A COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS, VOL. II
In Four Volumes
Preface Dick of Devonshire The Lady Mother The Tragedy of Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt Captain Underwit Appendix I. Appendix II. Footnotes.
The plays in this volume are printed for the first time. All are anonymous; but it is absolutely certain that Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt is a masterpiece by Fletcher and Massinger; that Captain Underwit is a comedy of Shirley's; and that the Lady Mother (a piece of no particular merit) is by Glapthorne. I am not at all sure that I am right in ascribing Dick of Devonshire to Heywood. But, whoever may have been the author, I am confident that this well-written play will be welcomed by all. In Appendix I I give an account of the folio volume (Eg. MS. 1,994) from which the two last pieces are taken.
To Mr. ROBERT BOYLE, of St. Petersburg, I offer my sincere thanks for the very interesting note (Appendix II) which he sent me after reading the proof-sheets of Barnavelt. Elsewhere I have expressed my gratitude to Mr. F.G. FLEAY for his valuable help.
The preparation of this volume has been a work of great labour, for everything has been transcribed by my own hand; but the tedious delay in publication has been due in great part to circumstances beyond my control.
January 27, 1883.
INTRODUCTION TO DICK OF DEVONSHIRE.
The play of Dick of Devonshire, now first printed (from Eg. MS., 1994), is distinctly a well-written piece, the work of a practised hand. There is nothing amateurish in the workmanship; the reader is not doomed to soar into extravagances at one moment, and sink into flatnesses at another. Ample opportunities were offered for displays of boisterous riot, but the playwright's even-balanced mind was not to be disturbed. Everywhere there are traces of studious care; and we may be sure that a style at once so equable and strong was not attained without a long apprenticeship. Nor will the reader fail to note the lesson of charitableness and Christian forbearance constantly, yet unobtrusively, inculcated.
The hero of the play, Richard Pike, published, under the title of Three to One, a pamphlet (reprinted in vol. i. of Mr. Arber's valuable English Garner) describing his exploits. There is no date to the pamphlet; but it was no doubt issued very shortly after Pike's return, which took place on April 20, 1626. At the outset the writer apologises for the rudeness of his style, "I know not," he says, "what the court of a king means, nor what the fine phrases of silken courtiers are. A good ship I know, and a poor cabin; and the language of a cannon: and therefore as my breeding has been rough, scorning delicacy; and my present being consisteth altogether upon the soldier (blunt, plain and unpolished), so must my writings be, proceeding from fingers fitter for the pike than the pen." In those days a soldier was never at a loss to express himself, and honest Dick Pike was no exception to the rule. He goes straight to the point, and relates his adventures very vividly in the homeliest language. Returning from an expedition against Algiers "somewhat more acquainted with the world, but little amended in estate," he could not long rest inactive; and soon, "the drum beating up for a new expedition," set out to try his fortunes again. The design was against Cadiz; the fleet, under the command of the Earl of Essex, numbered some 110 sail. There is no need to continue the story, for I have nothing to add to the facts set forth in the pamphlet and the play. If Britannia's Pastorals had been written a few years later, we may be sure that William Browne would have paid a fitting compliment to his fellow-townsman's bravery. But Pike's famous deeds were not forgotten by his countymen; for in a broadside of the late seventeenth century, bearing the title of A Panegyric Poem; or, Tavestock's Encomium, he is thus enthusiastically praised:—
"Search whether can be found again the like For noble prowess for our Tav'stock Pike, In whose renowned never-dying name Live England's honour and the Spaniard's shame."
There is a curious notice of our hero in a private letter, dated May 19, 1626, of Dr. Meddus to the Rev. Joseph Mead:—"Yesterday being Holy Thursday, one Pyke, a common soldier, left behind the fleet at Cadiz, delivered a challenge to the Duke of Buckingham from the Marquis of ——, brother-in-law to the Conde d'Olivares, in defence of the honour of his sister; affirming, moreover, that he had wronged Olivares, the King of Spain, and the King of England, and therefore he would fight with him in any part of France. This Pike, a Devonshire man, being presented prisoner to the Duke of Medina, he would needs have him fight at rapier or dagger with a Spaniard, supposing he would not stand him two thrusts: but Pyke, by a dexterous sleight, presently disarmed the Spaniard of his rapier without hurting him, and presented it to the Duke," &c.
As to the authorship of the play, though I should be loth to speak with positiveness, I feel bound to put forward a claim for Thomas Heywood. Through all Heywood's writings there runs a vein of generous kindliness: everywhere we see a gentle, benign countenance, radiant with love and sympathy. On laying down one of his plays, the reader is inclined to apply to him Tacitus' judgment of Agricola, "bonum virum facile crederes, magnum libenter." Now, when we open Dick of Devonshire, the naturalness and simplicity of the first scene at once suggest Heywood's hand. In the second scene, the spirited eulogy on Drake—
"That glory of his country and Spayne's terror, That wonder of the land and the seas minyon, Drake, of eternall memory—"
and the fine lines descriptive of the Armada are just such as we might expect from the author of the closing scenes of the second part of If you know not me, you know nobody. Heywood was fond of stirring adventures: he is quite at home on the sea, and delights in nothing more than in describing a sea-fight; witness his Fortunes by Land and Sea, and the two parts of the Fair Maid of the West. But the underplot bears even clearer traces of Heywood's manner. Manuel is one of those characters he loved to draw—a perfect Christian gentleman, incapable of baseness in word or deed. Few situations could be found more touching than the scene (iii. 3), where Manuel defends with passionate earnestness the honour of his absent brother, Henrico, and tries to comfort his heart-broken father. Heywood dealt in extremes: his characters are, as a rule, either faultless gentlemen or abandoned scoundrels. Hence we need not be surprised that Henrico exceeds other villains in ruffianism as much as his brother, the gentle Manuel, surpasses ordinary heroes in virtue. The characters of Henrico's contracted bride, Eleonora, and Catalina, the good wife of a vicious husband, are drawn tenderly and skilfully. Heywood's eyes were oftener dim with tears than radiant with laughter; yet, with all his sympathy for the afflicted and the fallen, he never took a distorted view of society, but preserved untainted to the end a perennial spring of cheerfulness.
I now leave the reader to the enjoyment of this old play, which, whether it be Heywood's or not, certainly deserves the attention of all faithful students of our inexhaustible dramatic literature.
NOTE.—I gratefully acknowledge the assistance that I have received from F.G. Fleay, Esq., in preparing this volume for the press. To ensure as much accuracy as possible, Mr. Fleay has read the proof-sheets throughout. By the same gentleman's kindness I am able to correct the following misprints in the first volume:—
p. 37, l. 23, for "Yet can give," read, "Yet can I give."
p. 71, l. 18, del. comma after "live."
p. 103, l. 9, del. "we."
p. 119, 7 from bottom, for "she doth preferd doth see," read "she thus preferd," &c.
p. 142, 9 from bottom, for "vouchsafed," read "vouchsafe."
p. 154, l. 19, for "There they are," read "I, here they are."
p. 190, l. 24, for "woman" read "women."
p. 194, l. 12, for "unwist," read "unjust."
p. 228, last line, for "Equire," read "Squire."
p, 258, l. 29, for "1639," read "1612."
p. 274, l. 16, for "whore," read "whore's;" and in the next line, for "sunnes," read "sinnes."
p. 276, l. 4, after "Do not my Dons know," add "me."
p. 281, 4 from bottom, for "wo," read "two."
p. 311, l. 12, for "sol-Re-fa-mi," read "sol-Re-me-fa-mi." In l. 19, for "Ra." read "Re."
p. 317, l. 21, for "goon," read "good."
p. 331, l. i, for "Med,," read "King."
THE PLAY OF DICKE OF DEVONSHIRE.
Hector adest secumque Deos in praelia ducit.
The Duke of Macada, The Duke of Girona, The Duke of Medina, Four Grandies. The Marquesse d'Alquevezzes, Don Pedro Gusman, An ancient Lord. Manuell, His Sons. Henrico, Don Fernando, Governor of Cadiz Towne. Teniente, A Justicier. Bustamente, Captaine of Cadiz Castle. Dicke Pike, The Devonshire Soldier. Don John, A Colonel. Buzzano, Servant to Pedro Guzman. Eleonora, Daughter to Fernando. Catelina, Wife to Don John. A Gentlewoman. An English Captaine. Mr. Jewell. Mr. Hill. Secretary. Mr. Woodrow. A Jaylor. Two Fryers. A Guard. English Soldiers. Spanish Soldiers.
The Play of Dick of Devonshire.
Enter Don Pedro Gusman, Henrico and Manuell, his sons; Don Fernando and Eleanora, his daughter, and Teniente.
Pedr. Gentlemen, y'have much honourd me to take Such entertainement, but y'are welcome all. 'Twas my desire to have your company At parting: heaven knowes when we shall meete againe.
Ten. You are for France then too?
Man. I wayte on my father.
Ten. But how chance, Manuell, your younger brother Is at the Goale before you? What, no Lady To please your eye?
Man. I am not Yet weary of my freedome. May Henrico Meete Joy in his Election: yet I know not One I would sooner chuse to call a sister Than Eleonora.
Pedr. At my returne from France all things shall bee Consummate; in meane time let your owne hearts, Knitt with the strongest tye of love, be merry In mutuall embraces, and let your prayers Fill our departing sayles. Our stay will not Bee long, and the necessity of my affaires Unwillingly doth take me from you.
Hen. Though I could wish your stay, my duty bidds me Expect the enjoying of my happines Till your returne from France.—Your blessing.
Eleo. How ever heaven dispose of Eleonora, Pray write me in your thoughts your humblest daughter, That shall make it a part of her devotions To pray for you.
Fer. Well, sir, since your designe Pulls you away, may your good Angell guard you.
Ten. The like wish I, Don Pedro.
Fer. Manuell, I hope You will not long breath out of Spanish ayre. Farewell!
Pedr. My thanks to all.—Stay!
Fer. The Captaine of the Castle come to interpret That language to us? What newes?
Bust. Such as will make all Spaine dance in Canary. The Brasile fleete—
Bust. Is putting into harbour, and aloud Calls for a Midwife: she is great with gold And longs to be delivered.
Pedr. No he Spanyard Is not a true reioycer at the newes: Be't a good omen to our Journey.
Ten. So we wish all.
Pedr. May we at our returne meet no worse newes Then now at parting. My noble Don Fernando And Teniente, once more farewell, (my daughter, I hope)
Eleonora, Henrico,—Nay, your good newes deserves a farewell.
Bust. A soldier's farewell, a fast hand and heart; Good fate to both. [Ex. Pedr. and Man.
Hen. Come, Elinor, let them discourse their Joyes For the safe fleete: in thee all my delights Embarke themselves.
Bust. Tush, lett 'em come; our shippes have brought with them The newes of warre.
Per. What is that, Gentlemen?
Ten. I am speaking of a fleete of Enemyes.
Per. From whence?
Ten. From England.
Fer. A castle in the ayre.
Ten. Doe you not believe it?
Fer. I heard such a report, But had no faith in't: a mere Potgun!
Bust. Nay, sir, 'Tis certaine there hath bene great preparation, If our Intelligence be true to us; And a mighty Navy threatens the sea.
Fer. What's that to us? How long hath it bene a voyce they were at sea! I have ventured to discharge the soldiers Which to keepe here in pay upon the rumour Of a great fleete a comming, would both pester The Towne and be unnecessary charge To the King our Master.
Ten. But how if they intend us?
Fer. 'Tis not probable: The time of yeare is past, sir, now; more then The middle of October. Had they meant us We should have heard their message in loud Cannon Before this time.
Bust. I am of that opinion.
Ten. But Don Fernando and Bustamente, call to mind The time hath bene, when we supposed too The season past, they have saluted us With more then friendly Bulletts; tore the ribbs Of our Towne up, made every house too hott For the Inhabitants; had a spoyle of all, Spight of our hearts.
Fer. One Swallow makes not Summer: because once Our City was their prize, is't of necessity It must be so againe?
Bust. Or were the Navy Greater, as fame gives out it is the fayrest That ever danced upon these Seas, why yet Should we suspect for this Citty?
Fer. Because we dreame soe.
Ten. If you did dreame it may be as neare truth: I wish the contrary, but know them daring Enemyes.
Fer. The world, we doe acknowledge, cannot boast More resolution then the English hearts Seasond for action.
Ten. Francisco Bustamente, how is the Castle? what strength?
Bust. A fort impregnable, wanting neyther soldiers nor munition.
Ten. Well, looke to't.
Fer. How ere That wilbe necessary; the fort lyes in The mouth of danger, and it will become You to discharge that duty, Bustamente.
Bust. With my best care.
Ten. I wish all well, and that you had not yet Discharg'd your Companyes, Don Fernando.
Fer. Come, come; putt of your Jelousy, Drinke downe the remembrance. We forget Our fleetes arrivall; send your feares away; Nothing but wine and mirth should crowne this day.
Enter two Devonshire Merchants, as being in Sherryes
1. Heare you the newes?
2. Yes, that an English fleete Is making up to Cales.
1. Our Sherryes merchants, Though few of us be heere, shall soundly pay To the furnishing of this Navy.
2. Nay, I assure you Our shipps wilbe fast bound by Spanish charmes Not to get hence in hast.
1. The Divell allready Is furling up the sayles; would all the sackes Which we have bought for England were in Devonshire Turnd to small Beere, so we were but in Tavistocke To see it drawne out; were it nere so thin I'de drink a health to all the Dons in Sherryes And cry a pox upon 'em.
2. That word heard By any lowsy Spanish Picardo Were worth our two neckes. Ile not curse my Diegoes But wish with all my heart that a faire wind May with great Bellyes blesse our English sayles Both out and in; and that the whole fleete may Be at home delivered of no worse a conquest Then the last noble voyage made to this Citty, Though all the wines and merchandize I have here Were ith' Seas bottome.
1. Troth, so would I mine.
2. I nere could tell yet from what roote this huge Large spreading Tree of hate from Spayne to us, From us agayne to Spayne, took the first growth.
1. No? then lie tell you: let us season our sorrow With this discourse.
2. With all my heart I long for't.
1. You shall not loose your longing: then, sir, know The hate a Spanyard beares an Englishman Nor naturall is, nor ancient; but as sparkes, Flying from a flint by beating, beget flames, Matter being neere to feed and nurse the fire, So from a tinder at the first kindled Grew this heartburning twixt these two great Nations.
2. As how, pray?
1. Heare me: any Englishman That can but read our Chronicles can tell That many of our Kings and noblest Princes Have fetcht their best and royallest wives from Spayne, The very last of all binding both kingdomes Within one golden ring of love and peace By the marriage of Queene Mary with that little man (But mighty monarch) Phillip, son and heire To Charles the Emperour.
2. You say right.
1. Religion Having but one face then both here and there, Both Nations seemd as one: Concord, Commerce And sweete Community were Chaynes of Pearle About the neckes of eyther. But when England Threw of the Yoake of Rome, Spayne flew from her; Spayne was no more a sister nor a neighbour, But a sworne Enemy. All this did but bring Dry stickes to kindle fire: now see it burne.
2. And warme my knowledge and experience by't.
1. Spaines anger never blew hott coales indeed Till in Queene Elizabeths Raigne when (may I call him so) That glory of his Country and Spaynes terror, That wonder of the land and the Seas minyon, Drake, of eternall memory, harrowed th'Indyes.
2. The King of Spaynes west Indyes?
1. Yes, when his Hands Nombre de Dios, Cartagena, Hispaniola, With Cuba and the rest of those faire Sisters, The mermaydes of those Seas, whose golden strings Give him his sweetest musicke, when they by Drake And his brave Ginges were ravishd; when these red apples Were gather'd and brought hither to be payrd— Then the Castilian Lyon began to roare.
2. Had he not cause, being vexd soe?
1. When our shipps Carrying such firedrakes in them that the huge Spanish Galleasses, Galleons, Hulkes and Carrackes Being great with gold, in labour with some fright, Were all delivered of fine redcheekt Children At Plymouth, Portsmouth and other English havens And onely by men midwives: had not Spayne reason To cry out, oh Diables Ingleses!
2. It had not spoke such Spanish else.
1. When we did sett our feete even on their Mynes And brought their golden fagotts thence, their Ingotts And silver wedges; when each ship of ours Was able to spread sayles of silke; the tacklings Of twisted gold; when every marryner At his arrivall here had his deepe pockets Crammd full of Pistoletts; when the poorest ship-boy Might on the Thames make duckes and drakes with pieces Of eight fetchd out of Spayne: These were the Bellowes Which blew the Spanish bonfires of revenge; These were the times in which they calld our Nation Borachos, Lutherans and Furias del Inferno.
2. Would we might now give them the selfe same cause To call us soe.
1. The very name of Drake Was a Bugbear to fright Children; Nurses still'd Their little Spanish Nynnyes when they cryde "Hush! the Drake comes."
2. All this must needs beget Their mortall hate to us.
1. It did; yet then We lovd them beyond measure.
1. Why, did not Spaine fetch gold from the West Indies for us To spend here merrily? She planted vines, We eate the Grapes; she playd the Spanish Pavine Under our windowes, we in our bedds lay laughing To heare such Mynstrelsy.
2. How then turnd the windes? Why did this beauteous face of love in us Put on so blacke a Visour of hate to them?
1. Oh, sir, doe but looke backe to Eighty Eight, That Spanish glasse shall tell you, shew each wrinckle. England that yeare was but a bit pickd out To be layd on their Kinges Trencher. Who were their Cookes? Marry, sir, his Grandees and great Dons of Spaine, A Navy was provided, a royall fleete, Infinite for the bravery of Admiralls, Viceadmirall [sic], Generalls, Colonells and Commanders, Soldiers, and all the warlike furniture Cost or experience or mans witt could muster For such a mayne designe.
2. Stay; Eighty Eight,— Thirty eight yeares agoe: much about then Came I into the world.—Well, sir, this fleete?
1. Which made the Sea fish wonder what new kingdome Was building over theirs, beate downe the Billowes Before them to gett thither. 'Twas such a Monster In body, such a wonder in the eyes, And such a thunder in the eares of Christendome That the Popes Holynes would needes be Godfather To this most mighty big limbd Child, and call it Th'Invincible Armado.
2. Thats to say A Fleete of Shipps not to be overcome By any power of man.
1. These were the Whales, These were the huge Levyathans of the Sea Which roaring came with wide and dreadfull Jawes To swallow up our Kingdom, Shipps & Nation. The fame of this Armado flew with Terrour Riding on Envyes wing; the preparation Was wayted on with wonder, and the approach Shewd the grim face of horrour: yet gainst all these Our Country and our Courages were armd.
2. St. George for England!
1. And St. George we cryde, Albeit, we heard, the Spanish Inquisition Was aboord every ship with torture, torments, Whipps strung with wyre, and knives to cutt our throates. But from the armed winds an hoast brake forth Which tare their shipps and sav'd ours.—Thus I have read Two storyes to you; one, why Spayne hates us, T'other why we love not them.
2. Oh, sir, I thank you.
Ent. Teniente, Don John, Henrico.
Ten. I ever feard some ill fate pointed at This Citty.
Jo. Makes the fleete this way?
Ten. I did dreame every night of't, and the Ravens With their unlucky throates never leave croaking Some danger to us all.
Hen. Where's Buzzano? Villaine!
Jo. Be not discomforted.
Ten. Don Fernando, too, Hath cut our strength off, taken away our swords Should save our throates. I did preiudicate Too rashly of the English; now we may Yield up the Towne.—Sirra, get you up to th'highest Enter Buzzano. Turret, that lookes three leagues into the Sea, And tell us what you can discover there.
Buz. Why, I can tell you ere I goe.
Buz. Why there are fishes and shipps too in the sea; they were made for that purpose.
Ten. The fellow doates? climbe quickly, sirra, and tell us Whither any bend to this place: there's a fleete Abroad; skud, rascall.
Hen. Villayne, away; and cast your eyes into the Sea.
Buz. Ile be hangd first; some wiser then some: mine Eyes into the Sea? I see no reason for't.
Ten. Why stayest thou?—this slave is without sence. Get up and see, and report the truth.
Buz. Thats another matter: I will orelooke you all presently. [Exit.
Jo. What were I best to doe? I doe not like these Navyes.
Hen. 'Tis past question, If they were kenn'd this way, that they intend To make another meale of this Citty.
Ten. The first was but a Breakfast: they have shrewd stomakes. Oh for a lusty storme to bury all Their hopes in the waves now! one good swelling Gust Would breake their ribbs in pieces.
Jo. No witches abroad?
Buz. I see, I see, I see!
Enter Buzzano above.
Buz. Nay, I cannot tell what yet: Something it is; I thinke it be a Towne.
Hen. Some Iland in the Sea!
Buz. It swims on the water.
Jo. 'Tis the fleete: come they this way?
Buz. Yes, th'are ships; I know 'em by their foule linen; now I see them plainely; they come, they come, they come!
Hen. How far off?
Ten. Speake, sirra.
Buz. If you would peace I might heare what they say; the wind serves to bring every word they speake: they make towards, yes, towards this Citty. A great fleete! stay, stay, look to your selves, Don: they spitt fire allready, and have hung up a thousand flaggs of defyance. They are at the fort, the castle, at the castle: would I were pelted to death with Oranges and Lymons.
Ten. Here comes Don Fernando. What newes?
Enter Fernando with Eleonora.
Fer. Assured danger, gentlemen, for all our men Already are in a palsye and doe flye They know not whither. They are English: The Citty's allmost desperate.
Ten. Don John, come with me And helpe to encourage the remayning soldiers.
Fer. New supply shall quickly cheare you hearts.— Henrico!
Fer. In this confusion, when a thousand feares Present themselves & danger with full face Lookes on the generall Towne, let me locke up This Treasure in your armes; &, for you have At least an equall interest with mee In Eleonora, in your fathers house She may hope more security, being of strength; For this storme cannot last. But in your love She hath a stronger guard.
Hen. This act of confidence Binds me for ever to Fernando: come, Halfe of my soule, for we two must not bee In life devided. Though the Citty lye At mercy of the Enemy, yet from Don Pedro Gusman's house not all mankind Shall take thee from me.
Enter Buzzano and Spanyards flying.
Buz. They come, they come, they come!
Fer. Committing this my Jewell to your trust I must unto my charge: my blessing!
Ele. Oh doe not leave me, sir; for without you What safety can I have? you are my father: Pray, stay you with me.
Fer. Oh, my Girle, I cannot, Dare not be so unfaithfull to the trust His maiesty put me in, though I would stay.
Ele. I feare if you goe hence all will not long be well.
Hen. Distrust you me, Eleonora?
Ele. No, indeed: You ever had with me th'opinion Of a most noble gentleman.
Fer. What then?
Ele. I know not what besides my feare; and that Beggs I may share your fortune, since you may not Take up such safety here as I have.
Fer. Come, You are to blame: this heaven that now lookes on us With rugged brow may quickly smile againe And then I shall revisite my Eleonora. So, farewell. [Exit.
Hen. Till then with greater care then were the Dragons Supposd to watch the Golden Apples growing In the Hesperides, shall Henrico wayte On his best loved. Oh, my Eleonora, I would to heaven there were no war but here To shoote love darts! each smile from this fayre Eye May take an Army prisoners: let me give My life up here unto these lipps, and yet I shall, by the sweetnes of a kisse, take back The same againe. Oh thou in whom alone Vertue hath perfect figure, hide not day In such a Cloud: what feare hath enterd here? My life is twisted in a Thread with thine; Were't not defenced, there could nothing come To make this cheeke looke pale, which at your Eye Will not fall dead before you.—
Sirra, let all your care and duty bee Employed to cheere this Lady: pray, be merry.
Buz. Oh, sir, yonders such doings.
Hen. Hell on your bawling! not a sillable to affright her, or I shall tune your instrument there.
Buz. Hele breake the head of my instrument! Why, sir, weomen are not affraid to heare of doings.
Hen. Still jarring?
Buz. When the whole towne is altogether by th'eares you might give me leave to jar a little my selfe:—I have done, sir.
Hen. Putt on thy merryest face, Buzzano.
Buz. I have but one face, but I can make a great many.
Hen. My best Eleonora, I shall soone returne: In the meane time be owner of this house, The possesour. All danger, sweet, shall dwell Far off: Ile but enquire the state of things In the Citty, and fly back to thee with loves wings. [Exit.
Ele. I prithee call him backe.
Buz. Signior Henrico, She has something more to say to you. [Redit.
Hen. To me, sweetest?
Ele. Henrico, doe you love me?
Hen. By this faire hand.
Ele. And will you leave me, too?
Hen. Not for the wealth of Spaine.
Ele. Since I must be your prisoner let me have My keepers company, for I am afraid Some enemy in your absence, like a woolfe May ceize on me. I know not whither now I ere shall see my father: doe not you Ravish yourselfe from me, for at the worst We may dye here, Henrico; and I had rather Fall in your eye than in your absence be Dishonord; if the destinyes have not Spun out a longer thread, lets dye together.
Hen. Oh doe not racke my soule with these sad accents. Am I Henrico? there is not any place Can promise such security as this To Eleonora. Doe not talke of dying, Our best dayes are to come: putt on thy quiet, And be above the reach of a misfortune. Ile presently wayte on thee, by this kisse.
Buz. Would I might keepe your oath: so please you, lady, Buzzano will sweare too.
Buz. That you'le be there and here agen presently.
Hen. Attend here, sirra.
Buz. If you must needes goe, pray, sir, keepe yourselfe out of Gun-shott.
Hen. Mind you your charge.
Buz. You shall heare a good report of my piece, I warrant you. Take heed you be not sent to heaven with a powder: a company of hott shotts are abroad, I can tell you.
Ele. If you will goe may your successe be faire.
Hen. Farewell; heaven cannot chuse but heare your prayer. [Exit.
Buz. Now what please you, madam? that I shall amble, trott, or walke?
Ele. Any pace.
Buz. Yet, if you would referre it to me, I'de use none of them.
Ele. What wouldst doe?
Buz. Why I would gallop or run, for I think long till I be at home in our Castle of comfort. If it please you Ile lead you a hand gallop in the plaine ground, trott up hill with you & racke downewards.
Ele. Talke not of rackes, prithee; the times present too many.
Buz. Ride me as you will, then; I am used both to curbe and snaffle.
Ele. I prithee tell me, Buzzano,—so, I heare thy master call thee—
Buz. He may call me at his pleasure, forsooth.
Ele. Dost thou know the nature of the English?
Buz. Both men and women: I travelled thither with an Embassadour. For the men Ile not misse you a haire of their condition; and for the women I know 'em as well as if I had bene in their bellyes.
Ele. Are they not cruell?
Buz. As Tygers, when they set on't: no mercy unlesse we aske them forgiveness.
Ele. That's somewhat yet.
Buz. But not to you; that's onely to men; for lett the women fall downe afore 'em never so often they'le rather fall upon them. Nay, some of them are so spitefull they'le breake their owne backes before they let 'em rise againe.
Ele. Foole, I meane not your way.
Buz. Keepe your owne way, madam; I meane the playne way.
Ele. Are they not unmercifull in their natures to such as are in their power, their Enemyes as we may be?
Buz. Their enemyes as we may be in their power! I had rather be cramm'd into a cannon and shott against their ships then you should prove a witch & tell true now. The Tartar is not halfe so grim; not a Turke would use us so like Jewes as they will. If it come to that once that they take the Towne You will see Spanish Dons heads cryed up and downe: as they doe our Orenges and Lymons; and the woemens heads shall off, too,—not a maydenhead of gold shall scape 'em.
Ele. It is no valour to use Tyranny Upon the conquerd: they have been reported A noble nation; and when last the pride Of this Citty adornd their victory, by command Or their brave Generall, no outrage ever The soldiers durst committ upon our persons: Though all our wealth ran in full streames upon them Our honours were preserved, or fame belys them.
Buz. No matter what fame sayes, perhaps I know more than she does; & yet, now you talk of valour, they are not comparable to us.
Buz. Why, valour is but the courage of a man; courage is, as they say, the spirit of a man; and the spirit of a man is the greatnes, as we call it, of his stomake. Now 'tis well knowen to the whole world they feed better and eate more then we: ergo, we have better stomackes then they. But, see! we have talk't our selves at home already, and the point (port?) is open. Will't please you enter, or shall I enter before you? I am your man, madam.
Ele. You know the way best:—whilst abroad they are At fight, twixt hope and feare at home I warre.
Alarum; as the soft musicke begins a peale of ordnance goes off; then Cornetts sound a Battaile; which ended enter Captaine, Master of a ship, Dick Pike, with musketts.
Cap. Fought bravely, countrymen! Honour all this while Sate in a Throne of smoake with sparckling eyes Looking upon your courages & admiring Your resolutions, and now rewards your sweat With victory. The castle groanes at heart; Her strongest ribbs are bruizd with battering Cannons, And she hath tane into her bowells fire Enough to melt her.
Ma. My Lord came bravely up to her & shewd a spirit That commands danger; his honorable example Gave us new hearts.
Sol. Faith, give the Spanyards their due; they entertaind us handsomely with hott meat; 'twas no cold welcome.
Pike. But I would not willingly swallow their plums; they would rise shrewdly in a man's stomacke.
Cap. At the first shott, when the Convertine came in, 3 men were killd.
Ma. At the second 4, was't not?
Cap. At the third two more: one salutation Came so close that, with the very wind, My hands have almost lost the sense of feeling. Jewell, thou mad'st thy muskett spitt fire bravely.
Ma. And my Devonshire blade, honest Dick Pike, Spard not his Sugar pellets among my Spanyards.
Cap. He did like a soldier, as he that chargd his muskett told me: in this service he hath dischargd 70 bulletts.
Pike. I did my part, sir, and wish I had bene able to have layd 'em on thicker; but I have lynd somebodyes gutts, much good doe 'em with it; some of them have wishd well to me.
Cap. Art hurt?
Pike. Nowhere; one of my flanckes itches a little; if a piece of lead have crept in to hide it selfe cowardly I am not much in debt for't.
Cap. Let my Surgeons search it.
Pike. Search a pudding for plums; let my flesh alone; perhaps it wants souldering. Shall we to't agen: I have halfe a score pills for my Spanyards—better then purging comfitts.
Enter a Soldier.
Cap. What newes?
Sol. The fort is yielded.
Pike. They have bene speechlesse a good while; I thought they'de yield up the ghost shortly.
Sol. But on condition to march away with flying colours, which was granted.
Cap. What's become of the Captaine of the fort?
Sol. Don Francisco Bustament is carryed aboord our Generalls ship, where he had a soldier like welcome; but he & all his company are put over to Port Reall upon the maine land because they should not succour the Citty.
Cap. Unles he will swim to th'Iland.—And how fares the Convertine?
Sol. Her shroudes are torne to pieces & her tacklings to raggs.
Cap. No matter; she carryes the more honour.
Sol. 5 hundred Bulletts sticke in her sides.
Pike. 'Tis well they scaped her heart, lying all the fight little more than pistoll shott from 'em; her Starboard still to the fort & at least 200 Musketts playing upon her. I wish'd heartily some of our London roaring Boyes had bene in the heate of't.
Sol. Wouldst have 'em twice burnt.
Pike. They should have found a difference betwixt the smoake of Tobacco and of a muskett; another manner of noise than dam me & refuse me, which they vomitt dayly. It might have done some of 'em good, for by that meanes they might have prayd heartily once in their lives.
Cap. The Whitehall men did good service.
Ma. Who? the Collyers?
Sol. 4000 Bulletts their ordnance & the Hollanders dischargd upon the Castle.
Cap. 'Twas well done of all sides, Bullyes: but, since our forces are landed, let it be your care to looke well to the Ships: and honest Dick of Devonshire be not too carelesse of your hurts; he meanes to fight againe that provides for his recovery soonest. Hold thee, here is something to pay the Surgeon and to wash your wound withall.
Pike. My noble Captaine, I'le have care of my owne and drinke your health with it.
Ma. Thou deservest more than common encouragement: prithee, remember me too.
[Exeunt Capt. & Mast.
Pike. Why, now am I sorry I have no more hurt, gentlemen; but I tooke it as earnest to receive more if occasion bee. I have but a barrell to bestow among my Dons; while that lasts let 'em come & welcome,—the drinke shalbe spicd to their hands. Their complexions are blacke, they shall want no Balls to wash their faces; if any doe light in their bodies they may chance be scourd all over.
Sol. 2. We may hap to be in the suddes ourselves.
Pike. There will be charges savd then; for my part I am but one, and there are shotts enough.
Sol. 2. More by a score then I hope wilbe payd these two dayes.
Pike. Talke not of paying: here's more then a month comes to. Well, if our service be done, & there be any other liquor to be gott, wele drinke no salt water as long as this lasts.
Sol. 2. Come, let's have a dish to our countrymen & let's remember Tavestock.
Pike. Godamercy for that, boy. A match, a match!
Enter Henrico Gusman, his sword drawne, & Eleonora.
Hen. Yet the Citty is safe enough; feare not, Eleonora; The Bullets make no noyse here: if the Towne Should yield her strength up to th'invader, thou Art lockd up like a spirit in a Christall: Not an enchanted Castle, held up by Strong charme, is halfe so safe. This house, though now It carry not the figure & faire shape Which the first workeman gave it, eating Time Having devourd the face of't, is within A Sanctuary, & hath so much cunning Couchd in the body not a Laborinth Is so full of Meanders.
Ele. Sir, your presence Confirmes me in opinion of my safety; Not of my life so much, for that's a thing I owe to nature & should one day be A-weary of it; like to Innes we take Our houses up, having but here a place Of Lodging not of dwelling:—but of honour You give me my assurance, for in such A time of thicke confusions I much feare That might be hazarded. And who knowes what The soldier that hath no lawe but that Of cruelty and rapine, when like a Bird Of prey his Tallents are possessd of one So weake as I am—
Hen. He that durst offend Thee with a sillable or but fright that bloud Out of thy Cheekes to seeke another place, Not daring to be seene there where it now Is of itselfe sufficient to ravish A mortall that with just eyes can looke on it, Had better be a divell. But a haire, The poorest part of thee & in this excellent Because 'tis thine, should any dare to ravish From these his soft companions, which the wind Would be for ever proud to play withall, H'had better dig his mothers coffin up And with his teeth eate what the wormes have left.
Ele. I know you will defend me.
Hen. Will defend thee! Have I a life, a soule that in thy service I would not wish expird! I doe but borrow My selfe from thee.
Ele. Rather you put to Interest And, for that principall you have credited To Eleonora her heart is paid backe As the iust Usury.
Hen. You undoe me, sweet, With too much love; if ere I marry thee I feare thou'lt kill me.
Hen. With tendring me too much, my Eleonora; For in my conscience thou'lt extreamely love me, And extreames often kill.
Ele. There can be no extreme of love, sir.
Hen. Yes, but there may; and some say Jealousy Runs from the Sea, a rivolet but deducted From the mayne Channell.
Ele. This is a new language.
Hen. Have you not heard men have been killd with Joy? Our griefe doth but contract the heart, & gladnesse Dilate the same; and soo too much of eyther Is hott i'th' fourth degree.
Ele. Sir, your discourse Is stuff of severall pieces and knitts not With that you usd but now: if we can practize A vertuous love there's no hurt to exceed in't. —What doe you, Sir?
Hen. Looke on thee.
Ele. Why doe you eye me soe? this is not usuall. Are you well?
Hen. Well, never better.
Ele. Pray heaven it bode me no unhappinesse! How doth my father?
Hen. He's very well, too; feare not.
Ele. Still I read in your eyes—
Hen. What Babyes, prety one? Thy owne face, naught else; I receive that way all this beauty into My heart, and 'tis perhaps come backe to looke Out at the window. Come, Ile winke againe, It shall not trouble you:—hence my trayterous thoughts.
Ele. Indeed you are not well.
Hen. Indeed I am not; all's not well within me. Why should I be a villaine? Eleonora Doe not looke on me; turne those eyes away, They would betray thee to thy sorrow; or Lett me by parting carry along with me That which to know undoes thee.
Ele. Are you not hurt?
Ele. Good heaven defend! I have a soveraigne Balme. [Exit.
Hen. Vanish, you ugly shapes, & with her presence Quitt your sharp stings! into what monstrous creature Feele I myself a-growing! yet I cannot Force backe the streame, it comes so fast upon me; I cannot.
Ele. Here, good Henrico, let me see your wound.
Hen. No, I am well againe; thankes, my best love. Come, let us walke and talke; I had a fancy, But 'tis no matter:—Buzzano!
Buz. Did you call?
Hen. Yes, the Balme here—
Buz. What shall I doe with it?
Hen. Lay it up safe; 'tis good for a greene wound But mines a blacke one:—and d'you heare, sirra, Draw up the bridge, give entrance unto none.
Buz. All my fellowes are abroad, sir; there's nobody at home but I.
Hen. No matter, let none enter; were my father Brought with a whirlwind backe, he finds all shutt Till I have done.
Buz. Well, sir;—madam, all this is that you should not b' afraid: you now see what a kind man he is,—he will suffer none to enter but himselfe. [Exit.
Ele. If all this proceed out of your care of me, how much am I bound to acknowledge you. Sir, methinkes you minde me not.
Hen. Yes, I doe nothing else but thinke of thee, & of my father, too, Don Pedro.
Ele. Ha! I hope he's well.
Hen. I wish he were returned, my Eleonora, for both our sakes.
Ele. The same wish I, sir.
Hen. That then our Joys, which now like flowers nippd With frost, hang downe the head as if the stalkes Could not sustaine the toppes, they droope to much;— At his returne th'art mine.
Ele. I am yours now In holyest Contract.
Hen. That's the ground we build on: Faith, since allready the foundation's layd, Let's work upon't. Y'are mine, you say, allready— Mine by all tearmes of Law, & nothing wanting But the possession: let's not then expect Th'uncertainety of a returne from France, But be all one ymediately.
Ele. I understand you not.
Hen. Since y'are a Tree reservd for me what now Should hinder me from climbing? All your apples I know are ripe allready; 'tis not stealth, I shall rob nobody.
Ele. You'le not be a divell?
Hen. No, I will but play the man with you: why, you know 'tis nothing.
Ele. Will you enforce mine honour? oh, Henrico, Where have you left your goodnesse? sure you cannot Be so ignoble, if you thinke me worthy To be your wife at least, to turne Eleonora Into a whore.
Hen. Pish! some hungry Landlords would have rent before The Quarter day,—I doe no more: by faire meanes Yield up your fort; the Tenement is mine owne And I must dwell in't.
Ele. My feares pointed wrong: You are no enemy, no wolfe; it was A villaine I disturbed: oh, make me not Find in your presence that destruction My thoughts were so affrighted with.
Hen. We shall have such adoe now!
Ele. Your fathers house will prove no castle to mee If you at home doe wound mee. 'Twas an Angell Spoke in you lately not my Cheeke should bee Made pale with feare. Lay not a lasting blush On my white name:—No haire should perish here Was vowed even now:—Oh let not a blacke deed, And by my sworne preserver, be my death My ever living death. Henrico, call To mind your holy vowes; thinke on our parents, Ourselves, our honest names; doe not kill all With such a murthering piece. You are not long T'expect, with the consent of men and angells, That which to take now from me will be losse A losse of heaven to thee. Oh, do not pawne it For a poore minutes sin.
Hen. If't be a worke, madam, of so short time, Pray let me beg a minutes privacy; 'Twill be soone done.
Ele. Yes, but the horrour of So foule a deed shall never: there's layd up Eternity of wrath in hell for lust: Oh, 'tis the devill's exercise! Henrico, You are a man, a man whom I have layd up Nearest my heart: in you 'twill be a sin To threaten heaven & dare that Justice throw Downe Thunder at you. Come, I know you doe But try my vertue, whether I be proofe Against anothers Battery: for these teares—
Hen. Nay, then I see you needs will try my strength: My bloud's on fire, I boyle with expectation To meete the pleasure and I will. [He forces her in.
Ele. Helpe, helpe!
Buz. Helpe? what nightingale was that? did one cry out for helpe? there's no Christian soule in the house but they two & my selfe; and 'twas not mine, I know by the smallnes of the voice; twas some woman cryde out, & therefore can be none but my young Lady,—it was she as sure as I am hungry; he's with her. But why, having one man did she cry out for more? oh, our Spanish ovens are not heated with one Bavyn. Well, I must say nothing; my young Cocke has bene treading. Ile tread softly & see what they doe:—but, see!
Enter Henrico & Eleonora, loose haired and weeping.
Hen. What doe you looke after?
Buz. Why, sir, I looke after a voyce that appeard to me even now, crying "helpe,"—a very small one.
Hen. If what thou seest or heard'st be ever muttered by thee Though in thy sleep, villaine, Ile pistol thee.
Buz. Hum, it will not be safe to dreame of a knave shortly. Are you so good at a gun? if you use this too often your birding piece will scarce carry a yard levell.
Hen. Come, dresse your hayre up & be wise at last: No more, I have done.
Buz. So I thinke in my conscience,—he hath done with her.
Hen. If you can be so simple to proclaime it, I can be impudent.
Ele. Yet dar'st thou live? & doe I live to see Myselfe the shame of weomen? have I not Wept teares enough to drowne me? then let fire Enthrone it selfe within me & beget Prodigious Cometts, that with flaming haires May threaten danger to thee!
Hen. Nay, nay, nay, if you be so hott Ile brave you: like wine that's burnt you must be set light by, & then you'le come to a temper. [Exit.
Ele. Oh, helpe me out of hell!
Buz. Sh'has bene at Barleybreake.—Madam I must say nothing: —there is a Pistol and so forth:—but if you have occasion to use me, try mee; if I doe not prove an honester man to you then my Master, would my Cod piece point were broake. I know what I know, and yet Ile tell no tales;—but if ever I come to speake once—I say nothing.
Ele. Oh that I could not breath! how can I have A Joy in life whose honour's in the Grave!
Enter Pike with his sword in his hand, a Cloake in his Arme.
Pike. The freshnes of this Ayre does well after the saltnes of the Sea. A pleasant Country, too, to looke upon, & would serve well to live upon if a man had it & knew how to place it out of this hott Clymate! I would I had a matter, or a Mannour, indeede, of a 1,000 acres of these woodlands & roome to sett it in Devonshire; I would compare with any prince betweene Tavistoke & Parradice for an Orchard. But I could wish I were not alone here in this Conceit, dreaming of Golden Apples, least they prove bitter fruite. Whether are our land soldiers straggeld, troe? I would faine sett eye on some of them; Ile venture a little farther; Devonshire Dick was never afraid yet.—How now, my hearts? upon a retreat so soone?
Enter Three Soldiers.
1. I, to the shipps; we have our loades here of the best merchandise we can find in this Quarter.
2. Will you taste a Lymon? excellent good to coole you.
Pike. They are goodly ones; where gott you them?
3. A little above here in an Orchard, where we left some of our Company.
Pike. But may one goe safe, without danger?
1. As safely as ever you gatherd nutts in England; the Spaniards are all fled.
2. Not soe much as the leg of a Spanyard left to squayle at their owne appletrees. [Exeunt Soldiers.
Pike. Ile have a pull at these pomcitrons for my noble Captaine; & if I had a Porters basket full of 'em I would count them no burthen in requitall of some part of the love he hath shewen me.
Enter 3 other Soldiers.
1. They cannot be far before us, I am sure.
2. But for the hedge we might descry them within two muskett shott.
3. Pray God the enemy be not within one musket shott of us behind their hedges; for I am sure I saw an Harquebuse whip ore the way before us but even now. Oh, oh!
[Three or 4 shott dischargd, 2 soldiers slaine, the other falls on his belly.
Pike. Are you bouncing? Ile no further. Sure these can be no Crowkeepers nor birdscarers from the fruite! what rascalls were my Countrymen to tell me there was no danger!—alas, what's here? 3 of our soldiers slaine! dead, shott through the very bowells! so, is this quite dead too? poore wretches, you have payd for your Capon sauce.
3. Oh, oh!
Pike. Here's some life in yt yet: what cheare? how is't, my heart of gold? speake, man, if thou canst; looke this way; I promise thee 'tis an honest man & a true Englishman that speakes to thee. Thou look'st away as if thou didst not trust me: I prithee speake to me any thing, Ile take thy word & thanke the, too. Alas, I feare he's past it; he strives and cannot speake.—'Tis good to shift this ground; they may be charging more hidden villany while I stand prating heere.—He breathes still; come, thou shalt not stay behind for want of leggs or shoulders to beare thee. If there be surgery in our ships to recover the use of thy tongue, thou mayst one day acknowledge a man & a Christian in honest Dicke of Devonshire. Come along;—nay now I feare my honesty is betrayd;—a horseman proudly mounted makes towards me, and 'tis a Don that thinkes himselfe as brave as St. Jaques. What shall I doe? there is no starting; I must stand th'encounter.—Lye still a while & pray if thou canst, while I doe my best to save my owne & the litle breath thou hast left. But I am in that prevented too: his breath's quite gone allready, and all the Christian duty I have now left for thee is to close thy eyes with a short prayer: mayst thou be in heaven, Amen.—Now Don Diego, & Don Thunderbolt, or Don Divell, I defye thee.
Enter Don John arm'd. Pike drawes & wrapps his Cloake about his arme.
Jo. Oh viliaco, diable, Anglese!
Pike. A pox upon thee, Hispaniola! Nay, if you be no better in the Reare then in the Van I shall make no doubt to vanquish, & vanquash you, too, before we part, my doughty Don Diego. [He hath him downe, & disarmes him.
Jo. Mercy, Englishman, oh spare my life! pardonne moye je vous pre.
Pike. And take your goods? is that your meaning, Don, it shall be so; your horse and weapons I will take, but no pilferage. I am no pocketeer, no diver into slopps: yet you may please to empty them your selfe, good Don, in recompense of the sweet life I give you; you understand me well. This coyne may passe in England: what is your Donship calld, I pray.
Jo. Don John, a knight of Spaine.
Pike. A knight of Spaine! and I a Squire of Tavestock: well, Don John, I am a little in hast & am unmannerly constreynd to leave your Castilian on foote, while my Devonshire worship shall teach your Spanish Jennett an English gallop. A dios, signior.—
Enter 12 musketiers.
Oh what a tyde of fortunes spight am I Now to swim through! beare up yet, Jovyall heart, And while thou knowest heavenly mercy doe not start. Once more let me embrace you, signior.
1. I say he is an Englishman: lett's shoote him.
2. I say the other is a Spanyard & Don John; & we dare not shoote the one for feare of killing th'other.
Jo. Oh hold and spare us both, for we are frends.
1. But by your leave we will part your embraces: so disarme, disarme.
Jo. I thanke you, Countrymen; I hope you'le trust my honour with my armes.
1. Yes, take them signior; but you will yeild the Englishman our prisoner?
Jo. Yes, with a Villaines marke. [He woundes him.
1. A villaines mark, indeed! wound a disarmed souldier!
Jo. He triumphd in the odds he had of me, And he shall know that from the Spanish race Revenge, though nere so bloudy, is not base. Away with him A prisoner into th'Citty!
Pike. Where you please, Although your Law's more merciles then Seas.
Enter Don Ferdinando, the Teniente, with attendants; Bustamente brought in with a Guard.
Fer. Francisco Bustamente, late Captaine of the Castle, Stand forth accusd of Treason gainst his Maiesty.
Bust. It is a language I not understand And but that by the rule of loyalty Unto my king and country I am made Attendant to the Law, & in this honourd Presence, the Governour & Teniente, Under whose jurisdiction I hold place, I would not beare nor heare it.
Fer. I'de be glad You could as easily acquitt your selfe Of guilt as stand up in your owne defence; But, Bustamente, when it doth appeare To law & reason, on which law is grounded, Your great offence in daring to betray The Spanish honour unto Infamy, In yeilding up the fort on such slight cause, You can no lesse then yeild yourselfe most guilty.
Bust. Farre be it from your thought, my honourd Lord, To wrest the hazardous fortune of the warre Into the bloudyer censure of the Law. Was it my fault that in the first assault The Canoniers were slayne, whereby our strength, Our mayne offensive strength, was quite defeated And our defensive part so much enfeebled That possibility to subsist was lost, Or by resistance to preserve one life? While there was sparke of hope I did maintayne The fight with fiery resolution And (give me leave to speake it) like a Sodier.
Ten. To my seeming your resolution Was forwardest to yeild then to repell; You had else stood longer out.
Bust. We stood the losse of most of our best men, And of our musketiers no lesse then fifty Fell by the adverse shott; whose bodyes with their armes Were cast by my directions downe a well Because their armes should neyther arme our foes Nor of our losse the sight give them encouragement.
Fer. That pollicy pleades no excuse; you yet Had men enough, had they bene soldiers, Fit for a Leaders Justification. And doe not we know that 6 score at least Of those base Picaros with which you stuff'd The fort, to feed, not fight,—unworthy of The name of Spanyards, much lesse of soldiers— At once ran all away like sheep together, Having but ore the walls descryde th'approach Of th'Enemy? Some of the feare-spurrd villaines Were overturnd by slaughter in their flight, Others were taken & are sure to find Our lawes as sharpe as either Sword or Bullet. For your part, Bustamente, for that you have Done heretofore more for your Countryes love, You shall not doubt of honourable tryall, Which in the Court of warre shalbe determind, At Sherris, whitherward you instantly Shall with a guard be sent.—See't done: away.
Bust. The best of my desire is to obey.
[Exit with a Guard.
Enter Don John, Pike (with his face wounded}, a Guard of musketts.
Fer. Whence is that soldier?
1. Of England.
Jo. Or of hell.
1. It was our chance to come unto the rescue Of this renowned knight, Don John, Who was his prisoner as he now is ours. Some few more of his mates we shott & slew That were (out of their English liquorishness) Bold to robb orchards of forbidden fruite.
2. It was a fine ambition; they would have thought Themselves as famous as their Countryman That putt a girdle round about the world, Could they have said, at their returne to England, Unto their Sons, "Looke Boyes; this fruite your father With his adventurous hands in Spayne did gather."
Fer. 'Tis a goodly fellow.
1. Had you not better have gone home without Lymons to eate Capons with your frends then to stay here without Capons to taste Lymons with us that you call Enemyes?
Pike. I could better fast with a noble Enemy then feast with unworthy frends.
Fer. How came he by these woundes?
Pike. Not by noble Enemyes: this on my face By this proud man, yet not more proud then base; For, when my hands were in a manner bound, I having given him life, he gave this wound.
Fer. 'Twas unadvisd.
Ten. The more unmanly done: And though, Don John, by law y'are not accusd, He being a common Enemy, yet being a man You in humanity are not excusd.
Jo. It was my fury & thirst of revenge.
Fer. Reason & manhood had become you better; Your honour's wounded deeper then his flesh. Yet we must quitt your person & committ The Englishman to prison.
Ten. To prison with him; but let best care be taken For the best surgeons, that his wounds be look'd to.
Pike. Your care is noble, and I yeild best thankes; And 'tis but need, I tell your Seignioryes, For I have one hurt more then you have seene, As basely given & by a baser person: A Flemming seeing me led a prisoner Cryde, "Whither doe you lead that English dog, Kill, kill him!" cryde hee, "he's no Christian;" And ran me in the bodie with his halbert At least four inches deepe.
Fer. Poore man, I pitty thee.—But to the prison with him.
Ten. And let him be carefully lookt to.
Enter Captaine, Hill, Secretary, Jewell.
Cap. Our Generall yet shewd himselfe right noble in offering ransome for poore Captive Pike.
Sec. So largely, too, as he did, Captaine.
Cap. If any reasonable price would have bene accepted it had bene given Mr. Secretary, I assure you.
Jew. I can testify that at our returne, in our Generalls name & my owne, I made the large offer to the Teniente, who will by no meanes render him. Sure they hold him for some great noble purchace.
Sec. A Barronet at least, one of the lusty blood, Captaine.
Cap. Or perhaps, Mr. Secretary, some remarkable Commonwealths man, a pollitician in Government.
Sec. 'Twere a weake state-body that could not spare such members. Alas, poore Pike, I thinke thy pate holds no more pollicy than a Pollax.
Hill. Who is more expert in any quality then he that hath it at his fingers ends; & if he have more pollicy in his braines then dirt under his nayles Ile nere give 2 groates for a Calves head. But without all question he hath done some excellent piece of villany among the Diegoes, or else they take him for a fatter sheep to kill then he is.
Cap. Well, gentlemen, we all can but condole the losse of him; and though all that we all come hither for be not worth him, yet we must be content to leave him. The fleete is ready, the wind faire, and we must expect him no longer.
Hill. He was a true Devonshire blade.
Sec. My Countryman, sir: therefore would I have given the price of a hundred of the best Toledoes rather then heare the misse of him at home complayned by his Wife and Children.
Jew. Your tendernes becomes you, sir, but not the time, which wafts us hence to shun a greater danger.
Enter Pike in shackles, nightcap, playsters on his face; a Jaylor.
Pike. The fleete is gone & I have now no hope of liberty; yet I am well refreshd in the care hath bene taken for my cure. But was ever English horse thus Spanish bitted & bossd!
Jay. Sir, the care of your keeper, by whom this ease hath been procured, requires remuneration.
Pike. Here's for you, my frend.
Jay. I assure you, the best Surgeons this part of Spaine affoords, through my care taken of you; & you may thanke me.
Pike. What an arrogant rascall's this!—Sir, I thought my thankes herein had chiefly appertaind to the humanity of the Governour, & that your especiall care had bene in providing these necessary shackles to keepe me from running into further danger: these I tooke to be the strong bonds of your frendship.
Jay. Sir, I hope they fitt you as well as if they had bene made for you. Oh, I am so much your servant that I doe wish 'em stronger for your sake.
Pike. 'Tis overwell as it is, sir.
Jay. You are most curteous. [Exit.
Pike. A precious rogue! If the Jaylors be so pregnant what is the hangman, troe? By the time my misery hath brought me to climbe to his acquaintance I shall find a frend to the last gaspe. What's here? a Lady? are the weomen so cruell here to insult ore Captive wretches.
Enter Catelyna & Jaylor.
Cat. Is this the English prisoner?
Jay. Yes, madam.
Cat. Trust me, a goodly person.
Pike. She eyes me wistly; sure she comes not to instruct her selfe in the art of painting by the patternes of my face!
Cat. Sir, shall I speake with you?
Pike. Yes, Lady, so you will not mock mee.
Cat. Indeed I cannot, but must needs acknowledge Myselfe beholding to you.
Pike. This I must beare; I will doe soe & call't my sweet affliction.
Cat. Will you heare me, sir? I am the Lady—
Pike. Yes, I doe heare you say you are the Lady; but let me tell you, madam, that Ladyes, though they should have tenderest sence of honour & all vertuous goodnesse, & so resemble Goddesses as well in soule as feature, doe often prove dissemblers & in their seemely breasts beare cruelty & mischiefe. If you be one of those, oh, be converted; returne from whence you came & know 'tis irreligious, nay divelish to tread & triumph over misery.
Cat. How well he speakes, yet in the sence bewraying A sence distracted: sure his captivity, His wounds, & hard entreaty make him franticke! Pray heare me, sir, & in two words Ile tell you Enough to win beleeife: I am the Lady Of the Knight vanquished by you, Don John.
Pike. Y'have said enough, indeed: pitty of heaven, What new invented cruelty is this! Was't not enough that by his ruthlesse basenes I had these wounds inflicted, but I must Be tortured with his wifes uniust reioycings! 'Twas well his politicke feare, which durst not come To glory in his handy worke himselfe, Could send your priviledg'd Ladyship.
Cat. Indeed, you much mistake me; as I live, As I hope mercy & for after life, I come for nothing but to offer thankes Unto your goodnes, by whose manly temper My lord and husband reassum'd his life; And aske your Christian pardon for the wrong Which by your suffering now pleads him guilty. Good sir, let no mistrust of my iust purpose Crosse your affection: did you know my love To honour and to honest actions, You would not then reiect my gratulations. And since that deeds doe best declare our meaning, I pray accept of this, This money and these clothes and my request Unto your keeper for best meats and wines That are agreable to your health and taste. And, honest frend, thou knowst and darest, I hope, Believe me I will see thee payd for all.
Jay. Yes, my good Lady.—Loe you, sir, you see Still how my care provides your good: you may Suppose the Governours humanity Takes care for you in this, too.
Pike. Excellent Ladye I doe now beleive Virtue and weomen are growne frends againe.
Enter Don John.
Jo. What magicall Illusion's this? 'tis she! Confusion seize your charitable blindnesse! Are you a prison visiter for this, To cherish my dishonour for your merit?
Cat. My lord, I hope my Charity workes for your honour, Releiving him whose mercy spard your life.
Jo. But that I'me subiect to the law & know My blowes are mortall, I would strike thee dead. Ignoble & degenerate from Spanish bloud, Darst thou maintaine this to be charity? Thy strumpett itch & treason to my bed Thou seekst to act in cherishing this villaine.
Cat. Saints be my witnesses you doe me wrong!
Jo. Thou robbst my honour.
Pike. You wound her honour and you robb yourselfe, And me and all good Christians, by this outrage.
Jo. Doe you prate, sir?
Pike. Sir, I may speake; my tongue's unshackled yet, And, were my hands and feete so, on free ground I would mayntayne the honour of this Lady Against an Hoast of such ignoble husbands.
Jo. You are condemnd allready by the Law I make no doubt; and therefore speake your pleasure. —And here come those fore whom my rage is silent.
Enter Ferdinando, Teniente, Guard.
Fer. Deliver up your prisoner to the Teniente. I need not, sir, instruct you in your place To beare him with a guard as is appointed Unto the publicke tryall held at Sherrys.
Ten. It shalbe done.
Fer. How long hath he bene your prisoner?
Jay. 18 days.
Fer. You & the Surgeons out of the Kings pay Ile see dischargd.—You have, according to the Order, Conveyd already Bustamente thither To yeild account for yeilding up the Castle?
Ten. 'Tis done, my Lord.
Fer. Don John, you likewise in his Maiesties name Stand chargd to make your personall appearance To give in evidence against this prisoner.
Jo. I shall be ready there, my Lord.
Pike. To Sherrys? they say the best sackes there. I meane to take one draught of dying comfort.
Cat. I hope you'le not deny my company To waite on you to Sherris?
Jo. No, you shall goe to see your frend there totter.
Pike. I have a suite, my Lord; to see an Englishman, A merchant, prisoner here, before I goe.
Fer. Call him; that done, you know your charge.
Ten. And shall performe it.
[Ex. Fer., John, Catalina.
Enter Jaylor & Woodrow.
Pike. Oh, Mr. Woodrow, I must now take leave Of prison fellowship with you. Your fortunes May call you into England, after payment Of some few money debts; but I am calld Unto a further tryall: my debt is life, Which if they take not by extortion, I meane by tortures, I shall gladly pay it.
Wo. I have heard, & thought you by what I had heard Free from feares passion: still continue soe, Depending on heavens mercy.
Pike. You doe instruct me well; but, worthy Countryman, Once more let me give you this to remember, And tis my last request:—that when your better stars Shall guide you into England, youle be pleasd To take my Country Devonshire in your way; Wheir you may find in Taverstoke (whom I left) My wife & children, wretched in my misfortunes. Commend me to them, tell them & my frends That if I be, as I suspect I shalbe, At Sherris putt to death, I dyed a Christian soldier, No way, I hope, offending my iust King Nor my religion, but the Spanish lawes.
Enter Don Pedro, reading a Letter, & Manuell.
Man. Dear sir, let me have power to recall Your graver thoughts out of this violent storme Of passion that thus oerwhelmes your mind. Remember what you are, and with what strength, What more then manly strength, you have outworne Dangers of Battaile, when your warlike lookes Have outfac'd horrour.
Pedro. Oh, my son, my son, Horrour it selfe upon the wings of Death, Stretcht to the uttermost expansion Over the wounded body of an Army, Could never carry an aspect like this, This murthering spectacle, this field of paper Stucke all with Basiliskes eyes. Read but this word, 'The ravisht Eleonora!'—does't not seeme Like a full cloud of bloud ready to burst And fall upon our heads?
Man. Indeed you take too deepe a sence of it.
Pedro. What? when I see this meteor hanging ore it? This prodigy in figure of a man, Clad all in flames, with an Inscription Blazing on's head, 'Henrico the Ravisher!'
Man. Good sir, avoid this passion.
Pedro. In battailes I have lost, and seene the falls Of many a right good soldier; but they fell Like blessed grayne that shott up into honour. But in this leud exploit I lose a son And thou a brother, my Emanuell, And our whole house the glory of her name: Her beauteous name that never was distayned, Is by this beastly fact made odious.
Man. I pray, sir, be your selfe and let your Judgement Entertaine reason: From whom came this Letter?
Pedro. From the sad plaintiffe, Eleonora.
Man. Good; And by the common poast: you every weeke Receiving letters from your noble frendes Yet none of their papers can tell any such tidings.
Pedro. All this may be too, sir.
Man. Why is her father silent? has she no kindred, No frend, no gentleman of note, no servant Whom she may trust to bring by word of mouth Her dismall story.
Pedro. No, perhaps she would not Text up his name in proclamations.
Man. Some villaine hath filld up a Cup of poyson T'infect the whole house of the Guzman family; And you are greedyest first to take it downe.
Pedro. That villaine is thy brother.
Man. Were you a stranger Armd in the middle of a great Battalion And thus should dare to taxe him, I would wave My weapon ore my head to waft you forth To single combatt: if you would not come, Had I as many lives as I have hayres, I'de shoot 'em all away to force my passage Through such an hoast untill I met the Traytour To my dear brother.—Pray, doe not thinke so, sir.
Pedro. Not? when it shall be said one of our name (Oh heaven could I but say he were not my son!) Was so dishonorable, So sacrilegious to defile a Temple Of such a beauty & goodnes as she was!
Man. As beauteous is my brother in his soule As she can be.
Pedro. Why dost thou take his part so?
Man. Because no dropp of honour falls from him But I bleed with it. Why doe I take his part? My sight is not so precious as my brother: If there be any goodnes in one man He's Lord of that; his vertues are full seas Which cast up to the shoares of the base world All bodyes throwne into them: he's no drunkard; I thinke he nere swore oath; to him a woman Was worse than any scorpion, till he cast His eye on Eleonora: and therefore, sir, I hope it is not so.
Pedro. Was not she so?
Man. I doe not say, sir, that she was not so, Yet women are strange creatures; but my hope Is that my brother was not so ignoble. Good sir, be not too credulous on a Letter: Who knowes but it was forgd, sent by some foe, As the most vertuous ever have the most? I know my Brother lov'd her honour so As wealth of kingdoms could not him entice To violate it or his faith to her. Perhapps it is some queint devise of theirs To hast your journey homeward out of France, To terminate their long-desired marriage.
Pedro. The language of her letter speakes no such comfort, But I will hasten home; &, for you are So confident as not to thinke his honour Any way toucht, your good hopes be your guide Auspiciously to find it to your wish. Therefore my counsaile is you post before, And, if you find that such a wrong be done, Let such provision instantly be Betwixt you made to hide it from the world By giving her due nuptiall satisfaction, That I may heare no noise of't at my comming. Oh, to preserve the Reputation Of noble ancestry that nere bore stayne, Who would not passe through fire or dive the mayne?
Enter Fernando & Eleonora.
Fer. Cease, Eleonora, cease these needles plaints, Less usefull than thy helpe of hands was at The deed of darkness,—oh, the blackest deed That ever overclouded my felicity! To speake, or weepe thy sorrow, but allayes And quenches anger, which we must now cherish To further iust revenge. How I could wish But to call backe the strength of Twenty yeares!
Ele. That I might be in that unborne againe, sir.
Fer. No, Eleonora, that I were so ennabled With my owne hands to worke out thy wronge Upon that wretch, that villaine, oh, that Ravisher! But, though my hands are palsyed with rage, The Law yet weares a sword in our defence.
Ele. Away, my Lord & Father! see the monster Approaching towards you! who knowes but now He purposeth an assassinate on your life, As he did lately on my Virgin honour?
Fer. Fury, keepe off me!
Hen. What life, what honour meane you? Eleonora, What is the matter? Who hath lost anything?
Ele. Thou impudent as impious, I have lost—
Hen. Doe you call me names?
Ele. The solace of my life, for which—
Hen. A fine new name for a maydenhead!
Ele. May all the curses of all iniured weomen Fall on thy head!
Hen. Would not the curses of all good ones serve? So many might perhaps be borne: but, pray, Tell me what moves you thus? Why stand you soe Aloofe, my Lord? I doe not love to bee Usd like a stranger: welcome's all I looke for.
Fer. What boldnesse beyond madnesse gives him languadge! Nothing but well-bred stuffe! canst see my daughter And not be strooke with horrour of thy shame To th' very heart? Is't not enough, thou Traytour, To my poore Girles dishonour to abuse her, But thou canst yett putt on a divells visour To face thy fact & glory in her woe?
Hen. I would I were acquainted with your honours meaning all this while.
Fer. The forreine Enemy which came to the Citty And twice dancd on the Sea before it, waving Flaggs of defyance & of fury to it, Were nor before nor now this second time So cruell as thou. For when they first were here Now well nigh 40 yeares since, & marched through The very heart of this place, trampled on The bosomes of our stoutest soldiers, The weomen yet were safe, Ladyes were free And that by the especial command Of the then noble Generall: & now being safe From common danger of our enemyes, Thou lyon-like hast broake in on a Lambe And preyd upon her.
Hen. How have I preyd?
Fer. Dost thou delight To heare it named, villaine, th'hast ravisht her.
Hen. I am enough abusd, & now 'tis time To speake a litle for my selfe, my Lord. By all the vowes, the oathes & imprecations That ere were made, studied, or practised, As I have a soule, as she & you have soules, I doe not know, nor can, nor will confesse Any such thing, for all your Circumventions: Ile answer all by Law.
Ele. Oh, my Lord, heare me! By all that's good—
Fer. Peace, Eleonora; I have thought the Course. If you dare justify the accusation You shall to Sherrys, and then before the Judges Plead your owne cause.
Hen. And there Ile answer it.
Fer. There, if you prove the Rape, he shalbe forcd Eyther to satisfy you by marriage Or else to loose his periurd head.
Hen. I am content. And instantly I will away to Sherrys, There to appeale to the high Court of Justice: 'Tis time, I thinke, such slanderous accusations Assayling me; but there I shalbe righted.
Fer. You shall not need to doubt it:—come, Eleonora.
Hen. What will become of me in this, I know not: I have a shrewd guese though of the worst. Would one have thought the foolish ape would putt The finger in the eye & tell it daddy! 'Tis a rare guift 'mong many maides of these dayes; If she speed well she'le bring it to a Custome, Make her example followed to the spoyle Of much good sport: but I meane to looke to't. Now, sir, your newes?
Buz. The most delicious, rare, absolute newes that ere came out of France, sir!
Hen. What's done there? have they forsaken the Divell & all his fashions? banishd their Taylors & Tyrewomen?
Buz. You had a father & a Brother there; & can you first thinke upon the Divell & his Limetwiggs.
Hen. Had, Buzzano? had a father & a Brother there? have I not so, still, Buzzano?
Buz. No, sir, your Elder Brother is—
Hen. What? speake, Buzzano: I imagine, dead.
Buz. Nay, you shall give me something by your leave; you shall pay the poast:—good newes for nothing?
Hen. Here, here, Buzzano; speake quickly, crowne me with the felicity of a younger brother: is he dead, man?
Buz. No, he's come home very well, sir; doe you thinke I goe on dead men's errands.
Hen. Pox on the Buzzard! how he startled my bloud!
Buz. But he is very weary & very pensive, sir; talkes not at all, but calls for his bed;—pray God your Father be not dead!—and desires when you come in to have you his Bedfellow, for he hath private speech with ye.
Hen, Well, sir, you that are so apt to take money for newes, beware how you reflect one word, sillable or thought concerning Eleonora: you knowe what I meane?
Bus. Yes, & meane what you know, sir.
Hen. What's that?
Buz. Ile keepe your Counsaile
Hen. My life goes for it else.
Enter Henrico (as newly risen).
Hen. Buzzano! slave! Buzzano!
Enter Buzzano with Cloake & Rapier.
Buz. Signior, what a buzzing you make, as if you were a fly at Bartholomew-tyde at a Butchers stall: doe you think I am deafe?
Hen. No, but blind; do'st sleepe as thou goest?
Buz. No, but I goe as I sleepe, & that's scurvily.
Hen. Call my brother Manuell.
Buz. Brother Manuell!
Hen. How? pray (goodman rascall) how long have he & you bene Brothers?
Buz. I know not; may be ever since we were borne, for your father used to come home to my mother, & why may not I be a chipp of the same blocke out of which you two were cutt? Mothers are sure of their children, but no man is able to sweare who was his father.
Hen. You are very lusty.
Buz. I eate eringoes and potchd eggs last night.
Hen. Goe & call him.
Hen. You hound, is he up?
Buz. No, he's in Bed, and yet he may be up too; Ile goe see.
Hen. Stay, and speake low.—How now?
[Buz. falls downe.
Buz. I can speake no lower unlesse I creepe into the Cellar.
Hen. I'me glad you are so merry, sir.
Buz. So am I; my heart is a fiddle; the strings are rozend with ioy that my other young Mr. is come home, & my tongue the sticke that makes the fiddle squeake.
Hen. Come hither, leave your fooling & tell me truely: didst sleepe to night or no?
Buz. Sleepe? Not that I remember: Ile sweare (& my eyes should come out as 2 witnesses) that I nere slept worse; for what with ycur Spanish flyes (the pocky, stinging musquitoes) & what with your skip Jacke fleas, the nap of my sleepe was worne off.
Hen. Didst heare nothing?
Buz. Not in my sleepe.
Hen. Collect thy sences; when thou wert awake didst thou heare nothing?
Hen. Twixt 12 & one?
Buz. 12 & one? Then was I in my dead sleepe, cursing the fleas.
Hen. Or about one & two.
Buz. That's Three:—Now the Beetle of my head beates it into my memory that as you & your brother Manuell lay in the high Bed, & I trondling underneath, I heard one of you talke most stigmatically in his sleepe—most horriferously.
Hen. Right, now thou com'st to me,—so did I.
Buz. And then once or twice the sleepy voice cryde out, "Oh it was I that murthered him! this hand killd him!"
Hen. Art sure thou heardst this?
Buz. Am I sure these are my eares?
Hen. And dar'st thou sweare thou heardst it?
Buz. Lay downe 20 oathes, and see if Ile not take them.
Hen. And whose voice was it did appeare to thee?
Buz. Whose voice was it? Well said, yong Master! make an asse of your fathers man!
Hen. Come, come, be serious: whose voice?
Buz. Whose voice? why then, if your windpipe were slitt now and opend, there should the voice be found. I durst at midnight be sworne that the Ghost of your voice appeard before me.
Hen. No; me it frighted too; up stood my haire stiffe & on end.
Buz. As a Catts does at sight of a dog.
Hen. A cold sweat pearld in dropps all ore my body; For 'twas my Brothers voice, & were I calld Before a thousand Judges I must sweare It could be no mans els.
Buz. Why, then, I must sweare so, too.
Hen. "Oh it was I that murthered him! this hand killed him!"
[Within, Man] Buzzano!
Hen. He's up.
Buz. I come.
Hen. Helpe to make him ready, but not a word on thy life.
Buz. Mum. [Exit.
Hen. So let it worke; thus far my wheeles goe true. Because a Captaine, leading up his men In the proud van, has honour above them, And they his vassailes; must my elder brother Leave me a slave to the world? & why, forsooth? Because he gott the start in my mother's belly, To be before me there. All younger brothers Must sitt beneath the salt & take what dishes The elder shoves downe to them. I doe not like This kind of service: could I, by this tricke, Of a voice counterfeited & confessing The murther of my father, trusse up this yonker And so make my selfe heire & a yonger brother Of him, 'twere a good dayes worke. Wer't not fine angling? Hold line and hook: Ile puzzle him.
Enter Manuell & Buzzano.
Man. Morrow, brother.
Hen. Oh, good morrow: you have slept soundly.
Man. Travellers that are weary have sleepe led in a string.
Buz. So doe those that are hangd: all that travell & are weary doe not sleepe.
Man. Why, Mr. Buzzano, why?
Buz. Midwives travell at night & are weary with eating groaning pyes, & yet sleepe not: shall I hooke you?
Man. Hooke me? what meanst?
Buz. These Taylors are the wittyest knaves that live by bread.
Hen. And why witty, out of your wisdome?
Buz. In old time gentlemen would call to their men & cry, "Come, trusse me": now the word is "Come, hooke me"; for every body now lookes so narrowly to Taylors bills (some for very anger never paying them) that the needle lance knights, in revenge of those prying eyes, put so many hookes & eyes to every hose & dubblet.
Man. Well, sir, Ile not be hookd then now.
Buz. Tis well if you be not. [Exit.
Hen. France is an excellent country.
Man. Oh, a brave one.
Hen. Your Monsieurs gallant sparkes.
Man. Sparkes? oh, sir, all fire, The soule of complement, courtship & fine language; Witty & active; lovers of faire Ladyes, Short naggs & English mastives; proud, fantasticke, Yet such a pride & such fantasticknes, It so becomes them, other Nations (Especially the English) hold themselves No perfect gentlemen till frenchifyed.
Hen. Tush, England breeds more apes than Barbary.— How chance my father came not home with you?
Man. He was too hard tyed by the leg with busines.
Hen. What busines?
Man. Tis but stepping into France. And he perhaps will tell you.
Hen. Perhaps? tis well: What part of France did you leave him in?
Man. What part? why I left him at Nancy in Lorraine. No, no, I lye, now I remember me twas at Chaalons in Burgundy.
Hen. Hoyda, a most loving child That knowes not where he left his father, & yet Comes but now from him! had you left in France Your whore behind you, in your Table bookes You would have sett downe the streets very name, Yes, and the baudy signe, too.
Man. Hum, you say well, sir. Now you are up to th'eares in Baudery, Pray tell me one thing, Brother; (I am sorry To putt forth such a question) but speake truly; Have you not in my fathers absence done A piece of worke (not your best masterpiece) But such an one as on the house of Guzman Will plucke a vengeance, & on the good old man (Our noble father) heape such hills of sorrow To beate him into his grave?
Hen. What's this your foolery?
Man. Pray heaven it prove soe: have not you defac'd That sweet & matchles goodnes, Eleonora, Fernando's daughter?
Hen. How defacd her?
Man. Hearke, sir: playd Tarquin's part and ravisht her.
Hen. 'Tis a lye.
Man. I hope so too.
Hen. What villaine speakes it?
Man. One with so wide a throat, that uttering it 'Twas heard in France; a letter, sir, informed My father so.
Hen. Letter? from whom?
Man. A woman.
Hen. She's a whore.
Man. Twas Eleonora.
Hen. She's, then, a villanous strumpet so to write, And you an asse, a coxcomb to beleeve it.
Man. Nettled? then let me tell you that I feare I shall for ever blush when in my hearing Any names Henrico Guzman for my brother. In right of vertue & a womans honour (This deare wrongd Ladies) I dare call thee Villaine.
They fight: Enter Ferdinand and attendants.
Fer. Part them, part them!
Hen. Let me see his heart Panting upon my weapons point; then part us. Oh, pray, forbeare the roome.
Fer. Fy, Fy! two Brothers. Two Eaglets of one noble Aery, Pecke out each others eyes!—Welcome from France! How does your honourd father?
Man. Well, my Lord: I left him late in Paris.
Hen. So, so; in Paris! Hath he 3 bodyes? Lorraine, Burgundy, & Paris! My Lord, his Highnes putts into your hand A sword of Justice: draw it forth, I charge you By the oath made to your king, to smite this Traytour, The murtherer of my father!
Hen. Yes, thou: Thou, slave, hast bene his Executioner.
Man. Where? when?
Hen. There, there; in France.
Man. Oh heavenly powers!
Hen. Oh, intollerable villaine! parricide! Monster of mankind! Spaniards shame!
Fer. Pray, heare me: Are you in earnest?
Fer. Be advisd.
Hen. Lay hold on him, the murtherer of my father: I have armd proofes against him.
Man. An armd devill, And that's thy selfe! Produce thy proofes.
Hen. I will, sir; But I will doe't by law.
Fer. You are up allready Too deepe, I feare, in Law.
Hen. If you can, sett then Your foote upon my head & drowne me, your worst: Let me have Justice here.
Fer. Well, sir, you shall. Manuell, I can no lesse than lay upon you The hand of my authority. In my Caroach You shall with mee to Sherris, 3 leagues off, Where the Lords sitt to-morrow: there you must answer This most unbrotherly accusation.
Man. And prove him a false caytiffe.
Fer. I will be both your guard, sir, and your bayle And make no doubt to free you from this Viper.
Fer. Y'are bound to appeare at Sherris, sir; And you were best not fayle. I have a certaine Daughter there shall meete you. Come.
[Exit Fer., Man., &
Hen. Thither I dare you both, all three.—Buzzano!
Hen. Saddle my Jennet? Ile to Sherris presently.
Buz. And I?
Hen. And you; but I must schoole you, sirra.
Enter Pike, shackled, & his Jaylour.
Jay. Boon Coragio, man! how is't?
Pike. Not very well & yet well enough, considering how the cheating dice of the world run.
Jay. I dare not, though I have a care of you, ease you of one Iron unles I desire such Gyves my selfe.
Pike. Las, if they were all knockt off I'me loaden with Gyves, Shackles, and fetters enough for the arrantest theefe that ever lay in my owne country in Newgate.
Jay. Shackles, gyves, and fetters enough! I see none but these at your heeles, which come on without a shoeing horne.
Pike. Yes, at my heart I weare them—a wife & children (my poore Lambes at home); there's a chaine of sighes and sobbes and sorrow, harder then any Iron; and this chaine is so long it reaches from Sherrys to Tavestock in Devonshire.
Jay. That's farre enough in Conscience.
Pike. Could I shake those Chaines off I would cutt Capers: poore Dick Pike would dance though Death pip'd to him; yes, and spitt in your Hangman's face.
Jay. Not too much of that nayther: some 2 dayes hence he will give you a choake peare will spoyle your spitting.
Jay. For, let me see, to-day is Sunday; to-morrow the Lords sitt, and then I must have a care—a cruell care—to have your leggs handsome and a new cleane ruff band about your necke, of old rusty iron; 'twill purge your choller.
Pike. I, I, let it, let it: Collers, halters, & hangmen are to me bracelets and frendly companions.
Jay. So hasty? stay my leasure.—(Enter 2 fryers) Two fryers come to prepare you. [Exit.
I. Hayle, Countryman! for we, though fryers in Spaine, Were born in Ireland.
Pike. Reverend sir, y'are welcome: Too few such visitants, nay none at all, Have I seen in this damnable Limbo.
2. Brother, take heed; doe not misuse that word Of Limbo.
1. Brother Pike, for so we heare, Men call you, we are come in pure devotion And charity to your soule, being thereto bound By holy orders of our mother Church.
Pike. What to doe, pray, with me?
1. To point with our fingers Out all such rockes, shelves, quicksands, gulfes, & shallowes Lying in the sea through which you are to passe In the most dangerous voyage you ere made: Eyther by our care to sett you safe on land, Or, if you fly from us your heavenly pilotts, Sure to be wrackt for ever.
Pike. What must I doe?
2. Confesse to one of us what rancke and foule impostumes Have bred about your soule.
1. What Leprosies Have run ore all your Conscience.
2. What hott feavers Now shake your peace of mind.
1. For we are come To cure your old Corruptions.
2. We are come To be your true and free Physitians.
1. Without the hope of gold, to give you health.
2. To sett you on your feete on the right way.
1. To Palestine, the New Jerusalem.
2. Say; Will you unlocke the closet of your heart To one of us? chuse which, & be absolvd For all your blacke Crimes on a free confession?
1. To him or me, for you must dye to morrow.
Pike. Welcome! To morrow shall I be in another country, Where are no Examiners, nor Jayles, Nor bolts, nor barres, nor irons. I beseech you Give me a little respite to retire Into the next roome, & I will instantly Returne to give you satisfaction. [Exit.
Ambo. Goe, brother.
1. A goodly man!
2. Well limbd & strong of heart.
1. Now I well view his face did not we two At our last being in Plymouth in disguise, When there the King of England rode about To see the soldiers in their musterings And what their armes were, just before this fleet Sett out, did we not see him there?
2. May be we did; I know not; if he were there 'tis now out of my memory.
1. Are you resolvd?
2. To confesse?
Pike. I ha' don't already.
1. To whom?
Pike. To one who is in better place And greater power then you to cure my sicke Infected part, though maladies as infinite As the sea sands, the grassy spears on earth, Or as the dropps of raine & stars in the firmament Stucke on me he can cleare all, cleanse me throughly.
2. You will not then confesse?
Pike. No, I confesse I will not.
1. We are sorry for you; For Countryes sake this Counsaile do I give you: When y'are before the Lords rule well your tongue, Be wary how you answer, least they tripp you; For they know the whole number of your shipps, Burthen, men & munition, as well As you in England.
Pike. I thanke you both.
2. Prepare to dye. [Exeunt Fryers.
Pike. I will so.—Prepare to dye! An excellent bell & it sounds sweetly. He that prepares to dye rigges a goodly ship; he that is well prepard is ready to launch forth; he that prepares well & dyes well, arrives at a happy haven. Prepare to dye! preparation is the sauce, death the meate, my soule & body the guests; & to this feast will I goe, boldly as a man, humbly as a Christian, & bravely as an Englishman. Oh my Children, my Children! my poore Wife & Children!
Enter Jaylour, & 3 Spanish Picaroes chayned.
Jay. Here's a chearefull morning towards, my brave blouds!
1. Yes, Jaylor, if thou wert to be hangd in one of our roomes.
Jay. On, on; the Lords will sitt presently.
2. What's hee?
Jay. An Englishman.
3. A dog!
1. A divell!
2. Let's beate out his braines with our Irons.
Jay. On, on; leave rayling, cursing & lying: had you not run from the Castle the hangman & you had bene "hayle fellow! well met:" On!
All. Crowes pecke thy eyes out, English dog, curre, toad, hell hound! [Exeunt.
Pike. Patience is a good armour, humility a strong headpiece, would I had you all three, I know where.
Enter Bustamente shackled, & Jaylor.
Bust. Whither dost lead me?
Jay. To a roome by your selfe: 'tis my office to have a care of my nurse children.
Bust. I have worne better Spanish gaiters: thus rewarded for my service!
Jay. See, Capt. Bustamente; doe you know this fellow?
Jay. The Englishman brought prisoner into the Citty, & from thence hither.
Pike. Oh, Captaine, I saw you at the fort performe the part of a man.
_Bust_. And now thou seest me acting the part of a slave. Farewell, soldier. I did not hate thee at the first, though there we mett enemyes; and if thou & I take our leaves at the Gallowes, prithee letts part friends. [_A Table out, sword & papers
Jay. Come along, you two.
Pike. Hand in hand, if the Captaine please: noble Bustamente, at the winning of the fort we had a brave breakfast.