Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker
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King. Sir Roger Oateley, our last mayor, I think?
Nobleman. The same, my liege.
King. Would you offend Love’s laws?
Well, you shall have your wills, you sue to me,
To prohibit the match. Soft, let me see —
You both are married, Lacy, art thou not?
Lacy. I am, dread sovereign.
King. Then, upon thy life,
I charge thee, not to call this woman wife.
L. Mayor. I thank your grace.
Rose. O my most gracious lord! [Kneels.
King. Nay, Rose, never woo me; I tell you true,
Although as yet I am a bachelor,
Yet I believe, I shall not marry you.
Rose. Can you divide the body from the soul,
Yet make the body live?
King. Yea, so profound?
I cannot, Rose, but you I must divide.
This fair maid, bridegroom, cannot be your bride.
Are you pleased, Lincoln? Oateley, are you pleased?
Both. Yes, my lord.
King. Then must my heart be eased;
For, credit me, my conscience lives in pain,
Till these whom I divorced, be joined again.
Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me thine!
Be what you would be! Kiss now! So, that’s fine.
At night, lovers, to bed! — Now, let me see,
Which of you all mislikes this harmony.
L. Mayor. Will you then take from me my child perforce?
King. Why, tell me, Oateley: shines not Lacy’s name
As bright in the world’s eye as the gay beams
Of any citizen?
Lincoln. Yea, but, my gracious lord,
I do mislike the match far more than he;
Her blood is too too base.
King. Lincoln, no more.
Dost thou not know that love respects no blood,
Cares not for difference of birth or state?
The maid is young, well born, fair, virtuous,
A worthy bride for any gentleman.
Besides, your nephew for her sake did stoop
To bare necessity, and, as I hear,
Forgetting honours and all courtly pleasures,
To gain her love, became a shoemaker.
As for the honour which he lost in France,
Thus I redeem it: Lacy, kneel thee down! —
Arise, Sir Rowland Lacy! Tell me now,
Tell me in earnest, Oateley, canst thou chide,
Seeing thy Rose a lady and a bride?
L. Mayor. I am content with what your grace hath done.
Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there’s no remedy.
King. Come on, then, all shake hands: I’ll have you friends;
Where there is much love, all discord ends.
What says my mad lord mayor to all this love?
Eyre. O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Rowland Lacy, and all these favours which you have shown to me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warm summers more than he should.
King. Nay, my mad lord mayor, that shall be thy name,
If any grace of mine can length thy life,
One honour more I’ll do thee: that new building,
Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected,
Shall take a name from us; we’ll have it called
The Leadenhall, because in digging it
You found the lead that covereth the same.
Eyre. I thank your majesty.
Marg. God bless your grace!
King. Lincoln, a word with you!
Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and more Shoemakers.
Eyre. How now, my mad knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the king.
King. With the old troop which there we keep in pay,
We will incorporate a new supply.
Before one summer more pass o’er my head,
France shall repent, England was injured.
What are all those?
Lacy. All shoemakers, my liege,
Sometime my fellows; in their companies
I lived as merry as an emperor.
King. My mad lord mayor, are all these shoemakers?
Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gentlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, courageous cordwainers; they all kneel to the shrine of holy Saint Hugh.
All the Shoemakers. God save your majesty!
King. Mad Simon, would they anything with us?
Eyre. Mum, mad knaves! Not a word! I’ll do’t; I warrant you. They are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them all on both my knees do entreat, that for the honour of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week.
King. Mad Sim, I grant your suit, you shall have patent
To hold two market-days in Leadenhall,
Mondays and Fridays, those shall be the times.
Will this content you?
All. Jesus bless your grace!
Eyre. In the name of these my poor brethren shoemakers, I most humbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the giving vein and we in the begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more.
King. What is it, my lord mayor?
Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetly waiting for your sweet presence.
King. I shall undo thee, Eyre, only with feasts;
Already have I been too troublesome;
Say, have I not?
Eyre. O my dear king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving, which I promised long ago to the prentices of London.
For, an’t please your highness, in time past,
I bare the water-tankard, and my coat
Sits not a whit the worse upon my back;
And then, upon a morning, some mad boys,
It was Shrove Tuesday, even as ’tis now,
Gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankard, if ever I came to be lord mayor of London, I would feast all the prentices. This day, my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an hundred tables five times covered; they are gone home and vanished;
Yet add more honour to the gentle trade,
Taste of Eyre’s banquet, Simon’s happy made.
King. Eyre, I will taste of thy banquet, and will say,
I have not met more pleasure on a day.
Friends of the gentle craft, thanks to you all,
Thanks, my kind lady mayoress, for our cheer. —
Come, lords, a while let’s revel it at home!
When all our sports and banquetings are done,
Wars must right wrongs which Frenchmen have begun. [Exeunt.
Old Fortunatus (1600)
Old Fortunatus was written in November 1599 for Philip Henslowe and the Admiral’s Men. Henslowe initially paid Dekker two pounds, before further payments were made as the play was prepared for the stage. A revised edition was performed for Queen Elizabeth on 27 December 1599 and printed the following spring. The play, a mixture of prose and verse, is based on the old German tale of Fortunatus, which is believed to have been first printed as a chapbook by Johann Otmar in Augsburg in 1509. A slightly different version of the text was printed more than forty years later in Frankfurt in 1550. In 1596, there was an English play entitled, The First Part of Fortunatus, which Philip Henslowe recorded as being performed at the Rose Theatre that February, but no text survives and the author was not recorded. It is possible that Dekker wrote the play before reworking and rewriting parts of it three years later to produce Old Fortunatus, but this cannot be stated with any certainty. In the early nineteenth century, essayist and poet, Charles Lamb, reignited interest in Dekker’s seemingly forgotten play by praising the ‘poetry’ of the work and favourably comparing Dekker to Philip Massinger as a writer. It was also well considered by later nineteenth century critics,
including William Hazlitt, James Russell Lowell and Adolphus William Ward.
The Pleasant Comedie of Old Fortunatus was the full title given to the play when it was performed and printed in 1600. The plot centres on the consequences of Fortunatus’ encounter with the goddess Fortune. Fortunatus is a poor man that is offered a choice between strength, good health, wisdom or riches. He chooses riches in the form of a bottomless purse and then relates the news to his two sons, Andelocia and Ampedo, before leaving Cyprus to travel across Europe. He ends up in the Court of Babylon, where he steals a magic hat from the Sultan, which gives him the superpower of transportation. When his life is abruptly ended by Fortune, his sons inherit the hat and the bottomless purse and Andelocia follows his father’s footsteps as he embarks on a series of ill-advised and immoral adventures.
The title page from the 1509 German book ‘Fortunatus’
CONTENTS
THE PROLOGUE AT COURT.
PROLOGUE
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. — A Wood in Cyprus.
SCENE II. — Outside the House of Fortunatus.
SCENE III. — A Wood in Cyprus.
ACT THE SECOND
SCENE I. — The Court at Babylon.
SCENE II. — Outside the House of Fortunatus.
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I. — London. The Court of Athelstane.
SCENE II. — The same.
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I. — A Wilderness.
SCENE II. — London. The Court of Athelstane.
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I. — London. The Court of Athelstane.
SCENE II. — An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of Stocks in the background.
THE EPILOGUE AT COURT.
Charles Lamb (1775-1834), the English essayist, poet, and antiquarian, best known for his ‘Essays of Elia’
THE PROLOGUE AT COURT.
ENTER TWO OLD Men.
1st O. Man. Are you then travelling to the temple of Eliza?
2nd O. Man. Even to her temple are my feeble limbs travelling. Some call her Pandora: some Gloriana, some Cynthia: some Delphœbe, some Astræa: all by several names to express several loves: yet all those names make but one celestial body, as all those loves meet to create but one soul.
1st O. Man. I am one of her own country, and we adore her by the name of Eliza.
2nd O. Man. Blessed name, happy country: your Eliza makes your land Elysium: but what do you offer?
1st O. Man. That which all true subjects should: when I was young, an armed hand; now I am crooked, an upright heart: but what offer you?
2nd O. Man. That which all strangers do: two eyes struck blind with admiration: two lips proud to sound her glory: two hands held up full of prayers and praises: what not, that may express love? what not, that may make her beloved?
1st O. Man. How long is’t since you last beheld her?
2nd O. Man. A just year: yet that year hath seemed to me but one day, because her glory hath been my hourly contemplation, and yet that year hath seemed to me more than twice seven years, because so long I have been absent from her. Come therefore, good father, let’s go faster, lest we come too late: for see, the tapers of the night are already lighted, and stand brightly burning in their starry candle-sticks: see how gloriously the moon shines upon us. [Both kneel.
1st O. Man. Peace, fool: tremble, and kneel: the moon say’st thou?
Our eyes are dazzled by Eliza’s beams,
See (if at least thou dare see) where she sits:
This is the great Pantheon of our goddess,
And all those faces which thine eyes thought stars,
Are nymphs attending on her deity.
Prithee begin, for I want power to speak.
2nd O. Man. No, no, speak thou, I want words to begin. [Weeps.
1st O. Man. Alack, what shall I do? com’st thou with me,
And weep’st now thou behold’st this majesty?
2nd O. Man. Great landlady of hearts, pardon me.
1st O. Man. Blame not mine eyes, good father, in these tears.
2nd O. Man. My pure love shines, as thine doth in thy fears:
I weep for joy to see so many heads
Of prudent ladies, clothed in the livery
Of silver-handed age, for serving you,
Whilst in your eyes youth’s glory doth renew:
I weep for joy to see the sun look old,
To see the moon mad at her often change,
To see the stars only by night to shine,
Whilst you are still bright, still one, still divine:
I weep for joy to see the world decay,
Yet see Eliza flourishing like May:
O pardon me your pilgrim, I have measured
Many a mile to find you: and have brought
Old Fortunatus and his family,
With other Cypriots, my poor countrymen,
To pay a whole year’s tribute: O vouchsafe,
Dread Queen of Fairies, with your gracious eyes,
T’accept theirs and our humble sacrifice.
1st O. Man. Now I’ll beg for thee too: and yet I need not:
Her sacred hand hath evermore been known,
As soon held out to strangers as her own.
2nd O. Man. Thou dost encourage me: I’ll fetch them in,
They have no princely gifts, we are all poor,
Our offerings are true hearts, who can wish more? [Exeunt.
PROLOGUE
Of Love’s sweet war our timorous Muse doth sing,
And to the bosom of each gentle dear,
Offers her artless tunes, borne on the wing
Of sacred poesy. A benumbing fear,
That your nice souls, cloyed with delicious sounds,
Will loath her lowly notes, makes her pull in
Her fainting pinions, and her spirit confounds,
Before the weak voice of her song begin.
Yet since within the circle of each eye,
Being like so many suns in his round sphere,
No wrinkle yet is seen, she’ll dare to fly,
Borne up with hopes, that as you oft do rear
With your fair hands, those who would else sink down,
So some will deign to smile, where all might frown:
And for this small circumference must stand,
For the imagined surface of much land,
Of many kingdoms, and since many a mile
Should here be measured out, our Muse entreats
Your thoughts to help poor art, and to allow
That I may serve as Chorus to her senses;
She begs your pardon, for she’ll send one forth,
Not when the laws of poesy do call,
But as the story needs; your gracious eye
Gives life to Fortunatus’ history. [Exit.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Athelstane, King of England.
The Soldan of Egypt.
The Prince of Cyprus.
English Nobles:
Cornwall,
Chester,
Lincoln
Scotch Nobles:
Montrose,
Galloway
French Nobles:
Orleans,
Longaville,
Insultado, a Spanish Lord.
Fortunatus.
Sons of Fortunatus.
Ampedo,
Andelocia
Shadow, Servant to Ampedo and Andelocia.
Kings, Nobles, Soldiers, Satyrs, a Carter, a Tailor, a Monk, a Shepherd, Chorus, Boys and other Attendants.
Agripyne, Daughter of Athelstane.
Goddesses.
Fortune,
Virtue,
Vice,
The Three Destinies.
Nymphs, Ladies, &c.
SCENE — Cyprus, Babylon, and England.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. — A Wood in Cyprus.
ENTER FORTUNATUS MEANLY attired; he walks
about cracking nuts ere he speaks.
Fort. So, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Echo [Within.]. Ho, ho, ho, ho.
Fort. There, boy.
Echo. There, boy.
Fort. An thou bee’st a good fellow, tell me how call’st this wood.
Echo. This wood.
Fort. Ay, this wood, and which is my best way out.
Echo. Best way out.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, that’s true, my best way out is my best way out, but how that out will come in, by this maggot I know not. I see by this we are all worms’ meat. Well, I am very poor and very patient; Patience is a virtue: would I were not virtuous, that’s to say, not poor, but full of vice, that’s to say, full of chinks. Ha, ha, so I am, for I am so full of chinks, that a horse with one eye may look through and through me. I have sighed long, and that makes me windy; I have fasted long, and that makes me chaste; marry, I have prayed little, and that makes me I still dance in this conjuring circle; I have wandered long, and that makes me weary. But for my weariness, anon I’ll lie down, instead of fasting I’ll feed upon nuts, and instead of sighing will laugh and be lean, Sirrah Echo.
Echo. Sirrah Echo.
Fort. Here’s a nut.
Echo. Here’s a nut.
Fort. Crack it.
Echo. Crack it.
Fort. Hang thyself.
Echo. Hang thyself.
Fort. Th’art a knave, a knave.
Echo. A knave, a knave.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Echo. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Fort. Why so, two fools laugh at one another, I at my tittle tattle gammer Echo, and she at me. Shortly there will creep out in print some filthy book of the old hoary wandering knight, meaning me: would I were that book, for then I should be sure to creep out from hence. I should be a good soldier, for I traverse my ground rarely; marry I see neither enemy nor friends, but popinjays, and squirrels, and apes, and owls, and daws, and wagtails, and the spite is that none of these grass-eaters can speak my language, but this fool that mocks me, and swears to have the last word, in spite of my teeth, ay, and she shall have it because she is a woman, which kind of cattle are indeed all echo, nothing but tongue, and are like the great bell of St. Michael’s in Cyprus, that keeps most rumbling when men would most sleep. Echo, a pox on thee for mocking me.