Satiro-mastix. (continued 2)

Tuc. Right, true, guilty, I remember’t now; for when I spake a good word to the Widdow for thee my young Sampson——

Sir Vau. For fiue pounds you cheating scab, for 5. pounds, not for me.

Tuc. For thee ô Cæsar, for thee I tooke vp fiue pounds in golde, that lay in her lap, & said Ide giue it thee as a token from her: I did it but to smell out how she stood affected to thee, to feele her; I, and I know what she said, I know how I carried away the golde.

Sir Vau. By Sesu, I ha not the mercy to fall vpon him now: M. Tucky, did widdow Miniuers part quietly from her golde, because you lyed, and said it was for me?

Tuc. Quietly, in peace, without grumbling; made no noise, I know how I tempted her in thy behalfe; my little Trangdo.

Sir Vau. Capten Tucky, I will pay back her 5. £. (vnles you be damn’d in lyes) & hold you, I pray you pocket vp this; by the crosse a this sword & dagger, Capten you shall take it.

Tuc. Dost sweare by daggers? nay then Ile put vp more at thy hands then this.

Flash. Is the fray done sir?

Sir Vau. Done Peter, put vp your smeeter.

Tuc. Come hether, my soure-fac’d Poet; fling away that beard-brush Bubo, casheere him and harke: Knight attend: So, that raw-head and bloudy-bones Sir Adam, has fee’d another brat (of those nine common wenches) to defend baldnes and to raile against haire: he’ll haue a fling at thee, my noble Cock-Sparrow.

Sir Vau. At mee? will hee fling the cudgels of his witte at mee?

Tuc. And at thy button-cap too; but come, Ile be your leader, you shall stand, heare all, & not be seene; cast off that blew coate, away with that flawne, and follow, come.

Exit.

Hor. Bubo, we follow Captaine.

Sir Va. Peter, leaue comming behinde me, I pray any longer, for you and I must part Peter.

Flash. Sounds Sir, I hope you will not serue me so, to turne me away in this case.

Sir Vau. Turne you into a fooles coate; I meane I will go solus, or in solitaries alone; ounds y-are best giue better words, or Ile turne you away indeed; where is Capten Tucky? come Horace; get you home Peter.

Flash. Ile home to your cost, and I can get into the Wine-Seller.

Exit.

Hor. Remember where to meete mee.

Asin. Yes Ile meete; Tucca should ha found I dare meete.

Exit.

Ho. Dare defend baldnes, which our conquering Muse Has beaten downe so flat? Well, we will goe, And see what weapons theyr weake wittes doe bring; If sharpe, we’ll spred a large and nobler wing; Tucca, heere lyes thy Peace: warre roares agen; My Swoord shall neuer cutte thee, but my pen.

Exit.

Enter Sir Adam, Crispinus, Fannius, Blunt, Miniuer, Petula, Philocalia and Dicace.

Ladies. Thankes good Sir Adam.

Sir Ada. Welcome red-cheekt Ladies, And welcome comely Widdow; Gentlemen, Now that our sorry banquet is put by, From stealing more sweet kisses from your lips Walke in my garden: Ladyes let your eyes Shed life into these flowers by their bright beames, Sit, Sit, heere’s a large bower, heere all may heare, Now good Crispinus let your praize begin There, where it left off Baldnes.

Cris. I shall winne No praise, by praising that, which to depraue, All tongues are readie, and which none would haue.

Blu. To prooue that best, by strong and armed reason, Whose part reason feares to take, cannot but prooue, Your wit’s fine temper, and from these win loue.

Min. I promise you has almost conuerted me, I pray bring forward your bald reasons M. Poet.

Cri. Mistris you giue my Reasons proper names, For Arguments (like Children) should be like, The subiect that begets them; I must striue To crowne Bald heades, therefore must baldlie thriue; But be it as it can: To what before, Went arm’d at table, this force bring I more, If a Bare head (being like a dead-mans scull) Should beare vp no praise els but this, it sets Our end before our eyes; should I dispaire, From giuing Baldnes higher place then haire?

Mini. Nay perdie, haire has the higher place.

Cri. The goodliest & most glorious strange-built wonder, Which that great Architect hath made, is heauen; For there he keepes his Court, It is his Kingdome, That’s his best Master-piece; yet tis the roofe, And Seeling of the world: that may be cal’d The head or crowne of Earth, and yet that’s balde, All creatures in it balde; the louely Sunne, Has a face sleeke as golde; the full-cheekt Moone, As bright and smooth as siluer: nothing there Weares dangling lockes, but sometime blazing Starres, Whose flaming curles, set realmes on fire with warres. Descend more low; looke through mans fiue-folde sence, Of all, the Eye, beares greatest eminence; And yet that’s balde, the haires that like a lace, Are sticht vnto the liddes, borrow those formes, Like Pent-houses to saue the eyes from stormes.

Sir Adam. Right, well said.

Cris. A head and face ore-growne with Shaggie drosse, O, tis an Orient pearle hid all in Mosse, But when the head’s all naked and vncrown’d, It is the worlds Globe, euen, smooth and round; Baldnes is natures But, at which our life, Shootes her last Arrow: what man euer lead His age out with a staffe, but had a head Bare and vncouer’d? hee whose yeares doe rise, To their full height, yet not balde, is not wise. The Head is Wisedomes house, Haire but the thatch, Haire? It’s the basest stubble; in scorne of it, This Prouerbe sprung, he has more haire then wit: Marke you not in derision how we call, A head growne thicke with haire, Bush-naturall?

Min. By your leaue (Master Poet) but that Bush-naturall, is one a the trimmest, and most intanglingst beautie in a woman.

Cris. Right, but beleeue this (pardon me most faire) You would haue much more wit, had you lesse haire: I could more wearie you to tell the proofes, (As they passe by) which fight on Baldnes side, Then were you taskt to number on a head, The haires: I know not how your thoughts are lead, On this strong Tower shall my opinion rest, Heades thicke of haire are goode, but balde the best.

Whilst this Paradox is in speaking, Tucca Enters with Sir Vaughan at one doore, and secretly placeth him: then Exit and brings in Horace muffled, placing him: Tucca sits among them.

Tuc. Th’art within a haire of it, my sweete Wit whether wilt thou? my delicate Poeticall Furie, th’ ast hit it to a haire.

Sir Vaughan steps out.

Sir Vau. By your fauour Master Tucky, his balde reasons are wide aboue two hayres, I besees you pardon mee Ladies, that I thrust in so malepartly among you, for I did but mych heere, and see how this cruell Poet did handle bald heades.

Sir Ad. He gaue them but their due Sir Vaughan; Widdow did he not?

Mini. By my faith he made more of a balde head, than euer I shall be able: he gaue them their due truely.

Sir Vaugh. Nay vds bloud, their due is to bee a the right haire as I am, and that was not in his fingers to giue, but in God a Mighties: Well, I will hyre that humorous and fantasticall Poet Master Horace, to breake your balde pate Sir Adam.

Sir Ada. Breake my balde pate?

Tuc. Dost heare my worshipfull block-head?

Sir Vaug. Patience Captaine Tucky, let me absolue him; I meane he shal pricke, pricke your head or sconce a little with his goose-quils, for he shal make another Thalimum, or crosse-stickes, or some Polinoddyes, with a fewe Nappy-grams in them, that shall lift vp haire, and set it an end, with his learned and harty commendations.

Hor. This is excellent, all will come out now.

Dica. That same Horace me thinkes has the most vngodly face, by my Fan; it lookes for all the world, like a rotten russet Apple, when tis bruiz’d: Its better then a spoonefull of Sinamon water next my heart, for me to heare him speake; hee soundes it so i’ th nose, and talkes and randes for all the world, like the poore fellow vnder Ludgate: oh fye vpon him.

Min. By my troth sweet Ladies, it’s Cake and pudding to me, to see his face make faces, when hee reades his Songs and Sonnets.

Hor. Ile face some of you for this, when you shall not budge.

Tuc. Its the stinckingst dung-farmer—foh vpon him.

Sir Vau. Foh? oundes you make him vrse than olde herring: foh? by Sesu I thinke he’s as tidy, and as tall a Poet as euer drew out a long verse.

Tuc. The best verse that euer I knew him hacke out, was his white necke-verse: noble Ap Rees thou wouldst scorne to laye thy lippes to his commendations, and thou smeldst him out as I doe, hee calles thee the burning Knight of the Salamander.

Sir Vaugh. Right, Peter is my Salamander; what of him? but Peter is neuer burnt: howe now? so, goe too now.

Tucca. And sayes because thou Clipst the Kinges English.

Sir Vaughan. Oundes mee? that’s treason: clip? horrible treasons, Sesu holde my handes; clip? he baites mouse-trappes for my life.

Tucca. Right little Twinckler, right: hee sayes because thou speak’st no better, thou canst not keepe a good tongue in thy head.

Sir Vaug. By God tis the best tongue, I can buy for loue or money.

Tuc. He shootes at thee too Adam Bell, and his arrowes stickes heere; he calles thee bald-pate.

Sir Vaugh. Oundes make him prooue these intollerabilities.

Tuc. And askes who shall carry the vineger-bottle? & then he rimes too’t, and sayes Prickshaft: nay Miniuer hee cromples thy Cap too; and——

Cri. Come Tucca, come, no more; the man’s wel knowne, thou needst not paint him, whom does he not wrong?

Tuc. Mary himselfe, the vglie Pope Boniface, pardons himselfe, and therefore my iudgement is, that presently he bee had from hence to his place of execution, and there bee Stab’d, Stab’d, Stab’d.

He stabs at him.

Hor. Oh gentlemen, I am slaine, oh slaue art hyr’d to murder me, to murder me, to murder me?

Ladies. Oh God!

Sir Vaugh. Ounds Capten, you haue put all Poetrie to the dint of sword, blow winde about him: Ladies for our Lordes sake you that haue smocks, teare off peeces, to shoote through his oundes: Is he dead and buried? is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, rub, rub, rub.

Tu. If he be not dead, looke heere; I ha the Stab and pippin for him: if I had kil’d him, I could ha pleas’d the great foole with an Apple.

Cris. How now? be well good Horace, heer’s no wound; Y’are slaine by your owne feares; how dost thou man? Come, put thy heart into his place againe; Thy out-side’s neither peir’st, nor In-side slaine.

Sir Vau. I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking.

Ho. Gentlemen, I am blacke and blewe the breadth of a groate.

Tuc. Breadth of a groate? there’s a teston, hide thy infirmities, my scuruy Lazarus; doe, hide it, least it prooue a scab in time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou knowst I cannot be sharpe set against thee: looke, feele (my light-vptailes all) feele my weapon.

Mi. O most pittifull as blunt as my great thumbe.

Sir Vau. By Sesu, as blunt as a Welsh bag-pudding.

Tuc. As blunt as the top of Poules; tis not like thy Aloe, Cicatrine tongue, bitter: no, tis no stabber, but like thy goodly and glorious nose, blunt, blunt, blunt: dost roare bulchin? dost roare? th’ ast a good rounciuall voice to cry Lanthorne & Candlelight.

Sir Va. Two vrds Horace about your eares: how chance it passes, that you bid God boygh to an honest trade of building Symneys, and laying downe Brickes, for a worse handicraftnes, to make nothing but railes; your Muse leanes vpon nothing but filthy rotten railes, such as stand on Poules head, how chance?

Hor. Sir Vaughan.

Sir Va. You lye sir varlet sir villaine, I am sir Salamanders, ounds, is my man Master Peter Salamanders face as vrse as mine? Sentlemen, all and Ladies, and you say once or twice Amen, I will lap this little Silde, this Booby in his blankets agen.

Omnes. Agree’d, agree’d.

Tuc. A blanket, these crackt Venice glasses shall fill him out, they shall tosse him, holde fast wag-tailes: so, come, in, take this bandy with the racket of patience, why when? dost stampe mad Tamberlaine, dost stampe? thou thinkst th’ast Morter vnder thy feete, dost?

Ladies. Come, a bandy ho.

Hor. O holde most sacred beauties.

Sir Vau. Hold, silence, the puppet-teacher speakes.

Ho. Sir Vaughan, noble Capten, Gentlemen, Crispinus, deare Demetrius ô redeeme me, Out of this infamous—— by God by Iesu——

Cri. Nay, sweare not so good Horace, now these Ladies, Are made your executioners: prepare, To suffer like a gallant, not a coward; Ile trie t’ vnloose, their hands, impossible. Nay, womens vengeance are implacable.

Hor. Why, would you make me thus the ball of scorne?

Tuc. Ile tell thee why, because th’ ast entred Actions of assault and battery, against a companie of honourable and worshipfull Fathers of the law: you wrangling rascall, law is one of the pillers ath land, and if thou beest bound too’t (as I hope thou shalt bee) thou’t prooue a skip-Jacke, thou’t be whipt. Ile tell thee why, because thy sputtering chappes yelpe, that Arrogance, and Impudence, and Ignoraunce, are the essentiall parts of a Courtier.

Sir Vau. You remember Horace, they will puncke, and pincke, and pumpe you, and they catch you by the coxcombe: on I pray, one lash, a little more.

Tuc. Ile tell thee why, because thou cryest ptrooh at worshipfull Cittizens, and cal’st them Flat-caps, Cuckolds, and banckrupts, and modest and vertuous wiues punckes & cockatrices. Ile tell thee why, because th’ast arraigned two Poets against all lawe and conscience; and not content with that, hast turn’d them amongst a company of horrible blacke Fryers.

Sir Vau. The same hand still, it is your owne another day, M. Horace, admonitions is good meate.

Tuc. Thou art the true arraign’d Poet, and shouldst haue been hang’d, but for one of these part-takers, these charitable Copperlac’d Christians, that fetcht thee out of Purgatory, (Players I meane) Theaterians pouch-mouth, Stage-walkers; for this Poet, for this, thou must lye with these foure wenches, in that blancket, for this——

Hor. What could I doe, out of a iust reuenge, But bring them to the Stage? they enuy me because I holde more worthy company.

Deme. Good Horace, no; my cheekes doe blush for thine, As often as thou speakst so, where one true And nobly-vertuous spirit, for thy best part Loues thee, I wish one ten, euen from my heart. I make account I put vp as deepe share In any good mans loue, which thy worth earnes, As thou thy selfe; we enuy not to see, Thy friends with Bayes to crowne thy Poesie. No, heere the gall lyes, we that know what stuffe Thy verie heart is made of; know the stalke On which thy learning growes, and can giue life To thy (once dying) basenes; yet must we Dance Antickes on your Paper.

Hor. Fannius.

Cri. This makes vs angry, but not enuious, No, were thy warpt soule, put in a new molde, Ide weare thee as a Iewell set in golde.

Sir Vau. And Iewels Master Horace, must be hang’d you know.

Tuc. Good Pagans, well said, they haue sowed vp that broken seame-rent lye of thine, that Demetrius is out at Elbowes, and Crispinus is falne out with Sattin heere, they haue; but bloate-herring dost heare?

Hor. Yes honour’d Captaine, I haue eares at will.

Tuc. Ist not better be out at Elbowes, then to bee a bond-slaue, and to goe all in Parchment as thou dost?

Horace. Parchment Captaine? tis Perpetuana I assure you.

Tuc. My Perpetuall pantaloone true, but tis waxt ouer; th’art made out of Wax; thou must answere for this one day; thy Muse is a hagler, and weares cloathes vpon best-be-trust: th’art great in some bodies books for this, thou knowst where; thou wouldst bee out at Elbowes, and out at heeles too, but that thou layest about thee with a Bill for this, a Bill—

Ho. I confesse Capten, I followed this suite hard.

Tuc. I know thou didst, and therefore whilst we haue Hiren heere, speake my little dish-washers, a verdit Pisse-kitchins.

Omnes. Blancket.

Sir Vau. Holde I pray, holde, by Sesu I haue put vpon my heade, a fine deuice, to make you laugh, tis not your fooles Cap Master Horace, which you couer’d your Poetasters in, but a fine tricke, ha, ha, is iumbling in my braine.

Tuc. Ile beate out thy braines, my whorson hansome dwarfe, but ile haue it out of thee.

Omnes. What is it good Sir Vaughan?

Sir Vau. To conclude, tis after this manners, because Ma. Horace is ambition, and does conspire to bee more hye and tall, as God a mightie made him, wee’ll carry his terrible person to Court, and there before his Masestie Dub, or what you call it, dip his Muse in some licour, and christen him, or dye him, into collours of a Poet.

Omnes. Excellent.

Tuc. Super Super-excellent Reuellers goe, proceede you Masters of Arte in kissing these wenches, and in daunces, bring you the quiuering Bride to Court, in a Maske, come Crumboll, thou shalt Mum with vs; come, dogge mee skneakes-bill.

Hor. O thou my Muse!

Sir Vau. Call vpon God a mighty, and no Muses, your Muse I warrant is otherwise occupied, there is no dealing with your Muse now, therefore I pray marse, marse, marse, oundes your Moose?

Exeunt.

Cri. We shal haue sport to see them; come bright beauties, The Sunne stoops low, and whispers in our eares, To hasten on our Maske, let’s crowne this night, With choise composed wreathes of sweet delight.

Exeunt.

Enter Terrill and Cælestine sadly, Sir Quintilian stirring and mingling a cup of wine.

Ter. O Night, that Dyes the Firmament in blacke, And like a cloth of cloudes doth stretch thy limbes; Vpon the windy Tenters of the Ayre: O thou that hang’st vpon the backe of Day, Like a long mourning gowne: thou that art made Without an eye, because thou shouldst not see A Louers Reuels: nor participate The Bride-groomes heauen; ô heauen, to me a hell: I haue a hell in heauen, a blessed cursse; All other Brides-groomes long for Night, and taxe The Day of lazie slouth; call Time a Cripple, And say the houres limpe after him: but I Wish Night for euer banisht from the skie, Or that the Day would neuer sleepe: or Time, Were in a swound; and all his little Houres, Could neuer lift him vp with their poore powers.

Enter Cælestine.

But backward runnes the course of my delight; The day hath turn’d his backe, and it is night; This night will make vs odde; day made vs eeuen, All else are damb’d in hel, but I in heauen.

Cæ. Let loose thy oath, so shall we still be eeuen.

Ter. Then am I damb’d in hell, and not in heauen.

Cæl. Must I then goe? tis easie to say no, Must is the King himselfe, and I must goe; Shall I then goe? that word is thine; I shall, Is thy commaund: I goe because I shall; Will I then goe? I aske my selfe; ô ill, King, saies I must; you, I shall; I, I will.

Ter. Had I not sworne. Cæl. Why didst thou sweare?

Ter. The King Sat heauvy on my resolution, Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath.

Cæl. An oath? why, what’s an oath? tis but the smoake, Of flame & bloud; the blister of the spirit, Which rizeth from the Steame of rage, the bubble That shootes vp to the tongue, and scaldes the voice, (For oathes are burning words) thou swor’st but one, Tis frozen long agoe: if one be numbred, What Countrimen are they? where doe they dwell, That speake naught else but oathes?

Ter. They’re men of hell. An oath? why tis the trafficke of the soule, Tis law within a man; the seale of faith, The bond of euery conscience; vnto whom, We set our thoughts like hands: yea, such a one I swore, and to the King: A King containes A thousand thousand; when I swore to him, I swore to them; the very haires that guard His head, will rise vp like sharpe witnesses Against my faith and loyalty: his eye Would straight condemne me: argue oathes no more, My oath is high, for to the King I swore.

Enter Sir Quintilian with the cup.

Cæ. Must I betray my Chastity? So long Cleane from the treason of rebelling lust; O husband! O my Father! if poore I, Must not liue chast, then let me chastly dye.

S. qui. I, heer’s a charme shall keep thee chaste, come, come, Olde Time hath left vs but an houre to play Our parts; begin the Sceane, who shall speake first? Oh, I, I play the King, and Kings speake first; Daughter stand thou heere, thou Sonne Terrill there, O thou standst well, thou lean’st against a poast, (For thou’t be posted off I warrant thee:) The King will hang a horne about thy necke, And make a poast of thee; you stand well both, We neede no Prologue, the King entring first, He’s a most gracious Prologue: mary then For the Catastrophe, or Epilogue, Ther’s one in cloth of Siluer, which no doubt, Will please the hearers well, when he steps out; His mouth is fil’d with words: see where he stands; He’ll make them clap their eyes besides their hands. But to my part; suppose who enters now, A King, whose eyes are set in Siluer; one That blusheth golde, speakes Musicke, dancing walkes, Now gathers neerer takes thee by the hand, When straight thou thinkst, the very Orbe of heauen, Mooues round about thy fingers, then he speakes, Thus—thus—I know not how.

Cæl. Nor I to answer him.

Sir Quint. No girle? knowst thou not how to answer him? Why then the field is lost, and he rides home, Like a great conquerour; not answer him? Out of thy part already? foylde the Sceane? Disranckt the lynes? disarm’d the action?

Ter. Yes yes, true chastity is tongu’d so weake, Tis ouer-come ere it know how to speake.

Sir qui. Come, come, thou happy close of euery wrong, Tis thou that canst dissolue the hardest doubt; Tis time for thee to speake, we are all out. Daughter, and you the man whom I call Sonne, I must confesse I made a deede of gift; To heauen and you, and gaue my childe to both: When on my blessing I did charme her soule, In the white circle of true Chastity, Still to run true, till death: now Sir if not, She forfeyts my rich blessing, and is Fin’d With an eternall cursse; then I tell you, She shall dye now, now whilst her soule is true.

Ter. Dye?

Cæl. I, I am deaths eccho.

Sir quin. O my Sonne, I am her Father; euery teare I shed, Is threescore ten yeere olde; I weepe and smile Two kinde of teares: I weepe that she must dye, I smile that she must dye a Virgin: thus We ioyfull men mocke teares, and teares mocke vs.

Ter. What speakes that cup?

Sir quin. White wine and poison.

Ter. Oh: That very name of poison, poisons me; Thou Winter of a man, thou walking graue, Whose life is like a dying Taper: how Canst thou define a Louers labouring thoughts? What Sent hast thou but death? what taste but earth? The breath that purles from thee, is like the Steame Of a new-open’d vault: I know thy drift, Because thou art trauelling to the land of Graues, Thou couetst company, and hether bringst, A health of poison to pledge death: a poison For this sweete spring; this Element is mine, This is the Ayre I breath; corrupt it not; This heauen is mine, I bought it with my soule, Of him that selles a heauen, to buy a soule.

Sir quin. Well, let her goe; she’s thine thou cal’st her thine, Thy Element, the Ayre thou breath’st; thou knowst The Ayre thou breath’st is common, make her so: Perhaps thou’t say; none but the King shall weare Thy night-gowne, she that laps thee warme with loue; And that Kings are not common: Then to shew, By consequence he cannot make her so, Indeede she may promoote her shame and thine, And with your shames, speake a good word for mine: The King shining so cleare, and we so dim, Our darke disgraces will be seene through him. Imagine her the cup of thy moist life, What man would pledge a King in his owne wife?

Ter. She dyes: that sentence poisons her: O life! What slaue would pledge a King in his owne wife?

Cæl. Welcome, ô poyson, phisicke against lust, Thou holesome medicine to a constant bloud; Thou rare Apothecary that canst keepe, My chastity preseru’d, within this boxe; Of tempting dust, this painted earthen pot, That stands vpon the stall of the white soule, To set the shop out like a flatterer, To draw the customers of Sinne: come, come, Thou art no poison, but a dyet-drinke, To moderate my bloud: White-innocent Wine, Art thou made guilty of my death? oh no, For thou thy selfe art poison’d, take me hence, For Innocence, shall murder Innocence.

Drinkes.

Ter. Holde, holde, thou shalt not dye, my Bride, my wife, O stop that speedy messenger of death; O let him not run downe that narrow path, Which leades vnto thy heart; nor carry newes To thy remoouing soule, that thou must dye.

Cæl. Tis done already, the Spirituall Court, Is breaking vp; all Offices discharg’d, My soule remooues from this weake standing house, Of fraile mortallity; Deare Father, blesse Me now and euer: Dearer Man, farewell, I ioyntly take my leaue of thee and life, Goe, tell the King thou hast a constant wife.

Ter. I had a constant wife, Ile tell the King; Vntill the King—what dost thou smile? art thou A Father?

Sir quin. Yea, smiles on my cheekes arise, To see how sweetly a true virgin dyes.

Enter Blunt, Crispinus, Fannius, Philocalia, Dicache, Petula, lights before them.

Cris. Sir Walter Terrill, gallants are all ready?

Ter. All ready.

Dem. Well said, come, come, wher’s the Bride?

Ter. She’s going to forbid the Banes agen. She’ll dye a maide: and see, she keeps her oath.

All the men. Faire Cælestine!

Ladies. The Bride!

Ter. She that was faire, Whom I cal’d faire and Cælestine.

Omnes. Dead!

Sir quin. Dead, sh’s deathes Bride, he hath her maidenhead.

Cri. Sir Walter Terrill.

Omnes. Tell vs how.

Ter. All cease, The subiect that we treate of now is Peace, If you demaund how: I can tell: if why, Aske the King that; he was the cause, not I. Let it suffice, she’s dead, she kept her vow, Aske the King why, and then Ile tell you how: Nay giue your Reuels life, tho she be gone, To Court with all your preparation; Leade on, and leade her on; if any aske The mistery, say death presents a maske, Ring peales of Musicke, you are Louers belles, The losse of one heauen, brings a thousand hels.

Exeunt.

Enter an arm’d Sewer, after him the seruice of a Banquet: the King at another doore meetes them, they Exeunt.

Kin. Why so, euen thus the Mercury of Heauen, Vshers th’ ambrosiate banquet of the Gods, When a long traine of Angels in a ranke, Serue the first course, and bow their Christall knees, Before the Siluer table; where Ioues page Sweet Ganimed filles Nectar: when the Gods Drinke healthes to Kings, they pledge them; none but Kings Dare pledge the Gods; none but Gods drinke to Kings. Men of our house are we prepar’d?

Enter Seruants.

Ser. My Leige, All waite the presence of the Bride.

Kin. The Bride? Yea, euery senceles thing, which she beholdes, Will looke on her agen, her eyes reflection, Will make the walles all eyes, with her perfection: Obserue me now, because of Maskes and Reuels, And many nuptiall ceremonies: Marke, This I create the Presence, heere the State, Our Kingdomes seate, shall sit in honours Pride, Like pleasures Queene, there will I place the Bride: Be gone, be speedy, let me see it done.

Exeunt.

A King in Loue, is Steward to himselfe, And neuer scornes the office, my selfe buy, All glances from the Market of her eye.

Soft Musicke, chaire is set vnder a Canopie.

Kin. Sound Musicke, thou sweet suiter to the ayre, Now wooe the ayre agen, this is the houre, Writ in the Calender of time, this houre, Musicke shall spend, the next and next the Bride; Her tongue will read the Musicke-Lecture: Wat I loue thee Wat, because thou art not wise; Not deep-read in the volume of a man, Thou neuer sawst a thought, poore soule thou thinkst, The heart and tongue is cut out of one peece, But th’art deceau’d, the world hath a false light, Fooles thinke tis day, when wise men know tis night.

Enter Sir Quintilian.

Sir quint. My Leige, they’re come, a maske of gallants.

King. Now——the spirit of Loue vshers my bloud.

Sir quin. They come. The Watch-word in a Maske is the bolde Drum.

Enter Blunt, Crispinus, Demetrius, Philocalia, Petula, Dicache, all maskt, two and two with lights like maskers: Cælestine in a chaire.

Ter. All pleasures guard my King, I heere present, My oath vpon the knee of duety: knees Are made for Kings, they are the subiects Fees.

King. Wat Terrill, th’art ill suited, ill made vp, In Sable collours, like a night peece dyed, Com’st thou the Prologue of a Maske in blacke; Thy body is ill shapt; a Bride-groome too Looke how the day is drest in Siluer cloth, Laide round about with golden Sunne-beames: so (As white as heauen) should a fresh Bride-groome goe. What? Cælestine the Bride, in the same taske? Nay then I see ther’s mistery in this maske, Prethee resolue me Wat?

Ter. My gracious Lord, That part is hers, she actes it; onely I Present the Prologue, she the misterie.

Kin. Come Bride, the Sceane of blushing entred first, Your cheekes are setled now, and past the worst;

Vnmasks her.

A mistery? oh none plaies heere but death, This is deaths motion, motionles? speake you, Flatter no longer; thou her Bride-groome; thou Her Father speake.

Sir quint. Dead.

Ter. Dead.

Kin. How?

Sir quin. Poyson’d.

King. And poyson’d? What villaine durst blaspheme her beauties, or Prophane the cleare religion of her eyes?

Ter. Now King I enter, now the Sceane is mine, My tongue is tipt with poison; know who speakes, And looke into my thoughts; I blush not King, To call thee Tyrant: death hath set my face, And made my bloud bolde; heare me spirits of men, And place your eares vpon your hearts; the day (The fellow to this night) saw her and me, Shake hands together: for the booke of heauen, Made vs eternall friends: thus, Man and Wife, This man of men (the King) what are not kings? Was my chiefe guest, my royall guest, his Grace Grac’d all the Table, and did well become The vpper end, where sate my Bride: in briefe, He tainted her chaste eares; she yet vnknowne, His breath was treason, tho his words were none. Treason to her and me, he dar’d me then, (Vnder the couert of a flattering smile,) To bring her where she is, not as she is, Aliue for lust, not dead for (Chastity: The resolution of my soule, out-dar’d,) I swore and taxt my faith with a sad oath; Which I maintaine; heere take her, she was mine, When she was liuing, but now dead, she’s thine.

Kin. Doe not confound me quite; for mine owne guilt, Speakes more within me then thy tongue containes; Thy sorrow is my shame: yet heerein springs, Ioy out of sorrow, boldnes out of shame; For I by this haue found, once in my life, A faithfull subiect, thou a constant wife.

Cæl. A constant wife.

Kin. Am I confounded twice? Blasted with wonder.

Ter. O delude we not, Thou art too true to liue agen, too faire To be my Cælestine, too constant farre To be a woman.

Cæl. Not to be thy wife, But first I pleade my duetie, and salute The world agen.

Sir quin. My King, my Sonne, know all, I am an Actor in this misterie, And beare the chiefest part. The Father I, Twas I that ministred to her chaste bloud, A true somniferous potion, which did steale Her thoughts to sleepe, and flattered her with death: I cal’d it a quick poison’d drug, to trie The Bride-groomes loue, and the Brides constancie. He in the passion of his loue did fight, A combat with affection; so did both, She for the poison stroue, he for his oath: Thus like a happie Father, I haue won, A constant Daughter, and a louing Sonne.

Kin. Mirrour of Maidens, wonder of thy name, I giue thee that art giuen, pure, chaste, the same Heere Wat: I would not part (for the worlds pride) So true a Bride-groome, and so chaste a Bride.

Cri. My Leige, to wed a Comicall euent, To presupposed tragicke Argument: Vouchsafe to exercise your eyes, and see A humorous dreadfull Poet take degree.

Kin. Dreadfull in his proportion or his pen?

Cris. In both, he calles himselfe the whip of men.

Kin. If a cleare merrit stand vpon his praise, Reach him a Poets Crowne (the honour’d Bayes) But if he claime it, wanting right thereto, (As many bastard Sonnes of Poesie doe) Race downe his vsurpation to the ground. True Poets are with Arte and Nature Crown’d. But in what molde so ere this man bee cast; We make him thine Crispinus, wit and iudgement, Shine in thy numbers, and thy soule I know, Will not goe arm’d in passion gainst thy foe: Therefore be thou our selfe; whilst our selfe sit, But as spectator of this Sceane of wit.

Cri. Thankes royall Lord, for these high honors done, To me vnworthie, my mindes brightest fires Shall all consume them selues, in purest flame, On the Alter of your deare eternall name.

Kin. Not vnder vs, but next vs take thy Seate, »Artes nourished by Kings make Kings more great, Vse thy Authority.

Cris. Demetrius. Call in that selfe-creating Horace, bring Him and his shaddow foorth.

Dem. Both shall appeare, »No black-eyed star must sticke in vertues Spheare.

Enter Sir Vaughan.

Sir Va. Ounds did you see him, I pray let all his Masesties most excellent dogs, be set at liberties, and haue their freedoms to smell him out.

Dem. Smell whom?

Sir Vaugh. Whom? The Composer, the Prince of Poets, Horace, Horace, he’s departed: in Gods name and the Kinges I sarge you to ring it out from all our eares, for Horaces bodie is departed: Master hue and crie shall——God blesse King Williams, I crie you mercy and aske forgiuenes, for mine eyes did not finde in their hearts to looke vppon your Masestie.

Kin. What news with thee Sir Vaughan?

Sir Vau. Newes? God tis as vrse newes as I can desire to bring about mee: our vnhansome-fac’d Poet does play at bo-peepes with your Grace, and cryes all-hidde as boyes doe.

Officers. Stand by, roome there, backe, roome for the Poet.

Sir Va. He’s reprehended and taken, by Sesu I reioyce very neere as much as if I had discouer’d a New-found Land, or the North and East Indies.

Enter Tucca, his boy after him with two pictures vnder his cloake, and a wreath of nettles: Horace and Bubo pul’d in by th’ hornes bound both like Satyres, Sir Adam following, Mistris Miniuer with him, wearing Tuccaes chaine.

Tuc. So, tug, tug, pull the mad Bull in by’th hornes: So, baite one at that stake my place-mouth yelpers, and one at that stake Gurnets-head.

King. What busie fellow’s this?

Tuc. Saue thee, my most gracious King a Harts saue thee, all hats and caps are thine, and therefore I vaile: for but to thee great Sultane Soliman, I scorne to be thus put off or to deliuer vp this sconce I wud.

Kin. Sir Vaughan, what’s this iolly Captaines name?

Sir Va. Has a very sufficient name, and is a man has done God and his Country as good and as hot Seruice (in conquering this vile Monster-Poet) as euer did S. George his horse-backe about the Dragon.

Tuc. I sweate for’t, but Tawsoone, holde thy tongue, Mon Dieu, if thou’t praise mee, doo’t behinde my backe: I am my weighty Soueraigne one of thy graines, thy valliant vassaile; aske not what I am, but read, turne ouer, vnclaspe thy Chronicles: there thou shalt finde Buffe-Ierkin; there read my points of war; I am one a thy Mandilian-Leaders; one that enters into thy royall bands for thee; Pantilius Tucca; one of thy Kingdomes chiefest quarrellers; one a thy most faithfull—fy—fy—fy——

Sir Vau. Drunkerds I holde my life.

Tuc. No whirligig, one of his faithfull fighters; thy drawer ô royall Tamor Cham.

Sir Vau. Goe too, I pray Captaine Tucca, giue vs all leaue to doe our busines before the King.

Tuc. With all my heart, shi, shi, shi shake that Beare-whelp when thou wut.

Sir Vau. Horace and Bubo, pray send an answere into his Masesties eares, why you goe thus in Ouids Morter-Morphesis and strange fashions of apparrell.

Tuc. Cur why?

Asini. My Lords, I was drawne into this beastly suite by head and shoulders onely for loue I bare to my Ningle.

Tuc. Speake Ningle, thy mouth’s next, belch out, belch, why——

Hor. I did it to retyre me from the world; And turne my Muse into a Timonist, Loathing the general Leprozie of Sinne, Which like a plague runs through the soules of men: I did it but to——

Tu. But to bite euery Motley-head vice by’th nose, you did it Ningle to play the Bug-beare Satyre, & make a Campe royall of fashion-mongers quake at your paper Bullets; you Nastie Tortois, you and your Itchy Poetry breake out like Christmas, but once a yeare, and then you keepe a Reuelling, & Araigning, & a Scratching of mens faces, as tho you were Tyber the long-tail’d Prince of Rattes, doe you?

Cri. Horace.

Sir Vaughan. Silence, pray let all vrdes be strangled, or held fast betweene your teeth.

Cri. Vnder controule of my dreade Soueraigne, We are thy Iudges; thou that didst Arraigne, Art now prepar’d for condemnation; Should I but bid thy Muse stand to the Barre, Thy selfe against her wouldst giue euidence: For flat rebellion gainst the Sacred lawes Of diuine Poesie: heerein most she mist, Thy pride and scorne made her turne Saterist, And not her loue to vertue (as thou Preachest) Or should we minister strong pilles to thee: What lumpes of hard and indigested stuffe, Of bitter Satirisme, of Arrogance, Of Selfe-loue, of Detraction, of a blacke And stinking Insolence should we fetch vp? But none of these, we giue thee what’s more fit, With stinging nettles Crowne his stinging wit.

Tuc. Wel said my Poeticall huckster, now he’s in thy handling rate him, doe rate him well.

Hor. O I beseech your Maiesty, rather then thus to be netled, Ile ha my Satyres coate pull’d ouer mine eares, and bee turn’d out a the nine Muses Seruice.

Asin. And I too, let mee be put to my shiftes with myne Ningle.

Sir Vau. By Sesu so you shall M. Bubo; flea off this hairie skin M. Horace, so, so, so, vntrusse, vntrusse.

Tuc. His Poeticall wreath my dapper puncke-fetcher.

Hor. Ooh——

Sir Vau. Nay your oohs, nor your Callin-oes cannot serue your turne; your tongue you know is full of blisters with rayling, your face full of pockey-holes and pimples, with your fierie inuentions: and therefore to preserue your head from aking, this Biggin is yours,——nay by Sesu you shall bee a Poet, though not Lawrefyed, yet Nettlefyed, so:

Tuc. Sirra stincker, thou’rt but vntruss’d now, I owe thee a whipping still, and Ile pay it: I haue layde roddes in Pisse and Vineger for thee: It shall not bee the Whipping a’ th Satyre, nor the Whipping of the blinde-Beare, but of a counterfeit Iugler, that steales the name of Horace.

Kin. How? counterfeit? does hee vsurpe that name?

Sir Vau. Yes indeede ant please your Grace, he does sup vp that abhominable name.

Tuc. Hee does O King Cambises, hee does: thou hast no part of Horace in thee but’s name, and his damnable vices: thou hast such a terrible mouth, that thy beard’s afraide to peepe out: but, looke heere you staring Leuiathan, heere’s the sweete visage of Horace; looke perboylde-face, looke; Horace had a trim long-beard, and a reasonable good face for a Poet, (as faces goe now-a-dayes) Horace did not skrue and wriggle himselfe into great Mens famyliarity, (impudentlie) as thou doost: nor weare the Badge of Gentlemens company, as thou doost thy Taffetie sleeues tackt too onely with some pointes of profit: No, Horace had not his face puncht full of Oylet-holes, like the couer of a warming-pan: Horace lou’d Poets well, and gaue Coxcombes to none but fooles; but thou lou’st none, neither Wisemen nor fooles, but thy selfe: Horace was a goodly Corpulent Gentleman, and not so leane a hollow-cheekt Scrag as thou art: No, heere’s thee Coppy of thy countenance, by this will I learne to make a number of villanous faces more, and to looke scuruily vpon’th world, as thou dost.

Cri. Sir Vaughan will you minister their oath?

Sir Vau. Master Asinius Bubo, you shall sweare as little as you can, one oath shall damme vp your Innocent mouth.

Asin. Any oath Sir, Ile sweare any thing.

Sir Va. You shall sweare, by Phœbus (who is your Poets good Lord and Master,) that heere-after you will not hyre Horace, to giue you poesies for rings, or hand-kerchers, or kniues which you vnderstand not, nor to write your Loue-letters; which you (in turning of a hand) set your markes vpon, as your owne: nor you shall not carry Lattin Poets about you, till you can write and read English at most; and lastlye that you shall not call Horace your Ningle.

Asin. By Phœbus I sweare all this, and as many oathes as you will, so I may trudge.

Sir Vau. Trudge then, pay your legs for Fees, and bee dissarg’d.

Tuc. Tprooth——runne Red-cap, ware hornes there.

Exit Asi.

Sir Va. Now Master Horace, you must be a more horrible swearer, for ’your oath must be (like your wittes) of many collours; and like a Brokers booke of many parcels.

Tuc. Read, read; th’inuentory of his oath.

Hor. Ile sweare till my haire stands vp an end, to bee rid of this sting, oh this sting!

Sir Vau. Tis not your sting of conscience, is it?

Tuc. Vpon him: Inprimis.

Sir Vaugh. Inprimis, you shall sweare by Phœbus and the halfe a score Muses lacking one: not to sweare to hang your selfe, if you thought any Man, Ooman or Silde, could write Playes and Rimes, as well-fauour’d ones as your selfe.

Tuc. Well sayd, hast brought him toth gallowes already?

Sir Vaugh. You shall sweare not to bumbast out a new Play, with the olde lynings of Iestes, stolne from the Temples Reuels.

Tuc. To him olde Tango.

Sir Va. Moreouer, you shall not sit in a Gallery, when your Comedies and Enterludes haue entred their Actions, and there make vile and bad faces at euerie lyne, to make Sentlemen haue an eye to you, and to make Players afraide to take your part.

Tuc. Thou shalt be my Ningle for this.

Sir Vau. Besides, you must forsweare to venter on the stage, when your Play is ended, and to exchange curtezies, and complements with Gallants in the Lordes roomes, to make all the house rise vp in Armes, and to cry that’s Horace, that’s he, that’s he, that’s he, that pennes and purges Humours and diseases.

Tuc. There boy, agen.

Sir Vau. Secondly, when you bid all your friends to the marriage of a poore couple, that is to say: your Wits and necessities, alias dictus, to the rifling of your Muse: alias, your Muses vp-sitting: alias a Poets Whitson-Ale; you shall sweare that within three dayes after, you shall not abroad, in Booke-binders shops, brag that your Vize-royes or Tributorie-Kings, haue done homage to you, or paide quarterage.

Tuc. Ile busse thy head Holofernes.

Sir Vaugh. Moreouer and Inprimis, when a Knight or Sentlemen of vrship, does giue you his passe-port, to trauaile in and out to his Company, and giues you money for Gods sake; I trust in Sesu, you will sweare (tooth and nayle) not to make scalde and wry-mouth Iestes vpon his Knight-hood, will you not?

Hor. I neuer did it by Parnassus.

Tuc. Wut sweare by Parnassus and lye too, Doctor Doddipol?

Sir Va. Thirdly, and last of all sauing one, when your Playes are misse-likt at Court, you shall not crye Mew like a Pusse-cat, and say you are glad you write out of the Courtiers Element.

Tuc. Let the Element alone, tis out a thy reach.

Sir Vau. In brieflynes, when you Sup in Tauernes, amongst your betters, you shall sweare not to dippe your Manners in too much sawce, nor at Table to fling Epigrams, Embleames, or Play-speeches about you (lyke Hayle-stones) to keepe you out of the terrible daunger of the Shot, vpon payne to sit at the vpper ende of the Table, a’th left hand of Carlo Buffon: sweare all this, by Apollo and the eight or nine Muses.

Hor. By Apollo, Helicon, the Muses (who march three and three in a rancke) and by all that belongs to Pernassus, I sweare all this.

Tuc. Beare witnes.

Cris. That fearefull wreath, this honour is your due, All Poets shall be Poet-Apes but you; Thankes (Learnings true Mecænas, Poesies king) Thankes for that gracious eare, which you haue lent, To this most tedious, most rude argument.

Kin. Our spirits haue well beene feasted; he whose pen Drawes both corrupt, and cleare bloud from all men: (Careles what veine he prickes) let him not raue, When his owne sides are strucke, blowes, blowes, doe craue.

Tuc. Kings-truce, my noble Hearbe-a-grace; my Princely sweet-William, a boone—Stay first, Ist a match or no match, Lady Furniuall Ist?

Sir Ad. & Sir quint. A match?

Mini. I, a match, since he hath hit the Mistris so often 1’th fore-game, we’ll eene play out a rubbers.

Sir Ada. Take her for me.

Sir quin. Take her for thy selfe, not for me.

Sir Vau. Play out your rubbers in Gods name, by Sesu Ile neuer boule more in your Alley, Iddow.

Sir Quin. My Chaine.

Sir Adam. My Purse.

Tuc. Ile Chaine thee presently, and giue thee ten pound and a purse: a boone my Leige: ... daunce ô my delicate Rufus, at my wedding with this reuerend Antiquary; ist done? wut thou?

Kin. Ile giue thee Kingly honour: Night and Sleepe, With silken Ribands would tye vp our eyes, But Mistris Bride, one measure shall be led, In scorne of Mid-nights hast, and then to bed.

Exeunt.

Epilogus:

Tucca. Gentlemen, Gallants, and you my little Swaggerers that fight lowe: my tough hearts of Oake that stand too’t so valliantly, and are still within a yard of your Capten: Now the Trumpets (that set men together by the eares) haue left their Tantara-rag-boy, let’s part friends. I recant, beare witnes all you Gentle-folkes (that walke i’th Galleries) I recant the opinions which I helde of Courtiers, Ladies, & Cittizens, when once (in an assembly of Friers) I railde vpon them: that Hereticall Libertine Horace, taught me so to mouth it. Besides, twas when stiffe Tucca was a boy: twas not Tucca that railde and roar’d then, but the Deuill & his Angels: But now, Kings-truce, the Capten Summons a parlee, and deliuers himselfe and his prating company into your hands, vpon what composition you wil. Are you pleas’d? and Ile dance Friskin for ioy, but if you be not, by’th Lord Ile see you all——heere for your two pence a peice agen, before Ile loose your company. I know now some be come hyther with cheekes swolne as big with hisses, as if they had the tooth-ach: vds-foote, if I stood by them, Ide bee so bold as——intreate them to hisse in another place. Are you aduiz’d what you doe when you hisse? you blowe away Horaces reuenge: but if you set your hands and Seales to this, Horace will write against it, and you may haue more sport: he shall not loose his labour, he shall not turne his blanke verses into wast paper: No, my Poetasters will not laugh at him, but will vntrusse him agen, and agen, and agen. Ile tell you what you shall doe, cast your little Tucca into a Bell: doe, make a Bell of me, and be al you my clappers, vpon condition, wee may haue a lustie peale,

this colde weather: I haue but two legs left me, and they are both yours: Good night my two penny Tenants God night.

FINIS.