Part 1 — FROM HENRY IV, PART I
Reading edition
Enter Henry Prince of Wales and Sir John Falstaff.
Falstaff. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
Prince Henry. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffata, I see no reason why thou should’st be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
Falstaff. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses, go by the moon and seven stars; and not by Phœbus—he, “that wand’ring knight so fair.” And, I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as God save thy grace (majesty I should say; for grace thou wilt have none)—
Prince Henry. What! none?
Falstaff. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.
Prince Henry. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.
Falstaff. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body, be called thieves of the day’s beauty; let us be—Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon: and let men say, we be men of good government; being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we—steal.
Prince Henry. Thou say’st well, and it holds well, too; for the fortune of us, that are the moon’s men, doth ebb and flow like the sea; being governed as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, now, a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing—lay by; and spent with crying—bring in; now, in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder; and, by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
Falstaff. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
Prince Henry. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
Falstaff. How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
Prince Henry. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?
Falstaff. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.
Prince Henry. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
Falstaff. No, I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
Prince Henry. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not I have used my credit.
Falstaff. Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent,—But, I pr’ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is, with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
Prince Henry. No; thou shalt.
Falstaff. Shall I? Oh, rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.
Prince Henry. Thou judgest false already; I mean thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
Falstaff. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humor, as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
Prince Henry. For obtaining of suits?
Falstaff. Yea, for obtaining of suits; whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugged bear.
Prince Henry. Or an old lion; or a lover’s lute.
Falstaff. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
Prince Henry. What say’st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch.
Falstaff. Thou hast the most unsavory similes; and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest,—sweet young prince,—But Hal, I pr’ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought: an old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir; but I marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not: and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.
Prince Henry. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets and no man regards it.
Falstaff. Oh, thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal,—God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, and I do not, I am a villain; I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom.
Prince Henry. Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
Falstaff. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one; an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.
Prince Henry. I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying to purse-taking.
FROM MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
Conrade, Borachio, Dogberry, Verges, Sexton, and the Watch.
Dogberry. Is our whole dissembly appeared?
Verges. Oh, a stool and a cushion for the sexton!
Sexton. Which be the malefactors?
Dogberry. Marry, that am I and my partner.
Verges. Nay, that’s certain. We have the exhibition to examine.
Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? Let them come before master constable.
Dogberry. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend?
Borachio. Borachio.
Dogberry. Pray, write down—Borachio.—Yours, sirrah?
Conrade. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
Dogberry. Write down—master gentleman Conrade.—Masters, do you serve God?
Conrade, Borachio. Yea, sir, we hope.
Dogberry. Write down—that they hope they serve God. And write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains!—Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves?
Conrade. Marry, sir, we are none.
Dogberry. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him.—Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear, sir; I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.
Borachio. Sir, I say to you, we are none.
Dogberry. Well, stand aside.—’Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?
Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.
Dogberry. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way.—Let the watch come forth.—Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men.
1st Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s brother, was a villain.
Dogberry. Write down—Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain.
Borachio. Master constable—
Dogberry. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise thee.
Sexton. What heard you him say else?
2d Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.
Dogberry. Flat burglary as ever was committed!
Verges. Yea, by the mass, that it is.
Sexton. What else, fellow?
1st Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.
Dogberry. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.
Sexton. What else?
2d Watch. This is all.
Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died.—Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before, and show him their examination.
(Exit.)
Dogberry. Come, let them be opinioned.
Verges. Let them be in the hands—
Conrade. Off, coxcomb!
Dogberry. God’s my life! Where’s the sexton? Let him write down—the prince’s officer, coxcomb.—Come, bind them.—Thou naughty varlet!
Conrade. Away! You are an ass! you are an ass!
Dogberry. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years?—Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass!—But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not than I am an ass.—No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him.—Bring him away.—Oh, that I had been writ down an ass!
FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
Launcelot. Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, “Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says, “No; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo”; or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack: “Via!” says the fiend; “away!” says the fiend; “for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, “My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man’s son,” or rather an honest woman’s son; for, indeed, my father did something smack—something grow to—he had a kind of taste—well, my conscience says, “Launcelot, budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who—God bless the mark!—is a kind of devil; and to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is the very devil incarnation; and, in my conscience, my conscience is a kind of hard conscience to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run.
FROM HAMLET
Polonius and Hamlet, reading.
Polonius. How does my good Lord Hamlet?
Hamlet. Well, God-’a’-mercy.
Polonius. Do you know me, my lord?
Hamlet. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger
Polonius. Not I, my lord.
Hamlet. Then I would you were so honest a man.
Polonius. Honest, my lord?
Hamlet. Ay, sir: to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
Polonius. That’s very true, my lord.
Hamlet. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion—Have you a daughter?
Polonius. I have, my lord.
Hamlet. Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing; but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.
Polonius. How say you by that? (Aside.) Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?
Hamlet. Words, words, words.
Polonius. What is the matter, my lord?
Hamlet. Between who?
Polonius. I mean the matter that you read, my lord.
Hamlet. Slanders, sir. For the satirical slave says here, that old men have gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber or plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with weak hams. All of which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am: if, like a crab, you could go backward.
Polonius. (Aside.) Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.—Will you walk out o’ the air, my lord?
Hamlet. Into my grave?
Polonius. Indeed, that is out o’ the air. (Aside.) How pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter.—My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.
Hamlet. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
Polonius. Fare you well, my lord.
Hamlet. These tedious old fools!
FROM AS YOU LIKE IT
Rosalind and Orlando
Rosalind. (Aside.) I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you hear, forester?
Orlando. Very well: what would you?
Rosalind. I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
Orlando. You should ask me, what time o’ day: there’s no clock in the forest.
Rosalind. Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.
Orlando. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper?
Rosalind. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you, who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orlando. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
Rosalind. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnised: if the interim be but a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.
Orlando. Who ambles Time withal?
Rosalind. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burden of heavy, tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.
Orlando. Who doth he gallop withal?
Rosalind. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
Orlando. Who stays it still withal?
Rosalind. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.
Orlando. Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Rosalind. Here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orlando. Are you native of this place?
Rosalind. As the cony, that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Orlando. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.
Rosalind. I have been told of so many: but, indeed, an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.
Orlando. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?
Rosalind. There were none principal: they were all like one another, as half-pence are; every one fault seeming monstrous, till its fellow fault came to match it.
Orlando. I prithee, recount some of them.
Rosalind. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.
Orlando. I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your remedy.
Rosalind. There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner.
Orlando. What were his marks?
Rosalind. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not (but I pardon you for that, for, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then, your hose shall be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.
Orlando. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Rosalind. Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?
Orlando. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
Rosalind. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Rosalind. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do. And the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Orlando. Did you ever cure any so?
Rosalind. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness, which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and in this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in’t.
Orlando. I would not be cured, youth.
Rosalind. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me.
Orlando. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
Rosalind. Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
Orlando. With all my heart, good youth.
Francis, Lord Bacon, gave us much wise writing, and, incidentally much of the wit of wisdom, but we look to him in vain for laughable humor.
A few epigrammatic selections from his essays are given.
All colours will agree in the dark.
This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge keepeth his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.
Whosoever esteemeth too much of an amourous affection, quitteth both riches and wisdom.
Money is like muck: not good except it be spread.
Princes are like to heavenly bodies, which cause good or evil times, and which have much veneration, and no rest.
Old men object too much, consult too long, adventure too little, repent too soon.
To take advice of some few friends is ever honourable; for lookers-on many times see more than gamesters.
Suspicions that the mind of itself gathers are but buzzes; but suspicions that are artificially nourished and put into men’s heads by the tales and whisperings of others, have stings.
Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. And therefore, if man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning to seem to know that which he doth not.
Sir John Harington, chiefly remembered for his translation of Orlando Furioso, wrote clever humorous verse.
OF A PRECISE TAILOR
A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing— True, but for lying, honest, but for stealing— Did fall one day extremely sick by chance, And on the sudden was in wondrous trance. The fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner, Of sundry coloured silks displayed a banner Which he had stolen, and wished, as they did tell, That he might find it all one day in hell. The man, affrighted with this apparition, Upon recovery grew a great precisian. He bought a Bible of the best translation, And in his life he showed great reformation; He walked mannerly, he talked meekly, He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly; He vowed to shun all company unruly, And in his speech he used no oath but “truly”; And, zealously to keep the Sabbath’s rest, His meat for that day on the eve was drest; And, lest the custom which he had to steal Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal, He gives his journeyman a special charge, That if the stuff, allowance being large, He found his fingers were to filch inclined, Bid him to have the banner in his mind. This done—I scant can tell the rest for laughter— A captain of a ship came three days after, And brought three yards of velvet and three-quarters, To make Venetians down below the garters. He, that precisely knew what was enough, Soon slipt aside three-quarters of the stuff. His man, espying it, said, in derision, “Master, remember how you saw the vision!” “Peace, knave!” quoth he; “I did not see one rag Of such a coloured silk in all the flag.”
OF A CERTAIN MAN
There was (not certain when) a certain preacher That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who, having read in Latin thus a text Of erat quidam homo, much perplext, He seemed the same with studie great to scan, In English thus: There was a certain man. But now (quoth he), good people, note you this: He saith there was—he doth not say there is; For in these days of ours it is most plain Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man’s certain; Yet by my text you see it comes to pass That surely once a certain man there was; But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can find this text, There was a certain woman.
Ben Jonson, next to Shakespeare as a dramatist, is a master of satiric wit. His strong, somewhat psychological comedies are difficult to quote from except in long extracts.
FROM “EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR”
Bobadil. I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; but were I known to her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in general, but to save the one-half, nay, three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you?
E. Knowell. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive.
Bobadil. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to myself, throughout the land; gentlemen they should be of good spirit, strong and able constitution; I would choose them by an instinct, a character that I have: and I would teach these nineteen the special rules—as your punto, your reverso, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your passado, your montanto—till they could all play very near, or altogether as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could not in their honor refuse us; well, we would kill them: challenge twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them too; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, that’s twenty score; twenty score, that’s two hundred; two hundred a day, five days a thousand; forty thousand; forty times five, five times forty, two hundred days kills them all up by computation. And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to perform, provided there be no treason practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.
FROM “VOLPONE”
Volpone. Lady, I kiss your bounty, and for this timely grace you have done your poor Scoto, of Mantua, I will return you, over and above my oil, a secret of that high and inestimable nature which shall make you for ever enamoured on that minute, wherein your eye first descended on so mean, yet not altogether to be despised, an object. Here is a powder concealed in this paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine thousand volumes were but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a word; so short is this pilgrimage of man, which some call life, to the expression of it. Would I reflect on the price? Why, the whole world is but as an empire, that empire as a province, that province as a bank, that bank as a private purse to the purchase of it. I will only tell you it is the powder that made Venus a goddess, given her by Apollo, that kept her perpetually young, cleared her wrinkles, firmed her gums, filled her skin, coloured her hair, from her derived to Helen, and at the sack of Troy unfortunately lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happily recovered, by a studious antiquary, out of some ruins of Asia, who sent a moiety of it to the Court of France, but much sophisticated, wherewith the ladies there now colour their hair. The rest, at this present, remains with me, extracted to a quintessence; so that, wherever it but touches in youth it perpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion; seats your teeth, did they dance like virginal jacks, firm as a wall; makes them white as ivory, that were black as coal.
A VINTNER,
To whom Jonson was in debt, told him that he would excuse the payment, if he could give an immediate answer to the following questions: What God is best pleased with; what the devil is best pleased with: what the world is best pleased with; and what he was best pleased with. Jonson, without hesitation, replied thus:
God is best pleas’d, when men forsake their sin; The devil’s best pleas’d, when they persist therein: The world’s best pleas’d, when thou dost sell good wine; And you’re best pleas’d, when I do pay for mine.
It was the fashion to flatter in those days, and King James had abundance of such incense offered to him, though according to Ben Jonson it was impossible to flatter so perfect a monarch. The dramatist addressed the following epigram To the Ghost of Martial (Ep. 36):
Martial, thou gav’st far nobler epigrams To thy Domitian, than I can my James: But in my royal subject I pass thee, Thou flattered’st thine, mine cannot flatter’d be.
A thought which has been humorously expanded by Ben Jonson (Ep. 42):
Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be? Th’ observing neighbours no such mood can see. Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever; But that his Joan doth too. And Giles would never By his free will be in Joan’s company; No more would Joan he should. Giles riseth early, And having got him out of doors is glad; The like is Joan. But turning home is sad; And so is Joan. Oft-times when Giles doth find Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind; All this doth Joan. Or that his long-yearn’d life Were quite outspun; the like wish hath his wife. ***** If now, with man and wife, to will and nill The self-same things, a note of concord be, I know no couple better can agree.
John Donne, one of the greatest preachers of the English church, was also a noted wit, poet and courtier. Like his contemporaries his wit was satirical, but in more playful vein than most.
THE WILL
Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, Great Love, some legacies: Here I bequeathe Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see; If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee; My tongue to fame; to embassadors mine ears; To women or the sea, my tears. Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, By making me serve her who had twenty more, That I should give to none but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give; My truth to them who at the court do live; My ingenuity and openness To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness; My silence to any who abroad have been; My money to a Capuchin. Thou, Love, taught’st me, by appointing me To love there where no love received can be, Only to give to such as have an incapacity. My faith I give to Roman Catholics; All my good works unto the schismatics Of Amsterdam; my best civility And courtship to a university; My modesty I give to soldiers bare; My patience let gamesters share. Thou, Love taught’st me, by making me Love her that holds my love disparity, Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. I give my reputation to those Which were my friends; mine industry to foes; To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness; My sickness to physicians, or excess; To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ; And to my company my wit. Thou, Love, by making me adore Her who begot this love in me before, Taught’st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore. To him for whom the passing bell next tolls I give my physic-books; my written rolls Of moral counsel I to Bedlam give; My brazen medals unto them which live In want of bread; to them which pass among All foreigners, mine English tongue. Thou, Love, by making me love one Who thinks her friendship a fit portion For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. Therefore I’ll give no more, but I’ll undo The world by dying, because love dies too. Then all your beauties will no more be worth Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth; And all your graces no more use shall have Than a sundial in a grave. Thou, Love, taught’st me, by making me Love her who doth neglect both thee and me, To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.
Thomas Dekker was a prolific dramatic author of the period, and his satirical characterizations are among the wittiest of his day.
OBEDIENT HUSBANDS
There is a humour incident to a woman, which is, when a young man hath turmoiled himself so long that with much ado he hath gotten into marriage, and hath perhaps met with a wife according to his own desire, and perchance such an one that it had been better for him had he lighted on another, yet he likes her so well that he would not have missed her for any gold; for, in his opinion, there is no woman like unto her. He hath a great delight to hear her speak, is proud of his match, and is, peradventure, withal of so sheepish a nature, that he has purposed to govern himself wholly by her counsel and direction, so that if any one speak to him of a bargain, or whatsoever other business, he tells them that he will have his wife’s opinion on it, and if she be content, he will go through with it; if not, then will he give it over.
Thus he is as tame and pliable as a jackanapes to his keeper. If the Prince set forth an army, and she be unwilling that he should go, who (you may think) will ask her leave, then must he stay at home, fight who will for the country. But if she be desirous at any time to have his room (which many times she likes better than his company), she wants no journey to employ him in, and he is as ready as a page to undertake them. If she chide, he answers not a word; generally, whatsoever she does, or howsoever, he thinks it well done.
Judge, now, in what a case this silly calf is! Is not he, think you, finely dressed, that is in such subjection? The honestest woman and most modest of that sex, if she wear the breeches, is so out of reason in taunting and controlling her husband—for this is their common fault—and be she never so wise, yet a woman, scarce able to govern herself, much less her husband and all his affairs; for, were it not so, God would have made her the head. Which, since it is otherwise, what can be more preposterous than that the head should be governed by the foot?
If, then, a wise and honest woman’s superiority be unseemly, and breed great inconvenience, how is he dressed, think you, if he light on a fond, wanton, and malicious dame? Then doubtless he is soundly sped. She will keep a sweetheart under his nose, yet is he so blind that he can perceive nothing. But, for more security, she will many times send him packing beyond sea, about some odd errand that she will buzz in his ears, and he will perform it at her pleasure, though she send him forth at midnight, in hail, rain, and snow, for he must be a man for all weathers.
Their children, if they have any, must be brought up, apparelled, taught, and fed according to her pleasure, and one point of their learning is always to make no account of their father. Finally, she orders all things as she thinks best herself, making no more account of him, especially if he be in years, than men do of an old horse that is put to labour. Thus is he mewed up, plunged in a sea of cares; and yet he, kind fool, deems himself most happy in his happiness, wherein he must now perforce remain while life doth last, and pity it were he should want it, since he likes it so well.—The Bachelor’s Banquet.
Horace is thus amusingly introduced as in the act of concocting an ode:
To thee whose forehead swells with roses, Whose most haunted bower Gives life and scent to every flower, Whose most adoréd name encloses Things abstruse, deep and divine; Whose yellow tresses shine Bright as Eoan fire. Oh, me thy priest inspire! For I to thee and thine immortal name, In—in—in golden tunes, For I to thee and thine immortal name— In—sacred raptures flowing, flowing, swimming, swimming: In sacred raptures swimming, Immortal name, game, dame, tame, lame, lame, lame, [Foh,] hath, shame, proclaim, oh— In sacred raptures flowing, will proclaim [no!]. Oh, me they priest inspire! For I to thee and thine immortal name, In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame (Good, good!) In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame.
John Fletcher is believed to have composed the greater part of the plays by Beaumont and Fletcher.
The Laughing Song is attributed to Fletcher alone.
LAUGHING SONG (For several voices)
Oh how my lungs do tickle! ha ha ha! Of how my lungs do tickle! ho ho ho ho! Set a sharp jest Against my breast, Then how my lungs do tickle! As nightingales, And things in cambric rails, Sing best against a prickle. Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho ho! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! Wide! Loud! And vary! A smile is for a simpering novice,— One that ne’er tasted caviarë, Nor knows the smack of dear anchovies. Ha ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho ho! A giggling waiting-wench for me, That shows her teeth how white they be,— A thing not fit for gravity, For theirs are foul and hardly three. Ha ha ha! Ho ho ho! “Democritus, thou ancient fleerer, How I miss thy laugh, and ha’ since!” There thou named the famous[est] jeerer That e’er jeered in Rome or Athens. Ha ha ha! Ho ho ho! “How brave lives he that keeps a fool, Although the rate be deeper!” But he that is his own fool, sir, Does live a great deal cheaper. “Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break, Thou art so witty.” “’Tis rare to break at court, For that belongs to the city.” Ha ha! my spleen is almost worn To the last laughter. “Oh keep a corner for a friend! A jest may come hereafter.”
Bishop Corbet, more sociable and vivacious than many of his calling wrote rollicking verses as well as wise and serious sermons.
Perhaps this is the first known example of sheer nonsense verse.
LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE
Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat; E’en such is he who never was begotten Until his children were both dead and rotten. Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding; E’en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt, Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out. Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither’d rose, Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box, Or like a man that’s sound yet sickness mocks; E’en such is he who died and yet did laugh To see these lines writ for his epitaph.
It may be that utter nonsense was more in vogue at this time than can be definitely asserted, for such productions would, naturally, not be preserved as were the more important matters.
This anonymous bit of nonsense is said to have been written in 1617, and may be from the pen of the same worthy Bishop.
NONSENSE
Oh, that my lungs could bleat like butter’d Pease; But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch, And are as mangy as the Irish seas That offer wary windmills to the Rich. I grant that Rainbowes being lull’d asleep, Snort like a woodknife in a Lady’s eyes; Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep, For Creeping puddings only please the wise. Not that a hard-row’d herring should presume To swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse; For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome, By lesning of the fault should make it worse. For ’tis most certain Winter woolsacks grow From geese to swans if men could keep them so. Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint To pickle pancakes in Geneva print. Some men there were that did suppose the skie Was made of Carbonado’d Antidotes; But my opinion is, a Whale’s left eye, Need not be coynéd all King Harry groates. The reason’s plain, for Charon’s Westerne barge Running a tilt at the Subjunctive mood, Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him charge To fasten padlockes with Antartic food. The End will be the Mill ponds must be laded, To fish for white pots in a Country dance; So they that suffered wrong and were upbraded Shall be made friends in a left-handed trance.
A charming lyric by Bishop Corbet is:
FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES
“Farewell, rewards and fairies!” Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And, though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe? Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The fairies lost command! They did but change priests’ babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children stoln from thence Are now grown Puritans; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your domains. At morning and at evening both, You merry were and glad, So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labour, Or Cis to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabor, And nimbly went their toes. Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary’s days On many a grassy plain; But, since of late Elizabeth, And later James, came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been. By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession, Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession: But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or further for religion fled, Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company They never could endure, And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth was punished sure; It was a just and Christian deed To pinch such black and blue: Oh how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you!
Bishop Corbet’s epigram on Beaumont’s early death is well known:
He that hath such acuteness and such wit, As would ask ten good heads to husband it; He, that can write so well that no man dare Refuse it for the best, let him beware: Beaumont is dead, by whose sole death appears, Wit’s a disease consumes men in few years.
Sir Walter Raleigh, the graceful and brilliant courtier, is thought by most students of the subject to have written The Lie. Though it has been attributed to various authors the weight of evidence is in favor of Raleigh.
THE LIE
Go, Soul, the body’s guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, And give them all the lie. Go tell the Court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Go tell the Church it shows What’s good, but does no good. If Court and Church reply, Give Court and Church the lie. Tell Potentates they live Acting, but oh! their actions; Not loved, unless they give, Not strong but by their factions. If Potentates reply, Give Potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition; Their practice only hate; And if they do reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell those that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honor how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favor how it falters: And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness: And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention: And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay: And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it’s fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell, manhood shakes off pity; Tell, virtue least preferreth: And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing,— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing,— Yet, stab at thee that will, No stab the soul can kill.
The following well-known and thoroughly characteristic verses originally appeared in Gammer Gurton’s Needle, an old English comedy, which was long supposed to be the earliest written in the language, but which now ranks as the second in point of age. It was written by John Still, afterwards Bishop of Bath and Wells.
JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD
I cannot eat but little meat; My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a-cold, I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; And little bread shall do me stead; Much bread I nought desire. No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold, I am so wrapp’d, and thoroughly lapp’d, Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side, etc. And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till ye may see The tears run down her cheek: Then doth she troul to me the bowl, Even as a maltworm should, And saith, “Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old.” Back and side, etc. Now let them drink till they nod and wink Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor souls that have scour’d bowls Or have them lustily troul’d, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old. Back and side, etc.
Sir John Davies, poet and lawyer, wrote many acrostics to Queen Elizabeth, and other witty verses.
ACROSTICS
Earth now is green and heaven is blue; Lively spring which makes all new, Iolly spring doth enter. Sweet young sunbeams do subdue Angry aged winter. Blasts are mild and seas are calm, Every meadow flows with balm, The earth wears all her riches, Harmonious birds sing such a psalm As ear and heart bewitches. Reserve (sweet spring) this nymph of ours, Eternal garlands of thy flowers, Green garlands never wasting; In her shall last our state’s fair spring, Now and forever flourishing, As long as heaven is lasting.
THE MARRIED STATE
Wedlock, indeed, hath oft comparèd been To public feasts, where meet a public rout, Where they that are without would fain go in, And they that are within would fain go out.
John Marston, both dramatist and divine, gives us this bit of humorous satire—
THE SCHOLAR AND HIS DOG
I was a scholar: seven useful springs Did I deflower in quotations Of cross’d opinions ’bout the soul of man; The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I baus’d leaves, Toss’d o’er the dunces, pored on the old print Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept. Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, Shrunk up my veins: and still my spaniel slept. And still I held converse with Zabarell, Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept. Still on went I; first, an sit anima; Then, an it were mortal. Oh, hold, hold! at that They’re at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain Pell-mell together; still my spaniel slept. Then, whether ’t were corporeal, local, fixt, Ex traduce, but whether ’t had free will Or no, hot philosophers Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt, I stagger’d, knew not which was firmer part, But thought, quoted, read, observ’d, and pryed, Stufft noting-books: and still my spaniel slept. At length he wak’d, and yawned; and by yon sky, For aught I know he knew as much as I.
Following the example of Jest Books and collections of Merry Tales, came the Anthologies.
The most important of these was the Miscellany, which went through eight editions in thirty years, and is said to be the book of songs and sonnets that Master Slender missed so much.
This book was first published in 1557 and was followed by many less worthy collections.
In 1576 appeared The Paradise of Dainty Devices which also ran through many editions.
As a rule these collections were uninteresting and composed largely of dull and prosy numbers. Their chief charm lay in their titles, which were such as A Gorgeous Gallery of Gallant Inventions, A Handful of Pleasant Delights, and A Bouquet of Dainty Conceits.
Yet it must be remembered that this latter half of the Sixteenth Century saw the splendid flowering of lyric poetry, and in the last year appeared a famous book called England’s Helicon or The Muses’ Harmony, which was a sort of Golden Treasury of the Elizabethan age.
This was supplemented two years later by the Poetical Rhapsody, edited by Francis Davison, and from then on, the collected songs and verses of England showed poetry from the masters.
Also there were produced at this period many translations, both of the classics and of more modern works of various countries; though no important humorous work was translated until the next century, when Urquhart gave Rabelais to the English people.
FRENCH WIT AND HUMOR
Rutebœuf, the Trouvère, of the Thirteenth Century, if not the principal author of the Fabliaux was the first to put them into rhyme.
Most of his tales are too long and rambling to quote, and we content ourselves with one.
THE ASS’S TESTAMENT
A priest there was in times of old, Fond of his church, but fonder of gold, Who spent his days and all his thought In getting what he preached was naught. His chests were full of robes and stuff, Corn filled his garners to the roof, Stored up against the fair-times gay, From Saint Rémy to Easter Day. An ass he had within his stable, A beast most sound and valuable. For twenty years he lent his strength For the priest, his master, till at length, Worn out with work and age, he died. The priest, who loved him, wept and cried; And, for his service long and hard, Buried him in his own churchyard. Now turn we to another thing: ’Tis of a bishop that I sing. No greedy miser he, I ween; Prelate so generous ne’er was seen. Full well he loved in company Of all good Christians still to be; When he was well, his pleasure still, His medicine best when he was ill. Always his hall was full, and there His guests had ever best of fare. Whate’er the bishop lack’d or lost Was bought at once despite the cost; And so, in spite of rent and score, The bishop’s debts grew more and more. For true it is—this ne’er forget— Who spends too much gets into debt. One day his friends all with him sat, The bishop talking this and that, Till the discourse on rich clerks ran, Of greedy priests, and how their plan Was all good bishops still to grieve, And of their dues their lords deceive. And then the priest of whom I’ve told Was mention’d; how he loved his gold. And because men do often use More freedom than the truth would choose, They gave him wealth, and wealth so much, As those like him could scarcely touch. “And then besides, a thing he’s done, By which great profit might be won, Could it be only spoken here.” Quoth the bishop, “Tell it without fear.” “He’s worse, my lord, than Bedouin, Because his own dead ass, Baldwin, He buried in the sacred ground.” “If this is truth, as shall be found,” The bishop cried, “a forfeit high Will on his worldly riches lie. Summon this wicked priest to me; I will myself in this case be The judge. If Robert’s word be true, Mine are the fine and forfeit too.” ***** “Disloyal! God’s enemy and mine, Prepare to pay a heavy fine. Thy ass thou buriedst in the place Sacred to church. Now, by God’s grace, I never heard of crime more great. What! Christian men with asses wait? Now, if this thing be proven, know Surely to prison thou wilt go.” “Sir,” said the priest, “thy patience grant; A short delay is all I want. Not that I fear to answer now— But give me what the laws allow.” And so the bishop leaves the priest, Who does not feel as if at feast. But still, because one friend remains, He trembles not at prison pains. His purse it is which never fails For tax or forfeit, fine or vails. The term arrived, the priest appeared, And met the bishop, nothing feared; For ’neath his girdle safe there hung A leathern purse, well stocked and strung With twenty pieces fresh and bright, Good money all, none clipped or light. “Priest,” said the bishop, “if thou have Answer to give to charge so grave, ’Tis now the time.” “Sir, grant me leave My answer secretly to give. Let me confess to you alone, And, if needs be, my sins atone.” The bishop bent his head to hear, The priest he whispered in his ear: “Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell. My poor ass served me long and well, For twenty years my faithful slave, Each year his work a saving gave Of twenty sous—-so that in all To twenty livres the sum will fall; And, for the safety of his soul, To you, my lord, he left the whole.” “’Twas rightly done,” the bishop said, And gravely shook his godly head: “And, that his soul to heaven may go, My absolution I bestow.” Now have you heard a truthful lay, How with rich priests the bishops play; And Rutebœuf the moral draws That, spite of kings’ and bishops’ laws, ’Gainst evil is the man secure That shields himself with money’s lure.
In the Fourteenth century, Eustache Deschampes wrote more than a thousand ballades, virelais and other forms of light verse.
One of his ballades, here given in translation, is of a distinctly modern type of wit.
ADVICE TO A FRIEND ON MARRIAGE
Ope! Who? A friend! What wouldst obtain? Advice! Whereof? Is’t well to wed? I wish to marry. What’s your pain? No wife have I for board and bed, By whom my house is wisely led. One meek and fair I wish to gain, Young, wealthy, too, and nobly bred; You’re crazy—batter out your brain! Consider! Grief can you sustain? Women have tempers bold and dread; When for a dish of eggs you’re fain, Broth, cheese, you’ll have before you spread: Now free, you’ll be a slave instead— When married, you yourself have slain. Think well. My first resolve is said; You’re crazy—batter out your brain! No wife will be like her you feign; On angry words you shall be fed, So shall you bitterly complain, With woes too hard to bear, bested: Better a life in forest led Than of such beast to bear the strain. No! The sweet fancy fills my head; You’re crazy—batter out your brain!
ENVOY
Soon you will long that you were dead When married; seek in street or lane Some love. No! Passion bids me wed; You’re crazy—batter out your brain!
Olivier Basselin who flourished in the Fifteenth century, and who was a fuller by trade, is another one of the literary “Fathers,” his title being, “Le Pere Joyeux du Vaudeville.” Born at Vire, surrounded by valleys, it is held by some, while contradicted by others, that the modern term vaudeville is a corruption of Vaux de Vire.
His songs are mostly convivial and his humor broad and rollicking.
TO MY NOSE
Fair Nose! whose rubies red have cost me many a barrel Of claret wine and white, Who wearest in thy rich and sumptuous apparel Such red and purple light! Great Nose! who looks at thee through some huge glass at revel, More of thy beauty thinks: For thou resemblest not the nose of some poor devil Who only water drinks. The turkey-cock doth wear, resembling thee, his wattles, How many rich men now Have not so rich a nose! To paint thee, many bottles And much time I allow. The glass my pencil is for thine illumination; My color is the wine, With which I’ve painted thee more red than the carnation, By drinking of the fine. ’Tis said it hurts the eyes; but shall they be the masters? Wine is the cure for all; Better the windows both should suffer some disasters, Than have the whole house fall.
APOLOGY FOR CIDER
Though Frenchmen at our drink may laugh, And think their taste is wondrous fine, The Norman cider, which we quaff, Is quite the equal of his wine,— When down, down, down it freely goes, And charms the palate as it flows. Whene’er a potent draught I take, How dost thou bid me drink again? Yet, pray, for my affection’s sake, Dear Cider, do not turn my brain. O, down, down, down it freely goes, And charms the palate as it flow. I find I never lose my wits, However freely I carouse, And never try in angry fits To raise a tempest in the house; Though down, down, down the cider goes, And charms the palate as it flows. To strive for riches in all stuff, Just take the good the gods have sent; A man is sure to have enough If with his own he is content; As down, down, down, the cider goes, And charms the palate as it flows. In truth that was a hearty bout; Why, not a drop is left,—not one; I feel I’ve put my thirst to rout; The stubborn foe at last is gone. So down, down, down the cider goes, And charms the palate as it flows.
Francois Villon, born 1431, though not paternally designated, is called, and rightly, the Prince of Ballade Makers.
Two translations are here given of one of his most popular poems, and another witty Ballade is added.
THE BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,— She whose beauty was more than human?... But where are the snows of yester-year? Where’s Héloïse, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From Love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?... But where are the snows of yester-year? White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden,— Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,— And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there,— Mother of God, where are they then?... But where are the snows of yester-year? Envoi: Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Except with this for an overword,— But where are the snows of yester-year?
A BALLADE OF OLD TIME LADIES Translated by John Payne
Tell me, where, in what land of shade, Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where Are Thaìs and Archipiade, Cousins-german in beauty rare? And Echo, more than mortal fair, That when one calls by river flow, Or marish, answers out of the air? But what has become of last year’s snow? Where did the learn’d Héloïsa vade, For whose sake Abelard did not spare (Such dole for love on him was laid) Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear? And where is the queen who will’d whilere That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go Floating down Seine from the turret-stair? But what has become of last year’s snow? Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made Sweet music as if she a siren were? Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid, The good Lorrainer the English bare Captive to Rouen, and burn’d her there? Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys—lo! Where are they, virgins debonair? But what has become of last year’s snow? Envoi: Prince, you may question how they fare, This week, or liefer this year, I trow: Still shall the answer this burden bear— But what has become of last year’s snow?
BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS
Albeit the Venice girls get praise For their sweet speech and tender air, And though the old women have wise ways Of chaffering for amorous ware, Yet at my peril dare I swear, Search Rome, where God’s grace mainly tarries, Florence and Savoy, everywhere, There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris. The Naples women, as folk prattle, Are sweetly spoken and subtle enough: German girls are good at tattle, And Prussians make their boast thereof; Take Egypt for the next remove, Or that waste land the Tartar harries, Spain or Greece, for the matter of love, There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris. Breton and Swiss know nought of the matter, Gascony girls or girls of Toulouse; Two fisherwomen with a half-hour’s chatter Would shut them up by threes and twos; Calais, Lorraine, and all their crews, (Names enow the mad song marries) England and Picardy, search them and choose, There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris. Envoi: Prince, give praise to our French ladies For the sweet sound their speaking carries; ’Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is, But no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
From Clement Marot, a delightful French poet of the Sixteenth century, we give the following two extracts translated by Leigh Hunt.
A LOVE-LESSON
A sweet “No! no!” with a sweet smile beneath Becomes an honest girl,—I’d have you learn it; As for plain “Yes!” it may be said, i’ faith. Too plainly and too oft,—pray, well discern it! Not that I’d have my pleasure incomplete, Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you; But that in suffering me to take it, Sweet! I’d have you say—“No! no! I will not let you.”
MADAME D’ALBRET’S LAUGH
Yes! that fair neck, too beautiful by half, Those eyes, that voice, that bloom, all do her honour; Yet, after all, that little giddy laugh Is what, in my mind, sits the best upon her. Good God! ’twould make the very streets and ways, Through which she passes, burst into a pleasure! Did melancholy come to mar my days And kill me in the lap of too much leisure, No spell were wanting, from the dead to raise me, But only that sweet laugh wherewith she slays me.
About this time appeared the Heptameron, a series of tales of similar form and character to the Decameron of Boccaccio. This work was attributed to Margaret of Navarre, and doubtless was written by the queen with the assistance of some of her people. The tales are too long to quote.
Jehan du Pontalais wrote a clever satirical skit on the love of money.
MONEY
Who money has, well wages the campaign; Who money has, becomes of gentle strain; Who money has, to honor all accord: He is my lord. Who money has, the ladies ne’er disdain; Who money has, loud praises will attain; Who money has, in the world’s heart is stored, The flower adored. O’er all mankind he holds his conquering track— They only are condemned who money lack. Who money has, will wisdom’s credit gain; Who money has, all earth is his domain; Who money has, praise is his sure reward, Which all afford. Who money has, from nothing need refrain; Who money has, on him is favor poured; And, in a word, Who money has, need never fear attack— They only are condemned who money lack. Who money has, in every heart does reign; Who money has, all to approach are fain; Who money has, of him no fault is told, Nor harm can hold. Who money has, none does his right restrain; Who money has, can whom he will maintain; Who money has, clerk, prior, by his gold, Is straight enrolled. Who money has, all raise, none hold him back— They only are condemned who money lack.
Francois Rabelais was born in or about 1495, in Chinon, Touraine. Successively, monk, physician and scientist, he is best known as a master of humor and grotesque invention. His romance of Gargantua and Pantagruel is an extravagant, satirical criticism of the follies and vices of the period, burlesquing the current abuses of government and religion.
Unable to escape a paternal label,
An able writer in the Foreign Quarterly Review speaks of Rabelais as “an author without parallel in the history of literature: an author who is the literary parent of many authors, since without him we should probably have never known a Swift, a Sterne, a Jean Paul, or, in fact, any of the irregular humorists: an author who did not appear as a steadily shining light to the human race, but as a wild, startling meteor, predicting the independence of thought, and the downfall of the authority of ages: an author who for the union of heavy learning with the most miraculous power of imagination, is perhaps without a competitor.”
The works of Rabelais abound in learning and serious intent, but the riotous humor and flashing wit are presented with an accompaniment of repulsive coarseness intolerable to the modern mind.
This phase, however, was a part of the manners and customs of his time, and to philosophers and students Rabelais will ever be a mine of deep and recondite wisdom and thought.
Indicative of his wildly extravagant fancy are the following extracts.
OF THE ECLIPSES THIS YEAR
This year there will be so many eclipses of the sun and moon, that I fear (not unjustly) our pockets will suffer inanition, be full empty, and our feeling at a loss. Saturn will be retrograde, Venus direct, Mercury as unfixed as quicksilver. And a pack of planets won’t go as you would have them.
For this reason the crabs will go side-long, and the rope-makers backward; the little stools will get upon the benches, and the spits on the racks, and the bands on the hats; fleas will be generally black; bacon will run away from peas in lent; there won’t be a bean left in a twelfth cake, nor an ace in a flush; the dice won’t run as you wish, tho’ you cog them, and the chance that you desire will seldom come; brutes shall speak in several places; Shrovetide will have its day; one part of the world shall disguise itself to gull and chouse the other, and run about the streets like a parcel of addle-pated animals and mad devils; such a hurly-burly was never seen since the devil was a little boy; and there will be above seven and twenty irregular verbs made this year, if Priscian don’t hold them in. If God don’t help us, we shall have our hands and hearts full.
OF THE DISEASES THIS YEAR
This year the stone-blind shall see but very little; the deaf shall hear but scurvily; the dumb shan’t speak very plain; the rich shall be somewhat in a better case than the poor, and the healthy than the sick. Whole flocks, herds, and droves of sheep, swine and oxen; cocks and hens, ducks and drakes, geese and ganders, shall go to pot; but the mortality will not be altogether so great among apes, monkeys, baboons and dromedaries. As for old age, ’twill be incurable this year, because of the years past. Those who are sick of the pleurisy will feel a plaguy stitch in their sides; catarrhs this year shall distill from the brain on the lower parts; sore eyes will by no means help the sight; ears shall be at least as scarce and short in Gascony, and among knights of the post, as ever; and a most horrid and dreadful, virulent, malignant, catching, perverse and odious malady, shall be almost epidemical, insomuch that many shall run mad upon it, not knowing what nails to drive to keep the wolf from the door, very often plotting, contriving, cudgeling and puzzling their weak shallow brains, and syllogizing and prying up and down for the philosopher’s stone, tho’ they only get Midas’s lugs by the bargain. I quake for very fear when I think on’t; for I assure you, few will escape this disease, which Averroes calls lack of money, and by consequence of the last year’s comet, and Saturn’s retrogradation, there will be a horrid clutter between the cats and the rats, hounds and hares, hawks and ducks, and eke between the monks and eggs.
OF THE FRUITS OF THE EARTH THIS YEAR
I find by the calculations of Albumazar in his book of the great conjunction, and elsewhere, that this will be a plentiful year of all manner of good things to those who have enough; but your hops of Picardy will go near to fare the worse for the cold. As for oats they’ll be a great help to horses. I dare say, there won’t be much more bacon than swine. Pisces having the ascendant, ’twill be a mighty year for muscles, cockles, and periwinkles. Mercury somewhat threatens our parsly-beds, yet parsly will be to be had for money. Hemp will grow faster than the children of this age, and some will find there’s but too much on’t. There will be a very few bon-chretiens, but choak-pears in abundance. As for corn, wine, fruit and herbs, there never was such plenty as will be now, if poor folks may have their wish.