Greene, 426.

Players, see under Acting.

Pliny, Lyly's indebtedness to, 267, 269; his History of World, 279; also frequently in notes to Campaspe.

Plutarch on Education, and on Exile used by Lyly, 267; also his Life of Alexander, 269, 283; and elsewhere in the notes to Lyly's Alexander and Campaspe.

Poliscene, an Italian play, lxix.

Politics, in Lyly's allegories, 275.

Pollard, Mr. A. W., his edition of the Towneley Plays, xxiii, xxvi; on the Towneley (Wakefield) master, xxviii; his English Miracle Plays, xlix, li, lxvi; A Critical Essay on John Heywood, with editions of his Play of the Wether and Johan, 1–86.

Polyhymnia, by Peele, 336.

Polytypic plays, lvii, lxxii, lxxvii–lxxxv.

Popular festival plays, xxxix–xlvi.

Porter, Henry, the dramatist, lxxxviii; Critical Essay on his life and dramatic work, with an edition of his Two Angry Women, by Professor Gayley, 513–633; facts of Porter's life, 515; early notices, 517; conjectural identity, 518; dramatic career, 520; his associates, 522–524; date of his extant play, 525; its dramatic qualities and construction, 528; portrayal of character, 530; place in the history of comedy, 533; previous editions and the present text, 535.

Porter, Henry, the musical composer, 518.

Porter, Walter, 518.

Prayer, the, at the end of early plays, 184; and see close of other comedies in this volume.

Preston, Thomas, his Cambises, King of Percia, lxxxvi.

Pride of Life, The, a moral, liii, lvi, lviii.

'Priest of the Sun, The,' in Greene and Lodge's Looking-Glasse, 406.

Processus Crucis, story about a, by Bebel, xxxvi.

Prodigal Son Plays, lxxii–lxxiv, lxxx, lxxxii, lxxxiii.

Prose, in Medwall's Nature, lx; in the Supposes, lxxxv; in plays of Lyly, 271, 274; of Greene, 417.

Prouerbes in the Englishe Tonge, Dialogue Conteyneng the Number of the Effectuall, 3.

Publishers: of Heywood's plays, 5, 8, 10, 13, 16, 17, 63; of Roister Doister, 97, 104; of Gammer Gurton, 197; of Lyly's plays, 276; of Peele's Old Wives' Tale, 348; of Greene's plays, 403, 404, 405, 408, 411, 415, 418, 420, 430; of Porter's 2 A. W. A., 534, 535.

Puttenham, George, his Arte of English Poesie, lxxxiii.

'Pyrgopolinices' in Plautus, 102.

QUADRIO, F. S., Della Storia e della Ragione d'ogni Poesia, xviii, lxvii.

Queen's players (Elizabeth's, 1583–1592), Greene's relations with the, 408, 409, 411, 413, 417, 418.

Querolus, a Latin play, xvii.

Quintus Fabius, a play, 268.

Quip for an Upstart Courtier, A, by Greene, 371, 398, 423.

RADCLIFFE, Ralph, his Griselde and other plays, lxxi.

Ram Alley, by Barry, 352.

Rankins, William, a writer for Henslowe in Porter's time; author of Mulmutius Dunwallow; joint author of plays with Hathaway, 524.

Rare Triumphs of Love and Fortune, The, an early romantic comedy, lxxxviii; the induction in, 343; 'Lentulo' in, 430.

Rastell, John, reputed author of A New Interlude and Mery of the Nature of the Four Elements, lxi, lxxi; publisher and perhaps author of Calisto and Melibœa, lxviii; relations with John Heywood, 5, 8.

Rastell, William, printer of four of Heywood's plays, 5, 6, 8, 10, 86.

Ray, J., English Proverbs, 108, etc., 194, 569, 595.

R. B. (Richard Bower?), Mr. Fleay's conjecture concerning, 336.

Realism in comedy: in Bodel's St. Nicholas, xvi; in late Latin comedies, xviii; in religious parodies, xx; in the miracle cycles, xxiv–xxx, xxxv–xxxvi; in the later 'marvels,' xxxix; in popular festival plays, xli–xlvi; of the miracle Devil, xlvi et seq.; of the Vice, xlix et seq.; in the older moral plays, lviii–lxii, lxiii; in the French and English farce, etc., lxiv–lxvi; in school plays, continental and English, lxix–lxxvii; in fusion plays, lxxvii et seq.; in survivals of the moral, lxxxvi; in the Rare Triumphs and in Wilson's 'Stately Morals,' lxxxviii–xc; comedy realistic or satirical, xci; In Heywood, 4 et seq.; in Udall, 99, 103; in Stevenson, 202–204; in Lyly, 275; in Peele, 342–344; in Greene, 388, 391–394, 419, 428–430; in Porter, 528–533; in Shakespeare, 644, 645, 648, 653 et seq.

Rebelles, by Macropedius, lxx, lxxiv.

Red Ettin, The, a fairy tale referred to in comment on O. W. T., 345, 362.

Redford's Wit and Science, lxix, lxxii.

Reed, Isaac, his edition of Baker's Dictionary of the Stage, on Gammer Gurton, 201.

Regularis Concordia Monachorum, xiii.

Reinhardstoettner, Karl von, on Plautus, 117, 190.

Reliquiæ Antiquæ, by Halliwell and Wright, xxxvi, 191.

Renaissance, the, effect upon drama, lxiv; upon Greene, 390.

Repentance of Robert Greene, The, 398, 418.

Respublica, a controversial moral, xlix, lxxii, lxxiv, lxxvi, lxxvii.

Resurrection, The, miracle plays of, xiv, xix, xxii.

Returne from Pernassus, The, on rivalry of Jonson and Shakespeare, 638.

Reuter, Kilian, his Latin play of St. Dorothea, lxx.

Revels at Court, Accounts of the, 270; Udall and the Revels, 93.

Rhetorical pause, the, methods of representing it in dramatic blank verse, 510–511.

Ribbeck, Otto, his Alazon, 189.

Richardes, Thomas, perhaps author of Misogonus, lxxxi.

Ritson's Songs, 191.

Ritter, O., on Greene's Frier Bacon, 413, 426.

Rituale Romanum, the, and Udall's parody of, 192.

Ritwyse, John, author of a satiric interlude, lxxi.

Robert of Gloucester, Robert of Brunne, their use of the septenarius, 189.

Robin et Marion, by Adam de la Halle, xli.

Robin Hood plays, xxxviii, xl; ref., 418; The Lytell Geste of, 130.

Roister Doister, by Udall, lix, lxxii, lxxvii, lxxviii, lxxix, lxxx, lxxxii, xcii. Edition with Critical Essay on the life of the author, the text, date, plot, characters of the play, with notes and appendix on various matters, by Professor Flügel, 87–194; other mention, 202, 203, 204, 338.

Rojas, Fernando de (and Cota), their Calisto and Melibœa, lxviii.

Rolls Series, xix.

Romantic, the, in saints' plays, xiv–xvi; in Latin interludes and elegiac comedy, xvii, xviii; in miracle cycles, xxiv, xxix–xxx; in various later 'marvels,' xxxvii, xxxviii; in the older moral plays, lviii–lix; foreign influence and native romance, lxv, lxvii–lxix; in the wit plays, lxxiii; in the plays of prodigals, lxxiv–lxxv; in fusion plays, lxxvii et seq.; especially in Damon and The Supposes, lxxxiv–lxxxv; the movement toward romantic comedy, lxxxvii; nature, subjects, and kinds of romantic comedy, lxxxvii, lxxxviii, xci; in Heywood, lxix, 6; in Lyly, 271–275; in Peele, 338, 341–347; in Greene, 390, 427; in Greene and Shakespeare, 643, 645, 647 et seq.

Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare's, 533, 590, 603, 652.

Rosalynde, Euphues' Golden Legacie, by Thomas Lodge, 645.

Rose Theatre, the, and Greene, 408, 411; and Porter, 519, 520, 521.

Ross, Mr. C. H., on the authorship of Gammer Gurton, 202.

Rowley, Samuel, intimacy of Henry Porter with, 524.

Royal entries, their dramatic significance, xl.

Royal Exchange, by Greene, 398.

Rutebeuf, his play of Theophilus, xvi.

R. W., his Martine Marsixtus, 424.

Rye's East Anglian Glossary, 211.

SACRAMENT plays, xxxvii, xxxix.

Saints' plays, the early, their nature and relation to comedy, xiv–xxi; the later, their contribution to drama, xxvii; a list of, and their connection with romantic plays, xxxviii; secularized as in St. George, xli–xlv; mentioned, lxii, lxxxiv, lxxxviii; The Play or Pageant of St. Anne, xv; St. Botulf, xv, xxxviii; St. Christian, St. Christina, Sts. Crispin and Crispinian, xxxviii; St. Dorothea, lxviii; St. Edward and St. Fabyan, xxxviii; St. George, xv, xxxviii, xli; St. Katharine, xiv, xv, xxxviii; St. Laurence, xxxviii; St. Mary Magdalene, xxx, xxxvii, lxxxvi; St. Nicholas, xv, xvi; St. Olave, xxxviii; St. Paul, xxx, xxxvii, l; St. Sebastian, xxxviii; St. Susanna, xv, xxxviii.

St. Andrew's Day, note to mention in O. W. T., 358.

St. Augustine, against the mimi, etc., xix.

St. Dyryk, perhaps Theodoric, 69.

St. James the More, Life of, xliv.

St. Jerome, his attitude toward Plautus and Terence, xvii; and legendary miracles, xxxviii.

St. John's, Beverley, Resurrection play at, xiii, xx.

St. Luke's Day, mentioned in O. W. T., 358.

St. Modwena, mentioned in Johan, 82.

St. Sithe (?), 213.

Satire, mediæval in drama, xvii; in religious parodies, xx; in the miracles, xxiv, xxviii–xxix, xxxvi; the Devil not primarily satirical, xlvi, xlviii; the Vice in satirical literature, li–liv; in the interlude, lvi, lxv, lxx, lxxvi, lxxvii, lxxxiii, lxxxvi, xci; in Heywood, 4 et seq.; See also articles on Udall, Lyly (265, 267), Peele, Greene, Shakespeare.

Scene, the, beside a scene, 424.

Schelling, Professor F. E., his English Chronicle Plays, lxxvi; his edition of Tom Tyler, lxxxi.

Schick, Professor, his edition of Kyd's Spanish Tragedy, 410; on Faire Emm, 411.

Schipper, Professor, his Neuenglische Metrik, applied to Greene's verses, 508–509.

School plays, xiv, lxv, lxix–lxxv; English for Latin, 90, 98, 197–198, 267, 270.

Schwab, Das Schauspiel im Schauspiel, 343.

Scillaes Metamorphosis, by Lodge, 406.

Scipio Africanus, the play of, 268.

Scott, Sir Walter, account of Shetland Sword Dance in The Pirate, xliii, xlv; on "Brotherhood in Arms," 366.

Second and Third Blast of Retrait from Plaies and Theaters, Henry Denham's, on 'strange' comedies, 342.

Second Trial, The, the York play of, xxv.

Secular plays, the early, and their contribution to comedy, xx–xxi, xxxvii–xlvi; see also Morals, Farce, Interludes, and Romantic Comedy.

Secunda Pastorum, the Second Shepherds' Pageant of the Wakefield cycle, xxvii, xxviii, xxxii, lxix, 3, 202, 533.

Selimus, The First Part of the Tragical Raigne of, not by Greene, 418, 420, 482, 483.

Senarius, The, in Greene, 509; and the Septenarius in Udall, 189.

Seneca, lxxxv, 275.

Sequentia falsi Evangelii Secundum Marcam, in Du Méril, 191.

Seven Deadly Sins, the, xxx, xxxi, xlix, l, lii, liv.

Shakespeare, William, the Fool in his plays, lii, lxxxiii; incidental mention, lxxxv, 191 et passim; relation to Lyly's work, 271, 275, 287, 322; to Peele's, 336, 343, 345; to Greene's, 387–389, 393–394, 401–402, 415; resemblances to, in Porter, 517; Shakepeare as a Comic Dramatist, a monograph by Professor Dowden, 635–661; the essentials of Shakespearian comedy, 637; tragedy compared with comedy, 639; comedy, the characters in, and their relation to incident, etc., 640–660; punishment and rewards in Shakespeare's comedy, 641–642; compared with Jonson's comedy, 641; complication and resolution, love, laughter, satire, 642–643; intrigue and treatment of materials, 644; euphuism, 646; his development as a comic dramatist, 648 et seq.; transformation plays, 648; Love's Labour's Lost, 649; The Comedy of Errors, 650; The Two Gentlemen of Verona, 650; A Midsummer Night's Dream, 651; The Merchant of Venice, 652; The Taming of the Shrew, 653; the Falstaff plays, The Merry Wives of Windsor, King Henry V, 653–654; Much Ado about Nothing, 654; Twelfth Night, 655; All's Well that Ends Well, 656; Measure for Measure, 657; Troilus and Cressida, 657; his relation to Chapman, Dekker, Marston, Jonson, Southampton, 656–657; the period of tragedy, 657–658; Pericles, Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale, The Tempest, The Two Noble Kinsmen, 659–661.

Shaw, Robert, a player acquaintance of Henry Porter, 516, 524.

Shearmen and Taylors' Pageant, the Coventry Guild play of the, xxiii.

Shepherd's Plays, The, of York, xxv; of Wakefield, xxvii, xxviii, lxxxi; and see Secunda Pastorum.

Sherwood, Thomas, his Anglais et François Dictionaire, added to Cotgrave, 118, 194, etc.

Shipwrights' Play, The, of Newcastle, xlviii, lix.

Short Discourse of my Life, A, by Greene, 397.

Shows, dumb, lxxxix.

'Shrew' plays, lxxxi.

Shrewsbury, religious play at, xiii.

Sidney, Sir Philip, 337; his Arcadia, 389.

Simpson, R., his School of Shakespeare, 404, 422.

Singer, John, one of the Admiral's men in Porter's time.

Sir Armadace, the "Thankful Dead" in, and O. W. T., 345

Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes, lxxxviii, 335, 341, 342.

Sir John Oldcastell, by A. Munday and others, 523.

Six Hundred Epigrams, by John Heywood, 3.

Skeat, Professor W. W., xiii, 110, 190, 374.

Skelton, John, contribution to Fool-literature, lii; his Magnyfycence, lviii, 189; his Nigromansir, xlviii, l, lviii; his Phyllyp Sparowe, 192.

Slater, Martin, an associate of Henry Porter, 521.

Smeken, his Sacrament Play, xxxix.

Smith, Miss Lucy Toulmin, her edition of the York Plays, xxiii, xxvi.

Smith, Toulmin, his English Gilds, xxxviii.

Solyman and Perseda, perhaps by Kyd, the source of Peel's 'Erestus' in O. W. T., 383.

Sonnets, the, of Shakespeare, 656, 658.

Sotties, the French, lxv–lxvi.

Southampton, the Earl of, 646.

South English Legendary, The, xliv.

Spanish Masquerado, The, by Greene, 398, 409.

Spanish Tragedy, The, by Thomas Kyd, 410, 427.

Spencers, The, or Despencers, a tragedy by Porter and Chettle, 516, 523.

Spenser, Edmund, Lyly compared with, 274; Harvey's characterization of, 340; his Tears of the Muses, 405; other mention, 421, 426.

Spenser, Gabriel, the actor, 524.

Spider and the Flie, The, by Heywood, 3.

Stansby, William, printer of Lyly's plays for Blount, 269, 276.

Stanyhurst, Richard, his hexameters and Harvey's ridiculed in O.W.T., 373.

Staple of News, The, by Ben Jonson, xlv.

Steevens, George, his letter on Comus, 348.

Stevenson, William, the author, according to Mr. Henry Bradley, of Gammer Gurtons Nedle; Critical Essay on his life and the play assigned to him, with an edition of G.G.N., notes and an appendix, by Mr. Bradley, 205–259. Other mention, lix, lxxx, lxxxii.

Still, Dr. John, not the author of Gammer Gurtons Nedle, 199–202.

Storojenko, Professor, his Life of Greene (in Dr. Grosart's edition of Greene), 397, 406, 415.

Stow, John, his Survey, xxxviii; on mummings, xl.

Strange, Lord, his players (1589-1593), and Greene's Orlando, 408; and Frier Bacon, 411.

Studentes, see Stymmelius.

Stymmelius, the author of the play of Studentes, lxx, lxxiv, lxxxii.

Summer's Last Will and Testament, by Thomas Nashe, 384, 424.

Supposes, The, by George Gascoigne, lxxviii, lxxxii, lxxxv, lxxxvii, lxxxviii.

Suppositi, I, by Ariosto, adapted by Gascoigne, lxviii.

Susanna, a play by Macropedius, lxx; see also St. Susanna.

Sussex, the Earl of, his players (1591-1594), and Friar Bacon, 411; and George-a-Greene, 413.

Swoboda, Dr., his John Heywood als Dramatiker, 12.

Sword Plays, xliii, xlv.

Symonds, J.A., his Predecessors of Shakespeare, lxviii, 339, 346, 422.

TALENTS, THE, the Wakefield play of, called Processus Talentorum, xxviii.

Tamburlaine the Great, by Marlowe, and Greene's Alphonsus, 403; and the Looking-Glass, 406; and Orlando, 410; and George-a-Greene, 418.

Taming of a Shrew, The, example of a play within a play, 343.

Taming of the Shrew, The, Shakespeare's, lxxxv, 415, 652.

Tempest, The, Shakespeare's, lxxxix, 644, 659, 660.

Ten Brink, Professor B., on the priority of legend to Scripture in English comedy, xiii–xiv; on the dramatic value of the miracle plays, xxxii; on the characteristics of tragedy and comedy, lxii.

Terence, indebtedness of modern comedy to, xvi, xvii, lxvii, lxviii; the 'Christian Terence,' lxxii, lxxxii; Udall's Flowers from Terence, 89, 98, 101, 102; notes to Roister Doister, 288.

Tertullian, against acting, xix.

Thankful Dead, the, a popular motif, 345, 365.

That Will Be Shall Be, a play, 521, 526.

Theophilus, by Rutebeuf, xvi.

Thersytes, A Newe Interlude called, lix, lxxi, lxxii, lxxviii; the authorship of, and date, 12–14, 108, 112, 191 et passim.

Three Heads of the Well, The, a fairy tale referred to in O.W.T., 345, 359, 372.

Three Ladies of London, The, by R.W., probably Robert Wilson, lxxxviii, xc, xci.

Three Lordes and Three Ladies of London, The, by the R.W. of the Three Ladies, lxxxviii, xc, xci.

Thrie Estatis, A Satire of the, by Lyndsay, xlix.

Thümmel, Julius, on the Miles Gloriosus in Shakespeare, 190.

Tyde Taryeth no Man, The, by George Wapull, lxxxvi.

Timon of Athens, Shakespeare's, 659.

Tindale, on the use of the holy candle, 192; also cited, 142, 154.

'Titiville,' in Roister Doister, 190; 'Titivillus' in Mankynd, xlvii, xlviii.

Titus Andronicus, 418.

Tityrus and Gallathea, by Lyly, 265.

Tobias, the Play of, mentioned, xxxiv.

Tom Tyler and his Wife, the play of, (edited by Professor Schelling), lxxxi; Kirkman's edition, 336; mentioned, 530, 533.

Topsell's History of Four-footed Beastes, 280, 281.

Towne, Thomas, an actor in the Admiral's company in Porter's time, 524.

Towneley Plays, The, edited by A.W. Pollard and George England, xxiii, xxiv, etc. See Wakefield.

Tragedy, compared with comedy, xxi, xxii, lxii, 639.

Train's Geschichte d. Juden in Regensburg, xxxi.

Transition, of plays from miracle and moral to comedy, lvii, lxii, lxiv, lxix.

Travesties of religious services, xx, xxi.

Trial before Herod, The, in the York plays, xxv.

Triall of Treasure, The, lxxxvi, 121, 123.

Trimeter, in Roman comedy, 189.

Troilus and Cressida, Shakespeare's, a satire on Ben Jonson, 638, 657, 658.

Tullie's Love, by Greene, 410; similarity to Friar Bacon, 414.

Turberville, on Richard Edwardes, lxxxiv; Turberville's Venerie, reference to 440.

'Tutivillus' in the Wakefield Judicium, xxix, xlvi, xlviii.

Tusser, Thomas, his 500 Pointes, and Udall, 90.

Twelfth Night, Shakespeare's, 352, 646, 655, 656.

Two Angry Women of Abington, The Pleasant Historie of the, by Henry Porter, edited with critical essay and notes by C.M. Gayley, 513–633; The Second Parte of the Two Angrey Women, 516, 522, 524, 525.

Two Gentlemen of Verona, The, Shakespeare's, 648, 650.

Two Italian Gentlemen, or Fidele and Fortunio, by Anthony Munday, lxxxviii.

Two Mery Wemen of Abenton, The, by Porter, 516, 523, 535.

Two Noble Kinsmen, The, by Shakespeare and Fletcher, 660.

UDALL, Nicholas, mention of his Roister Doister, lix et passim; his Flowers from Terence, lxxi, 89; text of his Roisier Doister, edited with critical essay, notes, and appendix, by Professor Flügel, 87–194; life of Udall, 89; date of the play, 95; date of the early edition, 97; place of R.D. in English literature, 98; the plot and characters, 100; the present text and earlier reprints, 104; his Apophthegms, 142, etc.; Appendix, 188–194; the metre of R.D., 189; the figure of the Miles Gloriosus in English literature, 189; 'Titiville,' 190; 'Mumblecrust' and the maids, 191; the mock requiem and other parodies, 191; Roister as 'Vagrant,' 192; the prayer and 'song' at the end, 193; works quoted in the notes, 194.

Ugolino, his Philogenia, lxvii.

Ulrici, H., on Greene, 408.

Usury statutes of Henry VIII and Edward VI, 96.

VALENTINE AND ORSON, 418, 426.

Vanbrugh, Sir John, his character of 'Hoyden,' 531.

Vergerio, his Paulus, lxvii.

Versification, alleged irregularities in the, of Friar Bacon, a study by C. M. Gayley, 503–513.

'Vice,' the rôle of the, in early plays, xlvi, xlviii–liv; lxxiii, lxxvi, lxxxii, lxxxiii, lxxxvi, lxxxix; in Heywood, li and 10, etc. ('Mery Reporte'); Udall, 100; in Stevenson, 203; in Peele, 342; in Greene, 393, 430.

Viel Testament, le Mistère du, xxxiv.

Vitalis of Blois, his dramatic poems, xvii.

Voragine, Jacobus de, his Legenda Aurea, xxx, xliv.

WADINGTON, William of, his Manuel des Pechiez, xix.

Wager, Lewis, his Life and Repentaunce of Marie Magdalene, xxxi, lxxxvi.

Wager, William, his The Longer thou Livest, etc., lxxxvi, 533.

Wagner, Professor W., on Friar Bacon, 440, 446, 459, 510.

Wakefield Plays, The (ordinarily called, from the family owning the MS., the Towneley), xxiii, xxiv; indebtedness to the York cycle, xxv–xxvi.

Wakefield, the Playwright of, xxv–xxix; his peculiar stanza, xxv–xxvi; his improvements upon the second and third York schools of dramatic composition and his original productions, xxvii–xxix.

Wapull, Geo., The Tyde Taryeth no Man, lxxxvi.

Ward, Dr. A. W., his History of English Dramatic Literature, xviii, xix, xlix, lxviii, lxxvi, lxxxviii, xc, 89, 101, 102, 103, 346, 397, 403, 405, 417, 419, 421, 422, 426, 430 et passim; his Old English Drama, 353, 363, 413; his edition of Friar Bacon (in O.E.D.), 415, 426, 430, 439, 441, 442, et passim in the notes to Friar Bacon.

Wardrobe Accounts of Richard II, xl.

Warner, Mr. G. F., his _Catalogue of the MSS. and Muniments of Alleyn's College of God's Gift at Dulwich_, exposing some of Collier's 'emendations,' 515.

Warton, Dr. Joseph, Biographical Memoir of the late, on Comus and the Old Wives' Tale, 348.

Warton, Thomas, his History of English Poetry, xxi, xxiii, xl, xli, xlii, 90, 346; his Milton's Poems, etc., on the names in Comus, 383.

Watson, Thomas, his Passionate Centurie of Love, 265.

Wedego, Bishop, against religious plays, xxxvi.

Weever, John, his verses Ad Henricum Porter, not intended for the dramatist, 519.

Well of the World's End, The, a fairy tale, see note to O.W.T., 345, 359.

West, Richard, his Court of Conscience, 517.

Westward Hoe, by Dekker et al., a song in, 352.

Wether, The Play of the, by John Heywood, edited with critical essay and notes by Mr. A. W. Pollard, 3–59; Other mention, xlix, li, lxvii.

Wever, R., his Lusty Juventus, xlvii, li, lxxii, lxxvi.

"What Thing is Love?" a song in Peele's Hunting of Cupid, and in the play of Doctor Doddipoll, 336; paralleled in Greene's Mourning Garment and James IV, 415–416.

Wheatley, H. B., his book on John Payne Collier, 515.

'White Bear of England's Wood, The,' a character referred to in O. W. T., 345, 356–357.

White, Edward, publisher of Greene's Friar Bacon, 411; copyright owned by William White, 430.

Whitgift, Bishop, Injunctions at York, etc., 193.

Wife of Usher's Well, The, referred to, notes to O. W. T., 363.

'Wilful Wanton,' a character in George Wapull's Tyde Taryeth no Man, 531.

William of Blois, his Alda, xvii.

'Will Summer,' Henry VIII's jester impersonated in Nashe's Summer's Last Will, etc., lii, lxxxii, lxxxix, 344.

Wilson, Dr. John, Professor of Music at Oxford, 518, 519.

Wilson, Robert, the author of Three Ladies of London, and of Three Lordes and Three Ladies, lxxxviii–xc; probably also of A Knack to Know a Knave, xc, xci, 425; colleague of Chettle in the non-extant Second Part of Black Battman, 522; his Sir John Oldcastell mentioned, 523.

Wilson, Thomas, his Arte of Logique or Rule of Reason, the "ambiguous letter" in, 93, 95, 97.

Wily Beguiled, cited, 24, assigned to Peele, 336.

Winchester Tropers, the, xiii.

Winter's Tale, The, Shakespeare's, 644, 659, 660.

Wireker, Nigel, his Brunellus (Speculum Stultorum), alluded to, xviii, lii.

Wisdom that is Christ, the moral of, in Furnivall's Digby Plays, xlviii, l, li, liii, lv, lvi, lviii.

Wisdome of Doctor Doddipoll, The, assigned to Peele, 336.

Wit and Folly, the dialogue of, by John Heywood, 8.

Wit plays: Wyt and Science, by John Redford, lxix, lxxii, lxxiii, lxxxviii, 426; The Contract of a Marrige between Wit and Wisdome, liii, lxxi, lxxiii, lxxvii, lxxxi; The Marriage of Witte and Science, a revision of Redford's play, conjectured by Mr. Fleay to be the same as Wit and Will, lxxiii, lxxiv, lxxvii.

Wolsey, Cardinal, perhaps referred to in Play of the Wether, 52.

Woman Hard to Please, a lost play, 521, 526.

Woman, in comedy, Meredith on, lxi.

Woman in the Moone, The, by Lyly, 266, 268, 272.

Woodberry, Professor G. E., monograph on Greene's Place in Comedy, 387–394.

Wood, Anthony à, on Udall, 89; on the Porters, 518, 519.

Woodes, Nathaniel, author of The Conflict of Conscience, lxxxvi.

World and the Child, The, or Mundus et Infans, a moral, l, lviii.

Worthies, the Nine, and Love's Labour's Lost, xl, 650.

Wright, Thomas, his Early Mysteries, etc., of the 12th and 13th Centuries, xviii; (and J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps), Reliquiæ Antiquæ, xix; reprint of the Interludium de Clerico et Puella mentioned, xvii, lxvi.

Wycliff, his attitude toward miracles, xix.

YORK PLAYS, The, date and composition, xxiii; periods of, comedy in the second and third, xxiv–xxv; relation of Wakefield plays to, xxv–xxvii; the romantic and melodramatic in, xxix.

'Young Juvenall.' not Lodge but Nashe, 337.

Youthe, Ballad of, by Robert Greene, 397.

Youth, The Interlude of, lxi, lxxi, lxxiv.

Youth, school plays of, lxxii, lxxiv.

Yvers, Jacques, his Printemps d'Iver, 411.

Printed in the United States of America.

Transcriber's Note.

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Footnotes were sequentially numbered and placed at the end of each section. On pages xlii and 434 footnote references are missing in the original. Misnumbered footnotes in pp. xlvii, lxxvi, 124 were corrected.

Corrections.

The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.

p. 194:

COTGRAVE. A French and English Dictionary, ed. 1650 (with the addition of Dictionaire Anglais & François, by Robert Sherwood.

COTGRAVE. A French and English Dictionary, ed. 1650 (with the addition of Dictionaire Anglais & François, by Robert Sherwood).

p. 420:

2. The Firt Part of the Tragicall Raigne of Selimus (Creede, 1594) 2. The First Part of the Tragicall Raigne of Selimus (Creede, 1594)

p. 521:

we should not he justified in assuming we should not be justified in assuming

p. 650:

But Shakepeare's imagination But Shakespeare's imagination

p. 679:

in the miracle cyles, in the miracle cycles,

p. 686:

colleague of Chettle in the non-extant Second Part of Black Bateman, 522; colleague of Chettle in the non-extant Second Part of Black Battman, 522;

Errata.

The first line indicates the original, the second how it should read:

p. 663:

in churchyards, xii; in churchyards, xiii;

p. 665:

Carpenter, Professor F. I., his edition of Wager's Marie Magdalene (University of Chicago Press), xciv.

Carpenter, Professor F. I., his edition of Wager's Marie Magdalene (University of Chicago Press), xxxi.

p. 667:

Congreve, William, the character of 'Prue' in his Love for Love, 536 Congreve, William, the character of 'Prue' in his Love for Love, 531

Council of Treves, The, xi. Council of Treves, The, xix.

Latin, Woman, Prose, Plot, There is no entry marked Plot in the index.

p. 670:

Gayley, Professor C. M., Preface to this volume, iii; Gayley, Professor C. M., Preface to this volume, v;

p. 671:

Other mention of H., xvii, xlix, lvi, lix, lxi, lxvl–xviii, Other mention of H., xvii, xlix, lvi, lix, lxi, xviii–lxxxii,

p. 676:

Myth, classical, as material for plays, lxxxiv, lxxxvii, lxxxviii, lxxxix, xcvi Number xcvi is not a valid page number.

p. 677:

Appendix on Sources of Characters, and the Harvesters' Song, by the same, 382–384

Appendix on Sources of Characters, and the Harvesters' Song, by the same, 383–384

p. 679:

of Heywood's plays, 5, 8, 10, 13, 16, 17, 63; of Heywood's plays, 5, 8, 10, 13, 16, 17, 61;

p. 683:

notes to Roister Doister, 288. notes to Roister Doister, 98.

p. 684:

Appendix, 188–194; Appendix, 187–194;

p. 686:

Yvers, Jacques, his Printemps d'Iver, 411. Yvers, Jacques, his Printemps d'Iver, 412.

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