(SCENE 2.)

Eugenius discovered sitting loaden with many Irons, a Lampe burning by him; then enter Clowne with a piece of browne bread and a Carret roote.

Eugen. Is this my Dyet?

Clown. Yes, marry is it; though it be not Dyet bread[156] 'tis bread, 'tis your dinner; and though this be not the roote of all mischiefe yet 'tis a Carret, and excellent good meate if you had powderd Beefe to it.

Eugen. I am content with this.

Clown. If you bee not I cannot helpe it; for I am threatned to be hang'd if I set but a Tripe before you or give you a bone to gnaw.

Eugen. For me thou shalt not suffer.

Clown. I thank you; but were not you better be no good Christian, as I am, and so fill your belly as to lie here and starve and be hang'd thus in Chaines?

Eugen. No, 'tis my tryumph; all these Chaines to me Are silken Ribbonds, this course bread a banquet; This gloomy Dungeon is to me more pleasing Than the Kings Palace; and cou'd I winne thy soule To shake off her blacke ignorance, thou, as I doe, Would'st feele thirst, hunger, stripes and Irons nothing, Nay, count death nothing. Let me winne thee to me.

Clown. Thank yee for that: winne me from a Table full of good meat to leape at a crust! I am no Scholler, and you (they say) are a great one; and schollers must eate little, so shall you. What a fine thing is it for me to report abroad of you that you are no great feeder, no Cormorant! What a quiet life is it when a womans tongue lies still! and is't not as good when a mans teeth lyes still?

Eugen. Performe what thou art bidden; if thou art charg'd To starve me, Ile not blame thee but blesse heaven.

Clown. If you were starv'd what hurt were that to you?

Eugen. Not any; no, not any.

Clown. Here would be your praise when you should lie dead: they would say, he was a very good man but alas! had little or nothing in him.

Eugen. I am a slave to any misery My Iudges doome me too.

Clown. If you bee a slave there's more slaves in the world than you.

Eugen. Yes, thousands of brave fellows slaves to their vices; The Usurer to his gold, drunkards to Wine, Adulterers to their lust.

Clown. Right, Sir; so in Trades: the Smith is a slave to the Ironmonger, the itchy silk-weaver to the Silke-man, the Cloth-worker to the Draper, the Whore to the Bawd, the Bawd to the Constable, and the Constable to a bribe.

Eugen. Is it the kings will that I should be thus chain'd?

Clown. Yes indeed, Sir. I can tell you in some countries they are held no small fooles that goe in Chaines.

Eugen. I am heavy.

Clown. Heavy? how can you chuse, having so much Iron upon you?

Eugen. Death's brother and I would have a little talk So thou wouldst leave us.

Clown. With all my heart; let Deaths sister talke with you, too, and shee will, but let not me see her, for I am charg'd to let no body come into you. If you want any water give mee your Chamber pot; Ile fill it. [Exit.

Eugen. No, I want none, I thanke thee. Oh sweet affliction, thou blest booke, being written By Divine fingers! you Chaines that binde my body To free my soule; you Wheeles that wind me up To an eternity of happinesse, Mustre my holy thoughts; and, as I write, Organ of heavenly Musicke to mine ears, Haven to my Shipwracke, balme to my wounds, Sunne-beames which on me comfortably shine When Clouds of death are covering me; (so gold, As I by thee, by fire is purified; So showres quicken the Spring; so rough Seas Bring Marriners home, giving them gaines and ease); Imprisonment, gyves, famine, buffetings, The Gibbet and the Racke; Flint stones, the Cushions On which I kneele; a heape of Thornes and Briers, The Pillow to my head; a nasty prison, Able to kill mankinde even with the Smell: All these to me are welcome. You are deaths servants; When comes your Master to me? Now I am arm'd for him. Strengthen me that Divinity that enlightens The darknesse of my soule, strengthen this hand That it may write my challenge to the world Whom I defie; that I may on this paper The picture draw of my confession. Here doe I fix my Standard, here bid Battaile To Paganisme and infidelity.

Musicke; enter Angel.

Mustre my holy thoughts, and, as I write, In this brave quarrell teach me how to fight.

(As he is writing an Angel comes and stands before him: soft musick; he astonisht and dazeld.)

This is no common Almes to prisoners; I never heard such sweetnesse—O mine eyes! I, that am shut from light, have all the light Which the world sees by; here some heavenly fire Is throwne about the roome, and burnes so clearely, Mine eye-bals drop out blasted at the sight.

(He falls flat on the earth, and whilst a Song is heard the Angel writes, and vanishes as it ends.)

I. SONG.

What are earthly honours But sins glorious banners? Let not golden gifts delight thee, Let not death nor torments fright thee; From thy place thy Captaine gives thee When thou faintest he relieves thee. Hearke, how the Larke Is to the Morning singing; Harke how the Bells are ringing. It is for joy that thou to Heaven art flying: This is not life, true life is got by dying.

Eugen. The light and sound are vanisht, but my feare Sticks still upon my forehead: what's written here? (Reads.)

Goe, and the bold Physitian play; But touch the King and drive away The paine he feeles; but first assay To free the Christians: if the King pay Thy service ill, expect a day When for reward thou shalt not stay.

All writ in golden Letters and cut so even As if some hand had hither reacht from Heaven To print this Paper.

Enter Epidophorus.

Epi. Come, you must to the King.

Eugen. I am so laden with Irons I scarce can goe.

Epi. Wyer-whips shall drive you, The King is counsell'd for his health to bath him In the warme blood of Christians; and you, I thinke, Must give him ease.

Eugen. Willingly; my fetters Hang now, methinks, like feathers at my heeles. On, any whither; I can runne, sir.

Epi. Can you? not very farre, I feare.

Eugen. No windes my Faith shake, nor rock[s] split in sunder: The poore ship's tost here, my strong Anchor's yonder.

[Exeunt.