Mutually profitable, so our lives
In acts exemplarie not only winne
Our selves good names, but doe to others give 80
Matter for vertuous deeds, by which wee live.
Buss. What would you wish me?
Mons. Leave the troubled streames,
And live where thrivers doe, at the well head.
Buss. At the well head? Alas! what should I doe
With that enchanted glasse? See devils there? 85
Or (like a strumpet) learne to set my looks
In an eternall brake, or practise jugling,
To keep my face still fast, my heart still loose;
Or beare (like dames schoolmistresses their riddles)
Two tongues, and be good only for a shift; 90
Flatter great lords, to put them still in minde
Why they were made lords; or please humorous ladies
With a good carriage, tell them idle tales,
To make their physick work; spend a man’s life
In sights and visitations, that will make 95
His eyes as hollow as his mistresse heart:
To doe none good, but those that have no need;
To gaine being forward, though you break for haste
All the commandements ere you break your fast;
But beleeve backwards, make your period 100
And creeds last article, “I beleeve in God”:
And (hearing villanies preacht) t’unfold their art,
Learne to commit them? Tis a great mans part.
Shall I learne this there?
Mons. No, thou needst not learne;
Thou hast the theorie; now goe there and practise. 105
Buss. I, in a thrid-bare suit; when men come there,
They must have high naps, and goe from thence bare:
A man may drowne the parts of ten rich men
In one poore suit; brave barks, and outward glosse
Attract Court loves, be in parts ne’re so grosse. 110
Mons. Thou shalt have glosse enough, and all things fit
T’enchase in all shew thy long smothered spirit:
Be rul’d by me then. The old Scythians
Painted blinde Fortunes powerfull hands with wings,
To shew her gifts come swift and suddenly, 115
Which if her favorite be not swift to take,
He loses them for ever. Then be wise;
Exit Mon[sieur] with Pages. Manet Buss[y].
Stay but a while here, and I’le send to thee.
Buss. What will he send? some crowns? It is to sow them
Upon my spirit, and make them spring a crowne 120
Worth millions of the seed crownes he will send.
Like to disparking noble husbandmen,
Hee’ll put his plow into me, plow me up;
But his unsweating thrift is policie,
And learning-hating policie is ignorant 125
To fit his seed-land soyl; a smooth plain ground
Will never nourish any politick seed.
I am for honest actions, not for great:
If I may bring up a new fashion,
And rise in Court for vertue, speed his plow! 130
The King hath knowne me long as well as hee,
Yet could my fortune never fit the length
Of both their understandings till this houre.
There is a deepe nicke in Times restlesse wheele
For each mans good, when which nicke comes, it strikes; 135
As rhetorick yet workes not perswasion,
But only is a meane to make it worke:
So no man riseth by his reall merit,
But when it cries “clincke” in his raisers spirit.
Many will say, that cannot rise at all, 140
Mans first houres rise is first step to his fall.
I’le venture that; men that fall low must die,
As well as men cast headlong from the skie.
Ent[er] Maffe.
[Maffe.] Humor of Princes! Is this wretch indu’d
With any merit worth a thousand crownes? 145
Will my lord have me be so ill a steward
Of his revenue, to dispose a summe
So great, with so small cause as shewes in him?
I must examine this. Is your name D’Ambois?
Buss. Sir?
Maff. Is your name D’Ambois?
Buss. Who have we here? 150
Serve you the Monsieur?
Maff. How?
Buss. Serve you the Monsieur?
Maff. Sir, y’are very hot. I doe serve the Monsieur;
But in such place as gives me the command
Of all his other servants: and because
His Graces pleasure is to give your good 155
His passe through my command, me thinks you might
Use me with more respect.
Buss. Crie you mercy!
Now you have opened my dull eies, I see you,
And would be glad to see the good you speake of:
What might I call your name?
Maff. Monsieur Maffe. 160
Buss. Monsieur Maffe? Then, good Monsieur Maffe,
Pray let me know you better.
Maff. Pray doe so,
That you may use me better. For your selfe,
By your no better outside, I would judge you
To be some poet. Have you given my lord 165
Some pamphlet?
Buss. Pamphlet!
Maff. Pamphlet, sir, I say.
Buss. Did your great masters goodnesse leave the good,
That is to passe your charge to my poore use,
To your discretion?
Maff. Though he did not, sir,
I hope ’tis no rude office to aske reason 170
How that his Grace gives me in charge, goes from me?
Buss. That’s very perfect, sir.
Maff. Why, very good, sir;
I pray, then, give me leave. If for no pamphlet,
May I not know what other merit in you
Makes his compunction willing to relieve you? 175
Buss. No merit in the world, sir.
Maff. That is strange.
Y’are a poore souldier, are you?
Buss. That I am, sir.
Maff. And have commanded?
Buss. I, and gone without, sir.
Maff. I see the man: a hundred crownes will make him
Swagger, and drinke healths to his Graces bountie, 180
And sweare he could not be more bountifull;
So there’s nine hundred crounes sav’d. Here, tall souldier,
His Grace hath sent you a whole hundred crownes.
Buss. A hundred, sir! Nay, doe his Highnesse right;
I know his hand is larger, and perhaps 185
I may deserve more than my outside shewes.
I am a poet as I am a souldier,
And I can poetise; and (being well encourag’d)
May sing his fame for giving; yours for delivering
(Like a most faithfull steward) what he gives. 190
Maff. What shall your subject be?
Buss. I care not much
If to his bounteous Grace I sing the praise
Of faire great noses, and to you of long ones.
What qualities have you, sir, (beside your chaine
And velvet jacket)? Can your Worship dance? 195
Maff. A pleasant fellow, faith; it seemes my lord
Will have him for his jester; and, berlady,
Such men are now no fooles; ’tis a knights place.
If I (to save his Grace some crounes) should urge him
T’abate his bountie, I should not be heard; 200
I would to heaven I were an errant asse,
For then I should be sure to have the eares
Of these great men, where now their jesters have them.
Tis good to please him, yet Ile take no notice
Of his preferment, but in policie 205
Will still be grave and serious, lest he thinke
I feare his woodden dagger. Here, Sir Ambo!
Buss. How, Ambo, Sir?
Maff. I, is not your name Ambo?
Buss. You call’d me lately D’Amboys; has your Worship
So short a head?
Maff. I cry thee mercy, D’Amboys. 210
A thousand crownes I bring you from my lord;
If you be thriftie, and play the good husband, you may make
This a good standing living; ’tis a bountie,
His Highnesse might perhaps have bestow’d better.
Buss. Goe, y’are a rascall; hence, away, you rogue!
[Strikes him.] 215
Maff. What meane you, sir?
Buss. Hence! prate no more!
Or, by thy villans bloud, thou prat’st thy last!
A barbarous groome grudge at his masters bountie!
But since I know he would as much abhorre
His hinde should argue what he gives his friend, 220
Take that, Sir, for your aptnesse to dispute. Exit.
Maff. These crownes are set in bloud; bloud be their fruit!
Exit.
SCENA SECUNDA.
A room in the Court.]
Henry, Guise, Montsurry, Elenor, Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero,
Charlotte, Pyra, Annable.
Henry. Duchesse of Guise, your Grace is much enricht
In the attendance of that English virgin,
That will initiate her prime of youth,
(Dispos’d to Court conditions) under the hand
Of your prefer’d instructions and command, 5
Rather than any in the English Court,
Whose ladies are not matcht in Christendome
For gracefull and confirm’d behaviours,
More than the Court, where they are bred, is equall’d.
Guise. I like not their Court-fashion; it is too crestfalne 10
In all observance, making demi-gods
Of their great nobles; and of their old Queene
An ever-yong and most immortall goddesse.
Montsurry. No question shee’s the rarest Queene in Europe.
Guis. But what’s that to her immortality? 15
Henr. Assure you, cosen Guise, so great a courtier,
So full of majestic and roiall parts,
No Queene in Christendome may vaunt her selfe.
Her Court approves it: that’s a Court indeed,
Not mixt with clowneries us’d in common houses; 20
But, as Courts should be th’abstracts of their Kingdomes,
In all the beautie, state, and worth they hold,
So is hers, amplie, and by her inform’d.
The world is not contracted in a man,
With more proportion and expression, 25
Than in her Court, her kingdome. Our French Court
Is a meere mirror of confusion to it:
The king and subject, lord and every slave,
Dance a continuall haie; our roomes of state
Kept like our stables; no place more observ’d 30
Than a rude market-place: and though our custome
Keepe this assur’d confusion from our eyes,
’Tis nere the lesse essentially unsightly,
Which they would soone see, would they change their forme
To this of ours, and then compare them both; 35
Which we must not affect, because in kingdomes,
Where the Kings change doth breed the subjects terror,
Pure innovation is more grosse than error.
Mont. No question we shall see them imitate
(Though a farre off) the fashions of our Courts, 40
As they have ever ap’t us in attire;
Never were men so weary of their skins,
And apt to leape out of themselves as they;
Who, when they travell to bring forth rare men,
Come home delivered of a fine French suit: 45
Their braines lie with their tailors, and get babies
For their most compleat issue; hee’s sole heire
To all the morall vertues that first greetes
The light with a new fashion, which becomes them
Like apes, disfigur’d with the attires of men. 50
Henr. No question they much wrong their reall worth
In affectation of outlandish scumme;
But they have faults, and we more: they foolish-proud
To jet in others plumes so haughtely;
We proud that they are proud of foolerie, 55
Holding our worthes more compleat for their vaunts.
Enter Monsieur, D’Ambois.
Monsieur. Come, mine owne sweet heart, I will enter thee.
Sir, I have brought a gentleman to court;
And pray, you would vouchsafe to doe him grace.
Henr. D’Ambois, I thinke.
Bussy. That’s still my name, my lord, 60
Though I be something altered in attire.
Henr. We like your alteration, and must tell you,
We have expected th’offer of your service;
For we (in feare to make mild vertue proud)
Use not to seeke her out in any man. 65
Buss. Nor doth she use to seeke out any man:
He that will winne, must wooe her: she’s not shameless.
Mons. I urg’d her modestie in him, my lord,
And gave her those rites that he sayes shee merits.
Henr. If you have woo’d and won, then, brother, weare him. 70
Mons. Th’art mine, sweet heart! See, here’s the Guises Duches;
The Countesse of Mountsurreaue, Beaupre.
Come, I’le enseame thee. Ladies, y’are too many
To be in counsell: I have here a friend
That I would gladly enter in your graces. 75
Buss. ‘Save you, ladyes!
Duchess. If you enter him in our graces, my
lord, me thinkes, by his blunt behaviour he should
come out of himselfe.
Tamyra. Has he never beene courtier, my 80
lord?
Mons. Never, my lady.
Beaupre. And why did the toy take him inth’
head now?
Buss. Tis leape yeare, lady, and therefore very 85
good to enter a courtier.
Henr. Marke, Duchesse of Guise, there is
one is not bashfull.
Duch. No my lord, he is much guilty of the
bold extremity. 90
Tam. The man’s a courtier at first sight.
Buss. I can sing pricksong, lady, at first
sight; and why not be a courtier as suddenly?
Beaup. Here’s a courtier rotten before he be
ripe. 95
Buss. Thinke me not impudent, lady; I am
yet no courtier; I desire to be one and would
gladly take entrance, madam, under your
princely colours.
Enter Barrisor, L’Anou, Pyrhot.
Duch. Soft sir, you must rise by degrees, first 100
being the servant of some common Lady or
Knights wife, then a little higher to a Lords
wife; next a little higher to a Countesse; yet a
little higher to a Duchesse, and then turne the
ladder. 105
Buss. Doe you alow a man then foure mistresses,
when the greatest mistresse is alowed
but three servants?
Duch. Where find you that statute sir.
Buss. Why be judged by the groome-porters. 110
Duch. The groome-porters!
Buss. I, madam, must not they judge of all
gamings i’th’ Court?
Duch. You talke like a gamester.
Gui. Sir, know you me? 115
Buss. My lord!
Gui. I know not you; whom doe you serve?
Buss. Serve, my lord!
Gui. Go to companion; your courtship’s
too
saucie. 120
Buss. Saucie! Companion! tis the Guise,
but yet those termes might have beene spar’d of
the guiserd. Companion! He’s jealous, by this
light. Are you blind of that side, Duke? Ile
to her againe for that. Forth, princely mistresse, 125
for the honour of courtship. Another riddle.
Gui. Cease your courtshippe, or, by heaven,
Ile cut your throat.
Buss. Cut my throat? cut a whetstone, young
Accius Noevius! Doe as much with your 130
tongue as he did with a rasor. Cut my throat!
Barrisor. What new-come gallant have wee
heere, that dares mate the Guise thus?
L’Anou. Sfoot, tis D’Ambois! the Duke mistakes
him (on my life) for some Knight of the 135
new edition.
Buss. Cut my throat! I would the King
fear’d thy cutting of his throat no more than I
feare thy cutting of mine.
Gui. Ile doe’t, by this hand. 140
Buss. That hand dares not doe’t; y’ave cut
too many throats already, Guise, and robb’d the
realme of many thousand soules, more precious
than thine owne. Come, madam, talk on. Sfoot,
can you not talk? Talk on, I say. Another 145
riddle.
Pyrhot. Here’s some strange distemper.
Bar. Here’s a sudden transmigration with
D’Ambois, out of the Knights ward into the
Duches bed. 150
L’An. See what a metamorphosis a brave
suit can work.
Pyr. Slight! step to the Guise, and discover
him.
Bar. By no meanes; let the new suit work; 155
wee’ll see the issue.
Gui. Leave your courting.
Buss. I will not. I say, mistresse, and I will
stand unto it, that if a woman may have three
servants, a man may have threescore mistresses. 160
Gui. Sirrha, Ile have you whipt out of the
Court for this insolence.
Buss. Whipt! Such another syllable out a
th’presence, if thou dar’st, for thy Dukedome.
Gui. Remember, poultron! 165
Mons. Pray thee forbeare!
Buss. Passion of death! Were not the King
here, he should strow the chamber like a rush.
Mons. But leave courting his wife then.
Buss. I wil not: Ile court her in despight of 170
him. Not court her! Come madam, talk on;
feare me nothing. [To Guise.] Well mai’st
thou drive thy master from the Court, but never
D’Ambois.
Mons. His great heart will not down, tis like the sea, 175
That partly by his owne internall heat,
Partly the starrs daily and nightly motion,
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 204