Andel. Why, brother Ampedo, art thou not yet tired with riding post? Come, come, ‘light from this logger-headed jade, and walk afoot, and talk with your poor friends.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, he is like me: if his belly be empty, his heart is full.
Andel. The famine of gold gnaws his covetous stomach, more than the want of good victuals: thou hast looked very devilishly ever since the good angel left thee: come, come, leave this broad-brim fashions; because the world frowns upon thee, wilt not thou smile upon us?
Amp. Did but the bitterness of mine own fortunes
Infect my taste, I could paint o’er my cheeks
With ruddy-coloured smiles: ’tis not the want
Of costly diet or desire of gold
Enforces rupture in my wounded breast.
Oh no, our father — if he live — doth lie
Under the iron foot of misery,
And, as a dove gripped in a falcon’s claw,
There pant’th for life being most assured of death.
Brother, for him my soul thus languisheth.
Shad. ’Tis not for my old master that I languish.
Amp. I am not enamoured of this painted idol,
This strumpet World; for her most beauteous looks
Are poisoned baits, hung upon golden hooks:
When fools do swim in wealth, her Cynthian beams
Will wantonly dance on the silver streams;
But when this squint-eyed age sees Virtue poor,
And by a little spark sits shivering,
Begging at all, relieved at no man’s door,
She smiles on her, as the sun shines on fire,
To kill that little heat, and, with her little frown,
Is proud that she can tread poor Virtue down:
Therefore her wrinkled brow makes not mine sour,
Her gifts are toys, and I desire her power.
Shad. ’Tis not the crab-tree faced World neither that makes mine sour.
Andel. Her gifts toys! Well, brother Virtue, we have let slip the ripe plucking of those toys so long, that we flourish like apple-trees in September, which, having the falling sickness, bear neither fruit nor leaves.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, master, none flourish in these withering times, but ancient bearers and trumpeters.
Andel. Shadow, when thou provest a substance, then the tree of virtue and honesty, and such fruit of Heaven, shall flourish upon earth.
Shad. True; or when the sun shines at midnight, or women fly, and yet they are light enough.
Andel. ’Twas never merry world with us, since purses and bags were invented, for now men set lime-twigs to catch wealth: and gold, which riseth like the sun out of the East Indies, to shine upon every one, is like a cony taken napping in a pursenet, and suffers his glistering yellow-face deity to be lapped up in lambskins, as if the innocency of those leather prisons should dispense with the cheveril consciences of the iron-hearted gaolers.
Shad. Snudges may well be called gaolers: for if a poor wretch steal but into a debt of ten pound, they lead him straight to execution.
Andel. Doth it not vex thee, Shadow, to stalk up and down Cyprus, and to meet the outside of a man, lapped all in damask, his head and beard as white as milk, only with conjuring in the snowy circles of the field argent, and his nose as red as scarlet, only with kissing the ruddy lips of angels, and such an image to wear on his thumb, three men’s livings in the shape of a seal ring, whilst my brother Virtue here, —
Shad. And you his brother Vice!
Andel. Most true, my little lean Iniquity — whilst we three, if we should starve, cannot borrow five shillings of him neither in word nor deed: does not this vex thee, Shadow?
Shad. Not me; it vexes me no more to see such a picture, than to see an ass laden with riches, because I know when he can bear no longer, he must leave his burthen to some other beast.
Andel. Art not thou mad, to see money on goldsmiths’ stalls, and none in our purses?
Shad. It mads not me, I thank the destinies.
Andel. By my poverty, and that’s but a thread-bare oath, I am more than mad to see silks and velvets lie crowding together in mercers’ shops, as in prisons, only for fear of the smell of wax — they cannot abide to see a man made out of wax, for these satin commodities have such smooth consciences that they’ll have no man give his word for them or stand bound for their coming forth, but vow to lie till they rot in those shop counters, except Monsieur Money bail them. Shadow, I am out of my little wits to see this.
Shad. So is not Shadow: I am out of my wits, to see fat gluttons feed all day long, whilst I that am lean fast every day: I am out of my wits, to see our Famagosta fools turn half a shop of wares into a suit of gay apparel, only to make other idiots laugh, and wise men to cry, who’s the fool now? I am mad, to see soldiers beg, and cowards brave: I am mad, to see scholars in the broker’s shop, and dunces in the mercer’s: I am mad, to see men that have no more fashion in them than poor Shadow, yet must leap thrice a day into three orders of fashions: I am mad, to see many things, but horn-mad, that my mouth feels nothing.
Andel. Why now, Shadow, I see thou hast a substance:
I am glad to see thee thus mad.
Amp. The sons of Fortunatus had not wont
Thus to repine at others’ happiness:
But fools have always this loose garment wore,
Being poor themselves, they wish all others poor.
Fie, brother Andelocia, hate this madness,
Turn your eyes inward, and behold your soul,
That wants more than your body; burnish that
With glittering virtue, and make idiots grieve
To see your beauteous mind in wisdom shine,
As you at their rich poverty repine.
Enter Fortunatus, gallant.
Andel. Peace, good Virtue; Shadow, here comes another shadow.
Shad. It should be a chameleon: for he is all in colours.
Amp. Oh, ’tis my father. With these tears of joy,
My love and duty greet your fair return!
A double gladness hath refreshed my soul;
One, that you live, and one, to see your fate
Looks freshly howsoever poor in state.
Andel. My father Fortunatus, and thus brave?
Shad. ’Tis no wonder to see a man brave, but a wonder how he comes brave.
Fort. Dear Andelocia and son Ampedo,
And my poor servant Shadow, plume your spirits
With light-winged mirth; for Fortunatus’ hand
Can now pour golden showers into their laps
That sometimes scorned him for his want of gold.
Boys, I am rich, and you shall ne’er be poor;
Wear gold, spend gold, we all in gold will feed,
Now is your father Fortunate indeed.
Andel. Father, be not angry, if I set open the windows of my mind: I doubt for all your bragging, you’ll prove like most of our gallants in Famagosta, that have a rich outside and a beggarly inside, and like mules wear gay trappings, and good velvet foot-cloths on their backs, yet champ on the iron bit of penury — I mean, want coin. You gild our ears with a talk of gold, but I pray dazzle our eyes with the majesty of it.
Fort. First will I wake your senses with the sound
Of gold’s sweet music: tell me what you hear?
Amp. Believe me, sir, I hear not any thing.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. ‘Sheart, I thought as much; if I hear any jingling, but of the purse strings that go flip flap, flip flap, flip flap, would I were turned into a flip-flap, and sold to the butchers!
Fort. Shadow, I’ll try thine ears; hark, dost rattle?
Shad. Yes, like three blue beans in a blue bladder, rattle bladder, rattle: your purse is like my belly, th’ one’s without money, th’ other without meat.
Fort. Bid your eyes blame the error of your ears:
You misbelieving pagans, see, here’s gold —
Ten golden pieces: take them, Ampedo.
Hold, Andelocia, here are ten for thee.
Amp. Shadow, there’s one for thee, provide thee food.
Fort. Stay, boy: hold, Shadow, here are ten for thee.
Shad. Ten, master? then defiance to fortune, and a fig for famine.
Fort. Now tell me, wags, hath my purse gold or no?
Andel. We the wags have gold, father; but I think there’s not one angel more wagging in this sacred temple. Why, this is rare: Shadow, five will serve thy turn, give me th’ other five.
Shad. Nay, soft, master, liberality died long ago. I see some rich beggars are never well, but when they be craving: my ten ducats are like my ten fingers, they will not jeopard a joint for you. I am yours, and these are mine; if I part from them, I shall never have part of them.
Amp. Father, if Heaven have blest you once again,
Let not an open hand disperse that store,
Which gone, life’s gone; for all tread down the poor.
Fort. Peace, Ampedo, talk not of poverty.
Disdain, my boys, to kiss the tawny cheeks
Of lean necessity: make not inquiry
How I came rich; I am rich, let that suffice.
There are four leathern bags trussed full of gold:
Those spent, I’ll fill you more. Go, lads, be gallant:
Shine in the streets of Cyprus like two stars,
And make them bow their knees that once did spurn you;
For, to effect such wonders, gold can turn you.
Brave it in Famagosta, or elsewhere;
I’ll travel to the Turkish Emperor,
And then I’ll revel it with Prester John,
Or banquet with great Cham of Tartary,
And try what frolic court the Soldan keeps.
I’ll leave you presently. Tear off these rags;
Glitter, my boys, like angels, that the world
May, whilst our life in pleasure’s circle roams,
Wonder at Fortunatus and his sons.
Andel. Come, Shadow, now we’ll feast it royally.
Shad. Do, master, but take heed of beggary. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. — A Wood in Cyprus.
MUSIC SOUNDS. ENTER Vice with a gilded face, and horns on her head; her garments long, painted before with silver half-moons, increasing by little and little till they come to the full; while in the midst of them is written in capital letters, “Crescit Eundo.” Behind her garments are painted with fools’ faces and heads; and in the midst is written, “Ha, Ha, He.” She, and others wearing gilded vizards and attired like devils, bring out a fair tree of gold with apples on it.
After her comes Virtue, with a coxcomb on her head, and her attire all in white before; about the middle is written “Sibi sapit.” Her attire behind is painted with crowns and laurel garlands, stuck full of stars held by hands thrust out of bright clouds, and among them is written, “Dominabitur astris.” She and other nymphs, all in white with coxcombs on their heads, bring a tree with green and withered leaves mingled together, and with little fruit on it.
After her comes Fortune, with two Nymphs, one bearing her wheel, another her globe.
And last, the Priest.
Fortune. You ministers of Virtue, Vice, and Fortune,
Tear off this upper garment of the earth,
And in her naked bosom stick these trees.
Virtue. How many kingdoms have I measured,
Only to find a climate, apt to cherish
These withering branches? But no ground can prove
So happy; ay me, none do Virtue love.
I’ll try this soil; if here I likewise fade,
To Heaven I’ll fly, from whence I took my birth,
And tell the Gods, I am banished from the earth.
Vice. Virtue, I am sworn thy foe: if there thou plant,
Here, opposite to thine, my tree shall flourish,
And as the running wood-bine spreads her arms,
To choke thy withering boughs in their embrace,
I’ll drive thee from this world: were Virtue fled,
Vice as an angel should be honourèd.
Fortune. Servants of this bright devil and that poor saint,
Apply your task whilst you are labouring:
To make your pains seem short our priest shall sing.
[Whilst the Priest sings, the rest set the trees into the earth.
Song.
Virtue’s branches wither, Virtue pines,
O pity, pity, and alack the time,
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb.
Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity,
She in every land doth monarchize.
Virtue is exiled from every city,
Virtue is a fool, Vice only wise.
O pity, pity, Virtue weeping dies.
Vice laughs to see her faint, — alack the time.
This sinks; with painted wings the other flies:
Alack that best should fall, and bad should climb.
O pity, pity, pity, mourn, not sing,
Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling.
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Virtue’s branches wither, Virtue pines.
Fortune. Flourish or wither, Fortune cares not which,
In either’s fall or height our eminence
Shines equal to the sun: the Queen of chance
Both virtuous souls and vicious doth advance.
These shadows of yourselves shall, like yourselves,
Strive to make men enamoured of their beauties;
This grove shall be our temple, and henceforth
Be consecrated to our deities.
Virtue. How few will come and kneel at Virtue’s shrine?
Vice. This contents Virtue, that she is called divine.
Fortune. Poor Virtue, Fortune grieves to see thy looks
Want cunning to entice: why hang these leaves,
As loose as autumn’s hair which every wind
In mockery blows from his rotten brows?
Why like a drunkard art thou pointed at?
Why is this motley-scorn set on thy head?
Why stands thy court wide open, but none in it?
Why are the crystal pavements of thy temple,
Not worn, not trod upon? All is for this,
Because thy pride is to wear base attire,
Because thine eyes flame not with amorous fire.
Virtue. Virtue is fairest in a poor array.
Fortune. Poor fool, ’tis not this badge of purity,
Nor Sibi sapit, painted on thy breast,
Allures mortality to seek thy love.
No: now the great wheel of thy globe hath run,
And met this first point of creation.
On crutches went this world but yesterday,
Now it lies bed-rid, and is grown so old,
That it’s grown young; for ’tis a child again,
A childish soul it hath, ’tis a mere fool:
And fools and children are well pleased with toys.
So must this world, with shows it must be pleased,
Then, Virtue, buy a golden face like Vice,
And hang thy bosom full of silver moons,
To tell the credulous world, As those increase,
As the bright moon swells in her pearlèd sphere,
So wealth and pleasures them to Heaven shall rear.
Virtue. Virtue abhors to wear a borrowed face.
Vice. Why hast thou borrowed, then, that idiot’s hood?
Virtue. Fools placed it on my head that knew me not,
And I am proud to wear the scorn of fools.
Fortune. Mourn in that pride and die, all the world hates thee.
Virtue. Not all, I’ll wander once more through the world:
Wisdom I know hath with her blessèd wings
Fled to some bosom: if I meet that breast,
There I’ll erect my temple, and there rest.
Fortune nor Vice shall t
hen e’er have the power
By their loose eyes to entice my paramour.
Then will I cast off this deformity,
And shine in glory, and triumph to see
You conquered at my feet, that tread on me.
Fortune. Virtue begins to quarrel: Vice, farewell.
Vice. Stay, Fortune, whilst within this grove we dwell,
If my angelical and saint-like form
Can win some amorous fool to wanton here,
And taste the fruit of this alluring tree,
Thus shall his saucy brows adornèd be,
To make us laugh. [Makes horns.
Fortune. It will be rare: adieu.
Virtue. Foul, hell-bred fiend, Virtue shall strive with you,
If any be enamoured of thine eyes,
Their love must needs beget deformities.
Men are transformed to beasts, feasting with sin;
But if in spite of thee their souls I win,
To taste this fruit, though thou disguise their head,
Their shapes shall be re-metamorphosèd.
Vice. I dare thee do thy worst.
Virtue. My best I’ll try.
Fort. Fortune shall judge who wins the sovereignty. [Exeunt.
ACT THE SECOND
Enter Chorus.
Chorus. The world to the circumference of Heaven
Is as a small point in geometry,
Whose greatness is so little, that a less
Cannot be made: into that narrow room,
Your quick imaginations we must charm,
To turn that world: and turned, again to part it
Into large kingdoms, and within one moment
To carry Fortunatus on the wings
Of active thought, many a thousand miles.
Suppose then, since you last beheld him here,
That you have sailed with him upon the seas,
And leapt with him upon the Asian shores,
Been feasted with him in the Tartar’s palace,
And all the courts of each barbarian king:
From whence being called by some unlucky star, —
For happiness never continues long,
Help me to bring him back to Arragon,
Where for his pride — riches make all men proud —
On slight quarrel, by a covetous Earl,
Fortune’s dear minion is imprisonèd.
There think you see him sit with folded arms,
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 10