SCENE II.—An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of Stocks in the background.
Reading edition
Enter Andelocia with Agripyne, Ampedo and Shadow following.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia, pity me, Take off this infamy, or take my life.
Andel. Your life? you think then that I am a true doctor indeed, that tie up my living in the knots of winding sheets: your life? no, keep your life, but deliver your purse: you know the thief’s salutation,—“Stand and deliver.” So, this is mine, and these yours: I’ll teach you to live by the sweat of other men’s brows.
Shad. And to strive to be fairer than God made her.
Andel. Right, Shadow: therefore vanish, you have made me turn juggler, and cry “hey-pass,” but your horns shall not repass.[406]
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Andelocia is a nettle: if you touch him gently, he’ll sting you.
Shad. Or a rose: if you pull his sweet stalk he’ll prick you.
Andel. Therefore not a word; go, trudge to your father. Sigh not for your purse, money may be got by you, as well as by the little Welshwoman in Cyprus, that had but one horn in her head;[407] you have two, and perhaps you shall cast both. As you use me, mark those words well, “as you use me,” nay, y’are best fly, I’ll not endure one word more. Yet stay too, because you entreat me so gently, and that I’ll make some amends to your father,—although I care not for any king in Christendom, yet hold you, take this apple, eat it as you go to court, and your horns shall play the cowards and fall from you.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Nay, away, not a word.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! ’Ware horns! [Exit Agripyne, weeping.
Andel. Why dost thou laugh, Shadow?
Shad. To see what a horn plague follows covetousness and pride.
Amp. Brother, what mysteries lie in all this?
Andel. Tricks, Ampedo, tricks, devices, and mad hieroglyphics, mirth, mirth, and melody. O, there’s more music in this, than all the gamut airs, and sol fa res, in the world; here’s the purse, and here’s the hat: because you shall be sure I’ll not start, wear you this, you know its virtue. If danger beset you, fly and away: a sort of broken-shinned limping-legged jades run hobbling to seek us. Shadow, we’ll for all this have one fit of mirth more, to make us laugh and be fat.
Shad. And when we are fat, master, we’ll do as all gluttons do, laugh and lie down.
Andel. Hie thee to my chamber, make ready my richest attire, I’ll to court presently.
Shad. I’ll go to court in this attire, for apparel is but the shadow of a man, but shadow is the substance of his apparel. [Exit Shadow.
Andel. Away, away, and meet me presently.
Amp. I had more need to cry away to thee. Away, away with this wild lunacy, Away with riots.
Andel. Away with your purity, brother, y’are an ass. Why doth this purse spit out gold but to be spent? why lives a man in this world, to dwell in the suburbs of it, as you do? Away, foreign simplicity, away: are not eyes made to see fair ladies? hearts to love them? tongues to court them, and hands to feel them? Out, you stock, you stone, you log’s end: Are not legs made to dance, and shall mine limp up and down the world after your cloth-stocking-heels? You have the hat, keep it. Anon I’ll visit your virtuous countenance again; adieu! Pleasure is my sweet mistress, I wear her love in my hat, and her soul in my heart: I have sworn to be merry, and in spite of Fortune and the black-browed Destinies, I’ll never be sad. [Exit.
Amp. Go, fool; in spite of mirth, thou shalt be sad. I’ll bury half thy pleasures in a grave Of hungry flames; this fire I did ordain To burn both purse and hat: as this doth perish, So shall the other; count what good and bad They both have wrought, the good is to the ill As a small pebble to a mighty hill. Thy glory and thy mischiefs here shall burn; Good gifts abused to man’s confusion turn.
Enter Longaville and Montrose with Soldiers.
Longa. This is his brother: soldiers, bind his arms.
Montr. Bind arms and legs, and hale the fiend away.
Amp. Uncivil: wherefore must I taste your spite?
Longa. Art thou not one of Fortunatus’ sons?
Amp. I am, but he did never do you wrong.
Longa. The devil thy brother has; villain, look here.
Montr. Where is the beauteous purse and wishing hat?
Amp. My brother Andelocia has the purse, This way he’ll come anon to pass to court. Alas, that sin should make men’s hearts so bold, To kill their souls for the base thirst of gold. The wishing hat is burnt.
Montr. Burnt? Soldiers, bind him. Tortures shall wring both hat and purse from you. Villain, I’ll be revenged for that base scorn Thy hell-hound brother clapped upon my head.
Longa. And so will Longaville. Away with him!
Montr. Drag him to yonder tower, there shackle him, And in a pair of stocks lock up his heels, And bid your wishing cap deliver you. Give us the purse and hat, we’ll set thee free, Else rot to death and starve.
Amp. Oh tyranny, you need not scorn the badge which you did bear: Beasts would you be, though horns you did not wear.
Montr. Drag hence the cur: come, noble Longaville, One’s sure, and were the other fiend as fast, Their pride should cost their lives: their purse and hat Shall both be ours, we’ll share them equally.
Longa. That will be some amends for arming me.
Enter Andelocia, and Shadow after him.
Montr. Peace, Longaville, yonder the gallant comes.
Longa. Y’are well encountered.
Andel. Thanks, Lord Longaville.
Longa. The king expects your presence at the court.
Andel. And thither am I going.
Shad. Pips fine, fine apples of Tamasco, ha, ha, ha!
Montr. Wert thou that Irishman that cozened us?
Shad. Pips fine, ha, ha, ha! no not I: not Shadow.
Andel. Were not your apples delicate and rare?
Longa. The worst that e’er you sold; sirs, bind him fast.
Andel. What, will you murder me? help, help, some help!
Shad. Help, help, help! [Exit Shadow.
Montr. Follow that dog, and stop his bawling throat.
Andel. Villains, what means this barbarous treachery?
Longa. We mean to be revenged for our disgrace.
Montr. And stop the golden current of thy waste.
Andel. Murder! they murder me, O call for help.
Longa. Thy voice is spent in vain; come, come, this purse, This well-spring of your prodigality.
Andel. Are you appointed by the king to this?
Montr. No, no; rise, spurn him up! know you who’s this?
Andel. My brother Ampedo? Alas, what fate Hath made thy virtues so unfortunate?
Amp. Thy riot and the wrong of these two lords, Who causeless thus do starve[408] me in this prison.
Longa. Strive not y’are best, villains, lift in his legs.
Andel. Traitors to honour, what do you intend?
Longa. That riot shall in wretchedness have end. Question thy brother with what cost he’s fed, And so assure thou shall be banqueted. [Exeunt Longaville and Montrose.
Amp. In want, in misery, in woe and care, Poor Ampedo his fill hath surfeited: My want is famine, bolts my misery, My care and woe should be thy portion.
Andel. Give me that portion, for I have a heart Shall spend it freely, and make bankrupt The proudest woe that ever wet man’s eyes. Care, with a mischief! wherefore should I care? Have I rid side by side by mighty kings, Yet be thus bridled now? I’ll tear these fetters, Murder! cry, murder! Ampedo, aloud. To bear this scorn our fortunes are too proud.
Amp. O folly, thou hast power to make flesh glad, When the rich soul in wretchedness is clad.
Andel. Peace, fool, am I not Fortune’s minion? These bands are but one wrinkle of her frown, This is her evening mask, her next morn’s eye Shall overshine the sun in majesty.
Amp. But this sad night will make an end of me. Brother, farewell; grief, famine, sorrow, want, Have made an end of wretched Ampedo.
Andel. Where is the wishing hat?
Amp. Consumed in fire.
Andel. Accursèd be those hands that did destroy it; That would redeem us, did we now enjoy it.
Amp. Wanton, farewell! I faint, Death’s frozen hand Congeals life’s little river in my breast. No man before his end is truly blest. [Dies.
Andel. O miserable, miserable soul! Thus a foul life makes death to look more foul.
Re-enter Longaville and Montrose with a halter.
Longa. Thus shall this golden purse divided be, One day for you, another day for me.
Montr. Of days anon, say, what determine you, Shall they have liberty, or shall they die?
Longa. Die sure: and see, I think the elder’s dead.
Andel. Ay, murderers, he is dead. O sacred Wisdom, Had Fortunatus been enamourèd Of thy celestial beauty, his two sons Had shined like two bright suns.
Longa. Pull hard, Montrose.
Andel. Come you to strangle me? are you the hangman? Hell-hounds, y’are damned for this impiety. Fortune, forgive me! I deserve thy hate; Myself have made myself a reprobate. Virtue, forgive me! for I have transgressed Against thy laws; my vows are quite forgot, And therefore shame is fallen to my sin’s lot. Riches and knowledge are two gifts divine. They that abuse them both as I have done, To shame, to beggary, to hell must run. O conscience, hold thy sting, cease to afflict me. Be quick, tormentors, I desire to die; No death is equal to my misery. Cyprus, vain world and vanity, farewell. Who builds his Heaven on earth, is sure of hell. [Dies.
Longa. He’s dead: in some deep vault let’s throw their bodies.
Montr. First let us see the purse, Lord Longaville.
Longa. Here ’tis, by this we’ll fill this tower with gold.
Montr. Frenchman, this purse is counterfeit.
Longa. Thou liest. Scot, thou hast cozened me, give me the right, Else shall thy bosom be my weapon’s grave.
Montr. Villain, thou shalt not rob me of my due. [They fight.
Enter Athelstane, Agripyne, Orleans, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Lincoln, and Shadow with weapons at one door: Fortune, Vice, and their Attendants at the other.
All. Lay hands upon the murderers, strike them down.
Fortune. Surrender up this purse, for this is mine.
All. Are these two devils, or some powers divine?
Shad. O see, see, O my two masters, poor Shadow’s substances; what shall I do? Whose body shall Shadow now follow?
Fortune. Peace, idiot, thou shalt find rich heaps of fools, That will be proud to entertain a shadow. I charm thy babbling lips from troubling me. You need not hold them, see, I smite them down Lower than hell: base souls, sink to your heaven.
Vice. I do arrest you both my prisoners.
Fortune. Stand not amazed, you gods of earth, at this, She that arresteth these two fools is Vice, They have broke Virtue’s laws, Vice is her sergeant, Her jailer and her executioner. Look on those Cypriots, Fortunatus’ sons, They and their father were my minions, My name is Fortune.
All. O dread deity!
Fortune. Kneel not to me: if Fortune list to frown, You need not fall down, for she’ll spurn you down; Arise! but, fools, on you I’ll triumph thus: What have you gained by being covetous? This prodigal purse did Fortune’s bounteous hand Bestow on them, their riots made them poor, And set these marks of miserable death On all their pride, the famine of base gold Hath made your souls to murder’s hands be sold, Only to be called rich. But, idiots, see The virtues to be fled, Fortune hath caused it so; Those that will all devour, must all forego.
Athelst. Most sacred Goddess!
Fortune. Peace, you flatterer. Thy tongue but heaps more vengeance on thy head. Fortune is angry with thee, in thee burns A greedy covetous fire, in Agripyne Pride like a monarch revels, and those sins Have led you blind-fold to your former shames, But Virtue pardoned you, and so doth Fortune.
Athelst. and Agrip. All thanks to both your sacred deities.
Fortune. As for these metal-eaters, these base thieves, Who rather than they would be counted poor, Will dig through hell for gold,—you were forgiven By Virtue’s general pardon; her broad seal Gave you your lives, when she took off your horns. Yet having scarce one foot out of the jail, You tempt damnation by more desperate means, You both are mortal, and your pains shall ring Through both your ears, to terrify your souls, As please the judgment of this mortal king.
Athelst. Fair Empress of the world, since you resign Your power to me, this sentence shall be mine: Thou shall be tortured on a wheel to death, Thou with wild horses shall be quarterèd. [Points to Montrose and Longaville.
Vice. Ha, ha, weak judge, weak judgment; I reverse That sentence, for they are my prisoners. Embalm the bodies of those Cypriots, And honour them with princely burial. For those do as you please; but for these two, I kiss you both, I love you, y’are my minions. Untie their bands, Vice doth reprieve you both. I set you free.
Both. Thanks, gracious deity.
Vice. Begone, but you in liberty shall find More bondage than in chains; fools, get you hence, Both wander with tormented conscience.
Longa. O horrid judgment, that’s the hell indeed.
Montr. Come, come, our death ne’er ends if conscience bleed.
Both. O miserable, miserable men! [Exeunt Longaville and Montrose.
Fortune. Fortune triumphs at this, yet to appear All like myself, that which from those I took, King Athelstane, I will bestow on thee, And in it the old virtue I infuse: But, king, take heed how thou my gifts dost use. England shall ne’er be poor, if England strive Rather by virtue than by wealth to thrive.
Enter Virtue, crowned: Nymphs and Kings attending on her, crowned with olive branches and laurels; music sounding.
Vice. Virtue? alas good soul, she hides her head.
Virtue. What envious tongue said, “Virtue hides her head?”
Vice. She that will drive thee into banishment.
Fortune. She that hath conquered thee: how dar’st thou come, Thus tricked in gaudy feathers, and thus guarded With crownèd kings and Muses, when thy foe Hath trod thus on thee, and now triumphs so? Where’s virtuous Ampedo? See, he’s her slave; For following thee, this recompense they have.
Virtue. Is Ampedo her slave? Why, that’s my glory. The idiot’s cap I once wore on my head, Did figure him; those that like him do muffle Virtue in clouds, and care not how she shine, I’ll make their glory like to his decline. He made no use of me, but like a miser, Locked up his wealth in rusty bars of sloth; His face was beautiful, but wore a mask, And in the world’s eyes seemed a blackamoor: So perish they that so keep Virtue poor.
Vice. Thou art a fool to strive, I am more strong, And greater than thyself; then, Virtue, fly, And hide thy face, yield me the victory.
Virtue. Is Vice higher than Virtue? that’s my glory, The higher that thou art, thou art more horrid: The world will love me for my comeliness.
Fortune. Thine own self loves thyself: why on the heads Of Agripyne, Montrose, and Longaville,— English, Scot, French—did Vice clap ugly horns, But to approve that English, French and Scot, And all the world else, kneel and honour Vice; But in no country, Virtue is of price!
Virtue. Yes, in all countries Virtue is of price, In every kingdom some diviner breast Is more enamoured of me than the rest. Have English, Scot and French bowed knees to thee? Why that’s my glory too, for by their shame, Men will abhor thee and adore my name. Fortune, thou art too weak, Vice, th’art a fool To fight with me; I suffered you awhile T’eclipse my brightness, but I now will shine, And make you swear your beauty’s base to mine.
Fortune. Thou art too insolent; see, here’s a court Of mortal judges; let’s by them be tried, Which of us three shall most be deified.
Vice. I am content.
Fortune. And I.
Virtue. So am not I. My judge shall be your sacred deity.[409]
Vice. O miserable me, I am undone. [Exit Vice and her train.
All. O stop the horrid monster.
Virtue. Let her run. Fortune, who conquers now?
Fortune. Virtue, I see, Thou wilt triumph both over her and me.
All. Empress of Heaven and earth.
Fortune. Why do you mock me? Kneel not to me, to her transfer your eyes, There sits the Queen of Chance, I bend my knees Lower than yours. Dread goddess, ’tis most meet That Fortune fall down at thy conquering feet. Thou sacred Empress that command’st the Fates, Forgive what I have to thy handmaid done, And at thy chariot wheels Fortune shall run, And be thy captive, and to thee resign All powers which Heaven’s large patent have made mine.
Virtue. Fortune, th’art vanquished. Sacred deity, O now pronounce who wins the victory, And yet that sentence needs not, since alone, Your virtuous presence Vice hath overthrown, Yet to confirm the conquest on your side, Look but on Fortunatus and his sons; Of all the wealth those gallants did possess, Only poor Shadow is left, comfortless: Their glory’s faded and their golden pride.
Shad. Only poor Shadow tells how poor they died.
Virtue. All that they had, or mortal men can have, Sends only but a Shadow from the grave. Virtue alone lives still, and lives in you; I am a counterfeit, you are the true; I am a shadow, at your feet I fall, Begging for these, and these, myself and all. All these that thus do kneel before your eyes, Are shadows like myself: dread nymph, it lies In you to make us substances. O do it! Virtue I am sure you love, she wooes you to it. I read a verdict in your sun-like eyes, And this it is: Virtue the victory.
All. All loudly cry, Virtue the victory!
Fortune. Virtue the victory! for joy of this, Those self-same hymns which you to Fortune sung Let them be now in Virtue’s honour rung.
Song.
Virtue smiles: cry holiday, Dimples on her cheeks do dwell, Virtue frowns, cry welladay, Her love is Heaven, her hate is hell. Since Heaven and hell obey her power, Tremble when her eyes do lower. Since Heaven and hell her power obey, Where she smiles, cry holiday.
Holiday with joy we cry, And bend, and bend, and merrily, Sing hymns to Virtue’s deity: Sing hymns to Virtue’s deity.
As they are about to depart, enter Two Old Men.
THE EPILOGUE AT COURT.[410]
1st O. Man. Nay stay, poor pilgrims, when I entered first The circle of this bright celestial sphere, I wept for joy, now I could weep for fear.
2nd O. Man. I fear we all like mortal men shall prove Weak, not in love, but in expressing love.
1st O. Man. Let every one beg once more on his knee, One pardon for himself, and one for me; For I enticed you hither. O dear Goddess, Breathe life in our numbed spirits with one smile, And from this cold earth, we with lively souls, Shall rise like men new-born, and make Heaven sound With hymns sung to thy name, and prayers that we May once a year so oft enjoy this sight, Till these young boys change their curled locks to white, And when gray-wingèd age sits on their heads, That so their children may supply their steads, And that Heaven’s great arithmetician, Who in the scales of number weighs the world, May still to forty-two add one year more, And still add one to one, that went before, And multiply four tens by many a ten: To this I cry, Amen.
All. Amen, amen!
1st O. Man. Good-night, dear mistress, those that wish thee harm, Thus let them stoop under destruction’s arm.
All. Amen, amen, amen! [Exeunt.
