[SCENE 2.]

Enter Clarence, and Doctor.

Do. I thinke your disease sir, be rather of the minde then the body.

Cla. Be there diseases of the minde Doctor?

Do. No question sir, even as there be of the body.

Cla. And cures for them too?

Do. And cures for them too, but not by Physick.

Cla. You will have their diseases, greifes? will you not?

Do. Yes, oftentimes.

Cla. And doe not greifes ever rise out of passions?

Do. Evermore.

Cla. And doe not passions proceed from corporall distempers?

Do. Not the passions of the minde, for the minde many times is sicke, when the bodie is healthfull.

Cla. But is not the mindes-sicknes of power to make the body sicke?

Do. In time, certaine.

Cla. And the bodies ill affections able to infect the mind?

Do. No question.

Cla. Then if there be such a naturall commerce of Powers betwixt them, that the ill estate of the one offends the other, why shood not the medicines for one cure the other?

Do. Yet it will not you see. Hei mihi quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.[44]

Cla. Nay then, Doctor, since you cannot make any reasonable Connexion of these two contrarieties the minde, and the body, making both subiect to passion, wherein you confound the substances of both, I must tell you there is no disease of the minde but one, and that is Ignorance.

Do. Why what is love? is not that a disease of the mind?

Cla. Nothing so: for it springs naturally out of the bloode, nor are we subject to any disease, or sorrowe, whose causes or effects simply and natively concerne the body, that the minde by any meanes partaketh, nor are there any passions in the soule, for where there are no affections, there are no passions: And Affectus your Master Galen refers parti irascenti, For illic est anima sentiens ubi sunt affectus: Therefore the Rationall Soule cannot be there also.

Do. But you know we use to say, my minde gives me this or that, even in those addictions that concerne the body.

Cla. We use to say so indeed, and from that use comes the abuse of all knowledge and her practice, for when the object in question only concerns the state of the body; why shood the soule bee sorry or glad for it? if she willingly mixe her selfe, then she is a foole, if of necessity, and against her will, a slave, and so, far from that wisdome and freedome that the Empresse of Reason and an eternall Substance shood comprehend.

Do. Divinely spoken, Sir, but verie Paradoxicallie.

Enter Momford, Tales, Kingcob, Furnif; Rudes, Goos: Foul: Eugenia, Penelope, Hippolyta, Winnifred.

Mom. Who's there?

[Fur.?] I, my Lord.

Mom. Bring hether the Key of the gallery, me thought I heard the Doctor, and my friend.

Fur. I did so sure.

Mom. Peace then a while, my Lord, We will be bold to evesdroppe; For I know My friend is as respective in his Chamber And by himselfe, of any thing he does As in a Criticke Synods curious eyes, Following therein Pythagoras golden rule— Maximè omnium teipsum reverere.

Cla. Know you the Countesse Eugenia, Sir?

Do. Exceeding wel, Sir; she's a good learned scholler.

Cla. Then I perceive you know her well indeed.

Do. Me thinks you two shood use much conference.

Cla. Alas sir, we doe verie seldome meet, For her estate and mine are so unequall, And then her knowledge passeth mine so farre, That I hold much too sacred a respect, Of her high vertues to let mine attend them.

Do. Pardon me, Sir, this humblenes cannot flowe Out of your judgment but from passion.

Cla. Indeed I doe account that passion The very high perfection of my minde, That is excited by her excellence, And therefore willingly, and gladly feele it. For what was spoken of the most chast Queene Of rich Pasiaca [?] may be said of her. Moribus Antevenit sortem[45], virtutibus Annos, Sexum animo, morum Nobilitate Genus.

Do. A most excellent Distick.

Mom. Come, Lords, away, lets not presume too much Of a good nature; not for all I have Wood I have him take knowledge of the wrong I rudely offer him: come then ile shew A few rare jewels to your honour'd eyes; And then present you with a common supper.

Goos. Iewells, my Lord? why is not this candlesticke one of your jewells pray?

Mom. Yes marry is it, sir Gyles, if you will.

Goos. Tis a most fine candlesticke in truth, it wants nothing but the languages.

Pene. The languages servant why the languages?

Goos. Why Mistris; there was a lattin candlesticke here afore, and that had the languages I am sure.

Tal. I thought he had a reason for it Lady.

Pene. I, and a reason of the Sunne too, my Lord, for his father wood have bin ashamed on't. [Exeunt.

Do. Well, master Clarence, I perceive your minde Hath so incorparate it selfe with flesh And therein rarified that flesh to spirit, That you have need of no Physitians helpe. But, good Sir, even for holy vertues health And grace of perfect knowledge, doe not make Those ground workes of eternity you lay Meanes to your ruine, and short being here: For the too strict and rationall Course you hold Will eate your body up; and then the World, Or that small poynt of it where vertue lives, Will suffer Diminution: It is now Brought almost to a simple unity, Which is (as you well know) Simplicior puncto. And if that point faile once, why, then alas The unity must onely be suppos'd. Let it not faile then, most men else have sold it; Tho you neglect your selfe, uphould it. So with my reverend love I leave you sir. [Exit.

Cla. Thanks, worthy Doctour, I do amply quite you; I proppe poore vertue, that am propt my selfe, And only by one friend in all the World! For vertues onely sake I use this wile, Which otherwise I wood despise, and scorne. The World should sinke, and all the pompe she hugs Close in her hart, in her ambitious gripe, Ere I sustaine it, if this slendrest joynt Mou'd with the worth that worldlings love so well Had power to save it from the throate of hell. [He drawes the curtains, and sits within them.

Enter Eugenia, Penelope, Hippolita.

Eug. Come on, faire Ladies, I must make you both Familiar witnesses of the most strange part And full of impudence, that ere I plaide.

Hip. What's that, good Madam?

Eug. I that have bene so more then maiden-nice To my deere Lord and uncle not to yeeld By his importunate suite to his friends love In looke, or almost thought; will of my selfe, Farre past his expectation or his hope, In action and in person greete his friend, And comfort the poore gentlemans sicke state.

Pene. Is this a part of so much Impudence?

Eug. No but I feare me it will stretch to more.

Hip. Marry, Madam, the more the merrier.

Eug. Marrie Madam? what shood I marrie him?

Hip. You take the word me thinkes as tho you would, And if there be a thought of such kind heate In your cold bosome, wood to god my breath Might blowe it to the flame of your kind hart.

Eug. Gods pretious, Ladie, know ye what you say, Respect you what I am, and what he is, What the whole world wood say, & what great Lords I have refused, and might as yet embrace, And speake you like a friend to wish me him?

Hip. Madam I cast all this, and know your choyse Can cast it quite out of the christall dores Of your Iudiciall eyes: I am but young, And be it said, without all pride I take To be a maid, I am one, and indeed Yet in my mothers wombe to all the wiles Weeud[46] in the loomes of greatnes, and of state: And yet even by that little I have learn'd Out of continuall conference with you, I have cride haruest home of thus much judgment In my greene sowing time, that I cood place The constant sweetnes of good Clarence minde, Fild with his inward wealth and noblenes, (Looke, Madam) here, when others outward trash Shood be contented to come under here.

Pene. And so say I uppon my maidenhead.

Eug. Tis well said, Ladies, thus we differ then, I to the truth-wife, you to worldly men. And now sweet dames obserue an excellent jest (At least in my poore jesting.) Th'Erle my unckle Will misse me straite, and I know his close drift Is to make me, and his friend Clarence meete By some device or other he hath plotted. Now when he seekes us round about his house And cannot find us, for we may be sure He will not seeke me in his sicke friends Chamber, (I have at all times made his love so strange,) He straight will thinke, I went away displeas'd, Or hartely careles of his hardest suite. And then I know there is no griefe on Earth Will touch his hart so much; which I will suffer, To quite his late good pleasure wrought on me, For ile be sworne in motion, and progresse Of his friends suite, I never in my life Wrastled so much with passion or was mov'd To take his firme love in such jelouse part.

Hip. This is most excellent, Madam, and will prove A neecelike, and a noble friends Revenge.

Eug. Bould in a good cause; then lets greet his friend.— Where is this sickely gentleman? at his booke? Now in good truth I wood theis bookes were burnd That rapp men from their friends before their time, How does my uncles friend, no other name I need give him, to whom I give my selfe.

Cla. O Madam let me rise that I may kneele, And pay some duty to your soveraigne grace.

Hip. Good Clarence, doe not worke your selfe disease My Lady comes to ease and comfort you.

Pene. And we are handmaides to her to that end.

Cla. Ladies, my hart will breake if it be held Within the verge of this presumtuous chaire.

Eug. Why, Clarence is your judgement bent to show A common lovers passion? let the World, That lives without a hart, and is but showe, Stand on her empty, and impoisoned forme, I knowe thy kindenesse and have seene thy hart Clest [Cleft?] in my uncles free and friendly lippes, And I am only now to speake and act The rite's due to thy love: oh, I cood weepe A bitter showre of teares for thy sicke state, I cood give passion all her blackest rites And make a thousand vowes to thy deserts. But these are common, knowledge is the bond, The seale, and crowne of our united mindes; And that is rare and constant, and for that, To my late written hand I give thee this. See, heaven, the soule thou gau'st is in this hand. This is the Knot of our eternitie, Which fortune, death, nor hell, shall ever loose.

Enter Bullaker, Iack, Wil.

Ia. What an unmannerly tricke is this of thy Countesse to give the noble count her uncle the slippe thus?

Wil. Vnmannerlie, you villaynes? O that I were worthy to weare a Dagger to any purpose for thy sake?

Bul. Why young Gentlemen, utter your anger with your fists.

Wil. That cannot be, man, for all fists are shut you know and utter nothing; and besides I doe not thinke my quarrell just for my Ladies protection in this cause, for I protest she does most abhominablie miscarrie her selfe.

Ia. Protest, you sawsie Iacke, you! I shood doe my country, and Court-ship good service to beare thy coalts teeth out of thy head, for suffering such a reverend word to passe their guarde; why, the oldest Courtier in the World, man, can doe noe more then protest.

Bul. Indeede, Page, if you were in Fraunce, you wood be broken upon a wheele for it, there is not the best Dukes sonne in France dares say I protest, till he be one and thirty yeere old at least, for the inheritance of that word is not to be possest before.

Wil. Well, I am sorry for my presumtion then, but more sory for my Ladies, marie most sorry for thee good Lord Momford, that will make us most of all sory for our selves, if wee doe not fynde her out.

Ia. Why, alas, what shood wee doe? all the starres of our heaven see, we seeke her as fast as we can if she be crept into a rush we will seeke her out or burne her.

Enter Momford.

Mom. Villaines, where are your Ladies? seeke them out. Hence, home ye monsters, and still keepe you there Where levity keepes, in her inconstant Spheare. [Exeunt Pages. Away, you pretious villaines! what a plague, Of varried tortures is a womans hart? How like a peacockes taile with different lightes, They differ from themselves; the very ayre Alter the aspen humors of their bloods. Now excellent good, now superexcellent badd: Some excellent good, some? but one of all: Wood any ignorant babie serue her friend Such an uncivill part? Sblood what is learning? An artificiall cobwebbe to catch flies, And nourish Spiders? cood she cut my throate With her departure, I had byn her calfe, And made a dish at supper for my guests Of her kinde charge; I am beholding to her. Puffe, is there not a feather in this ayre A man may challenge for her? what? a feather? So easie to be seene, so apt to trace, In the weake flight of her unconstant wings? A mote, man, at the most, that with the Sunne, Is onely seene, yet with his radiant eye, We cannot single so from other motes, To say this mote is she. Passion of death, She wrongs me past a death; come, come, my friend Is mine, she not her owne, and theres an end.

Eug. Come uncle shall we goe to supper now?

Mom. Zounes to supper? what a dorr is this?

Eug. Alas what ailes my uncle? Ladies, see.

Hip. Is not your Lordshippe well?

Pene. Good, speake my Lord.

Mom. A sweete plague on you all, ye witty rogues; Have you no pitty in your villanous jests, But runne a man quite from his fifteene witts?

Hip. Will not your Lordship see your friend, and Neece.

Mom. Wood I might sinke if I shame not to see her Tush t'was a passion of pure jealousie, Ile make her now amends with Adoration. Goddesse of learning, and of constancy, Of friendshippe, and of everie other vertue.

Eug. Come, come you have abus'de me now, I know, And now you plaister me with flatteries.

Pene. My Lord, the contract is knit fast betwixt them.

Mom. Now all heavens quire of Angels sing Amen, And blesse theis true borne nuptials with their blisse; And Neece tho you have cosind me in this, Ile uncle you yet in an other thing, And quite deceive your expectation. For where you thinke you have contracted harts With a poore gentleman, he is sole heire To all my Earledome, which to you and yours I freely and for ever here bequeath. Call forth the Lords, sweet Ladies; let them see This sodaine, and most welcome Noveltie; But cry you mercy, Neece, perhaps your modesty Will not have them partake this sodaine match.

Eug. O uncle, thinke you so? I hope I made My choyce with too much Judgment to take shame Of any forme I shall performe it with.

Mom. Said like my Neece, and worthy of my friend.

Enter Furnifall, Tal: King: Goos: Rud: Foul: Ia: Will, Bullaker.

Mom. My Lords, take witnes of an absolute wonder, A marriage made for vertue, onely vertue: My friend, and my deere Neece are man and wife.

Fur. A wonder of mine honour, and withall A worthy presedent for all the World; Heaven blesse you for it, Lady, and your choyce.

Ambo. Thankes, my good Lord.

Ta. An Accident that will make pollicie blush, And all the Complements of wealth and state, In the succesfull and unnumbred Race That shall flow from it, fild with fame and grace.

Ki. So may it speed deere Countesse, worthy Clarence.

Ambo. Thankes, good sir Cuthberd.

Fur. Captaine be not dismaid, Ile marrie thee, For while we live, thou shalt my consort be.

Foul. By France my Lord, I am not griev'd a whit, Since Clarence hath her; he hath bin in Fraunce, And therefore merits her if she were better.

Mom. Then, Knights, ile knit your happie nuptial knots. I know the Ladies minds better then you; Tho my rare Neece hath chose for vertue only, Yet some more wise then some, they chuse for both, Vertue and wealth.

Eug. Nay, uncle, then I plead This goes with my choise, Some more wise then some, For onely vertues choise is truest wisedome.

Mom. Take wealth, and vertue both amongst you then, They love ye, Knights, extreamely; and Sir Cut: I give the chast Hippolita to you; Sir Gyles, this Ladie—

Pen. Nay, stay there, my Lord. I have not yet prov'd all his Knightly parts I heare he is an excellent Poet too.

Tal. That I forgot sweet Lady; good sir Gyles, Have you no sonnet of your penne about ye?

Goos. Yes, that I have I hope, my Lord, my Cosen.

Fur. Why, this is passing fit.

Goos. I'de be loth to goe without paper about me against my Mistris, hold my worke againe; a man knows not what neede he shall have perhaps.

Mom. Well remembred a mine honour sir Gyles.

Goos. Pray read my Lord, I made this sonnet of my Mistris.

Rud. Nay reade thy selfe, man.

Goos. No intruth, sir Cut: I cannot reade mine owne hand.

Mom. Well I will reade it. Three things there be which thou shouldst only crave, Thou Pomroy or thou apple of mine eye; Three things there be which thou shouldst long to have And for which three each modest dame wood crie; Three things there be that shood thine anger swage, An English mastife and a fine French page.

Rud. Sblood, Asse, theres but two things, thou shamst thy selfe.

Goos. Why sir Cut. thats Poetica licentia, the verse wood have bin too long, and I had put in the third. Slight, you are no Poet I perceive.

Pene. Tis excellent, servant.

Mom. Keepe it Lady then, And take the onely Knight of mortall men.

Goos. Thanke you, good my Lord, as much as tho you had given me twenty shillings in truth; now I may take the married mens parts at football.

Mom. All comforts crowne you all; and you, Captaine, For merry forme sake let the willowe crowne: A wreath of willow bring us hither straite.

Fur. Not for a world shood that have bin forgot Captaine it is the fashion, take this Crowne.

Foul. With all my hart, my Lord, and thanke you too; I will thanke any man that gives me crownes.

Mom. Now will we consecrate our ready supper To honourd Hymen as his nuptiall rite; In forme whereof first daunce, faire Lords and Ladies, And after sing, so we will sing, and daunce, And to the skies our vertuous joyes advance.

The Measure.

Now to the song and doe this garland grace.

_Canto.

Willowe, willowe, willowe, our Captaine goes downe: Willowe, willowe, willowe, his vallor doth crowne. The rest with Rosemary we grace; O Hymen let thy light With richest rayes guild every face, and feast harts with delight. Willowe, willowe, willowe, we chaunt to the skies; And with blacke, and yellowe, give courtship the prize_.

FINIS.

NOTE.—In a letter to the Athenaeum of June 9, 1883, Mr. Fleay suggests that Sir Giles Goosecap is the work of George Chapman. "It was produced by the Children of the Chapel, and must therefore date between 1599 and 1601. The only other plays known to have been represented by the Chapel Children are Lyly's Love's Metamorphosis and the three Comical Satires of Ben Jonson. The present play bears palpable marks of Jonson's influence…. The author, then, must have been a stage writer at the end of the sixteenth century, probably a friend of Jonson's, and not surviving 1636. The only known playwrights who fulfil the time conditions are Marston, Middleton, and Chapman. Internal evidence, to say nothing of Jonson's enmity, is conclusive against Marston and Middleton. Chapman, on the other hand, fulfils the conditions required. He was Jonson's intimate friend, and died in 1634. In 1598 he was writing plays for Henslow at the Rose Theatre; on July 17, 1599, his connexion with the Admiral's Company there performing ceased; and his next appearance in stage history is as a writer for the Children of Her Majesty's Revels, the very company that succeeded, and was, indeed, founded on that of the Children of the Chapel at Blackfriars. If Chapman was not writing for the Chapel boys from 1599 to 1601, we do not know what he was doing at all. The external evidence, then, clearly points to Chapman. The internal is still more decisive. To say nothing of metrical evidence, which seems just now out of fashion, probably on account of the manner in which it has been handled, can there be any doubt of the authorship of such lines as these:—

'According to my master Plato's mind,' &c.—iii. II.

And for the lower comedy, act iv., sc. 1, in which Momford makes Eugenia dictate a letter to Clarence, should be compared with the Gentleman Usher, iii. 1, and Monsieur d'Olive, iv. 1. These are clearly all from one mould." I, like Mr. Fleay, had been struck by the resemblance to Chapman's style in parts of Sir Gyles Goosecappe; but it seems to me that the likeness is stronger in the serious than in the comic scenes. If Chapman was the author, it is curious that his name did not appear on the title-page of the second edition. The reference to the Maréchal de Biron's visit, iii. 1, proves conclusively that the play cannot have been written earlier than the autumn of 1601.