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This HTML etext of Robert Greene's "The Scottish History of James the Fourth" (1598) was created in July 2006 by Anniina Jokinen of Luminarium. The text is unaltered.
Greene, Robert. "The Scottish History of James the Fourth." The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Robert Greene and George Peele. Alexander Dyce, ed. London: Routledge, 1861. 187-224. |
 THE SCOTTISH HISTORY OF JAMES THE FOURTH DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. KING OF ENGLAND. LORD PERCY. SAMLES. KING OF SCOTS. LORD DOUGLAS. LORD MORTON. LORD ROSS. BISHOP OF ST. ANDREWS. LORD EUSTACE. SIR BARTRAM. SIR CUTHBERT ANDERSON. ATEUKIN. JAQUES. A Lawyer. A Merchant. A Divine. SLIPPER, } sons to BOHAN. NANO, a dwarf, } sons to BOHAN. ANDREW. Purveyor, Herald, Scout, Huntsmen, Soldiers, Revellers, &c. DOROTHEA, Queen of Scots. COUNTESS OF ARRAN. IDA, her daughter. LADY ANDERSON. Ladies, &c. OBERON, King of Fairies. BOHAN. Antics, Fairies, &c. Music playing within, enter ASTER OBERON, King of Fairies; and Antics, who dance about a tomb placed conveniently on the stage; out of the which suddenly starts up, as they dance, BOHAN, a Scot, attired like a ridstall man, from whom the Antics fly. OBERON manet. Boh. Ay say, what's thou? Ober. Thy friend, Bohan. Boh. What wot I or reck I that? Whay, guid man, I reck no friend nor ay reck no foe; als ene to me. Git thee ganging, and trouble not may whayet, or ays gar thee recon me nene of thay friend, by the Mary mass, sall I. Ober. Why, angry Scot, I visit thee for love; then what moves thee to wrath? Boh. The deil a whit reck I thy love; for I know too well that true love took her flight twenty winter sence to heaven, whither till ay can, weel I wot, ay sal ne'er find love: an thou lovest me, leave me to myself. But what were those puppets that hopped and skipped about me year whayle? Ober. My subjects. Boh. Thay subjects! whay, art thou a king? Ober. I am. Boh. The deil thou art! whay, thou lookest not so big as the King of Clubs, nor so sharp as the King of Spades, nor so fain as the King o' Daymonds: be the mass, ay take thee to be the king of false hearts; therefore I rid thee away, or ayse so curry your kingdom that you's be glad to run to save your life. Ober. Why, stoical Scot, do what thou darest to me: here is my breast, strike. Boh. Thou wilt not threap me, this whinyard has gard many better men to lope than thou? [Tries to draw his sword.] But how now! Gos sayds, what, will't not out? Whay, thou witch, thou deil! Gad's fute, may whinyard! Ober. Why, pull, man: but what an 'twere out, how then? Boh. This, then,—thou weart best be gone first; for ay'l so lop thy limbs that thou's go with half a knave's carcass to the deil. Ober. Draw it out: now strike, fool, canst thou not? Boh. Bread ay gad, what deil is in me? Whay, tell me, thou skipjack, what art thou? Ober. Nay, first tell me what thou wast from thy birth, what thou hast passed hitherto, why thou dwellest in a tomb and leavest the world? and then I will release thee of these bonds; before, not. Boh. And not before! then needs must, needs sall. I was born a gentleman of the best blood in all Scotland, except the king. When time brought me to age, and death took my parents, I became a courtier; where, though ay list not praise myself, ay engraved the memory of Bohan on the skin-coat of some of them, and revelled with the proudest. Ober. But why, living in such reputation, didst thou leave to be a courtier? Boh. Because my pride was vanity, my expense loss, my reward fair words and large promises, and my hopes spilt, for that after many years' service one outran me; and what the deil should I then do there? No, no; flattering knaves, that can cog and prate fastest, speed best in the court. Ober. To what life didst thou then betake thee? Boh. I then changed the court for the country, and the wars for a wife: but I found the craft of swains more vile than the knavery of courtiers, the charge of children more heavy than servants, and wives' tongues worse than the wars itself; and therefore I gave o'er that, and went to the city to dwell; and there I kept a great house with small cheer, but all was ne'er the near. Ober. And why? Boh. Because, in seeking friends, I found tableguests to eat me and my meat, my wife's gossips to bewray the secrets of my heart, kindred to betray the effect of my life: which when I noted, the court ill, the country worse, and the city worst of all, in good time my wife died,—ay would she had died twenty winter sooner, by the mass!—leaving my two sons to the world, and shutting myself into this tomb, where if I die I am sure I am safe from wild beasts, but whilst I live cannot be free from ill company. Besides, now I am sure, gif all my friends fail me, I sall have a grave of mine own providing. This is all. Now, what art thou? Ober. Oberon, King of Fairies, that loves thee because thou hatest the world; and to gratulate thee, I brought these antics to show thee some sport in dancing, which thou hast loved well. Boh. Ha, ha, ha! Thinkest thou those puppets can please me? whay, I have two sons, that with one Scottish jig shall break the neck of thy antics. Ober. That would I fain see. Boh. Why, thou shalt.—Ho, boys! Enter SLIPPER and NANO. Haud your clacks, lads, trattle not for thy life, but gather up your legs, and dance me forthwith a jig worth the sight. Slip. Why, I must talk, an I die for't: wherefore was my tongue made? Boh. Prattle, an thou darest, ene word more, and ais dab this whinyard in thy wemb. Ober. Be quiet, Bohan. I'll strike him dumb, and his brother too: their talk shall not hinder our jig.—Fall to it; dance, I say, man. Boh. Dance Humer, dance, ay rid thee. [The two dance a jig devised for the nonst. Now get you to the wide world with more than my father gave me, that's learning enough both kinds, knavery and honesty; and that I gave you, spend at pleasure. Ober. Nay, for their sport I will give them this gift: to the dwarf I give a quick wit, pretty of body, and awarrant his preferment to a prince's service, where by his wisdom he shall gain more love than common; and to loggerhead your son I give a wandering life, and promise he shall never lack, and avow, if in all distresses he call upon me, to help him. Now let them go. [Exeunt SLIPPER and NANO with courtesies. Boh. Now, king, if thou be a king, I will show thee whay I hate the world by demonstration. In the year fifteen hundred and twenty, was in Scotland a king, over-ruled with parasites, misled by lust, and many circumstances too long to trattle on now, much like our court of Scotland this day. That story have I set down. Gang with me to the gallery, and I'll show thee the same in action by guid fellows of our countrymen; and then when thou see'st that, judge if any wise man would not leave the world if he could. Ober. That will I see: lead, and I'll follow thee. [Exeunt. Laus Deo detur in œternum. ACT I. SCENE I. Enter the KING OF ENGLAND, the KING OF SCOTS, QUEEN DOROTHEA, the COUNTESS OF ARRAN, IDA, and Lords; and ATEUKIN aloof. K. of Scots. Brother of England, since our neighbouring land[s] And near alliance do invite our loves, The more I think upon our last accord, The more I grieve your sudden parting hence. First, laws of friendship did confirm our peace, Now both the seal of faith and marriage-bed, The name of father, and the style of friend; These force in me affection full confirm'd; So that I grieve—and this my hearty grief The heavens record, the world may witness well— To lose your presence, who are now to me A father, brother, and a vowèd friend. K. of Eng. Link all these lovely styles, good king, in one: And since thy grief exceeds in my depart, I leave my Dorothea to enjoy Thy whole compact [of] loves and plighted vows. Brother of Scotland, this is my joy, my life, Her father's honour, and her country's hope, Her mother's comfort, and her husband's bliss: I tell thee, king, in loving of my Doll, Thou bind'st her father's heart, and all his friends, In bands of love that death can not dissolve. K. of Scots. Nor can her father love her like to me, My life's light, and the comfort of my soul.— Fair Dorothea, that wast England's pride, Welcome to Scotland; and, in sign of love, Lo, I invest thee with the Scottish crown.— Nobles and ladies, stoop unto your queen, And trumpets sound, that heralds may proclaim Fair Dorothea peerless Queen of Scots. All. Long live and prosper our fair Queen of Scots! [They install and crown her. Q. Dor. Thanks to the king of kings for my dignity; Thanks to my father that provides so carefully; Thanks to my lord and husband for this honour; And thanks to all that love their king and me. All. Long live fair Dorothea, our true queen! K. of Eng. Long shine the sun of Scotland in her pride, Her father's comfort, and fair Scotland's bride! But, Dorothea, since I must depart, And leave thee from thy tender mother's charge, Let me advise my lovely daughter first What best befits her in a foreign land. Live, Doll, for many eyes shall look on thee, With care of honour and the present state; For she that steps to height of majesty Is even the mark whereat the enemy aims: Thy virtues shall be construèd to vice, Thine affable discourse to abject mind; If coy, detracting tongues will call thee proud. Be therefore wary in this slippery state: Honour thy husband, love him as thy life, Make choice of friends, as eagles of their young, Who soothe no vice, who flatter not for gain, But love such friends as do the truth maintain. Think on these lessons when thou art alone, And thou shalt live in health when I am gone. Q. Dor. I will engrave these precepts in my heart: And as the wind with calmness wooes you hence, Even so I wish the heavens in all mishaps May bless my father with continual grace. K. of Eng. Then, son, farewell: The favouring winds invite us to depart. Long circumstance in taking princely leaves Is more officious than convenient. Brother of Scotland, love me in my child; You greet me well, if so you will her good. K. of Scots. Then, lovely Doll, and all that favour me, Attend to see our English friends at sea: Let all their charge depend upon my purse: They are our neighbours, by whose kind accord We dare attempt the proudest potentate. Only, fair countess, and your daughter, stay; With you I have some other thing to say. [Exeunt, in all royalty, the KING OF ENGLAND, QUEEN DOROTHEA, and Lords. [Aside.] So let them triumph that have cause to joy: But, wretched king, thy nuptial knot is death, Thy bride the breeder of thy country's ill; For thy false heart dissenting from thy hand, Misled by love, hath made another choice, Another choice, even when thou vow'd'st thy soul To Dorothea, England's choicest pride: O, then thy wandering eyes bewitch'd thy heart! Even in the chapel did thy fancy change, When, perjur'd man, though fair Doll had thy hand, The Scottish Ida's beauty stale thy heart: Yet fear and love have tied thy ready tongue From blabbing forth the passions of thy mind, 'Less fearful silence have in subtle looks Bewray'd the treason of my new-vow'd love. Be fair and lovely, Doll; but here's the prize, That lodgeth here, and enter'd through mine eyes: Yet, howsoe'er I love, I must be wise.— Now, lovely countess, what reward or grace May I employ on you for this your zeal, And humble honours, done us in our court, In entertainment of the English king? Count. of A. It was of duty, prince, that I have done; And what in favour may content me most, Is, that it please your grace to give me leave For to return unto my country-home. K. of Scots. But, lovely Ida, is your mind the same? Ida. I count of court, my lord, as wise men do, 'Tis fit for those that know what 'longs thereto: Each person to his place; the wise to art, The cobbler to his clout, the swain to cart. K. of Scots. But, Ida, you are fair, and beauty shines, And seemeth best, where pomp her pride refines. Ida. If beauty, as I know there's none in me, Were sworn my love, and I his life should be, The farther from the court I were remov'd, The more, I think, of heaven I were belov'd. K. of Scots. And why? Ida. Because the court is counted Venus' net, Where gifts and vows for stales are often set: None, be she chaste as Vesta, but shall meet A curious tongue to charm her ears with sweet. K. of Scots. Why, Ida, then I see you set at naught The force of love. Ida. In sooth, this is my thought, Most gracious king,—that they that little prove, Are mickle blest from bitter sweets of love. And weel I wot, I heard a shepherd sing, That, like a bee, Love hath a little sting: He lurks in flowers, he percheth on the trees, He on kings' pillows bends his pretty knees; The boy is blind, but when he will not spy, He hath a leaden foot and wings to fly: Beshrew me yet, for all these strange effects, If I would like the lad that so infects. K. of Scots. [aside.] Rare wit, fair face, what heart could more desire? But Doll is fair and doth concern thee near: Let Doll be fair, she is won; but I must woo And win fair Ida, there's some choice in two.— But, Ida, thou art coy. Ida. And why, dread king? K. of Scots. In that you will dispraise so sweet a thing As love. Had I my wish— Ida. What then? K. of Scots. Then would I place His arrow here, his beauty in that face. Ida. And were Apollo mov'd and rul'd by me, His wisdom should be yours, and mine his tree. K. of Scots. But here returns our train. Re-enter QUEEN DOROTHEA and Lords. Welcome, fair Doll: How fares our father? is he shipp'd and gone? Q. Dor. My royal father is both shipp'd and gone: God and fair winds direct him to his home! K. of Scots. Amen, say I.—[Aside.] Would thou wert with him too! Then might I have a fitter time to woo.— But, countess, you would be gone, therefore, farewell,— Yet, Ida, if thou wilt, stay thou behind To accompany my queen: But if thou like the pleasures of the court,— Or if she lik'd me, though she left the court,— What should I say? I know not what to say.— You may depart:—and you, my courteous queen, Leave me a space; I have a weighty cause To think upon:—Ida, it nips me near; It came from thence, I feel it burning here. [Exeunt all except the KING OF SCOTS and ATEUKIN. Now am I free from sight of common eye, Where to myself I may disclose the grief That hath too great a part in mine affects. Ateu. [aside.] And now is my time by wiles and words to rise, Greater than those that think themselves more wise. K. of Scots. And first, fond king, thy honour doth engrave Upon thy brows the drift of thy disgrace. Thy new-vow'd love, in sight of God and men, Links thee to Dorothea during life; For who more fair and virtuous than thy wife? Deceitful murderer of a quiet mind, Fond love, vile lust, that thus misleads us men, To vow our faiths, and fall to sin again! But kings stoop not to every common thought: Ida is fair and wise, fit for a king; And for fair Ida will I hazard life, Venture my kingdom, country, and my crown: Such fire hath love to burn a kingdom down. Say Doll dislikes that I estrange my love; Am I obedient to a woman's look? Nay, say her father frown when he shall hear That I do hold fair Ida's love so dear; Let father frown and fret, and fret and die, Nor earth nor heaven shall part my love and I. Yea, they shall part us, but we first must meet, And woo and win, and yet the world not see't. Yea, there's the wound, and wounded with that thought, So let me die, for all my drift is naught. Ateu. [coming forward.] Most gracious and imperial majesty,— [Aside.] A little flattery more were but too much. K. of Scots. Villain, what art thou That thus dar'st interrupt a prince's secrets? Ateu. Dread king, thy vassal is a man of art, Who knows, by constellation of the stars, By oppositions and by dry aspécts, The things are past and those that are to come. K. of Scots. But where's thy warrant to approach my presence? Ateu. My zeal, and ruth to see your grace's wrong, Make me lament I did detract so long. K. of Scots. If thou know'st thoughts, tell me, what mean I now? Ateu. I'll calculate the cause Of those your highness' smiles, and tell your thoughts. K. of Scots. But lest thou spend thy time in idleness, And miss the matter that my mind aims at, Tell me, What star was opposite when that was thought? [Strikes him on the ear. Ateu. 'Tis inconvenient, mighty potentate, Whose looks resemble Jove in majesty, To scorn the sooth of science with contempt. I see in those imperial looks of yours The whole discourse of love: Saturn combust, With direful looks, at your nativity, Beheld fair Venus in her silver orb: I know, by certain axioms I have read, Your grace's griefs, and further can express Her name that holds you thus in fancy's bands. K. of Scots. Thou talkest wonders. Ateu. Naught but truth, O king. 'Tis Ida is the mistress of your heart, Whose youth must take impression of affects; For tender twigs will bow, and milder minds Will yield to fancy, be they follow'd well. K. of Scots. What god art thou, compos'd in human shape, Or bold Trophonius, to decide our doubts? How know'st thou this? Ateu. Even as I know the means To work your grace's freedom and your love. Had I the mind, as many courtiers have, To creep into your bosom for your coin, And beg rewards for every cap and knee, I then would say, "If that your grace would give This lease, this manor, or this patent seal'd, For this or that I would effect your love:" But Ateukin is no parasite, O prince. I know your grace knows scholars are but poor; And therefore, as I blush to beg a fee, Your mightiness is so magnificent, You cannot choose but cast some gift apart, To ease my bashful need that cannot beg. As for your love, O, might I be employ'd, How faithfully would Ateukin compass it! But princes rather trust a smoothing tongue, Than men of art that can accept the time. K. of Scots. Ateukin, if so thy name, for so thou say'st, Thine art appears in entrance of my love; And since I deem thy wisdom match'd with truth, I will exalt thee, and thyself alone Shalt be the agent to dissolve my grief. Sooth is, I love, and Ida is my love; But my new marriage nips me near, Ateukin, For Dorothea may not brook th' abuse. Ateu. These lets are but as motes against the sun, Yet not so great; like dust before the wind, Yet not so light. Tut, pacify your grace: You have the sword and sceptre in your hand; You are the king, the state depends on you; Your will is law. Say that the case were mine: Were she my sister whom your highness loves, She should consent, for that our lives, our goods, Depend on you; and if your queen repine, Although my nature cannot brook of blood, And scholars grieve to hear of murderous deeds, But if the lamb should let the lion's way, By my advice the lamb should lose her life. Thus am I bold to speak unto your grace, Who am too base to kiss your royal feet, For I am poor, nor have I land nor rent, Nor countenance here in court, but for my love, Your grace shall find none such within the realm. K. of Scots. Wilt thou effect my love? shall she be mine? Ateu. I'll gather moly, crocus, and the herbs That heal the wounds of body and the mind; I'll set out charms and spells, naught shall be left To tame the wanton if she shall rebel: Give me but tokens of your highness' trust. K. of Scots. Thou shalt have gold, honour, and wealth enough; Win my love, and I will make thee great. Ateu. These words do make me rich, most noble prince; I am more proud of them than any wealth. Did not your grace suppose I flatter you, Believe me, I would boldly publish this;— Was never eye that saw a sweeter face, Nor never ear that heard a deeper wit: O God, how I am ravish'd in your worth! K. of Scots. Ateukin, follow me; love must have ease. Ateu. I'll kiss your highness' feet, march when you please. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter SLIPPER, NANO, and ANDREW, with their bills, ready written, in their hands. And. Stand back, sir; mine shall stand highest. Slip. Come under mine arm, sir, or get a foot-stool; or else, by the light of the moon, I must come to it. Nano. Agree, my masters; every man to his height: though I stand lowest, I hope to get the best master. And. Ere I will stoop to a thistle, I will change turns; as good luck comes on the right hand as the left: here's for me, and me, and mine. [They set up their bills.] But tell me, fellows, till better occasion come, do you seek masters? Slip. } We do. Nano. } We do. And. But what can you do worthy preferment? Nano. Marry, I can smell a knave from a rat. Slip. And I can lick a dish before a cat. And. And I can find two fools unsought,—how like you that? But, in earnest, now tell me of what trades are you two? Slip. How mean you that, sir, of what trade? Marry, I'll tell you, I have many trades: the honest trade when I needs must; the filching trade when time serves; the cozening trade as I find occasion. And I have more qualities: I cannot abide a full cup unkissed, a fat capon uncarved, a full purse unpicked, nor a fool to prove a justice as you do. And. Why, sot, why callest thou me fool? Nano. For examining wiser than thyself. And. So do many more than I in Scotland. Nano. Yea, those are such as have more authority than wit, and more wealth than honesty. Slip. This is my little brother with the great wit; 'ware him!—But what canst thou do, tell me, that art so inquisitive of us? And. Any thing that concerns a gentleman to do, that can I do. Slip. So you are of the gentle trade? And. True. Slip. Then, gentle sir, leave us to ourselves, for here comes one as if he would lack a servant ere he went. [ANDREW stands aside. Enter ATEUKIN. Ateu. Why, so, Ateukin, this becomes thee best, Wealth, honour, ease, and angels in thy chest: Now may I say, as many often sing, "No fishing to the sea, nor service to a king." Unto this high promotion doth belong Means to be talk'd of in the thickest throng. And first, to fit the humours of my lord, Sweet lays and lines of love I must record; And such sweet lines and love-lays I'll indite, As men may wish for, and my liege delight: And next a train of gallants at my heels, That men may say, the world doth run on wheels; For men of art, that rise by indirection To honour and the favour of their king, Must use all means to save what they have got, And win their favours whom they never knew. If any frown to see my fortunes such, A man must bear a little, not too much. But, in good time, these bills portend, I think, That some good fellows do for service seek. [Reads. If any gentleman, spiritual or temporal, will entertain out of his service a young stripling of the age of thirty years, that can sleep with the soundest, eat with the hungriest, work with the sickest, lie with the loudest, face with the proudest, &c., that can wait in a gentleman's chamber when his master is a mile off, keep his stable when 'tis empty, and his purse when 'tis full, and hath many qualities worse than all these,—let him write his name and go his way, and attendance shall be given. By my faith, a good servant: which is he? Slip. Truly, sir, that am I. Ateu. And why dost thou write such a bill? are all these qualities in thee? Slip. O Lord, ay, sir, and a great many more, some better, some worse, some richer, some poorer. Why, sir, do you look so? do they not please you? Ateu. Truly, no, for they are naught, and so art thou: if thou hast no better qualities, stand by. Slip. O, sir, I tell the worst first; but, an you lack a man, I am for you: I'll tell you the best qualities I have. Ateu. Be brief, then. Slip. If you need me in your chamber, I can keep the door at a whistle; in your kitchen, turn the spit, and lick the pan, and make the fire burn; but if in the stable,— Ateu. Yea, there would I use thee. Slip. Why, there you kill me, there am I, and turn me to a horse and a wench, and I have no peer. Ateu. Art thou so good in keeping a horse? I pray thee tell me how many good qualities hath a horse? Slip. Why, so, sir: a horse hath two properties of a man, that is, a proud heart and a hardy stomach; four properties of a lion, a broad breast, a stiff docket,—hold your nose, master,—a wild countenance, and four good legs; nine properties of a fox, nine of a hare, nine of an ass, and ten of a woman. Ateu. A woman! why, what properties of a woman hath a horse? Slip. O, master, know you not that? draw your tables, and write what wise I speak. First, a merry countenance; second, a soft pace; third, a broad forehead; fourth, broad buttocks; fifth, hard of ward; sixth, easy to leap upon; seventh, good at long journey; eighth, moving under a man; ninth, alway busy with the mouth; tenth, ever chewing on the bridle. Ateu. Thou art a man for me: what's thy name? Slip. An ancient name, sir, belonging to the chamber and the night- gown: guess you that. Ateu. What's that? Slipper? Slip. By my faith, well guessed; and so 'tis indeed. You'll be my master? Ateu. I mean so. Slip. Read this first. Ateu. [reads.] Pleaseth it any gentleman to entertain a servant of more wit than stature, let them subscribe, and attendance shall be given. What of this? Slip. He is my brother, sir; and we two were born together, must serve together, and will die together, though we be both hanged. Ateu. What's thy name? Nano. Nano. Ateu. The etymology of which word is a dwarf. Art not thou the old stoic's son that dwells in his tomb? Slip. } We are. Nano. } We are. Ateu. Thou art welcome to me. Wilt thou give thyself wholly to be at my disposition? Nano. In all humility I submit myself. Ateu. Then will I deck thee princely, instruct thee courtly, and present thee to the queen as my gift: art thou content? Nano. Yes, and thank your honour too. Slip. Then welcome, brother, and fellow now. And. [coming forward.] May it please your honour to abase your eye so low as to look either on my bill or myself? Ateu. What are you? And. By birth a gentleman; in profession a scholar; and one that knew your honour in Edinburgh, before your worthiness called you to this reputation: by me, Andrew Snoord. Ateu. Andrew, I remember thee: follow me, and we will confer further, for my weighty affairs for the king command me to be brief at this time.—Come on, Nano.—Slipper, follow. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter SIR BARTRAM, with EUSTACE, and others, booted. Sir Bar. But tell me, lovely Eustace, as thou lov'st me, Among the many pleasures we have pass'd, Which is the rifest in thy memory, To draw thee over to thine ancient friend? Eust. What makes Sir Bartram thus inquisitive? Tell me, good knight, am I welcóme or no? Sir Bar. By sweet Saint Andrew and may sale I swear, As welcome is my honest Dick to me As morning's sun, or as the watery moon In merkest night, when we the borders track. I tell thee, Dick, thy sight hath clear'd my thoughts Of many baneful troubles that there woon'd: Welcome to Sir Bartram as his life! Tell me, bonny Dick, hast got a wife? Eust. A wife! God shield, Sir Bartram, that were ill, To leave my wife and wander thus astray: But time and good advice, ere many years, May chance to make my fancy bend that way. What news in Scotland? therefore came I hither, To see your country and to chat together. Sir Bar. Why, man, our country's blithe, our king is well, Our queen so-so, the nobles well and worse, And weel are they that are about the king, But better are the country gentlemen: And I may tell thee, Eustace, in our lives We old men never saw so wondrous change. But leave this trattle, and tell me what news In lovely England with our honest friends? Eust. The king, the court, and all our noble friends Are well; and God in mercy keep them so! The northern lords and ladies hereabouts, That know I come to see your queen and court, Commend them to my honest friend Sir Bartram, And many others that I have not seen. Amongst the rest, the Countess Elinor, From Carlisle, where we merry oft have been, Greets well my lord, and hath directed me By message this fair lady's face to see. [Shows a portrait. Sir Bar. I tell thee, Eustace, 'less mine old eyes daze, This is our Scottish moon and evening's pride; This is the blemish of your English bride. Who sail by her are sure of wind at will; Her face is dangerous, her sight is ill; And yet, in sooth, sweet Dick, it may be said, The king hath folly, there's virtue in the maid. Eust. But knows my friend this portrait? be advis'd. Sir Bar. Is it not Ida, the Countess of Arran's daughter's? Eust. So was I told by Elinor of Carlisle: But tell me, lovely Bartram, is the maid Evil-inclin'd, misled, or concubine Unto the king or any other lord? Sir Bar. Should I be brief and true, then thus, my Dick. All England's grounds yield not a blither lass, Nor Europe can surpass her for her gifts Of virtue, honour, beauty, and the rest: But our fond king, not knowing sin in lust, Makes love by endless means and precious gifts; And men that see it dare not say't, my friend, But we may wish that it were otherwise. But I rid thee to view the picture still, For by the person's sight there hangs some ill. Eust. O, good Sir Bartram, you suspect I love (Then were I mad) her whom I never saw. But howsoe'er, I fear not enticings; Desire will give no place unto a king: I'll see her whom the world admires so much, That I may say with them, "There lives none such." Sir Bar. Be gad, and sall both see and talk with her; And when thou'st done, whate'er her beauty be, I'll warrant thee her virtues may compare With the proudest she that waits upon your queen. Enter Servant. Serv. My lady entreats your worship in to supper. Sir Bar. Guid, bonny Dick, my wife will tell thee more: Was never no man in her book before; Be gad, she's blithe, fair, lewely, bonny, &c. [Exeunt. Enter BOHAN and OBERON after the first act; to them a round of Fairies, or some pretty dance. Boh. Be gad, gramercies, little king, for this; This sport is better in my exile life Than ever the deceitful werld could yield. Ober. I tell thee, Bohan, Oberon is king Of quiet, pleasure, profit, and content, Of wealth, of honour, and of all the world; Tied to no place, yet all are tied to me. Live thou this life, exil'd from world and men, And I will show thee wonders ere we part. Boh. Then mark my story, and the strange doubts That follow flatterers, lust, and lawless will, And then say I have reason to forsake The world and all that are within the same. Go shroud us in our harbour, where we'll see The pride of folly, as it ought to be. [Exeunt. After the first Act. Ober. Here see I good fond actions in thy jig, And means to paint the world's inconstant ways: But turn thine ene, see what I can command. Enter two battles, strongly fighting, the one led by SEMIRAMIS, the other by STABROBATES: she flies, and her crown is taken, and she hurt. Boh. What gars this din of mirk and baleful harm, Where every wean is all betaint with blood? Ober. This shows thee, Bohan, what is worldly pomp: Semiramis, the proud Assyrian queen, When Ninus died, did levy in her wars Three millions of footmen to the fight, Five hundred thousand horse, of armèd cars A hundred thousand more, yet in her pride Was hurt and conquer'd by Stabrobates. Then what is pomp? Boh. I see thou art thine ene, Thou bonny king, if princes fall from high: My fall is past, until I fall to die. Now mark my talk, and prosecute my jig. 2. Ober. How should these crafts withdraw thee from the world! But look, my Bohan, pomp allureth. Enter CYRUS, kings humbling themselves; himself crowned by Olive Pat: at last dying, laid in a marble tomb with this inscription: "Whoso thou be that passest [by], For I know one shall pass, know I Am Cyrus of Persia, and I pray Leave me not thus like a clod of clay Wherewith my body is coverèd." [All exeunt. Enter the King in great pomp, who reads it, and issueth, crying "Ver meum." Boh. What meaneth this? Ober. Cyrus of Persia, Mighty in life, within a marble grave Was laid to rot; whom Alexander once Beheld entomb'd, and weeping did confess, Nothing in life could scape from wretchedness: Why, then, boast men? Boh. What reck I, then, of life, Who make the grave my home, the earth my wife? Ober. But mark me more. 3. Boh. I can no more; my patience will not warp To see these flatterers how they scorn and carp. Ober. Turn but thy head. Enter [f]our Kings carrying crowns, Ladies presenting odours to Potentate enthroned, who suddenly is slain by his Servants and thrust out; and so they eat. [Exeunt. Boh. Sike is the werld; but whilk is he I saw? Ober. Sesostris, who was conqueror of the world, Slain at the last and stamp'd on by his slaves. Boh. How blest are peur men, then, that know their graves! Now mark the sequel of my jig; An he weel meet ends. The mirk and sable night Doth leave the peering morn to pry abroad; Thou nill me stay: hail, then, thou pride of kings? I ken the world, and wot well worldly things. Mark thou my jig, in mirkest terms that tells The loath of sins and where corruption dwells. Hail me ne mere with shows of guidly sights; My grave is mine, that rids me from despites; Accept my jig, guid king, and let me rest; The grave with guid men is a gay-built nest Ober. The rising sun doth call me hence away Thanks for thy jig, I may no longer stay But if my train did wake thee from thy rest. So shall they sing thy lullaby to nest. [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. The COUNTESS OF ARRAN and IDA discovered in their porch, sitting at work: a Servant attending. A Song. Count. of A. Fair Ida, might you choose the greatest good, Midst all the world in blessings that abound, Wherein, my daughter, should your liking be? Ida. Not in delights, or pomp, or majesty. Count. of A. And why? Ida. Since these are means to draw the mind From perfect good, and make true judgment blind. Count. of A. Might you have wealth and Fortune's richest store? Ida. Yet would I, might I choose, be honest-poor; For she that sits at Fortune's feet a-low Is sure she shall not taste a further woe, But those that prank on top of Fortune's ball Still fear a change, and, fearing, catch a fall. Count. of A. Tut, foolish maid, each one contemneth need. Ida. Good reason why, they know not good indeed. Count. of A. Many, marry, then, on whom distress doth lour. Ida. Yes, they that virtue deem an honest dower. Madam, by right this world I may compare Unto my work, wherein with heedful care The heavenly workman plants with curious hand, As I with needle draw each thing on land, Even as he list: some men like to the rose Are fashion'd fresh; some in their stalks do close, And, born, do sudden die; some are but weeds, And yet from them a secret good proceeds: I with my needle, if I please, may blot The fairest rose within my cambric plot; God with a beck can change each worldly thing, The poor to rich, the beggar to the king. What, then, hath man wherein he well may boast, Since by a beck he lives, a lour is lost? Count. of A. Peace, Ida, here are strangers near at hand. Enter EUSTACE with letters. Eust. Madam, God speed! Count. of A. I thank you, gentle squire. Eust. The country Countess of Northumberland Doth greet you well, and hath requested me To bring these letters to your ladyship. [Delivers the letters. Count. of A. I thank her honour, and yourself, my friend. [Peruses them. I see she means you good, brave gentleman.— Daughter, the Lady Elinor salutes Yourself as well as me: then for her sake 'Twere good you entertain'd that courtier well. Ida. As much salute as may become my sex, And he in virtue can vouchsafe to think, I yield him for the courteous countess' sake.— Good sir, sit down: my mother here and I Count time misspent an endless vanity. Eust. [aside.] Beyond report, the wit, the fair, the shape!— What work you here, fair mistress? may I see it? Ida. Good sir, look on: how like you this compáct? Eust. Methinks in this I see true love in act: The woodbines with their leaves do sweetly spread, The roses blushing prank them in their red; No flower but boasts the beauties of the spring; This bird hath life indeed, if it could sing. What means, fair mistress, had you in this work? Ida. My needle, sir. Eust. In needles, then, there lurk Some hidden grace, I deem, beyond my reach. Ida. Not grace in them, good sir, but those that teach. Eust. Say that your needle now were Cupid's sting,— [Aside.] But, ah, her eye must be no less, In which is heaven and heavenliness, In which the food of God is shut, Whose powers the purest minds do glut! Ida. What if it were? Eust. Then see a wondrous thing; I fear me you would paint in Tereus' heart Affection in his power and chiefest part. Ida. Good Lord, sir, no! for hearts but prickèd soft Are wounded sore, for so I hear it oft. Eust. What recks the wound, where but your happy eye May make him live whom Jove hath judg'd to die? Ida. Should life and death within this needle lurk, I'll prick no hearts, I'll prick upon my work. Count. of A. Peace, Ida, I perceive the fox at hand. Eust. The fox! why, fetch your hounds, and chase him hence. Count. of A. O, sir, these great men bark at small offence. Come, will it please you to enter, gentle sir? [They offer to go out. Enter ATEUKIN and SLIPPER. Ateu. Stay, courteous ladies; favour me so much As to discourse a word or two apart. Count. of A. Good sir, my daughter learns this rule of me, To shun resort and strangers' company; For some are shifting mates that carry letters, Some, such as you, too good because our betters. Slip. Now, I pray you, sir, what akin are you to a pickerel? Ateu. Why, knave? Slip. By my troth, sir, because I never knew a proper situation fellow of your pitch fitter to swallow a gudgeon. Ateu. What meanest thou by this? Slip. Shifting fellow, sir,—these be thy words; shifting fellow: this gentlewoman, I fear me, knew your bringing up. Ateu. How so? Slip. Why, sir, your father was a miller, that could shift for a peck of grist in a bushel, and you['re] a fair-spoken gentleman, that can get more land by a lie than an honest man by his ready money. Ateu. Caitiff, what sayest thou? Slip. I say, sir, that if she call you shifting knave, you shall not put her to the proof. Ateu. And why? Slip. Because, sir, living by your wit as you do, shifting is your letters-patents: it were a hard matter for me to get my dinner that day wherein my master had not sold a dozen of devices, a case of cogs, and a suit of shifts, in the morning. I speak this in your commendation, sir, and, I pray you, so take it. Ateu. If I live, knave, I will be revenged. What gentleman would entertain a rascal thus to derogate from his honour? Ida. My lord, why are you thus impatient? Ateu. Not angry, Ida; but I teach this knave How to behave himself among his betters.— Behold, fair countess, to assure your stay, I here present the signet of the king, Who now by me, fair Ida, doth salute you: And since in secret I have certain things In his behalf, good madam, to impart, I crave your daughter to discourse apart. Count. of A. She shall in humble duty be addrest To do his highness' will in what she may. Ida. Now, gentle sir, what would his grace with me? Ateu. Fair, comely nymph, the beauty of your face, Sufficient to bewitch the heavenly powers, Hath wrought so much in him that now of late He finds himself made captive unto love; And though his power and majesty require A straight command before an humble suit, Yet he his mightiness doth so abase As to entreat your favour, honest maid. Ida. Is he not married, sir, unto our queen? Ateu. He is. Ida. And are not they by God accurs'd, That sever them whom he hath knit in one? Ateu. They be: what then? we seek not to displace The princess from her seat, but, since by love The king is made your own, he is resolv'd In private to accept your dalliance, In spite of war, watch, or worldly eye. Ida. O, how he talks, as if he should not die! As if that God in justice once could wink Upon that fault I am asham'd to think! Ateu. Tut, mistress, man at first was born to err; Women are all not formèd to be saints: 'Tis impious for to kill our native king, Whom by a little favour we may save. Ida. Better, than live unchaste, to lie in grave. Ateu. He shall erect your state, and wed you well. Ida. But can his warrant keep my soul from hell? Ateu. He will enforce, if you resist his suit. Ida. What tho? the world may shame to him account, To be a king of men and worldly pelf, Yet hath no power to rule and guide himself. Ateu. I know you, gentle lady, and the care Both of your honour and his grace's health Makes me confusèd in this dangerous state. Ida. So counsel him, but soothe thou not his an. 'Tis vain allurement that doth make him love: I shame to hear, be you asham'd to move. Count. of A. I see my daughter grows impatient: I fear me, he pretends some bad intent. Ateu. Will you despise the king and scorn him so? Ida. In all allegiance I will serve his grace, But not in lust: O, how I blush to name it! Ateu. [aside.] An endless work is this: how should I frame it? [They discourse privately. Slip. O, mistress, may I turn a word upon you? Count. of A. Friend, what wilt thou? Slip. O, what a happy gentlewoman be you truly! the world reports this of you, mistress, that a man can no sooner come to your house but the butler comes with a black-jack and says, "Welcome, friend, here's a cup of the best for you": verily, mistress, you are said to have the best ale in all Scotland. Count. of A. Sirrah, go fetch him drink. [Servant brings drink. How lik'st thou this? Slip. Like it, mistress! why, this is quincy quarie pepper de watchet, single goby, of all that ever I tasted. I'll prove in this ale and toast the compass of the whole world. First, this is the earth,—it lies in the middle, a fair brown toast, a goodly country for hungry teeth to dwell upon; next, this is the sea, a fair pool for a dry tongue to fish in: now come I, and seeing the world is naught, I divide it thus; and because the sea cannot stand without the earth, as Aristotle saith, I put them both into their first chaos, which is my belly: and so, mistress, you may see your ale is become a miracle. Eust. A merry mate, madam, I promise you. Count. of A. Why sigh you, sirrah? Slip. Truly, madam, to think upon the world, which, since I denounced it, keeps such a rumbling in my stomach that, unless your cook give it a counterbuff with some of your roasted capons or beef, I fear me I shall become a loose body, so dainty, I think, I shall neither hold fast before nor behind. Count. of A. Go take him in, and feast this merry swain.— Sirrah, my cook is your physician; He hath a purge for to digest the world. [Exeunt SLIPPER and Servant. Ateu. Will you not, Ida, grant his highness this? Ida. As I have said, in duty I am his: For other lawless lusts that ill beseem him, I cannot like, and good I will not deem him. Count. of A. Ida, come in:—and, sir, if so you please, Come, take a homely widow's entertain. Ida. If he have no great haste, he may come nigh; If haste, though he be gone, I will not cry. [Exeunt the COUNTESS OF ARRAN, IDA, and EUSTACE. Ateu. I see this labour lost, my hope in vain; Yet will I try another drift again. [Exit. SCENE II. Enter, one by one, the BISHOP OF ST. ANDREWS, DOUGLAS, MORTON, and others, one way; QUEEN DOROTHEA with NANO, another way. Bp. of St. And. [aside.] O wreck of commonweal, O wretched state! Doug. [aside.] O hapless flock whereas the guide is blind! Mort. [aside.] O heedless youth where counsel is despis'd! [They all are in a muse. Q. Dor. Come, pretty knave, and prank it by my side; Let's see your best attendance out of hand. Nano. Madam, although my limbs are very small, My heart is good; I'll serve you therewithal. Q. Dor. How, if I were assail'd, what couldst thou do? Nano. Madam, call help, and boldly fight it too: Although a bee be but a little thing, You know, fair queen, it hath a bitter sting. Q. Dor. How couldst thou do me good, were I in grief? Nano. Counsel, dear princess, is a choice relief: Though Nestor wanted force, great was his wit, And though I am but weak, my words are fit. Bp. of St. And. [aside.] Like to a ship upon the ocean-seas, Tost in the doubtful stream, without a helm, Such is a monarch without good advice. I am o'erheard: cast rein upon thy tongue; Andrews, beware; reproof will breed a scar. Mor. Good day, my lord. Bp. of St. And. Lord Morton, well y-met.— Whereon deems Lord Douglas all this while? Doug. Of that which yours and my poor heart doth break, Although fear shuts our mouths, we dare not speak. Q. Dor. [aside.] What mean these princes sadly to consult? Somewhat, I fear, betideth them amiss, They are so pale in looks, so vex'd in mind.— In happy hour, ye noble Scottish peers, Have I encounter'd you: what makes you mourn? Bp. of St. And. If we with patience may attention gain, Your grace shall know the cause of all our grief. Q. Dor. Speak on, good father; come and sit by me: I know thy care is for the common good. Bp. of St. And. As fortune, mighty princess, reareth some To high estate and place in commonweal, So by divine bequest to them is lent A riper judgment and more searching eye, Whereby they may discern the common harm; For where our fortunes in the world are most, Where all our profits rise and still encrease, There is our mind, thereon we meditate, And what we do partake of good advice, That we employ for to concern the same. To this intent, these nobles and myself, That are, or should be, eyes of commonweal, Seeing his highness' reckless course of youth, His lawless and unbridled vein in love, His too intentive trust to flatterers, His abject care of counsel and his friends, Cannot but grieve; and since we cannot draw His eye or judgment to discern his faults, Since we have spoke and counsel is not heard, I, for my part,—let others as they list,— Will leave the court, and leave him to his will, Lest with a ruthful eye I should behold His overthrow, which, sore I fear, is nigh. Q. Dor. Ah father, are you so estrang'd from love, From due allegiance to your prince and land, To leave your king when most he needs your help? The thrifty husbandmen are never wont, That see their lands unfruitful, to forsake them; But when the mould is barren and unapt, They toil, they plough, and make the fallow fat: The pilot in the dangerous seas is known; In calmer waves the silly sailor strives. Are you not members, lords, of commonweal, And can your head, your dear anointed king, Default, ye lords, except yourselves do fail? O, stay your steps, return, and counsel him! Doug. Men seek not moss upon a rolling stone, Or water from the sieve, or fire from ice, Or comfort from a reckless monarch's hands. Madam, he sets us light that serv'd in court, In place of credit, in his father's days: If we but enter presence of his grace, Our payment is a frown, a scoff, a frump; Whilst flattering Gnatho pranks it by his side, Soothing the careless king in his misdeeds: And if your grace consider your estate, His life should urge you too, if all be true. Q. Dor. Why, Douglas, why? Doug. As if you have not heard His lawless love to Ida grown of late, His careless estimate of your estate. Q. Dor. Ah Douglas, thou misconstru'st his intent! He doth but tempt his wife, he tries my love: This injury pertains to me, not you. The king is young; and if he step awry, He may amend, and I will love him still. Should we disdain our vines because they sprout Before their time? or young men, if they strain Beyond their reach? No; vines that bloom and spread Do promise fruits, and young men that are wild In age grow wise. My friends and Scottish peers, If that an English princess may prevail, Stay, stay with him: lo, how my zealous prayer Is plead with tears! fie, peers, will you hence? Bp. of St. And. Madam, 'tis virtue in your grace to plead; But we, that see his vain untoward course, Cannot but fly the fire before it burn, And shun the court before we see his fall. Q. Dor. Will you not stay? then, lordings, fare you well. Though you forsake your king, the heavens, I hope, Will favour him through mine incessant prayer. Nano. Content you, madam; thus old Ovid sings, 'Tis foolish to bewail recureless things. Q. Dor. Peace, dwarf; these words my patience move. Nano. Although you charm my speech, charm not my love. [Exeunt QUEEN and NANO. Enter the KING OF SCOTS; the Nobles, spying him as they are about to go off, return. K. of Scots. Douglas, how now! why changest thou thy cheer? Doug. My private troubles are so great, my liege, As I must crave your license for a while, For to intend mine own affairs at home. K. of Scots. You may depart. [Exit DOUGLAS. But why is Morton sad? Mor. The like occasion doth import me too, So I desire your grace to give me leave. K. of Scots. Well, sir, you may betake you to your ease. [Exit MORTON. [Aside.] When such grim sirs are gone, I see no let To work my will. Bp. of St. And. What, like the eagle, then, With often flight wilt thou thy feathers lose? O king, canst thou endure to see thy court Of finest wits and judgments dispossess'd, Whilst cloaking craft with soothing climbs so high As each bewails ambition is so bad? Thy father left thee with estate and crown, A learnèd council to direct thy course: These carelessly, O king, thou castest off To entertain a train of sycophants. Thou well mayst see, although thou wilt not see, That every eye and ear both sees and hears The certain signs of thine incontinence. Thou art allied unto the English king By marriage; a happy friend indeed, If usèd well, if not, a mighty foe. Thinketh your grace, he can endure and brook To have a partner in his daughter's love? Thinketh your grace, the grudge of privy wrongs Will not procure him change his smiles to threats? O, be not blind to good! call home your lords, Displace these flattering Gnathoes, drive them hence; Love and with kindness take your wedlock wife; Or else, which God forbid, I fear a change: Sin cannot thrive in courts without a plague. K. of Scots. Go pack thou too, unless thou mend thy talk: On pain of death, proud bishop, get you gone, Unless you headless mean to hop away. Bp. of St And. Thou God of heaven prevent my country's fall! [Exit with other Nobles. K. of Scots. These stays and lets to pleasure plague my thoughts, Forcing my grievous wounds anew to bleed: But care that hath transported me so far, Fair Ida, is dispers'd in thought of thee, Whose answer yields me life or breeds my death. Yond comes the messenger of weal or woe. Enter ATEUKIN. Ateukin, what news? Ateu. The adamant, O king, will not be fil'd But by itself, and beauty that exceeds By some exceeding favour must be wrought. Ida is coy as yet, and doth repine, Objecting marriage, honour, fear, and death: She's holy-wise and too precise for me. K. of Scots. Are these thy fruits of wit, thy sight in art, Thine eloquence, thy policy, thy drift,— To mock thy prince? Then, caitiff, pack thee hence, And let me die devourèd in my love. Ateu. Good Lord, how rage gainsayeth reason's power! My dear, my gracious, and belovèd prince, The essence of my soul, my god on earth, Sit down and rest yourself: appease your wrath, Lest with a frown ye wound me to the death. O, that I were included in my grave, That either now, to save my prince's life, Must counsel cruelty, or lose my king! K. of Scots. Why, sirrah, is there means to move her mind? Ateu. O, should I not offend my royal liege,— K. of Scots. Tell all, spare naught, so I may gain my love. Ateu. Alas, my soul, why art thou torn in twain, For fear thou talk a thing that should displease! K. of Scots. Tut, speak whatso thou wilt, I pardon thee. Ateu. How kind a word, how courteous is his grace! Who would not die to succour such a king? My liege, this lovely maid of modest mind Could well incline to love, but that she fears Fair Dorothea's power: your grace doth know, Your wedlock is a mighty let to love. Were Ida sure to be your wedded wife, That then the twig would bow you might command: Ladies love presents, pomp, and high estate. K. of Scots. Ah Ateukin, how should we displace this let? Ateu. Tut, mighty prince,—O, that I might be whist! K. of Scots. Why dalliest thou? Ateu. I will not move my prince; I will prefer his safety 'fore my life. Hear me, O king! 'tis Dorothea's death Must do you good. K. of Scots. What, murder of my queen! Yet, to enjoy my love, what is my queen? O, but my vow and promise to my queen! Ay, but my hope to gain a fairer queen: With how contrarious thoughts am I withdrawn! Why linger I twixt hope and doubtful fear? If Dorothea die, will Ida love? Ateu. She will, my lord. K. of Scots. Then let her die: devise, advise the means; All likes me well that lends me hope in love. Ateu. What, will your grace consent? then let me work. There's here in court a Frenchman, Jaques call'd, A fit performer of our enterprise, Whom I by gifts and promise will corrupt To slay the queen, so that your grace will seal A warrant for the man, to save his life. K. of Scots. Naught shall he want; write thou, and I will sign: And, gentle Gnatho, if my Ida yield, Thou shalt have what thou wilt; I'll give thee straight A barony, an earldom for reward. Ateu. Frolic, young king, the lass shall be your own: I'll make her blithe and wanton by my wit. [Exeunt. Enter BOHAN with OBERON. Boh. So, Oberon, now it begins to work in kind. The ancient lords by leaving him alone, Disliking of his humours and despite, Let him run headlong, till his flatterers, Soliciting his thoughts of lawless lust With vile persuasions and alluring words, Make him make way by murder to his will. Judge, fairy king, hast heard a greater ill? Ober. Nor seen more virtue in a country maid. I tell thee, Bohan, it doth make me sorry, To think the deeds the king means to perform. Boh. To change that humour, stand and see the rest: I trow my son Slipper will show's a jest. Enter SLIPPER with a companion, boy or wench, dancing a hornpipe, and dance out again. Now after this beguiling of our thoughts, And changing them from sad to better glee, Let's to our cell, and sit and see the rest, For, I believe, this jig will prove no jest. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I. Enter SLIPPER one way, and SIR BARTRAM another way. Sir Bar. Ho, fellow! stay, and let me speak with thee. Slip. Fellow! friend, thou dost abuse me; I am a gentleman. Sir Bar. A gentleman! how so? Slip. Why, I rub horses, sir. Sir Bar. And what of that? Slip. O simple-witted! mark my reason. They that do good service in the commonweal are gentlemen; but such as rub horses do good service in the commonweal, ergo, tarbox, master courtier, a horse-keeper is a gentleman. Sir Bar. Here is overmuch wit, in good earnest. But, sirrah, where is thy master? Slip. Neither above ground nor under ground, drawing out red into white, swallowing that down without chawing that was never made without treading. Sir Bar. Why, where is he, then? Slip. Why, in his cellar, drinking a cup of neat and brisk claret in a bowl of silver. O, sir, the wine runs trillill down his throat, which cost the poor vintner many a stamp before it was made. But I must hence, sir, I have haste. Sir Bar. Why, whither now, I prithee? Slip. Faith, sir, to Sir Silvester, a knight, hard by, upon my master's errand, whom I must certify this, that the lease of East Spring shall be confirmed: and therefore must I bid him provide trash, for my master is no friend without money. Sir Bar. [aside.] This is the thing for which I su'd so long, This is the lease which I, by Gnatho's means, Sought to possess by patent from the king; But he, injurious man, who lives by crafts, And sells king's favours for who will give most, Hath taken bribes of me, yet covertly Will sell away the thing pertains to me: But I have found a present help, I hope, For to prevent his purpose and deceit.— Stay, gentle friend. Slip. A good word; thou hast won me: this word is like a warm caudle to a cold stomach. Sir Bar. Sirrah, wilt thou, for money and reward, Convey me certain letters, out of hand, From out thy master's pocket? Slip. Will I, sir? why, were it to rob my father, hang my mother, or any such like trifles, I am at your commandment, sir. What will you give me, sir? Sir Bar. A hundred pounds. Slip. I am your man: give me earnest. I am dead at a pocket, sir; why, I am a lifter, master, by my occupation. Sir Bar. A lifter! what is that? Slip. Why, sir, I can lift a pot as well as any man, and pick a purse as soon as any thief in my country. Sir Bar. Why, fellow, hold; here is earnest, ten pound to assure thee. [Gives money.] Go, despatch, and bring it me to yonder tavern thou seest; and assure thyself, thou shalt both have thy skin full of wine and the rest of thy money. Slip. I will, sir.—Now room for a gentleman, my masters! who gives me money for a fair new angel, a trim new angel? [Exeunt severally. SCENE II. Enter ANDREW and Purveyor. Pur. Sirrah, I must needs have your master's horses: the king cannot be unserved. And. Sirrah, you must needs go without them, because my master must be served. Pur. Why, I am the king's purveyor, and I tell thee I will have them. And. I am Ateukin's servant, Signior Andrew, and I say, thou shalt not have them, Pur. Here's my ticket, deny it if thou darest. And. There is the stable, fetch them out if thou darest. Pur. Sirrah, sirrah, tame your tongue, lest I make you. And. Sirrah, sirrah, hold your hand, lest I bum you. Pur. I tell thee, thy master's geldings are good, and therefore fit for the king. And. I tell thee, my master's horses have galled backs, and therefore cannot fit the king. Purveyor, purveyor, purvey thee of more wit: darest thou presume to wrong my Lord Ateukin, being the chiefest man in court? Pur. The more unhappy commonweal where flatterers are chief in court. And. What sayest thou? Pur. I say thou art too presumptuous, and the officers shall school thee. And. A fig for them and thee, purveyor! they seek a knot in a ring that would wrong my master or his servants in this court. Enter JAQUES. Pur. The world is at a wise pass when nobility is afraid of a flatterer. Jaq. Sirrah, what be you that parley contre Monsieur my Lord Ateukin? en bonne foi, prate you against Sir Altesse, me maka your tête to leap from your shoulders, par ma foi c'y ferai-je. And. O, signior captain, you show yourself a forward and friendly gentleman in my master's behalf: I will cause him to thank you. Jaq. Poltron, speak me one parola against my bon gentilhomme, I shall estramp your guts, and thump your backa, that you no point manage this ten ours. Pur. Sirrah, come open me the stable, and let me have the horses:—and, fellow, for all your French brags, I will do my duty. And. I'll make garters of thy guts, thou villain, if thou enter this office. Jaq. Mort Dieu, take me that cappa pour votre labeur: be gone, villain, in the mort. [Exit. Pur. What, will you resist me, then? well, the council, fellow, shall know of your insolency. And. Tell them what thou wilt, and eat that I can best spare from my back-parts, and get you gone with a vengeance. [Exit Purveyor. Enter ATEUKIN. Ateu. Andrew. And. Sir? Ateu. Where be my writings I put in my pocket last night? And. Which, sir? your annotations upon Machiavel? Ateu. No, sir; the letters-patents for East Spring. And. Why, sir, you talk wonders to me, if you ask that question. Ateu. Yea, sir, and will work wonders too with you, unless you find them out: villain, search me them out, and bring them me, or thou art but dead. And. A terrible word in the latter end of a sessions. Master, were you in your right wits yesternight? Ateu. Dost thou doubt it? And. Ay, and why not, sir? for the greatest clerks are not the wisest, and a fool may dance in a hood, as well as a wise man in a bare frock: besides, such as give themselves to philautia, as you do, master, are so choleric of complexion that that which they burn in fire over night they seek for with fury the next morning. Ah, I take care of your worship! this commonweal should have a great loss of so good a member as you are. Ateu. Thou flatterest me. And. Is it flattery in me, sir, to speak you fair? what is it, then, in you to dally with the king? Ateu. Are you prating, knave? I will teach you better nurture. Is this the care you have of my wardrobe, of my accounts, and matters of trust? And. Why, alas, sir, in times past your garments have been so well inhabited as your tenants would give no place to a moth to mangle them; but since you are grown greater, and your garments more fine and gay, if your garments are not fit for hospitality, blame your pride and commend my cleanliness: as for your writings, I am not for them, nor they for me. Ateu. Villain, go fly, find them out: if thou losest them, thou losest my credit. And. Alas, sir, can I lose that you never had? Ateu. Say you so? then hold, feel you that you never felt. [Beats him. Re-enter JAQUES. Jaq. O monsieur, ayez patience; pardon your pauvre valet: me be at your commandment. Ateu. Signior Jaques, well met; you shall command me.—Sirrah, go cause my writings be proclaimed in the market-place; promise a great reward to them that find them: look where I supped and everywhere. And. I will, sir.—Now are two knaves well met, and three well parted: if you conceive mine enigma, gentlemen, what shall I be, then? faith, a plain harp-shilling. [Exit. Ateu. Sieur Jaques, this our happy meeting hinders Your friends and me of care and grievous toil; For I that look into deserts of men, And see among the soldiers in this court A noble forward mind, and judge thereof, Cannot but seek the means to raise them up Who merit credit in the commonweal. To this intent, friend Jaques, I have found A means to make you great, and well-esteem'd Both with the king and with the best in court; For I espy in you a valiant mind, Which makes me love, admire, and honour you. To this intent, if so your trust, and faith, Your secrecy be equal with your force, I will impart a service to thyself, Which if thou dost effect, the king, myself, And what or he, and I with him, can work, Shall be employ'd in what thou wilt desire. Jaq. Me sweara by my ten bones, my signior, to be loyal to your lordship's intents, affairs: yea, my monseigneur, que non ferai-je pour your pleasure? By my sworda, me be no babillard. Ateu. Then hoping on thy truth, I prithee see How kind Ateukin is to forward thee. Hold, [giving money] take this earnest-penny of my love, And mark my words; the king, by me, requires No slender service, Jaques, at thy hands. Thou must by privy practice make away The queen, fair Dorothea, as she sleeps, Or how thou wilt, so she be done to death: Thou shalt not want promotion here in court. Jaq. Stabba the woman! par ma foi, monseigneur, me thrusta my weapon into her belly, so me may be guard par le roi. Me de your service: but me no be hanged pour my labour? Ateu. Thou shalt have warrant, Jaques, from the king: None shall outface, gainsay, and wrong my friend. Do not I love thee, Jaques? fear not, then: I tell thee, whoso toucheth thee in aught Shall injure me: I love, I tender thee: Thou art a subject fit to serve his grace. Jaques, I had a written warrant once, But that by great misfortune late is lost. Come, wend we to Saint Andrews, where his grace Is now in progress, where he shall assure Thy safety, and confirm thee to the act. Jaq. We will attend your nobleness. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter QUEEN DOROTHEA, SIR BARTRAM, NANO, ROSS, Ladies, Attendants. Q. Dor. Thy credit, Bartram, in the Scottish court, Thy reverend years, the strictness of thy vows, All these are means sufficient to persuade; But love, the faithful link of loyal hearts, That hath possession of my constant mind, Exiles all dread, subdueth vain suspect. Methinks no craft should harbour in that breast Where majesty and virtue are install'd: Methink[s] my beauty should not cause my death. Sir Bar. How gladly, sovereign princess, would I err, And bind my shame to save your royal life! 'Tis princely in yourself to think the best, To hope his grace is guiltless of this crime: But if in due prevention you default, How blind are you that were forewarn'd before! Q. Dor. Suspicion without cause deserveth blame. Sir Bar. Who see, and shun not, harms, deserve the same. Behold the tenor of this traitorous plot. [Gives warrant. Q. Dor. What should I read? perhaps he wrote it not. Sir Bar. Here is his warrant, under seal and sign, To Jaques, born in France, to murder you. Q. Dor. Ah careless king, would God this were not thine! What though I read? ah, should I think it true? Ross. The hand and seal confirm the deed is his. Q. Dor. What know I though, if now he thinketh this? Nano. Madam, Lucretius saith that to repent Is childish, wisdom to prevent. Q. Dor. What tho? Nano. Then cease your tears that have dismay'd you, And cross the foe before he have betray'd you. Sir Bar. What need these long suggestions in this cause, When every circumstance confirmeth truth? First, let the hidden mercy from above Confirm your grace, since by a wondrous means The practice of your dangers came to light: Next, let the tokens of approvèd truth Govern and stay your thoughts too much seduc'd, And mark the sooth and listen the intent. Your highness knows, and these my noble lords Can witness this, that whilst your husband's sire In happy peace possess'd the Scottish crown, I was his sworn attendant here in court; In dangerous fight I never fail'd my lord, And since his death, and this your husband's reign, No labour, duty, have I left undone, To testify my zeal unto the crown. But now my limbs are weak, mine eyes are dim, Mine age unwieldy and unmeet for toil, I came to court, in hope, for service past, To gain some lease to keep me, being old. There found I all was upsy-turvy turn'd, My friends displac'd, the nobles loth to crave: Then sought I to the minion of the king, Ateukin, who, allurèd by a bribe, Assur'd me of the lease for which I sought. But see the craft! when he had got the grant, He wrought to sell it to Sir Silvester, In hope of greater earnings from his hands. In brief, I learn'd his craft, and wrought the means, By one his needy servant for reward, To steal from out his pocket all the briefs; Which he perform'd, and with reward resign'd. Them when I read,—now mark the power of God,— I found this warrant seal'd among the rest, To kill your grace, whom God long keep alive! Thus, in effect, by wonder are you sav'd: Trifle not, then, but seek a speedy flight; God will conduct your steps and shield the right. Q. Dor. What should I do? ah poor unhappy queen, Born to endure what fortune can contain! Alas, the deed is too apparent now! But, O mine eyes, were you as bent to hide As my poor heart is forward to forgive, Ah cruel king, my love would thee acquit! O, what avails to be allied and match'd With high estates, that marry but in show! Were I baser born, my mean estate Could warrant me from this impendent harm: But to be great and happy, these are twain. Ah Ross, what shall I do? how shall I work? Ross. With speedy letters to your father send, Who will revenge you and defend your right. Q. Dor. As if they kill not me, who with him fight! As if his breast be touch'd, I am not wounded! As if he wail'd, my joys were not confounded! We are one heart, though rent by hate in twain; One soul, one essence doth our weal contain: What, then, can conquer him, that kills not me? Ross. If this advice displease, then, madam, flee. Q. Dor. Where may I wend or travel without fear? Nano. Where not, in changing this attire you wear? Q. Dor. What, shall I clad me like a country maid? Nano. The policy is base, I am afraid. Q. Dor. Why, Nano? Nano. Ask you why? What, may a queen March forth in homely weed, and be not seen? The rose, although in thorny shrubs she spread, Is still the rose, her beauties wax not dead; And noble minds, although the coat be bare, Are by their semblance known, how great they are. Sir Bar. The dwarf saith true. Q. Dor. What garments lik'st thou, than? Nano. Such as may make you seem a proper man. Q. Dor. He makes me blush and smile, though I am sad. Nano. The meanest coat for safety is not bad. Q. Dor. What, shall I jet in breeches like a squire? Alas, poor dwarf, thy mistress is unmeet! Nano. Tut, go me thus, your cloak before your face, Your sword uprear'd with quaint and comely grace: If any come and question what you be, Say you, "A man," and call for witness me. Q. Dor. What should I wear a sword, to what intent? Nano. Madam, for show; it is an ornament: If any wrong you, draw: a shining blade Withdraws a coward thief that would invade. Q. Dor. But if I strike, and he should strike again, What should I do? I fear I should be slain. Nano. No, take it single on your dagger so: I'll teach you, madam, how to ward a blow. Q. Dor. How little shapes much substance may include!— Sir Bartram, Ross, ye ladies, and my friends, Since presence yields me death, and absence life, Hence will I fly disguisèd like a squire, As one that seeks to live in Irish wars: You, gentle Ross, shall furnish my depart. Ross. Yea, prince, and die with you with all my heart: Vouchsafe me, then, in all extremest states To wait on you and serve you with my best. Q. Dor. To me pertains the woe: live thou in rest. Friends, fare you well: keep secret my depart: Nano alone shall my attendant be. Nano. Then, madam, are you mann'd, I warrant ye: Give me a sword, and if there grow debate, I'll come behind, and break your enemy's pate. Ross. How sore we grieve to part so soon away! Q. Dor. Grieve not for those that perish if they stay. Nano. The time in words mispent is little worth; Madam, walk on, and let them bring us forth. [Exeunt. Chorus. Enter BOHAN. Boh. So, these sad motions make the fairy sleep; And sleep he shall in quiet and content: For it would make a marble melt and weep, To see these treasons 'gainst the innocent. But since she scapes by flight to save her life, The king may chance repent she was his wife. The rest is ruthful; yet, to beguile the time, 'Tis interlac'd with merriment and rhyme. [Exit. ACT IV. SCENE I. After a noise of horns and shoutings, enter certain Huntsmen (if you please, singing) one way; another way ATEUKIN and JAQUES. Ateu. Say, gentlemen, where may we find the king? First Hunts. Even here at hand, on hunting; And at this hour he taken hath a stand, To kill a deer. Ateu. A pleasant work in hand. Follow your sport, and we will seek his grace. First Hunts. When such him seek, it is a woful case. [Exeunt Huntsmen one way, ATEUKIN and JAQUES another. SCENE II. Enter the COUNTESS OF ARRAN, IDA, and EUSTACE. Count. of A. Lord Eustace, as your youth and virtuous life Deserve a far more fair and richer wife, So, since I am a mother, and do wit What wedlock is and that which 'longs to it, Before I mean my daughter to bestow, 'Twere meet that she and I your state did know. Eust. Madam, if I consider Ida's worth, I know my portion merits none so fair, And yet I hold in farm and yearly rent A thousand pound, which may her state content. Count. of A. But what estate, my lord, shall she possess? Eust. All that is mine, grave countess, and no less.— But, Ida, will you love? Ida. I cannot hate. Eust. But will you wed? Ida. 'Tis Greek to me, my lord: I'll wish you well, and thereon take my word. Eust. Shall I some sign of favour, then, receive Ida. Ay, if her ladyship will give me leave. Count. of A. Do what thou wilt. Ida. Then, noble English peer, Accept this ring, wherein my heart is set, A constant heart with burning flames be-fret, But under-written this, O morte dura: Hereon whenso you look with eyes pura, The maid you fancy most will favour you. Eust. I'll try this heart, in hope to find it true. Enter certain Huntsmen and Ladies. First Hunts. Widow Countess, well y-met; Ever may thy joys be many;— Gentle Ida, sair beset, Fair and wise, not fairer any; Frolic huntsmen of the game Will you well and give you greeting. Ida. Thanks, good woodman, for the same, And our sport, and merry meeting. First Hunts. Unto thee we do present Silver hart with arrow wounded. Eust. [aside.] This doth shadow my lament, Both [with] fear and love confounded. First Lady. To the mother of the maid, Fair as the lilies, red as roses, Even so many goods are said, As herself in heart supposes. Count. of A. What are you, friends, that thus do wish us well? First Hunts. Your neighbours nigh, that have on hunting been, Who, understanding of your walking forth, Prepar'd this train to entertain you with: This Lady Douglas, this Sir Egmond is. Count. of A. Welcome, ye ladies, and thousand thanks for this: Come, enter you a homely widow's house, And if mine entertainment please you, let us feast. First Hunts. A lovely lady never wants a guest. [Exeunt COUNTESS OF ARRAN, Huntsmen, and Ladies. Eust. Stay, gentle Ida, tell me what you deem, What doth this hart, this tender hart beseem? Ida. Why not, my lord, since nature teacheth art To senseless beasts to cure their grievous smart; Dictamnum serves to close the wound again. Eust. What help for those that love? Ida. Why, love again. Eust. Were I the hart,——— Ida. Then I the herb would be: You shall not die for help; come, follow me. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter ANDREW and JAQUES. Jaq. Mon dieu, what malheur be this! Me come a the chamber, Signior Andrew, mon dieu; taka my poniard en ma main to give the estocade to the damoisella: par ma foi, there was no person; elle s'est en allée. And. The worse luck, Jaques: but because I am thy friend, I will advise thee somewhat towards the attainment of the gallows. Jaq. Gallows! what be that? And. Marry, sir, a place of great promotion, where thou shalt by one turn above ground rid the world of a knave, and make a goodly ensample for all bloody villains of thy profession. Jaq. Que dites vous, Monsieur Andrew? And. I say, Jaques, thou must keep this path, and hie thee; for the queen, as I am certified, is departed with her dwarf, apparelled like a squire. Overtake her, Frenchman, stab her: I'll promise thee, this doublet shall be happy. Jaq. Pourquoi And. It shall serve a jolly gentleman, Sir Dominus Monseigneur Hangman. Jaq. C'est tout un; me will rama pour la monnoie. [Exit. And. Go, and the rot consume thee!—O, what a trim world is this! My master lives by cozening the king, I by flattering him; Slipper, my fellow, by stealing, and I by lying: is not this a wily accord, gentlemen? This last night, our jolly horsekeeper, being well steeped in liquor, confessed to me the stealing of my master's writings and his great reward: now dare I not bewray him, lest he discover my knavery; but thus have I wrought. I understand he will pass this way, to provide him necessaries; but if I and my fellows fail not, we will teach him such a lesson as shall cost him a chief place on Pennyless Bench for his labour. But yond he comes. Enter SLIPPER, with a Tailor, a Shoemaker, and a Cutler. Slip. Tailor. Tai. Sir? Slip. Let my doublet be white northern, five groats the yard: I tell thee, I will be brave. Tai. It shall, sir. Slip. Now, sir, cut it me like the battlements of a custard, full of round holes: edge me the sleeves with Coventry blue, and let the linings be of tenpenny lockram. Tai. Very good, sir. Slip. Make it the amorous cut, a flap before. Tai. And why so? that fashion is stale. Slip. O, friend, thou art a simple fellow. I tell thee a flap is a great friend to a storrie, it stands him instead of clean napery; and if a man's shirt be torn, it is a present penthouse to defend him from a clean huswife's scoff. Tai. You say sooth, sir. Slip. [Giving money.] Hold, take thy money; there is seven shillings for the doublet, and eight for the breeches: seven and eight; by'rlady, thirty-six is a fair deal of money. Tai. Farewell, sir. Slip. Nay, but stay, tailor. Tai. Why, sir? Slip. Forget not this special make, let my back-parts be well lined, for there come many winter-storms from a windy belly, I tell thee. [Exit Tailor.] Shoemaker. Shoe. Gentleman, what shoe will it please you to have? Slip. A fine neat calves'-leather, my friend. Shoe. O, sir, that is too thin, it will not last you. Slip. I tell thee, it is my near kinsman, for I am Slipper, which hath his best grace in summer to be suited in Jack-ass' skins. Goodwife Calf was my grandmother, and goodman Netherleather mine uncle; but my mother, good woman, alas, she was a Spaniard, and being well tanned and dressed by a goodfellow, an Englishman, is grown to some wealth: as when I have but my upper-parts clad in her husband's costly Spanish leather, I may be bold to kiss the fairest lady's foot in this country. Shoe. You are of high birth, sir: but have you all your mother's marks on you? Slip. Why, knave? Shoe. Because if thou come of the blood of the Slippers, you should have a shoemaker's awl thrust through your ear. Slip. [Giving money.] Take your earnest, friend, and be packing, and meddle not with my pro-genitors. [Exit Shoemaker.] Cutler. Cut. Here, sir. Slip. I must have a reaper and digger. Cut. A rapier and dagger, you mean, sir. Slip. Thou sayest true: but it must have a very fair edge. Cut. Why so, sir? Slip. Because it may cut by himself, for truly, my friend, I am a man of peace, and wear weapons but for fashion. Cut. Well, sir, give me earnest, I will fit you. Slip. [Giving money.] Hold, take it: I betrust thee, friend; let me be well armed. Cut. You shall. [Exit. Slip. Now what remains? there's twenty crowns for a house, three crowns for household-stuff, six-pence to buy a constable's staff; nay, I will be the chief of my parish. There wants nothing but a wench, a cat, a dog, a wife, and a servant, to make an whole family. Shall I marry with Alice, Good-man Grimshawe's daughter? she is fair, but indeed her tongue is like clocks on Shrovetuesday, always out of temper. Shall I wed Sisley of the Whighton? O, no; she is like a frog in a parsley-bed; as skittish as an eel: if I seek to hamper her, she will horn me. But a wench must be had, Master Slipper; yea, and shall be, dear friend. And. [aside.] I now will drive him from his contemplations.—O, my mates, come forward: the lamb is unpent, the fox shall prevail. Enter three Antics, who dance round, and take SLIPPER with them. Slip. I will, my friend[s], and I thank you heartily: pray, keep your courtesy: I am yours in the way of an hornpipe.—[Aside.] They are strangers, I see, they understand not my language: wee, wee.—Nay, but, my friends, one hornpipe further, a refluence back, and two doubles forward: what, not one cross-point against Sundays? What, ho, sirrah, you gome, you with the nose like an eagle, an you be a right Greek, one turn more. [Whilst they are dancing, ANDREW takes away SLIPPER'S money, and then he and the Antics depart. Thieves, thieves! I am robbed! thieves! Is this the knavery of fiddlers? Well, I will then bind the whole credit of their occupation on a bag-piper, and he for my money. But I will after, and teach them to caper in a halter, that have cozened me of my money. [Exit. SCENE IV. Enter QUEEN DOROTHEA in man's apparel, and NANO. Q. Dor. Ah Nano, I am weary of these weeds, Weary to wield this weapon that I bear, Weary of love from whom my woe proceeds, Weary of toil, since I have lost my dear! O weary life, where wanteth no distress, But every thought is paid with heaviness! Nano. Too much of weary, madam: if you please, Sit down, let weary die, and take your ease. Q. Dor. How look I, Nano? like a man or no? Nano. If not a man, yet like a manly shrow. Q. Dor. If any come and meet us on the way, What should we do, if they enforce us stay? Nano. Set cap a-huff, and challenge him the field: Suppose the worst, the weak may fight to yield. Q. Dor. The battle, Nano, in this troubled mind Is far more fierce than ever we may find. The body's wounds by medicines may be eas'd, But griefs of mind by salves are not appeas'd. Nano. Say, madam, will you hear your Nano sing? Q. Dor. Of woe, good boy, but of no other thing. Nano. What, if I sing of fancy, will it please? Q. Dor. To such as nope success such notes breed ease. Nano. What, if I sing, like Damon, to my sheep? Q. Dor. Like Phillis, I will sit me down to weep. Nano. Nay, since my songs afford such pleasure small, I'll sit me down, and sing you none at all. Q. Dor. O, be not angry, Nano! Nano. Nay, you loathe To think on that which doth content us both. Q. Dor. And how? Nano. You scorn disport when you are weary, And loathe my mirth, who live to make you merry. Q. Dor. Danger and fear withdraw me from delight. Nano. 'Tis virtue to contemn false fortune's spite. Q. Dor. What should I do to please thee, friendly squire? Nano. A smile a-day is all I will require; And if you pay me well the smiles you owe me, I'll kill this cursèd care, or else beshrow me. Q. Dor. We are descried; O, Nano, we are dead! Enter JAQUES, his sword drawn. Nano. Tut, yet you walk, you are not dead indeed. Draw me your sword, if he your way withstand, And I will seek for rescue out of hand. Q. Dor. Run, Nano, run, prevent thy princess' death. Nano. Fear not, I'll run all danger out of breath. [Exit. Jaq. Ah, you calleta, you strumpet! ta Maitressa Doretie, êtes vous surprise? Come, say your paternoster, car vous êtes morte, par ma foi. Q. Dor. Callet, me strumpet! caitiff as thou art! But even a princess born, who scorn thy threats: Shall never Frenchman say, an English maid Of threats of foreign force will be afraid. Jaq. You no dire votres prières? morbleu, mechante femme, guarda your breasta there: me make you die on my Morglay. Q. Dor. God shield me, hapless princess and a wife, And save my soul, although I lose my life! [They fight, an |