A Collection Of Old English Plays, Vol. IV.
Editor: A.H. Bullen
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In Four Volumes

Edited by




Preface Two Tragedies in One. By Robert Yarington The Captives, or the Lost Recovered. By Thomas Heywood The Costlie Whore. Everie Woman in her Humor. Appendix Index Footnotes


The fourth and final volume of this Collection of Old Plays ought to have been issued many months ago. I dare not attempt to offer any excuses for the wholly unwarrantable delay.

In the preface to the third volume I stated that I hoped to be able to procure a transcript of an unpublished play (preserved in Eg. MS. 1,994) of Thomas Heywood. It affords me no slight pleasure to include this play in the present volume. Mr. JEAVES, of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum, undertook the labour of transcription and persevered to the end. As I have elsewhere stated, the play is written in a detestable hand; and few can appreciate the immense trouble that it cost Mr. JEAVES to make his transcript. Where Mr. JEAVES' labours ended mine began; I spent many days in minutely comparing the transcript with the original. There are still left passages that neither of us could decipher, but they are not numerous.

I may be pardoned for regarding the Collection with some pride. Six of the sixteen plays are absolutely new, printed for the first time; and I am speaking within bounds when I declare that no addition so substantial has been made to the Jacobean drama since the days of Humphrey Moseley and Francis Kirkman. Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt has been styled by Mr. Swinburne a "noble poem." Professor Delius urged that it should be translated into German; and I understand that an accomplished scholar, Dr. Gelbeke of St. Petersburg, has just completed an admirable translation. Meanwhile the English edition[1] has been reproduced in Holland.

In the original announcement of this Collection I promised a reprint of Arden of Feversham from the quarto of 1592; I also proposed to include plays by Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes. After I had transcribed Arden of Feversham I determined not to include it in the present series. It occurred to me that I should enhance the value of these volumes by excluding such plays as were already accessible in modern editions. Accordingly I rejected Arden of Feversham, Sir John Oldcastle, Patient Grissel, and The Yorkshire Tragedy. The plays of Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes were excluded on other grounds. Several correspondents suggested to me that I should issue separately the complete works of each of these three dramatists; and, not without some misgivings, I adopted this suggestion.

I acknowledge with regret that the printing has not been as accurate as I should have desired. There have been too many misprints, especially in the first two volumes;[2] but in the eyes of generous and competent readers these blemishes (trivial for the most part) will not detract from the solid value of the Collection.

It remains that I should thank Mr. BERNARD QUARITCH, the most famous bibliopole of our age (or any age), for the kind interest that he has shewn in the progress of my undertaking. Of his own accord Mr. QUARITCH offered to subscribe for one third of the impression,—an offer which I gratefully accepted. I have to thank Mr. FLEAY for looking over the proof-sheets of a great part of the present volume and for aiding me with suggestions and corrections. To Dr. KOeHLER, librarian to the Grand Duke of Weimar, I am indebted for the true solution (see Appendix) of the rebus at the end of The Distracted Emperor. Mr. EBSWORTH, with his usual kindness, helped me to identify some of the songs mentioned in Everie Woman in Her Humor (see Appendix).


8th October, 1885.


Of Robert Yarington, the author of Two Tragedies in One absolutely nothing is known. There is no mention of him in Henslowe's Diary, and none of his contemporaries (so far as I can discover) make the slightest allusion to him. The Two Tragedies is of the highest rarity and has never been reprinted before.

There are two distinct plots in the present play. The one relates to the murder of Robert Beech, a chandler of Thames Street, and his boy, by a tavern-keeper named Thomas Merry; and the other is founded on a story which bears some resemblance to the well-known ballad of The Babes in the Wood. I have not been able to discover the source from which the playwright drew his account of the Thames Street murder. Holinshed and Stow are silent; and I have consulted without avail Antony Munday's "View of Sundry Examples," 1580, and "Sundry strange and inhumaine Murthers lately committed," 1591 (an excessively rare, if not unique, tract preserved at Lambeth). Yet the murder must have created some stir and was not lightly forgotten. From Henslowe's Diary[3] (ed. Collier, pp. 92-3) we learn that in 1599 Haughton and Day wrote a tragedy on the subject,—"the Tragedy of Thomas Merrye." The second plot was derived, I suppose, from some Italian story; and it is not improbable that the ballad of the Babes in the Wood (which was entered in the Stationers' Books in 1595, tho' the earliest printed copy extant is the black-letter broadside—circ. 1640?—in the Roxburghe Collection) was adapted from Yarington's play.

Although not published until 1601, the Two Tragedies would seem from internal evidence to have been written some years earlier. The language has a bald, antiquated look, and the stage-directions are amusingly simple. I once entertained a theory (which I cannot bring myself to wholly discard) that Arden of Feversham, 1592, Warning for Fair Women, 1599, and Two Tragedies in One, 1601, are all by the same hand; that the Warning and Two Tragedies, though published later, were early essays by the author whose genius displayed its full power in Arden of Feversham. A reader who will take the trouble to read the three plays together will discover many points of similarity between them. Arden is far more powerful than the two other plays; but I venture to think that the superiority lies rather in single scenes and detached passages than in general dramatic treatment. The noble scene of the quarrel and reconciliation between Alice Arden and Mosbie is incomparably finer than any scene in the Warning or Two Tragedies; but I am not sure that Arden contains another scene which can be definitely pronounced to be beyond Yarington's ability, though there are many scattered passages displaying such poetry as we find nowhere in the Two Tragedies. That Yarington could write vigorously is shown in the scene where Fallerio hires the two murderers (who remind us of Shagbag and Black Will in Arden) to murder his nephew; and again in the quarrel between these two ruffians. Allenso's affection for his little cousin and solicitude at their parting are tenderly portrayed with homely touches of quiet pathos. The diction of the Two Tragedies is plain and unadorned. In reading Arden we sometimes feel that the simplicity of language has been deliberately adopted for artistic purposes; that the author held plenty of strength in reserve, and would not have been wanting if the argument had demanded a loftier style. In Yarington's case we have no such feeling. He seems to be giving us the best that he had to give; and it must be confessed that he is intolerably flat at times. It is difficult to resist a smile when the compassionate Neighbour (in his shirt), discovering poor Thomas Winchester with the hammer sticking in his head, delivers himself after this fashion:—

"What cruell hand hath done so foule a deede, Thus to bemangle a distressed youth Without all pittie or a due remorse! See how the hammer sticketh in his head Wherewith this honest youth is done to death! Speak, honest Thomas, if any speach remaine: What cruell hand hath done this villanie?"

Merry's "last dying speech and confession" is as nasty as such things usually are.

In the introduction to Arden of Feversham I intend to return to the consideration of Yarington's Two Tragedies.

Two Lamentable Tragedies.

The one, of the Murther of Maister Beech A Chaundler in Thames-streete, and his boye, done by Thomas Merry.

The other of a Young childe murthered in a Wood by two Ruffins, with the consent of his Vnckle.



Printed for _Mathew Lawe, and are to be solde at _his Shop in Paules Church-yarde neere vnto S. Austines Gate, at the signe of the Foxe_. 1601.

Two Tragedies in One.

Enter Homicide, solus.

I have in vaine past through each stately streete, And blinde-fold turning of this happie towne, For wealth, for peace, and goodlie government, Yet can I not finde out a minde, a heart For blood and causelesse death to harbour in; They all are bent with vertuous gainefull trade, To get their needmentes for this mortall life, And will not soile their well-addicted harts With rape, extortion, murther, or the death Of friend or foe, to gaine an Empery. I cannot glut my blood-delighted eye With mangled bodies which do gaspe and grone, Readie to passe to faire Elizium, Nor bath my greedie handes in reeking blood Of fathers by their children murthered: When all men else do weepe, lament and waile, The sad exploites of fearefull tragedies, It glads me so, that it delightes my heart, To ad new tormentes to their bleeding smartes.

Enter Avarice.

But here comes Avarice, as if he sought, Some busie worke for his pernicious thought: Whether so fast, all-griping Avarice?

Ava. Why, what carst thou? I seeke for one I misse.

Ho. I may supplie the man you wish to have.

Ava. Thou seemes to be a bold audatious knave; I doe not like intruding companie, That seeke to undermine my secrecie.

Ho. Mistrust me not; I am thy faithfull friend.

Ava. Many say so, that prove false in the end.

Ho. But turne about and thou wilt know my face.

Ava. It may be so, and know thy want of grace. What! Homicide? thou art the man I seeke: I reconcile me thus upon thy cheeke. [Kisse, imbrace. Hadst thou nam'd blood and damn'd iniquitie, I had forborne to bight so bitterlie.

Hom. Knowst thou a hart wide open to receive, A plot of horred desolation? Tell me of this, thou art my cheefest good, And I will quaffe thy health in bowles of blood.

Ava. I know two men, that seem two innocents, Whose lookes, surveied with iuditiall eyes, Would seeme to beare the markes of honestie; But snakes finde harbour mongst the fairest flowers, Then never credit outward semblaunces.

Enter[4] Trueth.

I know their harts relentlesse, mercilesse, And will performe through hope of benefit: More dreadfull things then can be thought upon.

Hom. If gaine will draw, I prethy then allure Their hungrie harts with hope of recompence, But tye dispaire unto those mooving hopes, Unleast a deed of murther farther it, Then blood on blood, shall overtake them all, And we will make a bloodie feastivall.

Cove. The plots are laide, the keyes of golden coine, Hath op'd the secret closets of their harts. Inter [sic], insult, make captive at thy will, Themselves, and friends, with deedes of damned ill: Yonder is Truth, she commeth to bewaile, The times and parties that we worke upon.

Hom. Why, let her weepe, lament and morne for me, We are right bred of damn'd iniquitie, And will go make a two-folde Tragedie. [Exeunt.

Truth. Goe you disturbers of a quiet soule, Sad, greedy, gaping, hungrie Canibals, That ioy to practise others miseries. Gentles, prepare your teare-bedecked eyes, To see two shewes of lamentation, Besprinckled every where with guiltlesse blood, Of harmlesse youth, and pretie innocents. Our Stage doth weare habilliments of woe, Truth rues to tell the truth of these laments: The one was done in famous London late, Within that streete whose side the River Thames Doth strive to wash from all impuritie: But yet that silver stream can never wash, The sad remembrance of that cursed deede, Perform'd by cruell Merry on iust Beech, And his true boye poore Thomas Winchester. The most here present, know this to be true: Would Truth were false, so this were but a tale! The other further off, but yet too neere, To those that felt and did the crueltie: Neere Padua this wicked deed was done, By a false Uncle, on his brothers sonne, Left to his carefull education By dying Parents, with as strict a charge As ever yet death-breathing brother gave. Looke for no mirth, unlesse you take delight, In mangled bodies, and in gaping wounds, Bloodily made by mercy-wanting hands. Truth will not faine, but yet doth grieve to showe, This deed of ruthe and miserable woe.




Enter Merry.

I live in meane and discontented state, But wherefore should I think of discontent? I am belov'd, I have a pretty house, A loving sister, and a carefull man, That doe not thinke their dayes worke well at end, Except it bring me in some benefit: And well frequented is my little house With many guestes and honest passengers,

Enter Beech and a friend.

Which may in time advance my humble state To greater wealth and reputation. And here comes friends to drinke some beare or ale; [Sit in his Shop. They are my neighbours, they shall have the best.

Ne. Come neighbour Beech, lets have our mornings draught And wele go drinke it at yong Merries house: They say he hath the best in all this towne, Besides they say he is an honest man, And keepes good rule and orders in his house.

Beech. He's so indeede; his conversation Is full of honest harmlesse curtesie: I dare presume, if that he be within, Hele serve us well, and keepe us company. See where he is, go in, ile follow you; [Strive curtesies. Nay straine no curtesie, you shall goe before.

Mer. Your welcome, neighbour, you are welcome, sir; I praie sit downe, your verie welcome both.

Beech. We thanke you for it, and we thinke no lesse. Now fill two cans of your ould strongest beare; That make so manie loose their little wits, And make indentures as they go along.

Mer. Hoe, sister Rachell!

Rach. I come presently,

Enter Rachell.

Mer. Goe draw these gentlemen two cans of beare. Your negligence that cannot tend the shop, Will make our customers forsake the house. Wheres Harry Williams that he staies not here?

Rach. My selfe was busie dressing up the house: As for your man he is not verie well, But sitteth sleeping by the kitchen fier.

Mer. If you are busie, get you up againe; [Exit. Ile draw my neighbours then their drinke my selfe, Ile warrant you as good as any mans,— And yet no better; many have the like. [Exit for Beare.

Neigh. This showes him for a plain and honest man, That will not flatter with too many wordes; Some shriltong'd fellowes would have cogd and faind, Saying, ile draw the best in Christendome.

Beech. Hees none of those, but beares an honest minde, And shames to utter what he cannot prove.

Enter Merry.

But here he comes: is that the best you have?

Mer. It is the best upon mine honest worde.

Beech. Then drinke to us.

Mer. I drinke unto you both.

Nei. Beech. We pledge you both, and thanke you hartelie.

Beech. Heres to you sir.

Neigh. I thank you.

[Maister Beech drinkes; drinke Neighbour.

Neigh. Tis good indeed and I had rather drinke Such beare as this as any Gascoine Wine: But tis our English manner to affect Strange things, and price them at a greater rate, Then home-bred things of better consequence.

Mer. Tis true indeede; if all were of your mind, My poore estate would sooner be advanc'd, And our French Marchants seeke some other trade.

Beech. Your poore estate! nay, neighbour, say not so, For God be thanked you are well to live.

Mer. Not so good neighbour, but a poore young man, That would live better if I had the meanes: But as I am I can content myselfe, Till God amend my poore abilitie.

Neigh. In time no doubt; why, man, you are but young, And God, assure your selfe, hath wealth in store, If you awaight his will with patience.

Beech. Thankes be to God I live contentedlie, And yet I cannot boast of mightie wealth: But yet Gods blessings have beene infinit, And farre beyond my expectations. My shop is stor'd, I am not much in debt; And here I speake it where I may be bold, I have a score of poundes to helpe my neede, If God should stretch his hand to visit me With sicknesse or such like adversity.

Neigh. Enough for this; now, neighbour, whats to pay?

Mer. Two pence, good sir.

Beech. Nay, pray, sir, forbeare; Ile pay this reckoning, for it is but small.

Neigh. I will not strive since yee will have it so.

Beech. Neighbour, farewell.

[Exit Beech and Neigh.

Mer. Farewell unto you both. His shop is stor'd, he is not much in debt, He hath a score of poundes to helpe his neede: I and a score too if the trueth were known. I would I had a shop so stor'd with wares, And fortie poundes to buy a bargain with, When as occasion should be offered me; Ide live as merrie as the wealthiest man That hath his being within London walles. I cannot buy my beare, my bread, my meate, My fagots, coales, and such like necessaries, At the best hand, because I want the coine, That manie misers cofer up in bagges, Having enough to serve their turnes besides. Ah for a tricke to make this Beeches trash Forsake his cofer and to rest in mine! I, marrie, sir, how may that tricke be done? Marrie, with ease and great facilitie. I will invent some new-found stratagem, To bring his coyne to my possession. What though his death relieve my povertie? Gaine waites on courage, losse on cowardice.



Enter Pandino and Armenia sicke on a bed, Pertillo their Sonne, Falleria his Brother, Sostrato his Wife, Alinso their Sonne, and a Scrivener with a Will, &c.

Pan. Brother and sister, pray you both drawe neere, And heere my will which you have promised Shall be performde with wished providence. This little Orphant I must leave behinde, By your direction to be governed. As for my wife and I, we do awaite The blessed houre when it shall please the Lord, To take us to the iust Ierusalem. Our chiefest care is for that tender boye, Which we should leave discomfortlesse behinde, But that we do assure us of your love And care to guide his weake unhable youth In pathes of knowledge, grace, and godlinesse. As for the riches of this mortall life, We leave enough; foure hundreth pounds a yeare, Besides two thousand pounds to make a stocke, In money, iewels, plate, and houshold stuffe,— Which yearly rents and goods we leave to you, To be surrendered into his hands, When he attaines to yeeres of discreation. My Will imports thus much, which you shall heare; And you shall be my sole Executor.

Fall. Brother and sister, how my hart laments To see your weake and sicke afflicted limmes Neere overcome with dyrefull malladies, The God of heaven can truly testifie,— Which, to speake plaine, is nere a whit at all— [To the people. Which knowes the secret corners of my heart; But for the care you do impose on me, For the tuition of your little sonne, Thinke, my kinde brother, I will meditate, Both day and night, how I may best fulfill, The care and trust, reposed in your Will,— And see him posted quickly after you. [To the people.

Arm. Enough, kinde brother; we assure us so, Else would we seeke another friend abroade, To do our willes and dying Testament. Nature and love will have a double care To bring him up with carefull diligence, As best beseemes one of such parentage.

Fall. Assure your selfe, the safest course I can, Shall be provided for your little sonne,— He shall be sent unto the King of Heaven. [To the people.

Sostr. Feare not, good brother, and my loving sister, But we will have as tender care of him As if he were our owne ten thousand times: God will be father of the fatherlesse, And keepe him from all care and wretchednesse.

Allenso. Unckle and Aunt take comfort, I will see My little coozen have no injurie.

Pan. Ar. We thanke you all, come let the Will be read,

Fall.—If it were seald, I would you both were dead.

Scrive. Then give attention, I will read the Will. Reade the Will. In the name of God. Amen.—I, &c.

Pan. Thus, if my Sonne miscarry, my deare brother, You and your sonne shall then enjoy the land And all the goods which he should have possess'd.

Fall. If he miscarry, brother! God forbid! God blesse mine Nephew, that thine eyes may see Thy childrens children with prosperity! I had rather see the little urchin hang'd [To the people. Then he should live and I forgoe the land.

Ar. Thankes, gentle brother; husband seale the will.

Pand. Give me a Pen and Inke first to subscribe; I write so ill through very feeblenesse, That I can scarcely know this hand for mine, But that you all can witnesse that it is.

Scri. Give me the seale: I pray, sir, take it of. This you deliver for your latest will, And do confirme it for your Testament?

Pand. With all my hart; here, brother, keepe my Will, And I referre me to the will of God, Praying him deale as well with you and yours, As you no doubt will deale with my poore child. Come, my Pertillo, let me blesse thee, boy, And lay my halfe-dead hand upon thy head. God graunt those days that are cut off in me, With ioy and peace may multiply in thee. Be slowe to wrath, obey thy Unckle still, Submit thy selfe unto Gods holy will, In deede and word see thou be ever true; So brother, childe, and kinsfolkes, all adue. [He dyeth.

Per. Ah my deere Mother, is my father dead?

Ar. I, my sweete boye, his soule to heaven is fled, But I shall after him immediatly. Then take my latest blessing ere I dye: Come, let me kisse thy little tender lips, Cold death hath tane possession of thy mother; Let me imbrace thee in my dying armes, And pray the Lord protect thee from al harmes. Brother, I feare, this Child when I am gone, Wil have great cause of griefe and hideous feare: You will protect him, but I prophecie, His share will be of woe and misery: But mothers feares do make these cares arise; Come, boye, and close thy mothers dying eyes. Brother and sister, here [sic] the latest words, That your dead sister leaves for memory: If you deale ill with this distressed boye, God will revenge poore orphants iniuries, If you deale well, as I do hope you will, God will defend both you and yours from ill. Farewell, farewell, now let me breath my last, Into his dearest mouth, that wanteth breath, And as we lov'd in life imbrace in death. Brother and sister this is all I pray, Tender my boye when we are laide in clay. [Dyeth.

Allen. Gods holy Angell guide your loving soules Unto a place of endlesse happinesse.

Sostr. Amen, Amen. Ah, what a care she had Of her small Orphant! She did dying pray, To love her Childe when she was laide in claye.

Scr. Ah blame her not although she held it deare; She left him yonge, the greater cause of feare.

Fall. Knew she my mind, it would recall her life, [To the people. And like a staring Commet she would moove Our harts to think of desolation.— Scrivenor, have you certified the Will?

Scri. I have.

Fall. Then theres two Duckets for your paines.

Scri. Thankes, gentle sir, and for this time farewell. [Exit.

Sost. Come pretty coozen, cozened by grim death Of thy most carefull parents all too soone; Weepe not, sweete boye, thou shalt have cause to say, Thy Aunt was kinde, though parents lye in claye.

Pert. But give me leave first to lament the losse, Of my deere parents, nature bindeth me, To waile the death of those that gave me life, And if I live untill I be a man, I will erect a sumptuous monument, And leave remembrance to ensuing times Of kind Pandino and Armenia.

Allen. That shall not neede; my father will erect That sad memoriall of their timeles[5] death, And at that tombe we will lament and say Soft lye the bones of faire Armenia.

Fall. Surcease, Allenso; thats a booteless cost, The Will imports no such iniunction: I will not spend my little Nephewes wealth, In such vaine toyes; they shall have funerall, But with no stately ceremoniall pompe, Thats good for nought but fooles to gase uppon. Live thou in hope to have thine unckles land.

Allen. His land! why, father, you have land enough, And more by much then I do know to use: I would his vertues would in me survive, So should my Unckle seeme in me alive. But to your will I doe submit my selfe; Do what you please concerning funeralls.

Fall. Come then, away, that we may take in hand, To have possession of my brothers land, His goods and all untill he come of age To rule and governe such possessions.— That shalbe never, or ile misse my marke, Till I surrender up my life to death: And then my Sonne shalbe his fathers heire, And mount aloft to honors happy chaire.

[Exeunt omnes.


Enter Merry, solus.

Beech hath a score of pounds to helpe his neede, And I may starve ere he will lend it me: But in dispight ile have it ere I sleepe, Although I send him to eternall rest. But, shallow foole, thou talkst of mighty things, And canst not compasse what thou dost conceive. Stay, let me see, ile fetch him to my house, And in my garret quickly murther him: The night conceales all in her pitchie cloake, And none can open what I meane to hide. But then his boy will say I fetcht him foorth: I am resolv'd he shall be murthered to [sic]; This toole shall write, subscribe, and seale their death And send them safely to another world. But then my sister, and my man at home, Will not conceale it when the deede is done. Tush, one for love, the other for reward, Will never tell the world my close intent. My conscience saith it is a damned deede To traine one foorth, and slay him privily. Peace, conscience, peace, thou art too scripulous [sic]; Gaine doth attend[6] this resolution. Hence, dastard feare! I must, I can, I will, Kill my best friend to get a bag of gold. They shall dye both, had they a thousand lives; And therefore I will place this hammer here, And take it as I follow Beech up staires, That suddenlie, before he is aware, I may with blowes dash out his hatefull braines.— Hoe, Rachell, bring my cloake; look to the house, I will returne againe immediately.

Rach. Here it is brother, I pray you stay not long; Guesse[7] will come in, 'tis almost supper time. [Ex. Ra.

Mer. Let others suppe, ile make a bloudier feast Then ever yet was drest in Merryes house. Be like thy selfe then, have a merrie hart, Thou shalt have gold to mend thy povertie, And after this live ever wealthilie.

Then Merry must passe to Beeches shoppe, who must sit in his shop, and Winchester his boy stand by: Beech reading.

What, neighbour Beech, so godly occupied?

Beech. I, maister Merry; it were better reade, Then meditate on idle fantasies.

Mer. You speake the trueth; there is a friend or two Of yours making merry in my house, And would desire to have your company.

Beech. Know you their names?

Mer. No truely, nor the men. I never stoode to question them of that, But they desire your presence earnestlie.

Beech. I pray you tell them that I cannot come, Tis supper time, and many will resort For ware at this time, above all other times; Tis Friday night besides, and Bartholomew eve, Therefore good neighbour make my just excuse.

Mer. In trueth they told me that you should not stay, Goe but to drinke, you may come quick againe,— But not and if my hand and hammer hold. [(To the) people.

Beech. I am unwilling, but I do not care, And if I go to see the Company.

Mer. Come quickly then, they think we stay too long.

Beech. Ile cut a peece of cheese to drink withall.

Mer. I, take the farewell of your cutting knife, Here is a hand shall helpe to cut your throate, And give my selfe a fairing[8] from your chest.— What are you ready, will you goe along?

Beech. I, now I am; boy, looke you tend the shoppe; If any aske, come for me to the Bull. I wonder who they are that aske for me.

Mer. I know not that, you shall see presentlie. Goe up those staires, your friends do stay above.— Here is that friend shall shake you by the head, And make you stagger ere he speake to you.

Then being in the upper Rome Merry strickes him in the head fifteene times.

Now you are safe, I would the boy were so; But wherefore wish I, for he shall not live? For if he doe, I shall not live myselfe.

[Merry wiped [sic] his face from blood.

Lets see what mony he hath in his purse. Masse heres ten groates, heres something for my pains. But I must be rewarded better yet.

Enter Rachell and Harry Williams.

Wil. Who was it, Rachell, that went up the staires?

Rach. It was my brother, and a little man Of black complexion, but I know him not.

Wil. Why do you not then carry up a light, But suffer them to tarry in the darke?

Rach. I had forgot, but I will beare one up. [Exit up.

Wil. Do so, I prethee; he will chide anon. [Exit.

[Rachell speaketh to her Brother.

Rach. Oh brother, brother, what have you done?

Mer. Why, murtherd one that would have murtherd me.

Rach. We are undone, brother, we are undone. What shall I say, for we are quite undone?

Mer. Quiet thy selfe, sister; all shalbe well. But see in any case you do not tell, This deede to Williams nor to any one.

Rach. No, no, I will not; was't not maister Beech?

Mer. It was, it is, and I will kill his man, [Exit Rach. Or in attempting doe the best I can.

Enter Williams and Rachell.

Wil. What was the matter that you cride so lowde?

Rach. I must not tell you, but we are undone.

Wil. You must not tell me, but we are undone! Ile know the cause wherefore we are undone. [Exit up.

Rach. Oh would the thing were but to doe againe! The thought thereof doth rent my hart in twaine. [She goes up.

Williams to Merry above.

Wil. Oh maister, maister, what have you done?

Mer. Why slaine a knave that would have murtherd me; Better to kill, then to be kild my selfe.

Wil. With what? wherewith? how have you slaine the man?

Mer. Why, with this hammer I knockt out his braines.

Wil. Oh it was beastly so to butcher him. If any quarrell were twixt him and you, You should have bad him meete you in the field, Not like a coward under your owne roofe To knock him downe as he had bin an oxe, Or silly sheepe prepard for slaughter house. The Lord is just, and will revenge his blood, On you and yours for this extremitie. I will not stay an hower within your house, It is the wickedst deed that ere was done.

Mer. Oh, sir, content your selfe, all shall be well; Whats done already cannot be undone.

Rach. Oh would to God, the deed were now to do, And I were privie to your ill intent, You should not do it then for all the world. But prethie, Harry, do not leave the house, For then suspition will arise thereof, And if the thing be knowne we are undone.

Wil. Forsake the house! I will not stay all night, Though you will give the wealth of Christendome.

Mer. But yet conceale it, for the love of God; If otherwise, I know not what to do.

Wil. Here is my hand, ile never utter it; Assure your selfe of that, and so farewell.

Mer. But sweare to me, as God shall help thy soule, Thou wilt not tell it unto any one.

Wil. I will not sweare, but take my honest worde, And so farewell. My soule assureth me [Exit Merry and Rach. God will revenge this damn'd iniquitie. What shall become of me unhappie wretch? I dare not lodge within my Maisters house, For feare his murthrous hand should kill me too. I will go walke and wander up and downe, And seeke some rest, untill the day appeare. At the Three Cranes,[9] in some Haye loft ile lye, And waile my maisters comming miserie.



Enter Fallerio solus.

Fall. I have possession of my brothers goods; His tennants pay me rent, acknowledge me To be their Landlord; they frequent my house, With Turkeys, Capons, Pigeons, Pigges and Geese, And all to game my favour and goodwill. His plate, his iewels, hangings, household stuffe, May well beseeme to fit a demie King; His stately buildings, his delightfull walkes, His fertile meadowes, and rich ploughed lands, His well-growne woods and stor'd fishing ponds, Brings endlesse wealth, besides continuall helpe, To keepe a good and hospitable house: And shall I ioy these pleasures but a time? Nay brother, sister, all shall pardon me, Before ile sell my selfe to penurie. The world doth know thy brother but resigned The lands and goods untill his sonne attain'de To riper years to weld [sic] and governe them. Then openly thou canst not do him wrong, He living: theres the burthen of the song. Call it a burthen, for it seemes so great And heavie burthen, that the boy should live And thrust me from this height of happinesse, That I will not indure so heavie waight, But shake it off, and live at libertie, Free from the yoake of such subjection. The boy shall dye, were he my fathers sonne, Before ile part with my possession. Ile call my sonne, and aske his good advice, How I may best dispatch this serious cause.— Hoe, sir, Allenso!

Alle. Father.

Fall. Hearken, sonne. I must intreate your furtherance and advise About a thing that doth concerne us neere. First tell me how thou doost affect in heart Little Pertillo, thy dead Unckles sonne.

Allen. So well, good father, that I cannot tell, Whether I love him dearer then my selfe; And yet if that my heart were calde to count, I thinke it would surrender me to death, Ere young Pertillo should sustain a wrong.

Fall. How got his safetie such a deepe regarde Within your heart, that you affect it so?

Allen. Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge, Of his dead father, gives such store of sap Unto this tree of my affection That it will never wither till I dye.

Fall. But nature, love, and reason, tells thee thus, Thy selfe must yet be neerest to thyselfe.

Allen. His love dooth not estrange me from my selfe, But doth confirme my strength with multitudes Of benefits his love will yeelde to me.

Fall. Beware to foster such pernicious snakes Within thy bosome, which will poyson thee.

Allen. He is a Dove, a childe, an innocent, And cannot poyson, father, though he would.

Fall. I will be plainer: know, Pertillos life, Which thou doost call a dove, an innocent, A harmlesse childe, and, and I know not what, Will harm thee more, than any Serpent can, I, then the very sight of Basiliskes.

Allen. Father you tell me of a strange discourse. How can his life produce such detriment, As Basiliskes, whose only sight is death?

Fall. Hearken to me, and I will tell thee how; Thou knowst his fathers goods, his houses, lands, Have much advaunc'd our reputation, In having but their usage for a time. If the boy live, then like to sencelesse beasts, Like longd-eard Asses and riche-laden Mules, We must resign these treasures to a boye, And we like Asses feede on simple haye: Make him away, they shall continue ours By vertue of his fathers Testament,— The iewels, castles, medowes, houses, lands, Which thy small cozen should defeate thee of, Be still thine owne, and thou advance thy selfe, Above the height of all thine Auncestours.

Allen. But if I mount by murther and deceite, Iustice will thrust aspiring thoughts belowe, And make me caper for to breake my neck, After some wofull lamentation Of my obedience to unlawfulnesse. I tell you plaine, I would not have him dye, Might I enjoy the Soldans Emperie.

Fall. What, wilt thou barre thy selfe of happinesse? Stop the large streame of pleasures which would flowe, And still attend on thee like Servingmen? Preferre the life of him that loves thee not Before thine owne and my felicitie?

Allen. Ide rather choose to feede on carefulnesse, To ditche, to delve, and labour for my bread, Nay rather choose to begge from doore to doore, Then condiscend to offer violence To young Pertillo in his innocence. I know you speake, to sound what mightie share Pertillo hath in my affection.

Fall. In faith I do not; therefore, prethie, say, Wilt thou consent to have him made away?

Allen. Why, then in faithe I am ashamde to think, I had my being from so foule a lumpe Of adulation and unthankfulnesse. Ah, had their dying praiers no availe Within your hart? no, damnd extorcion Hath left no roome for grace to harbor in! Audacious sinne, how canst thou make him say Consent to make my brothers sonne away?

Fall. Nay if you ginne to brawle, withdrawe your selfe, But utter not the motion[10] that I made, As you love me, or do regarde your life.

Allen. And as you love my safetie and your soule, Let grace and feare of God, such thoughts controule.

Fall. Still pratling! let your grace and feare alone, And leave me quickly to my private thoughts, Or with my sword ile open wide a gate, For wrath and bloudie death to enter in.

Allen. Better you gave me death and buriall, Then such foule deeds should overthrow us all.

Fall. Still are you wagging that rebellious tounge! Ile dig it out for Crowes to feede upon, If thou continue longer in my sight. [Exit Allenso. He loves him better then he loves his life! Heres repetition of my brothers care, Of sisters chardge, of grace, and feare of God. Feare dastards, cowards, faint hart runawayes! Ile feare no coulours[11] to obteine my will, Though all the fiends in hell were opposite. Ide rather loose mine eye, my hand, my foote, Be blinde, wante senses, and be ever lame, Then be tormented with such discontent This resignation would afflict me with. Be blithe, my boy, thy life shall sure be done, Before the setting of the morrowe sunne. [Exit.

Enter Avarice and Homicide bloody.

Hom. Make hast, runne headlong to destruction! I like thy temper that canst change a heart From yeelding flesh to Flinte and Adamant. Thou hitst it home, where thou doost fasten holde; Nothing can separate the love of golde.

Ava. Feare no relenting, I dare pawne my soule, (And thats no gadge, it is the divels due) He shall imbrew his greedie griping hands In the dead bosome of the bloodie boy, And winde himselfe, his sonne, and harmlesse wife, In endlesse foldes of sure destruction. Now, Homicide, thy lookes are like thyselfe, For blood and death are thy companions. Let my confounding plots but goe before, And thou shalt wade up to the chin in gore.

Homi. I finde it true, for where thou art let in, There is no scruple made of any sinne; The world may see thou art the roote of ill, For but for thee poore Beech had lived still.




Enter Rachell and Merry.

Rach. Oh my deare brother, what a heap of woe, Your rashnesse hath powrd downe upon your head! Where shall we hide this trumpet of your shame, This timelesse ougly map of crueltie? Brother, if Williams do reveale the truth, Then brother, then, begins our sceane of ruthe.

Mer. I feare not Williams, but I feare the boy, Who knew I fetcht his maister to my house.

Rach. What, doth the boy know whereabouts you dwell?

Mer. I, that tormentes me worse than panges of hell:— He must be slaine to, else hele utter all.

Rach. Harke, brother, harke, me thinkes I here on[12] call.

Mer. Go downe and see; pray God my man keep close; If he prove long-tongd then my daies are done. The boy must die, there is no helpe at all; For on his life my verie life dependes. Besides I cannot compasse what I would, Unlesse the boy be quicklie made away. This that abridgde his haplesse maisters daies, Shall leave such sound memorials one [sic] his head, That he shall quite forget who did him harme, Or train'd his master to this bloodie feast.— Why, how now, Rachell? who did call below?

Enter Rachell.

Rach. A maide that came to have a pennie loafe.

Mer. I would a pennie loafe cost me a pound, Provided Beeches boy had eate his last.

Rach. Perchance the boy doth not remember you.

Mer. It may be so,—but ile remember him. [To people. And send him quicklie with a bloodie scrowle, To greete his maister in another world.

Rach. Ile go to Beeches on a faind excuse, To see if he will ask me for his maister.

Mer. No, get you up, you shall not stir abroade, And when I call, come quicklie to the dore.

Rach. Brother, or that, or any thing beside, To please your mind, or ease your miserie. [Exit.

Mer. I am knee-deepe, ile wade up to the wast, To end my hart of feare, and to atteine The hoped end of my intention. But I maie see, if I have eyes to see, And if my understanding be not blind, How manie dangers do alreadie waight, Upon my steppes of bold securitie. Williams is fled, perchaunce to utter all; Thats but perchance, naie rather flatlie no. But should he tell, I can but die a death; Should he conceale, the boy would utter it; The boy must die, there is no remedie.

[The boy sitting at his maisters dore.

Win. I wonder that my maister staies so long; He had not wont to be abroade so late. Yonder comes one; I thinke that same is he.

Mer. I see the boye sits at his maisters doore. Or now, or never; Merry, stir thy selfe, And rid thy hart from feare and jealousie.— Thomas Winchester, go quicklie to your shoppe: What, sit you still? your maister is at hand.

[When the boy goeth into the shoppe Merrie striketh six blowes on his head & with the seaventh leaves the hammer sticking in his head; the boy groaning must be heard by a maide who must crye to her Maister. [Merrie flieth.

Mai. Oh God I thinke theres theeves in Beeches shop.

Enter one in his shirt and a maide, and comming to Beeches shop findes the boy murthered.

Nei. What cruell hand hath done so foule a deede, Thus to bemangle a distressed youth Without all pittie or a due remorse! See how the hammer sticketh in his head, Wherewith this honest youth is done to death! Speak, honest Thomas, if any speach remaine: What cruell hand hath done this villanie? He cannot speake, his senses are bereft. Hoe, neighbour Loney! pray come downe with speede, Your tennant Beeches man is murthered.

Loney sleeping. What, would you have some mustard?

Nei. Your tennant Beeches man, is murthered.

Lo. Whose smothered, I thinke you lack your wit What, neighbor? what make[13] you here so late? [Out at a window.

Nei. I was affrighted by a sodaine crie, And comming downe saw maister Beeches man, Thus with a hammer sticking in his head. [Comes to win.

Loney. Ah wo is me for Thomas Winchester, The truest soule that ever maister had! Wheres maister Beech?

Neigh. Nay, no body can tell: Did you see any running from the dore, When you lookt out and heard the youngman crie?

Maid. Yes I saw two trulie to my thinking, but they ranne away as fast as their hands could beare them.—By my troth twas so darke I could see no bodie.—[To people. Praie God Maister Beech hath not hurt his boy in his patience and if he have he must be hangd in his choller.

Lo. I dare be sworne he would not strike him thus, Praie God his Maister be not slaine himselfe. The night growes late, and we will have this course Be watch'd all night; to morrow we shall see Whence sprang this strange uncivill crueltie.

Nei. Neighbour good night.

Lon. Neighbors all good night.

Ma. Praie God I never see so sad a sight.

[Exeunt omnes.

Enter Merry knocking at the doore, and Rachell comes downe.

Mer. Oh sister, sister, now I am pursu'd! The mightie clamour that the boy did make, Hath raisde the neighbours round about the street: So that I know not where to hide my selfe.

Ra. What, brother! have you kild Beeches boy?

Mer. No, no, not I, but yet another hath. Come, come to bed, for feare we be descri'd: The fearfullest night that ever Merry knew!



Enter Falleria and two Ruffaines.

Fall. Seeme it not strange, resolved gentlemen,[14] That I thus privatelie have severed you, To open secret furrowes of my hart. Think not I do intend to undermine, Your passed lives, although you know I am A man to whom the true unpartiall sworde, Of equall justice is delivered. Therefore sweare both, as you respect your soules, At the last dreadfull sessions held in heaven, First to conceale, and next to execute, What I reveale, and shall enioyne you to.

Both. So you rewarde us, whatsoever it be, We vowe performance, and true secrecie.

Fall. There go aside, yee seeming semblances, Of equall justice, and true pietie, And lay my hearts corrupted Cytadell Wide open to your thoughts to look into. Know I am named Fallerio to deceive The world with shew of truth and honestie, But yet nor truth, nor honestie abides Within my thoughts, but falshood, crueltie, Blood-sucking Avarice, and all the sinnes, That hale men on to bloodie stratagems, Like to your selves, which care not how you gaine, By blood, extorcion, falshood, periurie, So you may have a pleasing recompence: [They start. Start not aside, depart not from your selves, I know your composition is as mine, Of bloud, extortion, falshood, periurie, True-branded with the marke of wickednesse.

1 Ruffin. Be not so bitter; we are they indeede, That would deprive our fathers of their lives, So we were sure to have a benefit: I way no more the murthring of a child, Drag'd from the sucking bosome of his mother, Then I respect to quaffe a boule of wine, Unto his health, that dearely loveth me.

2 Ruff. Where golde rewardeth, were apparent death, Before mine eyes, bolde, hartie, visible, Ide wrastle with him for a deadly fall, Or I would loose my guerdon promised. Ide hang my brother for to wear his coate, That all that saw me might have cause to say, There is a hart more firme then Adamant, To practise execrable butcheries.

Fall. I know that well, for were I not assur'd Of your performance in this enterprice, I would not ope the closet of my brest, To let you know my close intention. There is a little boy, an urchin lad, That stands betweene me and the glorious rayes, Of my soule-wishing sunne of happinesse. There is a thicket ten miles from this place, Whose secret ambush and unused wayes Doth seeme to ioyne with our conspiracie: There murther him, and when the deed is done, Cast his dead body in some durtie ditch, And leave him for the fowles to feed upon. Do this, here is two hundreth markes in golde, To harten on your resolution: Two hundreth more, after the deed is done, Ile pay you more for satisfaction.

1 Ruff. Swones her's rewards would make one kill himselfe, To leave his progenie so rich a prize! Were twentie lives engadged for this coine, Ide end them all, to have the money mine.

2 Ruff. Who would not hazard life nay soule and all, For such a franke and bounteous pay-maister? Sblood! what labor is't to kill a boy? It is but thus, and then the taske is done. It grieves me most, that when this taske is past, I have no more to occupie my selfe. Two hundred markes to give a paltrie stab! I am impatient till I see the brat.

Fall. That must be done with cunning secrecie, I have devisde to send the boye abroade, With this excuse, to have him fostered, In better manners than this place affoords. My wife, though loath indeed to part with him, Yet for his good, she will forgoe her joy, With hope in time to have more firme delights, Which she expects from young Pertillos life.

2 Ruff. Call you him Pertillo, faith leave out the T.

Fall. Why so?

Ruff. Because Perillo will remaine, For he shall surely perish if I live. What do you call the father of the child?

Fall. Why man, he hath no father left alive.

1 Ruff.—Yes, such a father, that doth see and know, How we do plot this little infants woe. [To the people.

2 Ruff. Why, then his little sonne is much to blame, That doth not keepe his father company. When shall we have deliverie of the boy?

Fall. To morrow morning by the breake of day: And you must sweare youle see him safely brought, Unto the place that I do send him to.

2 Ruff. That may we safely, for you meane to send Him to the wood and there his journey end.[15] Both soule and limbes shall have a place to rest, In earth the last, the first in Abrams brest.

Fall. Come gentlemen, this night go rest with me, To morrow end Pertillos tragedie.

[Exeunt omnes.


Enter Merry and Rachell.

Mer. Sister, now all my golde-expected hopes Of future good is plainely vanished, And in her stead grim-visadged dispaire, Hath tane possession of my guiltie heart. Desire to gaine began this desperate acte; Now plaine apparance of destruction, Of soule and body, waights upon my sinne. Although we hide our sinnes from mortall men, Whose glasse of knowledge is the face of man, The eye of heaven beholdes our wickednesse, And will no doubt revenge the innocent,

Rach. Ah, do not so disconsolate your selfe, Nor adde new streames of sorrow to your griefe, Which like a spring tide over-swels the bankes, Least you do make an inundation And so be borne away with swiftest tides Of ugly feare and strong dispairing thoughts. I am your sister; though a silly Maide, Ile be your true and faithfull comforter.

Mer. Rachell, I see thy love is infinite, And sorrow hath so borne my thoughts away, That I had almost quite forgot my selfe. Helpe me, deare sister, to convey from hence The spectacle of inhumanitie.

Rach. Whether would you convey this lumpe of dust Untimely murthered by your lucklesse hand?

Mer. To the lowe roome, where we will cover it, With Fagots, till the evening doe approche: In the meane time I will bethinke my selfe, How I may best convey it foorth of doores; For if we keepe it longer in the house, The savour will be felt throughout the streete, Which will betray us to destruction. Oh what a horror brings this beastlinesse, This chiefe of sinnes, this self-accusing crime Of murther! now I shame to know my selfe, That am estrang'd so much from that I was, True, harmlesse, honest, full of curtesie, Now false, deceitfull, full of injurie. Hould thou his heeles, ile bear his wounded head: Would he did live, so I myself were dead!

[Bring down the body, and cover it over with Faggots himselfe.

Rach. Those little stickes, do hide the murthred course, But stickes, nor ought besides, can hide the sinne. He sits on high, whose quick all-seeing eye, Cannot be blinded by mans subtilties.

Mer. Look every where, can you discerne him now?

Rach. Not with mine eye, but with my heart I can.

Mer. That is because thou knowest I laide him there: To guiltinesse each thought begetteth feare. But go, my true, though wofull comforter, Wipe up the blood in every place above, So that no drop be found about the house: I know all houses will be searcht anon. Then burne the clothes, with which you wipe the ground That no apparant signe of blood be found.

Rach. I will, I will; oh, would to God I could As cleerely wash your conscience from the deed As I can cleanse the house from least suspect Of murthrous deed, and beastly crueltie!

Mer. Cease to wish vainely, let us seeke to save Our names, our fames, our lives and all we have.



Enter three or foure neighbours together.

1 Neigh. Neighbours, tis bruted all about the towne That Robert Beech, a honest Chaundelor, Had his man deadly wounded yester night, At twelve a clock, when all men were a sleepe.

2. Where was his maister, when the deed was done?

3. No man can tell, for he is missing to, Some men suspect that he hath done the fact, And that for feare the man is fled away; Others, that knew his honest harmlesse life, Feare that himselfe is likewise made away.

4. Then let commaundement every where be given, That sinkes and gutters, privies, crevises, And every place where blood may be conceald, Be throughly searcht, swept, washt, and neerely sought, To see if we can finde the murther out. And least that Beech be throwne into the Thames, Let charge be given unto the watermen That, if they see the body of a man, Floting in any place about the Thames, That straight they bring it unto Lambert Hill, Where Beech did dwell when he did live in health.

1 Neigh. Ile see this charge performd immediatly.

4. Now let us go to Maister Beeches shop, [Exit. To see if that the boy can give us light, Of those suspitions which this cause doth yeeld.

2. This is the house; call Maister Loney forth.

3. Hoe, Maister Loney! doth the boy yet live?

Enter Loney.

Or can he utter who hath done him wrong.

Lo. He is not dead but hath a dying life, For neither speech, nor any sense at all, Abideth in the poore unhappie youth.

4. Here [sic] you of anie where his Maister is?

Lo. No, would we could; we all, that knew his life, Suspect him not for any such offence.

4. Bring forth the boy, that we may see his wounds.

[Bringes him forth in a chaire with a hammer sticking in his head.

What say the Surgeons to the youngmans woundes?

Lo. They give him over, saying everie wound, Of sixe, whereof theres seav'n in his head, Are mortall woundes and all incurable.

[They survey his woundes.

Enter Merrie and Williams.

Mer. How now, good Harry, hast thou hid my fault? The boy that knew I train'd his Maister forth, Lies speechlesse, and even at the point of death. If you prove true, I hope to scape the brunt.

Will. Whie, feare not me, I have conceal'd it yet, And will conceale it, have no doubt of me.

Mer. Thanks, gentle Harry, thou shalt never lacke; But thou and I will live as faithfull friendes, And what I have, shalbe thine owne to use. There is some monie for to spend to-day, I know you meane to goe and see the faire.

Will. I faine would go, but that I want a cloake.

Mer. Thou shalt not want a cloake, or ought beside, So thou wilt promise to be secret. [Gives him his cloake. Here, take my Cloake, ile weare my best my selfe. But where did you lie this last night?

Wil. At the three Cranes, in a Carmans hay loft, But ile have better lodging soone at night.

Mer. Thou wilt be secret. I will go and see, [Exit Willi. What stir they keepe about Beeches shop, Because I would avoyde suspition. [Go to them. God save you, Gentlemen! is this the boy That is reported to be murthered?

4. He is not dead outright, but pleas'd it God, Twere better he had left this wicked world, Then to live thus in this extremitie.

Mer. A cruell hand no doubt that did the deede. Whie pull you not the hammer from his head?

4. That must not be before the youth be dead, Because the crowner and his quest may see, The manner how he did receive his death. Beare hence the bodie, and endevor all, To finde them out that did the villanie.

[Exeunt omnes: manet Merrie.

Mer. Do what you can, cast all your wits about, Rake kennells, gutters, seeke in everie place, Yet I will overgoe your cunning heads, If Williams and my sister hold their tongues. My neighbours holdes not me in least suspect, Weighing of my former conversation. Were Beeches boy well conveid awaie, Ide hope to overblow this stormie day.



Enter Falleria, Sostrata, Allenso, Pertillo, and two Murtherers booted.

Fall. Now little cooze, you are content to goe, From me your Unckle and your loving Aunt, Your faithfull cozen, and your dearest friendes: And all to come to be a skilfull man, In learned artes and happy sciences?

Per, I am content, because it pleaseth you. My father bid I should obey your will, And yeelde my selfe to your discretion: Besides my cozen gave me yesternight, A prettie nag to ride to Padua. Of all my friends Allenso loves me best.

Fall. I thinke thou art inspir'd with prophesie: [To the people. He loves thee better then I would he did.— Why, wherefore think you so, my prettie Nephew?

Per. Because he taught me how to say my prayers, To ride a horse, to start the fearfull hare. He gave this dagger to me yester night, This little Ring, and many pretie things; For which, kind cooze, I rest your true debtor, And one day I will make you recompence.

Fall. I, with thy lands and goods thou leav'st behinde.

Allen. Pray, father, let me go along with him.— Now, by the Saviour of my sinfull soule, [To the people. I do not like those fellowes countenance.

Fall. Sonne be content, weele go a seavenight hence, And see him in his universitie weedes. These will conduct him safely to the place; Be well assured they'l have a care of him— That you shall never see Pertillo more. [To the people.

Allen. Father, I pray you to withdraw your selfe, Ide have a word or two in secresie.

[They speake together.

Sost. Come living image of thy dead mother, And take my loving farewell, ere we part. I love thee dearly for thy fathers sake, But for thy mothers dote with jealousie. Oh I do feare, before I see thy face, Or thou or I shall taste of bitternesse. Kisse me, sweete boy, and, kissing, folde thine Aunte Within the circle of thy little armes. I neede not feare, death cannot offer wrong; The majestie of thy presaging face, Would vanquish him, though nere so terrible. The angry Lionesse that is bereav'd Of her imperious crew of forrest kings, Would leave her furie, and defend thee safe From Wolves, from Panthers, Leopards, and Shee Beares, That live by rapine, stealth and crueltie. Therefore to God I do commend thy state, Who will be sure to guard thee tenderly. And now to you, that carry hence this wealth, This precious Jewell, this unprized good, Have a regarde to use him carefully, When he is parted from that serious care, Which was imployde for his securitie. I urge it not, that I misdoubt your truth; I hope his Unckle doth perswade himselfe You will be courteous, kinde, and affable. Ther's some rewarde for hoped carefulnesse.

Allen. Now by my soule I do suspect the men, Especially the lower of the two: See, what a hollow discontented looke He casts, which brings apparant cause of feare: The other, though he seeme more courteous, Yet dooth his lookes presadge this thought in me. As if he scorn'd to thinke on courtesie.

Fall. Upon my life, my sonne you are to blame, The gentlemen are honest, vertuous, And will protect Pertillo happily. These thoughts proceed out of aboundant love, Because you grieve to leave his company. If ought betide him otherwise then well, Let God require due vengaunce on my head, And cut my hopes from all prosperitie.

Allen. A heavie sentence, full of wondrous feare: I cannot choose but credit such a vowe. Come hether then, my joy, my chiefest hopes, My second selfe, my earthly happinesse, Lend me thy little prety cherry lip, To kisse me, cozen; lay thy little hand Upon my cheeke, and hug me tenderly. Would the cleere rayes of thy two glorious sunnes Could penetrate the corners of my heart, That thou might see how much I tender thee. My friends, beholde, within this little bulke Two perfect bodyes are incorporate; His life holdes mine, his heart conteines my hart, His every lim containes my every part; Without his being I can never be, He being dead, prepare to bury me. Oh thou immortall mover of the spheares Within their circled revolusions, Whose glorious image this small orphant beares, Wrought by thy all-sufficient majestie, Oh never suffer any wicked hand To harme this heavenly workmanship of thine, But let him live, great God, to honor thee With vertuous life and spotlesse pietie!

Per. Cease, my kind cooze; I cannot choose but weepe, To see your care of my securitie.

Allen.—Knewst thou my reason, that perswades my hart, Thou wouldst not wonder, why I grieve to part: But yet I would suspect my fathers vowe, Did any other make it by your leave.

Fall. What have you done? this lothnesse to depart, Seemes you were trained up in tediousnesse, Thou knowst not when and where to make an end. Take him my friends, I know you will discharge The hope and trust that I repose in you.

Both. Assure your selfe, in every circumstance.

Fall. Then to your horses quicklie, speedily, Else we shall put our fingers in the eye, And weepe for kindnesse till tomorrow morne.

Per. Farewell good Unckle, Aunt, and loving cooze.

[Sostratus [sic] kisseth the boy weeping.

Allen. Farewell.—I fear me everlastinglie.

[Exeunt Sostratus and Allenso.

[One of the Murtherers takes Falleria by the sleeve.

1 mu. You meane not now to have him murthered?

Fall. Not murthered, what else? kill him, I say: But wherefore makes thou question of my will?

Mur. Because you wisht that God should be revenged, If any ill betide the innocent.

Fall. Oh that was nothing but to blind the eyes Of my fond sonne, which loves him too too well.

Mer. It is enough, it shall be surely done.

[Exeunt om.


Enter Merry and Rachel with a bag.

Mer. What, hast thou sped? have you bought the bag?

Rach. I, brother, here it is; what is't to do?

Mer. To beare hence Beeches body in the night.

Rach. You cannot beare so great a waight your selfe, And tis no trusting of another man.

Mer. Yes well enough, as I will order it. Ile cut him peece-meale; first his head and legs Will be one burthen; then the mangled rest, Will be another, which I will transport, Beyond the water in a Ferryboate, And throw it into Paris-garden ditch,[16] Fetch me the chopping knife, and in the meane Ile move the fagots that do cover him. [Remove the Fagots.

Rach. Oh can you finde in hart to cut and carve, His stone-colde flesh, and rob the greedy grave, Of his dissevered blood-besprinkled lims?

Mer. I, mary can I:—fetch the chopping knife.

Rach. This deed is worse, then when you took his life. [Exit.

Mer. But worse, or better, now it must be so, Better do thus than feele a greater woe.

Enter Rach.

Here is the knife, I cannot stay to see This barbarous deed of inhumanitie. [Exit Rachel.

[Merry begins to cut the body, and bindes the armes behinde his back with Beeches garters; leaves out the body, covers the head and legs againe.

Enter Truth.

Yee glorious beames of that bright-shining lampe That lights the starre-bespangled firmament, And dimnes the glimmering shadowes of the night, Why doost thou lend assistance to this wretch, To shamble forth with bold audacitie His lims, that beares thy makers semblance! All you the sad spectators of this Acte, Whose harts do taste a feeling pensivenesse Of this unheard of, savadge massacre, Oh be farre of to harbour such a thought As this audacious murtherer put in ure![17] I see your sorrowes flowe up to the brim, And overflowe your cheekes with brinish teares, But though this sight bring surfet to the eye, Delight your eares with pleasing harmonie,[18] That eares may counterchecke your eyes, and say, Why shed you teares, this deede is but a playe? His worke is done, he seekes to hide his sinne; Ile waile his woe before his woe begin. [Exit Trueth.

Mer. Now will I high me to the water side, And fling this heavie burthen in a ditche, Whereof my soule doth feele so great a waight That it doth almost presse me downe with feare.



Enter Rachell.

Harke, Rachell, I will crosse the water straight And fling this middle mention of a man Into some ditch; then high me home againe, To rid my house of that is left behinde.

Rach. Where have you laid the legs & battered head?

Mer. Under the fagots where it lay before. Helpe me to put this trunk into the bag.

Rach. My heart will not endure to handle it, The sight hereof doth make me quake for feare,

Mer. Ile do't my selfe; onely drie up the blood, And burne the clothes as you have done before. [Exit.

Rach. I feare thy soule will burne in flames of hell, Unless repentance wash wash away thy sinne With clensing teares of true contrition. Ah, did not nature oversway my will, The world should know this plot of damned ill.



Enter two Murtherers with Pertillo.

Per. I am so wearie in this combrous wood, That I must needes go sit me downe and rest.

1 Mur. What were we best? to kill him unawares, Or give him notice what we doe intend?

2 Mur. Whie then belike you meane to do your charge, And feel no tast of pittie in your hart.

1 Mur. Of pittie, man! that never enters heere, And if it should, Ide threat my craven heart To stab it home for harbouring such a thought. I see no reason whie I should relent; It is a charitable vertuous deede, To end this princkocke[19] from this sinfull world.

2 Mur. Such charitie will never have reward, Unlesse it be with sting of conscience; And thats a torment worse than Sisipus, That rowles a restlesse stone against the hill.

1 Mur. My conscience is not prickt with such conceit.

2 Mur. That shews thee further off from hoped grace.

1 Mur. Grace me no graces, I respect no grace, But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab; To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes, To see what shift theile make to scramble home; Pick out mens eyes, and tell them thats the sport Of hood-man-blinde, without all sportivenesse. If with a grace I can perform such pranckes, My hart will give mine agents many thankes.

2 Mur. Then God forbid I should consort my selfe With one so far from grace and pietie, Least being found within thy companie, I should be partner of thy punishment.

1 Mur. When wee have done what we have vowed to do, My hart desires to have no fellowship With those that talk of grace or godlinesse. I nam'd not God, unleast twere with an othe, Sence the first hour that I could walk alone; And you that make so much of conscience, By heaven thou art a damned hipocrite, For thou hast vow'd to kill that sleeping boy, And all to gaine two hundreth markes in gold. I know this purenesse comes of pure deceit, To draw me from from the murthering of the child, That you alone might have the benefit. You are too shallow; if you gull me so, Chop of my head to make a Sowsing-tub, And fill it full of tripes and chitterlinges.

2 Mur. That thou shalt see my hart is far from fraud, Or vaine illusion in this enterprize, Which doth import the safetie of our soules, There take my earnest of impietie. [Give him his mony. Onely forbeare to lay thy ruder handes Upon the poore mistrustlesse tender child. As for our vowes, feare not their violence; God will forgive on hartie penitence.

1 Mur. Thou Eunuch, Capon, Dastard, fast and loose, Thou weathercocke of mutabilitie, White-livered Paisant, wilt thou vowe and sweare, Face and make semblance with thy bagpipe othes Of that thou never meanst to execute? Pure cowardice, for feare to cracke thy necke With the huge Caos of thy bodies waight, Hath sure begot this true contrition. Then fast and pray, and see if thou canst winne, A goodlie pardon for thy hainous sinne. As for the boy, this fatall instrument Was mark'd by heaven to cut his line[20] of life, And must supplie the knife of Atropos, And if it doe not, let this maister-piece (Which nature lent the world to wonder at) Be slit in Carbonadoes[21] for the jawes Of some men-eating hungrie Canniball. By heaven ile kill him onely for this cause, For that he came of vertuous Auncestors.

2 m. But by that God which made that wondrous globe, Wherein is seene his powerfull dietie,[22] Thou shalt not kill him maugre all thy spight. Sweare, and forsweare thyselfe ten thousand times. Awake Pertillo, for thou art betrai'd; This bloody slave intends to murther thee. [Draw both.

1 mur. Both him, and all, that dare to rescue him.

Per. Wherefore? because I slept without your leave? Forgive my fault, ile never sleepe againe.

2 Mur. No Child, thy wicked Unckle hath suborn'd Both him and me to take thy life away, Which I would save, but that this hellish impe Will not content to spare thy guiltlesse blood.

Per. Why should Falleria seeke to have my life?

2 mur. The lands and goods, thy father left his sonne, Do hale thee on to thy destruction.

Per. Oh needy treasure, harme-begetting good! That safety[23] should procure the losse of blood!

2 mur. Those lands and goods, thy father got with paine, Are swords wherewith his little sonne is slaine.

1 mu. Then let our swords let out his guiltlesse life.

Per. Sweete, sowre, kinde, cruell, hold thy murthering knife, And here [sic] me speake, before you murther me.

2 mu. Feare not, sweet child, he shall not murther thee.

1 mu. No, but my sword shall let his puddings forth.

Per. First here me speake, thou map of Butcherie: Tis but my goods and lands my Unckle seekes; Having that safely, he desires no more. I do protest by my dead parents soules, By the deare love of false Fallerios sonne, Whose heart, my heart assures me, will be griev'd To heare his fathers inhumanitie, I will forsake my countrie, goods, and lands, I, and my selfe will even change my selfe, In name, in life, in habit, and in all, And live in some farre-moved continent, So you will spare my weake and tender youth, Which cannot entertaine the stroake of death In budding yeares and verie spring of life.

1 Mur. Leave of these bootlesse protestations, And use no ruth-enticing argumentes, For if you do, ile lop you lim by lim, And torture you for childish eloquence.

2 Mur. Thou shalt not make his little finger ake.

1 Mur. Yes, every part, and this shall proove it true. [Runnes Perillo in with his sworde.

Per. Oh I am slaine, the Lord forgive thy fact! And give thee grace to dye with penitence. [Dyeth.

2 Mur. A treacherous villaine, full of cowardise! Ile make thee know that thou hast done amisse.

1 m. Teach me that knowledge when you will or dare.

[They fight and kill one another; the relenter having some more life, and the other dyeth.

1 mur. Swoones, I am peppered, I had need have salt, Or else to morrow I shall yeeld a stincke, Worse then a heape of dirty excrements. Now by this Hilt, this golde was earn'd too deare: Ah, how now death, wilt thou be conquerour? Then vengeance light on them that made me so, And ther's another farewell ere I goe. [Stab the other murtherer againe.

2 mur. Enough, enough, I had my death before.

[A hunt within.

Enter the Duke of Padua, Turqualo, Vesuvio, Alberto, &c.

Duke. How now my Lords, was't not a gallant course, Beleeve me sirs, I never saw a wretch, Make better shift to save her little life. The thickets full of buskes,[24] and scratching bryers, A mightie dewe,[25] a many deepe mouth'd hounds, Let loose in every place to crosse their course,— And yet the Hare got cleanly from them all. I would not for a hundred pound in faith, But that she had escaped with her life; For we will winde a merry hunters home, And starte her once again tomorrow morne.

Turq. In troth my Lord, the little flocked[26] hound, That had but three good legs to further him, Twas formost still, and surer of his sent, Then any one in all the crie besides.

Vesu. But yet Pendragon gave the Hare more turnes.

Alber. That was because he was more polliticke, And eyed her closely in her coverts still: They all did well, and once more we will trie, The subtile creature with a greater crie.

Enter Allenso, booted.

Duke. But say, what well accomplished Gentleman Is that that comes into our company?

Vesu. I know him well, it is Fallerios sonne, Pandynos brother (a kinde Gentleman) That dyed and left his little pretty sonne, Unto his brother's[27] good direction.

Duke. Stand close awhile, and overheare his wordes; He seemes much over-gone with passion.

Allen. Yee timorous thoughts that guide my giddy steps In unknowne pathes of dreadfull wildernesse, Why traitor-like do you conspire to holde My pained heart twixt feare and jealousie? My too much care hath brought me carelesly, Into this woody savadge labyrinth, And I can finde no way to issue out; Feare hath so dazeled all my better part, That reason hath forgot discreations art. But in good time, see where is company.— Kinde Gentlemen, if you, unlike my selfe, Are not incumbred with the circling wayes Of this erronious winding wildernesse, I pray you to direct me foorth this wood And showe the pathe that leades to Padua.

Duke. We all are Paduans, and we all intend To passe forthwith with speed to Padua.

Allen. I will attend upon you presently. [See the bodyes.

Duke. Come then away:—but, gentlemen beholde, A bloody sight, and murtherous spectacle!

2 Mur. Oh, God, forgive me all my wickednesse And take me to eternall happinesse!

Duke. Harke one of them hath some small sparke of life, To kindle knowledge of their sad mishaps.

Allen. Ah gratious Lord, I know this wretched child, And these two men that here lye murthered.

Vesu. Do you, Allenso?

Allen. I, my gracious Lord: It was Pertillo my dead Unckles sonne. Now have my feares brought forth this fearefull childe Of endlesse care, and everlasting griefe!

Duke. Lay hands upon Allenso, Gentlemen. Your presence doth confirme you had a share In the performance of this crueltie.

Allen. I do confesse I have so great a share In this mishap, that I will give him thankes, That will let foorth my sorrow-wounded soule From out this goale of lamentation.

Duke. Tis now too late to wish for hadiwist.[28] Had you withheld your hand from this attempt, Sorrow had never so imprisoned you.

Allen. Oh my good Lord, do not mistake my case, And yet my griefe is sure infallible. The Lord of heaven can witnesse with my soule, That I am guiltelesse of your wrong suspect, But yet not griefelesse that the deed is done.

Duke. Nay if you stand to justifie your selfe, This gentleman whose life dooth seeme to stay, Within his body till[29] he tell your shame, Shall testifie of your integritie: Speake then, thou sad Anatomy of death, Who were the Agents of your wofulnesse?

2 Mur. O be not blinded with a false surmise, For least my tongue should faile to end the tale Of our untimely fate-appointed death, Know young Allenso is as innocent As is Fallerio guiltie of the crime. He, he it was, that with foure hundredth markes, Whereof two hundred he paide presently, Did hire[30] this damn'd villaine and my selfe To massacre this harmelesse innocent: But yet my conscience, toucht with some remorse, Would faine have sav'd the young Pertillos life, But he remorselesse would not let him live, But unawares thrust in his harmelesse brest That life-bereaving fatall instrument: Which cruell deede I seeking to revenge, Have lost my life and paid the slave his due Rewarde for spilling blood of innocents. Surprise Fallerio, author of this ill; Save young Allenso, he is guiltlesse still. [Dyeth.

Allen. Oh sweetest honie mixt with bitter gall, Oh Nightingale combinde with Ravens notes, Thy speech is like a woodward that should say,— Let the tree live, but take the root away. As though my life were ought but miserie, Having my father slaine for infamie!

Duke. What should incite Fallerio to devise, The overthrowe of this unhappie boy?

Vesu. That may be easily guest, my gracious Lord, To be the lands Pandino left his sonne, Which, after that the boy were murthered, Discend to him by due inheritance.

Duke. You deeme aright. See, gentlemen, the fruites, Of coveting to have anothers right. Oh wicked thought of greedie covetice! Could neither nature, feare of punishment, Scandall to wife and children, nor the feare, Of Gods confounding strict severitie, Allay the head-strong furie of thy will? Beware, my friends, to wish unlawfull gaine; It will beget strange actions full of feare, And overthrowe the actor unawares. For first Fallerios life must satisfie The large effusion of their guiltlesse bloods, Traind on by him to these extremities; Next, wife and children must be disposest, Of lands and goods, and turnde to beggerie; But most of all, his great and hainous sinne, Will be an eye-sore to his guiltlesse kinne. Beare hence away these models of his shame, And let us prosecute the murtherer With all the care and diligence we can.

[Two must be carrying away Pertillo

Allen. Forbeare awhile to beare away my joy, Which now is vanisht since his life is fled; And give me leave to wash his deadly wound With hartie teares, outflowing from those eyes Which lov'd his sight, more then the sight of heaven. Forgive me God for this idolatrie! Thou ugly monster, grim imperious death, Thou raw-bonde lumpe of foule deformitie, Reguardlesse instrument of cruell fate, Unparciall Sergeant, full of treacherie, Why didst thou flatter my ill-boding thoughts, And flesh my hopes with vaine illusions? Why didst thou say, Pertillo should not dye, And yet, oh yet, hast done it cruelly? Oh but beholde, with what a smiling cheere, He intertain'd thy bloody harbinger! See, thou transformer of a heavenly face To Ashie palenesse and unpleasing lookes, That his fair countenance still retaineth grace Of perfect beauty in the very grave. The world would say such beauty should not dye; Yet like a theefe thou didst it cruelly. Ah, had thy eyes, deepe-sunke into thy head, Beene able to perceive his vertuous minde, Where vertue sat inthroned in a chaire, With awfull grace and pleasing maiestie, Thou wouldest not then have let Pertillo die, Nor like a theefe have slaine him cruellie. Inevitable fates, could you devise, No means to bring me to this pilgrimage, Full of great woes and sad calamities, But that the father should be principall, To plot the present downfall of the sonne? Come then kind death and give me leave to die, Since thou hast slaine Pertillo cruellie.

Du. Forbeare, Allenso; hearken to my doome, Which doth concerne thy fathers apprehension. First we enjoyne thee, upon paine of death, To give no succour to thy wicked sire, But let him perrish in his damned sinne, And pay the price of such a treacherie. See that with speede the monster be attach'd, And bring him safe to suffer punishment. Prevent it not, nor seeke not to delude The Officers to whom this charge is given; For if thou doe, as sure as God doth live, Thy selfe shall satisfie the lawes contempt. Therefore forward about this punishment.

[Exeunt omnes: manet Allenso.

Al. Thankes, gratious God, that thou hast left the meanes To end my soule from this perplexitie. Not succour him on paine of present death! That is no paine; death is a welcome guest To those whose hearts are overwhelm'd with griefe. My woes are done, I having leave to die And after death live ever joyfullie. [Exit.

Enter Murther and Covetousnesse.

Mur. Now, Avarice, I have well satisfied My hungrie thoughtes with blood and crueltie; Now all my melanchollie discontent Is shaken off, and I am throughlie pleas'd, With what thy pollicie hath brought to passe. Yet am I not so throughlie satisfied Untill I bring the purple actors forth. And cause them quaffe a bowle of bitternesse, That father sonne, and sister brother may Bring to their deathes with most assur'd decay.

Ava. That wilbe done without all question, For thou hast slaine Allenso with the boy, And Rachell doth not wish to overlive The sad remembrance of her brothers sinne. Leave faithfull love to teach them how to dye, That they may share their kinsfolkes miserie.




Enter Merrie and Rachell uncovering the head and legges.

Mer. I have bestow'd a watrie funerall On the halfe bodie of my butchered friend. The head and legges Ile leave in some darke place; I care not if they finde them yea or no.

Ra. Where do you meane to leave the head and legs?

Mer. In some darke place nere to Bainardes Castle.[31]

Ra. But doe it closelie that you be not seene; For all this while you are without suspect.

Mer. Take you no thought, Ile have a care of that; Onelie take heede you have a speciall care To make no shew of any discontent Nor use too many words to any one. [Puts on his Cloake; taketh up the bag. I will returne when I have left my loade. Be merrie, Rachell; halfe the feare is past. [Exit.

Ra. But I shall never thinke my selfe secure. This deede would trouble any quiet soule, To thinke thereof, much more to see it done; Such cruell deedes can never long be hid, Although we practice nere so cunningly. Let others open what I doe conceale; Lo he is my brother, I will cover it, And rather dye than have it spoken rife,— Lo where she goes, betrai'd her brothers life.



Enter Williams and Cowley.

Co. Why, how now, Harry, what should be the cause, That you are growne so discontent of late? Your sighes do shew some inward heavinesse; Your heavy lookes, your eyes brimfull of teares, Beares testimonie of some secret griefe. Reveale it, Harry; I will be thy friend, And helpe thee to my poore habillity.

Wil. If I am heavie, if I often sigh, And if my eyes beare recordes of my woe, Condemne me not, for I have mightie cause, More then I will impart to any one.

Co. Do you misdoubt me, that you dare not tell That woe to me that moves your discontent?

Wil. Good Maister Cowley, you were ever kinde, But pardon me; I will not utter it To any one, for I have past my worde; And therefore urge me not to tell my griefe.

Cow. But those that smother griefe too secretly, May wast themselves in silent anguishment, And bring their bodies to so low an ebb, That all the world can never make it flowe, Unto the happy hight of former health. Then be not [so] iniurious to thy selfe, To wast thy strength in lamentation, But tell thy case; wele seeke some remedie.

Wil. My cause of griefe is now remedilesse, And all the world can never lessen it; Then since no meanes can make my sorrowes lesse, Suffer me waile a woe which wants redresse.

Cow. Yet let me beare a part in thy lamentes, I love thee not so ill but I will mone Thy heavie haps; thou shalt not sigh alone.

Wil. Nay, if you are so curious to intrude Your selfe to sorrow, where you have no share, I will frequent some unfrequented place Where none shall here nor see my lamentations. [Exit.

Cow. And I will follow wheresoever thou goe; I will be a partner of thy helplesse woe.



Enter two Watermen.

1. Will, ist not time we should go to our boates, And give attendance for this Bartlemew tide? Folkes will be stirring early in the morning.

2. By my troth I am indifferent whether I go or no. If a fare come, why so; if not, why so; if I have not their money, they shall have none of my labour.

1. But we that live by our labours, must give attendance. But where lyes thy Boate?

2. At Baynards Castle staires.

1. So do's mine, then lets go together.

2. Come, I am indifferent, I care not so much for going; but if I go with you, why so; if not, why so. [He falls over the bag. Sblood, what rascall hath laide this in my way!

1. A[32] was not very indifferent that did so, but you are so permentorie, to say, why so, and why so, that every one is glad to do you iniurie. But lets see: what is it?

[Taking the Sack by the end, one of the legs and head drops out.

Good Lord deliver us! a mans legges, and a head with manie wounds!

2. Whats that so much? I am indifferent, yet for mine owne part, I understand the miserie of it; if you doe, why so, if not, why so.

1. By my troth I understand no other mistery but this: It is a strange and very rufull sight. But, prethee, what doost thou conceit of it?

2. In troth I am indifferent, for if I tell you, why so, if not why so.

1. If thou tell me, Ile thanke thee; therefore I prethee tell me.

2. I tell you I am indifferent; but to be plaine with you, I am greeved to stumble at the hangmans budget.

1. At the hangmans budget? why, this is a sack.

2. And to speake indifferently, it is the hangman's Budget; and because he thought too much of his labour to set this head upon the bridge, and the legs upon the gates, he flings them into the streete for men to stumble at, but If I get him in my boate, Ile so belabour him in a stretcher, that he had better be stretcht in one of his owne halfepeny halters. If this be a good conceit, why so; if not, why so.

1. Thou art deceiv'd, this head hath many wounds, And hoase and shoes remaining on the legs. Bull always strips all quartered traitors quite.

2. I am indifferent whether you beleeve me or no; these were not worth taking of, and therefore he left them on. If this be likely why so; if not, why so.

1. Nay, then I see you growe from worse to worse. I heard last night, that one neere Lambert Hill Was missing, and his boy was murthered. It may be this is a part of that same man; What ere it be, ile beare it to that place.

2. Masse I am indifferent; ile go along with you, if it be so, why so; if not why so.



Enter three neighbors knocking at Loneys doore: Loney comes.

1. Hoe, Maister Loney! here you any newes What is become of your Tennant Beech?

Lon. No truely, sir, not any newes at all.

2. What, hath the boy recovered any speach, To give us light of these suggestions That do arise upon this accident?

Lon. There is no hope he should recover speech; The wives do say he's ready now to leave This greevous world, full-fraught with treacherie.

3. Methinkes if Beech himselfe be innocent, That then the murtherer should not dwell farre off; The hammer that is sticking in his head, Was borrowed of a Cutler dwelling by, But he remembers not who borrowed it: He is committed that did owe[33] the hammer, But yet he standes uppon his innocence; And Beeches absence causeth great suspition.

Lo. If Beech be faulty, as I do not thinke, I never was so much deceiv'd before. Oh had you knowne his conversation, You would not have him in suspition.

3. Divels seeme Saints, and in these[34] hatefull times, Deceite can beare apparraunt signes of trueth, And vice beare shew of vertues excellence.

Enter the two Watermen.

1. Pray is this Maister Beeches house?

Lo. My friend this same was maister Beeches shop: We cannot tell whether he live or no.

1. Know you his head and if I shew it you? Or can you tell me what hose or shooes he ware, At that same time when he forsooke the shoppe?

3. What, have you head, and hose, and shooes to show, And want the body that should use the same?

1. Behold this head, these legges, these hose and shooes, And see if they were Beeches, yea or no.

Lo. They are the same; alas, what is become, Of the remainder of this wretched man!

1 Wat. Nay that I know not; onelie these we found, As we were comming up a narrow lane, Neere Baynardes Castle, where we two did dwell; And heering that a man was missing hence, We thought it good to bring these to this place,

3. Thankes, my good friendes; ther's some thing for your paines.

2 Wat. We are indifferent, whether you give us anything or nothing; and if you had not, why so; but since you have, why so.

1 Wat. Leave your repining: Sir, we thanke you hartely.

3. Farewell good fellowes.—Neighbour, now be bold: [Exeunt Watermen. They dwell not farre that did this bloodie deed, As God no doubt will at the last reveale, Though they conceale it nere so cunninglie. All houses, gutters, sincks and crevices Have carefully been sought for, for the blood; Yet theres no instaunce found in any place.

Enter a Porter and a Gentleman.

But who is that that brings a heavy loade, Behinde him on a painefull porters backe?

Gen. Praie, Gentlemen, which call you Beeches shoppe?

2 Neig. This is the place; what wold you with the man?

Gen. Nothing with him; I heare the man is dead, And if he be not, I have lost my paines.

Lo. Hees dead indeede, but yet we cannot finde What is become of halfe his hopelesse bodie. His head and legges are found, but for the rest, No man can tell what is become of it.

Gen. Then I doe thinke I can resolve your doubt And bring you certain tydings of the rest, And if you know his doublet and his shirt. As for the bodie it is so abus'd That no man can take notice whoes it was. Set downe this burden of anothers shame. What, do you know the doublet and the shirt?

[Ex. Porter.

Lo. This is the doublet, these the seuered limmes, Which late were ioyned to that mangled trunke: Lay them together, see if they can make Among them all a sound and solid man.

3 neigh. They all agree, but yet they cannot make That sound and whole which a remorsles hand Hath severed with a knife of crueltie. But say, good sir, where did you finde this out?

Gent. Walking betime by Paris Garden ditch, Having my Water Spaniell by my side, When we approach'd unto that haplesse place Where this same trunke lay drowned in a ditch, My Spaniell gan to sent, to bark, to plunge Into the water, and came foorth againe, And fawnd one me, as if a man should say, Helpe out a man that heere lyes murthered. At first I tooke delight to see the dog, Thinking in vaine some game did there lye hid Amongst the Nettles growing neere the banke; But when no game, nor anything appear'd, That might produce the Spaniell to this sport, I gan to rate and beate the harmlesse Cur, Thinking to make him leave to follow me; But words, nor blowes, could moove the dog away, But still he plung'd, he div'd, he barkt, he ran Still to my side, as if it were for helpe. I seeing this, did make the ditch be dragd, Where then was found this body as you see, With great amazement to the lookers on.

3. Beholde the mightie miracles of God, That sencelesse things should propagate their sinne That are more bestiall farre then beastlinesse Of any creature most insensible!

2. Neigh. Cease we to wonder at Gods wondrous works, And let us labour for to bring to light Those masked fiends that thus dishonor him. This sack is new, and, loe! beholde his marke Remaines upon it, which did sell the bag. Amongst the Salters we shall finde it out When, and to whom, this bloody bag was sold.

3. Tis very likely, let no paines be spar'd, To bring it out, if it be possible; Twere pitty such a murther should remaine Unpunished mongst Turkes and Infidels.

1. neigh. Sirs, I do know the man that solde this bag, And if you please, Ile fetch him presently?

Gent. With all our hearts. How say you gentlemen? Perchance the murther thus may come to light.

3. I pray you do it, we will tarry heere: [Exit 1. neigh. And let the eyes of every passenger Be satisfied, which may example be How they commit such dreadfull wickednesse.

Ent. wom. And please your maisterships, the boy is dead.

3. neigh. Tis very strange that having many wounds So terrible, so ghastlie; which is more, Having the hammer sticking in his head; That he should live and stirre from Friday night, To Sunday morning, and even then depart, When that his Maisters mangled course were found. Bring him foorth too; perchance the murtherers May have their hearts touched with due remorse, Viewing their deeds of damned wickednesse. [Bring forth the boye and laye him by Beech.

1 neigh. Here is the Salters man that solde the bag.

Gent. My friend, how long since did you sell that bag? And unto whom, if you remember it?

Sal. I sould the bag, good sir, but yesterday, Unto a maide; I do not know her name.

3 neigh. Nor where she dwels.

Sal. No certeinly.

2 neigh. But what apparell had she on her back?

Sal. I do not well remember what she wore, But if I saw her I should know her sure.

3 neigh. Go round about to every neighbours house, And will them shew their maides immediately: God grant we may finde out the murtherers. [Go to one house, and knock at doore, asking. Bring forth such maides as are within your house!

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